#roosterdrabble

[seasonsbloom]

BESTIE I’m so so fucking proud of you and so excited congrats on 500!! You’re a gem of a human and one of the most intentional writers I know and I’m so excited for this incredible celebration!! I love u ❤️

Might I request… walking in on maverick wait jk I reread your terms and conditions bestie why are u scared of a 5’6 man rooster?? 🥸👉👈

♡ pairing ; rooster x female!reader ( x hangman )

♡ wc ; 500

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language; explicit content (semi-public sex, p in v, allusions to a threesome idk y'all)

♡ note ; sol i love you even if you threaten tom cruise requests, honorary hangman involvement in this fic because you deserve it, cheers n bye.

Looking back at it now, with the 20/20 vision of retrospective, fucking in the storage closet may have been a bad idea. It’s just that, sometimes (and you’ll go to your grave before ever admitting this out loud, Hangman would never let you hear the end of it), when Bradley takes a gulp of his water, when droplets run down his neck and glisten in his mustache, when he grins at you across the tarmac or rolls up the sleeves of his overalls so the veins in his lower arms are visible and bulging, your brain clicks off.

That’s what happened earlier, he winked at you in the locker rooms, and you just lost all traces of common sense—logical thinking out the window. Intelligence left somewhere up in the clouds.

Your instincts took over, and that’s just about the only excuse you have for why you dragged him in here, why your tongue was in his mouth and your hands down his pants before he could even get halfway through his stunned what the hell, why he’s balls-deep in you, your leg wrapped around his hip, your arms in a vice around his neck, his hand on your mouth to muffle your high-pitched whining, his teeth in your shoulder to stifle his own moans.

Why the door opens, the light spills across the mops and the turned-over buckets and the spare toilet paper, further, further, all the way back to where you and Bradley are tangled. Why you can’t do anything but gape at Hangman, mortified, terrified, so turned on your brain goes fuzzy at the edges.

Bradley pauses, fingers tightening around your thigh, hot breath washing over the damp imprint of his mouth on your neck. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Hangman lets his eyes wander over the scene, face unreadable. The only indication that he’s feeling anything is the slightest kick of his foot, the raised eyebrow. “Jeez, Rooster,” he says, his eyes finding yours and his gaze holding, penetrating, stripping, so intent you squirm, slide lower on Bradley’s cock, and almost sob. “I didn’t know you had it in you. Old geezer and all that.”

Bradley huffs, but his hips pick up their firm, steady rhythm again, and you can’t help it. You yelp, you moan, you reel, mind racing as it tries to catch up with what the fuck is happening right now.

“Hangman,” Bradley says, and then he’s hoisting you higher up on his hips, fucking you faster, and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your legs tighten, your toes curl, your heart stutters. “Either get the fuck out or join in. This isn’t a free show.”

Hangman hesitates for a split second, his eyes still on you, and then he nods, steps into the closet, and lets the door click shut behind him. You swear you’re about to die.

Okay, so you were wrong. Fucking in the storage closet might have been the best idea ever.

[seasonsbloom]

romeo! w/ “so…wanna have sex?” and “don’t tempt me” bc TENSION w/ rooster???

♡ pairing ; rooster x reader

♡ wc ; 700

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language; non-explicit sexual content, one mention of spanking

♡ note ; anon I'm sorry, this is a mess.... also I got a little carried away it's pointlessly long now.

The tricky thing about time is that it has this habit of speeding up when you want it to last and slowing down when you want it to fly. Right now, minutes seem to elongate into days. Seconds stick to each other like somebody poured glue into the spaces between them. 

Point is: On this Tuesday, sitting in a room with a view of the tarmac, waiting for your turn to go up, time stretches like gum.

You throw another glance at the clock, see that it hasn’t even been five minutes since your last look, listen to the crackle on the radio, and sigh. Loud and long-suffering.

“Don’t,” Bradley grits out from his place on the couch, his back firmly to you and his arms crossed in front of his chest like he needs to shield himself.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, but you wanted to,” he mutters.

You grin at the back of his head and pop a grape into your mouth. The skin splits beneath your teeth, and the pulp explodes into your mouth, juicy and sweet. You make sure to chew especially loud, which earns you a glance over his shoulder. Complete with eyebrows furrowed and mouth pinched in annoyance. Your stomach gives an answering swoop, drops down, and soars back up within seconds.

“Don’t say anything,” Bradley says, but he’s not looking away, and a muscle in his chin ticks in a way that tells you either of two things could happen now. One: you get him back where you want him, back where you had him once and haven’t stopped thinking about since. Two: he commits actual homicide.

