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something-tofightfor · 2 years ago

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I really enjoyed this and here’s why:

1. Joel’s grumpy and gruff and practical - but even he would have a breaking point when it comes to someone that he’s been traveling with. We see this with Ellie, and we now see it with Reader in this story. He wouldn’t cause unnecessary suffering just because he didn’t want someone to see a weakness, so aside from him being concerned that she’s not letting HIM get any sleep, he instinctually knows that she’s cold and in pain, and acts.

2. Joel might act impulsively a lot of the time when it comes to protecting people and getting things done, but that won’t always translate over to being impulsive when it comes to his emotions in terms of a relationship. They’ve been traveling together for months, and slowly, over time, have gotten to know each other. Yes, them hooking up happens suddenly in this piece, but it wasn’t sudden in terms of the time that they’ve spent together. They had time to build a basis for this and ensure that it wasn’t going to impact the way that they work together to survive.

3. Joel caring for Ellie the way that he does - and giving her the blanket - is the catalyst for this night, but at the same time it’s not like he did it on purpose because he knew it would lead to this. It’s another example of things just happening as they do in this post-apocalyptic world, and in this case, they work out for the best. This night is something that they both wanted, even if they didn’t want to admit it or give it much thought, and you can tell that it’s going to change the dynamic moving forward - hopefully for the better.

4. I like the idea of Joel caring for this wound of hers in the first place - not only would having him around make the whole experience easier, but I’m sure he’s had much more experience taking care of things like that than she has, even though they’ve both been through a lot. So he removed the bullet and cauterized the wound, and probably kept a pretty close eye on her while it healed, too - and that says a great deal about what he really is as a man. Yes, it was for his and Ellie’s sake - someone sick and loud and in pain could have attracted way too much attention - but I know a part of him was also worried about the health and well-being of this person that he’d gotten to know over the previous couple months.

And now he knows how to make it feel better, even if it’s only a warm washcloth and a little pressure.

5. I also think that the way he speaks here - matter of fact and short sentences, trying to keep all emotion out of it even when what he’s implying is really emotional is on point for him. He’s honest and blunt. He’s quick to respond - and that shows that he respects her and her presence.

6. And the sex is a little rough and rushed, but it works. It works because they’re taking advantage of the time they have and the situation they find themselves in. It’s meaningful in ways that neither of them are ready to talk about, and despite the fact that this is the first time, I don’t think it will be the last. There’s nothing overly romantic about it, either; on the surface level, it’s just sex and relief, but with the history that these two have (even brief) it changes things.

7. Thank you for addressing the fact that an unplanned pregnancy in this situation wouldn’t be glamorous or the right call. Thank you for specifying that they both know that unprotected sex without pulling out is a really bad call - especially for people like them. I hope they’re more careful in the future - but I understand why in this case it was impossible to react in time. I don’t blame them.

8. Ellie’s reaction is spot on. She’s so observant and would 100% have noticed that Joel was looking at this woman more often than not - and she would have picked up on the unspoken things that were going on between them. But I like that she waited to say something until this morning. I like that she kept it to herself until the right moment.

When (if) you continue this, I’m really interested in reading more about how they met and how they got to know each other. I’m curious to know when in the TLOU timeline this takes place, because you said Ellie was 15, but they already would have been back in Jackson at that point ... so is this an AU? Are they not going to Jackson? Is the place you mention that they’re looking to settle in somewhere different?

Thank you for sharing this!

Whatever Helps You Sleep

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: It's a restless night for you and the nomad you've been tied to in search of a new place to call home.

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.8k

Content: unprotected p in v sex, fingering, creampie in a post-apocalyptic world like morons, so much desperation, Joel Miller being a grumpy but standup guy

Everything hurt. All the fucking time.

Every joint throbbed, the balls and socket grinding and scraping, each taut fiber threading beneath your skin begging for any release of the eternal tension that had settled in over two decades ago, the cold you’d still not gotten used to amplifying the ache as you laid on the rickety old mattress on the floor. The springs jutting into your back certainly didn’t help, nor did the sounds in the distance too far away to identify. The knots in your stomach mimicked the ones that had settled into each muscle, your teeth chattering against the chill of the fall night.

“Why you twitchin’ like that?” Joel.

The man you now traveled with had found you holed up alone in a building, your fingers trembling on a rifle that looked too big in your hands and eyes wide enough to display the fear that had consumed your every waking minute clear as day. The loss of your group at the hand of bandits had left you alone and unfit to travel the infected-swarmed lands around you. You’d accepted your fate to starve to death or put a bullet in your own brain should you get a bite. While you hadn’t been the weakest link on your team, you couldn’t go it solo. But Joel and his 15-year-old girl, Ellie had come bursting through in search of supplies and while he’d made you beg for your life with the cold metal of his revolver pressed to your temple, he let you keep it, offering safe passage through to the next habitable town.

That was months ago.

“Sorry,” you mumbled at his complaint, you hadn’t even realized you’d been doing it.

“What hurts?” he asked, that gravelly voice heavy with exhaustion, or maybe exasperation.

“I’m fine.”

“Then stop movin' so damn much.”

