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minisugakoobies · 4 months ago

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Paradise | JJK - Epilogue

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: smut, neighbors to lovers (not quite friends but not quite strangers), slow burn, love triangle, Stripper!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: it's happy ending time!, lots of domestic cuteness, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), shower sex, teasing, dirty talk, someone gets a lap dance 👀, sex in the champagne room, aka sex at work (don't be that coworker!), unprotected sex (monogamous relationship with alternate bc), multiple orgasms

Word Count: 9.1k

Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me

Summary: That sexy man on stage - the one currently giving your friend the lap dance of her LIFE - is your super shy neighbor, Jeon Jungkook?!

A/N: And now we've reached the end! I can't believe it's been three years this month since OC and Jungkook's story began!! A gigantic THANK YOU to everyone who has liked, commented, reblogged, recommended, and/or sent asks about Paradise. This is for you! 💜

Unbeta’d as usual. Please don’t be a silent reader, I’d love to hear from you! Tell me what you think of the ending! 💕

Previous Chapter ♦️ Paradise Masterlist

Bzzzzzzt

Saturday afternoon dawns bright. You can hear birds chirping outside the windows, joined by the buzzing of bees.

Those are some loud fucking bees.

No wait, that’s your phone.

Bzzzzzzt

You grab it off the nightstand.

Huh, nope. No missed texts or calls.

Bzzzzzzt

What the hell is that sound?

Throwing back the covers, you lug yourself out of bed, snatch a t-shirt from the floor and yank it on, and traipse down the hall, following the incessant hum.

Bzzzzzzt

The noise leads you to the bathroom, where your boyfriend stands over the sink, examining himself in the mirror.

“Hey, jagi,” Jungkook greets you warmly. “Did I wake you? Sorry.” He leans over, planting a soft kiss on your cheek.

“No, it wasn’t you. I heard some sort of buzzing.”

“Ah, yeah, that was me.” He holds up some sort of metallic grey tool. An electric razor? But he doesn’t have one of those. You know by now that he waxes for his job, and what little hair ever appears on his face he takes care of with a simple disposable razor. “Testing this out.”

“I didn’t know you had one of those,” you say, leaning against the doorway.

“I don’t. Namjoon-hyung let me borrow it.” He tilts his head left and right, staring at his reflection.

“Borrow it for wh-oooh my god, Kookie, no!”

Your question becomes a wild wail as your boyfriend brandishes the razor and in one swift move shaves off a chunk of his hair. Watching the dark locks tumble into the sink feels like a scene from a horror movie, unfurling in slow motion.

You glance at Jungkook. Where glorious waves once adorned the side of his handsome face, there is now naught but stubble.

Meanwhile, Jungkook chuckles as he examines his handiwork. “What’s wrong, jagiya? You don’t want to see a fresh new me?”

“Not if it means sacrificing your gorgeous hair!” you pout.

Of course you love all of your boyfriend. Goes without saying. But his hair! It’s so pretty and thick and silky and fluffy and -

-and he’s going to shave it all off??

Bzzzzzzt

Another swath joins the first. Two sad curls at the bottom of the sink.

“Kookie, why?” you lament. “Your pretty hair!”

“Relax!” He laughs, running his tattooed fingers over the scruff that remains where he’s shaved so far. “It’ll grow back eventually. You’re starting to make me think you only love me for -“

Upon catching sight of the expression on your face, he trails off, eyes widening.

“Don’t be stupid,” you reassure him. “I love you for so many reasons. More than there are stars in the sky.”

He grins, turning away.

“Your hair is just, like, 25% of that. Maybe 30.”

“Okay, I’m kicking you out now.”

“Don’t bother. I’m going. I can’t bear to watch anymore.” You spin on your heel, heading for the kitchen. “If you need me, I’ll be crying into my cereal, mourning over breakfast.”

“Could you mourn me up a smoothie while you’re at it?”

As you raise your hand over your head to flip him off, he giggles, pausing in his task to admire the way your ass peeks out from under the t-shirt of his that you’re wearing, before disappearing back into the bathroom.

In the kitchen, you quickly whip up a banana smoothie, appreciating how the obnoxious whirr of the mixer drowns out the evil buzzing echoing down the hallway. Sticking the smoothie into the fridge to keep cold until your boyfriend finishes murdering his hair, you sit down to enjoy a bowl of your favorite sugary cereal.

It hasn’t taken much for you to acclimate to Jungkook’s schedule over the last few months since Jennie’s wedding. You’ve all but moved in, hanging around his apartment (usually napping) until he gets home from work in the early hours of the morning. Most of the time, you stay up for a bit, talking and helping him unwind (sometimes fucking, sometimes giving him a gentle massage to soothe his muscles, sometimes just letting him lay with his head on your chest). Usually near dawn you fall asleep, and then wake at noon to spend the afternoon together until he leaves for Paradise in the evening.

So you've become accustomed to a midday bowl of cereal by now. Of course, it helps that you’re no longer bound to the 9-to-5 life, ever since you quit your job.

The bathroom is rather quiet for several minutes, so you figure Jungkook’s completed his horrible task. So you brace yourself for the sight of a shorn head -

-only to be surprised when he strolls into the kitchen with a sharp undercut.

“Well?” He turns this way and that, striking poses as he walks over to you. “What do you think?”

His dark hair is slicked back, revealing a shorn section on each side of his head, perfectly highlighting his brow piercing. Long strands still flow on top, a swoop falling into his eyes as he smirks at you.

It defies the laws of reality, the way something like this can make your hot boyfriend even sexier. How is it even possible?

Standing, you extend your fingers, letting them run over the short hairs, enjoying the pleasant prickle.

“I think I owe Namjoon a thank you card,” you murmur. The soft stubble tickles your fingertips, like fuzz on a peach. “Maybe even a gift basket.”

His smile grows as he draws you into his arms. “See, you were worried for nothing.”

“I really thought you were going to shave it all off!” you exclaim. Nuzzling his face into the curve of your neck, he laughs, amused huffs of breath dancing over your skin.

“Nope.” He slides your hand into what remains of his hair, lithe fingers encouraging yours to wrap around his locks. “I am thinking about dyeing the rest, though. What do you think sounds better - cherry red or buttery blonde?”

“Blonde!” Did you blurt that out a little too fast? Maybe, judging by the cock of his eyebrow.

“Blonde it is.”

“Do you want your smoothie?” You reach for the fridge door, but he stops you.

“I gotta clean up first. All those little hairs…” His eyes drop to your lips. “Time for a shower.” It’s an invitation that you’re all too happy to accept.

Jungkook first steps under the spray of water to rinse away the hairs still clinging to his face and neck. But as soon as you join him, he crowds you against the wall of the tub, mouth meeting yours, hand diving between your legs, opening you up to take his cock. He’s a bit rushed in his movements, driven by a fervent need to bury himself inside you as quickly as possible, but you don’t care, just as desperate to feel him yourself. It doesn’t matter how many times the two of you do this - every time you need him just as much as you did the first time.

When he slides into you, you let out a loud moan, knees already too weak to stand on. He holds you pinned against the tiles as he thrusts into you, wrapping one of your legs around his waist to help keep you up. “So good, jagi,” he grunts, setting a fast pace. All you can do is hang on, every stroke of his thick cock into your throbbing cunt making you sob his name, until your panting gives way to cries of ecstasy. He spills inside you then, his lips pressed to your cheek, breathing soft words of love across your skin.

In the afternoon, after Jungkook has gone to meet Namjoon at the gym, you decide to take a walk downtown to get a little work done. It’s surprising to you how much has changed in the last few months. Before, the thought of working on a Saturday would’ve sent you into an anxious (and annoyed) spiral. But now? You’re not bothered by it at all. Apparently that’s what happens when you like your job.

Not long after the wedding, you’d gone to the interview Wendy had graciously hooked you up with. Jungkook had helped you prepare, but you were still nervous as fuck. You needed to escape your current company. You needed this new job.

But as the interview progressed, that nervousness turned into a different sinking feeling. Because as the interviewer droned on and on about your responsibilities in this new position, it became more and more clear that you were essentially interviewing for the same job you were trying to leave. It wasn’t a way out. It was a trap. If you took this job, you’d be caught in the same quicksand, dragging you down again.

Despite your growing sense of trepidation, the interview went incredibly well, and you felt pretty confident that you would be hearing from the company soon. Which left you with little time to figure out if you wanted the new job or not.

In the end, it was your promise to Taehyung that made the decision for you. His presentation to the bank was a success, and with his new loan, he’d opened his own studio. Even though you’d done countless presentations over the years at your company, helping too many of their clients to count, this was the first time you’d actually felt joy at the result of your hard work. Helping Taehyung to achieve his dream was a special moment.

It also gave you an idea. A week later, you declined the new job offer. And turned in your notice to your employer. No more working for others.

Time to be your own boss.

It’s just a few blocks from your apartment building to where you’re headed. The bell hanging over the door chimes pleasantly as you let yourself into the little shop. Taehyung’s photography studio is technically closed on Sundays, but with the key he gave you, you can come and go as you please. It’s an arrangement that suits you well.

As you’d expected, Taehyung is sitting in his office in the rear of the shop when you get back there. He nods a quiet greeting, then perks up when he sees the second cup in your hand. You’d stopped at the coffeehouse on your way here, knowing that Taehyung is still splitting his time between Paradise and his studio, which means he’s usually exhausted on Saturdays.

“You really are an angel,” he murmurs, grabbing the cup.

“I know,” you grin, taking a seat at the makeshift desk Taehyung had created for you. He’d been so grateful for your help that he’d insisted that you use his office as your own temporary workspace while you established your consulting business. You were in no position to turn down free rent, but you’d agreed to only if he let you act as his interim bookkeeper. It was only fair. “Where’s Yeontan?”

“I gave my assistant the day off,” Taehyung replies. “He’s back at the apartment with Ji and Min.” He pauses to stretch lazily. “Thanks again for helping with the move the other day. We still owe you and Kook dinner.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you pay up.” You never turn down a free meal, though honestly, it was enough of a reward for you that you’d gotten to watch your friend Jisoo fall in love with her two boyfriends over the last few months. That’s the word she’d used for them both the other day, when you all helped Taehyung move into Jimin’s place. You hadn’t seen Jisoo this head over heels for anyone since… well, since you’d known her.

Taehyung sips his iced Americano. “What are you working on today?”

“Going over the stuff Felix sent me. We’re meeting with the bank on Tuesday.”

Having Taehyung as your first official customer had been a blessing. After he’d raved about you to the other dancers at Paradise, you’d suddenly found yourself with a whole list of potential clients. There was Felix, who wanted to buy a food truck for his baking hobby and start a brownie delivery service; Namjoon, who was considering creating an urban nursery for the plants he grew in his tiny greenhouse; and Bang Chan, who wanted to discuss the possibility of running his own gym. Even Hoseok wanted to introduce you to a friend of his who was thinking about opening up a male strip club called Outlaws. You’d barely struck out on your own and yet your calendar was already packed.

You pull out your laptop and settle in. “What about you, what’s on your slate today?”

“Just going over some shots.”

The other dancers at Paradise were the best hype team. They’d spread word of mouth about Taehyung’s photography and the studio had been booked since day one. Not that his talent didn’t bring in customers on its own. But it was so touching to see the others rally around Taehyung like that.

The other dancers had also embraced you warmly. You’d already met most of them from your visits to Paradise or the night of Taehyung’s exhibit, but once Jungkook introduced you as his girlfriend, it was like you’d gained an entire family of siblings overnight. And now that you’re on the inside, it’s so easy to see the way they care for one another. No wonder Jungkook loves working there so much.

Well, that, and the tips he makes.

Taehyung slides over so you can see his screen. “It’s Jennie and Yoongi’s session, if you want to take a look.”

“Oh, yes, please!”

Jennie and her husband had recently booked a photography session to announce Jennie’s pregnancy. As Taehyung slowly scrolls through the shots, you try and fail to will yourself not to tear up. Your friend’s baby bump gets bigger every time you see her and it’s unreal to think that it won’t be long until Baby Min is here.

Wordlessly, Taehyung hands you a tissue.

“Thanks.”

After spending so much time with Taehyung over the last few weeks, you understand why Jungkook adores him so much. He has a very comforting presence, which is nice for you right now, since building a company from scratch is a nerve-wracking experience.

“So, tonight’s the night, right?”

Again you grin, nodding. “Yeah.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Excited. But also if I’m being honest, a little scared.”

Everyone - all of your friends and family - has been super supportive for you during this time, lending their help whenever asked. But no one has been more supportive than Jungkook. He’s listened to you rant about your worries and fears at two in the morning when you know he wants nothing more than to hit the pillow and snooze until noon. He’s made you meals when you were too busy to tear yourself away from your computer to eat. He’s spent so much of his own time taking care of you that you started to fret you’d turned into another job for him.

But when you voiced this concern to him, Jungkook shook his head. “Taking care of you isn’t a job,” he’d said. “I do these things because I want to, not because I have to.”