“I wasn’t going to,” you lie, roll another grape across your palm, pinch it carefully between your forefingers, and don’t break eye contact.

“Yeah,” Bradley repeats, but this time his voice dips just a little, “but you wanted to.”

You can’t keep the grin from spreading over your face, but you’re also not trying very hard to. “So…” you say, listening to the clock ticking away the seconds, so slow it’s torture. “Wanna have sex?”

Bradley looks away immediately, his head whipping toward the window so fast you think you can hear his neck cracking.

“I told you,” he says, words careful, pushed out from between clenched teeth, “that was a one-time thing.”

You sigh again, brace your elbows on the tabletop, and plop your chin on your folded hands. “Don’t be boring.”

Bradley huffs. “I’m not boring,” he says, and you have to bite back the chuckle. He sounds like a six-year-old. “Sorry, I don’t want to fuck somebody I don’t even like.”

“Oh.” You put a hand to your chest in mock affront. “You wound me.”

Bradley lifts a hand to wave your comment away. “You don’t like me much either.”

He’s not wrong there. Something about Bradley Bradshaw has been setting you off since the Naval Academy. You don’t like his insistence on looking like a seedy pimp from the seventies who somehow found himself in possession of a time machine. You don’t like his whole goody-two-shoes thing. You don’t like his conviction that he somehow has the moral high ground, not just on you but on everybody else too.

“Right,” you agree easily, “I do like your cock, though.”

Bradley splutters, twists around to fix you with an incredulous look. You shrug, smile at him, and open your mouth for another grape.

“You’re unbelievable,” Bradley says, and it sounds like he actually means it. “Like… you have got to be the most shameless girl I’ve ever met.”

You hum, satisfaction curling about you like a cat slinking around your ankles. “You got a problem with that, baby? Wanna spank me for being a brat?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Bradley mutters, eyes narrowing, gearing up to add something, but then the door opens, Hangman and Coyote filtering into the room, telling you you’re wanted down on the tarmac.

For a split second, disappointment flashes through you, but then Bradley is brushing past, glaring at you with a heat in his eyes that burns so bright, burns so hot, burns so deep, you know this won’t be the end of it.

You hop off your chair, grin, bend low to retrieve one last grape, and slink from the room like a victor. Knowing perfectly well you got exactly what you wanted.

Bradley always delivers in the end.

[seasonsbloom]

congrats on 500! very much deserved ☺️ i want to get my ask in early for…..fake dating with bradley. i feel like he’d oddly get really into it, man is a showman thru and thru

♡ pairing ; rooster x female!reader

♡ wc ; 1.2k

♡ warnings ; a creepy dude tries to hit on you?, mentions of alcohol consumption

♡ note ; thank you so so so much for requesting jordan :(( you're so right!!! if this was longer, i definitely would have gotten into rooster pulling out all the stops. that man would buy couple looks for him and his fake girlfriend, change my mind.

The guy is there again.

You spot him across the bar the moment he comes in, so attuned to it by now that it’s all you do. Like there’s some kind of radar newly installed inside of you. You look for him around corners and in supermarkets and especially at night when you do the five-minute trek from your job to your apartment in the dark of the night, only intercepted by flickering streetlights. 

It was fun in the beginning when you met him at the bar: A bit of harmless flirting, a few winks, a number scribbled on a napkin. But then you didn’t call him, too busy and too shy and honestly not interested enough, and suddenly it wasn’t all that fun anymore.

Suddenly, it got scary. Every time you arrive for drinks with your friends, he lingers somewhere at your periphery. By the toilets, by the jukebox, by the pinball machine. Always keeping an eye on you. Always glowering, always nursing a drink, only disappearing outside for periodic breaks and then coming back reeking of cigarettes.

It’s not like he ever does anything, and so you’re too embarrassed to tell your friends about it, to ask them to change locations for your Friday post-work drinks, when the Hard Deck has been a firmly cemented part of the routine for years. What if they laugh at you? What if they think you’re overreacting? What if they tell you not to act like the whole world revolves around you, not to be so full of yourself that you think any guy that looks at you in crowded bars might be a stalker?

So nothing really bad has happened - but the fear is there. Lodged firmly in your chest, sinking its ugly, icy claws into you at every turn. The fear that something could happen, something really, awfully, truly bad. You don’t want to end up on Dateline.