Easier said than done. That rhythmic movement was the only thing easing the pain and keeping you even slightly warm, your subconscious searching for relief here in a rare quiet moment. An old bullet wound in your hip always flared up when the temperature got too low, paired with years of unrest and panic, comfort was nothing but a forgotten memory.

“You’re makin’ the floor seem like a better option,” he grunted again, guilt joining the churning turmoil in your gut.

“I’m sorry.”

“You cold?”

Yes. Yes, you were fucking cold. It had to be no more than 40 degrees and all you had was a pair of jeans worn thin as the tissue paper that had gone extinct far too soon and a flannel that barely reached your wrists. You were freezing.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped back, thankful Joel had given Ellie the bedroom to sleep in, she needed the rest away from the bickering.

“I know what you said,” he retorted, “but you ain’t good at lying.”

He had you there. Especially when your dishonesty manifested in a hunt for solace from perpetual agony.

“Is it your hip?” He knew. He’d pulled the bullet out and cauterized it not even two months into your time with them. Your piercing wails as the searing hot metal had seared at your flesh still haunted your nightmares, the smell burned into your nose, and Joel’s apologetic fretting at the time was the most unguarded you’d ever seen him. For a moment he made you think he actually cared.

“Yeah,” you muttered, arguing was fruitless.

“Undo your jeans.” What did he say? “Get some heat and pressure on it.”

In the search for any form of reprieve, you did as he asked. He’d gotten up, you could hear water sloshing and the click of the propane heating plate you’d used to warm your dinner, his heavy boots thudding above your head before his weight dipped the mattress again.

“May I?” His tone was gentle and quiet—wary—and you nodded.

Joel was an attractive man, and not just by today’s standards but by general ones. Tall, broad, and sun-goldened skin, his hair and beard graying faster than they should beneath the weight he carried. Despite his hulking frame and aloof demeanor, there was a grace to him; you hated admitting to yourself that should he ever ask, you’d be more than willing to offer yourself up. You’d done well to repress the urges you first felt walking behind him and watching his wide shoulders sway and his competence around weapons and foraging alike, but every so often they crept back, usually on nights like this where you begged for a sliver of respite.

A warm, wet cloth pressed against the hideous scar marring the side of your hip, a loud sigh whooshing from your lips. It did feel nice. The heat washed down to your numb toes, his large palm holding pressure down that did alleviate enough of the misery that owned you to let you settle, your knees no longer rubbing together in search of comfort.

“You’re freezing,” he noted, and you bit back the retort on your tongue teasing him for pointing out the obvious, “I gave Ellie the blanket, all I got is a coat.”

“It’s fine,” you lied again, the heel of his palm pressing down and drawing a relieved cry from your parted lips as your cheeks heated in embarrassment.

He did it again, massaging out the rigidity holding you hostage, the muscle loosening beneath his weight, trigger points releasing as he pressed them against the bones of your pelvis. When the rag had cooled, you expected him to roll over and try to sleep again, but a large hand swallowed you whole as he continued, now skin on skin, the sensation sending a forbidden surge between your thighs. This time, your teeth sunk into your lower lip in lieu of allowing the traitorous whines from breaking free. He’d gotten closer at some point, you could feel the heat radiating off of his body, your resolve holding strong enough to resist closing the remaining distance between you.

“Why didn’t you leave me with that group a few months back?” you finally asked, the question had been burning in your mind since he’d refused to let you stay with a small civilization you’d found. It had been your original agreement after all.

“Didn’t trust ‘em,” he answered quietly, his fingers continuing to knead into your flesh, “I have enough trouble sleepin’.”

That was as heartfelt as Joel Miller was going to get tonight.

Callouses met scar tissue as you melted into the lumps in the surface molding around you now, his trigger finger finding a new skill as he soothed you to enough comfort to have your eyelids fluttering closed. The cold still nipped at your toes and nose, your body trembling as a result despite the searing hot palm on your skin. But at least the pain had receded enough.

“Scootch on back,” he murmured, tugging on you lightly in what resembled more of an offer than an instruction, but it was one you couldn’t refuse.

Within seconds you were no longer yearning for the scratchy wool blanket Joel kept folded in his pack, his chest firm against your back, knees locked behind yours, and a heavy hand on your lower stomach the only source of warmth you needed. You sought more, closing what little distance remained between you as he shifted to allow you the space to do so, your smaller frame fitting easily in the stretch of his chest.

“Now will you stop fidgetin’?” The husky tone he spoke with was softer than the first, less perturbed, his fingers still brushing through the open waistband of your jeans.

It was mortifying but practically instinctual the way you pressed your backside against him, hoping his fingers would slip lower, breach the fraying waistband of the panties you’d cycled through for too many years. He stiffened slightly as you repeated the motion, desperate as lust took control, you could feel it in the way his bicep flexed on your arm and his palm pressed slightly tighter. The proximity allowed you to vibrate with the repressed groan he kept trapped in his chest, your brain too fogged from the scent of dirt and gunpowder clinging to his skin and the way his beard caught on your hair as he shifted, pressing his growing bulge against you lightly.

“Joel…” It fell pathetically from your lips, whining and dazed as your stomach tensed at his offer to give what you’d so ardently desired.

He clicked his tongue. “Why d’you gotta say it like that?”

“Please.”