You’ve never known anyone like him before. Never known someone who could be so selfless, so freely giving of himself all the time. So freely giving of his devotion, in every sense of the word. You can’t help but want to worship him yourself.

Despite his claims that he’s doing these things of his own free will, you still feel like you owe him something. A sign of your appreciation. Hence your plans for tonight.

“Why scared?”

You finish your drink, but don’t put the cup down, twirling it in your hands as you think. “What if I make a total ass of myself?”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Easy for you to say,” you snort. Of course he’d be confident, if he were in your shoes. Taehyung radiates an aura of exceptional self-assuredness. It’s difficult to imagine him being rattled by anything. If tomorrow he was told that he needed to perform emergency brain surgery, he’d snap on his surgical gloves without so much as batting an eye.

“Listen, I know Jungkook. More importantly, I know how much he loves you.” Taehyung flashes you a reassuring smile as you look at him. “There’s nothing you could do tonight to change that.”

The funny thing is, you’re pretty sure he’s right.

Jungkook’s already making dinner when you get back to his place. The delicious scent of gochujang jjigae draws you into his kitchen, where he stands facing the stove, his back to you. Walking up to him, you can’t resist sliding your arms around his waist.

“Hi,” you sigh, burying your face between his shoulder blades, breathing deep the ocean scent of his cologne.

“Hey jagi,” he hums, a happy note vibrating through his chest as he rests his tattooed hand on top of yours for a second. “Food’s almost ready. Can you grab some bowls?”

As you reach into his cabinet, it strikes you just how domestic this moment is, getting ready for dinner with Jungkook, like you’ve done so many times before. Thankfully, he’s the one who usually does the cooking, while you help however you can (typically just by staying out of his way - it’s what you do best in the kitchen). It’s unbelievable how easily you’ve fallen into this routine with him. Not a trace of fear in you as you reflect on it.

“I wasn’t sure if you were gonna be back in time to eat with me, but I made enough for two just in case.” He joins you at his little table, ladling stew into your bowls, before he takes the seat across from you. He’s dressed like he usually is for work, just a hoodie and sweats, since he’ll be changing into costumes all night.

“You’re too good to me, Kookie,” you simper playfully with a sweet grin, but you really mean it, knowing that if you’d texted him that you wouldn’t be back, he’d still make extra and put it in the fridge for you.

He rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears betray him, turning pink. The two of you dig into your meal, quietly enjoying the food and each other’s company.

“I meant to ask you,” he says after a few minutes, “do you know when Jin-hyung will be back in town?”

When you’d called things off with Seokjin, you’d made him promise to keep in touch while he was out traveling for his cooking show. He’d taken that pledge to heart, texting you brief updates and sending photos from the road. You’re glad to have made another friend from this whole experience. Especially one whose name you can drop to make hard-to-get dinner reservations. (Seokjin gets a real ego boost when you do that - he’s the one who suggested it in the first place.)

Though things had gotten off to a rocky start between Jungkook and Seokjin, they’d become fairly good friends themselves. It doesn’t really surprise you, since they have more in common than they thought (not even counting you) - both are talented and determined, funny and handsome, not to mention both give a hell of a lap dance. Also, it’s hard not to love Jungkook, no matter how you meet him.

“Um, I think last time I heard from him, he said he’d be back in two weeks for a short break.”

“Good. That should give me enough time to finish.” He doesn’t say anything else, but you can read between the lines so well with him by now.

“Jin’s going to love his portrait,” you reassure him.

As soon as Seokjin had seen Jungkook’s artwork, he’d wasted no time in commissioning the younger man to paint his portrait, to be hung in his newest restaurant. You know that Jungkook is thrilled at the opportunity, but he’s also a little nervous, wanting to impress Seokjin. It’s pretty cute, truth be told.

You glance up to find Jungkook watching you with a small smile.

“What? What are you looking at? Am I a mess?” You grab your napkin, dabbing at your face, but he shakes his head.

“Nothing. I’m happy you’re here. I feel like I’ve barely seen you the last few weeks, you’ve been out working so much.”

“Oh, right.” You scratch your ear, giving him an apologetic look. “I know, I’ve been busy.”

“I’m not saying that’s bad!” Jungkook raises his hands. “I just… missed you.”

“Kookie,” you sigh, heart bubbling over with fondness. Your boyfriend is such a sap.

You set down your spoon and rise to your feet, locking your arms around him. He looks up at you with so much love in his eyes you nearly pinch yourself. But you don’t have to. This isn’t a dream, it’s your life. Silently, you thank the universe for everything you did that led you to this man. Then you press a gentle kiss to his waiting lips.

“I missed you too. But I’m hoping all this will be worth it.”

“It will be, jagiya,” Jungkook asserts, cupping your face gently. “I know it’s hard. But you know what you’re doing. And you’re not alone - you’ve got so many people in your corner. Like me.” He grins, kissing the tip of your nose lightly. “I believe in you.”

There’s a sudden lump in your throat, making it impossible to speak, so you let your lips express what you feel. What’s left of your dinner sits forgotten as you climb into his lap, kissing him until you’re both breathless. Only then you’re able to whisper a quiet thank you.

Jungkook’s right. You can do this. Especially with him by your side.

Sparkling Rosé ✨ (8:15): Are we still on for brunch tomorrow?

Bestie 😇 (8:17): Yes! I miss you guys

Bestie 😇 (8:17): This baby’s not even here yet and they’re already keeping me busy

Bestie 😇 (8:18): Plus I’ve been craving waffles for days

Sparkling Rosé ✨ (8:19): We miss you too!

Sparkling Rosé ✨ (8:19): And you too, YN! You work too hard

You (8:20): I know 😔I miss you all too

Lovely Lisa 💋 (8:21): I’ll be there!

Queen Ji 👑 (8:22): Yes we’re doing brunch because YN needs to tell us allll about tonight!

Sparkling Rosé ✨ (8:23): OH THAT’S RIGHT!

Lovely Lisa 💋 (8:23): Ahhhh that’s tonight?!

Sparkling Rosé ✨ (8:23): Break a leg! 🙌

Lovely Lisa 💋 (8:24): LET’S GOOOOO

Queen Ji 👑 (8:24): You are going to KILL IT

Bestie 😇 (8:24): *airhorn.gif*

You (8:25): 🙈🙈

You (8:25): We’ll see

You (8:25): But thank you 😘

Queen Ji 👑 (8:26): Oh no! None of that

Queen Ji 👑 (8:26): Trust me, you’ve got this

You (8:27): And just how are you so sure about that?

Queen Ji 👑 (8:28): Jimin told me. He never lies

You (8:29): I knew I should’ve asked Namjoon

Sparkling Rosé ✨ (8:29): As if he wouldn’t tell me

Sparkling Rosé ✨ (8:30): I like the guy but he can’t keep a secret to save his life

Lovely Lisa 💋 (8:31): Relax, you’re gonna be amazing! Just have fun with it

Bestie 😇 (8:31): Yessssss have fun

Queen Ji 👑 (8:32): But also put your back into it

Bestie 😇 (8:33): You should probably stretch first

You (8:33): Yes, eomma, I will

Bestie 😇 (8:34): I’m going to kindly ask that you never call me that again

You (8:35): But you’ll be hearing it all the time soon!!

Bestie 😇 (8:35): Not from you though! 🙅

Queen Ji 👑 (8:36): Sorry, eomma, we’ll behave

Bestie 😇 (8:37): Oh god, *especially* not from you

Bestie 😇 (8:37): Okay I’m out. I’ll see you all tomorrow. But don’t forget!

Bestie 😇 (8:38): 📣You’ve got this! 📣

Queen Ji 👑 (8:38): She’s the best mom

A few hours later, you find yourself alone in an unfamiliar space. A small room, containing only a handful of pieces of dark furniture. Velvet curtains drape three of the walls, while the fourth is a mirror. A crystalline chandelier hangs from the ceiling, the glass reflecting the soft lighting, scattering shimmering spots of illumination around the room as the bass pumping from the overhead speaker makes the decoration bounce.

You wipe your sweaty palms on the skirt of your dress, wishing you could take your friends’ advice and relax right now. Instead, your nerves are jumpy and your pulse is racing. The waiting isn’t helping.

As you switch seats for the tenth time since you got here (you can’t decide which is a better place to sit, on the pleather couch or the matching chair), you adjust your dress, hoping you look more confident than you feel. Confidence is key for what you’re about to do, according to Jimin.

Maybe you should’ve thought this through more. More practice would’ve been helpful, too. Why did you decide to do this now? You’ve really got to work on your patience, you think, eyeing the couch again before moving seats again.

The curtains sway slightly as the door to the room opens. Immediately your mind empties of all thoughts as your adrenaline kicks in. It’s showtime. You sit up, trying to strike an enticing pose, waiting for the man who opened the door to finish locking it and turn around.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting t- baby??” Jungkook freezes, head cocking to the side in confusion. You knew that Jimin had told him he had a Paradise customer waiting for him in a private room. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to surprise you,” you grin, suddenly feeling really shy. Which is the exact opposite of what you need to feel right now, if you’re going to pull this off. “So, um, surprise!”

Jungkook smiles, obviously thrilled with your surprise, and crosses the tiny space in two strides. You stand to greet him, taking in his outfit, a silky black shirt unbuttoned over a pair of black leather pants. He looks just like he did the night of Jennie’s bachelorette party, only with a new haircut. The fabric of his top is soft beneath your fingertips as you lay your hands on his shoulders, accepting his kiss hello.

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but… you know you didn’t have to pay to see me, right?” Jungkook murmurs against your lips. “I’ll dance for you any time.”

You do know that, because he’s danced for you several times now. Sometimes he likes to get your opinions on a new routine, and other times… other times, he just feels like dancing for you.

Knowing all this, you nod, smoothing down the folds in his shirt, trying to distract yourself from the way your stomach is tying itself in knots. Relax, you remind yourself, taking a deep breath. There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s Jungkook.

“I know. But this actually isn’t about me tonight. It’s about you.”

Applying a little pressure on his shoulders, you push Jungkook onto the couch. He looks up at you questioningly, but doesn’t say anything, merely takes a seat. That’s so like him - to read you so well that he understands you’ve got something planned, so he’s letting you lead the moment. Just that tiny act of deference heartens you, leaving you more sure about what you’ve got planned.

You walk over to the panel on the wall that controls the overhead speaker. Your phone is already hooked up, and with a few swipes, you change the playlist.

“I wanted to do something for you, to show you how much I appreciate everything you’ve been doing for me.” For some reason it’s easier to explain why you’re here without looking at Jungkook as you do it, so you fiddle with the phone a little as you speak. “I know the last few weeks have been stressful, because of everything I’m trying to do, and I just… I want to thank you. And I thought this was the best way to do it.”

When you turn back around, Jungkook’s watching you with such a rapt expression that you can’t help but feel almost foolish about being so worried about this. It doesn’t matter if you can’t give him a show on the same level that he does. You’ve got his full attention no matter what you do.

You’ve got his love.

With that comforting thought, you take a steadying breath, in and out, and then begin.

Dancing is really not your strong suit, but the biggest lesson Jimin taught you is that it’s not the moves themselves that matter - it’s the attitude with which you perform them. It’s all about setting a mood.

So you let the music guide you. Let yourself sink into the groove set by the drums and bass. Jungkook lets out a tiny “oh, fuck,” when you start to shake your hips. You fight the urge to giggle, biting your lip in a sultry manner instead. You’re wearing a cute but simple dress, something that will be easy to remove when the time comes, but you dance like you’re dressed in the sexiest outfit imaginable, sliding the skirt up your thighs a little to tease him.

Even though you’re only a few feet away from Jungkook, you take your time approaching him, dragging out the anticipation. His hands rise automatically, reaching for you, but you dodge his grasp, taking them in your own hands instead. Something else Jimin taught you - lay down the rules right away.

“I’m here to dance for you, Kookie. So let’s get one thing straight - I’m the one in charge.” You squeeze his hands to draw his attention to them as you place them at his sides. “That means no touching me, unless I say it’s okay.”

Jungkook blinks at your words, but he doesn’t argue or try again to touch you. “Yes, baby,” he says, eyes brimming with adoration as he nods at you, and again you feel a surge of confidence.

With your back to him, you place a hand on both of his knees, guiding him to spread his legs apart. Then you lower yourself into his lap, laying back against his chest and tilting your face towards his. If either of you leaned forward the slightest bit, your mouths would touch, but you resist the urge, and he waits breathlessly to see what you’re going to do next.

You bring your arm up, then trail your hand down his chest, across your breasts and stomach, and on to his thigh, just skimming past his crotch. His hips buck slightly beneath you, and you grind in his lap, giving him the friction he seeks.

“Don’t worry, I’ll touch you all you want,” you whisper.

Jungkook groans loudly. You glide around the couch until you’re behind him and run your hands down his arms and over his chest. The silk of his shirt is starting to stick to him where he’s sweating. You’ve barely started and you’re already having an obvious effect on him.

