#pornstar!hangman

[roosterbruiser]

VOULEZ-VOUS FINALE

Spans from December, 1978--December, 1992

Los Angeles, CA

She opens a bank account. Her bruise plays a big role in this chapter. 

Another house party with just the gang. Cherry and Hangman are pretty much high the whole time. Everyone does a little bit of coke besides Rooster. She reads everyone’s palms.

Jake plays the tape of him and Cherry for everyone and Rooster gets pissy about it. And he tries to say it’s because he never watches his own stuff so he doesn’t understand why Jake does. And Cherry has to be like…relax, man. I fuck everyone. 

Rooster sulks outside, smoking a cigar. And Cherry finally goes outside and sits on his lap and asks him what’s going on. He’s too afraid to admit that he’s in love with her. So he just says that he likes the way things have been and he doesn’t want things to change. She assures him they won’t. 

And like she can sense that he needs it, she fucks him that night. Stays with him. Except there’s a moment where he tries to slow her down, holding her hips, helping her rock. And she lets him for a second--it feels good. It feels really, really good. But then she’s awash with something that feels too big and she takes over again and goes fast.

Rooster tells her that he sleeps very deeply when she sleeps with him. It feels like he’s saying that he loves her. 

Los Angeles, CA May 29th, 1979

Jake’s guilty but unwilling to talk about things. They haven’t told anybody about what happened. They have a little get-together and watch some of the films Cherry has made and Rooster privately broods. She babies him--sits on his lap while he smokes a cigar. And then they have sex that night. It’s the first time they actually make love. 

How come she can be sweet with Jake and not make it sexual but she can’t do that with Rooster?

Her and Rooster are like achingly close to being a couple. She’s spending all her time with him, they seem to have found some sort of domestic bliss together. She’s getting more money and he helps her open a bank account. 

He is close to telling her that he loves her. But something that keeps happening is everytime they have an intimate moment together, she tries to get sexual with him. And he doesn’t know how to tell her now so he does it. 

It comes to a head when Hangman is over one night. Her and Rooster go to bed and he is just holding her, kissing her, about to say he loves her. And she tries to initiate sex. And he lets it get to her sitting naked on top of him before he stops her. They have a small warble because she feels rejected and he doesn’t know how to explain to her that she doesn’t always have to fuck him. 

So she gets out of bed and fucks Hangman. Then she sleeps in her own room. 

Los Angeles, CA June 9th, 1979

Things are a bit stilted between her and Rooster now. She’s back on her bullshit with Jake, doing coke all the time and partying. It’s like what happened to her meant nothing. It didn’t touch her deeply enough for anything to change, especially since her and Rooster are in such a weird spot right now. And Rooter is too worried about something happening to Cherry, so he’s been accompanying them. 

Cherry is feeling things for Rooster and it scares her. She is starting to get special treatment from people because they’ve seen her films. A few people ask for autographs.

Somewhere in here, Phoenix paints a portrait of Cherry.

One night at the disco, a woman approaches Rooster and she’s kind of all over him. But he’s just watching Cherry. And when Cherry comes back to the table, he says he’s ready to go and she says she wants to keep partying. The woman wants to fuck Rooster--Cherry can tell. She sees Rooster pushing her off and tells Rooster that he should just take her home.

They get into a spat about it and he ends up leaving with the woman and fucking her at home. But he can’t finish. He doesn’t know why. He lets her stay the night, but he doesn’t sleep in the bed. Really, he doesn’t sleep at all. He just paces. 

Los Angeles, CA June 23rd, 1979

Cherry films a scene with Bob--nurse and patient. Then after, her and Bob go to the pier and she takes a walk with him. They get to know each other a little bit and he tells her what he knows about Rooster and Jake. They get to know each other. They both grew up on farms so they talk about it. They don’t fuck again. They have a friendship that translates off-screen and on. People like watching them fuck. But they never do it outside. 

When she goes home, Rooster is making dinner. Things have been a bit odd between them. But she’s just overwhelmed. So she goes into the kitchen and just holds him from behind. And he melts in her touch. But then she starts kissing his neck and grabbing his cock and he just gives in because he knows that’s the only way he’s gonna feel her love. They fuck that night, but he tenderly kisses what remains of her bruise. She never takes the necklace off. 

Cape Cod, MA July 1st-3rd, 1979

Phoenix has a vacation home on Cape Cod, so they all go to the house. It’s huge and beautiful and they’re all happy together. Cherry rooms with Rooster and it really excited him. 

They kind of act like a couple for a little while there. She’s taking bumps with Jake but everyone’s taking bumps. 

They have a few good days of just shopping and sun tanning and swimming and fucking. Maybe they play spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven. Cherry ends up fucking everyone in the group during seven minutes in heaven. 

When her and Jake are swimming together one night, she notices a scar on the back of his leg that she’s never seen before. He says it’s a piece of Gentry’s skull--embedded there forever because it was too deep. They couldn’t get it out. 

For once, at the end of the night, Cherry is too tired to have sex. She asks Rooster if it’s okay if they just sleep. He says of course it is. He’s thrilled. He feels like this means something big. 

Cape Cod, MA July 4th, 1979

They drink all day. Cherry takes a few bumps with Jake. They go out boating. It’s a good time. Everyone is beautiful, everything is beautiful. 

They stay out on the water and watch the fireworks. She sits on Rooster’s lap all night. 

When they get home, everyone is tired. They all go to bed. Her and Rooster go to bed too and they make love. Like they actually make love for the first time--she lets him. And it’s so intense and she doesn’t know what to do and she’s scared. 

And he is so happy after. She can see that it pleased him so endlessly. And that terrifies her. 

He tells her that he loves her. She pretends like she’s asleep. He falls for it. 

Los Angeles, CA July 13th, 1979 

Films a swingers scene with Rooster, Phoenix, and Hangman. She’s starting to get recognized on the street now wherever she goes. People from out of town are the only ones brave enough to ask for a picture together and she never says no.

Rooster is waiting for the perfect moment to tell her that he is in love with her. He wants to get it right. He wants to leave the business and take her with him. He has enough money for the both of them to live off of handsomely forever. 

So then the four of them hang out at Phoenix’s place. Rooster sees the portrait of Cherry that she painted and says he wants to buy it. It’s the first piece of art he’s ever bought from Phoenix. 

Jake tries to outbid Rooster. They have a weirdly tense squabble over it before Cherry intervenes and outbids both of them. She buys the portrait herself. 

Later on, when her and Rooster go home, he turns on a record and asks her to dance with him. She’s confused because he never wants to dance. But then it’s a slow record and they slow dance and it feels good. She is in love with him maybe. But she’s having so much fun just fucking around, just being by herself, just doing whatever. 

And then he says he wants to tell her something. And she asks him to make her cum first. He does--twice. And then he tells her that he’s in love with her. She is terrified but she knows that she loves him too. She feels powerless against it. So she says she loves him too. 

Los Angeles, CA July 17th, 1979

Her and Rooster decide that they’re going to try monogamy. She’s scared, but she loves him. What else is there to do? The deal is that they only fuck other people for work. That’s it. Nothing outside of that. 

They announce it to their friends while they’re all on the beach together. Everyone is happy for them. Honestly, it’s a good day. Jake isn’t an asshole--he doesn’t think it’s gonna last, but he doesn’t say that. He’s still touchy with her, which is okay for now. 

That night, she takes a bath with Rooster. They tell each other about their childhoods. 

Los Angeles, CA August 11th, 1979

She films a cuckold scene with Rooster and Bob. 

Fucking other men on set isn’t helping. She wants to keep fucking other people. But she loves Rooster--she’s devoted to him. And it isn’t that he isn’t fulfilling her, it’s just that she’s a genuine nymphomaniac. 

Cute moments with her and Rooster--maybe them swimming. Maybe them shopping. You know. Cute stuff. You can do it!

Monterey, CA August 17th-August 20th, 1979

Rooster takes Cherry on a road trip. They go up the coast and stay in a little cottage on the water. It’s nice. It’s just them. He loves that it feels so domestic. She just loves him. She’s insatiable, though. She always wants it--she always wants to be fucked. 

Cherry wants to be with him but she’s afraid it won’t be enough. She’s trying so hard for it to be enough. For him. For Rooster. He tells her about his mom getting sick. 

Los Angeles, CA September 1979

Films a domination scene with Rooster.

Cherry and Rooster are in love. But she wants to be fucked all the time. 

There’s a scene where she tries to initiate sex and he doesn’t want to have sex. So she’s just frustrated. She has to touch herself and it just isn’t the same. 

She grabs a drink with Jake and they end up going back to his house. They do too much coke and end up sleeping together. They both feel terrible about it. 

She tells Rooster as soon as she gets home. And he forgives her and Jake immediately--I mean, it’s like handing a lighter to a pyromaniac. He gets it. He says that she can sleep with whoever she wants, as long as she comes home and is in bed with him every night. 

Los Angeles, CA October, 1979 

Films a Western thing with the full cast. 

She fucks someone else one night and then comes home. Her and Rooster eat dinner. They got to bed. He initiates sex and in the heat of the moment, while he’s being rough with her, he tells her that he’s fucking someone else’s cum into her. He calls her a whore. 

They stop. They’re both upset. They agree that it isn’t working. He asks her, as a last ditch effort, to quit porn and just be with him. She says no. They hold each other. In the morning, they agree to only fuck on set. 

Los Angeles, CA November, 1979

Summer camp with the full cast. When her and Rooster fuck, it’s very much them longing for each other. It’s heartbreaking, really. They kiss a lot. He still makes her cum. She misses him so much. Just a long hug after the shoot. 

She starts getting super into doing coke with Jake again. They���re hanging out all the time together. She’s still living with Rooster. But they’re achingly just friends--which is very hard for them. 

She’s kind of in a tailspin. She fucks everyone. She misses Rooster. 

Los Angeles, CA Late November, 1979

Her and Jake are hanging out, doing coke one night. They are talking and they start arguing. He says she doesn’t know the difference between sex and love. And they’re both high and they really get into it but then all of the sudden, he starts seizing. 

She rides with him in the ambulance. The paramedics recognize her and one of them asks for her autograph. Rooster meets her at the hospital. He and Cherry comfort each other. She’s very distraught. Jake is okay--they get to go in and see him after a few hours. They stay in the hospital with him for a while. 

When Rooster goes home to get him and Cherry some clothes, Jake tells her that he has something that he only wants to tell Cherry and she can’t tell anyone. She agrees. It’s very soft. She’s stroking his hair, they’re both crying. He said he met God and he licked his wounds. It was Gentry.

Los Angeles, CA December, 1979 

Cherry is still reeling from seeing Jake overdose. She asks Dennis if she can push the shoot back. He says no. Rooster and him get into it. 

Cherry shows up on set and Rooster and Dennis are arguing. Rooster tells Cherry that this is his last scene--ever. He’s leaving the business after this. This means several things: Cherry knows everyone will start to leave after him, they won’t fuck anymore, and she will miss him severely. 

It’s a make-me-a-star scene. Very sad.

Dennis insults Rooster and Cherry decks Dennis in the face. She busts his lip open good and wide.

Los Angeles, CA Late December, 1979

It’s just her and Rooster over Christmas. It’s her first one away from her folks. She signs another contract with Goldman Homevideos. Dennis forgives her--so he can keep making money from her.

The prologue ties in here. It is Dennis. He drugged her. 

She goes into Rooster’s room. He throws Dennis out. He cleans her up. It’s all very tender. She says she wishes that she could be what he wants her to be. He says that isn’t the issue here--the issue is that she can’t give herself to him fully. They hold each other. She still has the gold chain. She says that she thinks they’re soulmates. He says he’s always known it.

Los Angeles, CA November, 1980

It’s Cherry’s 23rd birthday. She celebrates with the whole crew. It’s a good party. 

Afterwards, Rooster gives her another gift. It’s when they’re alone together. He gives her two thick, fat gold rings. One has a C engraved on it and the other has an A engraved on it. He says that the next time Dennis acts up, she can scar him up real good. So that everyone knows he fucked with Cherry Arsan. 

Rooster finished Emmanuelle. He reads some out loud to her as they nurse their final cocktails of the night. They just go to sleep there on the couch together. They don’t have sex. 

Cape Cod, MA July, 1981 

They’re all at Phoenix’s house for the 4th again. Rooster, Payback, and Phoenix aren’t in the industry anymore. That leaves Cherry, Hangman, Coyote, and Fanboy. 

They swim and eat and all just love each other. It’s a good time. Cherry and Hangman aren’t officially a couple, but they may as well be. Cherry lives with him now and they’re fuck buddies, even though they fuck other people. 

But monogamy isn’t a thing. So she sleeps in Rooster’s bed because she misses him. And he misses her, too. They end up having sex and afterwards, Rooster is upset. He wants her. So he tells her that they can’t have sex again. It makes him miserable. 

Los Angeles, CA April, 1982

Phoenix is getting married. Everyone attends the wedding. They dance--except Rooster, who just watches. But when a slow song comes on, her and Rooster dance together. They dance to the song Something On Your Mind by Karen Dalton. 

He asks her if she ever wants to get married. They talk about it. She doesn’t know what she wants. She says that if she ever does get married, she hopes it’s him. But she doesn’t feel ready. He says he’ll wait for her. 

Only Hangman and Cherry are in the industry still.  

Los Angeles, CA December, 1983

It’s Christmas. It’s just Rooster and Cherry. 

Hangman is starting to spend Christmas with Gentry’s family. 

They’ve been doing this for a few years now. They reminisce all the years they’ve known each other and the way things have changed. She gets him very expensive cigars and a new gold chain since she still wears his. It’s very nice. He gets her a pair of shoes--nice, leather Mary Janes. And a pair of bell-bottoms. 

They don’t have sex, but she sleeps in his bed. He says it’s the only time he sleeps through the night. She kisses his forehead. 

Los Angeles, CA

June, 1984

It’s Rooster’s birthday now. They all celebrate with a big party at Rooster’s house. It takes place after, as she’s helping clean the place. Hangman quit the business. Cherry is getting her own place. 

On the off-hand, Cherry asks Rooster to grab her purse. He sees that there’s a gun in it. She says the world isn’t what it used to be. He begs her to leave and just be with him. Just love him. Isn’t he enough? It’s sad. 

This is when she also breaks the news to Rooster. Her and Hangman, during a coked up excursion in Las Vegas, got married. And when they came down, they decided they were gonna give things a go. Maybe not entirely monogamous, but devoted to each other. Rooster asks her if she regrets it. She says she doesn’t know yet, but she likes how warm he is in bed. Rooster is heartbroken, but also wise. He knows what they have isn’t going to last. They love each other the way an addict loves their next fix. There’s no longevity. What he and her have? That’s forever. He knows. He knows it. 

Los Angeles, CA October, 1985

Cherry is on the cover of Playboy in September. Her mother sends her a letter. She lets Rooster read it. It’s very, very sad. She’s upset about it. 

Rooster asks if she wants to go dancing to cheer her up. Bell Bottoms closed. So they just go for a swim. He skinny dips, just to cheer her up. She does, too. They almost have sex. Almost. But they stop in time. 

Her and Jake aren’t doing very well in their marriage. Their relationship is tumultuous and immature. They fight over everything…their next fix, their marriage, their cars, their jobs. They’ve lost their friendship.  

Los Angeles, CA January 1987

Cherry’s parents both die in a car accident. She finds out that they were in an immense amount of debt when they died, but they never asked her for help. She thinks that is sad and funny. Cherry would’ve given them money if she knew, but she didn’t. Her, Hangman, and Rooster go home to help with the house. She sees old people she’s fucked. Everyone ogles at her because they recognize her. The women give her hateful looks.

Her brother is terrible to her. Her parents left her nothing in their will--just what was in her childhood bedroom. She sees it--the way she left it when she was 21. Nothing is touched. They basically just boarded it up. 

It’s melancholy. 

Her, Rooster, and Hangman all squeeze into her childhood bed and sleep there together. It’s the worst sleep of her life. Between her husband and her soulmate. 

Los Angeles, CA February 1988

Rooster introduces Cherry to his fiance. Her name is Samantha. She’s an accountant. Samantha is older. Like maybe close to forty. She’s beautiful. They all have dinner together. Samantha very obviously doesn’t like Cherry, but she’s very cordial towards her. Cherry is becoming very insecure as she ages. She liked being the pretty young thing on the scene, liked that everyone was always calling her a baby. But she’s not so super young anymore. 

Jake, Cherry, and Bradley all go to dinner together to meet Samantha. Samantha and Bradley haven’t been together for very long. Cherry just got back from Italy and she’s talking a lot about herself. But she’s also coming to terms with the fact that she has an expiration date and it’s approaching. She’s struggling. Maybe she even talks about getting plastic surgery (which Samantha is super against). 

She kind of fishes for compliments, very vain, always checking her makeup. Samantha is a very forward-thinking woman who can hold her own. But she has very rigid standards of what she considers feminist and what she doesn’t. 

Samantha doesn’t like Cherry. Cherry is kind of being a bit off-putting and being touchy with Rooster and Jake. 

They get into a discussion about porn.

Samantha says Rooster regrets doing porn. And Cherry is asking him but he’s on the spot. He talks about how it was predatory and how Dennis used them, but her whole perspective is like sure, maybe it was predatory, but look at the fucking house we’re sitting in. Look at the fucking gold chain you’re wearing. Look at the fucking steak we’re eating right now, with the perfect marble. And Jake and Rooster say that Cherry got the worst of it and she’s like yeah, I did. But what do I have to complain about when I’m sitting here in a Chanel dress, wearing a string of saltwater pearls? 

So then Samantha brings up how when her and Rooster have kids, and if they have sons, they don’t want them to watch porn. Porn has such a negative effect on youth and it makes men violent. Cherry takes that as a personal offense. She says she doesn’t make men violent by having violent sex on camera--she has to have violent sex on camera because that’s what men want. 

Her and Hangman hang around after dinner, when Samantha goes home. Her and Rooster don’t live together yet. They all talk about the years that have passed and how times have changed.

They talk about children. What they all want in life. And Cherry and Hangman tell Rooster that they’re getting a divorce--a very amicable one. As soon as they decided to divorce, they became friends again. They tell Rooster, while laughing, about the last fight that they had. Cherry called Jake a cokehead loser who couldn’t get over his dead gay boyfriend. Jake called Cherry an orphaned sell-out with too-big tits. Rooster doesn’t think any of this is funny. 

Los Angeles, CA November-December, 1988

Cherry has an ectopic pregnancy. She has one egg drop and it ends up detaching in the wrong spot. She was a whole conversation with Rooster about it. Rooster comes to her in the hospital and won’t leave until she finishes eating. She’s very obviously struggling, even if she’s trying to still be fun and flirty and sexy. He asks whose it was. She says maybe Jake’s, but it’s anyone’s guess. 

He leaves but waits outside the door. He hears Cherry sobbing. When he walks back in, she’s curled into herself and facing away from him. He just crawls into bed behind her and holds her tight. 

The next month, Rooster invites Cherry over for dinner. Samantha is there. Samantha and Rooster are looking into fertility treatment because they want to start a family. And Cherry tries to talk to Samantha about it, but Samantha implies that her issues are different from Cherry’s and that she’s always known she was gonna have a hard time conceiving. 

So first of all, Cherry asks Rooster if he wants kids. And he says that maybe he does. And she says you’ve never told me that. And Samantha is like why would he? And Cherry says that they were together. And Samantha has hit the ceiling at this point. So she’s like yeah, he told me about it. You couldn’t stop fucking other men. 

Rooster stands up for Cherry. And Cherry and Rooster have an argument. Cherry is trying to be everybody’s baby and Rooster is upset by all this. She’s smoking a cigarette in his house and he tells her to take it outside. And she’s surprised bc he always bends the rules for her. And she won’t let Samantha take that. 

But then he says that they’re engaged. She isn’t the woman in his life. 

She leaves before she starts crying. 

Los Angeles, CA July 1989

It’s the night before the wedding. Cherry quit the industry a few months ago. Everyone’s at the hotel. It’s late. She’s sitting at the hotel bar by herself, nursing a glass of wine. Rooster ends up coming down. They talk all night. It’s a lot of reflection--all her time in the industry, what she learned about love and sex. What she learned about men and herself. And he just loves her so much. 

Cherry does not intend to ruin the wedding. She just tells Rooster that she wishes their timing had been better. She wishes she had been ready. She wishes she was his age. He tells her it’s too late for that now. That he is a good man with good intentions and there is a woman upstairs who he said he would marry. Cherry, very sadly and sweetly, says she knows he is a man of his word. She tells him that he is going to make a perfect husband and a perfect father. She squeezes his hand. 

She goes upstairs to her hotel room and feels immense grief, but relief as well. The back and forth is finally ending. There is no more will-they-won’t-they with them. He’s moving on. She is heartbroken, but genuinely very happy for him. 

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Rooster and he’s holding his suitcase. He tells her that she’s always had horrible timing. She says she’s been late to everything in her life. He leaves with Cherry.

Sonoma, CA December 1992

Cherry is 35 and Rooster is 45. They own a vineyard in Sonoma. They’re preparing things for Christmas with everyone. They make love before the fireplace. They’re lovingly getting their home ready for all their friends. They’ve got a couple dogs and some horses. Life is good--sweet. 

A few of them have kids, most everyone is married. Cherry and Rooster got married a few months after the wedding was called off. They’re happy. They’re really, really happy. They look through photo albums while they’re getting things out. All the photos Rooster took of her over the years--some of them are devastatingly sexy. But others are sexy in a quieter way--like a picture he took without her knowing, one where she’s sitting at the end of her bed and rolling lace stockings up her legs. Another where she’s sucking her finger in the reflection of the mirror to get the lipstick off her teeth. And some of the pictures aren’t sexy at all--they’re just beautiful. Cherry on their honeymoon in Maine, bundled up in a sweater with a scarf in her hair waving in the wind. Cherry behind the wheel of Rooster’s cherry-red car, grinning sweetly with her big sunglasses on. Cherry first-thing in the morning, hair messy and toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. It’s the way he’s always seen her, which is not the way most men of the world see her: as a person. As herself. As something to be loved and not just fucked.

Fin.                           

#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[strwbrrykss]

𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Happy Spooky Month! Below the cut are the 31 prompts I’ll be using for my very first Kinktober! Thank you to everyone that has requested a character for these prompts to fill out the list, I hope you all enjoy this smutty buffet!!

All works are 1000-2000 words, with little to no plot - just straight up smut [by default these pieces will be f!reader but if there’s any that you want to see as afab! or gn!reader, let me know!]

all kinks + pairings were chosen by me; based entirely off what I felt comfortable writing. If anything from the below list makes you uncomfortable, I strongly advise you not to read it

ageless blogs // minors interacting with this post, or any of the linked posts, will be blocked

As and when each piece is posted, the title on this post will be pink to indicate the link has been added!

ALL CONTENT BELOW THE CUT IS 18+/NSFW. MINORS DNI. BY OPENING THE “READ MORE” YOU AGREE THAT YOU’RE OF AGE

Dry Humping - Eddie Munson

Sometimes you’re both just too tired to get completely down and dirty, but Eddie has a new approach to an old problem

Hide N Seek - Dean Winchester

It started as a stupid game, something to keep you entertained whilst exploring an abandoned mall with Dean. And transpired into much more.

Begging - Benedict Bridgerton

You both knew it was frowned upon to leave a party early, but sometimes, you just want to hear your husband beg for your attention behind closed doors.

Masturbation - JJ Maybank

After a day spent out on the water in your new swimwear, JJ just can’t help himself and takes matters into his own hands... Literally.

Daddy Kink - Kevin Atwater

It came about by pure chance in conversation, what he wanted you to call him, and now you say it almost as much as his real name.

Overstimulation - Bucky Barnes

There is nothing Bucky loves more than to push you over and over to the edge of release... Except for watching you fall apart when he finally lets you finish.

Praise Kink - Anthony Bridgerton

Despite thinking you knew Anthony better than most, there’s still one more thing you’re yet to learn about him and it’s... Surprising results.

Dacryphilia - Robert “BOB” Floyd

Sweet as he may be, Bob loves nothing more than to see your makeup streaked down your face and he has plenty of methods to make it happen.

Mirror Sex - Eddie Munson

Eddie wants to show you just how pretty you really are, especially when he’s rocking your shit for the fifth time that week.

Cockwarming - Jake “Hangman” Seresin

Sometimes, all he needs is to be as physically close to you as possible, and you’re all too willing to help him out.

Facesitting - Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw

There’s very little you haven’t tried with Bradley, even with your status currently undefined, there’s one thing he can’t stop thinking about.

Lingerie - Matt Casey

At the end of a stressful week for you both, you decide to surprise Matt with some new additions to your wardrobe.

Breeding - Nomad!Steve Rogers

You thought you’d seen the last of him after the fiasco with the Accords. Steve has other plans now that he’s no longer America’s Golden Boy

Threesome - Pornstar!Jay Halstead + Pornstar!Adam Ruzek

After you revealed that you’d always been interested - or at the very least curious - to try a threesome, Jay brings home the perfect solution; a costar.

Food Play - Derek Morgan

Trying to cook a nice meal for yours and Derek’s anniversary doesn’t exactly go as planned... And leaves more of a mess than either of you want to admit.

Car Sex - Adam Ruzek

Adam always looked forward to seeing you on his lunch break, but when you proposition him, he isn’t going to refuse.

Toys - Pornstar!Jay Halstead

Jay confesses he wants to try something new - something that he might be able to add to his - not exhaustive - resume, you’re all too happy to oblige.

Uniform Kink - Jake “Hangman” Seresin

There’s just something about seeing a man in uniform that makes your blood run hot. Jake is no exception to that rule, despite your rocky relationship.

Morning Sex - JJ Maybank

In the Summer following graduation, you and JJ spend your time one of three ways; surfing, smoking and fucking.

Phone Sex - Steve Harrington

A town-wide curfew puts a damper on your date plans with Steve, so you find other ways to spend some quality time together.

Unprotected Sex - Will Halstead

After a lengthy discussion over the course of several weeks, you and Will decide that it’s time to ditch the condoms.

Clothed Sex - Dean Winchester

The last thing you expected whilst Sam was out on a solo hunt was for tensions to break between you and Dean after all the pining, teasing and flirting.

Sensation Play - Connor Rhodes

Candles and ice cubes seemed like mundane things in your relationship with Connor, until he has an interesting suggestion one night.

Quickies - Lip Gallagher

A surprise visit from your boyfriend at work, prompts you to take your lunch break a little sooner.

Pegging - Connor Rhodes

When your “present” for Connor arrives earlier than expected, he’s more than eager to put it to use as soon as possible.

