#I go to one fucking funeral for twenty minutes and I come back to the rpc doing this AGAIN.

[godblooded]

hey like y’all know you can write trans characters that aren’t just a transman or a transwoman right??? like you guys know enby identities aren’t transphobic????

[fandoms-in-law]

Seeing Through

Summary: Today, Steve is moving out and his parents choose now to have one of their random days home.

Author's note: Why does it feel like half these prompts are the same or similar? I need to reduce the amount of Steve songs prompts I put down.

My Idea for this Fic: 'I see Through You' - Taboo songfic - Steve moving out, saying fuck you to his parents.

/\/

They weren’t meant to come home. Steve had planned everything around his parents never being there.

Except there they were pulling into the driveway as the Party helped him load all his things onto Eddie’s van; and his father did not look happy.

“Quit groaning, Wheeler, or you’re unloading all the boxes alone later.” Eddie laughed as he and Mike carried Steve’s mattress out. His parents would assume that was theirs, that Steve was taking furniture they’d brought with him, but after injuries and fighting the Upside Down for so long, he’d replaced it, saved and spent his own money to have a better nights sleep.

“Steven!” His parents had gotten out of the car now, and the yell had anyone close enough hurrying out, concerned looks on their faces. “What is the meaning of this thievery?”

Steve glanced from them back to the house, and around at the people he called his family. “I’m moving out. Not going to leave anything I brought in your mausoleum.” He replied, measuring the space between them and how much slower than a demodog they moved.

After everything they’d fought, after finally moving out, there wasn’t much power his parent could swing over him. Also Hopper was probably just inside, ready to either come out or go to his room depending on how his parents reacted now. The likelihood they’d try to call, or at least threaten them with, the police was decent but Hopper would cut that off immediately if they saw him.

“That mattress-” His father began again, gesturing harshly before Steve cut him off.

“-I brought myself. Yours will be back on that bed frame by now.” That had been his request, whomever was bringing his mattress down put the old one on before bringing it out, and Eddie double checked it just twenty minutes ago.

A cold laugh came in response. “You expect me to believe that? With the crooks van you got to move your things in plain view.”

Steve bristled, glancing over to check Eddie wasn’t about to react for him. “That van and its owner have done more honest work in the last 6 months than you two have in your entire lives. They’re my family; you’re strangers who share my DNA”

“At least we aren’t common thieves.” Hello Mother, nice of you to join the conversation, Steve thought meeting her narrowed gaze.

“Of course you are.” He scoffed, “White collar crime, Nancy called it. Underpaying workers, dodging taxes. You’re crooks in pretty clothes but common enough. I’ve seen through the mask and I’m gone. No more son for you to forget about.”

“We don’t forget you and the destruction you’re doing to our name.”

“Stop twisting your reality to fit your views. This is me taking my life out of your hands in the sweetest goodbye. Actually you’re making it a bit bitter by your presence. How about you fuck off as you usually have done?” Steve had noticed his father focus more on the van again, and Mike stood near it while Eddie disappeared into the back of it. Baiting them would keep the focus where it needed to be.

Possibly not that much though, as his father took a step closer, “You aren’t leaving. What money do you have to-”

“Quite a bit actually. Or did you assume the jobs you forced him to get paid nothing?” Robin was at his side now, Nancy’s handbag under her arm.

“Odd accessory choice. She got one of them?” He quietly asked, knowing that Nance was still likely to have two guns in her bag.

He didn’t need her now before turning back to his parents. “Also Grandfather died. I know you were far too busy for the funeral but I inherited a far amount from him despite you never allowing him contact. Guess you never were god.”

His father tried to retort, but didn’t get a word out. His mother simply levelled a judgemental look at him, one he hoped nobody suggested was similar to looks he pulled, before heading into the house, “And that was your Grandfather’s failing, wasting funds on untrustworthy youth. I shall be ensuring none of our things are taken.”

Once his parents were inside, Robin and Eddie were leaning on each of his shoulder’s, nail bat left leaning against the doors to the truck with Mike. “Wait, did you really inherit from your Grandad?”

“Yeah, we wrote letters for a while. First did it after finding his address, half sobbing cause they’d abandoned me. So many tears cried over such worthless people.” Steve replied, “I found better easily.”

/\

“Steven.” His mother called, stopping him from climbing into the van, some letters in hand. “Why are all these utility companies saying they’ll be cut off from tomorrow?”

He blinked at her, continuing to sit down. “Because I saw through you. You tried turning them off ages ago just expecting me to pick the bills up, so I did. And now I’ve told them all I, the bill payer, will no longer be living here. They were very understanding.”

With the door shutting Eddie had them on their way to the apartment they’d gotten. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be far more of a home and a family than he was leaving.

[its-time-to-write]

Jamie tartt friends with benefits would be very fun! I love how you write Jamie it’s so so incredibly lovely

I wrote this bc I’m mad about old men trying to tell me how to do my job.

soft hands hit the jagged ground

It starts off as a joke, really. 

You’re both at the same party and arguing about who’s the better kisser, when suddenly your lips are on Jamie’s and neither of you are quite sure who made the first move. 

You don’t talk much, just enough to say that this competition extends to other physical activities and to order a car, so a few hours later you collapse exhausted on the bed in your flat. 

“Fuck,” Jamie gasps. 

“Fuck,” you agree. 

“We’ve got to do this again sometime,” he says, hand on his stomach as he stares up at the ceiling. 

“Give me ten minutes,” you reply. “Can’t let my twenties go to waste now, can I?”

So yeah, it’s like a thing. 

It’s not a romantic thing, that’s for sure.

It’s a “we just won a match” thing, or a “I had a shit day at work” thing, or “I need to blow off steam and can’t be bothered to pick up a stranger at the club” thing. 

No, romance does not factor in. This is strictly a friendship-type deal. 

It’s great, because neither of you actually has time for a relationship, and hookups are so hit or miss. And besides, you’ve never been extremely thrilled at the idea of some random person knowing where you live. And Jamie’s a little worried that someone will try to steal his jerseys. 

(Not worried enough, apparently, because you manage to make off with one from his Man City days.)

You both swore that neither of you would catch feelings and maybe that would have been true except for the evening Jamie called you and said, “Can I come over?” in a voice you’ve never heard before. 

You’ve barely hung up the phone when he’s knocking at your door, dressed in a suit and actual dress shoes, not trainers, hands leaving your body only for a moment to shut the door and turn the lock. 

He kisses you like he’s got all the time in the world, all slow and hungry.

He touches you almost like you’re someone else, and you’d think it’s strange except you can’t think of anything other than the fact that his body is pressed against yours and he’s holding you like it means something. 

You don’t say anything until you’re walking back to your room wrapped in a towel, water bottles in hand. 

“What was that about?” you ask, handing him his water. 

Jamie barely lifts his head. He decides not to play dumb, to be a little bit truthful. He’s not sure why, maybe because he’s still coming down and his brain doesn’t work proper. 

“Me and the lads were at a funeral today. For Ms. Welton’s dad. Made me feel all fuckin’… strange and shit. Dunno.” He takes a sip of his water and you settle in the bed next to him. 

You nod and say, “Makes sense.” It does. Funerals are fucking strange. The last one you went to had you feeling weird for a month so yeah, you get it. 

You’re both silent for a while longer when Jamie blurts out, “I told Keeley I still loved her,” and then you’re silent again, but it’s a different kind of quiet. The kind where you can practically hear the words oh shit hanging in the air. 

A couple things click into place where they probably shouldn’t, and so you take your cues from Jamie and say what’s on your mind as you blurt out, “Is that who you were thinking of?”

Jamie goes completely still, which is also strange because he’s never still. Always tapping or shifting around or something. 

“Right,” you say, far too brightly. It’s fine, after all. “I understand. Yeah, no, makes sense.”

You’re not sure what else to say after that so you kind of just sit there and wait for Jamie to move again. He does, sits up enough to grab his knickers from where he dropped them off the side of your bed, slide them on, and say, “Better get going. It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” you say halfheartedly, suddenly very, very tired. It’s doesn’t escape your notice that Jamie doesn’t meet your eyes the entire time he collects his clothes and heads out the door. 

You manage to get up and fish a new pair of underwear from one drawer and a sleep shirt from another, and it’s not until you’re back in your bed that you realize it’s Jamie’s 51 kit. 

But you’re too tired to get up and change so you just leave it and pass out. 

—

You wake up the next morning with way too many emotions to consider, so you let yourself buy a coffee from the shop instead of making one at home. You get an extra shot of espresso to block out the great big warning bells firing in your head. 

You’re not-so-blissfully unaware of the fact that Jamie’s on the other side of town having a similar morning. One that involves going to Nelson Road early to sneak in some extra cardio so he can work off whatever feelings still linger from last night. 

For a brief moment, he considers going to Dr. Sharon. But no, there’s no need for that because it’s all straightforward, innit? He’s a little fucked from the funeral and telling Keeley he loves her, and all he needs is one more good fuck and then it’s all out of his system. 

Except whenever he thinks about your face of all body parts, his chest gets all squeezy. And worse. 

So maybe it’s not so straightforward. 

He does fucking love Keeley, right? He’d take a bullet for her, and he misses talking to her every day. He scrunches up his face and imagines kissing her, nothing too wild, and it doesn’t make his chest tighten. 

That’s a good thing. 

Right?

—

By the time you get home from work, you’ve decided that it’s fine. It’s weird that he was thinking about someone else, but it doesn’t mean anything. Honestly, you two are just messing around until one of you decides to get into a relationship. So yeah, it’s all good. It’s not like you’d date him anyway. 

You’ve been pushing away thoughts like that for years, you’re not about to let them surface now. 

—

Jamie does not particularly want to talk to Dr. Sharon about this. He wants to talk to Keeley, except last time he tried that she walked him all the way to the therapist’s office and left him there. 

He thinks maybe Ted would be good, except he’s not sure Ted would know how to deal with Jamie’s whole “friends with benefits” situation. 

Beard probably would, except his relationship with Jane is one step away from psychotic, so Jamie thinks that he’ll talk to Sam because Sam is smart and probably won’t judge him. 

It works out, actually, because he’s going over to Sam’s for a sleepover since they have an out-of-town match the next day, and need to be up early. Jamie hates waking up early so Sam promised to make sure he wouldn’t press the snooze button on his alarm. 

So yeah, now he’s in Sam’s car (a fucking Tesla, all eco-friendly and shit) and they’re talking about training and brand deals and Jamie asks if Sam’s got a girl, but Sam just blushes and says I don’t know, not anymore before turning the question on Jamie. 

Jamie sighs and puts his face in his hands. “Let’s wait till we ain’t in your fucking car, yeah? It’s too fucking long to say here.”

Sam obliges and just turns up the radio for next eight minutes it takes to get to his house. 

Jamie hauls his bag into Sam’s flat and down on the guest room floor before taking a deep fucking breath. 

Right. He can do this. 

He makes his way to the kitchen where Sam’s pulling something out of a crock pot and Jamie is a little envious of his ability to cook so well for himself. 

Sam is oblivious to Jamie’s internal monologue as he says, “Alright, this girl. Tell me about her.”’

Jamie takes another breath and then the words just come spilling out. 

“I’ve known her since we were fucking…fifteen or some shit and like, we’ve always been friends. But lately it’s been like, what’s the word, friends with benefits? Where we have sex but aren’t dating. It’s been alright, mostly, except yesterday I told Keeley I loved her and things got all fucked up in me head.”

“How so?” Sam prods encouragingly. 

“It’s like…” Jamie pauses. What is it like? “Thinking about kissing Keeley didn’t make me all tingly or nothing. Dunno, felt- wrong. But I think of her face-” he groans. “Shit, man, me heart started pounding like mad. I’ve seen her naked, and it’s her face that gets me. I mean, what the fuck is that?”

Sam’s face is doing some weird contortionist movement, trying to hide his expression, so Jamie says, “Fucking hell man, spit it out before you break something,” and Sam says, 

“I don’t think you love Keeley.”

That makes Jamie mad. Of course he loves Keeley. He’d do anything for Keeley. 

Sam must see it written in his face because he hurries on. “I don’t mean that you don’t have love for her. I mean that you do not seem to love her romantically. It would seem to me you like this other girl.”

Well shit. That’s exactly what Jamie was afraid of. Leave it to Sam to get to the heart of the problem in five minutes, only this leaves him with another problem:

He’s spent the last nine years pretending like he had only friendly feelings toward you. Innocent, like. 

He can’t let all that pretending go to waste now. 

—

You don’t see each other for a week which is fine, because you had decided way beforehand not to meet up until the next weekend. You were finishing a major project at work and he was wrapping up a killer week at training. Hence, Friday night was the night to blow off all that steam.

You’ve successfully squashed any feelings for Jamie. They’re gone, buried deep down once again and you will not let them come back up.

And yet, you’ve put on a pink set under your shirt and sweat shorts, with a little more makeup than you’d gone to work with. Maybe the whole Keeley thing is lingering in your head a little more than you thought.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

You grab your keys and head out the door to Jamie’s house.

—

Jamie’s already texted you to let you know the door’s open, so you slip in and turn the lock behind you. The foyer is lit with a dim glow from upstairs.

“Jamie?” you call softly, “You here?”

There’s no response, so you pad up the stairs, stopping only to drop your keys on top of the table in the hall.

“Jamie?”  you say again, peering into his bedroom. Ah. So that’s where the light’s coming from. 

Jamie jumps from where he’s been bending over a candle. “Shit, you scared me. Didn’t hear you fucking come in.”

You smile tentatively, unsure what to say. Jamie shakes out the match and crosses over to the ensuite to drop it into the sink. He comes back out again and dips you into a kiss.

He says, “Nice shirt,” with his lips still against yours, and it’s only then that you remember you’ve put on his old kit, the one you stole the second time you went home with him.

You grin and kiss him again, waiting to be on your own two feet again so you can slide a hand under his sweatshirt. Neither of you have worn anything particularly amazing because it’s what’s underneath that counts, isn’t it?

Jamie’s thinking something similar because he starts backing you up to the bed as you fumble to slip shirts over heads and pants down on the floor. He traces an appreciative palm over a pink flower appliqué, and then you push the last traces of doubt as he hooks a finger under your waistband.

—

“What’s with all the candles?” you ask, when it’s dark enough to be considered nighttime but the clock says it’s technically morning.

“Setting the mood,” Jamie replies, voice gravely and just a little bit raw.

“Hmm,” you say. “Glad you didn’t burn the house down.”

Jamie’s been pressing kisses up your bare arm and you can feel him grin at that. “Psh. I’m an adult now. I’m fuckin’ responsible.”

“Sure,” you chuckle, then shiver as Jamie’s mouth has found its way to a spot behind your ear. “You ready to go again?”

“No,” Jamie replies between kisses, “What makes you think that?”

“Just a hunch,” you say as you roll on top of him. You trace his lower lip with your thumb, and he takes that opportunity to his it. And to run his knuckles up your sides.

“Fucker,” you hiss. “That tickles.”

He smirks, a real one, with his eyes all heavy-lidded and the barest hint of his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. 

“Yeah?” he whispers. “What about this? Does this tickle?”

He actually fucking dances his fingertips up your sides as you gasp and try to get off of him. He’s not having it, because he rolls you over and continues tickling you as if you hadn’t just been fucking fifteen minutes ago. 

You’re laughing and half-heartedly pushing at him and it’s so ridiculous that you stop trying to get him away and instead press as much of your skin against his as you can. 

He’s whispering in your ear, a combination of crude jokes and compliments, the kind that makes a blush bloom from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears.

God fucking damn it, he’s going to be the death of you, but you can’t make yourself stop smiling.

He’s still murmuring in your ear and he’s saying something about how fucking gorgeous you look, how fucking beautiful you’d look on the side of the pitch with his number on or as his date to some event and how everyone would be jealous because you’re so fucking hot, but you belong with him and he’s the one who gets to see you last thing at night and first thing in the morning.

It’s so utterly ridiculous.

He’s only saying it because he’s so far gone.

It’s so. Utterly. Ridiculous.

“Jamie, we can’t date,” you say between giggles.

He pauses to ask “Why not?” and the remnants of your laughter die in your throat. Oh shit. One good look at his face tells you he’s not joking. 

“Jamie,” you say again, this time more seriously, “Jamie, we really can’t date. That’s not how this works. You’re supposed to date a model or an actress or something, and I’m supposed to date, like, an accountant. Or a lawyer.”

“Why?” Jamie asks, accent thick as it’s ever been. 

“Because,” you reply. “I’m not really the trophy-girlfriend type. And… we’ve been friends pretty much forever. It’d mess everything up when we break up.” He’s still on top of you, propping himself up on his elbows so he can see your face. You want to point out that this is a conversation that probably requires clothing, but you don’t actually want that so you stay silent.

“What if we didn’t break up?” he suggests. 

You bark out a short laugh. “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just choose not to break up.”

“Can,” he responds.

“Can’t,” you counter. 

“Don’t be Roy Kent,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you reply. “And anyway, I’m way sexier than him. And less scratchy.”

“You fucking like when I tell you what to do,” he says. 

You make a face. “I like it when it’s sexy. This is not sexy. This is sad and stupid, and we promised we wouldn’t have this conversation.”

“You promised,” Jamie reminds you. “I just didn’t disagree.”

He’s not wrong.

“Fine,” you say, pushing him a little so he’ll get off you. 

You sit up and wrap the sheets around your chest, pulling your knees close. “You told me less than a week ago that you were still in love with Keeley, and now you want me to date you? I love you, but you’re just getting your wires crossed because we’re having sex.”

Jamie shoots up, mouth open and you realize what you just said. 

“Shit, not like that, I mean as a friend, not- not as- I don’t know, I didn’t mean to say that,” you stutter out.

“I love Keeley as a friend,” Jamie says. “Talked to Sam about it, and he says I don’t know how to tell the difference between a friend and fucking romance. He said I’m fucking in love with you, not her, and he’s fucking right.”

You’d say that sounds like the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard, except you’ve known Jamie for nine years and yeah, that sounds like something he’d do.

“Right,” you say slowly, “and you just now started feeling this way?”

He hesitates before deciding fuck it. “Nah. I think- I’ve been pretending like I didn’t since we were like, fuckin’ sixteen, probably. Didn’t want to screw it up though, did I?”

You shake your head before saying, “No, I guess not.”

“And anyway, us being together is that different from what we do now,” he continues. “Dating just means we can like, hold hands.”

You laugh and ask, “Is that the only thing that’s going to change?” but you can feel your resolve softening. Jamie can feel it too.

“Nah,” he says, feeling confident to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I can tell you that I love you. And kiss you just because. And get me mum off my back about never making a move on you.”

You say, “Hmm,” as if you’re considering it, but he knows you’ve already made your decision by the way you reach for him with both hands with a smile beginning to bloom across your face.

[foxilayde]

Conversion Rates [Nathan Bateman x Reader]

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Nathan gets some unexpected news.

Warnings: Cigarettes, talk about death, talk about blood, brief mention of oral sex.

A/N: Feel free to ignore 💚

There’s buzzing coming from Nathan’s side of the bed. Long and persistent enough that it appears in your dreams, morphs into reality, and annoys you to the point of shoving your boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Get it.” You grunt, peeking a bleary eye open to the clock at your own night table. 3:55am. Only someone with a death wish would be calling Nathan at this hour.

“I’m gonna kill whoever that is.” Nathan is haplessly searching for his glasses, he groans when he finds them and flips the blankets off of himself to then locate the source of the buzzing. The person must’ve called again because the buzzing has been going on for at least a minute.

“Whomever.” You yawn.

“What’d you say” Nathan grunts distractedly while pawing the sheets, searching for his phone.

“Nothing.”

“Were you correcting my grammar? At four in the goddamn morning?”

“Hey don’t get cranky on me. I’m not the one calling.” You sleepily smile at him as he shakes his head, “go back to sleep,” he mutters to you when he answers the call.