And tonight, you’re alone. One of your friends just canceled, citing a cold, and the other two are stuck in San Diego’s rush-hour traffic. So you’re alone at your usual table in the corner, in a new dress that suddenly seems too short, fidgeting with the glass of gin and tonic in front of you, drawing shapes into the condensation that do nothing to calm the racing of your heart.

You glance at the guy again, just to gauge how far he is from you. But when you spot him leaning against the wall, he’s already looking at you. Your eyes meet, and ice-cold, instantaneous panic trickles into you.

Oh god, you think as he pushes off the wall, as he grins at you, oh god, no. That wasn’t intentional. Oh god.

He pushes his way through the crowd, and you look around, frantic, both hands gripping the table’s edge, heart in your throat, eyes burning, and then… You spot a flicker of something colorful.

“Rooster!”

You rise half out of your chair, waving frantically.

Rooster turns around, genuine confusion on his face. You remember him vaguely from a drunk night a month or two ago when your friend’s friend Phoenix introduced her fellow Naval aviators to you. He’d been nice enough, a little absent-minded, drinking beer and bobbing his head along to Springsteen tunes. Wearing the same fading Hawaiian shirt.

Mostly, you remember his face from a rather embarrassing, rather steamy dream you had about a day or two later. What can you say? The mustache might look like it’s jumped right out of a 70s porno, but it sorta works for you.

Which makes you seriously worry about your taste in men, but that’s beside the point.

He raises an eyebrow but comes over anyway. Smiles at you. Says, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you answer. “You remember me?”

Rooster nods. “Phoenix’s friend, right?”

And then he even repeats your name, and it shouldn’t matter, but it sort of makes your heart stutter. You wish you could indulge in the giddy feeling, in the oh my god, he remembers me of it all, but over his shoulder, the man is still approaching, something unreadable, something dark, something frightening on his face.

You don’t know what you look like, but Rooster’s brows furrow as he looks at you.

“You alright?”

“I…” You pause, wonder if maybe you’ve read too many romance books, wonder if you’ve watched too many Hallmark movies, but then you think fuck it, who cares, whatever. “The guy behind you… he’s been bothering me for some time now.”

Something like anger crosses Rooster’s face. His mustache trembles a little bit. 

“Did he hurt you? I can…”

“No, nothing like that, just….” You shrug, suddenly helpless. “Can you… I know this sounds insane, but will you just pretend to be my boyfriend? Please? Only for like five minutes….”

Your voice starts trailing off towards the end of the sentence. Nerves set in, tingle up your spine, turn your insides liquid. God, this must be the worst idea of all time. You don’t even know Rooster, can’t explain why you’re asking him this.

Just… There's something about him that makes you feel strangely, inexplicably safe. You want him to stay with you a little longer.

Rooster’s throat moves as he swallows, looking down at you with something searching in those brown eyes. That gaze almost makes you squirm on the spot.

And then suddenly, Rooster’s arm is sliding around your waist, his nose is buried in your hair, and he’s whispering, “Sorry for not asking first, I’ll stop touching you in a second.”

In your chest, your heart flutters like a robin. You don’t even want him to stop touching you.

He withdraws, turning both of you to face the guy. He’s stopped just a step or two from your table, brows furrowed over dark, glinting eyes, an expression on his face as if he’s just bitten into a lemon. Your first instinct is to shrink back, to hide behind Rooster, but he gives your waist a reassuring squeeze. 

Suddenly, it’s not so difficult. Suddenly, you don’t feel so afraid. Not with Rooster there.

“You got a problem, pal?” Rooster asks, and you can feel the echoes of his voice rumbling in his chest.

The man’s eyes flicker towards you just for a second, then he looks back at Rooster. Seems to gauge his chances. Deem them relatively low.

He shrugs, jerks his head, disappears into the crowd.

You let out a shuddering breath, letting go of all that fear that’s been building for weeks, that’s been weighing you down more than you’d like to admit.

“Thank you,” you whisper, stepping away from him, leaving the circle of his arms reluctantly. “That… I’m sorry. But thank you. You helped me so much.”

Rooster throws another glance in the direction the man disappeared in, something vigilant in his eyes. Then he looks down at you, and the steel in his gaze dissolves. Eyes, once again, like molten chocolate.

“No worries,” he says, smiling softly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

You nod dumbly, watch his retreating back as you slowly sink down into your chair again.

And then Rooster stops, halfway to the counter, turns around, says your name.

Once he’s sure he has your attention, he smiles, almost bashfully.