Thigh Riding - Sierra Six

You’re feeling particularly needy and Six knows exactly how you can get your fix and it’s no longer just a quiet night in.

Anywhere But The Bed - S1!Sam Winchester

A long weekend with Sam on a hunt turns out to be just the push you needed for the levee to break and hormones to run rampant.

Semi-Public Sex - Billy Hargrove

Billy just can’t wait to get his hands on you, regardless of the fact that you’re in no suitable place to meet his demands, he’s quick to find a way around it.

Hair Pulling - Dean Winchester

Who knew that just a playful tug on Dean’s hair could change the mood so drastically? You certainly didn’t and you wish you’d done it sooner.

Accidental Stimulation - Roommate!Luke Hemmings

Movie night was a Friday ritual for you and Luke, until one too many chance touches alters the dynamic between the two of you.

Pool Sex - John B Routledge

A sure-fire way to get petty, self-indulgent revenge on your Kook ex-boyfriend? Fuck John B in his pool when he’s not around.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #jake seresin x reader #adam ruzek x reader #billy hargrove x reader #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #john b routledge x reader #jj maybank x reader #matt casey x reader #will halstead x reader #jay halstead x reader #kevin atwater x reader #anthony bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x reader #bucky barnes x reader #lip gallagher x reader #luke hemmings x reader #dean winchester x reader #strwbrrykss writes #kinktober 2022 #strwbrrykss

[thepalaceofmelanie]

Martell Week- COTD: Oberyn Martell

Tag: @elvinaa @adriennegabriella @morby @candycanes19 @wingsoftheangels @tashastrange89

(A/N: Okay so we had a House Martell music task...well, I want to do that for just Oberyn. So the first ten are songs with my reasoning, while the last ten are certain lyrics that fit him without my reasoning. Plus, this helps me get a playlist for Oberyn started for use. Enjoy the ride! Also am working on Day 2 and 3, so hopefully I can get those done tonight.)

1- “Unholy (Japanese Version)” by: Shayne Orok, Curserino & Ali Orok

Reasoning: Alright, pick any version of Unholy; I don’t care if it’s the OG to a cover or whatever else, this version screams Oberyn. It’s slow and sensual and sexy, to say the least, I recommend this song for any smut/lemon playlist.

2- “Oberyn” by: Daenerys and Targaryens

Reasoning: Please, do yourself a favor! Go and listen to this song. It’s so fun and a bit funny but it’s about him! So enjoy fellow Oberyn fans.

3- “Letter To A Friend” by: Robert Gromotka and Chiharu Bley Violoncello

Reasoning: I feel this would be his theme song back in Dorne. More so when he’s in the Water Garden writing poems for his daughters. It’s just something that would make you think of him feeling calm for lack of a better term.

4- “Bow Down” by: I, Prevail

Reasoning: Basically, this song is could be his theme song when trying to avenge his Sister and her children. I did have this one down in the lyric area but switched it because, of how it just works more so as a whole.

5- “Crossing Over” by: Five Finger Death Punch

Reasoning: So, after watching the Bills game, I was trying to think what else to add and remember this old gem. This song is about loss and grieving and well, he lost Elia. Also you could use this song for Ellaria as well, when the second verse.

6- “Adrenalize” by: In This Moment

Reasoning: If I had to give Oberyn’s “infamous for his sexual appetite” as the wiki puts it, a theme song, it would be this. It’s hard, heavy and well a sex song.

7- “Tonight” by: Fozzy

Reasoning: “Then everyone is missing half the world’s pleasure. The gods made women… and it delights me. The gods made men… and it delights me. When it comes to war, I fight for Dorne. When it comes to love — I don’t choose sides.”

8- “One Of The Girls” by: Jennie Kim, Lily-Rose Depp, and The Weeknd

“We don't gotta be in love, no

I don't gotta be the one, no

I just wanna be one of your girls tonight

We don't gotta be in love, no

I don't gotta be the one, no

I just wanna be one of your girls tonight, oh”

9- “Emperor’s New Clothes” by: Panic! At The Disco

“I'm taking back the crown

I'm all dressed up and naked

I see what's mine and take it

(Finders keepers, losers weepers)”

10- “Love You To Death” by: Type O Negative

“In her place one hundred candles burning

As salty sweat drips from her breast

Her hips move and I can feel what they're saying, swaying

They say the beast inside of me is gonna get ya, get ya, get”

11- “Hangman” by: Rev Theory

“Take your places please

You’ll need to sit for this one

It’s a simple plan

With a mangled conclusion”

12- “Go Girl” by: Pitbull

“I party like a rockstar

Look like a movie star

Play like an all star

Fuck like a pornstar”

13- “The Whims of Fate -King Side” cover by: FamilyJules feat Kuraiinu

“Give into another vice

See where it might lead

Come on, let's just enjoy the spice

Life and feel so free

Give into temptation”

14- “So Far Away” by: Staind

“This is my life

Its not what it was before

All these feelings I've shared

And these are my dreams

That I'd never lived before

Somebody shake me

'Cause I

I must be sleeping”

15- “Young Gods” by: Hasley

“He says, "Ooh, baby girl, don't get cut on my edges

I'm the king of everything and oh, my tongue is a weapon

There's a light in the crack that's separating your thighs

And if you wanna go to heaven, you should fuck me tonight"”

#Martell Week #Oberyn Martell #Oberyn Martell playlist #Mel has a song for everything #chibi Oberyn approved

[inklore]

#they’re all planned and waiting in the drafts #i just need to know what order y’all wanna see them written and posted okkk #polls

[topguncortez]

thoughts on this post;;

it reminded me of this screenshot, I feel like Jake would be both the people in the tweets and he would brag about it as a joke, maybe? lol I can see him also helping his girl, taking pictures for her sometimes and giving her ideas

Bob, on the other hand, would get super insecure and upset if someone ever said that to him after recognizing her in public

As for Roost, I completely agree 😬 they'd probably get into a huge argument, but he could maybe start understanding her side if reader called him out for consuming porn, for example

Hangman 100% has said something like “you pay 60 bucks to jack off to my girl when i get to do it for free” or something along those lines. Again, Hangman is just so cocky and confident i think seeing his woman rake in the fucking dough would just inflate his ego by a thousand

i agree, i think Bob would become more of an introvert than he already is. he’d be so nervous to walk down the street or anywhere that she might be noticed.

Rooster 100% start an argument by saying “and i don’t want a pornstar as a mother to my kids” knowing what we know about rooster i think he’d be so stuck in his ways and not be able to change his mind about being with someone who is a stripper or a onlyfans star

#g mail

[roosterforme]

Istg I’m married to the unholy Latino love child of hangman and rooster. He has an ego bigger than Texas and he just tried to stick our son with the nickname “Sardine” because “he’s so TINY kacie and he’s my son so he’s basically in the Navy already” he’s on leave right now too so he’s grown his mustache out and it looks like a 70s pornstar has possessed him and come back to haunt me even though i love it and find it very sexy

Okay, but you're clearly winning at life! When my husband grew out the Rooster stache for my birthday, he just looked like Ted Lasso instead. Also, Sardine is a cute nickname.

#if you ask emily

[justalonelyslytherin]

OMG, Ally, just thinking about your Hangman with a mustache post. Dying at the thought of him growing a mustache to prove he looks better than Rooster. He so would! If he really wanted to take the piss, he'd use one of those corny adhesive mustaches to dress as Rooster for Halloween. 😂 Tbh tho, I don't care for the look on Hangman. Rooster def wears it better 🤫

Right?? Jake is for sure, like 100% so extra and would do it to get on Roosters nerves!

We know he is both super confident and wants to be the best so I don't think he would settle for a fake mustache 😂 He'd definitely go the extra mile to secretly grow a mustache for Halloween 🤣

That my dear is so true. Rooster rocks it, Jake looks too much like a glorified pornstar. It's just too thick and bushy. Rooster's is more subtle which works well for todays time too!

Thank you for sending this to my inbox! Feel free to hop in again if you have some Hangman (or Rooster) thoughts to share 💚

#top gun maverick #top gun maverick headcanon #sweet asks from sweet friends #jake hangman seresin

[boobie-fem-x]

im so disgusted. im a SOPHOMORE in HIGH SCHOOL and my teacher let the class play hangman and the two jocks in class picked “actor” as their category and now they’re listing various pornstars as the actors and making fun of them. and the teacher isnt doing anything.

#terfs please touch #terfsafe #terf safe #terfs please interact #radblr #radfem #radical feminism #lydia speaks

[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐙-𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟔.𝟕𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

You know this is supposed to be a punishment.

Really, you know that.

You’re in trouble; you made your mama cry and your daddy won’t look at you and your brother called you a whore. But gliding down the old wood and bobbing between long-haired boys that let their eyes fall to your chest, with the warm wind billowing through your hair and the sun kissing your cheeks, you don’t feel like this is punishment at all. 

Your cousin Jenny let you borrow her bikini, a flimsy crochet thing the color of a nectarine, and your Aunt Lydia let you borrow her old roller skates so you and Jenny could roller skate down the Venice Boardwalk. Jenny painted your nails cherry-red this morning and did your hair real nice. She’s a whiny sixteen-year-old, one that doesn't have any sisters or friends, and you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her since you’re her older cousin. 

“Wait up!” Jenny calls to you as you glide down the boardwalk with a grin. “Stop going so fast! Not fair!” 

Glancing at her over your shoulder, you stick your tongue out at her. She’s fumbling around the wood, her limbs strewn about like a newborn animal.  

“Mellow out, Jenny!” You call to her, laughing. “I’ll catch you on the flip-side!”

She whines, a pitiful and whiny noise, when you continue without her. 

The sun is sitting high up in the turquoise sky. The air is thick with salt and patchouli and you don’t feel like you’re just the visiting cousin from the chicken farm. You don’t feel like this punishment--being sent away from Nebraska all the way to California to spend Christmas with your dad’s sister--is an adequate one. This has been the best Christmas of your life, really. 

Chest heaving, you hoist yourself up on the ipe wood railing to catch your breath and give Jenny a chance at keeping up with you. You kick your legs, your feet heavy from the striped skates on your feet. 

All the sounds around you are overwhelming: the waves crashing against the sand, the reggae music floating from the buskers just down the way, the hollow sound of footfalls and wheels on old wood, all the chatter of the thousands of people bustling around you in their Daisy Dukes and halter tops and and sweatbands. It’s overwhelming because you're not just suddenly being around so many people and under the hot sun instead of knee-deep in the snow, but all the life. Life is just buzzing around you, happening all at once. And it isn't chickens with their heads cut off, either--it's real life, actual people.

Your face is tilted towards the sun and your throat is growing warmer and warmer with joy. 

The longer you’re here, the more you feel like this is the place you’re supposed to be.

Dennis Goldman had spotted you from a mile away--he always claims that he can practically smell stardom on people--and watched you from a distance as you left the whiny girl you were skating with behind, bobbing and weaving around cyclists and swimmers with your breasts bouncing in that flimsy bikini top. Dennis knows a good pair of tits when he sees them--and boy, did he see them on you. 

You’re perfect. Your hair is done up nice, not too tight and not too loose--that is to say you don't look too much like a hippie or a square. And the face your hair is framing is a good one, Hell, even a great one. There is a sprig of freckles on your hairline, dark things kissed into your flesh. Dennis knows that freckles like that aren't earned sunbathing or skating down the boardwalk. No, no--they're earned out in the pasture with sweat dripping down the delicate column of your throat.

There is a ruggedness about your beauty--one accentuated by that too-big grin and those wide eyes and long lashes. He can't see any tan lines on your shoulders, which Dennis decides is further proof that you are not native to California. Your legs go on for a mile, sculpted and marked with bruises from manual labor. Your chest, covered just by that skimpy bit of yarn, gleams beneath the sun.

When he watches you heave yourself up on the railing, kicking your feet and looking up at the sky, he decides to go in for the kill.

Dennis is a short man, shorter than you by about an inch and a half, but his personality fills all that empty space above his bald head. When he saunters up to you, a fat cigar between his pink lips, you are watching an airplane cut the sky with your head tilted back, your jaw flexed.    

“Cigarette?” Dennis asks you, pulling your eyes away from the sky and onto his broad forehead. 

He’s smiling up at you, plumes of thick smoke tickling your nostrils as he offers you a thin cigarette from a heavy-looking gold case. It looks expensive--so do his thick-framed, tinted glasses. 

“No thanks,” you smile politely, shielding your eyes from the sun above. “Don’t you smoke cigars?” 

Dennis chews on his stogie and grins--his teeth are whiter than the sand just behind you, whiter than the clouds drifting across the sky. He stuffs the gold cigarette case back into the pocket of his corduroy jacket and smiles. 

“I’m a gentleman,” he tells you, winking. And so far, he isn’t giving you any reason to believe that he isn’t a gentleman. Not that you mind rude men, anyway. “I always keep cigarettes on me for the ladies.” 

At that, you perk up. A lady. He fashions you a lady. 

“Bitchin’,” you grin, running your hand through your hair.

Dennis glances around the crowd, clocking all the thick-mustached men ogling at your tits and the way it makes you straighten your spine. Dennis knows, right away, that you’re the kind of girl that likes to be looked at. And he likes girls that like to be looked at. 

“Are you here by yourself?” He asks. 

You shake your head. 

“My kid cousin’s around here somewhere. Lost her in the crowd.”

He saw you leave her behind, sticking your tongue out at her like a brat. But he just nods, taking a long drag of his cigar. 

“Aren’t you cold?” He asks. 

It’s curious--you’re one of the only people on the Venice Boardwalk wearing a bikini top. You’re surprised that more people aren’t wearing them, the salt air a balmy seventy-three degrees. It doesn’t matter that it is just a day after Christmas--this feels like summer to you. 

“I’m hot-blooded,” you tell Dennis, kicking your legs softly. 

He glances down at your scuffed skates and lets his eyes drag all the way up the length of your legs as you watch with a bated breath. 

“You look it, babydoll,” Dennis tells you, puffing on his cigar. “I’m Dennis Goldman.” 

He puts his beefy hand in the air between you and you shake it with ease, biting down on your lower lip as your cheeks grow warm. 

“How’s it going, pops?” You ask. 

He laughs, squeezing your hand and bringing it to his lips to press a wet kiss to your knuckles. You’re still flushed, your eyebrows pulled together.

“Decent,” Dennis answers, stubbing his cigar on the railing beside you and flicking the butt into the sand below. “What’s your name, kid?”

“My name is Dennis, too,” you say with a grin. 

“Is that right?” Dennis asks, biting a smile. 

“No,” you answer, sighing. “Just haven’t decided on a fake name yet. Gonna use Dennis as a placeholder for now. You dig?” 

Dennis nods, laughing. 

“I can dig it, I can dig it. How old are you, anyway, babydoll?”

You hum. 

“Turned twenty-one in November,” you tell him.

“Is November just a placeholder, too?” 

Then you laugh, shaking your head. 

“Nope,” you answer. “It’s the real deal.” 

Dennis eyes you up and down again, making sure you’re watching his drifting gaze. Then he points at you, eyes narrowed in concentration through his purple-tinted glasses. 

“I bet you’re a Scorpio,” he says, cocking a brow. 

You shake your head, blowing a raspberry and giving him a thumbs down. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “A Sagatarius, then, huh?” 

“Told you I’m hot-blooded,” you tell him.  

“Where you from?” Dennis asks. 

You size him for a minute, chewing on your bottom lip. 

“Guess,” you say. 

Dennis likes you already--you like to play games. 

“East or west?” 

“Everything’s east of California,” you tell him. 

 Dennis is imagining how well you would do in front of a camera. You would keen from the attention of a man--teasing and laughing, down for anything. He can tell you’re open just from the way you’re chiding him already. 

“Somewhere cold,” Dennis starts and you nod. He sucks in a breath, raking a hand through the few wispy hairs gelled to his head. “Somewhere with lots of land.” You nod again. He narrows his eyes at you. “You a farm girl, babydoll?” 

“Chicken farm,” you tell him. He doesn’t miss the sneer. 

“Kansas,” he guesses. You shake your head. “Arkansas.” You shake your head again. “Nebraska.” 

“Ding, ding, ding! You win!” You call to him, laughing. 

He smirks. 

“What do I win, then?” 

Your lips tingle. Heat is pooling between your legs, like it always does whenever the prospect of sex wanders into any of your conversations. Dennis isn’t cute--not by your standards--but he has thick fingers, thick like ten fat stogies attached to his hands. And you don’t care much about what men look like--just what they taste like, feel like. You're more concerned about what men can do for you.

“I’ll suck your cock,” you tell him, holding his gaze. 

Dennis isn’t shocked--doesn’t blink in surprise or stumble back. He tuts, nods, and then moves to check the fat watch on his hairy wrist.

You’ve said--and done this--plenty of times. But the farmers' sons and grocery store workers and bankers back home usually blush and stutter a little bit before they submit to your seduction. The fact that Dennis isn’t shocked makes a warmth settle deep in your belly. You fucking love California.   

“Tell you what,” Dennis says, leaning against the railing. “I’ve got a meeting with a client at a quarter ‘til. What do you say you tag along, babydoll?” 

Your mouth waters.

“So, you don’t want me to suck your cock?” You ask, not wounded but close to it. 

He watches you deflate a bit. 

“Of course I do, babydoll. I’m just a man after all,” Dennis says. “But I’m not the moneymaker here. My client is. And I think your services could be put to best use on him.”

“I’m not a hooker,” you tell him, crossing your arms. 

He shakes his head, holding his hands up in defense. 

“Trust me, I know that. I can smell a hooker from a mile away,” Dennis says, grinning. He thinks very highly of his sense of smell. “You’re just a girl that likes to have fun, right?” 

“Yeah,” you say, relieved that someone understands you finally. “I do like to have fun.”

And because you like to have fun, you're not allowed back on the family farm. But you don't say that. 

“You ever been to the disco?” He asks you. 

Slowly, you shake your head. 

“No discos in Nebraska,” you answer. 

“There’s plenty of discos here. I’ll show you around some of them if you stick with me.”  

Your mama used to tell you that you had no better judgment. She used to say that you didn’t think about the after or the before and only worried about the during. She hated that you went through life head first, couldn’t stand watching you briskly float through time. As much as you didn’t think about the consequences of your choices, they never seemed to touch you anyway. 

So--what’s the worst that could happen?

Casually, you look out over the crowd. You can’t see Jenny anywhere. You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her, you know, but she lives in California. She’ll figure it out. You don’t really care if it pisses off your aunt.  

That heat is growing between your legs--the one that can only be sequestered by cock.

“What kinda car you got?” 

Dennis lets his glasses fall down his nose as he leans in close to you, beaming. 

“‘78 DeVille.”

“White?” You ask, leaning closer to him. 

He can smell the sunscreen on your skin and the cheap body spray on your throat. 

“Powder blue.” 

You bite down hard on your lip.

“Lead the way, pops.” 

 Rooster’s already waiting in Dennis’ office. It’s too fucking hot in here and Rooster is just about burning up in his maroon turtleneck and bell-bottoms, chewing on the butt of a cigar as he impatiently taps his fingers on the arm of the leather couch he’s fairly certain that he’s stuck to. 

Dennis is running late. He’s always fucking running late. Rooster’s already almost finished with his cigar and Dennis is showing no signs of showing up. He digs the toe of his leather loafer into the ruby-colored shag carpet, wishing that Dennis would invest in some fucking air conditioning in this place.

“Fuckin’ Dennis, man,” Rooster sighs, a plume of smoke descending in the low light of the room and seeping into all the walnut wooded furniture. “Phony.”

This was a rare day off for Rooster--until he got called in for a meeting with Dennis at the office of Goldman Homevideos. Dennis hadn’t said much on the phone, just that he wanted to talk with Rooster about some fine print on his contract. Rooster would much rather be back at his house in the hills, laying out in his pool, eating caviar, and listening to the radio now that they’re not just playing Christmas music anymore.    

When the doorknob turns behind him, just as Rooster leans back into the couch and combs a hand through his curls, he sighs loudly and stubs out his cigar on the crystal ashtray beside him.

“Christ, Dennis,” Rooster calls out, checking his watch. “Take your fuckin’ time, why don’t you?” 

Dennis clears his throat. 

Rooster finally turns around, his brows blanched, and then he sees you. You’re standing beside Dennis, smiling softly, your hair kissed by the wind and your cheeks pinched by the sun. You’re in a flimsy bikini top and tiny pair of shorts, a pair of old roller skates slung over your shoulder and leaving your feet bare on the carpet. 

“Is that any way to greet a lady?” Dennis asks, crossing his arms with a small smile.

“Didn’t know there was a lady,” Rooster says apologetically, standing up and holding his hips. “Sorry about that, kid.” 

You shrug, grinning. 

“Am I a kid or a lady?” You ask Rooster. 

That’s the first time you see him smile--his lips pink and curved around white teeth, his mustache tickling his nose. He laughs, too, a short and dry thing as Dennis pats your shoulder and gestures to you. 

“She’s got a quick wit, this one,” Dennis says. You keen at his praise, burrowing your toes in the soft carpet. “Rooster, we’ll go over your contract another time. Why don’t you show our guest to her seat?” 

Rooster knows what’s going to happen. He’s done this plenty of times. Dennis will bring him in when there’s any newcomer that he wants to try out, essentially using Rooster as a human dildo to feel out if they’ve got that star quality Dennis is so sure he can sniff out. Rooster already knows that he’s going to fuck you. 

“You can sit on the sofa,” Rooster smiles softly, nodding towards the leather. “Next to me.” 

You don’t feel out of your element somehow--you didn’t in the car on your way over here despite it being the nicest vehicle you’ve ever touched, you didn’t walking into the little bungalow-style office with Dennis, and you still don’t now as you sit on the couch beside Rooster. Just being here, in this low-lit room that smells like cashmere and leather, you have that feeling in your gut that this is just somewhere you’re supposed to be.  

From what you’ve gathered, this is about sex. You aren’t entirely sure what it is about sex, but it’s something that piques your interest. You’re already wet--and you have been since you mentioned sucking Dennis’ cock--and your fingers are beginning to tremble in anticipation.

Rooster sinks into the couch beside you--he smells like vetiver and tobacco, the scent thick on his tan skin. He smooths his mustache out and sits with his legs spread; it makes your mouth water. 

“What’s your name?” Rooster asks, glancing at you. 

Dennis smirks, settling into the chair behind his desk. 

“She won’t give it up that easily,” Dennis says for you, winking. 

“Just call me kid,” you say, shrugging. “Or lady. Whichever you think fits me best.” 

Rooster nods, chuckling. 

“I can dig it,” he says. “Where you from?” 

You shrug, crossing your legs and sighing.

“Around,” you answer.

Rooster laughs. 

“I think I’ve been there before,” Rooster teases. 

Now you’re the one laughing--it’s a good sound, one that is as sweet as the lips that are parting for it to fill the office they’re sitting in. 

“She’s a farm-girl,” Dennis answers for you. “Rooster here specializes in farm-girls.” 

You raise an eyebrow at Rooster, who rolls his eyes and adjusts on the sofa.

“What’s the skinny on that?” 

Rooster’s growing hot in here again. He isn’t necessarily proud of a lot of his earlier work--and he considers the first ten years of his career to be early--and grows uncomfortable when people bring up Cockwalk; all five volumes. 

“You ever seen Cockwalk, babydoll?” 

You’ve never watched a pornographic video in your life. 

“She’s a farm-girl,” Rooster reminds Dennis, glancing at you. “Bet you haven’t seen anything more than a Playboy, huh, kid?” 

You nod--besides all the sex you’ve experienced up close, you aren’t very knowledgeable about erotica.  

“Well, Cockwalk is what really shot Rooster off--and what gave him the name Rooster. Top-grossing porn film of 1975--and 1976. We’ll show it to you sometime.”    

Dennis lights up another cigar, letting his elbow rest on the desk. 

“Babydoll here,” Dennis says, gesturing to you. “She offered to suck my cock earlier on the Venice Boardwalk. Didn’t you?” He takes a long drag and then smiles as you nod, leaning back into the sofa and crossing your legs. “I was flattered, of course. Especially since I could smell the talent on her from a mile away.”

Rooster wants to roll his eyes. He flatters all the newcomers like this--drifters, hippies, punks. He calls Rooster in to fuck them, smokes a couple cigars and unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt, and then decides whether or not they’re good enough to bring on board.  

You’re hot--blood spreading across your chest and belly. That heat is pooling between your legs again; it’s starting to get uncomfortable. 

The air is thick with the scent of cigar smoke now. 

“But I told her to wait. So she could meet you. So--babydoll, this is Rooster. Rooster, this is babydoll. She’ll be fucking you today. You down for that?”

You swallow hard. 

“Can I ask a few questions first?” You ask. 

Dennis nods. 

“Where are we?” 

“Los Angeles, babydoll,” Dennis answers with a grin. He takes another long drag of his cigar and then exhales it through his nose. “This is my office. I own Goldman Homevideos.” 

You nod, biting your lip. 

“And Goldman Homevideos…” you start, shifting on the sofa and glancing at Rooster, who’s looking at you very softly. “What kind of homevideos do you make?” 

“Adult films,” Dennis tells you, puffing on his cigar again. “Erotic ones. Stag.”

Rooster watches a smile twitch your lips as warmth floods the tips of your ears. 

“Porn,” you say, chewing the word. It tastes good in your mouth. 

Dennis nods. 

“And you want me to be in your adult films maybe. You’re not jiving me, right?” 

“You wound me, babydoll. Rooster--I ever shit you?” 

Rooster shakes his head, resting his chin in his palm. 

“But now you want to watch me have sex with Chicken?” 

“It’s Rooster,” Rooster corrects, amusement tugging on his lips. 

You glance at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. You lick your lips, tilt your head, and mouth sorry. But he knows that you aren’t. It makes him smile. 

He likes you--likes that you’re smart enough to ask Dennis questions and feel out the situation before going any further. It’s what he should’ve done all those years ago and what he wished other girls would do before they stripped.        

“So, Dennis Goldman, you want me to have sex with Rooster while you watch?” 

Rooster decides that he likes the way you say his name--your voice is soft and sweet, but it doesn't lack a certain gumption. 

“Bingo,” Dennis grins. “If I see what I like, I can give you a very comfortable life. Assuming you’re willing to make some movies with me.” 

You turn to Rooster now, smiling softly. 

“He just spring this on you, big boy?” 

Rooster barks out a laugh. 

“Rooster’s the best in the business,” Dennis tells you, watching your tongue poke out and coat your plump bottom lip in a sheen of saliva. “He doesn’t mind a surprise every now and then. Especially when that surprise is a sweet little thing like you, babydoll.”

“And you wanna fuck me?” You narrow your eyes at Rooster slightly, tilting your head. 