“What?” Nathan answers simply, the greeting replete with annoyance. He’s scratching his head and then suddenly his hand stops like it forgot what it was supposed to be doing. His back goes rigid and he shakes his head quickly before swallowing and swinging his legs out to rest on the floor, elbows on knees, forehead in palm.

“Yeah I’m here… mmhmm…yeah.. Sure…. Yeah… okay…” He sighs a lot and rubs his head, h is eyes, his beard. This doesn’t sound like a work emergency. You scoot close to him and soothe his back in long slow strokes. He puts a hand on your knee.

“Yeah. Friday…. Uh huh. Okay thanks— no, not— … I don’t know what to say, Aimes. It’s fucking four am over here…. That’s….. alright fine, whatever, see you Friday… yeah you can tell her. Fine, don’t tell her, tell her, either way I’m— I’ll be there…. Yeah. Okay it’s okay, I’m fucking—……. Yeah. Got it…. Bye.”

Nathan’s jaw clenches and one breath after hanging up he hurls his phone across the room and against the concrete wall in an over handed frisbee-type toss. It cracks against the wall and thuds on the rug.

“Oh, that one got some air. Eight point seven. I’m deducting a point for lack of expletive. Couldn’t even give me a ‘bastard’? Disappointing, Bateman. You’ll never make it to regionals with that attitude.”

Nathan pulls both hands down his face and lays back down. Not in a joking mood. It’s quite possible he didn’t hear you at all.

“Was it work?” You ask quietly, changing your tone to something softer, something more befitting the early hour and the mystified expression on his face.

“No.” He breaths. Your eyes fall to the smithereened phone.

“Where are you going on Friday?”

“Hmmm?”

“You said something about being there Friday? Where’s there?”

“New York.”

“But not HQ?”

“No.”

Nathan puts his arms behind his head and stares impassively at his reflection in the mirrored ceiling. He is nowhere near a playful mood, so it’s a mystery to you why he’s making you play 20 questions, but as long as he’s answering, you’ll keep asking. Your first instinct is to inquire how many questions of the twenty remain, but his face reminds you of the early hour and you think better of it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You offer sincerely.

Nathan blinks several times but does not answer.

“You want to go back to sleep?”

Nathan sighs and shakes his head slightly.

“You want me to make you a smoothie? Or some matcha just the way you like it? I promise I’ll use the whisk and not a fork this time.”

No response.

“Although I’d like to do the Pepsi test on you with that and see if you really can taste the difference.”

“Honey.”

“You gotta admit, it’s a little pretentious.”

“My dad’s dead.”

“What?”

“Funeral’s on Friday. New York. That was Amy.” His face is impassive as ever. You however flip the fuck out.

“OH my GOD. Nathan!” You opt out of a crushing hug and gently place your hand over his heart instead. “I’m so sorry.” Your brow furrows. “What happened?”

“Heart attack.”

“Nathan, I’m so sorry.” You repeat, at a loss for words.

“Hey, if he didn’t want to die from a heart attack, he should have taken better care of himself.” Nathan pulls the rumpled sheet over himself and turns to face you. “C’mere. Let’s go back to sleep.” He beckons you to your little spoon spot with one grabby hand.

You don’t ask him if he’s sure, let alone ask him if he’d rather talk about it. Something like this is going to take your boyfriend months to process. You scoot back against him and kiss his hand.

“Don’t for a second think this gets you out of our 6am trail run, by the way.” He grumbles and kisses your shoulder.

You pat his arm, the one that crosses your chest and holds you flush against him. “You don’t think we could skip the hell trail, I mean the trail run, just this once? I mean, we should probably pack. We’ve still gotta helicopter out of here and plus the time difference in New York, Friday is technically only… fifty one hours from now. Your family probably needs help? With things— arrangements?”

“You don’t have to go with me.”

“Oh shut up, of course I’m going, you nut.”

“This is so fucking typical of him.”

“What is? Perishing?”

“Fucking up everything.”

“Yes. Very rude of him to die on this the morning of our trail run. What an asshole.”

“You think I’m kidding. I’m not kidding. He made it his life’s goal to be as much of a burden as he possibly could. Died as he fucking lived.”

“Hey now, save some of that heartfelt sentimentality for the eulogy.”

*******

“I’m not speaking. Absolutely the fuck not.”

“Nathan, come on. You have to say some words. They don’t have to be true, you just go up and say “He will be missed” and you can leave out the “just not by me” part. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Can’t believe Amy would just assume that I’m going to do it and stick it in the fucking program.”

“Totally, who does she think you are? The only son of the man who died, or something? Pretty presumptuous of her.” You roll your eyes.

Nathan takes an angry drag from what is probably his twentieth cigarette of the day, and it’s only noon. You didn’t even know he smoked until you landed in New York and his first stop was at the Bronx Boulevard Bodega and Deli for a pack of Viceroy 100s.

“You keep staring at me like that and your face is gonna get stuck that way.” Was the only ‘conversation’ the two of you had about the revisited habit when he lit up in the back of the towncar on your way from his mom’s place to the church on Tinton Ave.

Cars honk and whiz by. It’s dry and exceptionally cold for April, you tug your black coat closer around your middle. Nathan doesn’t flinch to the temperature in his thin black wool blazer, still in agitated ponderance, still pissed off at his dead father. He’s been standing outdoors most of the day already. Excusing himself to his mother’s porch to chain smoke all by himself in lieu of making small talk at the pre-funeral breakfast with his mother, sister, and yourself.

You check your watch before tucking your arm back around yourself in a contained shiver.

“Service starts in ten minutes. You think we should head in?”

“Go ahead. I’ll meet you in there.”

“Seriously Nate, lets go.”

“Don’t tell me what the fuck to do okay, you’re not my mother.”

“Oh shit, you’re right I’m not. She is inside though. I can go get her if you want. She’s passing out programs right now for her dead husband’s funeral services, but I’m sure she’d be willing to stop the world and burp you, or whatever the hell you need that’ll make you stop acting like a child.”

“Fuck off, alright?” His Bronx accent gets thicker with each passing cancer stick.

“You know, it pains me to say it, but for as much as you hate your father…”

“Don’t.”

“I don’t have to, you already know.”

Nathan flips the lid of his cigarettes, curses, crumples the Viceroy box, and shoves it back in his pocket.

“Out of excuses are we?” You’re trying to be supportive, you really really are, but he’s being fucking ridiculous. You loop your arm around his, hoping he’ll be too upset and distracted to stop you from leading him into the church.

He lets you take him two steps forward before halting. “I haven’t been in there since I was fifteen.”

“Looks intimidating.” You nod at the tall dark grey stone walls and narrow strips of stained glass.

“‘It’s fucking creepy is what it is.”

“Are you… scared? Of seeing him?”

“Who? The lifesize bloody effigy of Christ the redeemer suspended from the middle of the ceiling? Yeah, a little. Did I ever tell you that my first nightmare as a child was thinking I was caught in a tropical rainstorm in my bedroom, but then, I look up, and its a fifty foot tall man in a loincloth and barbed wire crown floating above me, bleeding on me in these fat, red drops—“

“Holy shit— no, what the fuck? I’m talking about seeing your dad. About the open casket… fuck me. We’ll unpack that levitating son-of-god nightmare later.”

“I haven’t spoken to my dad in… I don’t know. I don’t even remember the last time we talked on the phone. I’m trying….to remember the last time I saw his face and… I….can’t.”

Nathan swallows hard and looks up at the overcast sky. He’s, choked up, his chin quivers angrily.

“Some holiday probably. If there even was a holiday in the last ten years that he spent someplace other than that hole on 165th.” He shakes his head and bites his lip in resolve. “I can’t do it, honey. I can’t go in there for him. I can’t do this this when he would have never—“

“Then don’t do it for him.” You squeeze the crook of his elbow. “Do it for your mom, who misses her husband. Do it for Amy, who is equally as fucking pissed at her dad but had to organize this whole funeral anyway, without any help.” You poke his chest.

Nathan grimaces.

“And most importantly, do it for me.” You peck him on his cringing lips, “because I am fucking freeeezing.” He kisses you again and you pull back and grin at the novel tang. “So that’s what Mac DeMarco’s ashtray tastes like, I’ve always wondered.”

He smiles for the first time in days. It’s a little one, but it’s there. “I’ll do it. I’ll go in, I’ll speak. For you. But, you owe me.”

“You still accept blowjobs as payment, I assume?”

“Yeah but the conversion rate in New York is much higher than in Norway.”

“Wow, how randomly convenient for you. The rich just keep getting richer, don’t they?”

Nathan gives your butt a tap to usher you inside. “That’s economics for you.”

END

[silent-raven13]

Hobie never cries but... 2

(Part 1)

It's been three weeks since Miles die from the heroic battle. Hobie couldn't let go of his lover's lifeless body, it had to take three grown Spiderman to pull him away. One of the Spiderman was Miguel, who tries to calm him down. The memory still on replay for the twenty year old...

Hobie shouted: No! No! He's still alive! Why the fuck are you dumbasses putting a white blanket over him! Miles! Miles, wake up, luv! You're still alive! -Miguel holding him back as the other two Spidermen wrapping Miles' body with a white blanket to prepare for the autopsy report. They still need to tell his parents' that they lost their son.- NO, stop! Are you fuckers not listening! Gwen! PAV! Tell them to stop. -the two were crying already know their friend is gone. They couldn't look in Hobie's eyes-

Miguel grab Hobie's shoulder: Hobie, listen to-

Hobie slaps the grown man's hands: Don't fucking touch me, man! -tears running down his face- Miles is still alive! He's just sleeping! If you jus-

Miguel grabs Hobie arms, he snaps: MILES IS GONE, HOBIE! He's gone. I'm sor-

Hobie laughs in disbelief: Your sorry? I bet you're fucking happy! You're fucking happy that Miles is gone. -his eyes glare at the leader of the Spider Society- You planned this, didn't you! I bet you wanted him dead.

Gwen went over to calm him down: Hobie, Miguel will never do that! Look, we-

Miguel: Hobie, I didn't hate Miles. He proven to be one of the best Spidermen out there.

Hobie shouted at him: I know you wanted him dead! I know! You're a fucking liar, a snake- the fucking worst! You don't deserve to be called a Spiderman!-

Gwen: HOBIE!

Peter shouted: Whoa! Whoa, Hobie! Don't do this, kid. Not right here, where Miles was -he stopped himself having his own tears coming down his cheek.-

Pav went over to hug Hobie: We're all upset, Hobie.

Hobie broke down crying into his friends arms: It should've been me! It would've been easier!

Mayday slowly went to hug Miguel's leg being sad, she's only seven years old: Miles is dead because of me. -she cries.

Miguel picks her up to comfort her: No, he saved your life.

Mayday crying out loud too.

Present day

Hobie lazily woke up in his bed holding a bottle of vodka, or whatever alcoholic beverage to get his fucked. His puffy eyes sore, stinging from his tear, he couldn't stop crying after that day. Everything feels so painful, he quit being Spiderman. There was no point to it anymore. His mouth dry, sticky from being dehydrated, the pounding headache didn't help. He took another chug of his vodka, making three loud gulps: Fuck! -He lies back down on his bed cuddling against his deceased partner's pillow and leftover clothes- I miss you, luv.

A few minutes later he saw a figure appeared into his room: God, it reeks of alcohol in here! -Hearing Gwen voice, Hobie lift his hand up- There you are!

Hobie: What is it, Gwendy?

Gwen appeared in front of him: Dude, today is Miles' Funeral. Aren't you gonna come? Pay respects to his family? They're going to bury his body next to his Uncle Aaron!

Hobie groans: Don't feel like it.

Gwen pouts: Hobie, you should go and say your goodbyes...

Hobie: It won't matter, he's not here anymore.

Gwen: What about Rio? Jeff? Little Billie? They want you to be there. Your not the only one who lost someone they loved!

Hobie grunts: It doesn't fucking matter Gwendy! Fuck!

Gwen: Peter been asking for you. You quit as Spiderman, huh?

Hobie: Pointless shit job! I rather stay here and get drunk!

Gwen looks at a table with cocaine strips, weeds, and used condoms: And other stuffs, huh? You rather waste your life here?

Hobie: if I can be with Miles, fuck yes!

Gwen: Miles would hate for you to do this to yourself. I thought you want to be like him! Be the best Spiderman! You can't just give up!

Hobie: Oh yeah, watch me! -he turns away letting his tears on his former boyfriend's clothes- It doesn't matter, Gwen. He's no longer here to prove it.

Gwen scoffs with her own watery eyes: I love Miles, Hobie. We all did. Miguel even help-

Hobie scowls: Miguel? He's gonna be there. That fucking sadis-

Gwen: Miguel didn't know that was gonna happen. The anomaly was unpredictable! You know, Miles saved Mayday! Mayday would've died if he didn't. Even Miguel wouldn't have done that.

Hobie: Figures. All you Spiderpeople are all talk while MY SPIDERMAN sacrifice himself! Pfft, of course that fucking arse would try to kiss ass at Miles' family.

Gwen: Hobie, you're grieving. You're mad, you have the right to be. But being mad at just Miguel isn't good for you. We all failed, we all have blood on our-

Hobie snaps: YOU DIDN'T HOLD HIM! YOU DIDN'T TOUCH HIM OR HOLD HIS WEAK BODY WHILE HE SLOWLY SLIPS FROM YOUR GRASP! -his voice soften- his beautiful radiant smile, his sun glow cheeks all gone just like that. Him telling you how much he loves you... -his eyes filled with tears finally looking at tearful Gwen- and you're just there trying to hold whatever blood is left. Did you did that, huh Gwendy? Huh?

Gwen wipes her tears, with a soft: No... but we did fail. If we all paid attention, he would've been here. Why you think all the Spiderpeople are going to stop by his funeral?

Hobie scoffs: Bunch of fakes. They never knew him like i did.

Gwen shook her head: I tried. Here, you can come or not. Mrs. Morales is hoping you show up! -she handed his the funeral card to him- This is personally from Jeff. He also hope you can come. Anyway, I have to go get ready.

Hobie sniffs hearing Gwen leave through a portal to her home. He holds the card seeing Miles' dad sent this to him. His fingers tremble as he opens the card. Maybe it's Jeff blaming him...

The card: I know we never see eye to eye, but I know you did your best protecting Miles. Me and his mom hope you can come to the funeral, it's at three pm. I heard what happen, and I- we don't blame you. You did the best you could, Hobie. I know you love him, and would've done anything you can for him. Please, come to the funeral. Not for me but for him. From Jeff Morales.

Tear drops hit the card, Hobie whimpers having to fall back into his lover's side of the bed being so broken. He hugs Miles' pillow: I miss you, luv! Why did you leave me?

(Part 3)

[bcolfanfic]

crying in your lover's arms < face buried in their chest, while their heart breaks at your every sob for rosie and aiden pls!

set in the side b of the yv au where croz commits bc i wanted angst. tw for loss from suicide. also yes whatever you think is going on with ev/helen and jeanie is going on. my beloveds...i digress <3

---

“Talked to Ev earlier." Rosie said, pacing the floor in front of the bathroom door while he brushed his teeth. His words were halfway garbled by the toothbrush sliding in and out of his mouth, but he talked through it anyhow. "Said Jeanie and the kids stayin’ with them is looking like it’s gonna be permanent, for now at least."

Aiden hummed from where he was sitting on the bed, putting his open book down in his lap. It'd been almost a week since Rosie had mentioned anything so much as tangentially related to Croz- leaving him torn between wanting to bring him up first and not wanting to push him.

Next week would be one month since it happened. He figured the lull in him talking about would end soon enough.

“That’s," He started, pausing when he actually processed what he'd said. But his opinion- theory- he thought, wasn't important right now. "Well what do you think?”

Rosie ducked into the bathroom to put his toothbrush away and came right back out, stopping short of getting into bed with a sigh. He bobbed his head from side to side, pushing a hand back through his hair. "She loves Helen- the kids are close. Think- think it’ll be good for them.”

It looked like there was more he wanted to say, but if there was it wasn't coming out now.

A small sigh left him and when Aiden opened an arm to him he crawled into bed. He pressed his side against Aiden's, messing with the other man's hand in his lap.

When he fell quiet for a minute Aiden squeezed him a little closer, brining the hand he used to do it up to to stroke his cheek with his thumb.

”Ev say how they're holding up?”

“JJ's not doin' good." Rosie said quietly, like if he talked any louder his voice might crack. "Givin' his mom a hard time, giving Ev and Helen a hard time. And how do you even discipline that?"

No fucking idea Aiden thought but didn't say. Even hearing the eight year old's name was enough to take him back to hearing him cry in the background of Rosie calling from the Crosby house that terrible afternoon, and seeing him curled up in his lap at the funeral.

Aiden didn't know Croz long enough to know him very well. But he'd seen enough of him to see him in every square inch of that little boy's face.

He realized he'd been letting his mind wander too much when he was snapped back to reality by heavy breathing next to him. Rosie was scooting to sit up a little, grabbing at Aiden's shoulder hard.

"Hey," He said and put his own hand over his, squeezing it twice. "It's okay- 'm right here,"

This is how it'd started the few times Rosie had cracked around him since that Wednesday night twenty-four days ago. He never said much of anything, just started hyperventilating as a prelude to further dissolving.

Moving his hand out from under Aiden's to grab at his shirt again, Rosie's grip faltered as a tremor ran down his arm and through his fingers. Grabbing at him gently, Aiden pressed his open palm against the back of his neck.

That was enough for him to lose the resolve he had left, stiffness evaporating from his shoulders and leaving him with his face pressed against Aiden's chest as a sob wracked through him.

He could feel the fabric of his shirt getting damp, and it made his chest just as tight as the sound of him sobbing did. Every few was punctuated by a hiccup that just made him sound so small, alongside what Aiden was worried was getting close to gagging.

"I know," He said softly, his own eyes stinging as he tilted his head down to breathe into the top of his hair. "It's okay, it's-"

"'snotokaydon'tsaythathe'sdead." Aiden heard from against his chest, and suddenly trying to hold back his own tears was of no use.

His face was wet as he tried to catch his own breath, going back to what felt like a safer ad-nauseum repetition of "I know" as he rubbed Rosie's back, letting his nails scratch him just a little.

I know and I hate that he left you like this he thought, swallowing the impulse crawling up his throat to put a voice to the anger that had been sitting in his stomach for nearly a month now.

xxx

[whumpity-whumpwhump]

AI-less whumptober 2024: Trauma Thursday, relapse

Shirley exited the small convenience store and went to the bus stop, foot tapping rhythmically on the concrete, her fingers running up and down the surface of the small bag in her pocket.

Her mind buzzed in a weird anticipation, but she was fully aware of the true reason she was doing this and she couldn't help feeling as if her skin was crawling.

The bus came to a stop and she brushed past the people exiting it, seeking a seat further to the back. She slid into one, pointedly glaring at anyone who looked like they were going to sit next to her.

Marcus wouldn't want this, she knew that. He'd want her to stay clean, even go to a fucking rehab center if she had too. But fuck that, Marcus wasn't here. He wasn't around to do stupid dares with. He wasn't sitting in Slough House waiting for her to come back so they could gamble with paperclips.

He was fucking dead. And he didn't have to be. All he needed to do was stay back with her, stay in Lamb's office and he'd still be alive today.

No, no she shouldn't be angry with him. It wasn't his fault the idiot had gotten himself killed. It was Cartwright's psychotic brother who had done that.

She got off the bus, carefully willing her mind to go blank as she started for her apartment.

---

She let the door bang closed behind her, heading straight for the bathroom, not even shedding her jacket.

She took the small bag out of her pocket, dropped it onto the countertop and stared.

Images flashed through her mind, Marcus, dead in the one place they were supposed to be safe. Cassie and the kids, crying at the funeral. Patrice, dead on the floor after Coe had convinced her not to kill him. She still wasn't sure how she felt about that. Wished he had tried escaping, that she could've killed him herself, was grateful to Coe for putting five bullets through the bastard.