Whatever control he’d been gripping like the barrel of his shotgun fell away, his hand leaving your abdomen to sting in the stark temperature change and pinch your chin, turning your face towards his own. You could barely see him in the dark, but the vulnerability swimming in his eyes glowed in the faint moonlight seeping in from the window. Did you take this plunge? There was no going back. Not for you. When you parted ways—and you knew you would—what happened then? Would you get over him? This man that saved your life more times than you could count with your fingers and toes, fed you before himself, and fought the battles you couldn’t. In a world as broken as this, Joel Miller stood alone.

His kiss was timid, testing the limits and giving you enough time to change your mind here and now before it escalated. Always the gentleman. But when you pulled his bottom lip between your own deepening what he’d begun, it took seconds for his tongue to dart into your waiting mouth and unleash a dam of pent-up attraction and need.

The fervor you accepted his affections with only fueled the embering fire, his growl of appreciation echoing in your mouth as your fingers thread into his hair to pull him closer, the grayed locks softer than you expected. You didn’t know what to expect from him, was he generous or selfish? Greedy or giving? The question was answered as his weathered fingers slowly slid down your torso, palming roughly at your breasts as he kissed you still before slipping them beneath the final barrier and cupped at your mound, his middle slowly dragging through your slit.

“Jesus Christ,” he marveled at the slick that had accumulated, your lips brushing through the whiskers on his jaw as you spread your thighs wider to grant him access.

No time was wasted, too much had already and that was being made very clear by the sopping mess between your thighs and the franticness Joel’s belt and jeans were undone to relieve the pressure on the effect you had over him. His middle digit found your clit, circling slowly while he enjoyed the way your back was arching and the subdued whimpers ever so faintly evident in your panting breath. His hair was still knotted in your grasp and you greedily tugged his lips back to yours, sloppily kissing him as you let the heat coursing through you take control, losing your inhibitions and enjoying this long-awaited moment.

Your gluttonous body welcomed him eagerly when he dragged lower and slid inside your waiting channel, his hand clamping over your mouth just in time to muffle the wanton cry that finally broke free. The way he shushed you only made it worse, your body bucking down against his hand impatient for more. Slipping his ring finger in stretched you even further, his pace increasing as you writhed in his hold, your breath hot on his palm as it puffed out in blissful little gusts.

“Warmin’ up?” he cooed gruffly, his tone hinting at cocky as you cried out again, his fingers scratching at the rough patch deep inside of blackening what little your vision could see.

You were teetering on the edge, your body rocking on the precipice before his thumb pressed down on your buzzing bundle of nerves and sent you rappelling down into euphoria. White hot heat banished the last of the cold that lingered, your hairline damp as your shirt clung to the sweat pouring down your back.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he soothed, continuing gentler now as you spasmed in his arms, “That felt good, didn’t it?”

All you could muster was a nod, the hand that was still lightly covering your mouth gripping your chin and directing your mouth to his again, his tongue probing into your parted lips as you collected enough coherence to kiss him lazily in return.

“Your turn,” you breathed, a crooked smirk twitching as he pulled your jeans down to the middle of your thighs, shifting enough to free himself from his loosened garments.

“You tell me if it ain’t right,” he instructed, nuzzling his nose behind your ear as the head of his cock slipped between your folds, pushing into you slowly as he sighed in contentment.

It was right. It was so fucking right you instinctually fucked yourself back, sheathing him completely in one swift movement. He was long and thick, stretching you past where any other had gotten you, your body molding around him as if it had been waiting for him to make it whole. A hand on your hip kept you still had he began to gently rut into you, acclimating to the feeling of being immersed in a woman’s warm, wet heat in an effort to not cut this shorter than it already probably would be. You were impossibly full, it had been a long time since you’d trusted anyone enough for this, your fingers no match for what he could do and the way he made you feel.

“Shit, you feel good,” he purred in that Texan accent that made you swoon, “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you gasped, your fingers returning to his hair to cradle him close.

The pace picked up, his hand on your hip sliding back between your thighs as he thrust harder and faster chasing a high he hadn’t felt in years. You wanted more, wanted to give him more, and as he began to lose control your body began to drift from your side to your stomach, his arms working to brace himself over your prone form as you lifted your hips slightly into the air to feel every punch of his hips on yours. Your ass rippled against his force, his grunts fueling the second wave crashing against your lower abdomen, the pressure building rapidly as he fucked into you like a man starved. The crook of your arm caught your sounds as he sought relief in you, the only thing keeping you in place were his hands as your knees slipped on the bare surface of the mattress you were pressed into.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mewled, slamming you back onto his length as he surged forward, every inch of him buried deep in your cunt until you were strangling him as you came again, him following not long behind.

When he finally stilled you could feel him spurting thick and hot inside of you, your pussy still twitching around him as your shaky legs burned from the exertion. As he pulled out you whined in protest at the loss, your body collapsing down as he reached for a rag and began wiping what was leaking from between your legs.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he griped as another glob dripped free, “Got carried away.”

“Timing should work in our favor,” you eased, your cycle still the only normal thing left in this God-forsaken world and he grunted in acknowledgment, his brow relaxing from its concerned grimace.

“We should get some sleep.”