Usually, if someone asked Rooster that, he’d just respond the way he always does: I always wanna fuck everyone. That isn’t necessarily true--there are plenty of people he wouldn’t fuck if he wasn’t getting paid to do it. But looking at you--your wind-swept hair and your breasts straining against the fabric covering them, your glassy eyes, your glossy lips--he does want to fuck you. And he’s starting to feel better about coming in on his day off. 

He reaches out, brows knit, and lets his thumb drag across the highest point of your cheekbone. Your skin is plush and soft beneath his fingers. A tingle runs down your spine and settles between your legs. 

“Sure, I wanna fuck you, kid.” 

Then he turns to Dennis and nods towards the record player--that’s one thing about Rooster: he always has to have music playing when he films and fucks. Dennis, with the cigar still between his grinning lips, leans over and puts on a record. 

Too Hot To Stop by Funk starts playing--you’ve never heard this song before.  

You don’t break your gaze away from Rooster as you reach behind you and pull the strings of your bikini top. It falls in a heap on your lap and Rooster, a breath bated in his beautiful throat, smooths his mustache before grabbing the bra and setting it on the ground beside you. It almost strikes you as a soft thing to do--him taking your discarded clothing from your lap and setting it beside the two of you. Most men you’ve fucked don’t even care to not tear your blouse or smear your lipstick. 

Rooster scoots closer to you, saliva pooling on his tongue at the sight of your naked chest and the blush that’s covered it. He holds the back of your neck--not gently but certainly not roughly either--to keep you still as he ducks down and licks a hot stripe between your breasts. The sensation has your eyes fluttering already, your hands coming to rest on his thighs. 

He moves to cup your left breast, tweaking your nipple between his rough fingers, and encloses his mouth around your right nipple. He sucks harshly, humming against your skin. You taste like sunscreen and body spray, your skin almost salty from the sea breeze that tickled it earlier. He likes the taste of you--not that he’s very picky about the way things taste anymore--and the way your chest rumbles with a moan. 

This is the only moment today that you’ve felt a bit out of your element: what Rooster is doing to you feels good, like really fucking good. Hot beads of pleasure are spiking up your spine and settling between your vertebrae and your body is keening for more, more, more. Whenever you’ve fucked in the past, you’ve been in control. Meaning that you would suck an average cock and then spread your legs and get fucked. There’s been some pawing here and there, over the bra or under the blouse, but no one’s ever done this to you before. 

To Rooster, this is almost mechanical. He knows how to make women wet--it’s literally his job--and he knows what gets him going. When he lets his tongue flick your nipple, his eyes dragging up your flexed throat to your parted lips and closed eyes--you release a sweet moan and instinctively curl your fingers in his hair. 

Girl, it's something about your act / And I sure do like your style

“That’s good,” Dennis tells you. He’s still watching closely from behind the desk, his feet resting beside his notepad as he finishes up his cigar. “Rooster--take her pants off.” 

Rooster leans away from you and you almost whine at the sudden lack of his mouth on you. You lean back on the sofa, cheeks burning, and grin at Rooster as you settle your legs on either side of him. 

He hooks his fingers in your shorts and pulls them down swiftly--you’re not wearing underwear. The denim covering his crotch is growing tight now--and the cashmere wrapped around his throat. 

“Real pretty thing you are, babydoll,” Dennis says. “Show her your mouth, Rooster.” 

Sometimes Rooster feels like a puppet attached to strings, limbs flopping here and there at the command of Dennis or whoever else is behind the camera. Even when he’s having sex off camera, in his own home, sometimes he feels like he’s waiting for direction. But he listens all the same, smoothing his flat palms down your body and grabbing your hips. 

You’re looking up at him, lips parted in a pout, and your chest is heaving. You’re already so wet and just him grabbing your hips and pulling you up, pulling your cunt closer to his mouth as he settles lower on the couch--you feel like this is all building to something. 

Maybe it's the way / That you ride around 

“This alright, kid?” Rooster asks, peppering kisses along the soft skin of your inner-thighs. 

You’re squirming below him, your eyes lustful and dark. Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you nod. 

“Do it the French way, baby,” you mutter to him. 

Dennis barks out a laugh, clapping. 

“What a line, doll!” 

Rooster secures your legs over his shoulders, cupping your ass, holding your body close to his face. Sometimes he feels like he does this so much that it’s ingrained in who he is as a person. He can just let go, think about something else, and have some broad writhing above him. But right now--he feels okay with being in his body, experiencing all of this. 

He licks a languid stripe between your folds and kisses your clit. The sounds you’re making are entirely authentic: he knows it, you know it, and Dennis knows it. Your eyes are closed tight and your fingers are woven in his hair and your thighs are quivering just from one kitten lick from Rooster. 

You taste good--you taste real. He can tell that you didn’t use perfumed douche before this and he actually thoroughly enjoys that. You taste like a human person. You taste like desire and arousal and skin and God, his pants are getting tighter and tighter. 

“Don’t worry about anyone hearing you, babydoll,” Dennis tells you. “They’re used to it by now.” 

This pleasure you’re feeling is entirely real. It’s red-hot and captures every single one of your senses. You can hardly hear anything above the sounds of your erratic heartbeat and the mewls and moans falling from your lips. Rooster is sucking at your clit, his mustache burning the delicate skin of your cunt, and this feels so fucking good. 

Girl, I'm out to get your love / And I'm too hot to stop now 

Rooster takes this opportunity to look up at you as he mercilessly sucks at your clit. You’re an undeniably pretty thing--especially when you’re naked and writhing above him. But there’s something else about you, something about the way heat covers your chest, something about the way your lashes bat against your cheeks that makes him feel like you’re different. You’re young--which isn’t different--but you don’t seem all that inexperienced. He doesn’t know what to make of that. He supposes, maybe, that he sees a bit of himself in you in that regard. 

“Go ahead and give Rooster a big head,” Dennis grins. “Tell him how good he is with his tongue.” 

“Your tongue feels fucking dynamite,” you moan out, back arching off the leather sofa. “You done this before or something?” 

Rooster almost laughs, but he’s able to just moan against your clit and have you cursing and heaving above him. Dennis does bark out a laugh, shaking his head lightly. 

“Oh, I like that mouth of yours, babydoll,” Dennis tells you. “Real sharp.” 

He watches Rooster eat you out with calmness, tapping his fingers lightly on his leather chair. You’re good looking--people would go crazy over a young, sexy thing like you. And he was right; you have great tits. But there’s also something about the way that you seem to be totally in your mind and body that makes you so appealing. You know where you are, you know what you’re doing, and you’re gonna say what’s on your mind. 

“Alright,” Dennis sighs, narrowing his eyes at Rooster’s gaze that is glued to your quivering lips. “Let’s see what else that mouth does. Take your pants off, Rooster. Babydoll, this is what you’ve been waiting for--suck his cock.” 

You’re close to cumming--which is something you’ve only done between the sheets of your own bed by yourself or in the front seat of a truck with John Duke that one time--but you don’t mind it when Rooster pulls away from you. 

Both of you meet each other’s gaze at the same time, his chin glossy with your arousal. And you bite a grin, slinking your leg off his shoulder. But before you can completely retract, Rooster brings his hand up to your calf and presses a short and wet kiss to the inside of your ankle. 

“You’re a romantic, aren’t you?” You ask him, nudging his head with your freshly-painted toes. “Bet you’re a Cancer.” 

Something tickles his belly. He is a Cancer. 

You see his brows knit, see the little surprised gap of his mouth. 

“I have a gift,” you tell him, winking. “Now, take your pants off.”

The carpet is plush beneath your knees--for a moment, you wonder if that’s why they chose it--and you’re flushed with anticipation as Rooster sits with his legs spread before you. 

This is the first time you’ve really sat back and looked at him. He is a striking man--one that looks like he was bred here in California. He’s sunkissed and muscular, his sideburns thick and his mustache neatly trimmed. He’s wearing an expensive sweater and even more expensive leather shoes and a thick gold chain rests against his broad throat. His hair is styled with gel that you mussed and his curls are thick and sandy. 

He starts to undo his own belt, his chest softening at the notion of this tension being relieved finally, but you lay your hands over his to stop him. The gesture is one that makes you dominant, especially when you smile coyly at him and reach for his belt, but your grip isn’t a harsh one. You hold him softly, but close enough that he can feel all the folds in your palms. 

You’re good with your hands--fast and dexterous--and Rooster’s got a big and pretty cock, one that springs up out of his briefs with pearls of precum shimmering in the lowlight.

“Jesus,” you mutter in awe, tracing all the thick veins that mark his cock. “You’re so big.” 

“Can you handle it?” Rooster asks, sort of in earnest. But a smirk is tugging on his lips. 

He’s teasing you--you like that. You like it whenever men can get on your level.

“Jinkies, I sure hope so Mr. Cockwalk,” you chide right back, grinning. 

Rooster laughs and Dennis claps again.  

“Beautiful,” Dennis encourages. 

He wishes he had his camera now--just this shot of you on your knees, elbows resting on Rooster’s parted knees as he leans his head back against the wall and gazes down at you with half-lidded eyes--there’s something special about this. There’s something really special about this. 

“Prove it, baby,” Rooster breathes. 

Instead of verbalizing your answer, you lean forward slightly and let all that hot saliva that’s pooled on your tongue drip out of your mouth and onto the crimson tip of his cock. He hisses at the intensity of the heat and the way your palm swiftly coaxes him, grasping him and swiftly pumping his head a few times to coat his cock in your spit. 

Instinctively, Rooster’s hips buck up and you keen at the reaction, letting your mouth come down on him. And fuck--you do know what you’re doing. Your mouth is wet and hot, supple as it wraps around his cock. 

Rooster’s gotten more blowjobs than probably half the men on this planet during his thirty-one years here. He likes them--who doesn’t like blow jobs? But there’s something about the way that you take him so well, something about the way you look up at him with your eyes squinted like you’d be smiling if your mouth wasn’t full of cock, that makes his chest tight. Even when the camera isn’t on him, Rooster knows what sounds to make--low, throaty groans--and what to do with his face--knit his brows, squint--but he feels like he’s forgetting all of that as you stare up at him. 

“How is she, Rooster?” Dennis asks. 

“Fucking great,” Rooster breathes, shuddering when you begin to bob your head and take him deeper. 

You even reach down and cup his balls, massaging them, as your other hand grips the base of his cock and keeps him in your throat. 

Rooster’s head falls back, eyes practically rolling to the back of his head. You’re taking him very deep, merciless in your tongue flicking along the sensitive skin on the underside of his cock. He’s bucking up into your mouth and you’re letting him, enjoying the flush tickling his ears. 

The realization hits Rooster like a fifty pound weight on his head--he snaps up to look at Dennis, his brows knit and his fingers digging into the leather sofa. 

“I’m about to cum,” he announces. 

He’s so used to announcing it out loud for everyone to hear that it doesn’t even strike him as strange anymore to tell the balding man behind his walnut desk that he’s about to shoot his load down your throat. 

At that, you pull back, letting your saliva seep down your chin as Rooster’s cock stands erect and red before you. 

Dennis is shocked, staring at you and Rooster with a grin. 

You look at Dennis over your shoulder, smiling softly. 

“Best in the business, huh?” 

Rooster laughs--he can take a joke. And then you glance at him, smiling yourself.

“Babydoll, why don’t you take Rooster for a ride?” 

Quickly, Rooster discards his sweater. You almost ogle at him--every single muscle in the human body is on display, gleaming in the light, adorned with curly, sandy chesthairs that settle beneath his gold chain. 

“Jesus,” you whisper to him, still on your knees. “Could you get any more California?”

Rooster beams at you, holding your hands and bringing you to your feet. 

“I can try,” he tells you, winking. Then he pats his thighs, arms parted for you to climb into when you’re ready. “Hop on. Ladies ride free.” 

The thought of Rooster fucking a man hadn’t even occurred to you--but a beautiful picture is painted in your mind for a fleeting moment. No one would ever do that back home in Nebraska, especially not admit it. But it doesn’t strike you as strange or dirty. In fact, it makes heat pool between your thighs again. 

Just before you straddle him, Rooster places a flat palm against your belly to pause you. He doesn’t look at Dennis, doesn’t care about what Dennis is going to say. 

“You wanna use a rubber, kid?” 

You shake your head. 

“I can’t have babies,” you say like it’s the most casual thing in the world. Rooster studies your face, blinking in surprise, but you don’t seem to clue him in on any upset in the matter. “I’m clean, too.” 

Rooster nods, gripping your hips and guiding you forward. 

When you’re close to Rooster, close enough that his forehead is resting against yours and his thighs are spreading your legs apart, you feel safe. Not the kind of safe you used to feel in your parents bed during a thunderstorm or in a really good hiding spot during a game of Hide N Seek with your brother. You feel safe like this guy isn’t an asshole and will probably stop whenever you want him to.

He’s holding onto your hips, his fingers dizzyingly long and digs into the meat of your legs when you sink down onto his cock. A string of curses tear through the air between the two of you and you gasp as he fills you up. 

“Christ, kid,” he mutters, “so tight.” 

That makes you clench around him and he gasps again, groaning. Fucking Christ--what are you doing to him?

When you’re fully seated, all of him inside of you, it takes everything in your power not to burst into tears. You’re so fucking relieved, that itch finally being scratched. He feels fucking perfect inside you, filling you up, pressing against something deep inside you that makes the lowest part of your belly bubble with pleasure. 

“You two look real good together,” Dennis praises.

Like Dennis’ voice snaps Rooster out of his lavender haze, he holds onto your hips and guides you up and down on his cock languidly. You hold onto his shoulders, gasping and crying out, throwing your head back in ecstasy. 

Dennis watches you carefully--you’re not acting. This is just the way you look when you have sex. You like to have sex; you like it a lot. What an asset a horny thing like you would be: all authentic pleasure, those pretty moans falling from your lips, those eyes rolling back in your head. You’ll be perfect. He’s sure of it. 

“Fuck,” you mutter to Rooster, your breath bated. “Jesus--fuck.” 

Rooster grins, letting you grind down on him and squeeze him tight. He’s not gonna last long--he knows it. Especially not when you lean forward and let your tits crash against his mouth. Hungrily, he finds your nipples and sucks relentlessly. Pulling his hair, you cry out. 

When Rooster pulls away from your chest, unable to continue sucking when you’re gripping his cock so fucking tightly, he does the only thing he can think to do--he presses his lips against yours. You kiss him back and it’s soft and sweet, very unlike what’s happening down below. And then he keeps kissing you, letting his tongue caress yours, letting your erect nipples feather across his naked chest. 

“You taste like Aperol,” you mutter against his lips, voice still drenched in pleasure. 

And then you smile against his mouth, and cry out when he delivers a particularly deep thrust. For some reason--that makes him cum. He holds you down over him and strains to get deeper and deeper inside of you. He pulses against your walls and you feel every moment of his release, resting your forehead against his. 

When it’s all said and done, when Dennis is genuinely delivering a round of applause for the two of you, you two catch your breath together. Your ears are ringing and his are, too. He’s smiling at you, a handsome and charming smile, and you’re biting your lip hard. 

“You know what you’re doing, kid,” he compliments, squeezing your hips. 

He’s still sitting deeply inside you. 

Coyly, you press some of his floppy curls from his forehead and then delicately stroke his mustache. He likes how soft you touch him--like you’re afraid to hurt him. 

“Aren’t so bad yourself,” you tell him. 

“We’ve gotta find a name for you, babydoll,” Dennis says, coming to sit down on the sofa beside you and Rooster. 

You stay where you are and Rooster doesn’t mind it one bit.

“You mean, like, I’m…?” 

Your toes are numb with excitement. 

Dennis grins at you, leaning over to pinch your cheek before patting it softly. 

“You’re gonna be a star, baby.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: 70S ROOSTER IS THE SUPREME ROOSTER

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐙-𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 — 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐘 "𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑" 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐖 𝐗 𝐘𝐎𝐔 (𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐍) 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟎𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 𝐁𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐘 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓. 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐄𝐗, 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐆 𝐔𝐒𝐄, 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐃𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐏, 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐔𝐄𝐒, 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐓-𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟎𝐒. 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑.

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃

𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐙-𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗. 𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭. 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐚. 𝐖𝐢𝐝𝐞-𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧-𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐍𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐚. 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧, 𝐚 𝐯𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥-𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞. 𝐀𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭, 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐝-𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟-𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫, 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟. 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐂𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐬, 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨, 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫-𝐬𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤, 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲-𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥, 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐱. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐮𝐠𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐮𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭. 𝐒𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐞.

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 —𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟑𝟏𝐒𝐓, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 —𝐒𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟑𝐑𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟏𝟑𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐅𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟏𝟒𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟏𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟐𝟑𝐑𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟐𝟒-𝟐𝟓𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝟐𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟐𝟑𝐑𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐃, 𝐌𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝐒𝐓-𝟑𝐑𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐃, 𝐌𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟒𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟑𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟕𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟏𝟏𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 —𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐘, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟏𝟕𝐓𝐇-𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟐𝟎𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐎𝐍𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐖𝐎 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐈𝐗 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟎

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 —𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐃, 𝐌𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟏

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟐

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐎𝐍𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟒

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐖𝐎 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐅𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟖

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 —𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟗

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 —𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐌𝐀, 𝐂𝐀—𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟐

#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[roosterbruiser]

“murmuring sweet things into their ears” with cherry and rooster 🥹🥹

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩

When you sleep, you're very quiet.

The kind of quiet that is made up of noiseless fluttering lashes and soft swallows and tiny sighs and satin sheets gliding across your skin like warm margarine on the smooth surface of brioche. You're smaller, too--smaller than you usually are. Knees drawn to your chest like a fetus, hands tucked under your pillow as if in prayer, cheek pressed against the bed with the slight weight of your dreams.

More than quiet, though--you're still.

You're finally fucking still. You're not bopping around the corner, ducking out of the room at a precise and crucial moment when Rooster is finally distracted enough to peel his vision from you, to take a bump with Jake. You're not stripping naked, pressing yourself up against the glass sliding doors and lewdly kissing the glass with your mouth open and tongue out while Rooster tries to make a business call. You're not flipping through his records while he reclines on the sofa with a drink and a cigar, insisting that he modernize his collection. You're not loudly singing How Deep Is Your Love while drinking your seventh Harvey Wallbanger, slinky nightgown slipping off your shoulders and bare toes digging into the rug in the living room.

Right now, you're very quiet and very still. You fell asleep as soon as he shifted the Thunderbird into gear, at first against your window with your lipstick staining the glass. But then Rooster leaned over, hooked his hand around the delicate column of your throat, and pulled you until your cheek was against his thigh and your body was stretched out across the leather seats.

And that's where you've been ever since--sleeping on his lap.

The two of you were out at dinner almost all night with the usual crowd--licking your fingers clean of the salt that covered the calamari, crunching the sugary ice from your Harvey Wallbanger's, laughing at everything and nothing, dancing to a few songs with Jake while everyone watched on.

Rooster knew you were tired--you usually are after your fifth or sixth drink, especially if you're not taking bumps every half hour. He noticed, too, that you had been seated for closer to two hours. That's almost a record for you at this point.

"Gonna knock out, Cherry-baby?" He asked you quietly, moving your hair from your ear, pressing a delicate kiss to the curve of your jaw.

With your elbows resting on the table and your disposition sunny--but your eyes heavy and your smile loose--you'd just softly shaken your head at him.

"Right," he said, all disbelief and sarcasm. He took a sip of his drink. "No sleep for the wicked, right?"

You stuck your tongue out at him and he leaned over quick, pressing his mouth against yours, welcoming your sugar-coated tongue.

"You're nasty," you whispered to him, obviously delighted.

"You make me nasty," Rooster whispered back.

Now Rooster is just driving around. Really, he could've been home a little bit over half an hour ago. But you're sleeping so soundly, so silently, so still that he can't bring himself to make the turn into the neighborhood. He just keeps making turns, chewing on a cigar as he listens to the radio on low.

He can feel every precious breath falling from your lips, all soft and delicate and warm. He's stroking your hair with one hand while he steers with the other, his own eyes growing heavy.

He glances at the clock--it's almost two.

He's just about to turn around, to finally start back home, when you turn your face suddenly. He looks down at you, brows raised in surprised, and you're blinking up at him with your eyes shining and bleary.

"Roo?" You whisper, slurring.

"Yeah, baby?" He responds, cupping your cheek.

"I love you so much," you whisper. "I just...I don't know what I'd do without you, daddy. I think I was lost before, you know?"

And then you're turning your cheek again, lulled by the movement of the car and Rooster's scent and the radio softly playing. You're warm all over from this love, from him, from the protection you feel.

Rooster's shocked for a moment--too stunned to speak. His heart is beating so hard, so fast, that he thinks it might fall out of his chest and into your hair. Squaring his jaw, he holds your hair.

"I'd do anything for you," Rooster whispers to you, though he knows you're sleeping again. A passing streetlight makes your face glow gold. "You saved me, baby. You saved me."

Rooster digs you all the time--in every state, in every way, in every fashion. But right now, right this second, it's the most he's ever loved you.

This feeling, that overwhelming affection that chokes him and coaxes him and makes him feel like his skin is being lit on fire from the inside out, swells up in him at least twice a week. And even thought it happens so often, he knows that it is true every time.

You snuggle further into him, deaf to his words.

"I love you," he finishes. "I really, really love you, Cherry-baby."

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: this is NOT a chapter obviously!! this is just a little oneshot that takes place sometime between chapter six-eleven. you can decide when!! it felt so good to get back into writing them!!

☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐙-𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟐.𝟖𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝟐𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

Rooster knocks very softly on your bedroom door. 

He’s been super into knocking lately--overly courteous and deferential of you and your space and your private time. If you had it your way--he’d just barge in. And, of course, if he had it his way--your door would always be open.

“Enough with the knocking,” you call to him from your closet, grinning to yourself as you tie the skimpy crochet bikini around your neck. The yarn is pilled and worn--very soft on your skin. “There’s no sock on the door, is there?” 

“Wouldn’t I be on the other side of the door then?” Rooster asks as he turns the handle and opens the door. A gust of crisp air conditioned air breezes past Bradley and floats on down the hallway. You can’t seem to cool down these days, especially now that the sun is higher and brighter in the sky. 

“Would you like to be?” You retort. 

He can hear the grin on your face. 

He looks for you--doesn’t find you in the mess of sheets on your bed or the pile of discarded clothing before your dresser or tangled up in the half-drawn velvet curtains.

“Babygirl, if I ever say no--why don’t you go ahead and take your pretty little ass down to the Sunset Strip, buy a gun, and shoot me down,” Rooster says. 

Your laughter booms off the walls--nearly vibrates the framed photos Rooster meticulously placed around the room. 

“Aye-aye, captain,” you tell him. 

Then you step out of the closet and into his gaze, biting your lip cheerfully. You’re half a second away from running and jumping on him--peppering his face with glossy kisses and combing your fingers through his waxed hair--but the sudden dismay on his face as he registers you makes your feet heavy. 

“What?” You ask instantly, hands on your hips. 

Rooster frowns softly at your outfit--you’re wearing Daisy-Dukes and a tiny crochet top. If you were just lounging around the pool, then fine. But today is not the kind of day where you’ll drown yourself in Harvey Wallbanger’s and watch the sun go down in the cherry-red pool. Today is the kind of day where Rooster takes you to open up your very first bank account. 

“You can’t wear those threads, babygirl,” Rooster says softly. 

“Why not?” You ask, a slight whine dripping from your tone as you jut your hip out. “I wear this, like, everyday!” 

“Today isn’t everyday,” Rooster points out. “You’ve gotta look the part.” 

“What part?” You ask, nose screwing up in dismay. 

Rooster, a fond smile tugging on his lips, starts forward towards your closet. He kisses the top of your head, lips against your warm hair, and shakes his head when you whine again. 

“The part of bank account owner,” he tells you. “The part of someone who’s financially responsible.”

“Daddy, this ain’t no part in no porno,” you say, pivoting to watch him as he begins to search through your closet for an outfit for you. “This is the real deal!” 

“Don’t lecture the professor,” he warns distantly, voice totally void of any actual authority. “He might flunk you.”

“What’s with all the coded-gab? You’re giving me a complex,” you say, leaning up against your dresser. The corner digs into your bare arm as you watch Rooster flit through a few halter tops and bikini tops. “It’s too early for a complex.” 

“It’s ten,” Rooster says, brow perched. “And who hangs up their bikini tops?” 

“People who have a wardrobe made of mostly bikini tops,” you say with a waggle of your brows. “Lucky you.”

Rooster grins--he can’t help it. 

“Go ahead and sit down,” Rooster says, glancing at you. “This is gonna take me a good, fat minute.”  

You’re leaning against your dresser, watching him like a school girl watches her mother pick her picture day outfit. You’re a vision with heated skin: all legs and arms and hollowed cheeks and bare feet. He’d take you like this, naked-faced and unkempt, over made up any day. But bankers wouldn’t. 

Rooster’s biting a grin of his own, trying to find something presentable for all the snot-nosed bankers you’re going to encounter today. He always feels uncomfortable in professional settings--like banks, like real estate offices, like doctor’s offices. He has his own private saying about people that work at these places: when people’s collars are stiff,  their morals are stiffer. 

This is to say that if just one person knew what Rooster was--a stallion, a porn star, a fruit--then he knows undoubtedly that he would be turned away. And the same goes for you--maybe even moreso. You’re much more recognizable these days than Rooster is, shooting off into stardom suddenly and immediately. Earning your way into Heaven last month broke records Rooster’s never even touched before. 

Rooster learned the hard way during his second year in the business that people aren’t alway such coolheads about his career, your career. He’d walked into three banks wearing his Angel Fly canary bell-bottoms and a straw hat with a long peacock feather stuck in it, gold jewelry dotting his fingers and neck and ears. He felt good about himself--partly because he was high out of his mind and partly because it was every piece of expensive clothing he owned at the time. 

His logic, though flawed and spurred in the midst of a coke-filled mid-morning, felt sound. Look good, feel good, be treated good. Grammar be damned.

He wasn't able to open a bank account that day or any other day that week at any of the nearest banks. This is why he insisted that he wear one of his best corduroy suits today--a rust colored thing that he gets tailored whenever he feels like he’s gained or lost a few pounds. It always fits right--snug and handsome.

The two of you stare at each other--Rooster in his courroy slacks and nice brown loafers and you unbrushed and unwashed--before you break the tension by blowing a raspberry at him and meandering over to your bed.  

Sunlight warms the bedding, filters in through curtains. You sink into the unmade velvet sheets and take a deep breath in as you stare at the beams on the ceiling. The bed, unsurprisingly, smells like you. Like sex, like the Givenchy perfume you wear everyday now. The bottle appeared on your bedside table a few days after the incident, when you were still coming out of the fog. Scribbled on a little piece of blue crepe paper was Jake’s unmistakably messy penmanship: you know I love you, right?