It’s not just his temperature that’s rising, you note with a smug smile when you return to your spot in front of him. The tight material of his pants barely restrains his erection. Again you sit on his thighs, facing away from him, throwing your legs out in a wide stance as you pop to the beat.

“Shit, baby, yes,” Jungkook praises you with a deep groan when you lean forward, giving him a good view of your ass as it bounces. “Where’d you learn to dance like this?”

“Well, um…” you pause to bend further, nearly touching the ground, enjoying how Jungkook swears quietly when he gets a glimpse of your panties, “you know how I’ve been so busy lately?”

“Uh-huh…” Jungkook responds mindlessly, far too occupied with the sight in front of him. He’s being so patient, keeping his hands at his side like instructed, but the telltale twitching of his fingers lets you know that he’s fighting hard to behave.

You decide to take pity. Just a little. Turning, you straddle him, and grab his wrists. “Here you go,” you wink, placing his hands on your hips. “Just hold on for me.”

Jungkook hums, vision trailing up your body from where your hips are swaying to where your breasts are now in his face.

“I was working, but I wasn’t at Taehyung’s studio. I was taking some lessons from Jimin.”

He looks up at that. “Wait, you were what?”

The surprise on his face makes you giggle. There’s that wide-eyed Bambi look that you love so much. As the next track on your playlist starts, something a little slower, you shift into a grind, dragging your ass over Jungkook’s lap. He hisses, fingers tightening their grip, almost bruising in their hold, but he doesn’t try to guide you like he usually does when the two of you are in this position. It impresses you, the restraint he’s showing.

It makes you want to make him lose control.

You run your fingers through his hair, lifting it off his face, and lean close to his ear. “I wanted to make this good for you, baby. Give you exactly what you deserve.” Your lips hover across his cheek, not touching, but your breath caresses his skin, making him shudder beneath you.

“Jagi,” Jungkook swallows thickly, eyelids heavy with desire as he peers at you. “You’re amazing. I can’t believe you’ve been hiding these moves from me.”

You bite back another big smile. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

His hands fall from your waist as you spin around, nudging his legs apart. Following the rhythm of the music, you undulate your body down his, your back sliding down his chest, then down his lap, until you’re on your knees. Then you place your hands on the ground in front of you, lowering your bottom half to the floor in a slow humping motion, before flashing him as you whip your legs into a split in order to roll yourself onto your back.

“Holy fuck, jagi,” Jungkook gasps, digging his hands into the couch on either side of his thighs, desperate for something to clutch. “You’re finally gonna do it. You’re going to be the actual death of me.”

Despite yourself, you start giggling. “Kookie! Don’t make me laugh.” You take your time rising to your knees, then to your feet, playing with the hem of your skirt. “I want you to take this seriously.”

“Oh, I am, baby, believe me.” Jungkook bites his lip, nodding. His eyes follow the path your hands take, dragging the skirt up to reveal your lower stomach. Meanwhile, one of his hands has found its way to his crotch, squeezing his hard cock through his pants. You’d considered making another rule earlier, that he couldn’t touch himself, but truthfully, you want to watch him enjoy himself.

“Good boy,” you purr, and Jungkook whimpers loud enough for you to wonder if you’ve tapped into something previously undiscovered about him, but you’re too busy to ponder it any further as you swing your hips, using his knees to help you drop yourself down to the floor again in a low squat.

The power you feel as he watches you is beyond intoxicating. What you’re doing right now is nothing compared to the skill he displays when he dances, but you understand a little better why he does this for a living. You feel like you could do anything right now.

As you come back up, you lean into him, hands on his chest, your face so close to his, and this time the need to kiss him is too strong, so you stop denying yourself, connecting your mouths briefly, just enough to have him chasing you when you pull away. Before he can protest, you distract him by pulling your dress over your head in one swift movement.

“Baby,” he moans, eyeing the matching lingerie set you picked out especially for tonight, his favorite color and his favorite texture, the black lace just begging him to run his fingertips all over it. “Is that new?”

Of course he’d notice. He’s got the contents of your underwear drawer practically memorized. Not surprising since most of the sets are from him. He’s got a thing for nice lingerie and you’re more than happy to indulge him.

“Bought it just for you.” With your back to him, you straddle one of his thighs, centering yourself on the thick muscle, and roll your hips in slow figure eights. Grabbing his hands, you wrap them around you, placing one on your bra and the other just over the band of your panties. “Do you like?”

Jungkook’s answer is a wordless growl as he strokes the lace. You hum, tossing your head back so it rests on his shoulder, and slip the hand over your lower stomach down further, until he’s cupping your mound.

“Ah!” you gasp, hips jutting forward when his eager fingers go rogue and press against you in a sign of his slipping control. “I - I’m guessing that means yes.”

“It means fuck yes,” Jungkook declares. “You’re driving me insane right now, you know that?”

“I think I’m getting the idea,” you reply, trying to focus on finishing your dance and not just outright humping his hand. Tracing your fingernails down his forearms makes him loosen his grip enough for you to climb off him. As the next track plays, you drape yourself over the side of the couch so your back hits his lap, and lie there shimmying to the beat for a few seconds before unhooking your bra and tossing it aside.

“Jagiya,” Jungkook rasps roughly, tongue licking furiously at his lips, and even though you’re only maybe halfway through the routine you’d been practicing, you decide to skip to the end, because clearly your boyfriend is close to breaking, and frankly, so are you.

You throw your leg over his lap, straddling him again. Taking his hands, you lace your fingers together, using him as a counterweight to help you dip backwards, so low your head nearly brushes the ground, before you roll back up, pressing your forehead to his. You stare at his mouth and he stares at yours as you inhale a steadying breath to speak.

“You can touch me now.”

The current of electricity simmering between you suddenly blazes out, igniting the air around you. His hands slide to the small of your back, and your arms loop around his neck, both of you pulling each other as close as possible as you meet in a charged kiss. Jungkook moans into your lips, tongue chasing the sound. Your mouth parts to let him in.

Jungkook’s hands keep moving, gripping your waist, your ass, your breasts - it’s like he’s been starving for you, like those few minutes that he wasn’t allowed to hold you were an eternity and now that they’re over he must take his fill. Your skin vibrates beneath his fingertips, so much pent-up energy ready to burst, and you seek an outlet, grinding your hips down onto his.

“Kookie,” you whine helplessly, and Jungkook grunts in response, rutting his erection against you, fitting between your legs so perfectly, the two of you like puzzle pieces coming together to form a complete picture of lust.

“I’m here, jagi,” he murmurs, lips brushing along your jawline and back to your mouth before continuing down the other side. “I’m here.”

In a second, you’re on your back, watching Jungkook peel off his shirt before he covers your body with his. His kisses are just as greedy as his touches, and you lose yourself in him, devouring the desire on his lips with a wild ravenousness of your own.

But as he trails kisses down your body, you open your eyes and stare directly at the chandelier hanging over you, and a thought hits you with startling clarity - oh, right, you’re still at Paradise. At Jungkook’s place of work.

“Jungkook. Jungkook,” you repeat, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head off your breast, where his tongue was lapping at your nipple. “Should we do this here?”

Jungkook blinks at you a few times. “Isn’t this - don’t you want to?”

Of course you want to. But all those times you’d pictured this moment, your best hope was that he’d enjoy the dance and promise to thank you in private later when he got off work. You hadn’t really considered that you’d do such an amazing job that the two of you would fuck on the spot. (Okay, that’s a lie, you’d considered it a lot. But still. Imagining fucking your boyfriend at his job and actually fucking your boyfriend at his job are two very different things.)

“I want to,” you reassure him, brushing a wandering drop of sweat from his brow. “I just don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Jungkook laughs, leaning up to press a kiss to your cheek. “Baby, trust me, I’m not the first one to do this. There’s a reason “no sex in the champagne room” is a saying.” He sees the mix of confusion and disgust on your face and laughs again. “I’m not worrying about it and neither should you. But if you are, we don’t have to do anything. This has been more than enough for me.”

“So… you liked your dance?” you ask in a tiny voice.

Jungkook lets out a pained groan. “Baby, I loved it. I can’t believe you did all this for me.” His hand brushes over your hip, playing with the lace there. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Not true.” If anything, he’s the one too good to you. “But I’m trying.”

He kisses you again, slow and sweet. You feel yourself melting into his embrace. Any remaining concerns vanish as Jungkook lowers his head, taking your nipple into his mouth again with a messy kiss. If he’s not worried, why should you be? Besides, as you arch your back, chasing Jungkook’s tongue as he drags it down your torso, only an apocalypse could stop you now, and maybe not even that.

“You know,” you start, gasping slightly when his teeth graze lightly over the swell of your stomach, “I’ve fantasized about this.”

Jungkook glances up at you. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I usually pictured you dancing for me, but, um, we always ended up fucking.” A flash of heat licks the back of your neck as you meet Jungkook’s eye.

“That’s usually how I imagine it, too,” Jungkook informs you. The casual admission of this mutual secret fantasy stokes your arousal. Jungkook flames it further when he ruts his hard cock against you. “Sometimes you ride me, sometimes I bend you over this couch, but it always starts with me giving you a private show.”

Your breath leaves you in a hiss. “Fuck. That sounds good.”

“Which one?”

“Both,” you groan, rolling your hips. “All of it.”

Jungkook kisses your neck to smother his laughter. “It’s not too late, you know. I can make those fantasies come true.” His tone deepens as he speaks, becoming darker. Oh, you know this tone so well. He’s shifting to demon mode.

“Another time. I mean,” you clarify immediately, not wanting him to misunderstand, “you can give me a private dance another time.”

“Aww, is my baby too worked up right now?” he teases, and this time he doesn’t bother to even try to hide his laughter when you whine, pressing your hips into him again. “Okay, jagi, I promise I’ll dance for you another time. I won’t make you wait any longer.”

Again he slides down your body, kissing over the soft lace of your underwear. He pulls your thighs apart with his hands so he can stick his face directly between them. His stuttered breath blows hot over the damp material barely covering you. Impatient, you reach to push your panties down, but Jungkook grabs your hands and pins them over your head. “Kook!”

Jungkook shakes his head at your pouty cry. Leaning over you, he catches your bottom lip with his teeth, pulling it to his mouth for another wet kiss.

“Let me, baby,” he coos sweetly, and then he takes the lace band in his teeth and slowly drags your panties down your body using only his mouth.

“Fuck that’s hot,” you moan, unable to tear your gaze away. Jungkook hums, dropping the sodden silk on the ground before lowering his lips to kiss your pussy. He’s sloppy and loud, and in a brief lucid flash of sanity you pray that the music covers the sounds out in the hallway.

Jungkook always moves at his own pace, in his own time, and nowhere is that more evident than the way goes down on you. He loves building you up slowly, so slowly, until you’re going out of your mind begging him to let you cum. Tonight, however, he’s moving fast, slipping two fingers inside you, getting you ready for him. If asked, he’d claim it was for you, but the truth is that he needs you as much as you need him right now.

“Love the way you taste,” he murmurs, fingers spreading you wider, dragging his tongue over your clit. He curls his fingers, smirking at your gasp, and repeats the movement. It feels so good, too good, so your hand snakes out and grabs his wrist, and he stills, looking up at you in confusion.

“Wanna come on your cock,” you explain.

He groans, reclining back on his knees. “Whatever you want, jagiya,” he says, fingers flying to the laces on his leather pants. He’s used to taking his time untying them on stage, drawing the moment out seductively, a marked contrast to the clumsy way he tugs on them now, trying to undo them as quickly as he can.

With only a little bit of struggling, he pushes his pants down, then kicks them off completely. He wraps one hand around his hard length, thumb and forefinger pinching slightly just below the flushed head. Your teeth sink into your lip as you stare at him, taking in sight of this gorgeous man kneeling between your legs, looking every bit as hungry as you feel.

“Tell me how you want it.”

You clench unconsciously at Jungkook’s command, mind running through all the possibilities. Honestly, you don’t care how, you just need him inside you now.

So you reach out, gently prying his fingers away from his cock. Jungkook sighs when you take it in your hand, a sound of deep-seated contentment, like he’s been waiting all night for you to touch him. You understand the sentiment, thighs twitching as you slowly pump him a few times, using his slickness to make your movements easier.

“Just like this,” you say, guiding him towards your slit. He hisses as you slide his head through your folds, and presses forward a bit, helping you coat him in your arousal.

“Okay, jagiya,” he murmurs. He arranges himself between your legs, lifting one calf, then the other, over his broad shoulders. You shiver, breathless with anticipation as you catch the feral glint in his eyes. “Just like this.”

A harmonious pair of moans fill the room when he enters you. He waits for a moment, because as rushed as his fingering was, it wasn’t enough to fully stretch you out enough for him. When you whisper, “okay,” he starts to move. The first few rolls of his hips are slow and easy, him savoring the tight warmth of your cunt around him, you delighting in the sensation of being filled so completely. He kisses the side of your knee, staring down at you as you whimper beneath him with every languid thrust.