Once again the image of Marcus, dead at the top of the stairs came to her mind.

"Nope, fuck this."

Shirley poured the cocaine onto the countertop, lining it up into two neat lines. She couldn't help the surge of excitement at the action, taking out her bill and rolling, gentle as she performed this sacred ritual. yeah, it was horrible for her and a really shitty idea but that didn't stop the familiar anchoring it gave her. She snorted both lines and stood back, looking at herself in the mirror for a moment.

Damn, when did she get so skinny?

She pulled out her phone, shooting a quick text to Lamb that she wasn't coming in tomorrow. He'd be annoyed if he didn't at least get a heads up. Well, he'd be annoyed anyway but less so this way.

She walked to the kitchen, pouring out a bowl of corn flakes and adding a scoop of sugar. Next she added the milk and yeah- now she was starting to feel it, that familiar surge of adrenaline. She rode it out, closing her eyes and sitting back as a rush of euphoria engulfed her.

After a few seconds she opened her eyes and turned to eat her cereal.

About ten-ish minutes later a knock sounded at the door. She walked over, peeking through the hole to see River. She stood back, she sure as hell didn't want to talk to anyone from work right now. She waited for him to leave. He knocked again, calling out,

"Shirley come on I know you're in there, Roddy saw you enter the building like twenty minutes ago."

"And what makes you think I'd be here and not off hanging with a mate from the same apartment building or shagging somebody?" She demanded, opening the door with a scowl.

"You seemed like you were having a bit of a rough day is all and I figured no one at Slough House is really sharing about that kind of thing but you might wanna talk to someone." He seemed hesitant, like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing.

Marcus used to be the one she talked to. Not anything to serious mind you, they mostly just ribbed each other. Kinda like her and her siblings before they'd grown apart.

"What, Standish send you to check on me?"

"No," River shook his head, "I just figured, I mean it's only been a few days and...." he trailed off awkwardly then looked down at the case of beer in his hand.

"I brought beer if you just wanna drink and brood together in silence."

As if a case of beer or a conversation about their feelings would make Patrice any less his brother, as if it wasn't his stupid family drama that got Marcus killed in the first place.

She took the beer but held up a hand to stop River from coming in. She just wanted to be alone for christ's sake.

"Fuck off, Cartwright."

"What, you just take my beer and tell me to piss off? Isn't there anything I can do to help?"

She dropped the beer on the ground, turning to Cartwright.

"Alright yeah, you can go back in time and kill your fucking assassin family before they take out one of our own."

His face flickered but he stayed silent.

"Pardon me if I don't wanna be around the brother of the psychotic prick who murdered my partner!"

"...Right, sorry," Cartwright gave her a pained smile and turned, walking back down the hall.

Shirley shut the door and turned to her empty apartment, anger dying down to be replaced with nothing but the faintest spark of regret.

[tgmsunmontue]

Take more chances, dance more dances 2/2

~12k EXPLICIT Hangster AU Meet!Cute with Jake as the best man at Natasha and Javy's wedding and Bradley is the instructor teaching them how to dance... (Side Mav/Cyclone (and vaguest hints of Javy/Nat/Bob if you're looking))

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

 ��              They didn’t exchange numbers, there was no need to when there’s already been an email with Bradley’s number right there on the bottom. He enters it into his phone and adds a couple of eggplant emojis because he’s nothing if not honest with himself about what he’s entering the number into his phone for. He doesn’t send a message though, he entered his own number into the sign-up sheet when he did the health and safety forms. Bradley can also contact him if he wants.

                He can wait a couple of days.

                Maybe.

…             …             …

                “What are you drinking?” Jake asks, taking a sip from the side.

                “It’s a mojito…”

                Huh. That’s the smell of the body wash Bradley uses. Just the scent has his dick stirring in his pants and he can’t believe he’s somehow developed a Pavlovian response to a scent combo from one time.

…             …             …

                It’s been niggling at the back of his head, what Natasha Trace had said, about wanting to bring their wedding forward. Jake talking about needing a grateful to be alive connection and he wonders. There is a lot that Mav can’t and won’t tell him, but he’d kind of hoped the days of him nearly dying while flying were over. Apparently not. He’s already dealt with too much in the last two months; the phone call about Mav being missing and Ice’s funeral. And now there’s a third thing. Of course there is. These things always come in fucking threes, even if Mav is clearly alive and well.

                He needs to talk to Mav.

                He has nothing in his schedule until after lunch, the morning meant to be for personal practice and yoga and choreography for the students he’s coaching at competition level. None of that is important though, he needs to reassure himself that Mav is in fact alive and well and he pulls up out front of his house twenty minutes later.

                “Bradley, hey buddy. Wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

                “I know. I just needed to see you though. See that you’re alive.”

                Mav’s eyes go sharp at that, and Bradley knows, knows they have both had nightmares about his dad dying. His own nightmares morphed into Mav dying. And he’s lost his mom and Ice to cancer. He has Mav and Aunty Sarah and Uncle Slider and their kids but…

                “You almost died on your last mission huh?”

                “What? How did you – Why do you think that?”

                “Call it an educated guess, which you just confirmed. What the fuck Mav… I’ve already had to deal with one phone call telling me that you were fucking missing and then find out you almost died on a different mission? When you told me you were going to start taking it easy this isn’t what I envisioned!”

                “I’m retiring.”

                The quick statement pulls him up and stops his internal rant.

                “What?”

                “Two ejections… almost dying more than once. Losing Ice. I think those days are all behind me.”

                “Two ejections! You won’t be cleared to fly again anyway. Holy shit. You’re like a fucking cat. It’s a wonder your skeleton isn’t rattling itself out of your body… fucking hell…”

                “Yeah well. It’s a little harder to get moving in the morning now.”

                “Yeah, I bet. You should start doing yoga with me.”

                “Well, I’ll have time. What with the whole retiring thing…”

                “I’ve heard those words before,” he says, still skeptical.

                “I mean them this time…”

                Bradley hums, takes in the somber expression on Mav’s face and realizes he might actually be serious.

                “Okay… well. I’ve got plenty of stuff you can help with.”

                “I haven’t suddenly gotten better at dancing.”

                “I wasn’t asking you to dance. Pretty sure you can fix my aircon unit though…”

                “Yeah, I can take a look at it.”

…             …             …

                The next time the four of them walk into the dance studio he has a better idea of what to expect. Has been anticipating it since he left Bradley’s apartment on Monday night. What he doesn’t expect is the freezing Arctic temperature. It’s not that hot outside. They’re going to need to go and get jackets.

                “Hey guys, sorry about the temperature. We had someone look at the aircon, and they got it working but broke the thermostat so it’s either stuck on cooling or heating and we have no control over anything in between. I’ll turn it off now,” Cheryl says, and she’s wearing a puffer jacket and walking toward the control panel. She’s also wearing dance attire, a short sparkly dress, probably fairly revealing on top which has lead to the puffer jacket. Definitely not what she’d been wearing on Monday and he wonders what class is happening later that warrants her wearing it. Wonders what Bradley might be wearing. He spies him coming through the door then, and unfortunately it’s simply black pants and t-shirt, although Jake has to admit he does make it look good.

                “Hey guys, good to see you again,” he greets, gives Jake a slow smile which makes him feel warm. Yeah. “Have you guys practiced your steps?”

                They have, one night with probably too much alcohol involved for it to be beneficial, but they’re not difficult steps. Bradley takes them through them, corrects them a little but is pretty complimentary on the whole.

                “So we’re going to partner up tonight. Nat, you and Javy obviously. Bob, you’ll dance with Cheryl. Jake… you’re with me.”

                Of course there are eye rolls, smirks and snorts but Jake doesn’t fucking care. He’s not ashamed that he’s had sex with Bradley, and clearly Bradley isn’t ashamed, just gives Jake a wink that tells him he’s maybe remembering their night together.

                Dancing with Bradley feels like foreplay, his body reacting without his permission and Bradley seems to know it too. Asshole. His hands brush over Jake just a little longer than necessary, his eyes falling to Jake’s lips and god he wants. He’s definitely supporting a half-chub, knows Bradley knows it, with all the times he’s brushed up against Jake for no reason, because the waltz doesn’t fucking call for body contact like that. He knows that much. As Bradley pauses, walks them through the steps, the corner-turns, Jake lets his mind wander. Bradley’s apartment is upstairs, scene of the crime as it were, and neither of them have messaged, but there’s interest there. He didn’t think he’d feel this horny after getting such a good lay on Monday, but apparently his body knows when he’s onto a good thing.

                “You got another class after this?” Jake asks as they turn into and out of a corner, and he can’t remember the steps exactly, but Bradley is very easy to lead.

                “Sure do.”

                “Want me to come back around finishing time?”

                “Or we could go upstairs and use my thirty-minute break far more creatively than I would otherwise.”

                “Yeah?”

                “Oh yeah…”

                He somehow manages the rest of the lesson without getting fully erect or dry-humping Bradley while dancing. He hopes Javy and Nat appreciate how much restraint he’s showing. Of course it doesn’t stop them sending him knowing looks when he says he’ll see them later, flicks them a one-fingered salute and heads toward the door he knows leads to Bradley’s apartment. Can hear Bradley coming up the stairs behind him, his hand reaching around to push open the door to his apartment, guiding Jake in with his body.

                Bradley doesn’t waste any time, drops to his knees and is deftly working Jake’s belt and jeans open, tugging them down, mouth already letting out puffs of warm air on Jake’s exposed skin.

                “Jesus fuck…”

                “We’re on a time crunch, don’t even think of holding back okay?”

                He doesn’t bother answering, just nods, because holding back wasn’t an option considering how he’s been half-hard for the last hour, far harder now with Bradley’s mouth brushing along the sensitive skin of his cock. Then there’s the tear of foil and a condom being rolled down and his cock is encased in tight hot heat as Bradley’s mouth follows the roll of latex down.

                “Fuck…”

                Bradley just hums, the gentle vibration magnifying as it travels through Jake’s body until he’s also vibrating with pleasure. He’s at Bradley’s mercy, his fingers stroking at Jake’s balls, mouth sucking hard, with distinct purpose and he lets himself just sink into the sensations. Enjoy the confident movements of a man who knows and wants to bring about pleasure as fast as fucking possible. He jerks as Bradley swallows around him, the heat and pressure ramping up for the briefest of moments before it’s back to rapid sucking. He’s not getting the opportunity to settle into any rhythm and he can appreciate the commitment Bradley clearly has to getting this over and done with as quickly as possible.

                He doesn’t let himself feel embarrassed by how quickly he comes, hopes Bradley takes it as a compliment that Jake is as clearly as goal focused as he is and he whines and reaches for Bradley, wants to return the favor rather desperately.

                “Uh uh. I’m going to save this for later… if you’re going to be here later. You can stay. If you want. Have a nap or shower and then we can have round two when I’m finished.”

                “Sounds perfect, I’ll wait here,” Jake says, letting himself slump against the wall so his legs will have less to worry about regarding balance and keeping him upright.

                “Help yourself to the food in the fridge and freezer.”

                “Wait, what are you going to eat?”

                “I’m going to slam back a protein shake and a banana, brush my teeth and hope like hell Cheryl hasn’t already blabbed about what I’ve been up to. I’ll see you later.”

                He gives Jake a quick kiss, his smirk clearly amused as Jake just stands there, dazed, his cock still out and wrapped, jeans around his knees and likely looking as blown away as he feels. He realizes quickly, once Bradley’s clearly gone. That he’s pretty much trapped, either he walks through the dance studio to exit the building, or he just stays where he is.

                Round two it is then.

                Easiest decision ever.

…             …             …

                “So how did you get into dancing anyway?” Jake asks him, looking thoroughly wrecked and Bradley approves of the look.

                He’d come up from his class, really needing a shower, to find Jake already in said shower, stretching himself open. It had taken a matter of minutes of Jake’s hands and mouth on him for him to be hard, enough time to feel suitably rinsed off and then they’d been back in bed. And now Jake is making conversation as opposed to running for the door and he approves of that too.

                “Ha. It’s… Well. I was an idiot and took my step-dad’s bike, crashed it and almost killed myself. I had a lot of rehab. A lot. Swimming and dancing were the ones which made me feel like I could get back to enjoying life again. And it turned out that dancing and music were just something that came easy to me.”

                “A natural huh?”

                “I guess. My mom was a dancer.”

                “Dancers do have a lot going for them…”

                Bradley snorts in amusement, because that’s not the worst pick-up line he’s heard, but it’s close. Jake doesn’t need to use pick-up lines though, he’s already in Bradley’s bed.

…             …             …

                It carries on like that for a couple of weeks, Jake simply hanging around after his lesson, them falling into bed after Bradley’s class. They end up hooking up three, four or even five times a week, always after Bradley is finished with his classes. It’s been a long time since he’s had so much sex, so regular. It’s super convenient and Bradley finds he also enjoys Jake’s company, when he deigns to stay a little longer. He doesn’t mind the whole getting sex on the regular, but is a little surprised when he enters the dance hall and sees Jake loitering near the water cooler.

                “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you today.”

                “Javy and Phoenix are doing cake tasting. Which seems a little weird considering his favorite is strawberry-vanilla and hers is chocolate. Just… I don’t understand weddings.”

                “You and me both, although I’m glad they often feature a first dance. Keeps me busy.”

                “And are you? Busy that is?”

                “Well, I actually have a community class today. It’s a free dance lesson and anyone can come along. I get a lot of kids. You don’t have to hang around.”

                “And if I want to?”

                “Well, I won’t stop you.”

                The room fills with dozens of people, most of them kids but none younger than about six or seven actually come onto the dance floor part of the room. There’s plenty of parents sitting on this side, keeping the younger kids entertained. He usually does two circles of dancers, one inner and one outer but he glances over at Jake and remembers their first meeting.

                “In honor of my friend Jake here I thought we’d do a little line dancing today, which is his specialty. Him and I will show you a demonstration and then we’ll see what we can teach you okay?”

…             …             …

                Jake laughs and shakes his head, because he hasn’t done line dancing properly in years, but he did do it for many many years, is still dragged out every time he goes home and he remembers everything; his parents wouldn’t let his forget this big a part of their family tradition and time together. Easy as breathing. Just not something he usually broadcasts, but he’s going to enjoy this.

                “Four wall dance to a thirty-two count? No hooks, no bridges? Right?”

                That gets Bradley attention and Jake smirks at the flash of arousal he sees in Bradley’s eyes. He was right, dancing does turn him on. Jake is prepared to rock his world if he’s going to think making Jake do a little line dancing is going to make him uncomfortable. He’s got tone on this type of dancing if nothing else.

                “You’ve been holding out on me Lieutenant…”

                “I haven’t been holding out at all.”

                Bradley throws his head back and laughs, delighted and Jake grins, pleased with himself.

                “Okay everyone, we’re going to let Jake show us his fancy foot work, I’m going to try and keep up with him, and then we’ll show you something you can all learn. Sound good?”

                There’s a little cheer, and this is obviously the format that Bradley uses every time and Jake shakes out his shoulders and rolls his neck, loosening up, wondering what music Bradley is going to put on, trusts him to know what will make a more interesting demo anyway. When the first words announce Good time he barks out a laugh. Of course. He gestures to the empty space beside him, quirks his eyebrow at Bradley expectantly. Bradley steps in, accepts the challenge Jake is laying down and fuck this is fun.

                He counts in and kicks off, seeing Bradley following out of the corner of his eye, and as he steps, kicks and toe struts his way through the first quarter-turn. He says the moves, broadcasting what he’s about to do give Bradley a chance to keep up and he does; grinning the whole time and Jake had forgotten how much fun this is. He adds more complexity as soon as Bradley seems to have got it, changing from wall to wall although he keeps the primary steps the same, knows Bradley might try and teach this and wants to give him a chance of it making it look a little similar. The song is only five minutes long, comes to an end far sooner than he’d like, is enjoying dancing like this with Bradley and he’s enjoying it too if the look he’s giving Jake is anything to go by. He’d thought he’d seen all of Bradley’s bedroom eyes after three weeks but this is a new one.

                “Holy shit, you can dance. Fuck you’re hot when you move like that… no wonder you’ve picked up the waltz so easily.”

                “You think so huh?”

                “God yes. You able to stay? Want you to fuck me.”

                Jake doesn’t know if he’s ever going to quite get used to Bradley just blatantly stating what he wants, no coy games or making him guess.

                “Yeah, okay. We can do that.”

                “Good. Now I have to get through the rest of this session with a semi, so thanks for that.”

                “You’re welcome darlin’, anytime…”

                “Promises promises,” Bradley says, walking backwards away from Jake but his grin is lascivious and he is indeed noticeably half-hard in his pants.

…             …             …

                He’s ready to kill him. He’s somehow fixed and re-broken the AC. Decided the water cooler needed upgrading, which has resulted in them now having to hire a replacement until a proper repair man comes. Bradley’s car needed an oil change, which had gone smoothly, but then he’d decided to tune it, and of course it’s now in pieces. He’s lucky he can walk pretty much everywhere he needs to go.

                “Mav, seriously, what is up with you? You need to find something to do which isn’t breaking everything of mine that you touch. Please.”

                “I’m bored.”

                “Yeah, no shit. Surely there’s someone else you can annoy.”

                The expression on Mav’s face breaks his heart and fuck, he realizes it’s usually Ice that Maverick annoyed and he reaches for him, hugs him, feels guilty that he hadn’t realized earlier.

                “I miss him too. Have you thought about going and helping Sarah with her grandkids though? Would that help?”

                “Maybe. They make me feel old.”

                “Mav… “

                “Don’t say it.”

                Bradley huffs, gives Mav a quick squeeze and steps away, ignores the quick swipe Mav takes at his eyes.

                “You want to come to the wedding with me? They’ve given me a plus-one.”

                “You mean Javy and Natasha’s wedding?”

                “Yeah. Is there another wedding coming up that I should know about?”

                “No… but I’m not going as your plus one. Take Hondo. Even Beau would be a better option than me…” Oh. There’s an idea. “Actually, you want to do something truly scary Mav? Ask Beau to be your plus-one to the wedding.”

                “Cyclone isn’t interested in me like that.”

                “What, so he might say no? Is the great Maverick Mitchell a little scared of rejection?” Bradley goads, because he learnt from Ice that one of the best ways to get Mav to do something was tell him he either couldn’t, or he’d somehow fail if he did. And Bradley has a pretty good hunch that Beau won’t say no.

…             …             …

                “Uh, so I know it’s really late notice, but I was wondering if you’d come to the wedding as my date…”

                Bradley laughs and shakes his head, looks up then and realizes Jake has taken that the wrong way, expression shuttering to cool indifference and he doesn’t want that. He presses himself against Jake, nibbles on his ear and kisses along his jaw and enjoys the fine scrape of stubble against his lip.

                “I actually already got asked to be someone’s plus one to the wedding. Just this morning in fact…” Bradley says, rolling his hips against the swell of Jake’s ass. “And I turned them down. Was sort of hoping for a better offer…”

                “Oh?” Jake asks, and he sounds curious and Bradley pulls back so he can see his grin.

                “Yeah… and yes. I’d like to go with you.”

                “Glad to hear it…”

…             …             …

                Bradley is happy with how they look, their last practice before the actual wedding day in three days and they’re gliding across the floor beautifully. Natasha and Javy seem relaxed and happy, their respective sisters here for this final lesson and Jake and Bob look equally good although he misses dancing with Jake himself. He’s a little surprised when they switch partners, Bob suddenly switching to dance with Javy, who has clearly been learning how to both lead and be lead. Jake takes Natasha and the sisters pair off, one of them also taking the lead and he feels a little in the dark about the whole thing but he’s not disappointed. He could have helped if he’d known this was something they wanted.