“How’d you sleep?” Rooster asks, sucking on the back of his teeth. 

You’d fallen asleep on the sofa last night after a few drinks, your head on Rooster’s thigh and your lips parted slightly. He’d groggily carried you into your bedroom early this morning, back stiff from unexpectedly sleeping out in  the living room, too. 

“Like a baby,” you sigh, yawning. “Say, did someone carry me to bed last night or am I imagining it?”

“Hmm,” Rooster says, taking out a blouse and slinging it over his arm carefully. “Can’t recall.” 

“Thanks, daddy,” you say, smiling sweetly. “Don’t you just take the best care of me?”

His throat is tight. He almost can’t stand it when you’re so sweet--it makes him want to fall to his knees at your feet and kiss your thighs and hold onto your legs tight. And now that you’ve misplaced your ring, that gaudy ruby thing with your angel powder stash inside, you’re sweeter than you were before. 

In the month since the incident, you haven’t brought the ax down on him very much at all--only a few times here and there when Jake pressed his fingers to your gums while lounging beside the pool or after dinner or in the conversation pit. He’s been basking in your sweetness, submerged in your candied words, washing it out with hot water from between his fingers like dissolving honey. 

“Anything for you,” Rooster says softly. 

He thinks that the notes of his voice are dissolved in polyester and silk and taffeta--hopes that you can feel the remnants of his words when you slip into a slinky dress or little shirt. 

You hear him from where you are sprawled across the bed, lazily fingering the corner of the comforter as hangers squeak across the metal bar in the closet. 

And although you hear everything he says, and you can sometimes look at his voice and know precisely what he’s thinking, there are still so many words unuttered between the two of you. 

He demanded answers about a few things: the last thing you remembered, if you could pin-point who you were around when someone slipped you something, why you were doing acid without him there to keep you safe, what you and Jake were thinking when you separated at the disco. And you answered everything you could for him, wringing your hands together, feeling like a dog left out in the rain overnight. 

You, though--you didn’t demand answers. You didn’t want to know what happened while you were out, floating among midnight flowers. You saw the proof everywhere around the house once you were able to stand on your own two feet again: the dried vomit in the entryway, the heap of your tattered clothing in the bathroom, your smeared makeup staining the couch, the skid marks from Jake peeling into the driveway. 

They didn’t take you to the hospital and Rooster told you why with his tail between his legs, with the sweetest earnestness in his gaze. You didn’t want to know how they knew that you valued your career over your longevity, your health. But you chalked it up to both of them loving you deeply--knowing that you’d rather die in the City of Angels at twenty-one than be sent back home to Nebraska on a thin liquid diet with a newly-formed bad nose candy habit. 

There were things Rooster didn’t ask, too. He didn’t ask you why you were suddenly so upset on set, didn’t ask what Jake said to you to set you off. He didn’t ask you why you didn’t just stay home with him and Phoenix. He didn’t ask you if you loved him the way he loved you because everything suddenly felt so fragile--a delicate wall made up of dried daisy petals. Entirely collapsable by the slightest gust of wind. 

There were some things Rooster didn’t offer either--like just where exactly your ring went after he set it on the entryway table, even after he saw Jake toying with it absently a few days later at lunch. He figured Jake would’ve already used up its contents by then, anyway--and he wasn’t heartbroken at the thought of it not being with you anymore. He didn’t offer up anything else about his ma, about what happened to her, about his fear of losing you. He wept when he begged you to stay--and then the next morning, he brought you a glass of orange juice in bed and hasn’t said a word about his mother since. 

All of these things sit between the two of you, growing heavier on the vine as they ripen with time. It is a most intricate dance--delicate movements, stealthy footfalls, measured breaths. But the one thing that prevails through all the perfumed air is your mutual unwillingness to not be near each other at all times. There is a thick piece of rope that tethers you to Bradley now, one that cannot be burned or severed or worn away. There is only so much give before it grows taut, though. 

For now--that’s just fine with the both of you. 

“Here,” Rooster says as he emerges from the closet. “Try this on.” 

It’s a mustard-colored blouse with a big, oversized pink bow sitting on the throat and a pair of lapis-blue slacks. They’re both things Bradley has bought you since coming to Los Angeles, things that were sitting at the foot of your bed still wrapped in brown paper or things that were laid flat on your bedding with the stem of a rose sitting pretty on top.

“Bows doing it for you these days?” You ask quietly as you take the clothing from his hands and set it on the end of the bed. “‘Cause I can do bows, baby. Believe me you.” 

“I bet you can do just about anything,” he tells you. “Cherry Arsan.” 

The thin, braided straps of your tip fall as he utters your name. You’re still sitting on the bed, looking up at him, when your nipples harden from the sudden shock of the cool air. He’s looking down, his thick brow crinkled, his jaw suddenly flexed like he’s biting down hard. 

It isn’t your breasts he’s looking at--it’s the bruise he left behind, the one he pelted into your tissue and bone with the boniest part of his knuckles to make sure you were still alive. With time, it’s faded--it is the color of newly-rotting fruit. Soon, it will be gone. You will not have to plot on foundation and powder and concealer before filming. 

But Rooster won’t soon forget what it felt like to watch your shoulders snap up at his touch, what it felt like when your weak breaths puffed onto his fingers as you laid motionless on his bed. 

Before you register his sudden nearness as he walks towards you, he’s delicately rubbing his fingers along the blemish. His expression is sober, serious as he traces the jagged outline and bites down on nothing. You see the way his eyes linger there when you’re naked, when it’s on display in a low cut top--even if you’ve covered it with makeup, he’s always willing it to melt off. He’s searching for a shadow, a hint, anything. You know it’s how he’s repenting for not being there with you. For you. 

You’ve thought, often, that he must’ve been Catholic in another life because of the way he punishes himself with pain. It is a deep, deep guilt that he must have to inspire such masochism.

“Is it sore?” He asks softly. His throat is dry when he swallows. “Like, does it hurt? Still?”

The sun pours in through the windows, assaults the thick curtains and the sheets and your legs and your naked chest--but you suddenly feel like you can’t get warm enough if you tried. 

“Not anymore. You know that,” you tell him, trying to sound okay with the way that he punishes himself--though you aren’t okay with it and you don’t sound like it. “Now it’s swell.”

“Is it?” He asks, gaze flickering up to meet yours.

There he is, willing himself more suffering. 

You will not feed the beast. 

“Yes,” you whisper. And what you really mean is stop. “Believe me.”

“I do,” he says. But what he’s really saying is I can’t. I don’t know how. His voice is thin, fractured. “I always have. You’re my number one lady.”

“Way to sound convincing,” you say quietly. You stroke his left brow, try and count all the individual and precious hairs that grow there. You want to know him so thoroughly that you know immediately when one has been plucked. “I’m groovy. I’m always groovy.” 

He says nothing for a long moment, every part of him softening under your touch except for his grievous expression. 

“Grooviest lady on this side of the one-oh-one,” he whispers. 

Moving your fingers up slowly, you gently touch the gel in his hair. He doesn’t mind if you mess it up, always grins at his reflection afterwards, but you’re trying to be a good girl. You’re trying to be what he wants you to be. 

The way you see it, the way you’ve seen it since the incident--girls like Phoenix don’t go out on the town and get slipped something after taking a dab with their pseudo-dealer at the disco. They stay in with Rooster and drink wine and talk about films. You always want him to soften beneath your fingertips. So, you have to be what he wants.

“Can we stay in tonight?” You whisper to him. 

He glances up at you through his lashes, bent at the hips and holding your thigh with his free hand. Your irises are stained with the color of deceit, a very rare and precious shade that Rooster is only just becoming accustomed to. 

He knows you--knows that you’d much rather go out than stay in. But here you are, bruised from his love, looking at him like you really mean it. He doesn’t have the heart to fight back, to let you down. 

“Yeah,” he answers you. 

“Slammin’,” you whisper back. A tentative smile tugs on your lips. “Wanna listen to Joni on the way into town?” 

“More than anything,” Rooster whispers. 

And before you can pinch his cheek, before you can look away from him and his broad shoulders and his gelled hair and handsome suit, he moves. His head falls, his lips pucker, his grip on your thigh tightens--he is kissing the bruise with a gentleness that you’ve scarcely known in your two decades on this planet. 

The floor falls out from under you as his lips linger, as his saliva dampens the place where your pulse thumps. You can’t breathe--can’t move. All you can do is sit still and be good beneath his mouth.

𝐅����𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: SORRY THIS TOOK ME 6 MONTHS!!! AND TO MAKE A LONG ASS STORY SHORT, I LEFT MY LAPTOP CHARGER AT MY MOTHERS HOUSE AND I LITERALLY DONT HAVE TIME TO GO GET IT!!!! SO SHORT CHAPTER FOR NOW!!!! LOTS MORE TO COME!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

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#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟏𝟏

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: The aftermath. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.8k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭����𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚. 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲! 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 (𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥) 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟐𝟒-𝟐𝟓𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀

Rooster hurries over to the sofa and lays your body down carefully--as carefully as he can when he’s shaking this bad. Your dress is wrecked: torn at the thighs, muddled with tequila and vomit and tequila-scented vomit, wrinkled. Now Rooster is panicking as Jake paces behind the sofa, watching the scene before him helplessly. 

“Rooster, fuck, I--!”

“--The fuck happened to her dress?” Rooster asks, fingers shaking as he tugs on the skirt, desperate to cover the lower half of your body besides the obvious.

“I can’t, I don’t--I don’t know, I can’t fucking…I don’t even, like, we-we were fine, we were together and then--and then…” Jake stutters, sobbing into his fist. The scent of your vomit is hot in his nostrils--and your bile running down his back is hotter than that, heavy. “She just--she, she fucking…”

Jake doesn’t remember the last time he had a bump--he needs one. He knows now isn't the time--but he’s fucking freaking out. Your only sign of life is the involuntary lolling of your head, the bile pushing out from between your lips. 

“Spit it out, Goddammit!”

Jake presses his palms to his chest--wonders if he’s having a heart attack--and sniffs hard, wiping his face off and putting his quivering hands on the back of the sofa. 

“Jake,” Rooster warns, voice lethally quiet and serious. “Spit it the fuck out!”

“We were fucking fine! We-we were dancing and then she wandered off for, like, fuck--one fucking second and I found her by the bathrooms, man. She was like this already! I think someone--fuck, I think someone slipped her something.” 

Rooster’s blood runs cold. 

“We’ve gotta take her to the hospital,” Rooster says. If he was closer to Jake, if he had the ability to leave your side, he’d be shoving Jake’s chest hard. “The Hell you doing bringing her here? You fucking idiot!”

Rooster knows it wouldn’t make him feel any better--if he got a frantic phone call from Jake and had to drive to the hospital. But it would be better than this. Anything would be better than this. 

Jake shakes his head. 

“We can’t,” he insists. 

Rooster’s blood is boiling. 

“Fuck you mean? Look at her, Jake!” 

The strangled noise that falls out of Jake’s mouth is almost indistinguishable from something primal--feral. It’s a terrified sound, the scream of prey as it is mauled by predator. He knows he’s fucked. He knows he’s fucked you, too.

“‘Cause if they screen her, man…they’re gonna find more than just tequila and coke,” Jake admits, running his hands down his face. “Fuck.” 

“What’re they gonna find?” Rooster asks. He’s staring at Jake, his eyes bloodshot. “Fucking tell me!” 

“Acid, man,” Jake admits. “California Sunshine or some-some shit like that. Fuck, man, I took it, too. But I’m fine! We split one! But she’s gonna be in a whole lot of trouble if they find her pumped full of that shit.” 

“Bullshit!” Rooster hisses. “Everyone and their old lady does fucking dugs! Dennis knows that, he lets people--!”

“--Yeah, Dennis lets you take drugs on set in a controlled environment, man. Where you’re, like, under his supervision and authority! That’s the thing, man, that’s the fucking skinny--he don’t want other people to know about it.” 

Rooster’s back molars nearly crack under the wrath of his clenched jaw. 

“And, like, what’s gonna happen to some fucking bunny like Cherry if she’s gotta get her stomach pumped, like, four months into her career?” Jake argues. “No one’d fucking hire her again, man.” 

“No one has to!” Rooster argues. “Dennis has her on a--!”

Jake points an accusatory finger at Rooster. 

“--You know how he is, man! He don’t like you, well, you’re only filming four times this year! He’s got the fucking dough to get out of his contract with Cherry! She don’t! You know Dennis’d kill us if it leaked. And if he didn’t kill us, he’d kill her fucking career! And if, by some cosmic fuckin’ miracle, he was being a real coolhead about it all--yeah, he lets her finish it out. Then leaves her high and fucking dry! Who’ll take her then, huh? No one wants to hire a burnout!”

Rooster’s in a state of dysphoria. 

He can’t believe how much sense Jake is making right now, how sober these thoughts are--which is a sheer contrast from his appearance. Everything feels twisted, convoluted. Rooster’s supposed to be the one making sense right now. He’s supposed to be the one figuring it all out. But he can’t think about anything else when you’re shivering on the sofa.  

With a sense of dread seeping across his skin, he realizes that this is the closest he’s ever felt to when he was on the brown tabs at Woodstock--when he was living tangible nightmares every waking and non-waking moment, when nothing made sense. 

“We’d be fucking her,” Rooster says under his breath, eyes untrained. “Fuck.” 

So, without another word, Rooster falls to his knees beside you. You’re crumpled up, your body boneless and malleable in a way that makes his stomach turn. 

You’re still not really in your body--your body is tissue-thin and the color of fruit juice, waving in the wind like a paper kite. 

You’re not really here. 

“Cherry,” Rooster tries, holding your face firmly. “Cherry, wake up.” He pats your cheeks a few times, biting his lip hard, but you don’t come to. You’re thoroughly unconscious, being punctured by rays of sun wherever you are. “Cherry, baby, wake up. C’mon, babygirl, c’mon--open your eyes. Open your eyes, baby. Please, babygirl, you gotta.” 

He’s waiting for you to open your eyes like this is all some sort of joke. He wishes, for the first time ever, that you and Jake are pulling his leg. He doesn’t wanna be in on this joke at all. He wants, so desperately, to be on the outside of this for once. 

He knows he’s being desperate right now. This is what he did when his ma went--when he was still high as he came to, when he swore he’d only been asleep for an hour, just an hour, sitting up in that wooden chair, when the veins in his eyes throbbed, when he woke up and she was still--

“She won’t wake up, man,” Jake cries, chewing on his fingers. “Fuck, man. Fuck! Is she gonna fucking die? Oh, my God. Wait, fuck--is…is she dead?”

Rooster snaps his gaze at Jake, pointing at him tersely. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he bites at Jake. “Get your shit together. Take another fucking bump and change your threads. Go turn on the shower--cold water, alright? Then wait there for me.” 

Jake does as he’s told, sobbing as he runs down the hall, tugging his hair like an upset toddler.

“Cherry, I’m gonna grab you, alright?” Rooster says softly as if you can hear him. There’s not so much as a crease, a freckle, a dot of response across your features. “I gotcha, babygirl, c’mon.” 

And then he’s holding your form in his arms and you really do feel like deadweight--so much so that his knees feel weak, so much so that he almost cries out. But he can see the faintest twitch of your lips, the quietest words uttering from your mouth. He can’t make any of them out.  

“I gotcha, babygirl,” he promises again, starting for the bathroom. 

He won’t take his eyes away from your face, afraid to set his gaze anywhere but you, because when his ma left he wasn’t looking at her, because he fell asleep and he was so tired--

“C’mon,” Jake says shakily, grabbing Rooster’s shoulders and pulling him all the way into the bathroom--the light is golden in here, so bright that Rooster is blinking away tears. “Shower’s on.” 

Rooster, because he doesn’t trust the universe or guardian angels or fate or ancestors or luck to protect you like he can, steps into the frigid water as he is. The cold is a shock to his system, which he knows is the point, and he turns so the stream pelts your belly. 

“Cherry-berry,” Jake tries from outside the shower, reaching in to pat your cheek a few times. The only response is your limbs twitching from the cold, your body still totally slack in Rooster’s arms. “Get up, honey. C’mon, get up.” 

Bradley sinks to his knees, still holding you against his chest, his curls soaked with ice water and his clothes not far behind. He strokes your hair, his fingers numb with the cold of it all. 

“I’ve gotta make her vomit,” Rooster says sorrowfully, shaking his head. “She’s got too much shit in her system.”

“Fuck, man, she already hurled--!”

Rooster looks up at Jake, interrupts him with nothing but his blown pupils. 

“If you don’t have the stomach, get lost for a minute, okay? Get towels.” 

Jake listens at once, considering Bradley to be somewhat of a homebase right now. 

“Towels,” Jake mutters, wiping his nose again, turning towards the door and leaving the bathroom as he unbuttons his soiled shirt. “Fucking towels, man, towels.” 

Rooster presses desperate kisses to your temple, to your forehead in apology. He’s sorry that he didn’t go out with you, sorry that he’s got you under frigid water, sorry that’s about to do what he’s about to do. 

He props your body forward, droplets of water wetting your hair. And then he holds your cheeks, presses his thumb between your teeth, and shoves his fingers down your throat. 

☿

You’re not in your own bed. Without even opening your eyes, just by moving your bare feet on the sheets, you know that you’re in Rooster’s bed. It smells like him: expensive cologne, nice hair gel. He prefers silk sheets, too--you prefer velvet. Silk is always so cold--that’s why you have goosed skin right now, right down to your toes.

Everything hurts. This isn’t just a hangover kind of everything hurts--this is deeper, more serious. There’s a migraine pulsing behind your swollen eyes, throbbing your temples. Your limbs feel like they’ve been ripped off then reattached haphazardly with fishing wire. Your belly feels empty, which is usually how you like it to feel, but this is the kind of empty that frightens you--one that seeps into your chest cavity and sits there like a purring cat.  

Cracked lips parting just so, you open and close your mouth, the putrid taste of vomit sitting on your tongue like paste. 

Rooster’s been sitting in a chair beside his bed since five o’clock this morning, propping pillows behind you so you don’t roll onto your back and choke on vomit. He hasn’t so much as let his blinks linger, his gaze fixed on you entirely. 

Every thirty minutes, he leaned forward, set his index finger below your nostrils, and counted to twenty. Every hour, he rubbed his knuckles along your diaphragm to make sure your shoulders were still snapping forward like they should. Although he’s been out of practice for a long time, it still feels second nature to him.

Jake passed out sometime around noon, curled up around your feet like a kicked dog. He’s still asleep now, hugging your leg. He’s sober enough to feel guilty--but not fucked up enough to do anything about it.

You take a shaky breath, which feels stunted mid-inhale.

“Mm,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “Roo?”

His heart spikes--nearly busts through his chest.

Immediately, he’s crowding you. Kneeling on the bed, his heart pounding, he gives you a once-over without touching you. He’s almost afraid to lay a finger on you, just in case you don’t want to be touched, just in case you want to be alone in your body.  

“Cherry,” Rooster says, voice suddenly close to you, to your face. His breath wafts across your cheeks “You waking up, baby? C’mon--open your eyes. Lemme see ‘em, babygirl.” 

You know something’s wrong when you struggle to lift your heavy lids, when your lashes are matted with sand and tears and mascara. And it’s not the morning--it’s late in the day, maybe seven or eight in the evening. 

It’s an odd thing, waking up somewhere and realizing that you don’t know how you got there. It’s the first time it’s ever happened to you--you didn’t have a daddy that would carry you to your bedroom if you fell asleep on the sofa. Really, you didn’t have a mama that would let you fall asleep on the sofa. 

Before really even knowing it, you know that you’ve missed something crucial.

“Oh,” Rooster whispers, voice trembling. Your eyes meet his and there you are--his Cherry girl, alive. Your eyes are swollen and bloodshot but he can tell that you’re in there, can tell that you’re going to be okay. It’s the first time all day he’s known that you’re not gone for good. “Babygirl.”

His tongue is thick with tears that he won’t let out--not in front of you. Not until you’re okay and in your body and he’s alone. He doesn’t want to scare you. 

“Ow,” you just whisper. 

“S’alright,” he says softly. “I know, baby. I know.”

He wraps his hands around your fingers, which are cold. And with a sad, sad smile tugging on his lips, he brings your fingers to his mouth and blows hot air on them. You’re shaking still--probably withdrawing. 

If you had a voice right now, you’d ask what the fuck happened. But you can’t muster the strength to make those chords vibrate in your throat, can’t do anything except feel Rooster’s breath against your chipped fingernails.

Glancing down, you find Jake wrapped around one of your legs, blinking himself awake and groggily moving up to catch your gaze. 

“Oh, mama! Up and at ‘em!” Jake says, eyes widening when he realizes you’re lucid. “Oh, fuck, Cherry-berry. We thought you were a goner.” 

“Man, not the time,” Rooster hisses softly, kissing your knuckles. “Careful with her.”

Jake crawls up your body, careful not to put too much pressure on you, and peppers your warm face with some kisses. Rooster watches, still just holding your hand, still just relieved that you’re awake. 

Jake picks up your other hand, the one that is freezing to the touch. He kisses your ruby ring over and over again, like he always does in greeting, and you let your eyes slip shut again. 

Rooster’s just silently watching you, his lip tucked between his teeth, tears heavy on his waterline. There were a few moments throughout the night that he thought he was going to lose you--like actually lose you. He thought he was going to fall asleep, just like he did when his ma was sick, and wake up to your face entirely still and your heart stopped. 

He knows now--and he knew before, too, just couldn’t put words to it--that he won’t be able to live without you. Not in any capacity, in any universe, in any dimension. He knows it full and well as you struggle to swallow, as your brows knit, as your fingers tremble. 

“God, you were real nasty last night,” Jake says, muffled by your fingers. Rooster has half a mind to strike the back of his head, but then a pathetic and crackley laugh tumbles from your lips. “You hurled all over me! Ruined my shirt!”

Now you’re laughing a bit harder, wheezing, a few tears slipping from your eyes. 

Jake keens at this precious sound. It’s the only thing that can make him feel better right now, even as his fingers shake. This is the longest he’s been sober in months--and it’s just for you. 

“Made a mess on the entryway tile,” Rooster adds very quietly, an almost-there smile pushing his bottom lip. “And the couch. And the bed.” 

It hurts to laugh--there is a particularly deep ache in your diaphragm, like someone’s been punching you there all night long. 

“Ow,” you say again, pouting, but still giggling. 

It’s a pathetic sound. It makes Bradley’s chest ache. So, he nudges Jake and then shakes his head at him. No more. 

“Sorry, babygirl,” Rooster says, stroking your matted hair from your face. “No more goofing, huh?” 

☿

Jake leaves around midnight. He kisses your face all over, presses his forehead to your temple, attaches his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “Don’t ever do that to me again, okay?” And as he’s walking out of the house, he passes your ruby ring sitting on the entryway table--Rooster put it there while you bathed. Not confiscating it, but maybe hiding it. 

Jake palms it, stuffs it in the pocket of his jeans, and drives home in the quiet of the late night. If you ask him if he’s seen it, he’s not going to lie to you. He’ll give it back. Just not until you verbalize your want to him. It makes that pit in his belly fill up with tissue paper--dissolvable, fleeting. But still there. 

Rooster’s sitting up against his headboard, right underneath the Joni Mitchell painting, and you’re hugging his legs, cheek pressed against the familiar terrain of his thighs. You feel a bit better now after having showered and ate, hair still wet and belly full of chicken broth. But you still don’t feel good--not by a longshot. 

Rooster’s just about ready to keel over. It’s been over twenty-four hours since he’s slept and every follicle of hair on his head, every nerve in his being, can feel it. He’s absently stroking your damp hair, eyes drooping, heart lulling. 

But he won’t let himself fall asleep. 

“Did I scare you something awful?” You whisper. 

He nods--you feel it. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes. He’s just stroking your hair, relishing in the steady breaths falling from your vaseline-smeared lips. 

“My chest hurts,” you tell him quietly. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He reaches down, lets his fingers just barely graze your diaphragm--your shoulders still come together anyway. There are bruises where he pressed his knuckles--he feels guilty about it, but not guilty enough to have changed anything. “Had to make sure you were still in there.”

“It’s groovy, daddy.” 

Another lull falls over the two of you. 

You’re thinking hard about what happened before it all went dark, before you were just a paper kite floating over black poppies. You don’t think you were in your body. You don’t know where you were, you don’t know how you got back, but you’re glad that you are now. You don’t know what you would do if you could never be here again, on Rooster’s lap, in his bed. 

“It’s what I did with my ma,” he says quietly. He doesn’t know why he’s telling you this--maybe because he’s on the verge of sleep, maybe because he just needs you to know. “Like, it’s how I’d figure out if she fainted or if we had to skitty on to the hospital.” 

Swallowing hard, you nod. 

“You didn’t take me,” you whisper. 

“No, we didn’t.” 

“Why?” 

Rooster inhales deeply--tries to feel anything but tired, but can’t seem to--then cups your swollen cheek. 

“Worried you’d wake up without a job,” he tells you. “Who’s gonna hire a bunny that got her stomach pumped less than a year in, huh?” 

It makes you feel very young. So young that tears start to well in your eyes. 

“Guess I was pretty much a space cadet then,” you say, sniffling. “Shouldn’t have done what I did.” 

“Everyone does shit, Cherry.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “But not everyone’s got a Daddy Warbucks to make them barf up all their mistakes.” 

For the first time in hours, Rooster smiles softly. 

“I told you I’m gonna take care of you,” he says. He clears his throat, takes a composing breath. “I should’ve taken a rain check with Nix. Shouldn’t’ve let you go out with Hangman alone.” 

God, Phoenix. You forget that’s how this entire mess started. When you were envious at the thought of them touching each other, when you went to the disco with a sore body and a hunger for anything that would make you feel better, different. 

“Nah,” you whisper. “Would’ve taken the tabs anyway.”

“I don’t think it was the tabs,” Rooster tells you quietly. “Think some chump slipped you something.” 

Wrinkling your nose, you glance up at him. 

“Like what?” 

You know that he must not be talking about coke--you already had a fair bit of it in your system. 

Rooster doesn’t know how to explain it to you. He doesn’t know how to tell you that someone slipped something in your drink in the hopes that they could finish tearing your dress, drag you off and away from Jake, and have their way with you. It’s hard for him to even think it--he’s frustrated, his jaw clenching, his knuckles white. 

“Nothing,” he tells you. “Forget it, huh?” 

You’re too tired to argue, so you nod. 

“Alright,” you whisper. 

If he closed his eyes right now, he knows he’d be asleep in seconds. So, he just keeps his gaze trained on you, on your sweet and sad form holding onto his legs. 