You nodded, watching him carefully as he settled back down on his back, his head turning to peer at you and finding your wide-eyed anticipation staring back at him. With a chuckle he opened his right arm out welcoming you onto his chest, a gesture you scampered to take before he changed his mind. You tucked yourself into the space between his neck and jaw, your arm draping over his middle as he wrapped you up tight. It didn’t take long to fall asleep.

When you woke the next morning he was already up, repacking up and readying for another day on the road to nowhere.

“We’re headin’ down to settle somewhere,” he sounded from the corner, his gaze remaining locked on his open pack, “figured you could get your fresh start there.”

“With you?” you asked timidly, your voice still heavy with sleep after the best night of rest you’d had in years.

“I don’t see why not.”

Ellie’s arrival into the kitchen you and Joel had slept in cut your conversation short, her always perceptive eyes flicking from you to Joel on the other side of the room.

“Did you two finally seal the deal?” the teenager asked nonchalantly, both your faces falling in horror. You thought you’d been quiet. “What? Don’t worry, my innocent eyes and ears were spared if you did. You’ve just…never smiled at her when she’s actually looking.”

In reality... I'd like to make this a series. I quite like them. So, let me know if you're interested lol.

#joel miller #joel x reader #rachael reads and responds #fic rec #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #whatever helps you sleep #frankiesbadlanding

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dameronscopilot · 2 years ago

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Boiling Point

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x f!reader

Summary: A spur of the moment invitation leads you to underestimate what years worth of sexual tension with Rooster will amount to when placed within the stifling square footage of your humble apartment.

Word Count: 2.2k

Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT

Content: NSFW, smut, oral sex (m!receiving), thigh riding, unprotected p in v, rough sex, praise kink, table sex

Part of you knows that if you gave Rooster an inch, he’d take it. If you softened your hard edges just enough to be pliable beneath his callused hands, ones that you can only imagine would trail across your skin with the same deft precision that he utilizes in the cockpit, he’d take you apart piece-by-piece.

Prompt: The only two people without plans for Christmas might as well spend it together (dedicated to @frankiesbadlanding 💖)

DECK THE HALLS MASTERLIST

“You can’t spend Christmas alone, Bradshaw.”

While you’d certainly meant what you’d said to Rooster days ago as you were trudging across the base—both of you breathing hard and covered in sweat after hours of intensive drills in the air—now that he’s standing here in the middle of your living room with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he observes the collage of artwork spread across your walls, your apartment suddenly feels too goddamn small.

—too small for this.

In the years that you’ve known Bradley, the stifling air that lingers between the two of you has been taut with a simmering tension, spread far too thin to weather much more of the tightrope of uncertainty you’ve both been carefully traipsing across day in and day out. Long before you enrolled in the naval academy, you vowed not to fall into the trap of distractions in the form of tall, handsome pilots with soft eyes and easy smiles—a rule made specifically for men like the one currently trailing his fingertips over the small piano by the window.

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is the definition of a goddamn distraction, through and fucking through.

For all that you’ve done to earn the designation of “Specter,” a call sign born from your uncanny ability to get the drop on your teammates with a near ghostly grace, Rooster is the one person that makes you stumble without fail once your feet are firmly planted back on the ground. Sometimes, you don’t think he’s even aware of it, the way he catches you off guard with his barking laugh, the way your nerves are set alight whenever he lowers his sunglasses and offers you a lopsided grin from across the room. The way your steady hands will tremble from a mere brush of his fingers.

It should bother you, really, how easily he gets under your skin.

How effortlessly he draws you into his orbit.

How he unceasingly invades your thoughts.

It’s a testament to every adamantly stubborn bone in your body that the two of you haven’t fucked it out yet.

He’d work his way into each and every crevice of your being with a white-hot intensity that would rival the manner in which he burns across the skies.

Bradley would ruin you for anyone else.

Later, after you’ve eaten dinner and left the dishes to soak in a sea of suds in the sink, the last frayed edges of your paper-thin charade are helpless when Rooster speaks up from where he’s casually leaning against the doorway, eyes tracking your movements across the room.

“Why’d you invite me to spend Christmas with you, Specter?”

You come to a stop beside the kitchen table, fingers briefly drumming across its wooden surface. Too many answers flirt across the tip of your tongue, so you settle on the easiest. “Because I know neither of us have anyone left to celebrate with.”

Pushing off of the wooden frame, he strides toward you, coming to a stop a few feet away. “Is that all?”

Biting your lip, you roll your eyes as you evade the question with one of your own, “Did you really have to wear a Hawaiian shirt on Christmas?”

He glances down at himself as you gesture toward his pink and green top, which he’s predictably left unbuttoned, aviators snugly tucked into the neck of his white t-shirt. Moving closer, he tilts his head to the side. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I think I did.”

Another step.

“Are you sure?”

Another.

“What do you want, Rooster?”

Your backside presses against the lip of the table as he comes to a stop in front of you.

“I want to know why I’m here.”

It’s a fucking loaded question, one that leaves your blood thrumming in your veins as your mind tries to unravel the implication behind it. The unspoken, shared knowledge that you’ve both traversed this liminal space of willful ignorance for far too long.

This invitation wasn’t just about the holiday, and he fucking knows it.

You tell him just that, your response nearly a whisper. “You know why.”