                He chances a quick glance at Jake, who’s just looking softly pleased with the whole thing and he wonders if it was a bit more spur of the moment. There’s learning to do something with no intention of ever showing anyone, and then doing this. It’s not like it’s their actual wedding reception, however he’s starting to get an inkling that maybe it would be fine if it was. They switch partners again, this time Bob with Natasha and Jake with Javy. Jake is now being lead and he feels a flash of what he thinks is annoyance and he’s not sure what he’s annoyed about exactly. Then Jake is peeling off and grinning at him.

                “You wanna take me for a spin?”

                “You know I do…” Bradley says, and then he’s leading Jake across the floor in a waltz, and Jake’s not as practiced as he is when he’s leading, but it’s still passable and Bradley realizes that he’d maybe been jealous rather than annoyed. Huh.

                “I don’t have a class tonight. There’s a two-week break. Was wondering if you maybe wanted to go and get dinner?”

                “You mean you eat proper food? Not just protein shakes?”

                “Shut up, my main meal is lunch because I have more time to cook during the day. You want to go and eat or not?”

                “Think I can be persuaded.”

…             …             …

                Natasha and Javy manage to get him alone, asking him if he’d like to attend their wedding and he laughs, says he’s already coming and wonders briefly why Jake hasn’t told them he’s got Bradley coming as his date. Both sets of eyebrows go up when he tells them and he’s not sure how to take it.

…             …             …

                He didn’t know if they were going to be wearing their dress uniforms or suits, but clearly they’ve gone with suits and Jake looks drop dead gorgeous. He looks good normally, but in a form-fitting suit he is stunning. Everyone else looks good too, all of them unfairly good looking really, but it’s Jake that holds his attention and he realizes then that maybe he’s starting to fall a little in love. That wasn’t his plan, and he feels a little disconcerted, because Jake will be leaving. Will forget him and just move on to better and brighter things, far away from Bradley. He needs to be realistic and prepare for that eventuality.

                The wedding ceremony is late in the day on a Thursday, held in a small chapel not far from the base and he’s had to get a ride from Beau and Mav, which is amusing (for many reasons, not least Beau insisting on driving) however also annoying, seeing as his car is still not functional; or in one piece. The ceremony is quick but sincere, he likes the fact that both Javy and Natasha have a best-man and a bridesmaid each, clearly not holding to any particular traditions or societal expectations. There’s about fifty people in attendance, and having spent so much time with the wedding party over the last four weeks he actually feels like he knows them quite well, although Bob is wearing a ring on his ring finger and he would swear he never wore one before.

                Natasha and Javy almost run up the aisle in their delight, their best men following behind them and Jake winks at him as he goes past, he rolls his eyes but can’t resist smiling. The bride and groom’s sister follow much more sedately, looking bemused at the whoops of congratulations happening from excitable family and friends. There are photos outside, Bradley stands off to the side with Mav and Beau, although Mav gets called up to have photos with the bride and groom, and then Beau is called up as well. He’s glad he just gets called up for a large group photo and then he expects the wedding party to disappear for more photos but instead they’re all heading to the restaurant of a hotel for dinner and he finds himself back in the backseat of Beau’s car again.

…             …             …

                The function room is nicely set out, a sliding divider-wall making the room smaller and more intimate. There’s a decently sized dance floor to one side, decorations and flowers and this feels far more traditionally wedding-like and he suspects it’s the hotels doing rather than personal preference on behalf of either Natasha or Javy. He leaves Mav and Beau as soon as he can, grabs a glass of champagne and walks in any direction that is away from them, stilted conversation and all. It’s weird hearing them try to be polite to each other.

                “I forgot you said that Mav was a family friend…” Jake says, coming up beside him and Bradley opens his mouth and then shuts it again. Looks across to Mav who is still awkwardly talking with Beau who looks either amused or terrified, Bradley’s not actually sure.

                “Uh… Yeah. I mean… he is. But… didn’t he tell you?”

                “Tell me what?” Jake asks, also looking towards Mav, eyebrow quirking upwards as he takes in the fact he’s almost touching Beau with his hand, clearly uncertain, which is an odd look on him. They’ve been dancing around each other for fucking years, and not literally dancing, if it had been actual dancing they would have fucked by now. He knows Beau has been unable to do or say anything with the differences in rank, but now that Mav is officially retired he’s hopeful that maybe they’ll both come to their collective senses. “Did they come together?”

                “Yeah, with me in the backseat. This is their first date. Mav is like my dad.”

                “What?”

                “Uh… which part?”

                “You came with them… and this is their first – wait. Maverick is your dad?”

                “No. My dad was his RIO. Mav is my godfather, though he pretty much raised me after my dad died. I can’t believe you didn’t know. Shit. Sorry. I seriously thought he would have mentioned it. I would have mentioned it if I had thought you didn’t know.”

                “No… just the whole family friend thing.”

                “Well, that’s not wrong either, it’s just not quite the whole picture. Anyway, Mav has been bored out of his mind since he retired. He took my car and it’s now in fucking pieces at his hangar, leaving me without a car. And those two have been… antagonistic toward each other, for years, and I was pretty sure it was unresolved sexual tension and watching them now, I know it was.”

                “That explains some things.”

                “Does it?”

                “Yeah. Pretty sure if Admiral Simpson said the sky was blue Mav would somehow disagree just to annoy him…”

                “Oh yeah. Mav annoys the people he loves. It’s a thing with him. Beau doesn’t know what’s going to hit him.”

                “Can I just say hearing you call Admiral Simpson by his first name will never not be weird.”

                “Well, before he died I used to call the COMPACFLT Uncle Ice, or Uncle Tom, so let that rock your world.”

                Jake looks suitably weirded out and Bradley grins, takes a sip of his drink.

                “How many Admirals do you know?”

                “More than any civilian should probably. Maybe ten?”

                “Definitely too many.”

                They get through the dinner, speeches which are thankfully short, then he’s watching the first dance, feeling proud as Javy and Natasha glide beautifully across the floor. After their first circuit around the dance floor the rest of the wedding party joins them. Another circuit and then it’s an open invitation and just like they’d done at their last practice, Natasha and Bob dance together while the sisters pair up and Jake and Javy navigate around the floor. He lets them do one lap and then he moves, aiming for Jake with purpose, cutting in smoothly, gets a slap on the back from Javy.

                “Having fun?”

                “Think it’s one of the nicest weddings I’ve been to,” Bradley admits, and he realizes that Jake has been leading him to the edge of the dance floor and he’s a little disappointed. He enjoys dancing, especially with Jake; although the column Jake is now leaning against does offer some potential possibilities that immediately flood his mind.

                “Thanks for agreeing to come with me.”

                “I’m sure we can come together later too…”

                “Way to lower the tone… real classy.”

                “We just waltzed around the room, that was classy enough,” Bradley says, because if he can’t dance with Jake then he’ll take up his other favorite activity, turning him on. He shifts slightly, looks around and then moves his hand across the front of Jake’s pants, a casual movement to any onlooker, but definitely not casual for Jake, the quick firm press of Bradley’s hand on his cock making him look a little scandalized and Bradley can’t help but laugh.

                “You wanna try me pretty boy?” Bradley asks, knowing Jake likes pushing boundaries as much as Bradley enjoys laying them down.

                “Yeah, but time and place. Best friend’s wedding… probably not the place? Or the time?”

                “They’re all paying attention to the bride and groom. Trust me. You’ve got all my attention.” Jake shifts and Bradley is pretty sure he’s getting turned on. Good. “You’ve always got my attention.”

                Jake doesn’t say anything, but there’s a little hitch to his breathing, enough to tell him that Jake’s definitely getting hard. He’s had weeks of learning his body and reactions in bed, so the only thing different now is the fact they’re fully dressed and surrounded by people.

                “Forgot to say, you look absolutely fucking gorgeous.”

                He turns his body slightly, pretending to want to look out over the dance floor, but the jut of his thigh and hip brush against Jake’s groin with intent and he hides a pleased grin as he hears Jake moan.

                “You planning on keeping me on edge all night?”

                “Honey, this isn’t anywhere near an edge, this is just me teasing you… I think I’ll go and dance for a bit, let you collect yourself.”

…             …             …

                He watches as Bradley goes to cut-in, this time it’s Javy’s sister, the accomplished dancer and she moves fluidly with Bradley, definitely looking good and it doesn’t help his burgeoning erection at all. The man can move and he fucking knows it, showing off when he knows Jake is watching.

                “So, Bradley huh?”

                He freezes, blood running cold. And yeah. That’ll do it. Maverick.

                “Uh, what was that Mav?”

                “Bradley. You’re the one he’s here with. He refused point blank to consider coming as my plus one.”

                “Think your plus-one is happy you asked him…” Jake says, seeing Admiral Simpson dancing with Phoenix. He looks at Mav and then notes the blush, just the barest hint of pink and he wouldn’t have caught it except for the fact that he’d also shifted and ducked his head, looking fucking bashful of all things and Jake wonders just how much dating experience this man has.

                But then he realizes that Bradley got asked by Mav to be his plus-one, not some other person like he’d thought, but his father figure and something inside him relaxes, just a little. He could have asked, but he’s not used to asking for what he wants and he’d desperately wanted to know. And now he does. He somehow manages to make small talk with Mav until Admiral Simpson comes over and invites Mav to dance with him. He’s quickly rejoined by Bradley, who is watching Mav and Admiral Simpson with a slightly horrified expression.

                “What? What’s wrong?”

                “Mav cannot dance at all.”

                “I don’t think Admiral Simpson cares…” Jake states as he watches the two of them just sway and watch each other while trying to look like they’re not watching each other. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing from the secondhand embarrassment.

                “You know I was thinking, I wouldn’t mind edging you, working you up until you’re so desperate to come you cry for me… Think you’d look very pretty like that.”

                Jake remembers Bradley saying a similar thing their first night together and he’s never been with someone with that level of patience. Or the patience to put up with him whining about wanting to come. He feels that Bradley would likely gag him to stop him whining and the little sound that escapes him at just the thought is quiet, but Bradley definitely catches it, head turning immediately, eyebrow quirking up and smile slow as he realizes that Jake is apparently very much into the idea.

                “Mmm. Shame we can’t really explore that right now. This is not the time or place. And we can’t leave before the bride and groom.”

                “I can go and tell them to leave?”

                Bradley laughs, angles his head to kiss at his neck just above his collar and he can’t believe that this is just Bradley being playful. Fuck.

                “Won’t hurt you to practice some patience. Think you’ll need it.”

…             …             …

                He dances with everyone who seems like they want to dance, meets grandparents and parents, friends, and colleagues and tries to ensure everyone has a good time. Every time he sees Jake alone he takes him for a dance, makes sure the music suits either the waltz they know, or is something close to what Jake can confidently dance to. He finds the music, controlled by a guy called Mikey, and asks him to queue up Good Time, quickly lets Natasha, Javy and Bob know he’s going to organize a line dance, and they’re all enthusiastic. He drags Jake into the center front to help lead and then he has nearly everyone present dancing, tapping and stepping to the music; laughter when they get it wrong but he feels high on the enjoyment of everyone around him.

                Between each couple of dances with others he returns to Jake, runs his hand down his arm, kisses his neck or cheek softly, leaves him talking with whichever guest he’s trying to hold a conversation with before he goes back to dancing, confident that Jake is getting more and more wound up. The idea of taking him apart and watching him unwind all in one go has his own arousal simmering away lowly.

                Finally Natasha and Javy are walking around and saying goodbye to everyone. There’s no bouquet toss or garter thing, instead the bouquet is handed to Natasha’s grandmother very carefully, who pats her cheek and then gives her a shooing gesture with her free hand. She clearly doesn’t need to be told twice, grinning and waving at everyone as she tugs Javy with her. He guesses that most people have work tomorrow, it’s not even midnight, as now that they’ve left there’s only a small group of people who seem to be discussing staying, while the grandparents are definitely heading out.

                “I have a room upstairs,” Jake says, his voice barely above a whisper and Bradley turns, wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, angles their bodies so Jake is rubbing against his side and he can definitely feel a half-firm cock in his pants. Yeah, he wants to leave now.

                “Perfect. Let’s go…” Bradley says, and he spies Mav talking to someone, his pinky finger adorably hooked around Beau’s like he’s afraid of letting him go. Seeing as Mav is busy he aims his comments at Beau. “I’ll find my own way home. You have a good night Admiral.”

                Beau looks quietly pleased while Mav looks flushed and Bradley doesn’t want to wonder about why. Instead, want to focus on Jake and getting him to a state where he can barely remember his own name. He follows Jake through the lobby to the elevators, holds him and discreetly palms him through his pants, angles his body to stop prying eyes and puts his mouth to Jake’s ear.

                “You look so fucking hot in this suit. Seems a shame to take it off…”

                “You should see me in my uniform…”

                “Meh. Uniforms don’t do anything for me,” Bradley admits. “At least not military ones. Grew up seeing too many of them. This though? Trying to decide whether I want to fuck you in it or not…”

…             …             …

                Jake can barely breathe, unable to take deep breaths with how tight his entire body is feeling. Bradley’s words aren’t helping, and he forces his brain to connect words into comprehensible sentences. Walks stiffly down the hall to his hotel room, Bradley’s hand under his jacket but burning hot through the fabric of his shirt. He pushes open the door and steps inside.

                “I want to say not, simply because of how much it cost me, but also, that’s what dry cleaning is for right? And I kind of like the idea of thinking about you fucking me in it every time I wear it in the future.”

                That seems to sell it for Bradley, his hands not hesitating in pulling Jake’s shirt out from his pants with one hand, other hand on his belt, mouth on Jake’s and he sways into him, presses his body against Jake’s and god, he’ll never grow tired of the way Bradley moves against him and he leans against the wall for support.

                “Wanna fuck you like this,” Bradley says, his voice pitched low in Jake’s ear and his skin prickles at the level of intensity in his voice.

                “You can.”

                “I know.”

                Bradley strips quickly, clearly wants to be naked while he has Jake fully clothed, shirt untucked, belt undone but that’s all that’s happened. Bradley is moving around with purpose, grabbing a couple of towels, getting Jake’s directions for lube and condoms. He’s standing there, fully clothed, and getting harder in his pants at just the thought of Bradley fucking him. He never used to be this fucking easy. Then Bradley is back, gloriously naked in front of him, his cock bouncing around with growing interest, hands running all over Jake’s body, slipping over his shoulders and taking his suit jacket off. Part of him wants to leave it on, an extra layer of protection maybe for how exposed he’s feeling right now.

                “How about we at least remove the jacket, don’t want you to overheat… another time though, air-conditioned room, definitely want to explore that.”

                Like realizing that Mav was the other person who had asked Bradley to the wedding, hearing Bradley talk about times in the future where they’re still fucking makes his stomach twist with pleasure and relief maybe. Then he’s being shuffled toward the bed, falling onto it, bouncing a little and then Bradley’s pressing him down, naked skin fucking everywhere and he kisses him, lips sliding and he can feel Bradley’s erection pressing against his, separated by only two layers of fabric and he jerks up, wanting more friction.

                Without his permission or say-so Bradley’s leaning back, kneeling above him, shifting to be carefully positioned above his knees, hand rubbing with firm intent over his cock, fingers nimbly undoing the button and clasp of his pants, lowering the fly carefully. Then Bradley’s tugging his pants and underwear together, under the curve of his ass before carefully maneuvering the front over his erection. He leans down and licks a stripe up Jake’s cock, sucks at the head far too briefly to be anything but a tease and he groans.

                “You good?” Bradley asks, and his tone is lower than Jake’s ever heard it, raspy and fuck he sounds good.

                “You know it…”

                Bradley hums then, gives his cock another too-quick suck but then he’s moving away, rolling Jake onto his side, bringing his legs up into a curl and he runs a finger over the crease between his ass cheeks. Then Bradley is tugging his tie undone, looping it through one of his shirt cuffs, then the other, and it’s not quite a front hog-tie but both his wrists are now at the mercy of Bradley. He could easily flick the cufflinks out, get free, but he won’t. He wants to see where Bradley’s going to take this, is desperate to see where Bradley might take this.

                To his disappointment the tie is released, but not removed from where it’s looped; he hears the snap of the lid and then there’s the press and wipe of too much lube around his hole and he doesn’t want to whine about the amount of lube, but he also totally does. He keeps quiet though. He also wants to complain about the amount of time it’s taking, but he’s learnt to trust Bradley, trust that he has a plan and it’s never let him down yet.

                “So hard for you already…”

                Oh.

                He hears the now familiar tear of foil and more lube, and they’re going to make an absolute mess of the bed, but he doesn’t care in the slightest. Then Bradley’s reaching for the tie again, pulling it into a loop in his hands and then leans down to kiss at the hinge of his jaw, catches his lips in a kiss. The way Bradley has him doesn’t make it easy, his thighs are together, unable to be spread with his pants around his thighs, his shirt cuffs and tie keeping his wrists clamped firmly to the bed under Bradley’s left hand. His right-hand palms over his ass, the only part of him that’s naked and exposed, a finger brushing down the length of his ass crack again before focusing a few strokes just on his hole.

                “This okay Jake?”

                He groans, thrusts back on the finger stroking over his hole in a too-soft stroke.

                “Need words Jake…”

                “Yes. Fuck. Yes. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.”

                “That’s all I needed to know…”

                Then he feels the slide of a finger into him, and it doesn’t get as deep as he’s used to, Bradley’s knuckles pressing into the flesh of his ass and he wants to spread his legs, wants Bradley deeper. But he can’t, too constricted, all he can do is press back, let Bradley do his whole maddeningly slow thing where he completely ignores whatever it is Jake says and instead listens to his body, somehow able to read it fluently. He’s got one of his knees behind Jake’s knees, and he’s pressing Jake down into the bed with his body and god it feels good.

                “Oh god… fuck you’re tight,” Bradley says, sliding two fingers in, and he can feel Bradley’s teeth pressing down on his bicep through the fabric of his shirt and he wonders if he will get the shirt cleaned after all. Maybe keep it as a souvenir to remind him of this. Of Bradley. All he can do is jerk minutely, barely a flex of muscle and he wants to touch his cock, can’t, and he feels increasingly desperate. Bradley’s fingers are moving non-stop, tugging at his rim, knuckles pressing and massaging at the tight muscles, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gasps at the press of three fingers.

                “Going to mess you up…”

                “Yeah, yeah… come on. Please.”

                Jake can’t believe how hard he is. He’s never had sex while wearing a suit, but he’s also never been fucked while being quite this restrained and he wants to know whether it’s one or the other, or the combination. Or is it just a Bradley thing? He’d briefly thought it would be little bit awkward,  with Bradley only having one hand to try and hold Jake open and guide his cock. But there’s lube and apparently Bradley’s cock has a homing beacon in it, because the press of Bradley’s cock into him is slow and sure.

                “You’re so fucking good…”

                Jake makes a sound he can’t even begin to describe, the love-child between a whine and moan, hopes Bradley realizes it’s a good sound, because his tongue feels thick in his mouth, unable to form proper words, his breath stuttering in and out. He’s been turned on for hours, getting more and more desperate for this with every little touch Bradley had given him. And Bradley had known what he was doing, the entire time. His eyes had been dark with arousal as he held Jake in his arms as they danced, running his fingers over the back of Jake’s hand, placing soft kisses on the side of Jake’s jaw. Every single look and touch a promise for later.

                “Fuck Jake… how are you so fucking perfect. God.”

                Bradley’s thrusting, quick quick sloooow, pushingin fast and relentless, but dragging out slowly, his breathing shifting to shuddery exhales as he clearly lets himself feel Jake’s body around him. Pushing back in quickly before repeating the slow drag out. Over and over and over. Quick quick sloooow. He desperately wants to touch his cock now, is shifting against nothing in the vain hope he might get some friction, something, anything. He can see the head, dark against the unintentional framing of his white shirt, can feel dampness where his own precum has been caught on the fabric.