“What am I gonna do?” He whispers. 

He’s not even sure that he’s said it outloud. He’s not sure if he’s meant to say it aloud.

You don’t look up at him, your own eyes slipped shut now. 

“What’re you talking about?” 

“How am I gonna keep you safe if I’m not right next to you?” He asks softly. He doesn’t really expect you to answer him--but he has to say it aloud. “How am I gonna live with myself now?” 

Hugging him tighter to you, you kiss his thighs a few times. 

“Stop,” you whisper. “Don’t.” 

His tongue is dry. 

“Baby,” he whispers. “You were really sick.” 

“I know,” you mutter. “You got me.” 

He doesn’t know how to articulate to you that he would rather relive the worst day of his life--the day his ma died--a thousand times than not know if you were going to make it through the night. Not because he loves his ma any less than he loves you--but because her death seems predestined, even now. The cancer was always there, watching and waiting. But you’re so young, so full of love that it wedges itself between your ribs and underneath your fingernails. 

“But I didn’t,” he whispers. “I didn’t…Cherry, I didn’t have you.” 

Now you look up at him, your face sponged clean of mascara and vomit, and really see him for the first time since the two of you laid down together. He’s tired, like the kind of dead-tired your daddy used to be in the winter after doing barn chores. His eyes are red and drooping, there are purple bags touching his lower lashline, and there are very nearly tears rolling down his cheeks. His lips are twisted and his brows are drawn together.

 This is the purest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen on anyone’s face before.

Chewing on your lip, still feeling too weak to do anything but lay here, you reach up and carefully finger the gold chain he always wears. Your teeth have touched this--chewed on it, clamped down. It brings you comfort the same way a baby blanket would. 

“I’m good,” you tell him, voice thin. “We’ve got each other, huh?” 

He shakes his head, sniffling hard, ready to break down entirely. 

“I was so scared,” he tells you. His voice is wobbling, his fingers trembling. “God, I was so scared that-that I’d fall asleep.” 

Brows knit, you shake your head. 

“Why’s that give you the willies?”

Two fat tears stream down his face--he can’t stop them anymore, can’t take them back. He’s desperately stroking your face, sniffling. 

“‘Cause I was only asleep for an hour when she left,” he cries softly. He knows, really, that you probably don’t understand what he means. He knows that. But he’s so worked up now, so upset, so fucking tired, that he can’t stop. “I was right there. I couldn’t hear her.”

“Who?” You whisper. The fear in your bones tells you that you already know. 

“My ma,” he whispers. 

And then he breaks down entirely. It’s the kind of breakdown toddlers have when they’re over-tired. His cheeks are pink and his sobs are choked. There’s snot dribbling down his face and his tears are fat and hot. 

You’re holding onto him, kissing his skin, unable to get yourself to sit up. And he’s leaning over, hugging your torso close, pressing his wet face just beside yours. 

“Roo,” you whisper to him. “Roo, everything’s chill now, honey. We’re all good. It’s okay.” 

He can’t stop, though--a spigot that has broken. 

“Don’t ever fuckin’ leave me,” he mutters to you. 

You shake your head. 

“Won’t,” you simply utter. 

“Don’t die before me, okay?” He says very seriously. “Don’t fucking die before me.”

Your skin gooses. You’re not sure what to say, how to agree. So, you just nod. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “Swear it.” 

And because you’re not sure what to do, you wipe his face with your hands, not caring about snot or tears or heat or skin. And you kiss his hair, inhale all that familiar scent of his that you feel like you could drown in. 

Then you unclasp his gold chain take it off his throat. He takes only a moment to register that you’ve done it, lifting his head slightly. But then you’re handing it to him and turning away, silently signaling to him that he must put it on you. 

He does so silently, careful to move your hair out of the way before he clasps it. 

Then you turn back to look at him, holding his cheek. The chain is still warm from his skin and it sits loosely around your neck, falling into the hollow of your throat as you gaze up at him. 

“Your halo,” you mumble. “It’ll protect me, huh?” 

His heart squeezes. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, sniffling. He tries to compose himself as you wipe his face clean again, kissing his flushed skin. “It will.” 

The chain was his father’s. One of the only things he got of his, one of the only things that survived the arduous task of time. He wasn’t wearing it when he died--Rooster thinks that must mean something. 

“C’mere,” you insist. 

It’s the kindest thing you’ve ever done for Rooster. You move your sore body so you’re laying on the pillows, pull his large body up beside you, and spoon him. Face pressed against his neck, feet against his calves, hips connected, you press kisses down his shoulders. 

He hasn’t been held in a very long time. So long that it doesn’t really feel real that this is happening. But all the same, he sinks into the water bed, counts every single one of your heartbeats, and melts into the mattress. 

“Hold onto me,” you whisper quietly. 

Just the same, it’s been a long time since you’ve asked to be held.

He moves his arm behind him, wraps it awkwardly around your hips, and lets his grip rest on your lower back. 

“Don’t die,” Rooster whispers, slurred with sleep. 

It’s an odd thing to say--kind of funny, but also not at all. He’s being serious. You know that. 

“I won’t,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he says again, almost entirely asleep now. “I won’t live.” 

“Shh,” you mutter. 

And when he’s asleep, heat pouring off his body like a radiator and his body heavy against yours, you stay awake for a long time just being alive. 

You’re keeping your promise.  

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: listening to Halo by Beyonce brb

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟏𝟎

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You and Rooster are in uncharted territory. It makes you act out. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.6k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

When Rooster comes into your bedroom just after sunrise, his lip caught between his teeth and a robe shrugged over his shoulders, he feels guilty. Your room is still dark, hardly touched at all by the yellow light of the sun.

There you are, alone on your waterbed, tangled in your comforter and breathing steadily into your down pillows. Your limbs are a mess and your pajama pants are crooked on your hips--it makes Rooster smile fondly and shake his head. You sleep hard. And before he met you, he never understood what that meant. But looking at you right now, with only a few hours of sleep in your system, he understands it immediately. How else could anyone describe this scene before him? 

He kneels on the ground beside your bed, careful not to rustle the waterbed. That guilt is sitting like ice water in his throat right now--but he knows he has to wake you up. 

“Cherry,” he whispers quietly, laying his flat palm in the middle of your back. “Babygirl.” 

You’re in a dreamless sleep. It’s what you prefer, honestly. You always feel like you sleep better when your brain isn’t busy flooding the back of your eyelids with false images. 

When you don’t stir, Rooster leans forward and presses a few kisses to your bare forearm, carefully pushing the comforter down so it’s under your shoulder. 

“Baby,” Rooster whispers again. 

Finally, you rouse. 

It’s only a little bit--just your eyes barely cracked open, your breathing harsh and curt before steadying itself. You’re blinking at Rooster rapidly, still not entirely sure where you are, and swallowing hard. 

“There she is,” he whispers, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Morning, sunshine.”

Mumbling incoherently, you rut yourself until you’re closer to Rooster. 

He thinks you’re going to get out of bed for a moment but then you open up the covers and close your eyes again. You’re inviting him into bed with you, knowing full well that Rooster can do little except bend to your will. 

He glances at his wristwatch. It’s already 7:21. You two need to be in the makeup chair by 8:15--and even that’s pushing it. But then he feels the plumes of your body heat, the rose and vetiver still staining your skin from the bath he drew you last night, and he’s slipping off his robe and climbing into bed beside you. 

“You’re a real minx, you know that?” He asks. 

You’re already molding yourself against him, tangling your legs in his, snuggling yourself against his throat, smiling lazily. He’s very warm--warm enough to make you wanna pur. 

“Uh huh,” you whisper. 

He strokes your hair carefully, knowing that you’re well on your way to falling back asleep. But he can’t be mad--how could he? He’s holding you. 

“Dennis rang,” he says quietly. “We’ve got a shoot today.” 

You groan quietly, screwing your eyes closed. 

“Me and you?” 

“And Jake.” 

“Three’s company,” you mutter, worming your fingers in the waistband of Rooster’s shorts and letting his hot, taut skin soothe the pads of your fingers. “No scripts then?” 

Rooster shakes his head, lashes fluttering when your fingers dance along the elastic of his briefs. 

“Improvising today,” he says. “You’ve gotta earn your way into Heaven.” 

Wrinkling your nose, you sigh. 

“That’s sacrilegious,” you whisper. “Didn’t Jesus just rise or something?”  

Rooster kisses the top of your head and lets his lips linger there for a long time. 

“Like we’re going to Heaven anyway,” he teases. 

Grinning tiredly, you yawn and then nuzzle your nose against his warm throat. 

“You are,” you tell him. “St. Rooster.” 

He shakes his head. 

“That’s generous,” he whispers. 

Both of you glance down to his knuckles in tandem. They’re still split, but they’re scabbed over and healing now. They’re still pink from breaking that man’s nose and now when he gets angry, the skin there tingles. 

“You take in orphans, fistfight pervs, make me cum,” you yawn. “That’s, like, a golden ticket through the pearly gates.” 

He sighs. 

“What did I do before you?” He asks. He’s only partly teasing.

“Question your status in the afterlife, I guess,” you answer with a sigh. “But I’ve always known where you’re going, daddy.” 

He shakes his head. 

Laying in bed with you, on this lazy morning that is not supposed to be lazy at all, makes him think about Sunday mornings when his ma was still alive. She would do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, eating peach jam on rye toast, as he snuggled into her side and pretended to read the sports section. He was little then, newly a fatherless child, and tried hard to be around his ma whenever he could. She never said it, but he knew that it helped her. He could smell the tears on her cheeks sometimes when he came in early in the morning, warming up his father’s side of the bed even though the space was far too large for him to fill. His feet never touched the end of the bed; his father’s feet always hung off.  

He doesn’t think about this often--not really. He honestly doesn’t think about either of his parents very often at all, but if he does, it isn’t like this: these sun-drenched memories that fill him to the brim with the sweetest and stickiest kinds of grief.

You feel it when he gets quiet.

“Dream anything fab?” You whisper. 

He doesn’t answer, just pulls you closer. You understand that he doesn’t want to speak for a little while. You’re okay with that. You’ll make yourself okay with that. But you also know that you won’t be able to fall back asleep--Rooster won’t let you, anyway. 

So, you begin to gingerly trace the elastic band of his briefs. His hips stiffen beneath your touch, but he doesn’t move away from you. 

When you press that first chaste kiss to his jaw, he knows he’s done for.

With his eyes screwed shut, with his chest tight and growing tighter with every one of your movements, he relishes in this closeness. You with your open mouth pressed against his throat, your hand wrapped around his hardening cock, his arm securing your body against his. 

“You okay?” You ask quietly, feverishly kissing his cheeks. 

Gripping the sheets, grinding his teeth, he just nods. Your pace is something between languid and merciless--he knows he won’t last long, especially when you move his hand to your underwear and let him feel how thoroughly soaked they are. 

He tries to start moving his fingers against your clit, but you halt him. Instead, you hold onto his wrist, let his hand fall over his own cock, and smear your arousal over his length. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Want me to touch you, babygirl?” 

You shake your head, dizzy with excitement. 

“No,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.” 

When your thumb presses that deliciously sensitive spot on the underside of his cock, the spot that your tongue is well-acquainted with, he instinctively reaches out and grabs onto your hair. He isn’t rough, doesn’t pull; he just anchors the two of you together that way. 

“Cherry,” he whimpers. 

Your chest is hot now. Still, you’re feverishly kissing his flush skin, ignoring the ticking clock and the sunlight that’s beginning to lighten the bedroom. 

Rooster’s suddenly thinking about this being his reality. About waking up with you in the morning, kissing your eyelids, letting you wrap your hand around his cock. He’s thinking about this bed beneath the two of you being your marital bed. He’s thinking about marrying you and moving to wine country and having you all to himself. And fuck, it’s getting him so close, making his throat so tight and warm, tightening that coil in his belly. 

Suddenly, he’s not just thinking about you and him. He’s thinking about the bed having little tiny bodies squished in between the two of you. He’s thinking about their feet never reaching the end of the bed. He’s thinking about little tiny palms pressed to his cheeks, little tiny lips pressed to his knuckles. He’s never thought about this before--with anyone, ever, at all--and it’s pushing him to an edge he’s never stood on before. 

“What, daddy?” 

He groans, a pitiful and loud noise, and holds onto your hair tighter. 

“I wanna cum inside that pretty cunt,” he tells you. “Can you do that for me, babygirl? Can I cum inside you?” 

You comply with vigor. You’re wet enough to ease him into you at once after you’ve pulled your pajamas off. Holding yourself steady with your hands planted on his belly, your hair still messy and sand still peppering the corners of your eyes, you look down at him and he looks up at you.

He pushes his feet into the waterbed, ignoring the sloshing, and thrusts himself into you. You don’t dare tear your gaze from his pretty face, not even for a moment. 

You can tell he’s thinking about something deeply, can tell from the strain of his lips and the furrow of his brows and the heat that’s gathered in his cheeks and over his chest. 

“What?” You ask breathlessly, rolling your hips into his. 

He’s pressing into a gummy part inside of you, one that makes your toes curl. 

He considers saying it. He really, really considers saying it. But then he just does it instead, letting his hand hover in the air for only a moment in hesitation: he presses his palm against your belly and presses down. 

For a moment, you wonder if he’s trying to feel his cock moving inside of you. But then he softly strokes the skin of your belly with his thumb--a fluid and soothing motion--and it dawns on you. 

Oh. 

You clench around him, maybe not even on purpose, and he cums suddenly. It’s all too much for him--you squeezing him, your pretty and tired eyes pouring into his, your partly-naked body doused in sunlight. It’s romantic and beautiful and so fucking hot. 

Every moment of his release is felt in your body--deep inside of you, where the pulsing feels concrete and sacred. 

You stay upright for a moment as he comes down, panting as his bottom lip quivers. And after just a moment, one where he peeks at you through half-shut eyes, he tugs you down and against him. 

He’s too afraid to say anything. He’s worried that he overstepped. He’s never in his entire life felt like that before--hasn’t even wondered about it. He’s just as surprised as you are. 

But you’re not moving away from him. You’re not disgusted. You’re just trying to catch your breath as he softens inside of you. You decide, all at once, that you’re not going to say a word about it unless he does. 

“You alright, kid?” He asks quietly. 

You nod immediately. 

“Super,” you whisper. 

He starts to wriggle his hand between you, starts to press his fingers against your clit, but you just pull yourself tighter against him. 

“You’ll get me later,” you insist. “Just breathe, baby.”

His heart squeezes. He nods, wraps you up in his arms, and kisses your head. 

You liked it. Maybe that’s what is surprising you so much right now. You liked those few moments of make believe where you pretended like you were someone that could get pregnant and he was someone who would get you pregnant. 

He liked it, too. He didn’t think he ever wanted to get married--not to anyone at all, not even Farrah Fawcett. But you change just about everything for him, which is something he’s still growing accustomed to. 

After his parents died, he knew concretely that children were never going to be a part of his future. He didn’t want to be responsible for one--didn’t want to be responsible for breaking their heart if he died prematurely, either. So, he’s always been content just knowing that he will be childless. 

But with you on top of him, your weight heavy and familiar, his fingers are tingling. Something is going to change. Something is already changing. 

“Big plans for tonight?” You whisper, unable to stand another moment of silence. 

He shakes his head. 

“Phoenix is gonna come over for some cocktails. You down?”

You nod at once. 

“I’m down.” 

Neither of you talk about it. 

But you think about it--the way you won’t ever be able to give Rooster what he wants unless you’re playing make-believe. And in big and small ways, that devastates you.

☿

The set is pretty today--prettier than it normally is. There are white curtains, pristine and steamed, covering all the walls of the soundstage. There’s a machine that is emitting a thin layer of sweet-smelling fog, the stuff biting at your knees and permeating the polyester all of you wear. The lights above you are bright and white--the kind that you have to squint against if you tilt your face towards the sky. 

You wish, maybe because the set is prettier than it usually is today, that you were in a less sour mood right now. You’re still partially reeling from your encounter with Rooster this morning, which was so sudden that your neck aches just thinking about it.  

Right now, dressed in this terrible polyester jumpsuit that’s genuinely designed to be ripped apart easily, you wish you were at home with Rooster and Jake. Instead of standing here in these big heels, coming down from that bump you took half an hour ago, watching Dennis direct Rooster to be rougher with you, the boys with their silly little halos on, you wish that you were sprawled out on the sofa. You wish that there was a mirrored tray before you, one that you can snort off of, one that lets you look into your own eyes as you ingest all that shit you’ve been so keen on. 

“I want you to take her real deep. Don’t be a pussy about it, either, alright? Chery’s down, right, babydoll?”

Picking the lint off the glittery, thin fabric covering your thighs, you nod absently. You don’t really care today. You just wanna go home. 

Dennis moved this shoot up an entire month. He watches the market carefully and knows what people want and when they want it. Apparently, just around Easter, there’s a surge in religious stag films. And, for whatever reason, double penetration.

That’s why you’re earning your way into Heaven today--less than a week after Easter. 

Rooster is standing with his arms crossed, his lips a flat line. 

“Shouldn’t we be asking Cherry about this?” He asks. 

Dennis glances at you--you’re unusually still, borderline despondent. You just blink at him, eyes heavy with that gold glitter the makeup department caked you in. 

“She’s good for it--right, babydoll?” He doesn’t wait for your response before he turns back to Rooster grinning. “Cherry’s always down.” 

Jake, who took a short intermission to powder his nose, is noticeably lighter as he bounds back to the soundstage. He throws his arms around your shoulders and presses some lewd kisses to your throat as you lean into him. 

“So, I’ve got the pink, huh?” Jake asks, glancing at you. 

You shrug.

“Looks that way, cowboy.” 

Honestly, you don’t really care either way. It’s unusual for you to feel so apathetic about this, because you really do consider pornography to be your art. Especially in the past few months as everyone flocks to see your films, as men come up to you on the street and ask to motorboat you or kiss you, as the world is starting to learn about the existence of one Miss Cherry Arsan. 

But today, you don’t want to be filmed. You want to have sex--you always want to have sex--but you were hoping for it to be more private. You just wanted to lounge in your panties all day, suck some cock, drink some orange juice, smoke some marijuana, get fucked on the sofa, and maybe swim. 

Instead, you’re here. And you can’t get the feeling of Rooster’s big hand cupping your empty, empty belly.  

“Got a stick up your ass today?” Jake asks, still peppering your face with kisses. 

Sighing, you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” you whisper. 

He barks out a laugh--Rooster glances over at the two of you but doesn’t move from his spot before Dennis. 

“Lemme take you out tonight,” Jake offers. “C’mon, we’ll boogie down.” 

 “You’re supposed to do dinner before fucking,” you sigh, smiling softly despite your sour mood. “Besides, Rooster’s got drink plans with Phoenix tonight. Wants me to be there, I guess.” 

You’re trying to sound casual about it--even though you really, really don’t feel casual about it. You love Rooster and you like Phoenix; but after learning that they tried going steady, that they were in a relationship, you don’t dig the idea of them alone together. 

Fuck, you don’t know who you are anymore to feel this way. You don’t know what Rooster’s doing to you. 

It’s juvenile and it’s silly and it’s the antithesis of everything you believe in to be jealous; but some things just are. And the thought of them alone together, her delicate collarbones begging for his supple lips, makes your knees feel a bit weak. 

Jake watches you carefully--he’s high, but not high enough to disregard your jealousy. And he knows right away that it is jealousy that keeps you where you are right now, in Rooster’s home, away from him.

He wants you to be wrapped up in him for a little while--wants you to bend to his will, to sleep at his house, to fuck him in the mornings. He knows, distantly, that if he just asked that you would say yes. You would do all of that for him. But he doesn’t wanna have to ask you.  

So, he does it. 

First, he shrugs like it’s all casual. Then he stuffs his hands in the pockets of the white robe he’s wearing and watches you watch Rooster. 

“Sure you wanna be there for that?” Jake says. 

He watches your face: your eyebrows knit, your lips purse, your eyes widen. But you’re careful to not snap your head in his direction even though that is what you want to do right now. 

“I’m not picking up whatever you’re trying to lay down.” 

Jake pretends to be all-knowing, making a show of shrugging and yawning before tucking you under his arm again. 

“You don’t know what happens when they’re alone together?” Jake says, sucking on his teeth before shrugging again. “Man, I envy you. They get real nasty together. And, like, not even in a fun way. Like there’s no room for anyone but them. You dig?” 

Something peculiar is happening inside of your body now. It feels like something has dislodged--something big, something heavy. An anchor or a boulder or a fucking ten-ton weight that’s been sitting pretty in your gut is suddenly free-floating through your body. You’re steaming and shivering at the same time, skin goosing, jaw clenching. 

But you don’t so much as let your brows twitch. 

“Is that the skinny?” You ask without breaking your gaze from Rooster. 

Jake nods, swallowing hard. 

It suddenly sets your body on fire--thinking about the two of their bodies connected, washed in the glow of a sunset, their skin smooth and crinkled from bending or pinching. When you think about his flat palm on her belly, when you think about him cumming inside of her, a bitter taste floods your tongue. 

“You’re better off coming with me,” Jake says. “I’ll take you back to the pad once they’re finished.” 

Once they’re finished.

Jake doesn’t know why he’s saying this to you. Rooster and Phoenix hardly, if ever, fuck off-screen. Really, when she comes to the house tonight, they’re probably going to talk about art and film and politics. Jake just finds it all so boring--who wants to talk about Mary Tyler Moore and Sweeney Todd and the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty when you can go to the disco instead? Jake knows--or at least thinks he knows--that you would much prefer to go dancing anyway. He just has to get you there. 

But suddenly, there’s guilt pooling at the pit of his belly. Shit. He knows you’re upset when you hardly react. If you didn’t care at all, the way you’re pretending not to, then you would tell him so. You’d guffaw and wrinkle your nose, pretending to be grossed out. 

You’re just silent and still now, watching Rooster. 

Jake almost starts to say that he’s fucking with you--almost even gets himself to abandon the disco and come to Rooster’s pad tonight for cocktails and stimulating conversation--but instead, he says, “You good?” 

You just nod, pretending like your heart isn’t tight now.

“What’s the hold up?” You call to Dennis and Rooster, crossing your arms over your chest. “Deeper and harder. Got it. It isn’t rocket science, you know.”

Rooster’s spine prickles at your words. He knows you’re high--or at least, you were high twenty minutes ago when he pulled Dennis aside to talk about this scene. You bring the ax down when you’re high--and sometimes you bring it down again when your high is fading. He can’t tell which is which right now. 

“She gets it,” Dennis says, already stuffing a cigar between his lips and patting Rooster on the back. “Just fuck her, okay? It’s real tight back there--you’ll have a good time. Heard it’s out of this world!” 

Rooster swallows all the saliva that’s pooled under his tongue and resists the tingling in his still-split knuckles. 

“Cherry,” Rooster says. “C’mere for a minute.” 

You comply, arms crossed, and stand just a few feet before him. 

“What’s up?” He asks, voice hushed. There’s crewmembers hustling and bustling around you and he doesn’t want them privy to this conversation. “What’s the ‘tude for?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. 

“I’m fantastic,” you tell him. “I just wanna film, alright?” 

“What’s the rush?” He follows. 

The two of you stare at each other for a long, long moment. He knows something is wrong--you’re being frigid right now. Maybe by other people’s standards--to the untrained eye--they wouldn’t understand that this version of you is cold. But Rooster’s had the softest, warmest parts of you. And right now, with your spine straight and your eyes dark, he knows that version of you isn’t here now. 

“You know,” you start softly, throat burning at the very thought of Rooster’s lips wrapped around Phoenix’s pert nipples, “I think you’re the only dog in the world that questions where the bone came from instead of just eating it.”

“Ouch,” Rooster says flatly, frowning at you. “Don’t be cruel.”

You don’t miss a beat. 

“You think that’s cruel?” You ask. 

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You’re waiting for him to give it up.  

“What’s up?” He tries again, a bit desperate now.

He shuffles a bit closer to you, inhales that expensive perfume on your pulse points, tries not to get lost in the storm in your eyes. Everything around him dissolves as he stares at you, hands on his hips, trying to have a serious conversation while he has a fucking white robe on and nothing else. 

“You tell me,” you say. “Look, I’m trying to get out of here at a decent time so I can hit the town later. I know you and Phoenix are gonna have all the time in the world at the house, but the clubs close eventually. So, fuck me. And then we can both leave.” 

His brows knit. 

Without really meaning to, he scoffs. 

“What?” He asks, incredulous. “Cherry, I thought you were gonna stay in with us. I bought a new record.” 

Biting your lip, you shake your head. 

“Don’t wanna interrupt,” you say tersely. “I’m going out.” 

He shakes his head. 

“What changed?” 

Everything. Nothing. 

He’s terrified that you’re going to bring up this morning--he tries not to let his face show that. 

“It’s the weekend,” you say. “Why would I wanna stay in?” 

“It’s Monday,” Rooster says, eyes narrowed. 

You shrug. 

“It’s all the same to me,” you say flatly.

Rooster sighs, shaking his head. He’s never seen your mood shift so suddenly. 

He decides, right then and there, that you’re coming down. That’s all this is. You’re coming down, you didn’t want to come into work today, and you’re taking it out on him. You’re taking it out on him because he takes good care of you. 

He loves you. You love him. That’s all this is.

He’s good at talking himself down. He pretends like this is the truth--it’s totally fathomable, anyway. 

“Fine,” Rooster says, voice softer now. “You’re more than welcome to hit the town, babygirl.” 

You blink at him. You weren’t asking for permission.

A part of you, a tiny little piece, was hoping that he would abandon all plans with Phoenix and come with you and Jake. But maybe this proves exactly what Jake told you--there isn’t room for anyone else when Phoenix and Rooster get together. They’re probably relieved that they’re gonna have the house to themselves. 

“I know,” you say. “C’mon.” 

He doesn’t wanna do it like this--doesn’t wanna fuck you while you’re in a bad mood, when you don’t wanna fuck him. But you’re not giving him an option, really.

You wish you were doing this anywhere but here. You wish that you could be somewhere more private, so you could be more vulnerable. You wish that you could relax into this, but you can’t. 

Rooster is lying on his back, stupid robe discarded, and you’re laying on top of him. Jake is between your legs, lips attached to your throat as he buries himself inside of you. It feels good as he does it, pulling out of you then pushing himself back inside. Rooster’s holding your body steady with his hands firmly holding the curve of your waist, his breaths coming out in short pants by your ear. 

“Now, Rooster,” Dennis directs from beside the camera. 

Rooster, with a lump in his throat, lets a hand slide behind your body. You’re taking deep, deep breaths, trying to get yourself ready for this. It isn’t exactly fear or anxiety or worry that’s making you ache--it’s still that sick jealousy. It’s because of the thought of Rooster’s hand on your belly again. 