Though you try to focus on a spot over his shoulder, eyes sweeping over the strings of brightly-colored lights strung about in the room beyond, you can’t help but turn your head to meet the weight of his gaze as he replies evenly, “I want to hear you say it.”

Even with the hot caress of his breath dancing across your cheek, you still dig your heels into the tile floor beneath your feet, dizzy as you sway at the precipice of the edge you've always skirted. “Say what, Bradley?”

You swear you can hear the hitch in his breath as his real name leaves your mouth—a rare occurrence.

He glances up at the ceiling for a moment, biting his cheek and tousling his hair. “Say you’re tired of acting like you don’t want this. Because I sure fucking am.”

Your skin prickles with heat, his words dragging down your spine and reverberating in your ears. Without blinking, you let go—

“I am, too."

Rooster goes entirely still for a moment when you finally relent, eyes widening a fraction in something like surprise, and then his mustache twitches at the behest of the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Good,” he murmurs, before leaning in and capturing your lips in a long overdue kiss.

Your body relaxes into Rooster’s solid form as he slots his mouth against yours, and while one of his hands comes up to cup the back of your head, the other slides down to grasp at your hip, steadying you as your limbs go pliant under his scorching touch.

There’s no uncertainty in the way he holds you, no awkward fumbling of limbs—rather, there’s a deliberate familiarity in the press of each finger against your skin, a whispered reminder of the trust you already share. In the air, there’s a peculiar harmony to be found in the way the two of you fly side-by-side, rhythmically anticipating one another’s moves through the clouds. And here, now, with your feet planted firmly on solid ground, you’ve finally come to realize that this will be no different.

You tilt your head, and his nose nudges your cheek while his tongue flirts with the seam of your mouth, beckoning you to part your lips for him. When you do, Rooster deepens the kiss, pressing his body firmly against yours and splaying a hand across your lower back. You melt into his body heat, a keening sound escaping your heaving chest at the thrill that runs through you when you press into the muscled thigh he’s planted between your legs.

Rooster’s fingers slide lower, grazing your ass, and he breaks the kiss, muttering against your lips, “You like that?”

He adjusts his leg, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the apex of your thighs, and you can’t help but nod, letting your head fall against his shoulder as he uses his grip on your backside to increase the pressure.

“You look so pretty like this,” he observes, kissing your cheek softly as you arch your back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Keep going.”

And so you do. Pulling him in for a needy kiss, hands tightly grasping the hairs at the back of his head, your teeth clash as you drag your clothed cunt down his leg.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the thumb that’s fluttering across your jawline swipes across your bottom lip.

There’s something innately shameless about riding Rooster’s thigh in the middle of your kitchen, like you always knew it’d come down to this somehow. There’s no time to waste being shy at the feeling of the sticky pool of arousal gathered in your underwear, and when you reach down to hike your dress up, Rooster’s hands swiftly slide up your thighs and bunch up the skirt, his thumbs digging into your hip bones.

“Bradley…” you whine as you chase the sparks of pleasure with each thrust—it’s not enough, and he knows it.

He groans into your mouth as you say his name again, taking your bottom lip between his teeth when your hand trails over the erection straining against the front of his pants. You make quick work of the button and zipper, slipping a hand inside, and he rolls his hips into your touch when you wrap your fingers around his hard, throbbing cock. His lips messily slide off of yours and run across your cheek as you pull his shaft out and begin to stroke it. In turn, one of his hands leaves your hips, tugging aside your soaked underwear to swipe two digits through your slick folds.

“Fuck,” he breathes out when he realizes just how wet you are, the tight walls of your cunt easily giving way when he begins to slide his middle finger into your entrance. He quickly inserts another as his mouth finds its way to your neck, nipping and lapping at the sensitive skin there while he begins to pump his fingers in and out of you.

At the feeling of you eagerly rocking your hips into his hand while tugging at his dick, Rooster chuckles, grazing his teeth over your earlobe. “You want more, Specter?”

“Please.”

“Right here?”

“Yeah, on the table.”

“Tell me how you like it,” he croons, crooking his fingers inside of you as he runs his tongue along the underside of your jaw.

You pluck his sunglasses from where they’re still dangling precariously from the neck of his shirt, dropping them onto the table. “You don’t need to be gentle.”

No sooner than the words have left your lips, he spins you around, and you find yourself bent over the tabletop, your cheek pressed against the cool wooden surface as Rooster’s hands trail over the globes of your ass.

He folds his body over yours for a moment, his cock nestled between your cheeks as his mouth hovers near your face. “I should have known you’d like it rough.”

When stands back up, he nudges your legs further apart and teases your dripping folds with the head of his cock, wiping your arousal along his shaft. He notches himself at your entrance for a moment, and just as you go to take a breath, he plunges inside of you without warning. Both of you moan in unison at the feeling of your walls stretching to accommodate him as he buries himself inside of you, your cunt both weeping and tingling at the thick intrusion splitting you open.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans as he pulls his cock almost completely out of you, only to slam it back inside, his balls smacking against your ass.

A choked out sob of pleasure leaves your mouth in response as your muscles tighten at the feeling of Rooster’s shaft massaging your inner walls while he begins to set a punishing rhythm pounding into you.

“Harder,” you pant out.