                “Yeah, your cock looks so good against your shirt. So pretty…” Bradley says, his voice rough in Jake’s ear as he continues to move, kissing at Jake’s ear, jaw, lips; all while thrusting. Quick quick sloooow. “You’re close…” Jake blinks. Is he? His body and brain don’t feel attached right now and he realizes that yeah, he is. Bradley now knows his body that well. “Come on Jake, come on my cock. Nothing but my cock.”

                That punches the breath out of him and he comes, hard, his body straining to release everything, all his muscles seeming to flex and then immediately relax simultaneously and he shudders, shakes and then he feels Bradley shaking above him, his groans sounding beautifully broken and he was true to his word. Jake is definitely messed up, his shirt and stomach now damp and sticky, the tie stretched and twisted in Bradley’s hands. Then he has both of Bradley’s hands on him, tie and wrists released, instead it seems like Bradley wants to touch every inch of him and he lets him.

…             …             …

                Jake stands there and it’s the first time Bradley has seen him in uniform, knows he must no longer be on leave and his stomach falls. It’s been a couple of days since they’ve seen each other and yeah, this is definitely not sexy in the slightest.

                “Guess you’re on a plane or boat out of here soon huh?”

                “Yeah, two days. Just. I’ll be gone for five months.”

                “Guess I’ll be seeing you then. You get to visit all your other people in all the other ports…”

                “And if I only want one person. And one port…?” Jake asks and Bradley blinks.

                “You asking me to go steady?” Bradley teases, although the intent of his question is dead serious. “When you’re about to leave me for five months?”

                “Yep. Guess I am. Taking a leaf out of your book and stating what I want. Clearly. No room for misinterpretation.”

                “I approve. Always in favor of being upfront with what you want.”

                “And what do you want?”

                “Right now? To take my new long-distance boyfriend to bed. In five months? To be there when he steps off his plane or boat when he comes home to me…”

                “And take him to bed then too I hope.”

                “Of course.”

[basicallyjaywalker]

Purpose

WE ARE SO FUCKING BACK.

WOE! ANGST BE UPON YE @captain-space-kin

Prompts: Kai, This December by Ricky Montgomery, poorly timed confessions

AO3 Link

Fic also under cut!

A light dusting of snow covered the purple hyacinths and lavender flowers left on the base of Zane’s statue. It was odd for Ninjago City to get snow this early into spring, especially when the flowers were already blooming. Kai would have liked to think that it was Zane sending them a message, but he knew that wasn’t true. Zane was gone.

How long had it been since they lost him? Kai stopped keeping track a month in. Thinking about it didn’t help, that just brought back the twisting dagger in his gut, a reminder of how he failed him. 

Pixal would say something smart to that. She always acted like she had the answer to everything. She and Kai had gotten close since the funeral, becoming a kind of odd couple. Pixal was one of the few people Kai still talked to regularly. He’d fallen off with Cole and Jay almost immediately after the funeral. Lloyd and Nya stuck around for a while, but after he stopped visiting Garmadon’s monastery, he stopped talking to Lloyd and only saw Nya every few weeks. Pixal was the only one he saw every day, usually meeting her during the singular break she took from work. 

Since Zane died, Pixal threw herself into her work. Not only did she assist Cyrus, she devoted her time to some “independent project” she wouldn’t tell Kai about. Despite her secrecy, he was sure it had to do with Zane. 

He took a deep breath, trying to smell the sweet scent of spring from the flowers in front of him. All he came up with was bitter cold. 

---

He met Pixal outside that evening. Her breaks were always late, but this was later than normal. The sun was setting and the neon lights of Ninjago City glowed along with the cool white light of streetlamps. The pair sat in the alley next to Borg Tower, away from the streets bustling with people who just got off work and were excited to head home. This wasn’t Kai’s ideal location. He hated being near Borg Tower, but Pixal said she wasn’t able to go out this time, so Kai went anyway. He liked seeing her more than he hated being around that place, he supposed. 

In her lap, Pixal held one of the packed lunches that came from the building’s cafeteria. Though Pixal always brought food out on her break, Kai never saw her eat. Usually, she just gave it to him, figuring he hadn’t eaten all day. Usually, she was right, too. 

At least the food was good.

They were quiet. Conversations between them took a moment to start. A few minutes spent in the raw silence, listening to the whirr of engines on the roads, the murmuring of crowds on phones, the occasional caw of birds flying from one pole or building to another, then they would begin. Pixal would bring up some benign aspect of her work or Kai would mention something he saw in a shop and they would continue from there. 

“Cyrus is working on a new model of the Borg Phone.”

“Again? Didn’t the last one just come out?”

“Indeed. I believe he is trying to keep spirits up while we all work on getting back to normal.”

“Seems like things already are,” murmured Kai, watching the crowds navigate the streets nearby, most of their heads bowed and pushing past everyone else to get home faster.

Pixal watched with him, resting her head against the cement wall. She sighed. “Perhaps it is just us who are stuck.”

“What do you mean?”

“It has been almost four weeks since the funeral. Twenty-six days. And yet, we are still…” She tried to find the words.

“Mourning?” Kai supplied.

She nodded. “Exactly.”

“Eh, it’s not abnormal. Not like the others seem to be handling it any better. Nya says Lloyd just helps his dad teach classes, otherwise he’s in his room. She’s kept working on her own projects, upgrading the SamX suit. I haven’t seen Cole or Jay since the funeral.”

Pixal hummed. “I saw something interesting the other day on the news. There are rumors Jay’s getting a TV show.”

“You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “Maybe he’s moved on. Maybe Cole has too, just in a less… public way.”

Kai was quiet. He tried to take it in. His teammates were off doing their own things now. Lloyd was teaching, taking up the mantle of his uncle and father. Jay was starting a new TV show, likely about to put his over-the-top personality to use. Cole had run off, just like he’d done when Master Wu first found him. Even Nya found purpose in her alter ego. And he was… where exactly? Kai couldn’t think of anything he’d done in the past few weeks, besides leave a bouquet of now frosted flowers on Zane’s grave. His days were spent aimlessly wandering from park to park, place to place. Sometimes he found himself drifting to the underbelly of the city, but he could never bring himself to do it. 

He had Pixal. She was someone he could count on. Visiting her every day, even if it was only for thirty short minutes between her own work, her own purpose, it kept him afloat.

Kai felt himself jolt up from where he’d gotten into his own comfy position on the wall, dropping the piece of falafel that was halfway to his mouth when he started his digression. A bit of the tahini sauce in the plastic container jumped back out and hit his shirt. 

Then he noticed Pixal looking at him. “Is everything alright?”

Kind of. This was not the realization Kai needed to be having right now. He was barely over the first one which hit him over the head during his eulogy at Zane’s funeral. 

Now shaking, Kai took a napkin out and wiped the small stain off his shirt, paying more attention to it than needed. His brain whirred. She kept him afloat. He was here because of her. 

“Kai?”

“I’m alright, I’m okay.” He really needed to work on his lying skills. 

“I don’t believe you are. Please, are you thinking about Zane now?” 

“No- well, yes, but no-”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking about you,” he blurted and before he could stop himself he said, “You’re my world.”

Her watch went off. She frowned and stood. “I’m sorry, Kai. I have to go. We’ll have to discuss this another time.”

“Wait, Pix--”

And then she was gone without a sound. Kai felt an anger bubbling up inside him. One he hadn’t felt in weeks. Not at Pixal, but himself. What was he thinking? He couldn’t come back tomorrow. He couldn’t come back at all. 

He grabbed his things and stood, fighting back the licks of flame that he could feel sparking up to the surface. There went his anchor, the last good thing in his life. Now he was the only one without purpose. 

He merged into the crowds, pulling up the hood of his jacket in an attempt to not be recognized. Not that anyone would. He was another face in the crowd. 

What could he do? He could try and find Nya, sob to her about everything, but then would he just drag her down too? His stomach was twisted in knots. What could he do? What could he do? 

The question kept repeating in his mind, looping as he wandered away from the crowds and the center of Ninjago City to the park again. He was back in front of Zane’s statue. The continuous flurry now covered the flowers he’d brought, leaving only a bit of pastel purple peeking out. Kai stared at it. He stared until it was covered completely by the snow. Then, he turned his back, stuffed his fists into his pockets, and walked away, knowing exactly where he was going. 

[aturinfortheworse]

My cat died suddenly today. Yesterday we were told he had a stomach bug, this morning we thought he's in a lot of pain so we'd better take him back to the vet to be sure, this afternoon he was dead on arrival at the animal hospital.

They resuscitated him after fourteen minutes; the vet said normally they'd have stopped by then but he was really fighting to survive. He just turned ten, we all thought he'd live to twenty. He seemed healthy, he still played like a kitten, I've always been so cautious with any of his health problems, and he's always turned out fine. I was expecting a long, slow illness. I was expecting arthritis and blindness and contraindicated treatments and watching him every day trying to decide if he still had a good quality of life. I put his weight in my diary last week, expecting to weigh him every month just so I knew exactly what was happening.

He had an undetected mass near his liver that ruptured. There's nothing we should have done differently; he was just unlucky. When I think about how much pain he was in last night I want to die. I guess we'll never know but it seems possible that he should have been euthanized yesterday.

When my eldest nephew was twelve, his great grandfather—my poppy—died. We've always had open casket funerals. When my nephew saw the body he said "He doesn't look like he's sleeping. He looks dead." He's entirely right. Dead people look dead.

Chekhov has only been dead for about six hours. Rigor mortis has set in; he's curled up on his side like he was in the car, in my lap. I had to put him down in a chair when I got home; I had a fucking brutal and wildly unfair migraine and all I wanted was to hold onto him but instead I was curled up on the shower floor, in too much pain to even go and get the drugs to stop the pain. But he was curled up in his favourite chair and rigor mortis froze him in that position and he just looks like he's sleeping. He reminds me of the only other time he's been seriously ill, when he looked like he'd aged a decade in the space of a week, all beaten up and patchy shaved fur.

I literally can't imagine the future without him. I can't imagine this house without him. He's such an enormous part of my life. I can't begin to explain how much. It's like the concept of time just disappeared. I keep thinking about that w h auden poem:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

...

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

[thegeminisage]

ok, tng update before bed because Holy Fuck. earlier tonight i did "symbiosis" and then we did "skin of evil" together

symbiosis: the premise of this was kind of interesting actually. one angle i wish they'd gone into was if picard DOES tell the ornarans that the "medicine" is really just drugs then the brekkians have no means to survive on their own and they will die. would they deserve it? almost definitely, but it still goes against the prime directive. so picard giving them ample warning - by letting them know that soon the freighters will be unreparable and the ornarans will figure out the game on their own - at least gives them time to start learning to farm or whatever so they can survive without the ornarans's help. he actually saved both planets, however undeserving, with his solution. only they didn't even go into that side of it. AND ALSO literally not even one person was happy with it which was kind of hilarious

HOWEVER. once we veered into wesley and tashas Very Special Episode About Drugs moments i did start scream laughing. truly hysterical. thank you tasha for explaining narcotic abuse to me <3 i didn't know how any of it worked <3

i did actually like dr crusher in this episode. well, no, i had mixed feelings. absolutely she was right to be disgusted and reviled by what the brekkians were doing. absolutely it was in character for her, a doctor, to strongly morally object to anything that leaves exploited people in pain when she can do something about it. bones would have objected if picard was doing it. but somehow it STILL felt like an "emotional woman" thing. obviously it's very subjective. and i do REALLY love that she got to have an opinion about something that wasn't being a woman, a widow, or a mother. but something about the execution left me wanting a LITTLE bit more.

none of this was helped by picard mansplaining the prime directive to her in the elevator btw. like i could have almost given it a pass if not for that last scene. i know what he's really doing is explaining it to us the audience but come onnnnn. i feel this show really needs a spock and the spock needs to be a girl. someone to be ruthless with logic to offset the emotional woman dr crusher and the emotional woman deanna (it is quite literally in her job description i know this and i love her but we need some variety here).

skin of evil: girl. what.

ok. i did love the little slime man. i loved how evil he was and i loved deanna being able to just talk him to death essentially. i really liked deanna that one time she stormed out of the room but she's hardly ever given anything to do except emote/state the obvious (deanna about a transparently shady guy: "i feel much deception, captain!") and i really am genuinely happy when she gets stuff to do bc i am a deanna enjoyer.

and i loved throwing riker into the slime! go into the soup boy. get vored idiot. etc. real sad that nobody got possessed but the slime monster was the best monster of the week we've had so far. 10/10 i love a goopy boy.

but what in GODS. NAME.

like. tasha died SO unceremoniously we were both expecting her to be brought back before the end

and then her funeral was like TWENTY MINUTES LONG like it just KEPT GOING when i was still absorbing the fact that they killed her off fr

also. "DEANNA YOU TAUGHT ME I COULD BE FEMININE"? SCREAM? SHE OF THE LESBIAN SWAG WHO INEXPLICABLY KEEPS BANGING MEN?

ik they killed her bc her actress wanted to leave. which is a true janice rand of a situation. women i'm so sorry. but also did they just slutshame her to death? like she flirted with worf and it was cute but did they decide enough was enough and just punt her outta there?

ik dr crusher isnt in season 2 and now tasha isnt either...like, ik i said put the women back on the shelf until you can treat them really niceys but what kind of godawful boys only club are we having next season.......

again, women. i'm so sorry. the slime monster was so good but the bookends of that episode, which involve tasha yar's poorly written death, were AWFUL. what a horrible way to go.

OH YEAH AND. them doing that to geordi was sooo horrible. i like how data helped him even though he was told not to and then refused to help him to amuse the slime guy. data and geordi being besties is so important to me and i love geordi so so so so so much and if anybody EVER touches his visor again i'll kill them. i will KILL THEM.

next i do "we'll always have paris" alone, then tomorrow night we do "conspiracy" and "the neutral zone" together

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

You guys really liked this little post just to tell my followers why I was busy, so here's a little bit more information for those who might not know, and a little of my own personal experience:

Yesterday I graduated from Boston University, and about two weeks before our commencement ceremony we were told that our speaker was to be David Zaslav. Zaslav is the CEO of Warner Bros. Discovery, and one of the main people who the WGA (Writers Guild of America) are striking against currently. Zaslav got paid $39.3 million last year alone.

One of my lovely besties and roommate (found here on the fifth slide of the Boston Globe) was the president of the BU YDSA (Young Democratic Socialists of America) and they went right to work. They had a letter writing campaign going to let the university know we were displeased. In my personal experience, everyone I talked to was upset about it (granted, I do keep a fairly based crowd around me). The reaction to the announcement at senior breakfast was very tepid, and people kept mentioning it at parties and classes. Everyone I heard said they were disappointed and wished there was something to do.

The BU YDSA got in contact with WGA East and the Boston chapter of the DSA and they coordinated the picket that resulted. The YDSA held a cap decorating event, wrote up a chant list, and posted constantly about standing and turning your back to Zaslav when he gave his speech. This is what we did.

Actual commencement (which was hot and sweaty as fuck), was pretty fine. Ketanji Brown Jackson was a major highlight, and received almost deafening applause and a standing ovation. I had heard many people comment that they were upset that she didn't deliver our speech. Another huge highlight was the plane that flew circles over us for about 30-45 minutes, displaying its lovely "David Zaslav - pay your writers" banner which everyone appreciated.

I know me, the friends I was sitting with, and the people we heard around us spent the entire ceremony waiting for Zaslav to come out. The girl behind me (the girl in the ew, David hat) was like "is he coming, is that him," five or six times which was very funny.

When he did come out, the booing was the loudest it would be the whole time. About twenty students walked out from what I heard. I can't tell you how many of us stood up because I couldn't see much from where I was, but I can tell you that even more people were showing decorated caps, chanting along with us, and booing loudly. I think the pictures show a few of us when the displeasure felt like it came from the large majority. One guy a few rows behind me took his chair, fully spun it around, and sat down facing the other way. The ew, David girl behind me told people "if you believe in it, stand!" The majority of the speech was people starting up chants or screaming insults at particularly funny moments, which is why I was laughing in that video lol. At one point a guy a few rows ahead of me tried to start a chant "don't ruin my graduation" at us but he did not get any fellow chanters.

Zaslav mentioned famed union buster and all around d-bag Jack Welch as an inspiration and a mentor, which my Dad clocked and noted at five miles away. Zaslav described himself as never letting anyone work harder than him, used struggling at tennis and then getting a famous tennis player as a mentor as an example of struggle and perseverance, and even said he personally hated writing when he was doing it. He also drew a lot of confusion from my lovely friends beside me for saying "Go to your sons baseball game. Go to your friends dads funeral," which made my delightful friend Sandya beside me eloquently say "What the fuck does that mean?"

My parents and my brother all immediately told me the speech to them seemed intentionally antagonistic, and that Zaslav seemed to be enjoying it. My dad insists there is no other reason he would mention the word write about like 20 times.

As someone on the BU reddit so succinctly put it today, "What did yall achieve tho? ... Seems like nothing was done. Just got some superficial news stories that will do nothing to anybody's reputation."

The amount of people I've seen on the BU reddit, and in my personal life who are now aware of the strike because of the protest is astonishing to me. They are asking questions, they are engaged, and even more importantly, they are following the strike and paying attention to the issue. Even if only one person took something away and learned from it, then it was worth it. Solidarity forever, here are some fun BU reddit screenshots of student thoughts, mine are in red:

Okay I’m back home and I’m back in business babes. I was BUSy.

Das me.

[copperhead-assorted-crafts]

Ryan and Mandy both showed up at a record breaking 10:13 AM. That wasn't just late - that was missing appointments late. That was considering discounted service late. 

"What happened?" Jake asked. A handful of people had opted to wait for them to come in - one had an appointment at 9 AM and was genuinely angry, and his kid had been trying to pick leaves off their fake fiddle leaf fig for the past twenty minutes once their iPad ran out of battery. The cops weren't happy either. 

"Fucking - traffic," Ryan hissed at Mandy. She trailed behind him, her hands in the air like she wanted to grab at him but wasn't quite willing to. 

"Sir, we've got some questions-" the officer started, but Ryan kept walking to his office. 

"I've been waiting for an hour already!" The man from before complained. 

Jake started tapping his foot again, glancing nervously between Mandy, the hall, and the police. 

"What happened?" He asked again. Mandy frowned and shook her head, and gestured to the police to come to the back. 

"Just - put a sign up or something, we're having an emergency here," Ryan called down the hall. 

Jake's stomach sank. 

"Ryan, they've been waiting-" 

"They can wait a little longer, I've got to deal with this," Ryan interrupted. 

"Un-fucking-believable," the man muttered, before grabbing his child and storming out the door. 

"So, what, we're just not going to get the- the- my… sister back in time for the funeral?" The other set of people who'd been waiting had an appointment at 9:30, so they weren't as catastrophically delayed.

"I - I don't know, I'm so sorry-" 

He sighed and rubbed his brow. 

"I'm not leaving," she said. 

Ryan nodded. "I'm sure he didn't mean that, he's never done that before," he said, mostly trying to soothe himself. After sitting back down at his still out-of-sorts desk, he realized he'd started sweating through his shirt. 

His computer's email dinged - they had a one-star review. From the description, it was the guy who'd just left. 

A crash reverberated down the hall. 

[carolmunson]

peanut butter vibe. (steve harrington x thick!reader)

fulfilling my own request for mean!hot!thick!reader and hot!rich!wealthy!corporate!steve harrington who is not so secretly in love with you. takes place in 1996 - reader and steve are 29 turning 30

word count: 10.2K

warnings: 18+ minors dni, f!reader, smut smut smut smut, there is smut everywere in this. from flashback smut to actual smut, they've BEEN fucking. mild daddy kink, face sitting, face riding, unprotected p in v sex, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), references to shower sex. body type mention, very little body insecurity mention, reference to an ex boyfriend saying reader was 'too big' for something but it's not like -- something that they take into consideration. dirty talk, pet names (honey, baby, 'good girl' etc.), mild choking, steve is so bitchy but also so soft in this i hate him.