He delivers the killing blow, the thing you’re sure you’ll think about for years to come, that will crawl beneath your skin, into your bloodstream, and settle there, live there, grow there.

“I’ll be your boyfriend anytime. Real or fake.”

[seasonsbloom]

congrats on 500!! you definitely deserve it :)

would you possibly be able to do “who did this to you?” with rooster :D?

no worries if not and congrats again!!

♡ pairing ; rooster x reader

♡ wc ; 300

♡ warnings ; none!!

♡ note ; this might be completely different than what you expect asdffghdssa

You freeze halfway through the door, the overstuffed grocery bags balancing precariously in your arms.

“What the fuck?”

You’re almost completely sure Bradley’s blushing underneath the paint that’s covering him from hairline to collarbones. Some of the orange has gotten on the neck of his shirt too.

“Hi, baby,” he says, plucking the bags from your arms and lugging them to the kitchen like they don’t weigh at least ten pounds a piece. Which might be a slight exaggeration but like. Point is they’re heavy.

“Who did this to you?”

From the living room, the distinct sound of one cartoon character bashing another over the head with some object is followed by a child’s laughter, which sort of explains the whole thing.

“Payback had an emergency,” Bradley is saying. You’ve trailed after him into the kitchen where he’s currently stowing yogurt cups away in the fridge. His voice sounds a little bashful. “I volunteered to babysit.”

Payback’s daughter Rosie is five now, and she’s lovely. Unfortunately, none of the boys can ever deny her anything, which means they’re just spoiling her rotten and she’ll probably grow up to be a real heartbreaker. Not that you’re complaining, though. A girl deserves a little bit of pampering every once in a while.

“And you guys did what? Turn you into the Annoying Orange?”

“I don’t think kids these days know the Annoying Orange,” Bradley mumbles. Then he adds, a little put-out, “Plus, I'm a tiger.”

That makes you laugh, roll your eyes, press a quick kiss to his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous, Bradley.”

But later, when Rosie falls asleep with her head on Bradley’s thigh and her tiny, sticky hand in yours, when Bradley smiles at you across the couch, the TV painting neon shadows onto his familiar face, you think your chest is going to cave in with all the love and all the longing.

He doesn’t need to say it. You can read it in his eyes.

I can’t wait until we have one of our own.

[seasonsbloom]

I’m not sure if you’re still taking requests but I was hoping for unrequited…for rooster 🐔 🥸 also a big congratulations on reaching 500 🥳 I’m sure you won’t be far behind another 500 soon

♡ pairing ; rooster x female!reader

♡ wc ; 380

♡ warnings ; none

♡ note ; thank you so so so much for requesting!!! I'm sorry that this took me literally like... a month or so to write idk anon :((

Bradley has this problem with timing. He knows it. It’s what Hangman kept riling him up about: being too slow, too careful, too calculating. It’s what Mav told him, too. Don’t think, just do.

And Bradley knows it. He knows that he’s too slow up in the cockpit, too slow on missions and in control rooms, he’s perfectly aware of it. 

He just never thought that this timing issue would apply to you, too.

“You’re… aren’t you happy for me?” you ask, your eyes wide and round and a little glassy as you blink at him across the table at this tiny seafood shack he took you to. Across the greasy fries and the lobster rolls. Across the little flickering candles and the ketchup bottle. Across the pieces of his shattered, smashed, beat-up heart.

“Oh,” he says. Bradley’s brain is slow too, now, slow to comprehend what you’d just said, slow to make sense of those words. I met someone.

Bradley has loved you for as long as he can remember. He’s loved you for so long, he can no longer imagine a time when he didn’t, can’t for the life of him think what it felt like to be someone who didn’t love you. He loves your laughter and your stupid jokes and the shape of your mouth. He loves that you’re not afraid to call him out on his bullshit, that you let him tell you all about nerdy Lord of the Rings lore and that you cry every time you watch a Disney movie. He loves everything about you.

He’d always planned on telling you, always knew he’d do it someday. But then whenever the words had formed on his tongue, his head had gotten the better of him and they’d evaporated. Years and years of almosts pile up now, years and years of almost telling you, almost having you, almost knowing you.

And now. Now it’s too late.

“No,” he says, painting a smile on his face even as it feels like his ribcage is breaking open, even as he’s sick to his stomach, even as a lump builds in his throat, “of course, I’m happy for you. Always.”

Bradley has this problem with timing. He’s just too slow - always a step behind, always a moment too late.