The feet of the table grunt in protest, skidding a few inches backward as he drives his length into your pussy with fervor, recklessly rutting into you at a brutal pace. Your fingers are in the midst of reaching out to grasp for purchase along the smooth surface of the tabletop when you feel both of your arms being tugged behind your back. Rooster wraps a hand over your wrists, pinning your hands against your lower back as he ravages your hole.

Sounds of wet, smacking flesh fill the room, and you squirm in his grip as the growing ache between your thighs begins to spread. Noticing the way your legs have begun to tremble, he leans in, using his free hand to toy with your swollen clit. At the feeling of Rooster’s fingers rubbing circles into your sensitive bundle of nerves, the tight coil of pleasure writhing in your gut explodes, your cunt clenching down on his shaft as your orgasm washes over you.

As you relax slightly, Rooster releases your hands, grasping his cock as he slips it out of your hole. You push off of the table, turning around to find him fisting his length, and you drop to your knees, taking him into your mouth.

You hollow your cheeks as you take him deep into your throat, his length coated in your juices. Rooster’s hand comes up to cup the back of your head, and he groans as you suck his cock, one of your hands planted at the base as the other cups his balls. His imminent climax finds him between one breath and the next, his shaft pulsing on your tongue as you swallow down the hot, thick ropes of cum he spills down your throat.

Breathing hard, you pull your lips off of Rooster's spent cock and plop backward onto the floor, stealing a glance up at him to see that he's already on his way down to meet you on the tiles. And even with the lingering traces of his release still lingering on your swollen, spit-soaked lips, he takes your face into his hands and kisses you hard.

A burning smell begins to fill the kitchen, and you belatedly realize you forgot to set a timer on the oven after tossing in the pie that he'd brought over.

"Shit, the pie—"

Rooster makes a sound of protest as you pull your mouth away from his when you turn to look at the stove.

"Fuck the pie," he mutters, turning your chin back to face him and capturing your lips with his once more.

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!

» BRADLEY BRADSHAW MASTERLIST

#deck the halls with dameronscopilot #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #top gun fanfiction #bradley bradshaw smut #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #dee writes

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psychedelic-ink · 2 years ago

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It's truly been a fantastic year of content 💜 I absolutely cannoy wait to read more, happy holidays everyone! 🎄💖

please show your support by commenting and/or reblogging!

categories include: pedro pascal characters (all of them), misc. (tangerine, ransom drysdale)

as always don't forget to check the warnings before reading!

click here for last months fic recommendations

PEDRO PASCAL CHARACTERS

Meant to Be by @radiowallet (oberyn martell | series)

Withering Blooms by @frankiesbadlanding (joel miller | series)

Stranger At My Gate by @leslie-lyman (series | pero tovar)

Breakfast by @toomanystoriessolittletime (dieter bravo)

uncharted territory by @pedrito-friskito (din djarin)

My Bluebell Song by @prolix-yuy (jack daniels)

How I met the King of Mandalore (without knowing it) by @toomanystoriessolittletime (din djarin)

Beaming Beskar by @deakyjoe (din djarin)

Let it Snow by @ezrasbirdie & @lowlights (frankie morales | series)

On the Right Flight by @prolix-yuy (javi g)

A merry little solstice by @pedrito-friskito (pero tovar)

Party Favor by @inklore (javier p)

Sweeter by @the-ginger-hedge-witch (jack daniels)

Roasted Almonds by @toomanystoriessolittletime (marcus pike)

Stay Close by @/ezrasbirdie (pero trovar)

Christmas Affair by @absurdthirst (dave york)

Christmas For Hire by @/absurdthirst (dieter bravo)

Complications by @fuckyeahdindjarin (dieter bravo)

A Palomino Christmas by @/fuckyeahdindjarin (jack daniels)

Near Miss by @pedrito-friskito (frankie morales)

Plus One by @prolix-yuy (frankie morales)

Santa Fe by @goodwithcheese (frankie morales | series)

The Fall Out; The Invitation by @pedropascalsx (frankie morales | series)

MISC.

Untitled by @spidervee (tangerine)

Firecracker by @pedrito-friskito (ransom drysdale)

Discretion by @inklore (ransom drysdale)

roadside attraction. by @inklore (ransom drysdale)

#.sil's monthly fic recs #.sil’s monthly fic recs #december fic recs #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #frankie morales x reader

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joels6string · 2 years ago

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The prose!!!! Fhdhshdhbcshka it’s stunning. My god.

Love me some good boy Benny always. Can’t wait for the next one! 💜💜

Doors I Painted Shut: a Cold Is The Night preface.

I don't like me.

Pairing: Benny Miller x (named) F!Reader Summary: You try to ignore the undeniable truth as best you can, but it’s undeniable for a reason. You’re in love with Benny Miller, but you think he deserves much more than you can offer. Wordcount: 2.3K Contains/Warning: This story deals with a reader that struggles with deeply with herself. It is raw, self depricating, and deals with heavy and dark thoughts. If you're struggling yourself, reach out. Ask for help. You are not alone. You are not a burden. Part one of Cold Is The Night.

North Carolina. Present day.

A big, shuddery breath rattles through your chest as you stare out onto the packed parking lot of the bar.