"Hi Stevie, it's me. I'm uh, I'm back a little early, Carly's having her baby soon -- I know it was a little weird last time with Andy being with me. We um, we broke up so he's not here this time. It wasn't like a big blow out or anything but -- why am I talking about this on your answering machine? Sorry. I'll be at Porter's tonight around 6 if you wanted to meet me there? It'd be cool to see you, I guess. -sigh- It's hard to bully you when you aren't responding. Anyway, bye -- I know you'll be there at 5:57 because you can't wait to see me."

Steve let out a sigh while the answering machine closed out with a beep, the robotic voice announcing 'End of Messages'. He took his glasses off and ran a hand over his face, tossing a look at the clock on the wall across from him. It was almost quitting time, and Porter's was only a twenty minute drive away from the office. Part of him selfishly didn't want to show up, or maybe show up a little late to make you sweat since you'd forced him to meet your boyfriend last time. Well, ex boyfriend now.

You and Steve weren't friends in high school. He was busy being King Steve, basketball playing jock covered in ladies and popular people. You were busy in drama club and creative writing in the library, protecting your friends from people like Steve. Sure you knew each other, you graduated in the same year, had a couple of classes together -- but neither of you were very interested in offering each other the time of day. Two incredibly different ships passing in the night.

You weren't Steve's type in high school, either. Steve was always caught with what you'd describe as 'pretty little things'. Girls with waists he could wrap his hands around, thin and toned thighs, girls with a little jiggle where it mattered the most and none where it didn't. The girl's wearing bikini's to his house parties when the pool was open. Maybe if you had looked like that, you would've known Steve in high school -- but then again, he wasn't really the kind of guy you were trying to hail down in Hawkins.

When you weren't getting finger blasted backstage by Eddie 'The Freak' Munson when he got to the theater too early for Hellfire Club, you were making eyes at college freshman at the coffee shop you worked at. Something about slightly older men, y'know? A little mature, a little more sure of themselves. Pouring over books and scribbling in their notebooks behind their frames, staying until close to finish a paper or study for an exam. You had one or two wrapped around your finger your senior year before you left to go to school in Chicago. After Chicago it was New York -- working in marketing for a cosmetics line.

You'd come back to Hawkins every year for the holidays, but one year when your grandfather passed away you ended up at Porter's after the funeral. You were 24 and heartbroken, nursing a glass of red wine, looking out of place in your Manhattan clothes in the cozy small town bar.

You were alone at the stools until Steve Harrington came through the door, suit jacket slung over his shoulder and tie loosened over his button down. He nodded at the bar tender who instinctively poured him a whiskey before he even made it to the barstool two over from you.

"Rough day, Harrington?" he asked, sliding the drink down to him.

"You wouldn't believe, Paul," he shook his head, carding his fingers through his hair. He rested his chin on one hand, propped up on his elbow, catching your movement in the corner of his eye. He turned his head and looked over at you, a endearing smile lighting up his tired face -- that Harrington charm.

"What about you? Rough day?" he asked. At first you didn't realize he was talking to you, looking down into your wine and listening to the drone of whatever sports game was on the TV. You were brought back to earth when a soft 'hey' came from his direction.

"Me? Oh, yeah. My grandpa's funeral," you said with a scrunched face, shrugging, "Sort of a huge downer."

"Oh, wow," Steve said, turning his full body towards you on the stool, "Sorry for your loss -- that's -- yeah that beats my day. Sorry about that."

You murmur a thank you and go back to your wine, hearing him shift in his seat.

"You look really familiar," he says gently, scanning your face.

"We went to high school together," you say with a smile after a sip of your Malbec, "Class of '85."

"Hawkins High? You sure?," his voice gets a little syrupy, "I think I'd remember you."

"I was in drama -- wasn't really your type," you say with a smart head tilt. It didn't bother you that you hadn't been. The same way it didn't bother you that you might've been his type now.

You spent three hours together talking at the bar, exchanging stories about high school and your years out of it. He told you how he just started on the sales team for some big insurance company and felt so out of his depth but at least he got to wear a suit. You told him about your dingy apartment in the Lower East Side and how you missed driving all the time.

You spent another hour fucking in his BMW, riding him in the back seat tucked in a dark corner of the Porter's empty parking lot. Your skirt pushed up over your hips.

"Fuck," Steve grunted through gritted teeth, splayed out in the center of the back seat, his legs as far out as that could go, "Y'feel so fucking good. So fucking good on top of me."

You whimpered in response, the curve of his cock hitting your spongey, sensitive g-spot with every bounce. Your grip on his shoulders tightened as his hands moved smoothly over your thighs, finger tips digging into your fleshy hips when he got your reflection in the rear view mirror. Rear view, indeed. He let his eyes rest on the reverberation of your ass coming down on his hips and big legs with each shove down on his cock. The wet smack! of is crotch hitting against your soaked pussy making him want to fuck you even harder. He kneaded your body in his hands, grabbing handfuls of you as he got to your backside, humming while he felt it shake just out of his grasp.

You yelped when his warm palm cracked down on it, an angry sting running through your lower body. You couldn't help but tighten around him, slick dripping over him between your legs.

"Hm, you like that? You like when I smack that fucking ass?" he asked, holding your hips down so he could buck into you with a faster speed. Groaning while he pumped with vigor, you hear another hard crack on your ass resounding in the backseat before you feel the burn of it. Your whines made his cock twitch, slowing down to feel your hips grinding desperately against him for more friction. You slapped your palms gently against his clothed chest, pouting as you shimmied for more of his assault against your aching cunt.

“You love this cock, huh? Look at you, so fuckin' needy for it,” he gloated while your eyes narrowed in on him. Oh no, you weren't about to give Steve Harrington the satisfaction of telling him how fucking amazing his dick felt plowing into you. You weren't about to admit that all the things girls would say about him in high school were true. You reached for his jaw, holding it tight in your hand to look down at him while his hips slowed to a stop. He looked up at you, his eyes a little glassy, his grip loosening on your hips.

“Shut - your mouth,” you hissed down at him. He flushes, a smirk slips onto his lips as he leans back, putting his hands behind his head, his elbows splayed out next to him.

"Yes ma'am," he says with a soft raise to his eyebrows.

"If you'd like," he starts, taking his glasses off and tucking them into his breast pocket. He looks unbothered by your act of dominance while he runs a hand through his hair and leans forward to close the gap between you. His hands digging firmly into your ass to keep you balanced on his thighs.

His lips ghost yours while he speaks low and huskily, "I can take you back to mine and show you all the other ways I know how to use it."

He ate your pussy with the lights on and gave you his number before driving you back to your place.

'I like talking to you,' he shrugged, 'Call me whenever.'

And so began a so far, five year friendship -- you'd have long phone calls every few weeks or months when your busy schedules allowed. Staying updated on each other: how work was going, what bad dates you both had been on, what hijinks you'd been getting into with friends. Promotions, birthdays, hardships. It was nice to have a friend from home, someone who sort of knew the people you knew before you left. Nice to gossip a little, nice to laugh with each other.

Every time you came back to Hawkins, you'd meet up at Porter's for a drink. Have a real talk like you did the first night you got to know each other and then somehow, for some reason, you'd end up back at his place.

"What'd I say? Right on time, Harrington," you call out when he comes through the door. Steve groans, looking at his watch -- 5:57 on the dot. He'd had a long day, he was tired, and for a moment the sound of your voice made him grit his teeth.

You watch him check his watch and his smile tightens. He looks good -- suit much more refined from when you first really met him five years ago. Tailored, in a color that compliments his skin, his tie perfectly kept to his chest with what you assume was a pricey tie clip, shoes shined. He'd fit in great on Wall Street if he'd just get a fucking hair cut.

The way he walks towards you holds a different confidence than it had in the last year and a half when you were with Andy. Though it was clear he didn't particularly like Andy, he was perfectly pleasant -- able to slip right into a cadence of faux friendship you only wished Andy could've done. You once him over a second time as he sits in the stool next to you, his cologne was new, but expected. It felt like every man you knew was wearing Aqua di Gio.

"I know you're always so desperate to impress me but I gotta say, you look a little overdressed for Porter's. Were you nervous or something?" you ask sweetly, sipping on your red wine. You slide a whiskey double infront of him and he looks down at it, a frustrated smile breaks against his face. He bites the tip of his tongue between his teeth, shaking his head -- his hair moves with him.

"Looks like you didn't bother getting dressed up for me at all," he bites back, "C'mon, Manhattan -- a Hawkins High sweatshirt?"

Manhattan -- his favorite nick name when you got too big for your britches. A little too snobby for his liking, which was funny coming from a man with more designer clothing than you could dream to afford.

You looked down at yourself, you'd stolen the sweatshirt from your little sister -- your original one too battered and stained to see the light of day again. Sure, maybe your light wash bootcut jeans weren't screaming high fashion but your black square toed boots were cute! You swore you looked good before you left, but suddenly you weren't sure. You'd fallen off dressing 'nice' when you were home, it just wasn't worth it.

"Okay, mean," you spit, not giving off offense -- but not hiding it either.

"I like the boots, though," he shrugs, lifting the tumbler to his lips. The golden brown of the whiskey matched his eyes, they seemed to soften as the liquid met his mouth.

"Top shelf?" Steve's teeth are bright and straight in his smile while he sets the glass down.

"Do I ever disappoint?" you ask, crossing your legs. He burns pink at the question.

"Never," he's earnest in his response, finally making full eye contact with you, "You staying through the holidays?"

"Just for a few days, then heading back to wrap up Q4, I'll be back on the 23rd like always," you say. He nods and stands up, scooting his bar stool closer to yours -- just enough that your knees brushed. He leans forward, acting like it's too loud to hear you but the bar is only half full. You lean forward too, resting your chin on your hand, elbow drilling into your crossed thighs.

"And how's Carly?" he asks, you can see the delicate five o'clock shadow peeking through on his chin and neck. His lips full and wet with whiskey, he slides his tongue over them slowly to collect the flavor.

"So over being pregnant," you roll your eyes over your older sister's dramatics, "But you know -- she's excited. I'm excited, too! I get to live out my dreams of being the mysterious, hot, rich aunt."

"So, what -- Andy didn't want to be the rich uncle?" he asks, you note that he drops 'mysterious' and 'hot'. The mention of Andy stings a little and your eyes droop down to your wine.

"Sorry," he says, his comforting hand falling on your knee, "I'm sorry."

He squeezes your knee when you don't look up at his apology, a beat passes while you contemplate saying something mean -- but it's a little nice to see him feel apologetic.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks, his thumb soothingly running back and forth over your thigh as his hand moves further up. Steve frowns at your disappointed face, he hated crossing the line by accident.

You shake your head no, tilting your head back up, "Let's wait on that. I wanna hear about that big promotion you got -- we haven't really gotten to talk about it."

Steve got promoted to Director of Sales six months ago and it was kicking his ass way less than his previous management position. What was most exhausting was how incompetent everyone was.

"Well, you were kind of too busy --" he started, but quickly shook his head out of the bit, "It's fine, it's a lot of work -- god, no one ever knows what they're doing. A lot of directing going into this director of sales thing."

"Aww, my little scumbag -- running the insurance show," you coo, "You should do car sales next, so sleazy, you'll fit right in."

"You're somethin' else, tonight," he laughs, taking his hand off your leg, "And are you any better? Working for a company that tells women they're ugly so they'll buy all your shit? How's it going at L'Oreal anyway?"

You sigh and roll yours eyes, "More like L'Ore-hell. I just transferred into the marketing team from customer insights and it's somehow -- boring? I already know the answers to all of the problems they come up with. It's like they don't know who their customer base is."

Steve's eyes sparkle while you continue to rant about ROIs and think tanks, he loves when you talk about how much you hate your job. You get so passionate, you talk so fast he can barely keep up.

"I wish I could check your blood pressue right now," he jokes, it's the kind of joke adults make. Sometimes it feels like you're both playing the parts of adults at these bar hang outs -- two kids in their parent's clothes on barstools, just giggling.

"When I went to the doctor they had to check it twice because I was talking about work when they checked it the first time -- that's how stressed out it makes me," you huff.

"Sorry, I just made that all about me, can you please let me more about your director job -- are you at least happy about the promotion?" you ask.

You miss his hand on your leg but it's probably just the wine talking. Paul comes over to replenish the glass without asking, you and Steve were both two drinks and go kind of people (sometimes you'd sneak a third if he wasn't paying attention).

"I mean, sure -- I'm a step away from getting into a chair position. I'm making more money than I know what to do with. My dad is thrilled for the first time ever," he explains, always so expressive but you catch him nervously swipe through his hair, "But -- fuck...y'know?"

"I don't know," you laugh into your glass, "What do you mean, 'fuck'?"

"I'm gonna be thirty next year and like, what do I have to show for it other than --"

"Other than being a wealthy hometown high school basketball super star, swimming in pussy, who got a cushy office job two years after graduating because your daddy was tired of seeing you work at Family Video, and now is the director of sales at a big wig insurance company after only what -- seven years in the company? And wears designer suits and is still swimming in pussy?" you say in one breath. He sighs at you and leans his head into his hand, elbow resting on the bar.

"Sure -- I guess," he smiles, but it's a sad smile.

"What more do you want, Steve?" you ask with a shrug, "You've got a pretty sweet deal here."

"I don't know," he shrugs, "I mean look at you -- every time you come back you have a new story to tell me, something exciting that happened to you. I have -- pfft -- 'They hired a new secretary! Here's the gossip about other people in Hawkins I learned from my mom! I'm still sort of a loser!"

"I mean sure, yeah, you're a loser," you agree, "But not, y'know, not like -- in the bad way."

He tosses you a look but you smile back at it, making him smile back at you. This time it's genuine, you figure the whiskey is helping. Steve sits back up to full height and leans back in his bar stool, knees splaying out. If he took his suit jacket off you'd swear he'd look like one of those 1950's husbands whose a little annoyed that dinner isn't ready yet -- your thighs press tight together.

"I think you sound bored," you suggest, "Like you need something different."

He drums his fingers on the bar, staring at them while he speaks, "I have some options I've been thinking about, but I don't know. Don't wanna make a fool of myself if it doesn't work out."

"Don't wait too long," you say with a shrug, "Another ten years will fly by like that." You snap your fingers for emphasis.

"What happened with Andy?" he presses, sipping his whiskey to down the rest and putting the empty glass on the table.

You 'ugh' under your breath and take a big sip of wine before you feel him tug at the end of the stem, "Sloooow down. Don't wanna to have to carry you out of here."

"You couldn't carry me, Harrington," you say flatly.

"We both know that I can carry you, but okay," he says with a quirked brow, unimpressed with your attitude. The memory of him hoisting you up against the shower tile in his bathroom with your fleshy thighs wrapped tight around him flashes through your mind. Hot breath and hot water running all over you while he grunted into your ear with each desperate thrust. Steve notices your cheeks heat up -- he knows what you're thinking about, because he is too. A satisfied smile settles onto his lips.

"Alright, settle down," you say, pushing your glass a little away from you towards Steve while his next whiskey arrives. You aren't sure if you're talking to him or to yourself.

"I just..." you breathe out of your nose, "It wasn't working out. I was tired of taking care of him."

"Oh, you broke up with him?" Steve confirms.

"Yeah," you sit back a bit, furrowing your brow, "Did you think he broke up with me?"

"I don't know, you seemed really sad about it!" Steve says, his hands outstretched, "I thought he left you."

"He didn't," you say, "I left, but it's still a bummer. Thought maybe he could've been it, y'know? But, thinking back it would've been -- I don't know -- it wasn't going to happen."

"He didn't want to get married?" he asked, a little surprised.

"I don't think that was in his five year plan, he barely took me out to dinner," you complained, "I was paying for everything 'cause I had a better job."

Steve crossed his arms while you talked, frowning while you continued to ramble about Andy and the break up.

"I just felt like I was putting a lot of effort into him, and I wasn't getting anything in return," you shrug, "And like, that's okay. I'm so used to doing that but...I don't know, I think I just would like for someone to take care of me for a change."

You pause, considering what you said and shake your head, "That sounds so selfish, oh my god."

"I don't think it sounds selfish at all," Steve shakes his head, "I think you're sort of asking for the bare minimum -- I mean fuck, he didn't take you out to dinner? I've taken you out to dinner and you've never even been my..."

You're both quiet for a beat while he trails off, neither of you looking at each other. You reach for your wine and he moves the glass away just as your fingers graze the stem. You lift your butt of the stool and pluck it out of his hand, taking another - smaller - sip. He looks at you like a disappointed father.

"Maybe I wanted to try it? Ugh, you're right Manhattan, you're so selfish," Steve teased.

"You don't like Malbec, Stevie," you swirl the booze in your glass, "That's why I order it."

Steve knows that's why you order Malbec, that's why he kept ordering whiskey -- you don't like it, but he'll know you're getting a little drunk if you ask for a sip of his drink. That's when he knows it's time to take you home, he'd sleep with you another night. He doesn't want you to get too drunk tonight, something about your flushed cheeks. The way you look in those boot cut jeans -- especially when you excused yourself to the bathroom and he could watch you walk away. Whew.

Steve waits for the door to close behind you to hail down Paul to get the check.

"She's gonna get pissy that you're covering it," Paul said while passing him the bill for your drinks, "She told me not to let you pay when she got here."

"Paul -- What's she gonna do? Kill me?" he gestures his hand out while using the other to reach for his wallet. He pulls out a few bills, including a generous tip, and passes them to Paul indiscreetly.

"Steve -- come on!" He winces at your voice, "I told you last time I had it next!"

"My hand slipped -- suddenly the money just appeared in Paul's register, there was nothing I could do," Steve held his hands up.

"Paul!" you call down the bar, but the yell turns into a laugh, "You promised you wouldn't let him pay!"

"He threatened me within an inch of my life. Had to let the man do what he wants," Paul said, putting the cash in the register. You settle back into your stool and cross your legs again, smoothing your damp hands on your jeans.

"I'm gonna kill you, Harrington," you mutter to your knees.

"I feel like 'thank you' would've been a much nicer thing to say," he's always so cool when he talks. You envy how easy it is for him to be charming, to turn it on quickly. Sometimes he makes you feel nervous and seventeen again, even though you've done this so many times before. He looks at you over the whiskey glass while he sips it, eyes glittering behind his glasses. Neither of you have to say anything to know what happens after his finishes his drink.

When you left, he reached for your hand when the door to Porter's closed behind you. You didn't need the support, the parking lot wasn't icy or snow covered, you weren't drunk -- but you let his fingers lace with yours. He guides you deliberately to his car -- of course it's new -- a dark green Porsche 911. What a tool.

"You like my new toy?" he asked. It was easily the most expensive car you'd seen in Indiana.

"Steven," you're a little exasperated -- sometimes he was such a poor little rich boy, "Why?"

He shrugs, "Felt like it."

You let go of his hand to walk to the passengers side door, waiting for him to unlock it while you shiver. He notices you didn't have a coat on, shaming himself silently for not offering his trench for the short walk.

You both get in when he unlocks to doors and you eye the interior, the plush leather of the seats. You squint a little when you cast your eyes over to him, "I feel like you're compensating for something."

"Oh yeah?" he asks casually, starting the car and cranking the heat, "What am I compensating for? Wanna remind me?"

You cross your arms and don't answer because he doesn't have anything to compensate for. Steve Harrington was born blessed, if you were more religious you'd swear he was God's favorite.

"That's what I thought," he says with a grin while pulling out of the parking lot. His hand meets your head rest while he stretches his neck back to check for cars. The same hand falls to your thigh when you make it on the road, sliding his palm over the swell of it -- his fingers resting inside. He let his eyes glance at how your hips filled up the small passengers seat at a red light, your jeans tight over your thighs.

Steve gave you a soft squeeze when the light turned green, you put your hand over his hand at the gesture -- relacing your fingers. You don't notice the gentle smile blooming onto his face, too busy looking at Christmas lights on the houses outside.