[seasonsbloom]

enemies to lovers with Rooster. !! Congrats on 500 followers. ❤️

♡ pairing ; surfer!rooster x reader

♡ wc ; 380

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language; lil bit of explicit sexual content (fingering)

♡ note ; i will be thinking of nothing but surfer rooster for the next three weeks. the urge to make this a full fic... goodbye.

“Jesus,” Bob says, blinking into the sun, his eyes big and round and filled with a glimmer of awe, “there really is nobody like Bradley Bradshaw, is there?”

You huff, let your board clatter to the ground unceremoniously and just so sidestep to prevent it from landing on your poor toes. Sand sprays up, clings to the damp fabric of your wetsuit.

“Fuck him,” you say.

Natasha laughs. She’s rubbing a towel over her wet hair, salt water dripping down the side of her face. 

“Still bitter, are we?”

“I’m not bitter.” If you grind your teeth any harder, you’ll end up with shrapnel on your tongue. “I hate the guy.”

It’s the truth - since the first time Bradley fucking Bradshaw, with the hair kissed by sunlight, with the freckles and the scars and the cartoon rooster wearing sunglasses painted on his surfboard, beat you in a competition, danced right in front of you across a wave that upended you within seconds, broke your perfect streak, you’ve sworn to hate him for all eternity. Him and his dumb mustache and the freckles on his nose and the Hawaiian print towels he leaves strewn on beaches.

God, you hate him.

But then later, in a shack with warm, half-rotten wooden tiles strewn with sand, among surfboards in all colors of the rainbow, when he slides his fingers into your bikini bottoms where you’re already swollen and wet and aching, when he slips his tongue between your teeth and his chest vibrates as he chuckles, it’s like getting capsized by that wave again.

“Missed me, sunshine?” he whispers against your mouth, fucking steady rhythms into you, rubbing a calloused thumb across your clit.

He tastes like salt. He smells like sunscreen. His hair is damp between your fingers, his shoulders cold from the water, his chest beginning to redden with the first hints of sunburn.

This is what summer is - Bradley Bradshaw and your surfboard and sand everywhere and waves cresting against shores.

“I hate you,” you say, but the words are shaped like a lie when he sinks his fingers deeper, when your legs start trembling, and your head drops back against the wall. When he laughs like he already knows.

There really is nobody like Bradley Bradshaw. And god, you hate him for it.

[seasonsbloom]

HIIIII! BIG CONGRATS on 500 followers! your writing is absolutely INCREDIBLE, with ‘Bad Habit’ just being one example of it ❤️ thank you for fuelling my love for these aviators. I hope you’re never caught in traffic and that your phone always charges at lightning speed, haha!

anywho, for your celebration… I love Jake, but I’m a sucker for Rooster, so could I please request Rooster and “only one bed”? cheeeers!

♡ pairing ; rooster x female!reader

♡ wc ; 500

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; allusions to sexual activity but nothing rlly explicit

♡ note ; thank you so so so much!! you're so sweet :(((

It’s like this: you might be in love with Bradley. Maybe. The jury’s still out, the verdict not yet in, but when you have enough presence of mind to listen to the whole trial… there are a few pretty obvious zingers pointing straight towards guilty as charged. In fact, all jokes aside, the thing is lit up like a Christmas tree, neon candles, tinsel, and a star on top.

For example, when you arrive in Texas for Bob’s wedding - he’s getting married to his high school girlfriend, and it’s so fucking sweet, so very Bob,  it might make your teeth rot - and the receptionist who is barely older than eighteen and looks like she might start crying at the drop of a pin tells you that there seems to have been some kind of mix-up with your reservation, the first thing you think is: God, I hope they gave us only one room. And when said receptionist does, in fact, go on to explain that there seems to be only one room booked under Bradley Bradshaw instead of two, the next thing you think is: Oh, please, God, let there be only one bed.

Which. Yeah. So. That might be a pretty clear-cut indication that there is something else between Bradley and you than just friendship.

He carries your suitcase for you, and he holds open the door. The whole hotel seems to be going for some kind of ranch meets rustic meets Architectural Digest moment and that in itself should be questionable, but you’re much too focused on the idea of a shirtless Bradley in a cowboy hat and jeans mending a fence to indulge in any intense interior design critique. 

In the middle of the room, oak headboard and giant antlers mounted to the wall above it is a single, reasonably-sized double bed.

“Oh,” Bradley says from beside you. He’s set the suitcases down, and now he’s shifting awkwardly, moving to scratch the back of his neck. “I guess they only gave us one bed.”