“We’ll go nice and slow,” Rooster whispers against your ear, kissing the lobe there. “Just breathe, baby.” 

Without another word, he lets two fingers fall between your cheeks. Your skin is hot, damp from your arousal dripping, and he carefully lathers it. He awaits your reaction, kissing your throat when you moan very softly. 

“That okay?” He whispers to you. 

You just nod fervently, trying to focus on the feeling of being full. 

So he gently presses the tip of his index finger in, digging his other fingers into the skin of your belly. 

It doesn’t necessarily hurt--but you have the distinct feeling that if anything changes, if anything moves, it will. So, you’re trying to keep yourself occupied by kissing Jake, who’s pounding himself into you with his eyes screwed shut tight. 

“Get on with it,” Dennis says. Rooster knows he’s talking about him. “None of that pussy finger shit. Use your cock, Rooster.”

You don’t know very much about anal, but Rooster does. He knows that it doesn’t go like this. Usually, it’s something you work up to. But neither you or Rooster or Jake knew double penetration was happening until you got to set this morning. If Rooster had known, he would’ve been working with you at home. Coaxing you into it, showing you how good it can feel. It’s not meant to be something that’s done so randomly, especially not with his entire cock inside you at once. 

Dennis is pushing you because you’re young, hot, and bring in the fucking cash.  

Rooster begins to pull away--but you pull him back to you. You’re afraid that he’s going to ruin the shot. So, you lean back against him and let your mouth fall by his ear. 

“C’mon,” you encourage. “S’alright. I can take it. Fill me up.” 

It’s like you’ve uttered some magic words. He’s been hard, but now he’s aching for you. He’s so hard that it’s making his entire body hot, flushed with arousal. 

“No,” he manages to stutter out, shaking his head. “Don’t wanna hurt you, baby.” 

You’re thinking about Rooster and Phoenix again. Jesus, it’s making your belly turn. 

“Just fucking do it,” you hiss. 

“Stop makin’ her beg,” Jake hisses, honing in on the conversation suddenly. “Do it, man.” 

☿

“No prep?” Phoenix asks, nauseous at the thought. “Fucking Christ.”

Rooster nods, stroking his mustache absently as he gazes down at the spread of cured meats and cheeses he set out on the coffee table. 

“Dennis pushes,” he says. 

Phoenix nods. 

“And Cherry doesn’t push back.” 

Rooster nods now, sighing. 

Phoenix has been here for a few hours now. They’ve finished a bottle and a half of merlot, which they sipped on between bites of fig and brie. She’s only in a sundress, her bare legs tucked beneath her body, as she sits on the couch across from Rooster. 

Neither of them are very tipsy, but they’re loose enough to talk about what happened today. He told Phoenix everything--even about early this morning when he held onto your belly and came inside of you. She is the only person in the world he would tell all this to--because besides you, she knows him the best. 

“I tried to--!” 

Phoenix cuts Rooster off by pressing a manicured hand to his knee. 

“You’re not always gonna be there when she films, baby,” Phoenix says. “And then what? She’s gotta learn to say no.” 

Rooster knows this. Really, he does. But the thought of not being there when Dennis is really pressing something makes him want to throw up. 

“Sure,” Rooster nods. “Fuck.” 

He groans, leaning back so his head is hanging off the couch. He blinks up at the ceiling, the entire room drenched in warm orange light, and wishes that you would just fucking come home. 

“Oh, baby,” Phoenix coos, squeezing Rooster’s knee. She hasn’t seen him so distraught about anything--anyone--ever before. “She’ll learn. She’s a youngblood.” 

He shakes his head. 

“Yeah. I know. I just want her to fucking come home.” 

Phoenix glances at the clock--it’s almost one in the morning now. 

“She will,” she says, trying her damndest to be comforting. “I’ll wait with you.” 

Rooster pats her hand a few times and shakes his head. 

“No, no,” he insists. “You don’t have to.” 

As if to prove her point, Phoenix pulls a throw blanket over her body and cozies up into the sofa, not hearing another word about it. 

“Flip the record,” she insists, nodding towards the record table. “C’mon.” 

Hours pass and you’re still not home. 

Phoenix finally left just after three, apologizing and pressing kisses to Rooster’s cheeks. And Rooster’s been sitting on the couch ever since, waiting to hear Jake’s car rumble up the drive, waiting to hear your obnoxious banter. 

It’s four in the morning when Rooster decides that you’re spending the night at Jake’s. 

He’s in his own bed, arms crossed over his chest, by 4:15. He isn’t tired--knows that he won’t sleep a wink--but decides that it is much less pathetic to sleep here than on the sofa like a dog waiting for its owner to come home. 

Jake pulls into the driveway just after Rooster’s shut his eyes. His car, his precious car, screeches to a halt just before his bumper collides with Rooster’s mailbox. He knows for certain that there are skid marks on the driveway now, knows for certain that he’s probably woken everyone up in this hoity-toity neighborhood. 

But it doesn’t matter right now--not when you’re in and out of consciousness, head lulling from side to side, a steady stream of vomit dribbling out of your mouth and onto the front of your dress. You’ve gotten worse since the two of you left the club half an hour ago--you won’t respond to him. 

“C’mere,” he says, panicked and not attempting to hide it, “I’ve gotcha, Cherry-berry.” 

And then he’s picking you up, holding your head against his shoulder and scrambling to the front door without turning his car off. His heart is racing, his temples are pulsing, his stomach is turning. 

Something’s wrong with you. He doesn't know what, he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know where it happened, he doesn’t know when it happened. But something’s gone wrong.  

You’re not here. You’re somewhere else, somewhere between Nebraska and California, drifting weightless across a plane of black poppies. You don’t know what’s happening to you--only that you’re sorry you had that last drink. 

“Rooster!” Jake screams. And it really is just that--a scream. “Fuck. Rooster!” 

You vomit suddenly all down Jake’s back as he hurries into the foyer, shaking his head wildly, stumbling around in the dark. 

 Rooster feels every hair on his body stand at attention as he sprints down the hall, his heart racing, his mouth dry. And then he sees Jake standing right there in foyer, holding your crumpled form, panicked tears streaming down his red face as he stumbles towards Rooster. 

“She’s in a bad way, man,” Jake sobs out, shaking his head. “I-I don’t know what fuckin’ happened!” 

Rooster is wide awake as he pulls your body off Jake’s and onto his. With the movement that jostles your body, it restarts the heaving again. You’re vomiting all over the tile, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your shoulders instinctively coming together as your fingers go limp. 

“The fuck you mean you don’t know what happened?” Rooster asks. “What the fuck happened to her, man?” 

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: GASPS

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐙-𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎

𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐘 "𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑" 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐖—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟗.𝟑𝐊 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

Dennis is drawing up some sort of contract in the other room, making some phone calls, leaving you and Rooster alone for the first time. It’s the most excited Rooster has seen Dennis in a long time--he sees a lot of potential in you, just like he saw a lot of potential in Rooster. For every ten duds Dennis brings in, there’s one star in the making. Dennis is a professional bullshitter, Rooster knows this--but sometimes, he’s fucking right.

Rooster doesn’t know if he’s Dennis this elated since he scouted Rooster all those years ago, and Rooster gets it--he thinks there definitely must be something special about you, something that he can’t quite put his finger on yet other than the fact that you’re willing and foxy. But there’s a quality about you, lying between the spaces of your ribs or in the supple skin of your thighs, that is simply and completely enticing.

“Can I drop you off somewhere?” Rooster asks, fastening his belt. He’s already put his turtleneck back on and he’s straightening his gold chain, careful to let it lay on his cashmere sweater. “And don’t say the roller rink.” 

You’re standing beside him, buttoning your shorts, ignoring the cum spilling out of you and onto the denim. Your hair is fluffed again and your thighs are still quaking from the sheer intensity of the past two hours.

Glancing at you from the corner of his eye, Rooster watches you rake your hands through your hair and bite your lip with your brows knit slightly.

“Ha-ha. Not sure you’ll have anywhere to drop me off,” you tell him, biting your lip. 

You’re already on thin ice with your family, being sent away and all. No doubt Jenny made it home and tattled on you already. Aunt Lydia has probably already called your mom and dad and narced on you--no way she’s gonna let you stay on at her house. But Dennis has been gushing about you for the past hour, telling you about all the movies he wants you to be in and all the people he wants you to meet; you’re sure he’ll give you some money for a motel or something. 

“Meaning?”

 He seems, suddenly, so much older than you. But you won’t let him see how little you feel. You look at Rooster, squaring your shoulders and smiling softly. He’s slipping into his shoes, brows furrowed as he looks at you.

“I ditched my kid cousin to come here with Dennis,” you tell Rooster, not entirely sure why you’re being honest other than he just has a face you want to be honest to. “Not sure my aunt’s gonna jive with that.” 

Rooster tuts. 

“What, you mean you live with your aunt or something?” 

You shrug. 

“Kinda. Recently.” 

Rooster doesn’t pry. He knows a thing or two about not having parents.  

“So, she’s gonna kick you out?” Rooster asks, furrowing his brows. 

You nod, toeing the carpet as you sling your aunt’s roller skates over your shoulder again. 

“Probably,” you tell him, shrugging again. 

Plopping down on the leather sofa again, avoiding the wet spot, you recline and let your bare feet dig into the carpet. Rooster sits beside you, also avoiding the wet spot, and sighs loudly. 

“What kinda family kicks a kid out?”

Rooster doesn’t respect people that don’t take care of their own--he thinks it’s the highest form of cowardice to abandon your flock. His back teeth are grinding just thinking about it.  

You chortle. 

“I’m not a kid,” you insist. “I’m twenty-one.” 

Now Rooster releases a belly laugh, sinking further into the sofa. 

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, laughter tapering off as you narrow your eyes at him. He remembers it--feeling like an adult when he was twenty-one. It’s just that now that he’s a decade past that, he knows what bullshit it is. “Where were you during Woodstock? If you’re such an adult.”

Pink dusts your cheeks and you cross your arms. 

“I was only eleven, I couldn’t go-!” 

“Exactly, kid. My point stands. I was trippin’ on acid while you were practicing arithmetic.”

You bite your lip, still staring at Rooster. 

“You’re just begging me to call you an old man, aren’t you?” You ask. “Is that what does it for you?” 

He laughs again. 

There’s a moment of silence as you stew in the precarious situation you’ve found yourself in right now. You’re not scared, you’re not worried, you’re not freaked. You’re utterly chill, content with the belief that this is where you’re supposed to be. You love fucking--and people love fucking you. Why not monetize your talent? People do it all the time with their art. This is your art. And you’re not the only one who thinks that--Dennis fucking Goldman thinks it, too.  

“Tell you what,” Rooster starts turning towards you. You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “I’ll take you to your aunt’s place so you can grab your stuff. Then you can crash at my pad until Dennis hooks you up. I’ve got an extra bedroom. And a pool.” 

Something penetrates your heart--it’s between giddiness and excitement, something that makes you just want to absolutely burst. You’re afraid that you’ll sound even more like a kid if you eagerly accept, so you just look at him. 

“You wanna shack up with me already?” You bite. 

Rooster grins. 

“I’m a romantic, remember?” 

You lean in closer to him, your hand falling over the wet spot. 

“Are you like a Bundy kind of guy or something?” 

Rooster laughs, shaking his head. He likes the way your eyebrows come together, likes the way you’re asking questions. Everyone in California--especially in the crowds he runs around with--is a hippie. No questions asked, no questions answered, just good vibes. But you’re different--more guarded, more cautious, less trusting. And he likes that; it’s smart. You’re smart. 

He thinks he can tell that you’re from a farm somewhere far away from California. Even if Dennis hadn’t already told him that, he thinks he can read it all over you now with the way you speak to him, the way you carry yourself. Or maybe Rooster’s just got a big head still from fucking you. He isn’t sure. 

“Want me to be straight with you?” Rooster asks, leaning forward. Your noses are almost brushing when you nod at him. “I’m worse than Bundy. I don’t like the disco.” 

A smile bites at your lips and you pretend to be shocked, shaking your head at him with a slack jaw. 

“That’s a cardinal sin in California, isn’t it?” You ask. He nods. “When’s your execution? Am I invited?” 

Rooster grins at you--your wit is hard to keep up with. It makes his tongue warm with excitement.  

“Saved you a seat in the front row,” Rooster teases. “They call it the splash zone.” 

You laugh--it’s kind of a rude laugh, something that resembles a bark. But he keens at the sound of it filling up the room so nicely. 

“You’re gnarly,” you tell him. You size him up: he is undeniably handsome. And it wouldn’t be so bad to live in a big house with a pool alongside apparently one of the best porn stars in the business. “Why should I shack up with you?” 

Rooster could say well, you have nowhere else to go. He could also say what’s it matter to me where you stay? But he doesn’t. He just smiles at you--you don’t miss his eyes drifting to your mouth and back up. 

“Well, I’ve got a bottle of Blue Nun chilling in the fridge,” Rooster starts, smiling gently at you. “And I haven’t gotten to eat my Christmas caviar yet. I could always…share it.” 

You’ve never had caviar--or Blue Nun. But you don’t want him to know that. So, you just shrug and look down at your painted fingernails, picking at them. You’re oozing a sort of casualness that makes Rooster’s chest feel tight. 

You’re a little fucking minx.  

“What I’m hearing is that you don’t want to drink alone and you don’t like caviar enough to finish it by yourself,” you say, eyebrows raised. “Lucky for you, I’m all about charity. Especially for the elderly.”

Rooster’s heart pulses in his chest. 

He likes you. Fuck, he really likes you. 

“I could tell you were a giver the moment I saw you,” Rooster says, mocking Dennis. “It’s a gift,” he finishes, mocking you.

You grin at him. 

Dennis comes into the room absolutely buzzing, humming and grinning at the two of you: his stars. He has a stack of papers in his hands for you to sign and he’s already got a job for you, one that he fired another girl for a few minutes ago. 

“Alright, babydoll,” Dennis says, motioning for you to follow him to his desk. He lays down the paperwork and waits for you to take the seat across from him before he points to the contract. “This contract, among all its other boring legal mumbo-jumbo, just says that you’ll make me twelve films this year. That’s about one a month, no big deal, right? Easy cash, baby. And, as per this contract, you’ll be salaried at twenty big ones. Plus you’ll make a certain percentage of whatever your film makes--we can talk about that later, huh?” 

You almost can’t hear Dennis--your brain is totally paralyzed, the phrase twenty big ones pinging around your skull. Your throat is suddenly dry, very dry, and your toes are curling. 

Twenty fucking thousand dollars.  

You’re gonna be fucking rich. 

You’re gonna be a fucking star. 

Lips parted, you blink at the contract a few times. Maybe you should read it--it’s what your daddy would tell you to do. But you probably wouldn’t understand anything it says, anyway, so why try? 

When Dennis presses a pen into your hand, you loosely grasp it. Even his fucking pen feels expensive. 

“Just gotta get that John Hancock and we’re golden, babydoll.” 

So you sign it--sing all the dotted lines, your script looping and big. Dennis reads your real name finally, smiling to himself, but doesn’t say anything about it outloud. He’s silently trying to think of a name for you, something that will capture all of your wit and sex-appeal without sacrificing your femininity. He’s considered Venus and Aphrodite--but neither of them seem right for you; they’re too on the nose. 

You’re a hard one to pin down.

“Sign, sealed, delivered,” Rooster says from behind you, still sitting on the couch. 

He remembers signing the contracts--his fingers numb with excitement, a lump in his throat. He got started at twenty thousand, too. Now it seems small to him--but back then, between the mortgage and the chemo and the groceries, it seemed like the most money in the world.   

“There’s some other stuff, just little details and fine print shit, that we can get to later this week. Already got your first gig set up, babydoll. I’ll get in contact with you tomorrow and talk more about it.” Dennis is grinning at you, itching for another cigar. He’s gonna do some celebrating of his own tonight. “But now--you better boogie down, babydoll. It’s time to celebrate.”

And when it’s all said and done, when you’re officially a salaried worker for Goldman Homevideos within three hours of meeting Dennis Goldman on the Venice Boardwalk and an hour of fucking Rooster, you feel light as a feather.  

Wine and caviar sound pretty fucking good right now. 

So, you turn around, grinning at Rooster who’s watching you with his chin held in his hand. His breathing feels funny when you grin at him--he’s excited at the prospect of you staying in that big house with him. He’s always struck by how good it feels to have someone else there with him--he never realizes how echoey and hollow it is until someone’s filling up all that space with him  

“Things are just things, right?” You ask, narrowing your eyes at him. Your grin is spreading, eating your entire face. “Let’s fucking celebrate!”

Rooster’s house is the biggest house you’ve ever seen in your life. 

Forget the fact that he drives a cherry-red ‘64 Thunderbird too--a car your brother used to practically have wet dreams about--but he lives high up in the hills. His house, that expansive wooden-paneled thing with tall windows and sharp edges, is adorned with plenty of tall palm trees and an attached garage. 

“You’re sure you don’t wanna swing by your aunt’s house?” Rooster asks, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as Fly Like An Eagle by the Steve Miller Band floats through his impressive speakers. “No skin off my back. Swear it.” 

You’re ogling at his house, your tongue thick with excitement and your bare feet settled on the soft carpet of his car. But you just shrug, flipping your hair over your shoulder with a sigh. 

“Don’t want her to harsh my vibe,” you tell him honestly. 

You’re far too excited to have your vibe harshed--you just genuinely don’t care about any of the prairie skirts your mom packed and can very easily live without the needlepoint your aunt gave you as a Christmas present. You’ll get new things, better things. 

“What are you gonna wear?” He asks. 

He rolls into the driveway seamlessly, peering at you from the corner of his eye. 

“Wasn’t planning on wearing anything,” you tell him. “That gonna make your heart give out, old man?” 

He tuts at you, a smile tugging at his lips. 

The sun kisses your bare shoulders and Rooster watches, sunglasses low on his nose, as your tilt your face towards the sky.      

“Already calling me your old man and I’m the romantic supposedly,” he sighs, grinning. You grin right back at him, laughing as he cuts the engine. “You’re really out to lunch, aren’t you, kid?” 

Wordlessly, you hand him your skates and climb across the seat to straddle him. He’s surprised, surprised enough to laugh. He can feel your skin, hot from the sun, pressing into his gently as you blow a raspberry in his face and then deftly climb out of the car barefoot. 

He’s ogling at you now as you stand beside his car, all the weight of your body on your left hit as you hold it and tilt your head at him. He’s so pretty--his face definitely looks his age, little fine lines pressed into the skin beside his mouth and eyes. But you like it; he looks cool. He looks real cool. 

“C’mon, old man,” you tell him, nodding towards the door leading into the house. “Show me around. Now that we’re shacking up and all. Gonna need to know where the bar is so I can fix you a nightly martini.”

Rooster just gets out of the car in silence, slugging your roller skates over his shoulder and walking past you with a smirk. This is gonna be fun. 

He gives you a tour and you try to keep your mouth closed for the most part. It’s all dark wooden walls, stone fireplaces, expensive art, soft rugs, water beds, two conversation pits, heavy furniture, vaulted ceilings. He even shows you his impressive backyard--the tiki bar, the outdoor shower, his famous cherry-red pool, the view he has of the Hollywood sign. 

Standing barefoot on the concrete, you look out over the hills that are lush with tall palm trees and sprawling homes and feel something akin to pride flood your chest. It’s so warm standing here beside this big, red pool at this big fucking house. Rooster’s cum is staining the crotch of your shorts and you don’t have a pair of shoes other than roller skates and you don’t know if your aunt cares where you are--but none of it matters. You’re here in Los Angeles, newly employed for an art that got you exiled from your family home. 

“This is fab,” you tell Rooster, not breaking your gaze from the gargantuan letters in the distance. “This is totally, totally fab.” 

Rooster’s watching you, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Maybe some people would consider today a whirlwind, but Rooster feels that this is all playing out the way it was supposed to. You look like you belong here, dressed in the only threads you own now, looking out over Los Angeles in his big backyard. The wind is billowing your hair and you plucked his sunglasses off to wear them yourself, the big things dwarfing your face. 

“I brought Al Hadley in a few years ago when the place was built,” Rooster explains coolly. “He’s this designer--!” 

Your laugh cuts him off. You face him, arms crossed as you let the glasses fall low on your nose to behold him. 

“I know who Al Hadley is,” you tell him indignantly. “I was raised on a farm, not a commune.” 

He’s tickled--usually when he tries to subtly brag about Al Hadley designing and decorating Rooster’s home, people have no idea who he’s talking about. It’s why he keeps a drawer of home interior magazines that feature Al at the bar. 

But you know him. You don’t need the magazine. 

As if to prove your point, you wrinkle your nose and sigh before saying, “He’s got that whole never less, never more thing, right?”

Dumbly, Rooster nods. 

“So, was his favorite color red or was it a special request?” You ask, sauntering over to the pool. You dip your toe in cautiously, biting your lip. The water is still warm from the sun.  

The pool stretches out across a vast majority of the backyard, a giant oval. The tiles are bright red--something between a fire engine and an apple--and it makes the water look like a vat of thin blood. 

Rooster follows behind you, still reeling from you knowing the designer that worked on his house. 

“Mine,” Rooster answers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looks down at your nails and smiles softly. “I dig red. Think it’s real groovy.” 

“It shows,” you tease.

There are red accents everywhere in Rooster’s house--not a feminine, girly lipstick-red. It’s moody and dark. His house feels almost like a cave--an expensive, dimly-lit cave. Maybe an alcove.

“You don’t dig it?” 

You hold your hands up in mock defense, shaking your head. 

“I dig red,” you answer. You hold up your middle fingers, showing off the color of your nails with a mischievous grin. “See? Red.” 

Rooster laughs. 

“You’re trouble,” he says decidedly. 

Letting your hands drop to your side, you smile coyly. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” you tell him. You come closer to him, gingerly taking the gold chain between your fingers and toying with it as Rooster smiles down at you. Through the orange shades of his sunglasses, your eyes look lit by fire. “That’s why they kicked me out of Nebraska.” 

“Well, aren’t you a regular Bonnie Parker,” Rooster breathes. 

His breath is warm as it fans out over your face.

“Bet you like that movie cause of all the red, huh?” You ask, biting your lip. “You know--with the blood and all.”  

Slyly, you stand up on your tip toes and then bring the gold chain between your teeth, biting softly. Rooster, with his brows furrowed but his throat open with laughter, steadies you by letting his hands cup your elbows. 

“Say, that’s real gold,” you deduce, grinning up at him. “You must be a regular Daddy Warbucks then, huh?” 

“Does that make you Orphan Annie?” 

If you were someone else, maybe that would sting. You are kind of an orphan now--at least it feels that way. Whatever, though--you know in your marrow that you weren’t brought onto this earth to live and die on a chicken farm with your stupid, complacent family. You’re meant to do bigger and better things--like Rooster. Literally and figuratively.    

“I think it does,” you tell him. Then you step back, disconnecting your bodies. You clap your hands and point to the house. “I remember something about wine and caviar.”     

As he lets you settle in on the modular, tufted sofa--taking just a moment to admire how entirely the thing swallows you--he stands behind the bar and retrieves the bottle of Blue Nun that’s been chilling in the wine fridge. 

You’ve got your legs tucked under you as you glance around at all the art on the walls. They’re fantastic--all their colors rich and their brushstrokes invisible. It’s, like, real art. And it’s fucking everywhere.   

“You wanna pick a record?” Rooster asks as he uncorks the bottle of wine. He gestures to the corner of the wide living room where a big turntable sits. “I’ve probably got everything you like,” he says, smiling. 

You stand up and start for the turntable, calling over your shoulder in a sing-song cadence, “Not disco!” 

 By the time you pick out a record, almost overwhelmed by the amount of sleeves you finger and sort through on the tall shelves, Rooster’s set out your glass of wine and the humble tin of caviar. Usually, the day after Christmas, Rooster would be doing this by himself. He would be putting on a David Bowie record and lighting up a cigar and letting the caviar melt on his tongue. It’s been a tradition for all his lonely Christmases the past ten years. But he isn’t mad that you’re here, isn’t mad that you probably won’t like the caviar, isn’t mad that he has to share a bottle of his Blue Nun. He’s elated, really--you’re proving to be good company and a good fuck. 

“Figured I’d pick something a little bit more your speed,” you tell Rooster, skipping back to the sofa as the record crackles.

 Just as you settle yourself back on the most comfortable fucking sofa you’ve ever sat on, Cherry, Cherry by Neil Diamond floods the soundsystem. 

Rooster smirks at you. 

Baby loves me, yes, yes she does / Ah, the girl's outta sight, yeah 

“I love Neil Diamond,” he defends, laughing. 

You smirk, picking up your wine glass and bringing it to your lips. Just before you take a swig of the fragrant liquid, you nod at him. 

“Exactly,” you laugh. “Neil Diamond is so old. I think my mom likes Neil Diamond,” you tease. 

Rooster takes it in stride, laughing as you take another drink of wine. 

Cherry, baby / (She got the way to groove me)

“So, I’m supposed to be listening to Santana and Hendrix like everyone else? Would that make me hip?” 

Tucking your feet under you, you nod. Rooster is beaming at you, his gold chain gleaming in the light. 

“Yes,” you answer. 

There’s a moment of quiet as the song floods the speakers. The wine is sweet on your tongue and you can’t fight the ache in your cheeks as you continue to grin. Rooster is opening the tin of caviar now, his hands deft and purposeful. God, his fingers alone dwarf the fucking can. Something twinges between your legs--wine always exacerbates all those feelings inside you, anyway.

Won't need bright lights, no, no we won't / Gonna make our own lightning 

“So, here’s what I’ve gathered about you. You’re from around which is in Nebraska, apparently. You can’t have kids--kudos, by the way.” You laugh and Rooster grins. “You like disco--and rollerskating. You’re an outlaw type. You only have the threads on your back. You know who Albert Hadley is and you like fast cars. What else is there to know?” 

He smothers a crunchy baguette oval in the caviar and then offers it to you. You, of course, have never had caviar. Hell, you’ve never even had salmon. All the fish you’ve consumed has been caught and gutted by your daddy and brother. 

But, with all the confidence of a food critic, you take the baguette from him and nod in gratitude. Rooster starts building his own slice, glancing at you as you take a careful bite. He knows that a farm girl from Nebraska has probably never had caviar before--but he would never know just by looking at your pretty face: the flex of your jaw as you chew, the stutter in your breathing when the rich egg and buttery baguette settle onto your tongue, the way your lashes flutter slightly. He knows, somehow, that it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted. 

