#fr though like my last blackout was just so fucking bad

[wewontbesleeping]

i'm so glad i didn't inherit the alcohol enjoying gene

[feralforfrank]

── LOVE CONFESSIONS IN THE DARK.

BRADLEY "ROOSTER" BRADSHAW X FEM!READER

summary you've been tasked to grab your clean clothes from the laundry room during a storm. little do you know, a certain someone has a similar task.

cw ANGST, but it's the last time. FLUFF. kind of bad writing. storms, thunder, the dark. feelings!!! miscommunication fr, definitely not how the navy operates, but idc. NON-DESCRPTIVE READER. TELL ME IF I MISSED ANYTHING.

note THE LONG AWAITED LAST PT3 IS HEREEEE. im feeling kind of...weird about the ending. i like it, but i dont love it. i hope you peeps enjoy it, though!! sorry for taking so long to write and post it :/

2.3K | masterlist

Sunday noon came around quicker than you wanted it. You'd slept until eleven and elected to stay in bed until it was time to eat. When that time came, you ate Penny's homemade burritos that Nix had sneaked in without the boys seeing.

The two of you ate in your bed and then laid back down. Phoenix was literally on top of you, her hands supporting her head. If Hangman were to walk in now, he'd never let her live this down. Badass Nix with messy bed hair, practically cuddling her heartbroken friend. It was a rare sight.

"I'm exhausted, Nix. I wish I'd never opened my goddamn mouth." You sighed, rubbing your temples.

You were tired. After your confession, you raced back here, flopped under the covers and cried, much like the night before. You wanted to take everything back—every word, movement and facial expression. Rooster hated you, and that was the only way you could get close to him—the hatred—but now you've shattered that wall. 

He doesn't like me. I ruined whatever connection we had. Fuck that stupid mouth of mine. Why did I have to react so poorly both times? He's not mine. I want him to be mine. No. Yes. Fucking hell, this headache. Can't we go back to normal—our normal? That has been your train of thoughts for God knows how long, and it was seriously tiring you out.

"Everything will work out for you. Rooster is full of surprises," Phoenix responded reassuringly.

You looked at her weirdly. "What kind of fucking riddle is that? Have you lost your mind?"

She just laughed, sitting up. "Shut up. I know what I'm saying."

You were about to reply when the screech of the bunkroom door caught your attention. "Oh my God!" Fanboy shouted, closing the door again. "Am I interrupting something?" 

You snorted. "Have you never heard of knocking?" You yelled back.

"What are you doing on top of each other, man?" He sounded traumatised. You giggled.

"None of your business!"

"Whatever, man. I came in to tell you it's going to storm real hard soon. Prepare for a blackout."

"Okay, thanks!" You hear the shuffling of feet moving away from your door and groan.

Phoenix makes a move to stand up. As if she knows what you're thinking, she speaks up. "I'm not going."

"Oh, please, Nix! You know how much I hate it down there! Especially if it's storming out," you whine but to no avail.

"You're in the Navy, for Christ's sake. And it's a quick job. Go in, grab the clothes, and come back. I already put them in the dryer. You only have to fetch them."

You groan but get up as well, blindly searching for your phone and earbuds. If you were going in that dark, scary laundry room, you'd at least do it your way. And who's a better companion than Taylor Swift?

It was early in the evening when all lights shut off. The heater in your room stopped groaning, and you concluded that the expected blackout was happening now. Nix was sleeping in her bunk above you, and you sighed. You'd put off going to the laundry room in hopes of Natasha changing her mind, but there was no way you were getting out of it now.

You really didn't want to face Bradshaw, and there was a big chance you would in the hallways. Unfortunately for you, no one has invented time travel yet, so you're destined to bump into him at some point. You work together, for fuck's sake. It's impossible to ignore him forever.

So, you gather yourself, put a hoodie over your t-shirt with the nearest civilian shoes, and plug your earphones before pressing play on Taylor Swift and blindly find the door. The backup generator is up and running, for the hallway lights are on. 