--

You don't waste time when you both get into his house, slipping off your shoes at the entry way -- bolstering passed the darkened livingroom to the stairs in his mini-mansion. He follows quickly behind you, getting ahead of you to get into his room to turn on the bedside lamps.

"Are those new?" you whisper -- it's not like anyone is home, it's Steve's house, but the darkness makes you feel like you have to be quiet. He comes back over to you, quick on his socked feet and pulls you in for a feverish kiss.

"Yeah," he says between kisses, all harsh breaths and wet clicks, "I had a new -- mmm -- uh fuck -- new decorator come in."

His hands are wound in your hair while he keeps control of your head, his kisses go from fast and hungry to slow and controlled.

"I'll show you later," he mumbles against your lips. You nod in agreement, you did genuinely want to see. What fancy hotel was it based off of this time?

"This is okay, right?" he asks, pulling away, "I'm sorry I didn't ask I just -- old habits, I guess."

"It's okay, Stevie," you assure, his hands slipping out of your hair and onto your full cheeks. He squishes them together a little and smiles into a little chuckle. Sometimes you're so cute to him he can't stand it, he wants to eat you whole -- wants to keep you in his bed forever.

"Good," he mumbles again before settling back in for a deep kiss that leaves you moaning softly into his mouth, "Missed feeling you like this."

"You're so needy," you tease, his hands dropping from your face to your hips, feeling his own press against yours.

"Oh, you feel that?" he smirks, dick hard in his slacks -- straining despterately to get your attention.

"Needier than I thought," you scoff, "You gonna make it, Steve? You don't even have your jacket off yet."

"Watch your mouth," it's not mean when he says it, he likes when you tease him because you have nothing to back it up. You've never left unsatisfied -- even when you were on top calling him your 'sweet boy', you'd get in the shower after with your legs shaking. Shivering against him when he'd get on his knees and lick at your sensitive clit just to watch you leave hand print on the glass.

"You just sound so pretty, miss. I can't help myself," he'd say from below you, water droplets resting on his eyelashes while you gushed over his mouth.

Steve breaks away to take off his jacket and looks at it for a split second -- hesitating.

"You wanna hang it up, huh?" you know how he gets.

"Will you be mad? I just don't want it to crease," he pleads.

"You're gonna get the suit dry cleaned anyway," you say back, laughing.

"I know, I know, but I have to -- I just have to hang it up, I'm so sorry," he presses a chaste peck to your lips before disappearing into his walk in closet. You take your time getting undressed because you know he'll be at least seven to nine minutes while he puts everything back in the 'to be dry cleaned' part of the closet.

You keep your bra and panties on, white satin, a little lace. He's always a sucker for something angelic that's a little grown up -- but you guess you are grown ups now. It's weird to consider.

He emerges from the closet in his boxer breifs with a frown, "Why'd you take your clothes off without me?"

"You took your clothes off without me," you counter point, "Did you want me to just sit here and wait for you?"

"Kinda," he says with a half shrug, "Would've been nice."

You get a little giddy while he approaches you, his smile building when yours does. His hands skate over the flesh on top of your flared ribs, over to your back. His fingers gliding over the back strap of your bra before snapping it off of you, dropping it to the floor. He traces the indents on your skin from the clothing, red and raw. Big hands grope at your breasts before following the slope of your waist back down to your ass, filling his hands greedily.

"Missed her the most," another chaste kiss to your lips, "But I think you knew that." Steve had always thought he was a tits guy until he met you, maybe you were the exception. Maybe he liked all your parts.

"I knew that," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck, "Can you stop stalling, Harrington? This wine's gonna wear off soon."

With your hold on his neck, laying you back on the mattress was an easy feat. He spread you out wide, pushing your hands above your head while he settled his hips against yours. He couldn't help himself from starting to rut against you -- you were so warm, your pussy practically begging him to fuck you.

"Ooh," you moaned out against your better wishes, his covered cock giving you just enough friction in your panties to set you ablaze. You could feel yourself dripping into them, begging, waiting for him.

"You really want me tonight, huh?" he asked hungrily, knowing the answer.

"Y-yes, Stevie," you whined, letting go of his hands to let your nails graze down his back, feeling the length of him trapped in his boxers press against you.

"Oh-ho-ho, whose needy now, hm?" he teases in your ear, grinding mercilessly against you, his chest pressed up against yours while he keeps you pinned the the mattress.

"So quick with that tongue earlier, what happened?" he smirks, getting right in your face, brushing his nose against yours. You roll your hips against his, your thighs sliding against his hips as another mewl escapes you at the friction.

"Oh, I see. You wanna be good for daddy now, don't you?"

"Steven," your eyes pop open, your mouth gapes with a smile, "You can't just say stuff like that."

He laughs into a kiss on your neck, "C'mon, I think you liked it."

"I don't really think you're the 'daddy', type," you say, your voice taunting.

"No?" he asks his voice is calm, but his eyes are challenging you.

"No, you're too nice," you smirk while he comes up to kiss your mouth, "You've never won a fight in your life. And you're what, almost 30? Who're you bossin' around?"

He watches you raise a brow when you say it, your lower lip tucking slowly between your teeth in a grin -- god he loves when you do that.

"Lot of secretaries to go through in the office, mmm," he hums when your lips graze his neck, your tongue striping up to his jaw, "Learned a couple things."

"You think I can't boss you around?" he asks, pressing up off of you and leaning onto one of his forearms.

"I know you can't boss me around," you say, your brows quirking while you push at his chest to get on top of him like you always do. Already soaking at the thought of him whining for you to fuck him, to cum all over him, grabbing at your thighs, hips, and ass desperately. His heaving breaths after finishing, resting his head on your stomach while you stroked his hair, feeling his lips press against your soft, pudgy, belly to let you know he's ready for the next round.

He caught your wrist as you pushed and pressed it back down into the mattress.

"Oh c'mon Stevie, I love hearing you beg for me," you tease before he presses his mouth against yours, noses squishing together. Over the years, Steve craved closeness from you -- pulling you flush against his chest when you were on top, wrapping his arms around your back. Clutching you, fingertips sinking into your cloud-soft flesh while you moaned into his ear.

"Think you can beg for me for a change," he mutters, pulling away as you reach to kiss him again. A little whine pulls from your throat and he purrs at the sound. Right where he wants you.

He gets on his knees between your legs and looks down at you, eyes roaming the expanse of your body -- your broad shoulders, soft skin, delicate curves and indents. His personal Aphrodite -- flesh turned fine art. All the Rennaissance paintings in the world couldn't do you justice. He stuttered the first time he saw you naked, overwhelmed by you and how not shy you were for him to see you. Steve let's a finger trail along the lining of your silk panties at your thigh, you shiver at his soft touch.

"Take these off," he says, but it comes out as a demand.

"So mean," you tease, tugging at the elastic and lifting your hips up to push them over your butt and thighs. He shrugs off your jest, grabbing your underwear when they get too far down for you to reach and throwing them on the floor. He's rough when he flips you over to your stomach, the flesh of your ass bouncing with the movement and he salivates immediately.

"I'll show you mean," he says, it's more playful than menacing. He brings a hand down hard on your soft body, ass reverberating with the action and you gasp -- tensing all around.

"Ow -- Steve!" you cry out, trying to catch your breath.

“Oh, shit,” he smooths over the pink handprint blooming on your skin, “I’m sorry.”

"It's okay, it's fine, just -- I don't know, warn a girl," you laugh. His hand drags over the curve of your ass to your thigh.

"Did you like that?" he asked, his voice dropped to his lower register and you inadvertently press your thighs together. Your face drops into your arms on the mattress, blushing.

"Is that a yes?" he asks, fingers snaking to your inner thigh and your hips roll slowly at the feeling. He hums when he sees you nod into your forearms.

"On your knees, baby," he suggests, tapping your thigh. You adjust onto your knees, forearms still on the mattress in a perfect deep arch. He sits back at first, taking a moment to marvel at your ass in the air -- committing it to memory. He keeps his hand on your inner thigh, massaging gently while you settle into position.

"Open up a little more for me," he's gentle, pushing at your flesh so you open up wider. You adjust and he grins, sliding his boxers off -- you whimper when he does.

"You okay?" his voice laces with acute concern, it wasn't a sexy whine or cry like you usually do. He stands up so he can soothe you from the side of the bed, his hand smoothing over your back.

"I thought you were gonna -- I didn't know we were immediately gonna fuck," you say, leaning your face to the side to look at him.

"Oh no - I wasn't just gonna - when have I ever just gone in and fucked you?" he laughs, "I just wanna jerk off while you sit on my face, is that okay?"

"So much for me begging for you," you smirk, "Sitting on your face, just like old times."

He huffs a breath through his nose looking down at you, his face unimpressed. He leans forward, face inches away from yours, "Who was just whining over the idea that I might not eat her pussy tonight?"

You burn at his words and he notices, "Was it you?"

You nod with an embarrassed smile, "If you're a good girl, I'll let you be the boss next time. I'll teach you a few things, yeah?"

"Steeeeve," you whine while your skin is in flames, "You can't say that."

He gets on the bed behind you, one hand on the bend of your hip, the other with his fingers sliding against your open folds -- finding slicknes without surprise.

"Can't say what?" he asks with a smile, "Can't call you my good girl?"

Your hips push back on his fingers when he says it and you scold yourself at your body's betrayal. You hear him tutt behind you and you clench around nothing at the sound, "Sure feels like I can."

He slides under you like a well versed mechanic, arms and hands immediately wrapping around your thighs, stifiling their nervous jiggle. He guides you down to his mouth, your posture changing while you sit further up and back so you can see his eyes and he can see all of you. Your hips wiggle as you feel his breath on your opening.

"Are you excited?" he asks, you nod and he can't hold out anymore at the sight of your smile. You feel his tongue drag, poking between your folds once you relaxed -- his fingers reaching to keep you spread open to start.

Your smile transforms to a pornographic gasp, head immediately thrown back as his tongue stripes you again. Your hips rock against his mouth, Steve smirks to himself into the next lick, flicking over your clit and a peal of mewls escape your lips.

He feels at home here, your full, thick thighs keeping his ears warm in the December weather. This big cold house suddenly feeling full with your voice moaning his name. He didn't need the whiskey if you were offering to quench his thirst like this.

You feel his tongue lap at your opening, the thick, wet, muscle pushing in past your walls trying to desperate to out maneuver him. His face was coated in your juices, dripping freely own onto his chin and cheeks while he fucked you with his tongue. He watched as your hand reached down to tease your clit, he caught it in his, pushing it up to your breasts.

"Play with your tits f'me baby, let me watch," he says, scooting up a bit.

"But Steve I --" you huff, desperate for some extra stimulation.

"I'm getting there, if you'd just be patient for like, twenty seconds," his voice sounds like he's back at the bar, admonishing you like you're rushing him to get out of the bathroom.

"You're ruining the mood," you cross your arms over your chest, pouting.

"Aww, I'm ruining the mood?" he mocks, a fake frown matching yours. He slides a finger slowly past your tight walls and you falter a little but hold to your convictions. He holds eye contact with you through his glasses, pushing a second finger in to meet the first.

Your mouth gapes, eyes pricking with tears as your walls close down hard on him, "Am I still ruining the mood, baby?"

A silent cry rattles your chest, falling quietly out of your open mouth. Your eyes close tight while he snickers, pumping his fingers in a steady rhythm, "It's all better now, isn't it?"

His voice makes you dizzy, he used to talk to you like this when you first started fucking. Cocky and confident -- certain he was making you feel good, and fuck he was. What did he ask you to do before? Your brain was racking for the command, but too overwhelmed with pleasure when he hooked his fingers to find your g-spot.

"Stevie -- oh fuck, fuck, please more," you whine out, you sound pathetic but you can't even find your self to care. It feels like a roller coaster reaching it's peak with every curve of his fingers teasing your spongey center. 'Play with your tits f'me baby, let me watch.' There it is, that you could do. You palm your breasts, pulling and pinching at your hard nipples looking down at him over your belly pooch. He winks when his tongue finally makes contact with your clit and you shudder instantly. You gush over his fingers, taken by surprised by your own orgasm -- already feeling the second one building.

"That's my good girl," he purrs beneath you, "Stay just like that, okay? I'm not done."

You gulp, feeling his soft kitten licks back on your clit start to ramp up to fast flutters -- Steve didn't want to start you back up slowly. Your breath had barely steadied before it picked back up again, flexing your core to keep yourself hovering above him. Your hand reached down to his hair, tugging while your thighs tensed.

"Ride my face, baby, come on," he encourged, "You've never been nervous to do it before."

"I --," you hesitated, "I didn't with Andy -- it's been a while."

"What?" he asked, surprised, pushing up so his full head peeked out from between your legs, "Are you fucking with me?"

"He...ugh, Steve," you leaned your head back and then turned it back down, mumbling, "He said I was too heavy."

Steve's eyes furrow, mouth open, unsure at first how to respond -- aghast, "This guy sounds like a fucking loser. You're not too heavy -- god -- who says 'no' to that? What's wrong this this guy?"

Steve shakes his head and pushes back down, "Sit on my face, baby. Fuckin' suffocate me."

You don't have a choice, he pulls you down onto him, your knees sliding further apart and you can't help but start grinding your hips against his tongue. The whole act sounds as lewd as it looks, wet and sticky as he captures your slit in his mouth to suck on it. Spreading your ass in his hands to spread you further apart, moaning low into your pussy so you can feel the vibration through your core.

"Ohmygod, ohmygod, ooh daddy just like that," the words just pour out of you while you start reaching your second peak, hips writhing onto him with your back arched. Steve grips your ass cheek hard before smacking down on it with a loud 'thwap!', satisfaction burning in his stomach -- daddy, daddy, daddy. The same hand reaches for his neglected cock, covered in pre, leaving a patch of cold liquid on his hard, muscled stomach.

Steve feels your hips hump his mouth in quick succession, his nose bumping your clit rapidly. Your moans get shorter and higher with each flick of his tongue against you until they're just huffed breaths.

"Mmm, come on," he nods up at you, "You can do it, angel."

You nod back, face contorted while tears stain your cheeks, the next roll of your hips his mouth makes contact with your clit again. You see stars, you cum so hard you swear you're pissing. You can hear Steve's grunts under you, collecting your slick to add friction to the fist he's fucking behind you.

"Get on your back," he demands, "Need t'fuck you, holy shit."

You get on your back, looking up at him now on his knees, both of your eyes lust blown in the low light. You weren't a stranger to his cock, but every time you saw it you couldn't help but feel spit build in your mouth. It was angry tonight, tip red and leaking, veins pulsing while he stroked himself looking down at you.

"I don't know, Stevie -- it might be -- it's too much," you say, thighs pressing together to protect your sensitive cunt.

"Two is nothing, honey," he shakes his head opening your legs up, crawling over you to line his tip up with your entrance, "You've given me four in less time."

You whine like a child, but you don't stop him when he slides the tip against your entrance, building up the slickness to slide over his cock. When his tip pops in you hiss, back arching to feel another inch push into you.

"Oh, that shut you up, huh?" that voice was back again, Steve was starting to feel so confident, you might as well start calling him Manhattan. He pushes deep into you, all the way to the hilt -- your legs springing up against your chest automatically -- heels hitting his back.

"You feel so good, Stevie," you moan into his mouth while he leans in to kiss you.

"Pussy's fucking made for me," he rasps while his thrusts pick up, forceful and deliberate. Steve loves fucking you because he knows how well you can take it. You were built sturdy, plush, soft -- he loved how it felt to slam into you. He'd heard it on the radio, some cheesy line 'more cushion for the pushin', but fuck if it wasn't true.

Steve knew he wouldn't last long inside you, your pussy tight and wet -- hugging him in place, resisting his exit. He filled you completely, your eyes rolling back the second you felt the hair at the base of his cock tickle your skin over and over again.

"Steve, oh god Steve," you moan through gritted teeth, tears back to rolling down your cheeks as your nails dig into his back, "Just like that daddy, fuck me like that."

His mouth falls open at your words, the girls on his desk never talk like that. He can't fuck them how he wants to, never throws them around. They don't look at him the way you look at him, soft and pretty. They don't wanna wash his hair for him in the shower after, and kiss the freckles on his back. He doesn't wanna make them dinner after, or give them a ride home. He doesn't blush the way he does when it's you that calls him daddy. When you call out his name. When you look up at him with those eyes. When you hold his hand in the car. When you tease him for coming to Porter's early. When you call every time you come home just to see him when you could see anyone else.

Steve's hand finds your jaw but you guide it to your throat while you bounce against his thrusts, he chuckles wickedly, "When'd you turn into such a whore?"

His fingers press down expertly on your neck while you attempt to moan out an answer that he doesn't wanna hear. He just wants to keep watching your fucked out face and body while he drills into you deeper. His voice lilts into a mocking coo, your cunt drools.

"Just for me, isn't it?" he asks down at you through his glasses, and you nod quickly in his hold, "They're not fuckin' you like this in the city, huh?"

"Had to come all the way back to Indiana to get this dick, didn't you? All the way back home so daddy could fuck you just how you like it," he huffs, feeling himself get close.

"Yes, yes -- had t-to come back for you - oh fuck, fuck," you whine out, raspy and nasal from lack of blood flow.

"Who fucks you like I do, hm? Who else is makin' you come like I can?" he eases up on your throat, moving back to your jaw -- leaning in to give you a sloppy tongue kiss into your gasping mouth. You tighten again over him, gushing whatever creamy spend you had left in you, gripping his shoulder tightly while your eyes pinched closed.

When you're nose to nose again you look up at him, "Nobody, Stevie. Just you, it's just you."

He growls at the confirmation, his hips stuttering -- 'Nobody fucks her like I do,' ringing in his head while he feels his vision start to go white.

"Baby, baby," he starts, his voice softening, "God, fuck -- can I come in your mouth?"

You nod and he groans, panting while your wet walls keep his cock warm and tight inside you. Steve slows his thrusts which just makes the feeling more intoxicating, your sticky thighs meshing with his soaked hilt. You whimper and cry with every push into your overstimulated cunt, your legs almost giving out from being pressed against your chest.

"Jesus Christ. Gonna come in your mouth," he whispers into your neck, "Feels -- oh shit -- fuck, it feels so good in your pussy, though."

Steve knows he can't hold back, quickly pulling out of you while you shoot up onto your elbows. He pulls your head forward with one fell swoop of his big hand, your mouth and thrat sucking in his cock in a vice grip. You can feel the warm liquid start shooting into your mouth immediately, but it doesn't stop you from obediently sucking on it. He's peak caveman brain while he watches you, your eyes shining up at him while he holds his weight up on your head -- grunts and snarls coming out of his mouth while he finishes thrusting into your face.

You take your mouth off as he softens and swallow, gingerly sitting up slowly. Your thighs ache, you're exhausted. He sits down onto his calves, both of you panting on the center of the bed.

"Let me -- let me get you some water," he huffs out, sliding off the mattress into the attatched master bathroom. He's only gone for ten seconds, passing a clear glass into your shaking hand. You sip slowly to start before gulping it down.

"You okay?" he asks, leaning over to kiss your forehead, "You're quiet."

You nod, taking a deep breath and letting it out, "That was...insane."

He laughs, it makes you laugh, and he lays down onto the mattress to stare up at you. You look down at him, offering Steve a weak smile before looking back at your empty water cup. You slide off the bed like he did before, putting the glass back on the bathroom counter, peeing, washing your hands, and walking back out.

You let out a tired sigh, reaching for your clothes strewn about by his dresser -- sliding on your panties.

"What're you doin', Manhattan?" he asks, sitting up, "Got somewhere to be?"

"I'm getting dressed, Steve," you explain, putting your bra back on. Steve's chest hollowed, normally you'd have some pillow talk after -- talk it out. He still had to show you the new house decor.

"Hey, stop," his voice is soft as he waves his hand at you, "You don't have to do that."

"I gotta get home, Steve," you assure, "It's getting late."