When your hands stretch out for him, he leans down, bending you in half to press his mouth to yours. He sinks deeper into you, your bodies locking together more closely, and you lace your fingers through his hair, until you’re breathing each other’s kisses like air. You whisper Jungkook’s name and he sighs yours back.

“Love you so much, jagi.”

His mouth nudges your head to the side in search of that sensitive spot behind your ear, and you open your eyes to catch sight of the two of you in the mirror. Even if the room were pitch black right now, you’d be able to see yourself lying there, the way you’re lit from within. Your love for Jungkook burns inside you like a star in the night sky, pulsing bright and steady.

“I love you, too.”

Jungkook’s pace steadies, his pelvis starting to bounce off your ass with more speed.

“Oh, fuck, yes, baby,” you moan, watching him piston his cock inside you. “More, please, Kookie! More!”

Never let it be said that your boyfriend doesn’t listen. He pulls out, getting off the couch, and, with strong hands gripping your thighs, positions you with your hips resting on the arm of the couch, to raise you high enough for him to plunge back in from a standing position.

And then he gives you exactly what you asked for.

Jungkook fucks you hard and fast. His furrowed brow drips with sweat as he snaps his hips into you. You know nothing could break his concentration now - eyes sharply focusing on your expression, ears listening for the change in the pitch of your voice. When he feels your walls starting to constrict, he grips your thighs to tilt you just enough to find the right angle to tap your sweet spot with every pump -

“Jungkook!” With a loud gasp of his name, your climax arrives. Your cunt pulsates so tightly around him that Jungkook clamps his arms around your legs, pulling your ass flush against him so he can grind into you.

“Oh, fuck, jagi, ‘m so close.” His voice is already wrecked, sounding rough and broken. He bends slightly at the waist, forcing your legs closer to your stomach, putting you at an odd angle, but you’re still buzzing with pleasure so you don’t notice the stretch, just let out a low moan as Jungkook starts to move again.

He bends further, sliding his hands behind your back, and then he lifts you, using that surprising strength of his to hold you as he slides around to sit on the couch. Your legs support you just long enough to straddle him, and then you sink down onto his cock, more than happy to collapse against Jungkook as he fucks up into you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, bringing one of his hands up to cup your cheek. “Always so good, jagi.” You meet his gaze, struck by the love you see in his eyes. No matter how often he looks at you like this, it makes your heart sing every time. You kiss him before sitting up, meeting his thrusts with your own movements.

“Come for me, Kookie,” you murmur sweetly, drawing your boyfriend’s eye with the movement of your hand as it heads down your stomach. Your fingers rub at your clit, rolling the engorged nub around, and the delicious drag of his cock inside your constricting walls has you hurtling towards a second orgasm just as Jungkook reaches his first.

Your playlist begins the last song as the two of you cling to each other on the couch. Jungkook’s arms are still locked around your back while you rest your head on his shoulder. He sings along quietly to the music, his soothing voice wrapping around you like a blanket. It’s a favorite song of his, just as it’s a favorite of yours - the song from your rooftop dance at Jennie and Yoongi’s wedding.

When the music ends, Jungkook sighs. “We should definitely do this again.”

You laugh, sitting up. He grins at you and you lean forward to press a light peck to the tiny mole under his lip. “I may have booked you all night.”

“Like I was gonna let you walk out of here anytime soon,” he scoffs. He stops your giggling with his kiss, lips soft and lingering, and you sigh, hugging him close again.

There’s a part of you that can’t believe you just fucked your boyfriend in a strip club, but somehow it felt inevitable that you two would end up here like this. Like from the moment you walked in here all those months ago, there was no other way this would go.

It was such a strange trip to think about. You had to go all the way to Paradise to meet the love of your life who lived next door. Fate could really take the most roundabout way, but the journey was more than worth it.

“You really didn’t have to do all of this for me.” Jungkook’s voice brings you back to the moment.

“I want to do everything for you,” you reply with a shake of your head. “You deserve the world, Kookie.”

“I have everything I could ever want, jagiya. Right here in my arms.”

Normally, this is where you would roll your eyes at him for being so sappy, but that’s hard to do when you’re blinking back tears. Instead, you squeeze him a little tighter, so he knows that you feel the same way.

“You know…” Jungkook starts after a few seconds, then stops. You shake him a little to urge him to go on. “There is something else I’ve been thinking about. Something I want to do, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be into it.”

“What is it?”

He glances down, and there’s the shy bunny smile that you remember from all those months ago. “I’d love to paint you.”

“Naked?” you whisper, hand to your chest, looking scandalized.

He laughs, nose wrinkling in glee. “That actually wasn’t what I meant but I’m absolutely down if you are.”

“We’ll see,” you grin, kissing his cheek. “One thing at a time. Right now, we’ve got this room to ourselves, and I believe you promised me a dance.”

“Yes I did,” Jungkook agrees, chin jutting out to catch your next kiss with his lips. “Anything for my love.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh, kissing him back.

************************************************************************

A/N 2: Yes, there will still be some drabbles down the line, but this is the end of the main story! Thank you for sticking with me! 💕

If you liked this fic, please consider reblogging! Likes do not help it get seen by other readers. 💕

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜

#bts smut #jungkook smut #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #thebtswritersclub #fic: paradise

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matchingbatbites · 8 months ago

Text

somehow we're here

Explicit | 6.5k | Modern AU | Full Tags + Read on Ao3

Steve only downloaded the app because he was drunk.

At least, that’s what he’ll tell himself in the morning, once he’s back in the light of day and not half-gone on a few fruity cocktails and multiple shots of tequila - at least three, though it’s realistically more like five or six. Nevermind that he’s been home for almost an hour at this point, is only still awake because of the vague nausea still rolling in his stomach.

It had been incredibly easy to set up an account, even in his drunken state - something he thinks might be a feature and not a bug - and he’s been scrolling on it for about ten minutes when he realizes-

He’s still bored.

Because that had been the real reason, hadn’t it?

Steve is bored. Bored of first dates that seem to go nowhere, of relationships that seem to fizzle out after a few weeks, and for whatever reason, Tequila Steve seems convinced that a gay dating app would be a fun thing to sign up for. It’s not like he has anything to lose, he’s just bored and kind of horny and definitely not lonely and desperate.

So Steve flips through profiles, taking in photos of the same waifish boys and beefy gym bros. He’s just about ready to give up and try to sleep through the nausea, when he stumbles across a profile that makes him stop cold.

The photo looks like it’s from a concert or something; the guy is on a stage, clearly mid-show, with a wicked looking guitar in his hands. Steve’s eyes get caught on those hands, the veins and the painted nails and the chunky, silver rings.

His hair is a riot of dark curls haloed by the stage lights, and Steve regrets that he isn’t able to see the man’s face. He focuses instead on his clothes, the black t-shirt and ripped jeans, his exposed forearms littered with black ink.

The photo is so honest. It’s pure, simple emotion and Steve is instantly drawn in, eager to know more about this person.

The next photo is closer, clearly cropped down from a larger picture, and Steve gets his first good look at the man’s beautiful face. Deep, chocolate eyes that house a delighted sparkle, a blinding smile that sets loose a swarm of butterflies in Steve’s stomach. Not to mention the piercings; two just below his lower lip and another through his eyebrow - Steve briefly wonders if he has more, maybe his tongue or his nipples - fuck, that would be so hot.

In the last photo the man is seated on a couch, holding an acoustic guitar this time, and he seems focused on whatever he’s playing, clearly unaware of the camera-person at all. Those brown curls are pulled into an updo, revealing ears littered with even more silver jewelry, and there’s a cute little crinkle between his brows that Steve wants to smooth out with his thumb.

Steve scrolls down to actually read the guy’s profile, and sees that his name is Eddie. He’s 27 and local to the area, he likes metal music and D&D, and he definitely seems to check a lot of Steve’s boxes. Nerdy? Yeah. Hot? Fuck yeah. Confident? If the concert photo is anything to go by, this man has confidence coming out his ass. So yeah, check there too.

He adds the guy without hesitation, and will once again blame Tequila Steve for what’s next once he’s sober. He sends Eddie a message.

‘Hi, i’m straight, i literally just got this app cause im kinda bord and kinda drunk. But you’re actually my type. Can I be honest?’

Steve doesn’t really expect an immediate response, considering that it’s two in the morning and all, so he decides to flip over to a different app, already knowing that he isn’t really going to care about anyone else he might come across. He’s surprised when only a couple of minutes later, he gets back a simple ‘Sure lmao’, and scrambles to flip back over to the messenger.

‘I didint think i’d message anyone on here but your cute and hnestly i geuss i kinda like that you won’t get pregnant.’

He decides to wait this time, to see if he’ll get another quick response, and he holds his breath when the typing indicator pops up, only to disappear again. It does this a couple of times, like Eddie is writing and pausing, or erasing and starting over, and Steve just waits, so curious to know what the other man is going to say.

‘Are you free tomorrow? I need to know if you’re as adorably endearing when you’re sober.’

Steve gasps in delight. Eddie wants to meet him! He kicks his feet a little in excitement and messages back ‘I can be as endering as you want me to be baby.’ It takes him a second to realize he hadn’t actually answered Eddie’s question, and he sends a follow up ‘Yes i am free tomorow.’

‘Meet me at Hank’s on 6th? 7pm?’

He confirms the time and place, and even as giddy as he is, Steve’s barely able to exchange a few more messages before he’s out like a light.

Steve wakes up the next morning with a headache. It’s nowhere near the level of one of his migraines, but it’s enough to be annoying as he gets up and starts his day. He’s thankful it’s Saturday, that all he really has to worry about are some errands and brunch with Robin.

A quick shower and a cup of coffee has him feeling more alive, but meeting up with Robin makes him feel better than anything else could. She looks about as bad as he does, which is interesting considering that she didn’t even come with him to the club last night.

They chatter on for a while, with Steve letting her rant again about the situation she finds herself in (she refuses to drop Vickie even though the girl bounces between her on-again-off-again boyfriend and Robin like a fucking ping pong ball, and she also refuses to admit her growing feelings for Chrissy, her roommate turned friend with benefits. It’s a whole mess.)

She asks about his own dating life, and he honestly has nothing new to report. He’d gone out last night intending to at least find someone to take home, but once he actually got into the scene, the effort just didn’t seem worth it for a temporary fix.

Instead he drank, and he danced with strangers until the room started to spin, and then he made his way home. He’d had fun, even though he'd ended his night alone. Robin hums and pours another drink from the pitcher between them - White Peach Sangria this week, and it’s good, though Steve prefers the Bloody Mary they had last time.

“We're kind of pathetic, huh?”

“I mean, you are,” Steve replies, and shrugs when she gives an affronted Hey! “I might be single, but you're the one who's letting a great girl slip through your fingers because you can’t say no to your fickle ex.”

“She’s not fickle-”

“Where was she last night?” Steve asks, staring Robin down until she says “With me.”

“Mhm. And where is she now?”

Robin frowns hard and grumbles “With Jack.”

Steve gives her a look, and she sinks down a little in her seat.

“You know, sometimes I forget that you were friends with the mean girls in high school, and then you hit me with that fucking Carol Perkins face and it all comes flooding back,” she says, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Stop being a drama queen, and stop waiting for Vickie to change her mind about Jack. It’s not fair for her to come running to you every time they have a fight if she has no intention of actually leaving him for you. You deserve better, Rob.”

Robin groans and drains the last of her glass. “When did you get so wise and shit?”

“Fuck you,” Steve says, no heat behind it as he kicks her under the table. “I know how relationships work and shit. You’re the one who doesn’t listen to me.”

She kicks him back with a “Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s finish this pitcher so I can go home and wallow.”

The notification comes in after brunch, once he and Robin have parted ways and Steve’s just parked at the grocery store (he doesn’t take Robin with him to the store anymore, for both of their sakes).

‘Hey, just want to make sure we’re still good for tonight?’

Tonight? What’s tonight?

It takes him a moment to remember his actions from the night before, to remember the app. Steve’s stomach flips at the vague memory of a conversation and he opens the messenger. He scrolls up, reading his message history with this Eddie person, and oh god.

Is it possible to get secondhand embarrassment from your own actions? Your very drunk and somewhat horny actions? The guy seemed to take it pretty well, at least, and Steve taps over to his profile out of curiosity.

And yeah, okay, Tequila Steve had a point. He’s never thought about dating a guy before, but this man is hot, just absolutely sexy in a way Sober Steve isn’t prepared for. He had been planning on telling this Eddie guy that he was drunk when he agreed to meet, that he wasn’t interested, but now that would be a lie. Because he’s definitely interested.

He sends a ‘Yup! Still good :)’ and then quickly follows it with ‘I was so drunk last night that I kind of forgot about our conversation, so I’m glad you messaged me!’

Eddie’s reply takes a second, that starting and stopping going on just long enough to make Steve nervous before a message comes through.