A few people are conversing and leaning on their bedroom doors. Some greet you with a nod and a smile, and you shoot them one back, ducking your head so as not to be spotted by your friends—who are likely hanging out with Rooster.

You arrive at the laundry room and immediately get to work. There's no one else in here, and it's cold. You feel like a child, shivering in fear as if a ghost will pop up from a corner. The music is blasting, and you're grateful, for the eeriness of this place makes you jumpy. Fuck, it's so dark.

Unbeknownst to you, Bradley was also on laundry duty. He'd put it off as much as he could, even paying Hangman to do it once. He hated the silence in that freezing room and how far away it was from everyone.

So, here he was, trying to walk as quietly as possible; so no admiral ghosts pop up to scare him. Lucky for him, he only had to put them in the bin, press a few buttons and be out of there in seconds.

He's startled when he sees you. Well, he spots your back, but he knows it's you. The unmistakable Taylor Swift tune reaches his ears. Bradley leans against the doorframe, watching as you bop your head and slightly move your hips while you hum the lyrics. 

He chuckles. Your undying love for the singer was the cause for your callsign, although not many people knew that. You made up a story about how quick you're in the air—that's why people call you that. But he knows.

And he loves his knowledge over that little detail about you because it's so significant. Bradley loves memorising things about you—from how you struggle to french braid your hair to how you like Heineken beer more than Corona because you don't like the stupid connection it has to Fast and Furious.

I miss you. The words are on the tip of Rooster's lips, but he doesn't dare say them. He wanted to give you space and time to rethink your words because—surprise, surprise—he's been in love with you for God-knows-how long. And he wants you to love him back, truly, but he doesn't want to freak you out. So, he'll gladly settle with watching you dance to Taylor while trying to hide the fond smile taking over his features.

A loud crack of thunder startles the both of you. The place goes completely black. Bradley moves off the doorframe, but you drop the half-filled basket with a gasp. A soft fuck escapes your lips, and Bradley decides to close the distance between you and help.

His hands look for your waist, wanting to help you up. He hadn't thought about how isolated you were from the world. You don't have time to move away from the hands circling around you, and a yelp escapes your lips when you hit something solid. One earbud falls off in the process.

You fight to move away and swat the person—God, please let it be a person and not an actual fucking ghost—with a shirt. You cry for it to get away, but the arms find your waist again while the person hushes you.

Bradley. It's Bradley. He's holding you tightly, shushing you, and you gulp deep breaths, trying to calm down. Your heart beat fast from what has happened, and because holy shit, Bradley Bradshaw is holding you.

You have to move away—your skin is on fucking fire. So much for ignoring him.

You push him, turning on your phone's torch. "What the fuck, Bradshaw? I almost had a heart attack." You hit him with the shirt you're still holding.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I was here to do my laundry, but the lights went out." He leaves out the part where he watched you dance. "I heard your basket fall, and I wanted to help."

And suddenly, oxygen is no longer making its way to your lungs, and your whole body is tense. Bradley is right here, in front of you, staring at you with his hands on his hips. And he also knows how you really feel about him. He has to go now.

"You, uh, you can go do your thing," you stutter, pushing your hair out of your face, your eyes never finding his. "I'll finish this on my own."

"No." It's nothing but a statement. "I'm not leaving you all alone down here."

Your heart warms, and the corner of your mouth lifts oh-so-slightly.

"Aren't you doing your laundry?"

"Fuck that. I'll do it tomorrow."

"Alright." You get back to picking your clothes out of the bin.

The silence between you lies somewhere between tense and comfortable. You feel at ease with Rooster here, knowing that no harm will come to you before him, but you can't help but feel awkward since he knows about your feelings now. The lights turn back on, and you have to make your blush disappear before he notices.

You ignore how your stomach turns—butterflies and anxiety—and close the washing machine bin's door when you finish. Well, you at least try to. The door won't latch, making you look like an idiot pushing the washing machine for no reason.