No, we won't tell a soul where we gone to / Girl, we do whatever we want to / Ah, I love the way that you do me / Cherry, babe, you really get to me

“Well,” you start, trying to recover from the heavenly bite, “I like Harvey Wallbangers. This is my first time in California and I dig it. I’ve never seen a porno. I like Santana and Hendrix, but I like Joni Mitchell the best. I like to fuck. I like to be fucked. And that’s about all there is to know about me.”

Rooster chews slowly, letting each morsel of goodness burst on his tongue as you continue nibbling on your own cracker. He can tell that you’re savoring it and trying not to show him that you’re savoring it. 

“You like Joni?” 

You nod vehemently.

“I’ve heard Blue changes once you’ve seen California,” you tell him. “So, I guess I’ve just enjoyed it a novice amount, huh?” 

You’re being very earnest, your eyes soft and your legs tucked beneath you. It’s the smallest he’s seen you look all day. 

“They’re not bullshitting,” Rooster says. “Listening to Carey, driving through Laurel Canyon, it’s like--!” Rooster pauses, at a loss for words. Just talking about it, imagining the song sweetly flooding his radio, the wind rushing through his hair, the sky painted periwinkle, the sun warm on his nose. It nearly chokes him up. “Can’t really describe it. Gonna have to experience it.” 

You see it--the way he gets lost for a moment, the way his throat becomes clogged with emotion. But then he’s grinning at you again, his eyes gleaming.    

He sets down his cracker, rubbing his hands together over the table to rid his palms of crumbs. Curiously, you watch him as he stands and then reaches for your hand. 

“C’mere,” he says, “I wanna show you something. It’s outta sight, I swear. You’re gonna love it.”

You debate stuffing the entire cracker in your mouth, but to quickly chew and swallow it would feel like wasting it. So, very politely, you delicately place it on the coffee table and take Rooster’s hand. 

“Is it your cock?” 

He laughs, shaking his head. 

“No--unless you want it to be.” 

He pulls you to your feet, his grip warm and strong. You’re close now--your scantily-clad chest grazing his as you beam up at him. 

“I think I’d like to finish my caviar first,” you tell him, breath fanning across his face. “God, that sounded so rich.”

He leads you through his sprawling halls and into the bedroom at the end of the hall--it’s his bedroom, you think. He showed it to you before but you lost count of how many bedrooms there are after the fourth one; and each of them have waterbeds. His room is nice--it smells like pine and clean linens and the cologne he wears on his pulse points. 

The carpet is soft beneath your toes and the lights are low in here--everything is neat, the bed sheets made and no clothes sticking out of his dresser drawers. He has watches and sunglasses in abundance, all of them displayed handsomely on the surface of his bureau. 

Rooster doesn’t let go of your hand and you don’t stop gripping his, following along behind him like the two of you aren’t really strangers at all. You don’t feel like strangers--not after you’ve fucked. You don’t feel that way about every guy you fuck--so there must be something special to Rooster. 

“Here,” Rooster says, suddenly halting at the end of his bed. There’s an excitement climbing his throat, one that’s gonna choke him up again. Everyone likes Joni Mitchell--but he knows that you like her how he does--which he fashions is a little bit more than others. He nods to the painting mounted above the bed and squeezes your hand, but doesn’t drop it. “That painting.” 

You regard it quietly. It’s a colorful thing, lots of green, a stained-glass window. It’s funky and beautiful--playful, even. But you’re not sure what this has to do with Joni Mitchell. 

“Psychedelic,” you tell Rooster. “You…painted it yourself?” 

Rooster fixes his gaze on your face as you continue letting your eyes fall down the painting.

“That’s Dining Room, Laurel Canyon I,” Rooster recites, a smile tugging at his lips. You nod, lips pursed slightly. “Joni painted it in ‘69 when she was living there.” 

He watches it happen, the realization: pale pink covers your cheeks and throat, your eyes widen just enough for him to notice, his sunglasses slip off your hair when you abruptly lean in for a closer look. And then you break out in laughter--real loud laughter like you had in the office earlier, your eyes glossy and your mouth open wide. 

“You are Daddy Warbucks,” you gleefully tell him, climbing onto the bed and hastily climbing up his silk sheets to get closer to the frame. You’re moving unceremoniously, yet you still have all the grace of a doe. “I mean, this is really--this is fucking solid, man!” 

Rooster watches, pleased as a plum. His cheeks are pink, too, as you come closer to the painting. You’re not trying to touch it, not trying to take it off the wall. You’re just admiring a beautiful thing and so is Rooster. 

“So, this made me man and not old man?” Rooster teases, taking a few steps forward.

You scoff. 

“This makes you the man!”

Rooster bites his lip, nodding. He can’t remember the last time he had anyone in his room, on his bed, for any reason other than sex. But he doesn’t have the urge to jump your bones right now, no--he’s content just admiring you. 

“What I gotta show you to be Rooster?” He asks. 

You bite your lip hard, your heart still sitting in your throat. You feel like you’re on another planet right now, one where everything is going your way. You’re in Rooster’s big house on his waterbed, looking at an original Joni Mitchell. You’ve got caviar and wine waiting for you and twenty thousand dollars coming your way. 

Turning your cheek, you glance at him over your shoulder. 

“More than you’re prepared for,” you tell him, grinning. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, the water pulsing underneath him and making you unsteady on your knees. 

“Tell it to me straight.” 

You bite your lip. You like it when men let you be a little mean to them. 

“Well, first you’ve gotta show me Cockwalk.” You face him fully now, on your hands and knees. Your tits are practically spilling out of your skimpy top, but Rooster keeps his eyes on yours, a smile tugging at his lips. “You know, just so I can get a history on Y-O-U.” 

At the mention of Cockwalk, Rooster wants to groan. But he pretends to think as you look at him, eyes wide and wild. 

“I can get a copy of it,” he tells you. 

Your brows furrow. 

“You don’t keep copies of it here?” 

He shakes his head, frowning softly. 

“I never watch my own stuff,” he answers. “What are your other conditions, kid?” 

“I want the lion’s share of the caviar,” you list. He laughs, but nods. He would’ve given it to you anyway--he’s a good host like that. “And you have to help me pick a name. You know--like a name. But I think I have half of it nailed down.” 

You start crawling towards him, your lips glossy and your hair a touch wilder than it was earlier on the sofa. His chest is growing tight as you near him, the movement jiggling the waterbed beneath you. 

“What’ve you got ironed out so far, kid?” He asks, leaning back to recline on his palm. 

You settle yourself just before him, sitting on your haunches with your arms pressed into the sloshing waterbed. 

“Well, I read this book--real far out concepts, very of the times, you know? And it’s called Emmanuelle.” Rooster is smiling softly at you as you explain this to him, your brows pulled together as you decipher your thoughts. “And it’s all about a French woman separating love from lust and how sex doesn’t necessarily equal love. And like, right on, you know? Just cause I fuck someone doesn’t mean I’m in love with them, right? You get it.” You put a palm in the middle of his chest, nodding at him. “You get it.”               

He hums and nods for you to continue. 

“And the book is by this fab French woman named Emmanuelle Arsan, right? And I feel like Emmanuelle isn’t the sexiest name in the world. Like, that doesn’t invite pornographic images, right?” You ask. You’re very excited, speaking quickly and gesturing wildly with your hands. This is just what you look like when you’re talking about something that you care about--Rooster can tell. And he’s just drinking it in. “So, I guess whatever name we figure out, I think I want the last name to be Arsan. A-R-S-A-N. So, not, like, arson.” 

Rooster nods, narrowing his eyes in concentration as you finally settle back on your haunches and smile at him, cheeks dusted pink. 

“You into French stuff?” He asks. 

You nod. 

“Oui.”  

“I like it,” Rooster says. He glances down at your nails, freshly painted and glossy. They’re almost the exact same shade as the silk sheets beneath the two of you. Neil Diamond is still crooning in the living room with your wine and caviar. He thinks of his favorite color. “What about Cherry?” 

A tingle races up your spine and prickles your scalp. 

Cherry. Cherry Arsan.

“You son of a bitch,” you giggle, shoving him playfully. He falls onto his back, the water sloshing wildly beneath his back, and laughs when you climb on top of him. Straddling him, you hold yourself upright by putting your hands flat on his chest. “Okay. Okay. Close your eyes, Rooster.” 

Rooster keens at the sound of his name falling off your lips. He holds onto your thighs to keep you steady on the bed and then lets his eyes drift shut. 

His face is so pretty when its slack--and he listens to you so well. He rubs little circles on your skin with his thumbs in an absent way, like he’s always been doing that and you frequently straddle him. 

“Now, just pretend like we’re having sex again,” you tell him, slyly grinding your crotch over his. His lips tweak into a soft smile and he starts to open his eyes but you put your hand over them again. “Gotta keep your eyes closed. Immerse yourself in the image. So, we’re having sex, right?” You start to bounce softly on him, laughing. And he groans softly, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. 

“Christ,” Rooster mutters. 

It really doesn’t take much to get Rooster hard--he’s a fucking porn star. But there’s something about the way you’re laughing carelessly and bouncing on him that makes his throat feel very, very warm. He’s getting hard already; he’s sure you can feel it. 

You feel it when his hands flex and his fingers dig into your hips. 

“And pretend like we’re, like, lost in the heat of the moment--as much as you can be when you’re filming,” you tell him, slowing down your movements. You drag your hips, make your crotch press against him more purposefully. He grips you harder, his cheeks turning pink. “Maybe your hands are even here,” you mutter, bringing his hands to your chest. 

He swallows hard, cupping you carefully. What the fuck is happening?

Rolling one of your nipples between his fingers, he elicits a sweet moan from your throat. God, it sounds good. Are you two about to fuck again? Right now? Right here? He’s getting harder, your crotch coming down on him perfectly with every grind. 

“Fuck, Cherry,” he groans softly. 

And then you’re a giggling mess, collapsing on top of him, wrapping your arms around him and hugging him close. He blinks at the ceiling, your hair moving across his face as you pepper his face with kisses. 

“God, it sounds good! It sounds so real,” you tell him, grinning. You hover his face, beaming and pink-cheeked. He’s staring at you with his wet lips ajar. “You’re a great actor!” 

He swallows thickly. Fuck. 

“So are you, Cherry,” he says. 

You’re giddy hearing it come off his tongue again. 

“Feed me fish eggs, Rooster,” you whisper to him, nuzzling your nose against his. You kiss his lips quickly, just a chaste and friendly thing, then hop off and start for the living room again. 

Rooster stares at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to catch his breath. He’s still hard right now. And he definitely, definitely wasn’t acting. 

When he walks back into the living room carrying a wicker basket, you’re already on your third cracker and second glass of wine. You’re beaming still, looking at all the art around you and trying to figure out if there are any more Mitchell originals in here. 

“Get lost back there?” You ask, mouth full of cracker. You nearly choke when he appears in front of you, all tan and muscle and soft smiles.  

He grins at you, dressed down in cotton pajama bottoms and no shirt. 

“No,” he tells you, sinking down beside you. “Slipped into something more comfortable. Figured you would want to, too. Forgot that I have the old lost and found here--you’re welcome to dig around and see if anything fits you. I get it all dry cleaned, anyway.” 

You perch your brow when he sets the sizable wicker basket on the floor before you. 

“You have a fucking lost and found for your house?” 

He chuckles, nodding.

“This is the party house. All my pals come here and sometimes it gets a little crazy--people leave all sorts of shit behind,” he shrugs as you start to poke around the basket. “I’m sure something will fit you.” 

“How often do you have parties here?” 

Rooster hums, thinking for a moment. 

“At least once a month, I’d say. Having one on New Years Eve. Say, you’ll get to meet everyone then,” Rooster beams. “That’ll be tubular.” 

“Everyone?” You ask. “Like…more porn stars?” 

Rooster nods. 

Saliva pools on your tongue. This is so fucking cool.  

He prepares himself another cracker and tops off your wine glass before sitting back on the sofa. You sort through the clothes, a spare high heel there and a go-go boot there. There’s slinky dresses and a lot of underwear, some ties, too. But there isn’t anything that resembles pajamas.  

“I’ll just sleep in my birthday suit,” you tell him, leaning back against the couch. “I always pack that with me.” 

He shakes his head at once, frowning. 

“No, you can borrow one of my shirts. No biggie, Cherry.” 

Smiling softly, you nod. Then you stuff a cracker on your mouth, sighing contentedly. 

“Is this what my life is gonna be like all the time?” You ask him. 

Rooster lets his cheek rest against his fist, watching you sprawl out across his sofa with the wine glass balanced on your bare belly and your jaw flex as you chew far too much cracker and caviar. 

“Pretty much,” he tells you. You glance at him, eyes a bit bleary. You’re a lightweight. “You’ve got real talent. Dennis sees it, too.” 

You bite your lip. 

“And he saw it in you, too, right?” You ask. Rooster nods, taking another sip of wine. “How old were you, anyway? Like, how long have you been in the biz?” 

“I was eighteen,” he tells you. Your brows knit just slightly--it seems so young. You can’t imagine him as an eighteen-year-old. “Got scouted by Dennis at Casa Vega. Just turned eighteen. I was his waiter. Brought me in, had me fuck some broad, then hired me right on the spot. Same as you.” 

You’re lying on your side now to give Rooster your full attention, lazily tracing the rim of your wine glass as you watch him speak. 

“So, he does that a lot then?” 

Rooster shakes his head, meeting your eyes. 

“Haven’t seen him do that for anyone since he did it for me.” 

That makes your throat dry. Jesus Christ, you can’t believe what your life is. 

“Why’d you say yes?” You ask. 

Rooster’s a bit taken back by the question, blinking a few times as you take another drink of wine and blink at him expectantly. 

“Why did you say yes?” He asks. 

“You first,” you return.  

He hasn’t been asked that in a very long time--God, he forgot how uncomfortable he was in his own skin all those years ago. He forgot how fast things moved and how easy it was to get swept up in all of the life going on around him. 

“Well, my mom was sick and my dad was gone,” Rooster explains softly, eyes downcast. “It was a Hell of a lot more money than being a waiter. Plus, who doesn’t want to get paid to fuck?” 

At that, you raise your glass in a mock gesture of here, here!

“That’s why I said yes,” you tell him, nodding. “I thoroughly enjoy fucking.” 

That isn’t the only reason you said yes. It’s also because you don’t know if you’re ever allowed to go home again to the chicken farm, not that you care that much. But you don’t tell him this. You don’t tell him yet about the night before you were sent away. You don’t tell him about your brother’s rage and the hole in the wall beside your head. You don’t tell him about your mother’s spit on the toe of your shoe. You don’t tell him about that--not yet. It’s all so fresh still.  

“I get it. Sex is groovy. It’s the new frontier,” Rooster grins, taking another drink. “What do you like about it?” 

You laugh again. You’re starting to feel warm and loose--you like this wine. And your belly is so full of caviar that you feel like you could explode. But you’re too happy to care; this has been one of the best days of your life and it’s hardly the evening yet. 

“About sex, you mean?” You ask. Rooster nods very earnestly. You sigh, rolling onto your back again and staring up at the skylights on the ceiling. The sky is a searing orange, like an ember. “Well, I like everything about it.” 

“Tell me,” Rooster encourages. “I’m sure if anyone understands--it’s me, Cherry.”

You think for a moment, finishing your wine. Rooster pours you another glass silently, letting his feet rest on the coffee table as you stare up at the ceiling lazily. 

“I like all the before. Like, when it’s just something I’m thinking about. And it’s exciting, like, deciding if I’m gonna go for it or not, you know? Even the moment that I decided, like, yeah, I’m gonna do this is…it’s out of this world, you know?” You’re gesturing wildly with your hands again. Rooster understands what that means now. “I like how touching other people makes our hearts race and our cheeks red. I like how our bodies just, like--you know, move. And they react and keen and arch and curl. It’s just fucking cool, you know?”

He hums in agreement. It is cool. 

“And there’s just something liberating about the whole thing. Like, I know you probably haven’t been to Nebraska,” you start, shooting Rooster an incredulous glance. He chuckles and nods--he hasn’t. “But every major revolution has skipped it. Like--every single one. My daddy doesn’t trust banks and my mama won’t let the me move out until I’m married. My brother--God, don’t get me started on that fucking creep. There’s just something, I don’t know…special about sex? Like being that close to someone else and owning that thing between my legs and using it, too. It’s…I guess it’s just, like, power?” 

Rooster has not thought even one time today that you’re dumb or ditzy--but now as you’re talking, your throat warm and open and your eyes glossy and focused on the ceiling above you, he genuinely thinks you’re smart. How a farm girl like you managed to get ahold of such forward-thinking ideals is genuinely beyond him. 

“Isn’t everything about power, though?” 

You hum, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I guess when you boil it down, sure, everything is about power. But--fine! I want some power. I think I deserve some. Fuck, I even think I’m due some. I’ve been shoveling chicken shit and swinging axes my entire adolescence.” You rant. The scent of metallic chicken’s blood suddenly fills your nostrils, coats your mouth. You can feel the spatter on your face, can feel the little talons in your hands before you bring down the blade. “You trust me, right? Don’t you think I should have some power?” 

Rooster grins at you--you’re tipsy. But you’re asking him this with slight earnesty, cheek pressed into the sofa. You’re very endearing right now, very open. 

“You can take some of mine,” he tells you. “Hasn’t my kind been in charge long enough?” 

You chew your lip, biting a grin. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in this room. He’s looking at you like everything else in the house has melted away. 

“That’s a radical stance,” you tell him. 

“Radical and true.” 

“Not that those things are mutually exclusive,” you say. “Radicalism and honesty. But then, I guess, isn’t honesty radical? Especially now. Post-Watergate, post-Vietnam, post-Cuban Missile Crisis.” 

He grins at you. 

“Where’d you get so smart, Cherry?” 

“B-O-O-K-S.” 

He laughs and you laugh, too. You feel tipsier when you laugh, your tongue very warm with delight. 

“You forgot the best part about sex, though,” he tells you. You blink at him, perching an eyebrow. “Cumming.” 

A big laugh falls from your lips--one that is sturdy and true and aided by the Blue Nun that’s already half-finished now. 

“In my experience, I’ve found that cumming is a rare occurrence during intercourse,” you tell him, rolling onto your belly and kicking your feet up behind you casually. He furrows his brows deeply, confusion written plainly over all his features. “Which translates to: only one guy has ever made me cum.” 

“What?” Rooster acts. “You shitting me, Cherry?” 

You shake your head, giving him a thumbs down. 

“What a nightmare,” Rooster says. He genuinely can’t imagine how frustrating it would be to have sex all the time and not finish. But then the tips of his ears grow red when he remembers that he has fucked you--and you did not cum. “Tell me about it.” 

You hold your wine glass out and Rooster fills it again happily, content in just listening to you speak. 

“It was actually not that long ago. Like, I think it was five or six days ago--my last time in Nebraska. John Duke picked me up for a date, which translates to us fooling around at the drive-in,” you tell Rooster. Rooster listens closely, sipping his wine. “And nothing was different, really. We fucked in the back of his truck at the drive-in and--!” 

“--What picture was playing?” 

You grin at Rooster--he’s biting his lip. 

“A Question of Love,” you answer, wrinkling your nose. Rooster winces and you nudge him with your foot. “It’s beside the point! You’re being a dork! The point is that he took me home and he put his hand under my skirt and then it just happened--like it hasn’t ever happened before and then it just did.” 

You can remember the feeling so clearly, not that it happened very long ago. How warm his truck was, how soft the leather felt. You remember the way his rough fingers felt against your clit, hammering against it like he was trying to force some sort of confession out of it. You were breathing so harshly, your mouth dry and open. The night was dark all around you and you were suddenly tipped over an edge no one but yourself had ever tipped you over, free-falling over rocky planes under a star-speckled night. And it was only a moment after that when your brother suddenly ripped the passenger door open, pulling you out of the truck with your skirt still hiked up and your eyes still closed. 

It was an immediate punishment--the kind that made you question the reality of God.  

“What was it like?” Rooster asks.

You shrug. 

“Fine,” you tell him. “A lot.” 

Rooster bites his lip hard. 

“Did you like it?” 

You did--until you didn’t.

“Fleetingly,” you answer. You’re still kicking your legs behind you, sipping on your wine. “He was rough.” 

“You don’t like it rough?” Rooster asks. He’s smirking. 

“Sometimes I don’t,” you answer. You’re smirking, too. “Does it really matter what I want, though?” 

Rooster’s eyebrows knit. 

“Of course it does,” he answers, his tone dripping in decisiveness. “Sex is an act between multiple people and everyone’s wants matter--!” 

“Yeah, sure,” you interrupt, sitting up on your elbows. Your breasts are dangerously close to spilling out. Rooster swallows hard. “You can say that. You can say that sexual revolution stuff that they preached. But how often do you really make women cum? And I’m not trying to be a square here or anything. But just, like, give me the lowdown.” 

Rooster answers with not a moment of hesitation. 

“Every time I have sex with them,” he answers. 

You laugh softly, shaking your head.

“You had sex with me and I didn’t cum,” you argue. You gesture to him with your wine glass, grinning. “So up your nose with a rubber hose.” 

He watches you finish your glass. And then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. You watch him carefully, smiling a wet sort of smile. Your feet still when you meet his eyes--his pupils are blown.

But then he stands up, briskly walking over to the turntable. He picks a record quickly and settles the needle on it, adjusting the volume, before he comes back over and sits on the couch. He’s closer to you now--close enough to touch you. 

The two of you stare at each other, lips parted, as Young Americans by David Bowie starts. 

“Let me right my wrong,” Rooster says. “You’ll eat your words.”

In response, you just nod. No words required--not with Rooster. When you start to move, to adjust, he lays his flat palm at the base of your spine and press you into the couch. 

“No,” he tells you. “You don’t have to move. You don’t have to do anything. Just chill, Cherry. Stay put.” 

So, you relax back into the couch, letting your cheek sink into the soft cushion. And Rooster moves to hook his fingers in your shorts, slowly pulling them down your legs as you raise your hips. 

Your heart is starting to race, heat is starting to gather between your legs. You want this--when do you not want it? And he told you to chill--so you do. You just lay on his nice couch and let him take your pants off, let David Bowie croon. The wine is sitting heavy in your belly and you still feel like today is the best day of your life--but you also have the distinct feeling that a lot of days will end like this. 

You’re expecting Rooster to just plunge his fingers into you--you’re expecting something fast and to the point. But then you feel it: Rooster’s lips against the back of your neck, his fingers carefully parting your hair and setting it aside. It provokes goose flesh all over your body. 

“Oh,” you whisper. Your lashes are fluttering and your belly is tight with want. “Forgot you’re a romantic.” 

When he laughs, it vibrates your skin deliciously. He presses warm, wet kisses all along your neck and across your shoulders. The sensation is overwhelming, really--overwhelmingly lovely. It’s tender and soft, something you’ve never shared with a man. You hardly feel it when he unties your bikini and slips it out from under you. 

Now you’re bare before him, already a blushing and panting mess. 

Rooster’s breath is caught in his throat. He’s already hard--like fully, ready-to-go hard. The kind of hard that hurts, really. But God, how could he not be hard looking at you? You’re fucking beautiful--all that supple, pale skin and those delicate and private freckles. He feels drunk just looking at you and he can only see your naked back. 

“Isn’t it my birthright? As a Cancer?”

He kisses a long, languid line down your spine, reaching under you and cupping your breasts. You bring your arms above your head, sighing into the crook of your elbow and submitting to the pleasure that shivers through your nervous system when he starts to carefully tweak your nipples. 

“Yeah,” you whimper softly. “Something stupid like that.” 

Very softly, he lets his right hand drift away from your chest and between your parted legs. You lean into his touch, gasping when he first grazes your cunt. You’re already wet--so wet. And he touches you gingerly at first, gathering your arousal and spreading it for your comfort. Then he starts to work on your clit--that familiar bundle of nerves he’s so friendly with--and just like all the other women do, you moan at the pace he sets. 

Rooster’s been in this business a long time--he understands how to make a woman cum. He’s almost certain he would be able to make any woman cum, but he knows that’s a bit presumptuous. But even the way he’s watching the heat gather in your cheeks, watching the way your spine is curving. You’re trying to move into and away from his touch at the same time; it’s a good sign. 

“God,” you mutter, your breaths quivering and pathetic. “Fucking Christ.”

He moves his other hand to your lower back again, pressing you down until your belly is flush with the sofa. Your knees are spreading just by nature and you’re moving your hips along with his movement, crying out when he dips his finger into you softly. 

“Taking it so good, Cherry,” Rooster coos, heart sitting in his throat. “That’s what’s gonna make you a star, baby.” 

A moan tumbles out of your mouth before you can even stop it. Fuck, you love it when he says that. 

He hastens his pace, rubbing tight and fast circles over your clit. Every muscle in your leg is tense and your breaths are growing rapid. Fuck, this happened a lot quicker and ended a lot quicker last time you did this--but it didn’t feel this good. 

“Like that, huh?” Rooster asks, watching the heat in your cheek spread down your throat. “Like it when I call you a star?” 

“Yes,” you mutter. “Sagittarius's can be egotistical.”

He laughs, but doesn’t relent in his pace. He leans down and peppers kisses across your lower back and nibbles very softly on your hips while still holding you down. 

“So, it’s your birthright, then?” 

“Fuck, yes!” 

He feels the exact moment he pushes you over the edge. You clench around him, thighs clamping together pathetically. Your body almost fights him, but he moves in tandem with it. He doesn’t keep his harsh pace up when you writhe, he moves to let his body lay over yours when you can’t keep your body against the couch. And then you come down, heaving, stars dancing in your eyes--he just presses a kiss to your hip. 

“Well,” he whispers, patting your ass softly and brushing some of your messy hair from your eyes. “Did you eat your words?” 

You glance at him, still panting. He’s grinning at you and his pupils are still blown.

And all I want is the young American / Young American, young American, I want the young American 

“Maybe,” you whisper. You blow hair out of your eye and then grin at him. “Maybe we should do it again. Just for good measure.” 

He laughs softly, shaking his head. 

“Best two out of three?”

“You’re on, Rooster.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I FUCKING LOVE ROOSTER (THIS WILL PROBABLY BE THE NOTE ON EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER BECAUSE HE JUST GETS BETTER AND BETTER!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

#rooster bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster fluff #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster smut #rooster series #the rooster stache #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster x reader #pornstar!rooster #pornstar!hangman #pornstar!coyote #pornstar!bob #pornstar!phoenix #pornstar!payback #pornstar!fanboy #cherry arsan #rooster bradshaw au #Bradley Bradshaw AU #Bradley bradshaw 70s AU #70s!rooster

[roosterbruiser]

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟕

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You film your first scene with Phoenix and Rooster. You celebrate with a bath.☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.2k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩��𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐅𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟏𝟒𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

Phoenix is beautiful. It’s all you can think about right now. 