‘Oh damn! I’m glad I did too. Though you did tell me last night that you’re straight, so I won’t hold it against you if you don’t want to meet anymore. I know alcohol can make us do things we normally wouldn’t.’

Oh, he’s sweet. Steve actually does decide to think about it, and flips back over to Eddie’s profile as he does. He goes through the photos again, imagines what it would be like to be close, be intimate with Eddie the way he has with women. It doesn’t scare him the way he thinks it should, because he doesn’t actually think it would be that different. Sex is just sex, right? It’s the person that makes it fun, makes it special. And Eddie definitely seems like a special one.

What reaffirms Steve’s decision is the last photo, where Eddie is holding the acoustic. His eyes catch again on those ringed fingers, on the rough, clearly hand cut neckline of Eddie’s shirt. He thinks about what it would be like to lick the jut of Eddie’s exposed collar bone, and the shiver that runs down his spine has him immediately flipping back to the conversation.

‘I definitely still want to meet. As embarrassing as I was last night, I was telling the truth.’

‘Oh good! Nice to know that sober Steve also thinks I’m cute and is glad I can’t get pregnant.’

Steve groans and drops his head onto the steering wheel a few times. He's never gonna live that one down, is he?

Another message comes through before he can be too mortified, though he almost regrets looking when he sees ‘Unless sober Steve is more upset by that than glad’ which is followed rapidly by ‘It’s okay baby, we can always pretend if you want ;)’

This man is gonna fucking kill Steve.

Hank's on 6th is a little dive bar that Steve has actually been to a few times, when he and Robin had wanted to go drinking but hadn’t wanted to deal with the noise and bustle of the club. It’s cozy compared to other bars in the area, and Steve is happy for the familiarity of the location as he steps inside. He pauses inside the door and glances around, looking for- oh.

Sitting at a nearby table is Eddie, in the flesh. He’s even more stunning in person, with his hair pulled up into a bun, showing off the jewelry in his ears and the long line of his neck. He’s wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans, and Steve can see a leather jacket slung over the back of his chair.

Eddie spots Steve about the same time and waves, inviting him over. He does his own once-over as Steve approaches, and Steve knows what he looks like. He spent long enough in front of the mirror agonizing over his appearance, making sure everything was perfect. His red sweater is comfortable even though it’s a smidge too small, and he can see Eddie’s eyes catch on the way it stretches across his shoulders, on his forearms where he’s rolled the sleeves up.

“Not gonna lie,” Eddie says as Steve sits down. “I’m kind of surprised you showed up.”

“I said I would. Tequila Steve might not be the smartest, but sometimes he has good ideas.”

Eddie laughs and Steve is overwhelmed with the desire to dig his thumb into the dimple that appears in the man’s cheek. “Well I hope I get the chance to thank him someday.”

Eddie’s photos don’t do him justice, don’t properly convey the energy he has. They get on better than Steve would have imagined, and while the conversation lulls every now and then, it never truly stops. His piercings catch the light, pulling Steve's attention down to his mouth, to the way it moves while Eddie speaks. It’s distracting, and the teasing smile Eddie wears for the conversation tells Steve that he knows.

Steve learns that Eddie works at an assisted living facility, something he never would have guessed based on the man’s appearance. It’s not a job Eddie ever expected to have, but he loves it, loves helping people who need it and gossiping with the old biddies that have taken a shine to him. In exchange Steve talks about his job as a physical therapist, how he recently started his experiential hours so he can specialize in pediatrics.

(“I feel kind of dumb now,” Eddie says. “Knowing that you’re a whole ass doctor and I just have a CNA.”

“Eddie, I majored in kinesiology. You’re probably better in a medical setting than I ever will be.”)

They talk about their hobbies and interests, pleased to learn there’s a little bit of crossover with everything. They may not know the ins and outs, but Steve has absorbed some knowledge on D&D thanks to the kids he used to babysit, and Eddie likes to watch sports with his uncle to keep him company on his off days.

They sit and talk for a long while, completely unaware of the time passing until Steve looks at his watch and realizes it’s been nearly four hours since they sat down.

“Holy shit, it’s almost eleven,” he says, and Eddie blinks in surprise. “Oh wow, I had no idea.”

It’s like they’ve been snapped back into reality, and Steve notices the half dozen beer bottles littering their table along with the bill that’s been there for who knows how long. Steve pays the check - nearly shoves his card into the server’s hand so he can beat Eddie to it - and they both leave cash for the tip before heading out of the bar.

It’s outside Hank’s that the hesitation sets in. This is one of the best dates Steve has been on in a long, long time, and he really isn’t ready for it to be over. He thinks Eddie feels the same, if the way he reaches over to thread their fingers together means anything.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” Steve asks, practically on impulse, and Eddie smiles.

“I would love to, Stevie.” He takes a breath like he wants to say something else, but pauses, and Steve squeezes his hand gently.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to tell you that I want to have sex with you without sounding like a slut who puts out on the first date.”

Well, that’s fair. Steve doesn’t usually have sex on the first date either. He likes the connection that comes with knowing someone emotionally before learning them physically, but there’s just something about Eddie. Steve feels like he knows the man inside and out after just four hours together, and he knows it’s fast but he wonders what it would feel like to wake up next to him in the morning.

Steve just grins at the blunt honesty and tugs Eddie closer. “If you’re a slut then so am I, because I’m definitely down for that.”

The drive back to Steve’s place doesn’t take long, and before he knows it he’s locking the door behind them as Eddie sheds his leather jacket. He drapes it over the back of the couch as he looks around, taking in Steve’s apartment. It’s not much, but it’s comfortable, cozy, very different from the sterile house Steve grew up in.

Eddie smiles as he sees the trinkets dotted about, a mix of gifts from the kids Steve used to babysit and his own little knick knacks, but pauses when he sees a photo collage of Steve and Robin on the nearby wall. Steve doesn’t like the way his smile dips down into a frown, and he walks over to wrap his arm around Eddie’s waist.

“That’s Robin,” he says as he pulls Eddie into his side, needing to quell any doubts or misconceptions he might be having. “She’s my best friend in the entire world, and a lesbian, so you can stop pouting now.”

Eddie gives him a bit of a side-eye and says “Not pouting. Just want to make sure you’re not doing this behind the back of an unsuspecting girlfriend or something.”

Steve smiles at the consideration and shakes his head as he turns Eddie to face him. “No girl, Eds, I promise. Just you and me.”

Something about that seems to be the final straw for Eddie because he surges forward, hands landing on Steve's neck as he leans up to press their mouths together.

The first kiss with Eddie is easy. It’s not earth-shattering or life changing, not like Steve thought it would be kissing a man for the first time. It feels like a normal kiss, and honestly that’s more of a comfort to Steve than anything. The fact that it’s Eddie on the other side of the kiss is what makes him shudder, makes him press closer.

Eddie’s hands push up into his hair, messing up the styling as Steve dips his head to kiss along his jaw. He hums into smooth skin and slides his own hands down to Eddie’s ass, squeezing it briefly before using his grip to drag Eddie’s hips against his own.

He can feel the line of Eddie’s dick through the layers of denim and yeah, that’s different, but not bad at all. Steve warms up to it pretty quickly actually, especially once Eddie starts moaning into his ear, a low “Fuck, baby,” that only encourages Steve to continue. Their mouths meet in another kiss as Steve grinds their hips together, each thrust working to drive Steve absolutely insane.

Eddie’s hands eventually make their way south to ruck up Steve’s sweater, and he breaks the kiss just enough to mutter “Off, get this off,” against Steve's mouth.

Steve laughs but steps back, pulls off his top and drops it carelessly to the floor. Eddie groans and reaches out, not even hesitating before he pushes his hands into Steve’s chest hair. “God, I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw your photo last night,” he mutters, and it takes Steve a moment to remember the picture he’d drunkenly added to his profile.

It was just a typical shirtless thirst shot he’d taken before a run one day (though he had put a shirt on before he actually left, thank you), because he’d felt good about the way he looked - and clearly Eddie had appreciated the picture as well. Steve shudders as Eddie scrapes his nails down his chest, and he half-expects Eddie to start purring in delight.

“Is it as good as you imagined?” he asks, biting back a chuckle, and Eddie nods.

“Better than. So fuckin’ hot. Don't ever shave it, I beg you.”

Steve does laugh at that. He lets Eddie get his fill for a moment before swooping in to kiss him again. He slips his fingers into Eddie’s belt loops and mutters a “Bed?” against his mouth. Eddie hums in agreement and Steve tugs him along, guiding him to the bedroom and only stopping once to grind their hips together.

He steps back enough to pull off Eddie’s shirt and groans because his nipples are pierced, and fuck if that isn’t doing something for Steve. Thumbing over one makes Eddie shiver and gasp, and he knows that he needs to get his mouth on them as soon as possible. He feels like a predator as he pushes Eddie back, not stopping until the man is sprawled across his bed, a beautiful feast meant just for him.

Steve crawls on top of Eddie and presses his lips to the spider decorating his shoulder before moving down to lick over his nipple. Eddie shudders and pushes his hands into Steve's hair, holding him in place as Steve seals his mouth around the pink bud. The piercing is warm, and the stark contrast between metal and flesh has Steve groaning into Eddie's skin.

He sucks on it, earning a stuttering moan from the man under him and hands tightening in his hair. “Fu-uck, Stevie.” Steve thumbs over the other nipple and pinches it just to hear him gasp again, before continuing his journey southwards, pressing kisses into the tattoos he comes across along the way. He pauses for a moment to suck a bruise into Eddie’s hip, just above his waistband, and the man is practically squirming.

“God, when I agreed to come over, I didn’t think you were gonna be this much of a tease.”

Steve rolls his eyes and bites into the bruise he just created, pulling a low groan from Eddie. “It’s called foreplay, you ass.”

“I’d rather you foreplay my ass,” Eddie mutters, and Steve laughs into smooth skin. He does concede, though, and pulls back so he can slide off Eddie’s jeans and underwear, discarding them to the floor. Eddie’s dick is pretty, a smidge thinner than his own but just as long, and weeping heavily from the pink tip. Steve wants to touch it, taste it, wants to feel the weight of it on his tongue as Eddie fucks his mouth.

“Feel free to touch it, not just look at it,” Eddie says, and Steve smirks.

“Normally I would, but someone wanted me to skip the foreplay.”

Eddie groans dramatically in response and Steve ignores him as he reaches over into the nightstand to grab the lube and a condom. He drops the items next to Eddie, and the man gives an “Oh shit!” as he grabs the tube. “You actually have lube?”

“Uh, I'm a grown man, Eddie. Not some 15-year-old that still uses lotion to jack off.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and smacks the bottle against Steve's chest. “Twenty-four hours ago you told me you were straight, excuse me for making some assumptions.”

“Stereotypical assumptions,” Steve tacks on and Eddie rolls his eyes again harder. “Also you might be surprised to learn this, but some women also enjoy anal, so I'm not actually a complete newbie when it comes to this.”

“And here I was thinking I'd have to hold your hand through the whole thing.”

Steve huffs a laugh and slicks up his fingers. “Oh, do you not want to hold hands while I fuck you into the mattress?”

Eddie gasps and brings a hand to his forehead, like a mockery of some swooning maiden as he says “Why Stevie, I think that's the most romantic thing you've said so- ohhh my god.” He groans as Steve pushes the finger deeper, and kicks his shoulder gently when Steve just grins.

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie spits, but Steve can tell there's no real heat behind it. He just hums, says “I dunno what you're talking about,” as he slides a second in alongside the first. He hooks his free hand under Eddie’s knee and pushes it closer to his chest, exposing him a bit more.

Steve leans down to press a kiss to Eddie’s neglected dick and curls his fingers at the same time, trying to hit Eddie’s prostate. He knows he’s successful when hands jerk down, sinking into his hair once more as Eddie keens.

“Shit, Stevie-!”

“Wanna suck you off next time. Wanna pin your hips to the bed and see how much I can take, wanna tease you until you come on my face, in my mouth.”

Eddie shudders and nods, bucks his hips as best he can with Steve’s fingers in him. “Oh fuck, yes. Gonna let me paint your face, baby? Gonna let me be the first cock to fuck that pretty mouth?”

Steve groans a “Fuck yeah, Eds,” and pushes in a third finger, eager to finish his prep but not wanting to rush. He spreads his fingers wide as he leans in again, sinking his teeth into the junction where thigh meets groin, and Eddie's entire body jerks at the bit of pain.

He tugs at Steve's hair, trying to pull him up as he says “Fuck! That's gotta be good enough, need you in me fucking last week, sweetheart.”

Steve shudders and nods with a “Yeah, baby,” as he pulls his fingers free. He stands up and strips off his remaining clothes, not worrying about where they land before he climbs back between Eddie's legs. He can feel Eddie watching as he rolls on the condom, and he's about to make a remark about it when the man says “You know what kind of sucks?”

Steve just hums in response as he scoots closer, until his thighs are pressed against Eddie's ass and all he has to do is push forward just a little more-

“That we’ll have to get tested before we can put my ability to not get pregnant to good use.”