You suppose it’s unsurprising that it’s this busy: the holiday season has a tendency to highlight just how lonely life can be, especially this close to a major military base. A bar really does present itself as the ideal place to bury yourself in a plethora of options; booze, greasy bar food, or a willing participant that is down for a quick fuck in a bathroom stall. All valid options, for those looking to ignore their actual life and the big, gaping black hole that is swallowing it whole.

You fit into that category.

The constant anxiety you experience almost feels itchy, crawling beneath your skin with no real way out. It paralyses you: it’s fiery hot, licking at your heels, but also spreading like ice, bolting you in place. Stuck in limbo, unable to move forwards, leaving you to be devoured by your own demons. It makes you want to scream so loud you’ll go hoarse, until it’s taken up so much energy you no longer have any space left to feel anything but exhaustion.

Sitting in a parking lot, however, doesn’t do anything, so you pull the key from the ignition and reach for your phone, turning it over to see that you received a text from Benny.

Benny Miller, one of the very few constants in your life.

You jokingly referred to him as glitter when a good friend asked about him: everywhere, impossible to get rid of, somehow makes you smile even if it is a little annoying sometimes.

Even if your entire world is falling apart, there’s Benny. Not always physical, but you just know he’s there. Looking out for you in whatever way he can.

Almost any way, at least.

You try to ignore the undeniable truth as best you can, but it’s undeniable for a reason.

You’re in love with Benny Miller. Desperately, deeply in love with him, but you know it’s not something you can ask of him to give back in return.

That doesn’t stop the ache in your chest every time he smiles at you, when he calls you at 2 AM, just to tell you go to bed, Peach before hanging up, somehow just knowing that you’re awake, worrying.

He deserves better than what you can offer.

He deserves someone that isn’t a complete and utter mess.

That knowledge does nothing to stop the ache that intertwines itself with the anxiety in your chest, eating away at you like an infection, tearing through the flesh and leaving you with nothing but bones rattling against each other.

You want to reach out, to say I’m not doing okay, but at the same time, your conviction chants in the back of your head like a work song.

He deserves more. He doesn’t need your mess.

So you keep going, keeping the worry and doubt close to your chest, hoping that no one notices you’re nothing but bones kept up by sheer stubbornness at this point. It’s exhausting, but you manage. Barely. But it’s enough.

In your hand, your phone buzzes again, a new text notification popping up. The first one reads Five minutes until I’m ordering you one of those shots that’s just bar juices poured into a glass. The second, the one that came in just now reads Too late. It’s grey and smells like gasoline. Should be tasty!

You huff out a small laugh, lips curling up at the corners. You reach for your bag before opening the car door, the gravel crunching under your feet as they hit the ground.

It’s colder than you anticipated, a breeze biting into your skin as you pick up your pace, running to the door that someone opens as you’re reaching for it. A guy a few years younger than yourself smiles at you, beckoning for you to enter. You nod your head as a silent thanks, slipping past him, eyes racking over the crowd inside the bar, looking for either Will or Benny.

Normally, there was a chance Frankie and/or Santiago would be accompanying them, but with both of them away on trips with their respective girlfriends, it’s just you, Will and Benny left in town for the holidays, leaving you with fewer recognisable options to find, especially as the two brothers had the habit of dressing alike.

It’s then you spot a familiar brown flannel sat at the bar, head hung low, shoulders shaking in inaudible laughter.

Will.

Across him, you spot Benny in the process of lifting his drink to his lips when he pauses, face splitting into a wide grin as he catches your eye. He gives a small wave, causing Will to turn around and look at you.

Worming your way through a sea of bodies occupying what seems to be every available square inch of space, you make your way to the bar, hand coming up against Will’s back.

“Hey Peach,” the older Miller says, smiling softly as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, pressing you into his side in leu of a hug. “Good to see you.”

“Hey,” you smile, leaning into his touch. “Sorry I’m late.” I didn’t want to leave the house. “I had to run errands.” I sat on the couch paralysed as the sun went down. “Took a little longer than expected.” It took me three hours before I could get up.

“No worries,” Will replies easily, keeping his arm snuggly around your shoulders. “Glad you made it down.”

You keep the smile on your face, praying to God that it masks well enough, that it balances out the dark circles you can’t hide, no matter how much makeup you put on.

Benny reaches out, hand warm on your upper arm, squeezing just below where Will’s hand rests before he wipes it on his leg, shifting in his seat.

“So,” you say, looking at Benny as he reaches for his glass. “Where’s that shot at, Miller?”

He snorts into his glass, choking mid-sip in the process. Will takes the glass from his hand, a warm laugh rumbling through his chest as his brother coughs loudly. You bite your lip to stop from laughing yourself, watching as Benny rakes a hand through his hair, chest heaving a little as he catches his breath.

“Funny,” he coughs lightly.

“It is,” you grin. “Big ‘ole army man, able survive in hostile situations, felled by a local beer. But really, everything but the sink? What’s next? Am I going to find a bottle of Smirnoff Ice you’ve hidden in the depths of my pantry?”

He scowls at you, no real hostility in the expression. Instead, he reaches to his side, a mason jar you hadn’t noticed before parked next to his beer. “Got you their iced tea, smartass.”