"Here, let me help." Oh my fucking God.

Rooster is hovering above you now, his hand replacing yours. He pushes the machine's door hard, and you hear the satisfying click. 

You can feel his breath down your shoulder, but you try not to tense. Your head spins to him involuntarily, and your eyes meet his. Your eyes fall from his eyes to his lips, and he does the same. Oh my God. Does he want to kiss you?

Your question is answered three long seconds later by him crushing his soft lips onto yours. It's like how all those novels and poets describe it. Instant fireworks. Your body tingles, and your heart pounds so hard that you think it'll rip off your chest. His hand encircles your waist, and you tighten your hold around a random shirt.

He's doing this out of pity. And just like that, the dream you've had for God knows how long is shattered by your own thoughts. You have to pull away.

"W-We can't do this, Rooster."

Your eyes meet his as you touch your lips. They're tingling, scratch that, your whole body feels like it's been electrocuted. He looks hurt and confused as he pants a few feet away from you.

"Why?" It sounds so sad.

"B-Because you don't like me, Rooster. I know you hate me, but I don't want something I've dreamed of for so long to get destroyed because of your silly antics." You sound even sadder.

"Is that what you think?"

"It's not a thought, Bradshaw. I know it. I've seen it with my own eyes." Tears have gathered in your eyes. Fuck, those mood swings.

Bradley exhales deeply. "I don't hate you, Swift. Never in my life have I felt what I feel when I'm around you. I feel all hot and tingly when you walk past me. My cheeks burn like a kid when your comments involve my love life, because deep down, I want you to be the protagonist of my fantasies, not some random girl I met at the Hard Deck.

Your jokes and your talent, your wit and your beauty—I love them. Your charm and ability to persuade everyone into doing chores for you are my favourite. I love listening to you talk, sarcastically or not, because you always have something to say.

Do you know how many times I've eavesdropped on you and Phoenix so I could learn more about you? I know about your hatred for Fast and Furious movies, your obvious Taylor Swift adoration, and the one time you got hammered and thought you were talking to her. 

I love knowing all those details about you, and it's not because I can use them against you. They're what make you...well, you! You're nothing like the girls I've met in my life. You're extraordinary, and I..."

He hesitates.

"Is this...Did Natasha put you up to this? I swear I don't want your pity and fake love confessions, Bradley. You don't have to pretend to be in love with me—"

"But I am! I am madly in love with you. The kind of love that is so dangerous and—and so crushing. I want to be with you every second of the day, annoy you, and make you smile. It's all I've ever wanted for years now."

Your eyes are wide and glossy, eyebrows raised in shock and confusion, and so many emotions. 

"I love you, Swift," he confirms.

"Prove it." Your words are merely a whisper.

Despite the hard rain and thundering outside, your voice is the only melody in Bradley's ears. And he doesn't hesitate. He crushes his lips against yours again, this time with hunger, passion, frustration and love. You kiss back with just as much force, but before you know it, you're pulling back, gasping for breath.

Bradley's hands are cupping your cheeks, and his forehead is touching yours. Your breaths mingle as you stare up at him. Your fingers grip his shirt tightly. 

"Is that enough proof for you?" He whispers.

You lightly shrug. "I still haven't forgiven you for almost calling me a slut." That's a lie—you have. You forgave him as soon as your head hit the pillow yesterday. He didn't mean it.

He sighs a long, sad sigh. "Please, let me make it up to you. I was a—a jerk. A complete and utter idiot. I don't deserve your love, but please, I need it. Give me a chance to prove how much I love you." Your heart clenches, and a smile tugs at your lips. 

"You can make it up to me as long as you want, Bradley Bradshaw."

He smiles back, and you think; this is it. This is heaven on earth. Bradley Bradshaw—the man you've longed for so long—smiling at you with nothing but adoration. You're heart feels light and free.

You don't want the moment to end.