You’re watching her carefully as she rides Rooster. Her body is precious and soft, very slender and delicate. She seems to be made up of sharp edges and round angles, every single line of her form contorting with a ferocious amount of control. She’s straddling Rooster, her thighs flexed as she squeezes his hips, her slim hands resting lightly on the tight plane of muscle on his lower belly to keep herself upright. Her long, dark hair cascades down her body and just barely covers her puckered nipples and parted lips as she rocks herself. She’s in control--you can tell, Rooster can tell, Dennis can tell. 

Watching her perform is like watching someone balance on a tightrope, all grace and poise and discipline. There is no net beneath Phoenix, but you know that she doesn’t need it. She doesn’t stutter, doesn’t falter. 

Even when she says her lines, which you saw her rolling her pretty eyes at while she smoked her last cigarette in the makeup chair, she sounds like she means them. You know they’re silly--lazily written, not holding much sentiment or aiding to whatever two-bit plot you’re acting out--but when she says them, you understand why people want to hear her say them. Sensuality drips from her lips, spills out in the warm air around you as she angles her pleasure-stricken face towards the yellow sun high in the sky.

“We have to be quick before my husband comes home,” she moans. “He’d kill all three of us if he knew I was fucking his sister and the pool boy!” 

Phoenix doesn’t roll her eyes in front of the camera despite the desire tugging so persistently on her lashes. You can do nothing but watch in awe.  

Rooster knows you’re off your game. 

You’re not rutting yourself against his mouth like you usually do, not desperately gripping his chest and arching your back and crying out. You’re hovering his face, cunt slick with his saliva and your arousal, and staring at Phoenix as she fucks herself with Rooster. 

He knows that it’s your first time filming a scene with a woman--but he also knows that you aren’t very easy to throw off your game, especially when it comes down to you sitting on his face. He’s never seen you so distracted before. 

“Just like that,” Dennis comments from behind the camera, sipping a glass of whiskey he poured himself from Rooster’s bar. He’s reclining in the directors chair beside the camera, purple-tinted glasses doing very little to hide how blown his pupils are. “Nixxy, you’re a stone cold fox, honey. Keep giving it to him like that.”

Phoenix knows that she’s good at this. It helps that she’s known Rooster for so long and is frequently on screen with him--they’re friends. She knows what angles he likes and they’ve worked together over the years to establish a comfortable rapport, one that makes it easy for her to fuck him. 

Dennis glances at you. You’re stark, palms flat on your bent thighs as you watch Phoenix with your mouth agape. The only clue that you’re enjoying yourself is the slight knit of your brows--it’s not enough. 

Just as Dennis is about to say something, Rooster suddenly stops and holds a hand up to the camera. The cameraman abruptly cuts. 

“Cherry,” Rooster pants from under you. You’re blinking yourself out of a daze, watching as Phoenix rolls her shoulders back and stills suddenly. “Y’alright, kid?”

You can feel it, then--everyone watching you as the sun beats down on your tangled figures. Your palms are sweating suddenly, your throat tight. But you grin, look around at everyone, nod profusely. 

“It’s all gravy,” you tell Rooster, flicking your hair behind your shoulder and squaring your shoulders. “Was that not, like, usable?” 

Dennis takes a sip of his drink and then shrugs.

“Seem a little bit out of it,” Dennis comments. “Need a drink to loosen you up, babydoll?” 

Rooster shakes his head, holding tight to your hips. 

“She said she’s okay,” Rooster says. 

He rests his head against the warm concrete, his jaw aching, his neck sore. But he holds tight to you, not letting you out of his grip. Not when Dennis is here, not when Dennis is offering you a drink. Rooster knows what Dennis likes to put in drinks when he doesn’t think women are loose enough to film.

Dennis knows when to quit. He holds his hands up in mock defense, leaning back in his chair. 

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, glancing down at Rooster’s body beneath yours. He’s sweating, his body taut and flushed. Carefully, you trace his belly, let the pads of your fingers press into all that hard muscle.

“Hey,” Phoenix says suddenly. She reaches out and cups your cheek. “We could touch each other, too. If you, you know, jive with that. Right, Dennis?” 

Dennis nods enthusiastically. 

Your tongue goes dry at the thought. She is so beautiful, so elegant. The thought of her touching you, kissing you--it makes every nerve in your body come to life and light on fire. Now you’re burning under the sun, trying to focus on Rooster’s repetitive stroking on your hips, trying to focus on the sound of Dirty Work by Steely Dan playing quietly off set. 

“I’m down with that,” you say. Your voice is thin, faulty. 

Dammit if you’ll ever show that you’re nervous right now, in front of the camera, doing what you’re best at. But Phoenix knows--she can tell. Your brows are knit and your chest is flushed and you’re fidgeting with Rooster’s body like it’s a safety blanket. She won’t say anything about it, though. She’s good like that. 

“Kiss me,” Phoenix says softly, smiling. “I won’t bite.”

“You can,” you tell her, a blush spreading across your chest.  

Later on, when everyone goes home and Rooster’s house is empty and the sun is lower in the cyan sky, you sit in the expansive bathtub with Rooster. It was his idea, of course, to bathe together after the shoot. As if he really had to do much convincing.

The bathwater is warm and soapy, resting just above your breasts. The fragrance of rose and vetiver perfumes the steamy air around the two of you, wafting up towards the mirror on the ceiling. 

“What’d you think, kid?” Rooster asks. 

He’s smoking a cigar now, his curls damp and dripping against the swells of muscle on his shoulders and chest. 

You’re nursing a Harvey Wallbanger, your hair like soaked curtains draping down your back and into the water. 

“About?” You ask, smiling softly. There’s sugary grit on your teeth, oranges dying on your tongue. “The shoot?” 

Rooster nods once. 

The scent of his cigar tickles your nostrils, fills your lungs for a moment.

“Fishing for a complement, daddy?” You ask, biting a grin. You’ve been calling him that recently--a shortened version of Daddy Warbucks. “Cause you were dynamite as always.” 

Rooster smiles, taking a long drag as he watches you delicately sip the drink he made you once everyone left. You had thrown yourself in the pool as soon as everyone was gone, taking a few languid laps as Rooster watched from the tiki bar, a paisley robe shrugged over his form.

“Two down!” You’d called from the pool. “Ten to go!” 

“Was hoping you’d tell me what you thought about Phoenix,” Rooster says. He smiles softly as you bite your lip. “But keep feeding my ego if that’s your prerogative, baby.” 

A vodka-scented laugh bubbles up and falls into the bathwater.

“I think Phoenix is a fox,” you answer honestly. Pink paints your cheeks when you think about the way her parted lips felt against yours, the way her delicate fingers pinched your nipples. She might be the most beautiful thing that’s ever touched you--and you have a Halston gown. “I get why people wanna watch her.” 

Rooster nods, humming. He ashes his cigar on the crystal ashtray beside him and perches a brow.

“Are you jealous?” He asks. 

He isn’t asking to be an asshole. He doesn’t sound like an asshole when he asks, either: his eyes are wide and earnest, his mouth flat and honest, his cheeks pink from the warmth of the bathwater you’re submerged in. 

“Mmm, no,” you answer honestly. Something heavy and pink is sitting in your lower belly, tickling you from the inside out. Delicately, you let your fingers trace the bubbles resting atop of the water as you meditate on your answer. “Not jealous. Maybe…entranced is a better word.” 

“Entranced?” Rooster asks with a short laugh. “Say, you a reader or something?” 

You press your foot against his belly, a quick jab, and he just laughs again. 

“She’s just so, like, beautiful,” you tell Rooster. You swallow hard, remembering the way her pants filled your mouth, the way she moved so seamlessly on Rooster. “Like, she could be one of Charlie’s Angels.”

“So could you,” Rooster says. 

He means it, too. He knows you’d be a fan favorite. He can imagine it, really--ducking around a corner with a little pistol, wearing a playsuit and batting your glittery eyes at a cartoonishly evil-looking man. 

“I didn’t just, like, say that just so you can compliment me. You know?”

Rooster nods, your honesty making his tongue dry. You’re gazing into his eyes, your nose wrinkled softly. 

“I know it, Cherry,” Rooster answers. “Crushing on her, then?” 

Again, he isn’t testing you. He’s asking--earnest as ever. 

But you’re flushed anyway, a little bit of Nebraska still tugging on your hair and pinching your nose until it twitches. 

“No,” you answer softly. “I can just…admire beautiful things.” 

Rooster swallows. He nods. He knows what it’s like to admire beautiful things.  

“I can dig it,” he says quietly. When you meet his eyes again, saliva pools beneath his tongue. “Why don’t you come over here, baby?” 

“Lonesome, daddy?” You ask, grinning. 

He nods, stubbing out his cigar. 

“In the worst way,” he answers. 

To be frank, Rooster misses you. Usually, he’s sharing you with Jake, who practically moved himself into the house since becoming enamored with you. And if he isn’t sharing you with Jake, he’s sharing you with Phoenix or Dennis or someone else that wants to fuck you. He was lapping at your cunt earlier, pulling your hips against his face--but he feels like he barely got you. He wants you all to himself, all the time. Jake is going to a party at the Playboy Mansion tonight--you’re going to be alone with Rooster for the first time in a long time. 

Either way, you drink the rest of your Harvey Wallbanger and tread carefully across the tub and settle yourself between Rooster’s legs, your back against his chest. 

Just the weight of your body against his has something soft and supple spreading across his body. Having you to himself, resting against his chest with your muscles totally slack, feels very special. It’s a feeling he aches for, one that he fervently wishes to stay. So much so that he smooths a hand over your wet hair softly and kisses softly on your cheek and throat. 

“You think she’s foxy, too, right?” You ask softly. 

Raking your fingers across his parted thighs, you hum. 

“I’ve got eyes, kid,” Rooster smiles.

You scoff. But then you soften because he’s wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him, resting his chin on the top of your head. 

“You ever fucked her off screen?” You ask.

“We’ve all fucked each other off screen,” Rooster answers. 

You swallow, shrugging. 

“How often?” You ask. 

You dig your nails into his thighs gently and he sighs against you. 

“We tried going steady for a while,” Rooster answers. He feels the way your spine stiffens, the way your fingers still. “About a million years ago, when she was new to the scene. Didn’t last more than a couple months.” 

For some reason, your jaw is flexed when you think about it: Phoenix and Rooster together, holding hands on his nice sofa, sharing drinks and caviar. 

“Oh.” It’s all you can get yourself to say for a moment. “What was that like?” 

“Little bit like this,” Rooster answers honestly. “Except I was younger and hotter.” 

Despite yourself, you laugh again. 

“Baby, you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever landed,” you tell him. You mean it, too. “You’re aging like a fine wine, Roo.” 

There’s that nickname that he only likes when it’s coming out of your mouth: Roo.       

“Don’t think I’m past my prime, do you?” He asks. 

You shake your head fervently. 

“God, baby, you’re fab. You’re peaking.” 

 He laughs softly, holding onto you tighter. 

“Maybe it’s because I’ve got you here,” Rooster says. “You keep me young.” 

“I keep you young?” You ask, laughing. “What, were you just eating pudding and prunes before you met me?”

“Threw the walker out the day I brought you home,” Rooster teases. 

“I’m the first stray you brought home, then, huh?” You ask.

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t think you’re a stray. In fact, he thinks that you’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to him. Sometimes he dreams about going to the farm where you grew up and setting it on fire. Other times he thinks about shaking your daddy’s hand. Most of the time he thinks about keeping you tucked up against him forever.

It’s quiet for a moment after that. You’re resting against his chest, your head on his shoulder. Both of you are breathing each other in, your fingers pruning in the bathwater. 

You’re thinking about Phoenix sitting in your very spot against Rooster’s chest, nursing a martini. And for some reason, it makes you bite the inside of your cheek hard. And you’re thinking about him bringing you home, about letting you lounge on his sofa and eat his caviar and talk to him about power and sex. Phoenix is smart--she likes art and culture and she can paint. She’s older, more elegant. You wonder if Rooster feels like you’re the recycled version of her. 

Rooster’s thinking about what his life was like before you fell into it. How empty his evenings were, how cold his house was. It’s almost hard to remember what it was like before you--you fill up his house with a different kind of light and warmth, one that is like sunshine but brighter and warmer. He’s thinking about watching you swim from the tiki bar, mixing up your drink the way you like it, watching the water ripple around your nude form. 

“Roo?” You whisper. 

Rooster hums, kissing your head. Your hair still smells like chlorine. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’ll never be your first anything,” you say, measuring your words. 

“I’m not your first anything either, Cherry,” Rooster says. “I’m lucky number seventeen.” 

He wraps your hair around his fingers and lets it uncoil and fall back into the water.

“First person I had sex with on camera,” you whisper. 

Heat spreads across his chest. Of course--how could he forget?

“Right,” Rooster chuckles. “Here’s the skinny, then. You can be my last something. How’s that sound?” 

It tickles you. Rooster is so young--only thirty-one and he’s talking about lasts. Really, he doesn’t mean much by it. But you’re suddenly thinking about how young he was when he lost his parents, how young they must’ve been. Maybe he feels like death is something that touches Bradshaw’s prematurely. 

You clear your throat, humming.

“Like, right now?”

He hums in agreement. 

“Like right now.” 

You glance at him over your shoulder; his hair looks endlessly darker when it’s wet, his eyes shining and swimming with affection. He strokes your cheek very gently, pinches it until it blushes. 

“What’s it gonna be?” You ask, sighing. 

He looks at you for a long, long moment. He suddenly feels like you could be his last anything and he wouldn’t have much to complain about.   

“How about you’re the last girl I ever fuck in this bathtub?” 

Biting your lip hard, you nod. 

“You’re on,” you whisper. 

You begin to turn around, excitement already lighting your belly, but Rooster holds you still with a careful tug of his arms. When you meet his eyes again, his are wider, darker. He holds your cheek, shakes his head softly. 

“We’re gonna do it my way,” he says quietly. He presses his thumb against your lower lip and soap sits bitterly on your tongue as you suck softly on his finger. “Lay back against me.” 

Not an atom that makes up your form wants to disobey him--not when his voice is so low and his finger is so heavy on your tongue. He retracts his thumb from your mouth and spreads your wet saliva across your mouth before letting his palm rest against the delicate column of your throat. 

“I said lay back,” he says, voice still gentle and even. But then he’s squeezing the sides of your throat, pulling you so you collapse against his chest as the water sloshes around you. “Good job, baby. Just relax.” 

Just at his words, that sticky heat that pools in your belly drips lower and lower until you have to press your thighs together.

But Rooster feels it when you do--and he plunges both hands into the water and parts your thighs easily, pressing them against the porcelain tub, gripping them. 

“Stay open for me, baby,” Rooster whispers, nibbling your earlobe. You’re already breathless, eyes fluttering shut. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to fucking him--not when he makes you feel so fucking good. “I’ll take care of you, just relax.”

Your thighs quiver beneath his palms. You’ve had sex with Rooster many times by now, enough to fill up three sets of hands, probably. You have each other on command. You’ve fucked fast, you’ve fucked hard, you’ve fucked lazily, you’ve fucked rapidly, you’ve fucked in the pool, you fucked on the bed, you’ve fucked in the conversation pit--really, everywhere and in every way. But you’ve never gone this slow before, never been so under his control. 

“There���s no music,” you whisper to him, letting your head fall against his shoulder. 

Rooster suckles at your throat, humming. 

“S’alright,” he mumbles. “You’re all I wanna hear, baby.” 

Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you hum. 

“What if I’m feeling quiet?” You tease. 

He cups your breasts suddenly, his hands wet and warm. Immediately, he’s tweaking your nipples the way you like, sending shockwaves of pleasure across your flushed chest and down into your belly. You swallow hard, exhaling roughly through your nose. 

He knows you can’t be quiet. 

“Wanna make a bet?” He asks. He can feel you squirming under his touch already, a desperate little thing. “Or are you attached to your money?” 

He continues rolling your nipples with his index finger and thumb, kissing your throat carefully. He can feel all those labored breaths you’re already releasing. He’s thinking about how you taste--how he was lapping at your cunt a short while ago, bringing you close to the edge, holding you down on his face.  

You’re going to respond--maybe a scoff or something akin to it--but it dies in your throat when his hands move from your chest suddenly. While one of his hands wraps itself around your throat--just holding you in place, not squeezing--the other one drops down between your legs. With his thick middle finger, he draws a careful line from your clit to your opening, pressing wet kisses to your cheeks. 

He can feel it on his fingers--just how aroused you are right now. You’re quivering beneath him, still so sensitive from the shoot earlier. And he knows you want to be filled up--you haven’t had his cock inside of you today at all, only his tongue. 

He works slowly on your body--achingly, painfully slowly. He lets his fingers graze your clit, his touch featherlight and barely there, before they sink down to your opening and just barely dip inside of you. Your mouth is clamped shut, just like your eyes, but he can hear those pants falling off your parted lips. 

It’s tortuous, really, how light his touch is. And it continues for what feels like a very long time, the bubbles deflating and your cheeks growing pink. He’s hard against you, the kind of hard that makes your mouth water, but he doesn’t ask you to touch him. He just barely ruts up against you, his cock pressing against your rear and the base of your spine. 

“Y’want more, baby?” He whispers, his breath hot against your ear. Your entire body is taut, writhing already. You need more. “I’ll give it to you. Just gotta ask.” 

You won’t say a word--not yet. You’re too overwhelmed. 

So he continues his torturous pace, languidly stroking that sweet cunt, letting his fingers find solace in very shallow dips. You’re bucking your hips against his hand, chest heaving, but it doesn’t encourage him to change his pace at all. 

“I could do this all night,” he whispers to you, letting his flat palm find its home in the middle of your chest again. “I’d love to, really.” 

When you don’t say a word, your head lolling to the side to bite into his shoulder, he suddenly plunges a finger into you. It’s so sudden that you gasp out a moan, but you’re able to reign it in after a moment, just whimpering. 

“Wanna hear you, baby,” Rooster whispers, his lips attached to your ear. You’re panting, almost writhing. “Wanna hear those pretty sounds.” 

“Jesus,” you mutter finally, sloppily kissing his shoulder. “Get on with it! Please, baby.” 

Rooster groans at the sound of please falling from your parted lips. Fucking Hell it sounds good. 

“Didn’t get to cum earlier, huh, baby?” 

You just whimper in response, eyes closed tight. 

“I’ll get you there,” he promises. He moves to rub your clit, his fingers moving in fast and tight circles. You’re bucking your hips up against his fingers, sinking your nails into his thighs, gasping out. “Oh, baby, I know. Just let it happen. Just cum on my fingers, okay? Cum on my fingers and I’ll give you my cock, baby.” 

“Fuck,” you whine. Your orgasm is bubbling up fast, all that teasing throughout the day catching up to you mighty fast. Your entire body is drenched in gasoline and Rooster is striking a match now. “I want it in a bad way, daddy. Want it so bad.” 

Rooster latches his mouth to your collarbones, suckling freely. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be marking you up. But he’s so hard at the thought of Jake kissing that spot on your throat, knowing that Rooster was there first, knowing that Rooster marked you. You don’t have another shoot until next month--the love brand will fade by then. 

For a moment, as you cry out and clutch his skin and rut your hips against his hand and his cock, he lets himself think about constantly branding you. Suckling your skin, nibbling it, soothing it with his tongue. Watching the bruises fade over the days, the maroon becoming lilac and then canary. Then starting all over again--marking you up until there are little onyx and indigo spots all over your chest and neck.  

“Fuck, hold on,” Rooster mutters. “I need to feel you.” 

You whine when his fingers suddenly cease in their rapid movements, but then you’re being turned around, your nipples grazing his lips. He sucks carefully, gripping your hips and pulling you down until the thick head of his cock is grazing your slick entrance. 

Gripping his wet hair, you whine. You can feel him marking up your breasts now, can feel his teeth clashing with your skin. But you don’t care. Fuck, it turns you on, even. His head just barely sinking into your wanting cunt, his lips attached to your tits, his fingers curled into the plush skin of your hips. 

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to him. You moan aloud, a noise that makes him twitch, when he latches onto your nipple again and just barely fucks his cock inside of you--just another inch, just enough for him to feel your warm, wet walls hugging him. “Oh, baby. Fuck.”

He’s watching you through his lashes, your body slick with rose-scented soap and your hair sopping. Your entire body is flushed and pulsing with want--he can see it eating you alive. You would sink yourself down on his cock fully if you could worm your way out of his grip--but it’s iron-clad. 

“Do you even know how fucking hot you are?” Rooster grunts, finally pressing up into you. You’re gasping, crying out, reaching for purchase. Your fingers tangle in his locks, hold onto him tight. “You’re so fucking hot, Cherry. Hottest thing to ever hit the scene.” 

You feel so full of him--and he’s only halfway in, just barely fucking up into you. It’s too shallow, not enough. You want more. You need more. Your ears are ringing, your heart is pounding.

“I’m so fucking hot,” you whimper to him, just babbling at this point. It’s been a very long time since anyone has made you feel this dizzy, has made you feel so entirely drunk on cock. “Tell me how hot I am.” 

“Baby, you’re above everyone else,” Rooster mutters. And then he holds your body still, dull fingernails nearly breaking the skin of your hips, before pressing into you until he’s fully seated inside of you. You moan in utter tandem, your head falling forward as your body slumps against his. “Shit. Fuck.”

You’re desperate for release. So desperate that you plunge your hand in the water and desperately start to circle your own clit. But then Rooster is pushing your hand away and holding you against him so he’s seated deeply inside of you--completely still. 

He presses his forehead against yours, his mouth wide open as you squeeze him so fucking perfectly. 

“No,” he mutters breathlessly. “You sit still now, Cherry. Wanna feel you cum on my cock. Just sit there and look pretty.” 

And that is perhaps the meanest thing he’s ever done to you. He holds you completely still with his arm wrapped around your waist and anchoring your body against his, his forehead resting against yours, his cock sitting heavy and thick in your aching cunt. And then he starts a merciless assault on your clit, fingers expertly pushing you to the edge. 

He keens at all your sounds, your body quivering against his, your mouth parted. Your moans are steady and sweet, whining in his ear and panting against his lips. 

“So good for me,” Rooster mutters, grunting when you squeeze around him. Fuck, he isn’t going to last long either. “Atta girl, just let it happen. Cum on my cock, baby. Then I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you good and right.” 

Whatever edge you were teetering on before--you’re suddenly thrown off it. He keeps your body relatively still, pushing you down when your hips buck up and away from his, kissing your lips as you practically scream yourself into an orgasm. He feels every single moment of it--your walls contracting and holding him close inside of you, your nipples brushing his lips, the flush on your hips. And for whatever reason, it makes him cum, too. It’s unexpected, especially since he has hardly even moved inside of you. But he’s suddenly groaning, biting his lip hard, spurting hot ropes of cum in your cunt. 

Then you’re both panting against each other, each of you coming down, each of you staring at the other through hooded eyes. 

“Did you just cum?” You ask, eyebrows raised. 

Rooster flushes. 

“I think I did,” he answers, laughing dryly. “Jesus, that has, like, never happened before.” 

You keen at this. 

“Had to make the last fuck in the tub memorable somehow, huh?” You whisper. 

You kiss his forehead, letting your lips linger there. You can taste his salt on your lips, those little beads of sweat that have gathered there. 

“Sorry,” Rooster says quietly. 

“Mmm,” you whisper, letting your face fall against his neck. “I’m not. Like, I’m really, really not.” 

When you come out of your bedroom, dressed in a silk robe with your hair blow dried and your toes freshly painted, Rooster is waiting for you on the couch. He’s in his robe, too, his curls dried and his mustache freshly trimmed. 

“Well, one of us is gonna have to change,” you tease, sinking onto the sofa beside him. You lay your head on his thigh, smiling up at him as he rakes his fingers through your soft hair. “What’s your plan for the night, daddy?” 

Rooster swallows hard, nodding towards the coffee table. 

Oh--you hadn’t seen the setup when you walked in. But here it is: a chilled bottle of Blue Nun, a tin of caviar, a crusty baguette, a bouquet of flowers, and an empty film canister. 

You sit up a bit, biting a grin. No one has ever bought you flowers before. Your skin is goosed with joy. And they’re not just roses--they’re red carnations and white apple blossoms and poppies. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, kid,” Rooster says softly, watching pink tickle your cheeks.

“Roo,” you mumble, a bit breathless. “You really went bananas!” 

Rooster stifles a laugh. 

“Well, that’s not all,” he answers. 

And then he silently stands up and heads towards the projector, a smile tugging at his lips. You’re touching the silky petals of the flowers, bringing them to your nose and inhaling that fresh scent. God, they smell good. And they’re plush and beautiful--the most beautiful flowers you’ve ever seen.

“You’re such a romantic,” you laugh, glancing at Rooster as he puts film on the projector and fiddles with it momentarily. “It’s the Cancer in you, baby.” 

“So I’ve been told,” he says, shaking his head. “Alright, pour me a glass, baby.” 

You pour him a heavy glass of wine, still prickled with joy. 

When he sinks back on the couch beside you, the projector blinks to life and suddenly, projected on the frame-dotted wall is a film. A groovy, distinctly pornographic tune lights up the room as you smear caviar on a piece of baguette. 

“Dinner and a movie,” you mutter, cuddling yourself into his side as you munch on the baguette. “Lucky lady.” 

But then you realize it--this isn’t just a movie. And that man dressed in the assless chaps chopping wood isn’t just a man--it’s Rooster. Rooster much younger, thinner and less sure of himself, but Rooster nonetheless. 

Rooster watches the realization dawn on you; your mouth going slack, your jaw stilling in its chewing, your eyes widening. 

“This is Cockwalk,” you say suddenly, grinning. You sit up, gripping his thigh. “This is Cockwalk!” 

He nods, sighing. He really doesn’t want to watch Cockwalk--not really. He’s made a point of never rewatching his own films, even having a hard time at the initial screenings. But he’s doing this for you, for Valentine’s Day. And just the way you’re grinning, your gaze lingering on his form, makes him feel alright about it. 

“You’re hot!” You tell him, beaming. “How old were you?” 

“Nineteen,” he says. 

“I was still playing with dolls when you filmed this,” you says softly. 

Rooster flinches. He takes a long drink of his wine. 

“Surprised?” He asks. 

You grin. 

“Elated,” you answer. You glance at him over your shoulder. “Say, you ever get Phoenix caviar and let her watch Cockwalk when you two were going steady?” 

He shakes his head. 

“No,” he answers. “Just you.” 

Your shoulders square. 

“Good,” you answer.  

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: listen, I--

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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