Your hearts swells a little in your chest as the glass slides across the wood, leaving behind a trail of condensation. Though the bar is mostly known for their wide selection of local and artisanal beers, it’s the home made iced tea that has your heart.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your throat feeling as if its being squeezed shut at the small gesture. You scrape it lightly, hands wrapping around the glass as Will hands it over to you, his arm sliding down, now resting around your waist.

“Haven’t see you around in a while,” he remarks, sipping from his scotch. “How’s life?”

You huff out a small laugh, feet shuffling on the wooden floorboards. A question that’s meant well, that comes from a place of genuine interest, but one that gets harder and harder to genuinely answer lately.

A voice in the back of your head telling you that you’re being a baby, that it really isn’t as bad as it feels, that you’re fine and should just tell people so. That you’re faking everything for attention, even though you know damn well a mask slips into place as soon as you leave the house, shutting the door on your reality so no one actually sees the mess hiding inside.

You take a deep breath, hiding the shaky rattle in your chest, the tremble of your hands as you take a sip of your drink before answering.

“The usual,” you shrug. “Nothing exciting.”

“You’re a shit liar,” Benny remarks, words heavy in the air as his eyes are locked on your face. “Don’t give us that shit, Peach, c’mon.”

“Ben,” Will warns lowly, fingers digging into your side as he does. “Don’t.”

“No, I think I will. Look at her, Will,” he gestures at you, eyebrows knitted into a heavy frown. “She’s been bullshitting being fine for fucking weeks, man. I’m done letting her. She’s not fine. You’re not doing fine,” he says, the last word as sharp as a razorblade.

It’s like you’re bolted into place, cemented into the floor as Benny’s blue eyes are on you, gaze unyielding, biting into the conversation with no intention of letting it go.

You don’t reply, instead focussing on the glass in your hands, the ice cubes softly clinking against the sides as you swirl the liquid around.

“Peach.”

The nickname comes out tightly. A request. To look up, to acknowledge that he’s right.

To let him in.

Reality is seeping through the cracks of the door you painted shut in an attempt to have it blend in with the walls you’ve put up, and Benjamin Miller is banging down the door with zero mercy.

You can’t let him in. You can’t let him see the mess that is your life. You should’ve stayed home.

Will’s hand is still on your waist, warm even through the fabric of your sweater, as you down your drink in one go, placing the glass back on the bar before squeezing his thigh just above his knee, hiding the scowl as result of the immediate brain freeze that follows.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you tell them honestly, not making eye contact with Benny, whose jaw you can see tighten even without looking directly at his face. “I… Yeah. No. Happy Christmas, guys.”

You don’t wait for a reply, instead placing ten dollars on the bar and turning around, squeezing past bodies as you make your way through the crowd as quick as possible, earning dirty looks at you carelessly push past them, ones that quickly soften when they catch the look on your face.

Once outside, the cold winter air bites into your face, your breath tight and stuck somewhere high in your chest. You open and close your fists, tipping your head towards the sky and rolling your shoulders in an attempt to get the feeling to leave, to force back the inevitable hour long cry lurking a mere blink away until you’ve made it home.

“Peach!”

Behind you, the door of the bar slams open, the light next to it rattling in protest, gravel crunching as footsteps approach you.

“I’m fine, Ben,” you say, opening your eyes, head still turned skyward. “Go back inside.”

You hear keys clanging as he flips them back and forth between his fingers, something he’s done ever since you first got to know him, the footsteps coming to pause next to you.

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t reach out, doesn’t touch you, instead letting the words float in the air between you.

“You’re not okay, and that’s fine, Peach. It happens. But don’t shut me out.”

A heartless chuckle rumbles through your chest, a voice yelling he’s doesn’t want to know, he’s lying. It’s just common curtesy to ask.

“Please.”

The word is soft, yet heavy and loaded in the air.

“I know you always joke about it, that I punch my feeling instead of talking about them,” he continues, holding up his hand as you turn your head towards him, opening your mouth to protest his words. “And you’re right. Maybe I do. I think it’s cathartic. Beat them to pulp before they have the chance to get to me.”

You allow your gaze to fall onto his face, meeting an expression you can’t quite place.

“Maybe you can’t let me in,” he says. “And I understand that. But…” he pauses, hesitating as he searches for the right words. “But I’d like for you to let it exist. Stop hiding it.”

“I don’t think I can,” you quietly admit, giving him a small smile.

“So we’ll try.” He shrugs with a half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It’ll end me, Ben,” you whisper, the words heavy and filled with guilt, weighing down on you as you voice something that’s been lurking in the shadows, a truth that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“It won’t,” he promises. “I promise you, it won’t. But I need you to trust me when I say I think it’s worth trying it my way.”

A silence falls between you, peaceful and quiet, until it’s suddenly cut up when the chorus of Do They Know It’s Christmas booms through the quiet night sky as the entire bar seems to burst into song, causing you to laugh at the contrast.

Next to you, Benny chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you.

“Okay,” you eventually say as the singing behind you quiets back down. “Your way.”

“Yeah?”

His face breaks into a devastating smile, one that turns your knees to jelly every time it graces his face.

“Yeah,” you breathe, praying to god you don’t come to regret the decision. “Yeah. I’m willing to try it your way.”

#frankiesbadlanding reads #benny miller

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