"You..." he trails off before taking a deep breath, replenishing his confidence, "You could stay. I can drive you back in the morning."

"Steve..." you start, shimmying a little to get your jeans over your hips and thighs, "I never stay. That's not us, that's not what we do."

"It could be..." he suggests, his voice cracking a little, "Please?"

You stand there, in your bra and unbuttoned jeans, your tummy poking out where the zipper is undone. Your bra suddenly feels tight and uncomfortable, your underwear constricting you under the jeans that feel a size too small.

He looks you over, watching you contemplate it and gets up out of bed to meet you by his dresser. His hands reach to each side of your face, warm and big. His fingertips graze the hair at the edge of your scalp, pinkies and ring fingers on the back of your neck. He tilts your head up slightly to look at him and your heart hammers, more than it did the first time he started kissing you in his car. Steve's heart matches your cadence, remembering how nervous he was the first time he talked to you -- desperately wanting you to be impressed by him.

"I --" you start blushing, he's never looked at you quite like this, "I don't have anything to wear to bed."

"I don't want you to wear anything to bed," he says, leaning forward to capture your lips in his while you both step awkwardly as a unit back over to the bed, "It'd just get in the way in the morning."

"Please stay," he pleads again, pressing a gentle peck on your lips, "Please -peck-, please -peck-, please -peck-. "

"Okay, okay," you laugh, "Are you sure?"

"I'm begging you," he smiles, leaning his forehead against yours. The tops of his frames hitting your brow bone. He lets go of your face to make work of the top of your jeans, shoving them back down until they pool at your ankles. He unhooks your bra, a little too expertly, and snaps the band of your satin panties before rolling those down too. He moves down with them so he can skate his hands over your thighs and leave a warm kiss on the flesh over your hip bone -- apologizing to the bruise he left there earlier.

"Can't believe you kept your glasses on," you tease, "Dweeb."

He comes back up, sliding his glasses off smoothly, like he did in the back seat of his BMW five years ago, "I like being able to really see you."

"Am I blurry without them?" you asked, trying to take them out of his hand. He snatches them out of your grasp, hiding them behind his back.

"Not really," he says, walking over to the bedside table and placing them next to the lamp, "You told me they made me look handsome back in - think it was -- '94 maybe? -- So I just wanted to keep them on for insurance."

You look down at the floor, "I always think you look handsome, Harrington."

You feel his hand at the back base of your neck and turn to see him behind you, "Come back to bed." 

He gets under the sheets and both duvets and turns down the covers next to him, slapping the pillow you're going to sleep on to beckon you forward. You want to roll your eyes but you can't force down the giddiness building in your chest -- sleep over!

You maneuver over to your side of the bed, slipping under the covers while he turns them back over you to tuck you in. Fuck are the sheets nice, they had to be some luxury brand you can only order through a catalog.

Steve clicks off his bedside lamp, leaning over you to click off yours and you catch the remnants of his cologne on his skin. It's not long before you feel his hand skate over you under the covers, sliding over your belly, up over every curve and bump on your body before resting a warm hand on the side of your breast. He hums sleepily and pulls you close to him, pressing his chest against your shoulder. His hot breath fans against your neck where he's settled his head.

"Isn't this nice?" he asks. You nod, turning onto your side to face him while his hand splays across your back to pull you closer. You slide a hand under the pillow, and savor the coolness on your hot skin. Steve looks at you with soft eyes, studying you.

"Can I tell you something?" he asks, "Or, well, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, of course," you say, looking at him, trying to read his expression.

"Remember -- ah fuck, okay I'm doing this," he says, trying to psyche himself up, "Remember when I said I had some options? To make changes?"

"Yeah, I remember. You can't wait when those opportunities come, Harrington," you lecture, "I've fucked myself so many times with that."

"There's a position in the New York office," he blurts out, "In the head quarters that they're eyeing me for."

Your heart races, "Okay."

"And I'd be...I don't know, sort of demoted but I'd get a huge -- like, huge fucking pay raise," he explains, "And I -- I wanna take it."

A beat passes while he tries to figure out what to say.

"And maybe, I don't know -- maybe we could try this out? Like for real? Instead of just fucking around every Christmas."

You consider it, heat blooming in your cheeks -- the good kind. Your heart starts to swell -- not Steve Harrington asking you out when you're twenty-nine. Sixteen year old you would be screaming.

"What do you think?" he asks, he swipes his hand through his hair and even in the dark you know his cheeks are pink.

"I don't think it's a bad idea," you say, "I think it's the excitement you're looking for -- New York I mean, not me."

"I think you're really exciting," he leans in to kiss you with a grin.

"And I think," he presses his lips against yours again, "I'd do a pretty good job at taking care of you, if you let me."

You laugh through your nose, blushing hard while he kisses your cheek, "That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

"It does sound nice, Steve," you agree, but you don't want him to feel too good about it. You had a reputation to uphold, still. He leans back to look at you, thumb caressing your cheek as your lids fall half down your eyes, "I think I'd really like that."

"You wanna shower? You too tired?" his voice his so gentle you start to melt, but exhaustion weighs heavy on you.

"Too tired," you say, nuzzling forward into his neck -- your head now partially on his pillow.

"We can talk about it more in the morning, yeah?" he asks, a hand reaching up to smooth over your hair.

"Yeah," you said, your breath steadying, "I'll see you in the morning."

He knows you don't like eggs for breakfast but it's all he has in the fridge. It's fine. He'll just order in.

[saltwater-and-woodsmoke]

Twenty Six Letters || JJ Maybank

Warnings and authors note: This is sad, like so sad, my friends say it rips their hearts out. I’m sorry. Title credit to black butterflies and deja vu by the maine (the lyric is “there’s only twenty six letters I can use just to tell you I won’t let go”)

This specific story is an alternate ending to another fic I wrote, but I haven’t got that one transferred here yet, I am in the process of moving all of my works to this blog from my main.

Word Count: 2,350

July 17

Y/N,

The doctors came out and told me they tried everything, but they couldn’t save you. They’re transferring Charlie to the mainland where they have a NICU, they’re life lining her. The amount of police that had to hold me back from hurting that doctor, I’m embarrassed. This was supposed to be our dream, our family. I needed to write my thoughts down, I know you can’t read this, it’s ridiculous. I can’t lose both of you. I love you so much.

JJ

July 19

Y/N,

Charlie weighs a whopping 1 pound, 2 ounces. She’s the tiniest thing I have ever laid eyes on. I’m staying on the mainland until she gets to come home, thanks to the community, really. Sarah started a fundraiser for Charlie’s medical care, your funeral, and the community really showed their support. No word on who did this to you, but I will find out. Charlotte Rose Maybank is a fighter, just like her mother. I love you.

JJ

July 21

Y/N, 

Today we laid you to rest. Even though your parents didn’t like me that well, they both put that aside today. John B and Pope had to practically hold me up at the cemetery. We were supposed to grow old and gray together, but today I had to put you six feet under at twenty three. It hit me that I am a widower at twenty-five. I am a single father of a four day old “micro preemie”. I’m at the hospital now. I’m not supposed to be in the NICU this late, but the night nurse knows what happened and can understand my need to be close to the last thing I have of you. I love you more than you will ever know,

JJ

PS: I did as you wished and made JB and Sarah her godparents. They’re coming tomorrow to see her for the first time.

July 25

Y/N,

I spent the night in jail last night. You see, they finally figured out who the pick up belonged to. I hadn’t seen him since we got married two years ago, but I was so pissed off when I went into the jail to talk to Shoupe. I asked him for five minutes with him, which was granted. I was yelling, and I’m not embarrassed about that actually. I told him I was going to make sure he went away for a very long time. That he killed the love of my life, that because of him his fucking granddaughter is fighting for her life right now all because he felt like it was okay to drive drunk. That motherfucker showed no remorse whatsoever. He fucking smirked at me Y/N, so I punched him. Square in the jaw. Of course, I was promptly booked for it, but I was told this morning that they weren’t going to actually press charges because in Shoupe’s eyes he deserved it. They put it on the books as a purely cooling down period. I came back to the hospital, and Charlie is stable. They said if she keeps improving like she is, I might get to hold her for the first time soon. I’m trying to be strong for her, for you, but I miss you so much. You should still be here, she should still be safe and growing inside you. But it wasn’t meant to be. I love you more than the moon and stars,

JJ

August 9

Y/N,

So I haven’t written in a while and that’s because we have a pretty rocking kid, you know? I got to hold her for the first time last week. It was an emotional affair, I was sobbing the moment they placed her on my chest. She’s still so tiny, but she’s gaining weight and is starting to look more like an actual human instead of an alien. I made sure the nurse took a picture when I held her because I want to remember how small she was the first time I held her, even with all the wires and tubes.  I may be writing less frequently but I’m gonna keep writing. It makes me feel better. Like, I’m still close to you with this notebook. I love you, I love you, I love you. 

JJ

September 17

Y/N,

Happy two months Lottie Rose. I know we were going to call her Charlie, but the new night nurse started calling her Lottie, and I’ve kind of fallen in love with it. It just fits her. She’s almost three pounds now! I’m so proud of her. It’s wild to me that she would be due in almost six weeks. The doctor expects her to be home by her due date, and I promptly will be taking her to your grave. She’s always going to know how much you loved her, Y/N. I made sure your mom put “Mother of Charlotte” on your headstone. When she’s older I’m gonna take her to our favorite spots. I want her to know who you were, because I know that the person you were, is why she’s here. I love you more than I can count.

JJ

October 31st

Y/N,

Happy Due Date Lottie Rose Maybank! We’re going home today, Y/N. Lottie weighs a whopping 6 pounds now. I’m so proud of her. She is tiny, but she’s gonna catch up fast. She passed her car seat test with flying colors. She can eat from a bottle, but the nurse noticed that she wasn’t as responsive to sound as most of the other babies when they’re ready to go home. She suggested she might just be desensitized to the noise of the hospital, but they wanted to recheck her hearing before we leave, so I am writing this while I wait for them to finish that. I just signed all of her release paperwork. Last night, I was contacted by the local news to do an interview about how Lottie is, and how everything has affected me. I think I should do it, John B and Sarah said they would watch Lottie while I go to the station. 

Okay so they brought Lottie back, she didn’t pass her hearing test so we have to set up an appointment for a hearing specialist. Honestly,  if she needs hearing aids it isn’t the biggest deal in the world. I’m not going to love her any less. She’s our kid, she can handle anything that's thrown in her way. I love you bunches,

JJ

December 24

Y/N,

This single dad thing is hard. Tomorrow is Lottie’s first Christmas, and we are going to church with your parents. I know you always liked to go on Christmas and Easter at least, so I thought that could be one tradition I kept with Lottie. I’m also keeping the tradition of buying a personalized ornament every year for the Christmas tree. It’s wild to think that at this time last year, we had just agreed to try for a baby, and this year everything is different. You’re not here, we have a five month old daughter who is the size of a three month old.  I’ve got to tell you, losing your wife brings things into perspective. I want Lottie to have a set of grandparents that love her unconditionally. I’ve spent a lot of time with your mom and sister the last month or so, and I know your mom will love her no matter what. No matter how we get along, Lottie comes first. She’s our priority. Merry Christmas, Baby, I love you. 

JJ

July 17

Y/N,

One year. You have been gone one long year. This time one year ago, I was working on Pope’s dad’s truck. It seemed like every single siren in the town went out, and I remember thinking “That must be a bad accident.” If only I knew then. If only I knew that in an hour, you would be gone, that I’d be standing in the waiting room of the hospital while they worked on you until they couldn’t anymore. I remember the anger, Shoupe and another officer holding me back before I just buckled in my own grief. I remember your mom and dad coming, having rushed over from the mainland. Your mom knew, as soon she walked in the waiting room where I was a mess on the floor, JB on one side of me, Pope on the other, she knew.  We sobbed together, we became numb together. I vaguely remember telling her they were lifelining Lottie to Raleigh. I remember her looking at me and telling me, “John James, you listen to me. You get to Raleigh, your daughter needs you. Do you hear me? She needs you.” It was the only time in my life I didn’t mind hearing my full name. I didn’t get to see her until she was already two days old. Today we have a happy, healthy, one year old. She’s catching up with kids her age, which kind of shocks the doctors. She’s growing on track, she’s hitting milestones. She just started crawling, but she can already get wherever her little heart desires. I’ve made a conscious effort to not be sad in front of her today. We are having a big party for her, she’s going to love it. I miss you, sweetheart. I love you

JJ

August 10

Y/N

Time flies, you know? It seems like yesterday I was bringing Lottie home from the hospital. Where has five years gone? Today, I dropped her off for her first day of kindergarten. We had a long conversation about how if anyone was mean about her hearing aids, to tell her teacher and how it wasn’t a bad thing to ask for help. I want her to have a better school experience than I had, I want her to like school. That didn’t stop me from sobbing like a baby the whole way to work. Of course, my boss knew I’d been crying and just patted my shoulder and told me “if you think this is the only first day that you’ll cry, I have news for you.” I told him Lottie is an only child, I’m probably going to cry at every first day of school. It’s strange to think that if you were still here we’d probably have another little Maybank running around. It’s okay though, your sister had twins two years ago and JB and Sarah are having their first soon, so she’s got cousins to play with. I love you sweetheart.

JJ

July 17

Y/N.

Uh, we have a teenager? Like a full ass practically fully grown human in our house. Thirteen years and it still feels like yesterday. We got the news yesterday that Luke Maybank died in jail over the weekend. Y/N, I have to tell you, our daughter cracks me up. I told her that her grandfather passed away, and she told me she hopes you take a trip down to hell and kick the shit out of him. I told her that I beat the shit out of him thirteen years ago when she was barely a week old. She found the news articles about the accident, and asked me to talk to her about it. I did, but it was hard. I’ve never shut up about you so she knew who you were. She also asked me why I never remarried. It’s simple, really. Half my heart was buried with you 13 years ago, and the other half divided to recover and love our daughter just as fiercely as we loved each other. I love you honey. 

JJ

May 31

Y/N,

Okay, we’re old. It’s fine. Charlotte Rose Maybank, you know our pretty rockin’ kid? Yeah, she graduated high school today, as valedictorian. She’ll be 18 in July, Y/N, and then in August she’s going to the mainland for college. She wants to be a doctor. Watching her walk across that stage, in her cap and gown, I was sobbing. I was an absolute mess. JB had to take pictures for me because I couldn’t stop shaking. You’d be so proud of her. I know I sure am. I love you more than I can breathe,

JJ

October 25

Y/N,

Our baby girl got married today. Of course, I could go my entire life without knowing that JB and I are going share grandkids someday, but really Alexander is a great kid, and he loves Lottie. I know that someday, she’s going to find all these notebooks and read them and I hope she laughs that I shared every milestone with you like you could read these. She’s got one more semester of school left, then she will officially be Charlotte Rose Maybank-Routledge, MD. I personally think the hyphenating of her last name is really complicated, but that’s what she wants. She looks absolutely stunning in her dress, I hope you can see her. I love you, gorgeous,

JJ

November 13

Y/N, 

We became grandparents today. It’s wild to think that 27 years ago, I was holding our daughter in the same hospital where Carter Jonathan Maybank-Routledge arrived early this morning. The Maybank genes are still strong in this one, Carter looks so much like Lottie it’s not funny. I told JB maybe the next one will look like his side, ha. Okay sweetheart, I love you. JJ

March 6

Mom,

I had absolutely no idea that Dad wrote you a letter every week, sometimes every day, for 36 years. He fought the cancer for a very long time, Mom, because he simply didn’t want to leave me and the boys.  I found the notebooks, I’ve spent the last week reading them. He loved you so much, he loved me so much. He wrote to you up until the last day. That’s beautiful. I know you are back together now. You’ve got 36 years to catch up on. Tell him we’ll be fine. 

I love you both,

Lottie.

[alaskan-wallflower]

here it is!

tw for alcohol and suicide implications and s/h mentions

When the Curtis parents died, the day after the funeral Darry was at a job interview pretending like nothing happened. Because in his mind nothing did happen. he planned the interview a week prior. His parents are still alive and well. He’s not single parenting his brothers. He’s not more of a father than a brother. he didn’t just watch his parents be buried. he didn’t. He tells himself as such. And he immediately gets the job and starts working his tail off. But he’s providing for his brothers and his parents. They’re not dead. They’re not dead. months go by and around three months later darry is in his room alone. He just heard Ponyboy mention he would rather have Soda stay with him at night over Darry. That was fine. It was all fine. Everything was fine. Nothing was fine. He wasn’t fine. He wouldn’t be fine. It hurt. It hurt. It HURT- He nodded. That night he slept with his door cracked open with the small sliver of hope that Pony would choose him again. That they could go back to old times. That Pony was still able to get out of bed. That Soda would genuinely smile instead of putting on a forced facade because he was essentially gluing them together. He spends a few hours just staring at the ceiling before something catches his eye. His football trophy. He swears he hears his dads voice telling him “It’s gonna be okay, Junior.” and Darry loses it. He closes the door and just absolutely breaks down. He shoves away all his football trophies. He doesn’t bother being careful. It’s all gone. His old life is all gone and this is going with it. he doesn’t bother being careful. His parents are home and there’s nothing he can do. After he shoves the box of now half broken football trophies away he sneaks downstairs to the liquor cabinet. He hasn’t done it much. He had gotten a bit tipsy with Two Bit and his old Soc friends Damn them. Damn them all to hell on more than one occasion but he knew that was going to be nothing like what he was about to do. He wanted closure. he wanted to feel numb. And so he grabbed the bottle of his father’s favorite brand that he’d let Darry have a few sips from as a late teen and sneaks back upstairs and closes the door. He looks at his old football uniform. He wants them back. He stares at it. He needs them back. He remembers the nights he spent quietly crying because he didn’t think he would make it on the team, or he didn’t think they had enough money to buy a uniform. Dad? Where was he? He’d come back… But he also remembers on his thirteenth birthday where his dad had worked double shifts the entire month and scraped together the money for a uniform. He looked on the back. “Curtis 23.” it read. he took it off the wall and held it. Dad? Then he approaches his helmet. His father had written on the inside of it. “I’m always proud of you, champ. Even when you can’t hear me say it.” Come back please come back I can’t do this without you, I CAN’T DO IT-

And he looks into his reflection on the dark surface of the helmet. There he sees his dad. But it isn’t his dad…it’s him. It’s his reflection. It’s him…shards and shatters…him, shards and shatters, HIM…shards and shatters… He’s not coming back. He blinks once and it fades away and all that’s left is his broken facial expression as he cups a hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs. You’re supposed to be strong He pops the top off the liquor bottle and drinks it. it burns. Like their bodies now buried under the ground- He knows in twenty minutes the pain will dull. Oh god it hurts It always did. They’re dead He spots his switchblade. He needed her back The one his mother had protested against him having but his father insisted he would need it. He didn’t need the fucking weapon HE NEEDED HIS PARENTS- Hell, was social status so dangerous that *his own father* thought he had to carry one? The drunken haze came quicker than he thought. Get out of my head It hit especially hard in his empty stomach, which gurgled and churned with alcohol and despair. Get…out… He stared into the knife before thinking. They’d be better off without him. His parents were dead and it was all his fault He couldn’t even hold it to whether. He had been sneaking alcohol like a grounded kid on more than one occasion. His fault He imagined Soda and Pony sleeping in the next room. He imagined them and how they seemed to get along so well and he wished he could go back and not take his younger brothers’s clingy love for granted. They’re not dead He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he saw red on his hands. They’re not gone Even in his drunken state he knew what he was trying to do. He couldn’t take living anymore. They’re just on a date night Not like this. Not without his dad. But he had to keep going. They would come home For his brothers. He was conflicted. but he pulled himself together. He bandaged his wrists sloppily and didn’t register anything until he woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, crusted blood surrounding where his throbbing wrists were and the stench of alcohol and vomit filling his room.

They were dead. They were dead and they weren’t coming back.

hol up i did write an angsty darry fic lemme find it