“That’s okay.” In your chest, your heart is beating a hundred miles a minute. Something in your stomach tingles. “As long as you don’t hog the covers.”

Later, after the vows, after dancing with Natasha to Whitney Houston songs, after letting Hangman twirl you around the floor until you feel sick, after sharing a piece of cake so big it felt like your stomach would pop at the seams with Payback, and looking at Bradley over tables, over buffets, over DJ booths, just to find him looking back at you always, always, always, after all that, you’re spread out on that bed, dress hiked up to your stomach, his mustache leaving burn marks on your thighs, feeling like you’re levitating, soaring, flying, and Bradley mumbles against your skin, “Maybe it’s just the wedding vibes, but I think I might be in love with you.”

And you laugh at the ceiling, an airy sound, a giddy sound, a sound of pure and unadulterated happiness, and you say, “Thank fuck they messed up that reservation.”

[seasonsbloom]

CONGRATS ON 500 FOLLOWERS 💚 you deserve it!

so many options for the bingo

but I'll choose soulmate!au with rooster, pretty please!

I loved the seafoam green aesthetic btw

♡ pairing ; rooster x female!reader

♡ wc ; 350

♡ warnings ; mentions of tom cruise

♡ note ; again, like... crack. i'm so sorry? also I bet you don't even remember requesting this I'm sorry bestie I can't believe it took me this long idk either :((

Theoretically, meeting your soulmate should be the high point of your life. All the waiting, all the searching, all the yearning finally coming to an end, to a head, pinpointing and tunneling down to this very moment, when the first words you speak to them etch themselves across your wrist, right over your pulse point.

Instead, it becomes the worst thing that has ever happened to you.

Natasha has been telling you about this mysterious Rooster for a while now, and in hindsight, you should have just introduced yourself like a normal person, said your name, said hello, maybe. What happens instead goes a little like this:

You narrow your eyes at the older man currently watching the group try and murder each other (lovingly) at a game of beach football that seems to be more about posturing than actually keeping score, squint through the bright sunshine, and then you turn to the guy who’s singlehandedly trying to bring back the 80’s pornstache and, somehow, succeeding, and you say, “You ever realized your Captain looks exactly like Tom Cruise?”

It’s instantaneous. The trickle of warmth across the inside of your arm, where the skin is thin and tender. The pinpricks of pain. When you glance down, the words have already written themselves.

Rooster stares down at your arm, something like awe on his face, something like reverence or hope or fear. Maybe all of those.

You open your mouth, half-embarrassed, half-elated, want to tell him he’s lucky, that at least he has a chance to say something nice, come up with something good if he’s going to have to live with it forever.

Rooster beats you to it, laughing, saying, “I can’t believe you’re gonna have Tom Cruise’s name tattooed on you for the rest of our lives.”

He’s still laughing, but you raise an eyebrow. Where’s a camera to look into The Office style when you need it?

The sound of Rooster’s laughter fills your chest, settles there like something glowing. You’re not going to mention the words you can already see on his wrist. 

He’ll figure it out eventually. He's only got the rest of your lives for it.

[seasonsbloom]

hi lovely <3 congrats on 500 !! seems only right considering how beautifully told each of your stories are

i’d like to request threesome w/ bf!rooster and a shy bob for the bingo 💗 if no one else has already requested :) much love

♡ pairing ; bf!rooster x reader x bob

♡ wc ; 800

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language; explicit sexual content (threesome, little bit of a dom/sub dynamic, mentions of cumplay, unprotected sex, idk?)

♡ note ; .... this is the stuff you people make me do, I'm going to go to hell :(

“That feel good, baby?”

Bradley’s voice sounds from somewhere above you, somewhere by your head, somewhere from the darkness. You’re too turned on, too tightly strung, too wired to really locate it. Not that it matters, anyway - all that matters is that he’s there.

It’s a blur how any of this even happened. 

Maybe it started at the Hard Deck, started with you bending low over pool tables, started with your hand on Bob’s arm, started with your lips against his ear, started with Bradley watching from the bar, started with you marvelling at how Bob blushes the prettiest shade of pink. 

Or maybe it started weeks before that, with a whispered confession into Bradley’s shoulder at the pinnacle of the night, with a burning face and a beating heart. I kinda wanna fuck Bob. 

Or maybe it started with Bradley catching you around the waist, drawing your back against his chest in the middle of that bar, voice low in your ear, hands steady on your back, words not angry, not possessive, only curious, saying, What are we playing at here, baby?