A groan rips through Steve and he drops his head back at the mental image that creates. “Fuck, you can’t just say that.”

Eddie grins, all Cheshire and taunting as he says “Oh, I can’t? I can’t tell you how excited I am for you to come in me, to fill up my ass until I’m fucking leaking- mmh!”

Steve dives down to shut him up with a kiss before he can say anything else, and he can feel Eddie laughing into it. Arms wrap around Steve’s shoulders, holding him close as they take a moment to just make out, all slick and languid like they're not both on the verge of desperation. Steve wraps a hand around his dick and blindly rubs the head against Eddie’s hole before he finally pushes forward.

Even after prep, Eddie is tight, and Steve groans as he slowly sinks in, not stopping until his hips are flush with Eddie’s ass. He rubs his hands over Eddie’s sides as he just waits there, giving the man a chance to adjust. It only takes a moment before Eddie gives a soft “Okay, I'm good,” and Steve holds good on his word. He leans forward, lacing his fingers with Eddie's and pressing them into the bed as he starts a slow pace.

Eddie goes all starry-eyed as he glances at their joined hands, and mutters “Didn't think you were serious about that.”

“I don't joke about hand holding, Eds. It's very important.” That pulls a soft laugh from Eddie and Steve leans closer until he can kiss that smile, can taste the laugh at its source.

It's hands down the best sex Steve has ever had. Eddie is so responsive, all noisy and twitchy and eager. He quickly figures out what Steve likes and doesn't even attempt to keep his mouth shut, just offers a stream of encouragement that’s only broken when Steve finds and abuses that sweet spot inside him.

“Right there, Eddie? Is that it, baby?”

“Uh-huh, fuck, so good!”

Eddie's a fucking vision, with his brown curls slowly escaping the confines of the bun and his eyes glazed over in pleasure. Steve releases Eddie's hands and slides his own down to clutch at the man's slim waist, his fingers digging into the tattoos decorating his skin. He fantasizes about leaving bruises, about leaving his own mark alongside the black ink and fucks into him harder at just the idea.

“Shit, Stevie! Gonna come, gonna-”

Eddie gets a hand around his dick and barely gets in a few strokes before he’s coming, a loud “Fuckfuckfuck!” escaping him as he spills over his hand and onto his stomach. It’s so fucking hot, and Steve’s hands tighten around Eddie's waist at the sight. His thrusts are a bit wild as he chases his own orgasm, and all it takes is Eddie's reedy “In me, Steve, give it to me-” before it hits him like a fucking truck.

He doesn't remember the last time he came this hard, his hips grinding against Eddie's ass as he fills the condom before eventually collapsing down onto the other man. They just lay there for a moment, waiting for their highs to settle and their breathing to return to normal, and Steve smiles when Eddie starts to giggle.

“What's that about?” he asks, using the opportunity to press a few kisses along the line of Eddie's shoulder and neck. The man just grins and shakes his head.

“I haven't bottomed in like- three years. Forgot how good it feels.”

That surprises Steve a bit, actually. “Three years? And you just break that streak for some random person you met on the internet?”

“Mhm. You sent me those messages and I was like ‘Wow, I can't believe I'm gonna let this guy fuck me’.”

Steve laughs and nips at Eddie's shoulder. After a few minutes he carefully pulls out and reluctantly leaves Eddie on the bed as he goes to the bathroom to trash the condom and grab a wet hand towel. He cleans Eddie up before tossing the cloth to the floor and laying down beside him. He's instantly wrapped up in Eddie's arms and he sighs happily as they huddle close together.

“Stay the night? I'll make you breakfast in the morning,” Steve offers, and Eddie hums into his temple.

“With coffee?”

“With coffee.”

Another hum before Eddie nuzzles into his hair, and Steve can feel Eddie press a kiss to the crown of his head. “Then I'd love to stay the night, Stevie.”

Steve wakes up slowly the next morning. The sun shining through the window bathes the room in golden light, making Eddie look ethereal where he lays curled into Steve’s side. He takes a moment to just watch the man, to admire the relaxed lines of Eddie’s face as he slumbers on, unaware.

He doesn’t know the last time he felt a connection with someone this- profound.

Actually, no - the last time this happened was probably with Robin, the girl who became something closer to him than a sister, the one person who probably knows him better than he knows himself. Being with Eddie feels so similar to those early days with Robin - after they’d gotten locked in the bathroom during a mall fire, not the actual early days when Robin seemingly hated him.

So Steve knows deep in his soul that there’s something about Eddie. Something so special ingrained into his very existence, and Steve’s sure that, if he just gives it a chance, Eddie could change his life.

After a few more minutes of basking in the morning silence, he tries to slip out of bed without waking Eddie, but he knows he’s failed when the arms just tighten around him. Eddie groans out a “Noooo,” and Steve grins. He presses a kiss to Eddie’s hair and says “Gotta let me go if you want me to make your coffee.”

A muffled “Man of my dreams,” as Eddie releases him has Steve chuckling as he climbs out of bed. He throws on a pair of sweatpants and heads downstairs, and puts on some coffee before he does anything else. By the time Eddie joins him, dressed only in his boxers from the night before, the coffee is ready and Steve is stacking pancakes onto a couple of plates.

Eddie seems more awake as he wraps his arms around Steve, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder along with a soft “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning, baby. Coffee’s on the counter, sugar’s in the jar and milk is in the fridge if you want it.”

Another kiss meets his skin, this one just below his ear, before Eddie is pulling away. Steve finishes plating the pancakes while Eddie makes his coffee, and they converge at the kitchen island. They eat mostly in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. It's easy, actually, to let the quiet settle around them like a warm blanket. But that doesn't mean Steve's thoughts aren't racing.

“So, uh.” Steve pauses, feels almost bashful as he looks up at Eddie. “It's been a really, really long time since I've felt a connection like this, and I may be a little dumb, but I'm not an idiot.” Eddie frowns at Steve's little self deprecating dig, but doesn't say anything as he continues. “I really want to see where this goes, if you're up for it.”

A slow grin breaks out on Eddie's face and he leans in, getting into Steve's personal space. “Why Stevie. Are you asking me to be your boyfriend? After only one date?”

Steve huffs a laugh and slides a hand up to the base of Eddie's neck, feeling and tangling his fingers with the soft hair there. “I’d ask you right now to move in if it wouldn't make me look fucking insane.”

Eddie's expression instantly goes slack with shock, and fuck, Steve's done it again, hasn't he? Said too much, too soon, and lost something good before it even had a chance to go anywhere. He starts to pull away, wanting to give Eddie some space, but he's stopped by two hands settling on his waist, practically clutching the bare skin.

“My lease is up for renewal in three months,” Eddie says, and Steve blinks in surprise. “So maybe at that point we can see where we are? Because you're right. I don't think I've ever just clicked with someone like this before. It feels like- like fucking destiny or something. And I also really, really want to see where this goes.”

Steve gives in to the urge to pull Eddie forward into a kiss. It’s intense and passionate and a bit sticky, the maple syrup making their lips tacky and causing Eddie to giggle into Steve's mouth.

They’re interrupted by the sound of Steve’s phone ringing with a video call, and he knows who it is before he even looks at the device. He answers with a “Morning, Robin,” and is met with a manic “You’ll never guess what happened this morning!”

“I would hope something with Chrissy, but I’m guessing it’s something with Vickie-”

“Vickie called! Jack fucking proposed to her last night!”

Oh shit. “And she said..?”

“They’re on good terms right now, so of course she said yes!”

Steve takes a sip of coffee and hums. “Sounds like it’s time for you to put on some big girl panties and ask Chrissy out on a real date.”

“Steven, you know I hate that word.”

“I will record it and set it as your ringtone if you don’t make some kind of move, Robin. Before Chrissy gets tired of waiting for you to make a decision and makes one herself.”

She groans pathetically and Steve watches her scrub a hand over her face. “I hate it when you make sense. Can we stop talking about me, please? Distract me with something else.”

“Oh, well, uh,” Steve glances up at Eddie who has been watching the interaction with an amused smile. His heart swells with affection and he blurts out “I have a boyfriend.”

Eddie beams at him as Robin blinks, most likely processing before she says “You just told me yesterday that your dating life was practically nonexistent, and now you have a boyfriend? How did that happen?? And moreover, how long have you liked men??”

She sounds incredulous - rightfully so, honestly - and Steve shrugs. “At least twenty-four hours, but it could realistically be closer to something like thirty-six. I downloaded a dating app the night before last and met Eddie on it. We went on a date last night, he stayed over, and I asked him to be my boyfriend this morning.”

“You asked me to move in this morning,” Eddie says, and Robin must catch it because she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“You’re gonna put every U-haul lesbian in this city to shame,” she mutters before looking at Steve again. “Are you not like- freaking out? I mean, in the near decade I’ve known you, you’ve only dated girls, and now you’re dating a guy? Just like that?”

Steve shrugs and reaches out to take one of Eddie’s hands. “I guess so. You know I’ve always been a roll with the punches kinda guy. And Eddie is- Special. He’s special.”

Eddie is looking at him with those big, brown eyes, wide and a bit awestruck, and Steve can’t resist reeling him close for a quick kiss.

“I am so happy for you,” Robin says, pulling Steve’s attention back to his phone, “but also incredibly upset because now I know I have to follow your advice about Chrissy. Which is just absolutely terrifying.”

“You should have been listening from the beginning. Seriously though, go get your girl, Rob. You deserve to be happy.”

They say their goodbyes after another moment and Steve focuses back on Eddie. “Did you have anything to do today?” he asks as he collects their empty plates and takes them to the sink. Eddie follows, draining the last of his coffee before he replies “Not today. Why, did you have something to do?”

Steve grins and takes Eddie’s mug, setting it on the counter before he scoops the man into his arms. “Other than you?”

Eddie barks a laugh at the line and shakes his head fondly. “Jesus Christ, how did I get my hands on such a dork?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Steve replies, and tugs Eddie into another sticky kiss.

Much love to @bramble-berries for brainstorming this with me! (Even if she didn't know it at the time lol.) Also thank you to @sidekick-hero for cheerleading me through the last bit of writing on this! You're an absolute dear! <3

#steddie #mentioned rockie and buckingham #steddie fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fanfiction #people who subscribe on ao3 got this fic 6 hours early #just saying #joey writes

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sugarnspice630 · 8 months ago

Text

Fancall Fiasco - Hongjoong

"Fan service my ass! Guess I’m going to have to remind you exactly who you belong to, hm?"

•pairing: meandom!nonidol!hongjoong x idol!fem!reader

•word count: 4k

•tags: reader has an idol stage name that they go by, established relationship, mdni, smut, dirty filthy pure smut, possesive and MEAN hongjoong, degradation, name calling (whore, slut, cheater, etc), hair pulling, oral (m&f receiving), deep throating, belt restraints, spanking, slight spitting, edging, overstimulation, biting/marking up (f receiving), slight cnc(?)...did I miss anything? probably

Summary: Being an idol, you have to provide fan service to your loyal followers, however your boyfriend thinks you went a little too far with this one male fan and decides he needs to remind you who you belong to.

A/N: Phew howdy this is FILTHYYYY! Longest fic I've ever written too I think. After my call with Hongjoong, I couldn't stop thinking about if the roles were reversed and he got all jealous and possessive...Definitely need him to treat me this way. Please be sure to drop a like, reblog if you enjoyed it, and comment your favorite part! Happy reading!

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆───

Your group recently had a comeback, and to promote album sales and meet your amazing fans, you were doing 2-3 fancall events every single day. It was exhausting to see some familiar faces and having to talk to the same person multiple times in one day, but as an idol, you have to put up with that kind of stuff and just do your job.

The outfit your stylist put you in was super edgy and went with the concept for your recent album. It was a little revealing, but you didn’t mind too much cause you felt pretty. A black crop top with a metal o-ring right in the middle of your chest, a hooded top with the shoulders exposed that had grommets and rings down the arms, and connected to this ring on the hoodie top were two belt-like chains that went down your sides and hooked together in the back underneath the hood. Many of the fans you talked to today, mostly men, but occasional female fans, complimented you and said how beautiful you looked today. It was always refreshing getting to talk to the fellow female fans, as it felt more like girlhood than the male fans just trying to get in your pants. Although there was this one fan in particular, that was unbelievably handsome. After the staff member removed the paper from the camera, you were met with a gorgeous man, around the same age as you, you assumed.

“A-ah! H-Hi Hana!” He waved to you and seemed slightly nervous.

“Hi there-!” You quickly glanced down at your note, sitting next to the album you were supposed to sign for the fan. “Felix! So nice to meet you!” You said with a smile and waved with your free hand. You stared back at the fan with sparkling eyes, and your head tilted to the side as he waved back to you.

“I’m so excited to talk to you today…ah sorry, I’m so nervous.” He covered his face with his hands but left his eyes visible so he could stare at you.

"Ahh, don’t be nervous; I’m excited to talk to you too. Actually, you’re very handsome.” You said with a smirk and leaned closer to the camera. You watched as the fan lit up with excitement and heard a tiny gasp come from him.