Or maybe it started with the three of you in your bedroom, with your clothes already on the floor and Bob and his pretty pink, pink, rosy blush and his eyes on you like you’re an apparition or a miracle or something awe-inspiring, something blinding. With Bradley sinking into the armchair by your bed, legs spread wide, face expectant, saying, So, you gonna let me watch him fuck you stupid then, baby?

Maybe it doesn’t matter how it started.

What matter is this: You’re nodding, and then you’re whining, face pressed into the sheets in a way that’s going to leave imprints behind. With how you’re bent over, on your elbows and knees, you can’t get any purchase, can’t hold onto anything, go sliding across the mattress at every thrust.

Fingers thread into your hair and tug, a sharp prick of pain that spreads from your scalp and makes you yelp. Then it’s Bradley tutting, saying, “Use your words, sweetheart. You like Bobby fucking you?”

Your own whine is drowned out by Bob’s moan. You can’t see him either, but you can feel him - around you, behind you, above you, inside you. His cock is stretching your walls, his thighs bracketing your own, his hands soft and tentative on your hips, as if he isn’t sure he’s allowed to touch you even as he’s literally balls-deep in you.

Bob has always been a bit of an enigma. It’s part of his charm.

“Yes,” you whimper, know lying to Bradley is futile. He knows you so well, knows what you want before you say it, knows you like a poem he’s memorized, like the opening notes of his favorite song, knows you like his own reflection. “I love his cock.”

Bob’s hips stutter, his cock jumps, and he makes a sound like he’s a few seconds from choking. He loses the rhythm he established before - something measured but deep, the head of his cock grazing that spot inside of you that punches stars into your eyes. He fucks different than Bradley, not that that’s much of a surprise. A little more careful, a little more calculated. Bob is all caution where Bradley is confidence.

Caught between them, it’s like a fire that will eat you alive.

Bradley hums, and the fingers in your hair go tender for a moment, soothing against your scalp, before he lifts your head from where you’ve buried it in the sheets. And then it’s Bradley’s familiar face swimming in front of you, distorted by your desire, by your tears, by the heat of it all. He smiles, his mustache lifting, his thumb following the rivulet of drool on its path down your chin, leans in and presses his lips to yours for just a moment.

He draws back, ignores your whine and, without looking away from you, says, “Bobby, you close?”

“Yeah,” Bob answers immediately, voice barely more than a gasp, a breath, a sigh, fingernails digging into your hips, cock thrusting unrelentingly into you. “Can I… can I cum inside her?”

You whimper at the prospect, clutching handfuls of the sheets, eyes going to find Bradley, mouth dropping open, looking at him in a way you hope he understands. Hope he can read what you have no strength to say: Please, Bradley. Please say yes.

And Bradley smiles, because Bradley knows you, better than you know yourself, knows you so well it scares you, smiles and lets the tips of his fingers wander across your cheekbone, pushes his thumb into your mouth and onto your tongue, watches as you suck without being told to.

“Yeah, Bobby,” he says without taking his eyes off you. “Cum inside so I can fuck it back into her.”

Like this, you don’t mind burning.

[seasonsbloom]

"I can't believe we just did that." "Why not?" "I don't know. Maybe because we're at your parents' place and they might have heard us."

w yummy man of the hour rooster 🫶

♡ pairing ; rooster x reader

♡ wc ; 400

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; non-explicit sexual content, little bit of cringe I guess

♡ note ; roma :(((( thanks for the request!!!

“I can’t believe we just did that,” you whisper, voice still heavy with the fading weight of your moans. 

Bradley grunts and rolls off you, flopping onto his back. The sheets, soft blue cotton, move in oceanic motions around his shoulders. In the low, orange glow of the bedside table, you let your eyes wander over the freckled expanse of his chest, the red streaks your fingernails painted over his shoulders, the leftovers of your wetness glistening on his mustache.

It’s such a sinful sight it drives the blood into your cheeks. Ridiculous, considering what you’ve just done.

“Why not?” he asks, one hand going to card a few strands of hair off his forehead, while he angles the other to shove carefully beneath your shoulder and pull you against him. You go easily, flatten your front to his side and hook your chin over his chest. Your warm, quickened breath collects in the dip below his clavicle.

“I don’t know,” you say, and let the sarcasm drip into the words. “Maybe because we’re at your parents’ place and they might have heard us.”

You still feel the burning of his mustache high up on your thighs, the traces of his fingers just above the knees where he held you spread open, blooming like heat beneath the skin.

Bradley frowns, and then he says, his voice a little more forceful than warranted, “Penny and Mav aren’t my parents.”

You squint at him. “They might as well be.”

“I sure hope not,” Rooster mutters, dropping his head back against the pillow with a low thud to blink up at the ceiling. “I had a few pretty steamy sex dreams about Penny when I was like eighteen.”

“Oh God, Bradley!”

He catches your hand before you can swatch at his chest, grinning at you. Then he pulls your knuckles up to his lips and presses a soft, lingering kiss to them.

“Seriously,” you say, even as you blink at him with the first tentative hands of sleep tugging at your ankles, “you think they heard us?”

Bradley sighs and nuzzles his face into the side of your neck. “Isn’t that half the fun?”

In the morning, over pancakes and orange juice, when Amelia starts talking about the stray cats she heard fighting in the night and Penny and Mav grin at you like they know exactly what was going on under their roof, it’s actually not all that funny. It’s pretty mortifying.

(Doesn't keep you from doing the same thing come Christmas, though.)

[seasonsbloom]

romeo - "i want you to kiss every inch of my body." with rooster?

your blurbs are always so incredible! congratulations on 1.5k!! 🫶🏻✨ hopefully i’m not too late, i’m awful at time zones as well 😅

♡ pairing ; rooster x reader

♡ wc ; 600

♡ warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; explicit language; phone sex; this is really sort of silly

♡ note ; anon I’m sorry, i read that dialogue prompt and it sort of made me laugh??? so then this was born, I apologize.

“I want you to kiss every inch of my body.”

You can’t help it - you laugh. It’s a sound that punches from somewhere deep inside of you, that comes with a certain amount of relief. That echoes through the darkness of your hotel room, bounces off the ceiling and back into the shadows.

Tinny, distorted by the miles and miles between you, Rooster’s voice says, “Don’t laugh at me.”

The comment does what it does most often: It makes you laugh harder.

“I’m sorry,” you say, breathless, giggles cascading in an unsteady stream. “You just… you sound like an 80s porn star, Bradley.”

Bradley harrumphs and you hear sheets shifting, imagine him rolling around on the mattress. “Honey, I don’t think you’ve ever even seen an 80s porno.”

“You don’t know about my porn consumption,” you say, immediately, and then you start laughing again.

By all means, Bradley could be a star in an 80s porno, what with the mustache and those Hawaii shirts. And the embarrassing dirty talk.

“I’m not great at this, am I?”

That stifles your humor. He sounds… not exactly hurt, but a little insecure, maybe. Your heart drops and you back-pedal straight away.

“It’s okay, Bradley,” you rush to say. “We’ve never done this, and I think it’s awkward anyway. This just works better over text, you know?”

It’s true. When Bradley’s gone, most of your correspondence happens via emails or scheduled video calls in computer rooms he shares with other aviators. Which means that most of your sexual endevours during his absence are restricted to your right hand or a vibrator and the wide-ranging expanse of your fantasy.

Now that it’s you gone for a change, though, you gone and Bradley all alone in your bed at home, you’d really wanted to try. See how this thing might play out. What you hadn't exactly planned on, though, is that your boyfriend, apparently, is really, really bad at phone sex.

“It’s funny,” you tell him, shoving your phone between shoulder and chin as you roll over onto your stomach and fold your arms beneath the pillow. The throbbing between your legs has receded to a dull intensity somewhere at the back of your mind, like the tides licking lazily at the shore. “You’re really good at dirty talk in person.”

He’s quiet for so long you think maybe he’s hung up. When you draw the phone away to glance at the screen, you miss half his sentence.

“... easier when you’re there,” he’s saying by the time you got the phone back up to your ear, and you can hear the note of uncertainty in his voice. It’s endearing, but then you’re totally whipped for him, so that doesn't say much. “Like this, I just get self-conscious. I don’t know.”

“Bradley,” you say, and hope your words are as sincere over the phone as they would be in person, “I think you’re the hottest person alive, you know? You’ve sort of ruined me. I get wet when I see an airplane now sometimes. I don’t think there’s anything to be self-conscious about. Just act like I’m right there with you, okay?”

Another moment of silence, and then he hums an okay, and his voice has reached just that pitch that makes you think the phone should be vibrating. And like. That’ll do it. You shove your hands back into your panties, where you’re still swollen and wet and aching to be touched.

And still, you can’t help yourself. You just have to. Biting the insides of your cheek to keep the grin out of your voice, you drawl, “Now. Let’s get back to it, stud.”

“Now who’s the one stuck in an 80s porno?”