“Oh- t-thank you so much. Y-you’re very pretty too.”

“Oh am I~? That’s so nice to hear. Thank you so much.” You continued to smile and bat your eyes at the fan, enjoying how flustered you were making him.

“Y-yes, I actually had a question for you, if I can ask.”

“Yes of course!” You took this opportunity to look down at the album, pick your favorite picture from this specific version of the album, and place your signature in the corner, along with a couple hearts for some fan service. The fan asked their question while you were signing.

“I was wondering how you came up with your stage name?” Ah yes, the question many fans ask you because they love to hear the clever response that you came up with.

“Ahh actually, so the number 1 in Korean is "hana,” and it has a lot of importance to me. It’s my favorite number, I was the first person to join our group, and I know I’ll always be the number 1 in your heart.” You took your time saying your response to drag out the time, looking around the room to pretend you were thinking about it, and then at the very end flashed a finger heart and a wink to the fan, to which he melted and covered his face with his hands again.

“Wow…you’re so cool Hana and so pretty.”

“Thank you so much!” You covered your smile with your hand to act all shy and cutesy. As the fans say, the company's rent was due, your fan service today has been insanely good. You heard the familiar sound of the timer going off, meaning the call was coming to an end. “Aww I’m so sorry Felix our time is up.” You said with a pout and brought your hands to a praying motion.

“Aww okay. Bye Hana! Thank you so much!” He waved to you and smiled.

“Bye handsome! Thank you!” You winked one last time as you waved, and the staff covered the camera with paper and ended the call. You made sure the call was done before you let out a sigh of relief and dropped your smile. The staff member that was helping you out for the day just smiled and chuckled the slightest bit.

“You were working hard there.” She said as she grabbed the album from you, placed the sticky note with the fan's order on it, and set it off to the side.

“Ahh yeah, he was cute though! Very sweet boy. It’s fans like that that make me love my job.” You took a couple sips out of the water bottle the staff provided for you and relaxed for a few seconds before the next call started.

–

The events were done for the day, and exhausted was an understatement. You bowed to the event staff and thanked them many times before making your way out of the room and following your manager back to the designated room for your group. You quickly glanced at your phone and saw a message from your boyfriend.

Your blood ran cold. He sounded so serious. What could you have possibly done? I guess you were going to find out when you got back to your apartment. You and Hongjoong had plans to meet up after your schedules today anyway.

–

You got back to your apartment, finally wearing some comfortable clothes. You walked into the front door, took your jacket off, and started to kick your shoes off before shouting out to your boyfriend, who was hiding somewhere.

“Hongjoong! I’m bac-!” Your words were cut off by Hongjoong pressing you against the wall. His one hand grips onto your shoulder to keep you against the hard surface, and the other hand holds his phone and shoves the screen in your face.

“What the fuck is this?” He said lowly and through gritted teeth. You glanced over at the screen, breathing heavily, and saw a familiar-looking face on his screen. The video was from one of the many fan calls you had today. Specifically the really nice looking one. What was his name? Ah right, Felix.

“I don’t understand…”

“Don't play dumb with me Y/N! You’re practically fucking him through the screen!”

“N-no Hongjoong..what? L-let me see.” You reached up, took the phone from his hand, and read the post the fan had made to yourself.

The attached video had no sound, but subtitles were provided. You reviewed the video and smirked to yourself, watching the fan get all nervous and flustered again at your fan service. That’s exactly all it was. Fan service. You scrolled through some of the comments that had been made on that post by other fans.

Waahhh, omg you’re so lucky!!

SHE IS SO IN LOVE WITH YOU! IMAGINE BEING CALLED HANDSOME BY HANA? GOD YOU’RE SO LUCKY

Ohhh she wants you fr fr

You smirked again and lightly scoffed at the various reactions from your fans. When you looked back up at Hongjoong to hand him his phone back, his arms were crossed, his breathing was deep and heavy, and he stared at you with aggressive eyes.

“B-baby it’s just fan service.”

“Fan service my ass!” He snatched his phone back from your hand and shoved it into his pocket. “Guess I’m going to have to remind you exactly who you belong to, hm?”

“Hongjoong no, you don’t have to do that. I-I know that-.” Your words were cut off again by Hongjoong pushing you back against the wall again and slamming his lips onto yours. The grip he had on your arms was enough to hurt a little bit, and you squirmed at the uncomfortable feeling. “J-Joong.”

“Shut the fuck up cheater, or I’ll shove something in your mouth to make you shut up.” His behavior was so left-field for you, and you didn’t know how to feel. If you wanted to be truly honest, his possessive nature was making your pussy ache and damp.

“I didn’t d-do anything wrong!”

“Didn’t do anything wrong….listen to yourself!” He yelled slightly and slid his hands down to grab both of your wrists, then slammed them up against the wall. He pressed his body frame against you, so you were completely against the wall. His face is right in your face, leaving no room for personal space. “I fucking own you; you got that? You’re mine, and when I see you flirting and undressing your fans with those seductive eyes of yours..I get a little…pissed off. So now, I have to make sure you haven’t forgotten exactly who you belong to.”

“Hongjoong I-.” Your heart was beating rapidly, and you did not know what else to say or do. He waited for you to try to say another smart remark before he took your hands held above your head, held them in one hand, and pulled you along as he started stomping toward your room. “Stop! What are you doing?”

“Teaching you a fucking lesson.” He threw his arm forward, which resulted in you stumbling forward and dropping down at the edge of the bed. He stepped back and ripped his shirt off over his head and, with one hand, threw it to the side of the room. You were propping yourself up with one arm and leaning back onto the bed as he walked closer to you. He grabbed the bottom of your chin and forced your face to look up at him. Taking a few seconds to look at your face and smile slyly.

“Are you scared of what I am capable of, Y/N?” You shook your head from side to side in response. “Use your fucking words slut.”

“N-no!” You stuttered out.

“You don’t sound so confident~.”

“I’m not scared of you!” You retaliated, but he just smirked at you.

“Guess I'll have to make you scared of me then.” Not a moment passed before he grabbed you by the hair and pulled you off the bed, down on your knees, onto the floor in front of him. You winced from the pain as he dragged you down. You tilted your head up to look at him, hoping your expression would fill him with remorse. “Pathetic really. You think looking at me like that will make me forget what you did today? Think again.” As he spoke, his free hand fought with his belt to get it off. He snapped the belt to the side, almost like a whip, and squatted down to be in front of you. You dared not to look at him, but you could feel his eyes piercing into you. You felt his hand release from your hair. He tenderly traced his hands along your arms and brought them together, holding your wrists together again with his hands.

“I don’t want you fucking touching me, so this is how I’ll fix that.” He took the belt and tightened it harshly around your wrists, pulling the belt tought and wrapping it a few times, allowing the end of the belt to stick out as a grip for him to hold onto. He stood back up and pulled your arms up with the belt. Your head rag dolled with your arms being pulled up. At this point, you had given in to him and were ready to accept whatever punishment he was giving you right now.

Your eyes followed his hand, which was not holding your restraint, and your eyes were led to the zipper on his pants. He pulled the zipper down and shimmed his pants down just barely past his hips, enough for him to be able to whip his cock out.

“Open up whore.” He demanded, and you found yourself quickly obeying. He raised the arm holding your restraint a little higher before shoving his cock directly into your mouth. Pushing himself all the way in, not allowing you to prepare yourself at all. Your eyes immediately filled with tears, and you tried your best not to gag. Hongjoong had an average-sized cock, but that doesn't mean it was easy for you to take him. You heard Hongjoong groan above you, and you glanced up at him to see the look on his face. His head was tilted back slightly, and his mouth was agape just the slightest bit.

“God I’m gonna fucking ruin you. Gonna fuck this little throat of yours so good it’ll be hard for you to sing at your precious music show tomorrow.” You whimpered at his dirty talk, but also because your voice is an extremely valued asset to your group, and if you can’t perform at your best, it will definitely not go unnoticed. He shoved himself further inside your mouth, and you couldn’t help but gag so hard that you started to cough. You pulled yourself off and back away from him, and you continued coughing until you felt better. Hongjoong scoffed at you.

“Unbelievable.”

“Joongie please…” Your voice is nearly above a whisper, still trying to come back to you after having his dick deep in your throat. Your eyes are now bloodshot and watery, looking at him hoping he’ll feel some sympathy and realize he's going a little too hard on you.

“You should have thought about the consequences before flirting with that fan baby.” He shrugs and dismisses your cry for help. You braced yourself, thinking he was going to shove himself back inside your throat, but to your surprise, he pulled you up by the belt restraint, so you were standing up. He steadied you by placing his free hand on your shoulder and looking at you deep in the eyes. “You’re lucky I actually give a shit about your career. Be thankful I don’t completely ruin your fragile ass.” He tilted his head while talking to you, smirking at the end of his sentence.

“Y-yes, thank you.”

“Shut up. That wasn’t an invitation.” He unexpectedly let go of the belt, and your arms fell down in front of you, hitting the front of your crotch. You whimpered at the impact and felt the blood rush back into your arms. He placed his hand on your shoulder and pushed you, so you fell back onto the bed. Letting out a grunt when your back made contact with the mattress. Hongjoong stepped closer to the bed and gripped onto your sweatpants.

“I don’t want to hear another sound out of you, got it?” You opened your mouth to agree, but quickly closed it and nodded your head instead. "Finally, you got some sense knocked into you.” He pulled your sweatpants down, and you heard a soft chuckle come out of him. “My my, you’ve made a mess down here already.” You wanted to squirm, but his grip on your legs prevented you from doing so. Your struggle must have said enough because he took two of his fingers and placed them on the wet patch on your underwear. The room was quiet enough that you could hear the squishing sound of your wetness spreading even more, completely soaking your undergarments.

“You like me treating you like this, huh?” He said as he pushed his fingers into you harder. You bit your lip to suppress the whimper that so desperately wanted to come out. His two fingers finding your clit through your underwear and massaging it delicately. You squeezed your eyes shut and bit your lip harder. You arched your back slightly and tilted your head into the bed.

“Look at you getting all needy for me now. Bet you were not thinking about me when talking to that boy toy of yours.” His tone was so condescending. You had really pissed him off, and he was going to make sure you knew and remembered who you belonged to. He removed his fingers from your clothed pussy and pulled them down. Completely removing those and your sweatpants in the process. You felt the cold air of the room blow across your bare area and got cold chills on your body. He harshly gripped your thighs and pulled your legs further apart, completely exposing yourself to him. You felt his warm breath against you as he leaned in closer. He pushes your legs apart a little more, and you whimper at the pain of being overstretched. Hongjoong hears your whimper and slaps the side of your leg with his hand.

“I thought I told you to stay quiet.”

“S-sorry.” You muttered and felt Hongjoong slap your side again, harder than the last time. Next thing you know, he dives his tongue straight into your pussy, licking and sliding his mouth everywhere. His warm tongue collects all of your juices that have recently come out. He swirls your fluids around in his mouth and spits it right back out onto you, licking and lapping it up all over again. His nose is pushing right onto your clit. You so badly want to take your hands and grip the side of his hair, but with your hands tied, you can’t. Your body writhes and squirms underneath him, and with every movement you make, you feel him pushing that side of you back down to keep you secured to the bed. He continues to lick and tongue-fuck you, too enthralled in your pussy to notice all of the soft whimpers and moans you have been letting out. You feel a knot begin to form in your lower stomach, but just as you are about to go over the edge, Hongjoong pulls away from you. You tilt your head down to look at him, breathing heavily and wondering why he stopped. He looks back at you and uses his tongue to lick your excessive fluids that have built up around his lips. Pulling his tongue back in and letting it rest against his teeth as he smirks at you, looking at him with desperation and confusion.

“Oh I’m sorry. Did you really think I was going to let you cum that easily? This is your punishment whore. Nothing good will come out of this, you hear me?”

You pouted and wiggled your arms to try to prop yourself up. You just wanted to cum so badly and get this punishment over with. Hongjoong takes this time to grab your sides and flip you over onto your stomach. Your legs are still dangling off the edge of the bed, and you feel him spread your legs apart a little bit with his hands and nuzzle himself in between. He glides his hand up your right thigh and caresses your ass cheek.

“Such a pretty ass, but it’ll look even better with my handprints all over it. Wouldn’t you agree?” You wiggled your hips to agree with him. He firmly grips your cheek before pulling his hand away and forcing it back down onto your ass. He watches as the skin, fat, and muscle recoil from the slap. You push your head into the bed to muffle any sounds that might come out of your mouth. Hongjoong not being satisfied with his work yet, lifted his hand up again and smacked your ass harshly for the second time. You started to feel the stinging and burning feeling. Your ass was now a pretty shade of pink, but Hongjoong was still not satisfied. He lifted his hand one more time and put all his effort into slapping your ass again. You heard him grunt as he swung his arm down. Putting all of his force into smacking you. You pushed your hips back, unintentionally asking him for more.

“It’s funny you think I’m going to give you what you want. Really? After what you did today?” Hongjoong massaged your stinging and red cheek as he said this, and you softly moaned at the feeling. Finally being able to feel some comfort after a couple minutes of pain. Hongjoong flips you around again and leans down, placing his arms on both sides of you to support himself. He reaches for the belt restraint and takes it off of you.

“This is not an invitation for you to touch me, got it?”

“Y-yes sir.” You whispered as you nodded, looking him straight in the eyes. He smirks for a second and tosses the belt to the side of the room. He places one arm back at your side while the other hand touches his cock to guide himself into you. Instead of slamming himself inside of you like before, he slowly inserts his dick into you. Your walls swallow him, and you can feel every vein on his cock. He removes his hand from his dick as he goes further in and places it beside you on the other side.

“God dammit you’re so tight.” He growls through gritted teeth. Pushing himself all the way, slowly. You squeeze your eyes shut as he fills you nicely. Happy to finally have his cock inside you after him edging you. Your arms were sprawled out to the side, unsure of where to put them since you can’t put them on Hongjoong like you normally would.

“I’m gonna drill myself so far into you that you’ll still feel me inside you days later. So you can never forget me. Huh? Remember? You’re mine Y/N. You’re my toy to fuck and play with. Think about that the next time you want to whore yourself out to your fans. I bet he couldn’t fuck you like I could. No, he couldn’t. Cause if he even remotely got close to you, he’d be gone in seconds. No one touches you except for me. You got that? Mine…you’re fucking mine!” Hongjoong spouts off, getting increasingly louder and harder with his thrusts. He has fully leaned his body down onto you, so you are chest to chest. His dick keeps drilling inside you, and your head is spinning. His dirty and possessive words go straight to your core.

“Hongjoong-”

"Yeah, fucking say my name. Who’s fucking you this good?”

“Hongjoong!”

“That’s right you slut!” He thrusts himself into you harder and faster. You feel your orgasm building up again. You so desperately want to grab onto his arms and hold onto him as you’re cumming. Hongjoong dives his head into your neck and kisses and nips at your skin, surely leaving little marks on your skin.

“S-stop! Tomorrow…schedule!” You plead, trying to tell him not to mark up your skin since you have performances to do the next day.

“No! I’m letting all of your precious fans know you’re already taken, and there is no chance of them being able to get with you.” He mutters seductively against your neck. A few more thrusts and neck kisses, and your release bubbles out of you. You cry out his name, each one louder than the last, as you cum all over his cock. “Fuck! Yeah that’s right. I’m the only one capable of making you cum this hard.” His thrusts are getting sloppy, and you can tell he is close to his release. He is still pounding into you, which is overstimulating you. Muttering “yeah” and “fuck” to himself quietly over and over again, grunting and groaning. Eventually, he fills you up with his load. Tilting his head down and panting as he tries to calm himself down. He pulls himself out of you, and you whimper. Completely fucked out and brainless at this point.

“Just to check…who do you belong to?”

“You Hongjoong…o-only you.”

“That’s right. Don’t forget that ever again; you got it?”

“Yes Hongjoong.”

Tags: @pre1ttyies @isiloiale @moongoddess1982 @yeosangsbbg @sanipan @10nantscompanion @xuchiya @bunnyluvr25

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ataliagold · 2 months ago

Text

trouble's always gonna find you baby, but so will i

For Whumptober prompt 10, I used "blow to the head" and "slurred words." Title from Western Nights by Ethel Cain.

Also on AO3.

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Rating: T

W/C: 1546

Tags: post-vecna, established steddie, whump, assault, injured steve, pistol-whipped, hospital, hurt/comfort, happy ending.

Summary: Steve's found by some men looking to pass Al Munson's drug debt on to his son.

But he'll die before he gives Eddie up.

___

“You ready to talk?”

The man’s leaning close to Steve’s ear, rancid breath filling his nostrils, his fist caked in blood.

Steve’s blood.

Steve gasps for air, bats at the man’s wrist again, kicks out futilely. He receives a boot to his leg for his efforts, the second man grunting at the force he puts behind it.

His head’s swimming. Distantly, he wonders just how many concussions a person can take before their brain just sort of…leaks out their ears.

Surely he’s almost at the brain leaking stage by now.

Blood dribbles from his mouth, sticks to his teeth.

“Where’s Eddie Munson?” The first man growls.

Steve keeps his mouth shut. He’ll never give up Eddie, certainly not to these lowlifes, these associates of Al Munson looking to pass a drug debt onto the jailed man’s son.

He’ll die first.

When he says nothing, there’s the tell-tale click of a gun being cocked.

Steve really thinks he might actually die tonight.

If no one walks past this back alley, he’s toast.

Cold metal presses against his temple. Lucidity grips him for a moment, and Steve squirms in the grip of the two men, trembling all over.

“No…no, you can’t…I don’t know where he is, I don’t.” It’s a lie. It’s a fucking lie but he can’t.

“I ain’t fucking playing,” the man spits out, pressing the handgun harder against the side of Steve’s head. “You’ve got about five seconds before I decorate these walls with your brain, pretty boy.”

Steve swallows. He tastes rust and salt, coughs as it goes down. Heart hammering, ears ringing, fingers scrabbling at the hand fisted at his collar.

He’s going to die. Here, in the pitch black, in the dankest, dirtiest alleyway in Hawkins, where Jonathan had once beat him to a pulp while his friends looked on.

His tongue darts out over his lips. The barrel of the gun’s against his head still.

He thinks of Eddie.

Of cracked lips and gentle hands, long curls and pale skin that Steve loved to touch.

He’ll die before he gives him up.

In a moment of defiance, he locks eyes with his attacker.

The man curses, raises his hand, and whips the butt of the pistol across Steve’s face.

Steve’s head is slammed to the side at the force, his cheek immediately wet with blood where the skin parts.

“Last chance.” The man spits at the ground beside him, and then the gun’s lowered in front of Steve’s face again.

The world’s a blur in front of him. Steve blinks sluggishly, listens to his pulse pounding in his ears.

Eddie would be home from work by now. He’d be at the cabin by the lake, where he and Steve had been staying after…everything. They’d just wanted some peace in the wake of Vecna, away from the prying eyes of the Hawkins townsfolk, the ones that still blamed Eddie for everything that had happened to the town.

Steve was going to cook dinner for the two of them.

He’d been halfway through when he realized they didn’t have any butter, had driven back into town to buy some. It lay beside him now with the rest of the last-minute groceries he’d grabbed scattered on the filthy concrete. Even when he’d been jumped in the empty parking lot, he’d kept hold of his bag, too shocked to drop it until they’d slammed him up against the wall in the alleyway.

Eddie would be worried, he’d be wondering where Steve was, he’d come looking…

Steve hopes someone else finds him, after. Anyone but Eddie.

“Fuck you,” Steve slurs, with the last of his strength.

The man’s expression hardens.

Steve’s eyes drift close, and he waits for death.

Instead, there’s the wailing of a siren several blocks over.

The other man, the younger one who’d been sending the other nervous looks the whole time, lets go of Steve. He slumps sideways, lacking the strength to stay sitting upright.

“We gotta go,” the younger man urges.

“Nah, he’ll break,” the elder scoffs.

“That’s the fucking police.”

“They’re still a ways off. Probably doing something else.”

“I’m out, man.” The younger one backs away, turns on his heel, and runs.

The older man swears. The siren gets louder, and Steve thinks he can see red and blue lights in the distance, but maybe it’s just his injured brain firing on all cylinders.

“We’ll be back,” he hisses at Steve, kicks him one last time for good measure, and then he’s gone.

Steve sucks in a breath. Winces as everything hurts, his ribs and his stomach and his face all on fire.

He needs to move. Needs to get out to the road where someone might see him, because there’s no way he’s going to make it back to his car.

A whimper escapes from between clenched teeth as he braces against the wall.

He thinks of Eddie.

Shoves himself to his feet, one arm looped against his stomach protectively. His ribs crunch, and he knows there’s broken bone there, cracked under the onslaught of savage kicks the men had delivered to his sides.

It starts to rain.

And that, on top of everything else, has Steve almost breaking out into hysterical laughter. Because of course it’s fucking raining, just when he’d thought his night couldn’t get any worse. Rain mixes with the blood on his face, leaving watery streaks, and Steve slips and staggers his way across the concrete, past the butter turning to a damp mess, past the carton of eggs smashed across the ground.

Several times, he ends up on his knees, everything spinning.

But slowly, every inch of him screaming in agony, he makes it to the road.

There’s a patrol car up ahead, the siren cut now but the lights still flashing on the roof, reflecting off the rain falling.

Steve’s shirt is soaked through as he hobbles towards the car.

“Help,” he tries to call out, but it comes out as a croak, blood spilling out behind it.

He stumbles again, sobs, scrabbles against the concrete with ragged nails and forces himself upright again.

There’s a familiar figure in front of him, hauling some drunk guy to his feet, waving him away from a storefront.

Hopper.

Steve’s crying in relief now.

“Hop,” he rasps.

The chief turns. His eyes go wide, and he runs to Steve, catching him before he can fall again.

“Steve? What the hell happened?”

Steve’s mumbling into Hopper’s chest, he’s trying to tell him, but his tongue’s heavy in his mouth and his words are all merging together.

“In the car, come on,” Hopper’s telling him, guiding him to the passenger seat of the patrol car and easing him in.

Steve leans against the door, shivering, distantly aware of Hopper saying something, but then his eyes are falling closed and he slips into darkness.

*****

He wakes to a steady beep.

There’s a hand on his, warm and familiar.

He’d know it anywhere.

Slowly, he cracks open one eye, then the other.

Eddie’s beside him. He’s pale, bags under his eyes, his bottom lip gnawed to shit, but he perks up now.

“Stevie? Sweetheart, can you hear me?” He squeezes Steve’s hand.

Steve goes to speak, but no sound escapes his raw throat. Instead, he nods, his head feeling heavy and stuffy.

“Steve, I’m so sorry.”

Eddie’s crying.

Steve hates that he’s crying. Hates that he’s the reason for Eddie’s tears.

“Don’t cry,” Steve whispers, his throat rattling. He feels the unmistakable tug of stitches on his cheek when his mouth moves, feels tender skin stretch and flex under bruises.

Eddie only cries harder, scootching his chair closer, forehead finding Steve’s chest and resting there lightly.

“Hopper told me, he said he could barely make out what you said but he heard men, and drugs, and you said my name…Stevie, they wanted me, didn’t they?”

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Steve slurs, “promise.”

“Baby, I don’t…I don’t care about that, I’m worried about you!” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, swipes at the tears across his face, before taking Steve’s hand again. “You’ve got two broken ribs, a serious concussion, and two lots of stitches in your head. You…you could’ve died.”

Steve’s feeling…fuzzy. He recognizes the warm, soupy sensation of painkillers pumping steadily through his veins, knows without them he’d probably be feeling a whole lot worse than he is now.

He reaches a hand up, paws at the air a couple of times before it finally settles where he wants it, on the back of Eddie’s head, soothing over his curls.

“S’ok,” he mumbles, “I’m ok. Gonna…gonna make you dinner. When I’m outta here. Promise.”

Eddie splays a hand across Steve’s stomach, tears soaking into the crisp white sheet on the hospital bed.

“No, you’re not,” Eddie tells him softly. “When you’re out of here, I’m going to look after you. Gonna make you your favourite meals, I’ll fucking…spoon feed you, I’m not letting you out of bed until you’re completely healed.”

“Sounds fun,” Steve drawls, halfway to sleep because Eddie’s here, he’s warm and his voice is soothing and he’s safe.

“I love you,” Eddie whispers, “so fucking much.”

“Love you too,” Steve slurs out, and then he’s asleep again, secure in Eddie’s arms.

___

#whumptober 2024 #no.10 #blow to the head #stranger things #fic #assault #steddie #steddie fic

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heartsofminds · 1 year ago

Text

my life is changing every day, in every possible way

“She’s a cranberry,” he exaggerates his pronunciation of the word for extra emphasis, “Has Ocean Spray become a relic around here?” or It's Halloween, Bradley has a precocious eleven-month-old daughter, and he might be in love with her impromptu babysitter.

A/N: soooo here's a halloween thing that i kind of just threw together? i'm OBSESSED with bradley being a girl dad and just love this little girl i came up with (@gretagerwigsmuse knows that we love quincy in this household). anywho, enjoy some poorly written dadley and this super pointless halloween drabble? hope y'all had a good holiday and am sooo looking forward to writing more of this daddy/daughter duo !

“Whatever it is, Bradshaw, you’re not excused this time.”

Jake Seresin slams his locker shut and shoves his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. The heel of his boot is kicked up, making a soft “thud” on the hollow metal as he leans his back against it. He crosses his arms to lie in front of his chest and adjusts his watch.

The small wooden bench screwed into the linoleum tile perches Bradley Bradshaw, who sits with his elbows digging into the tops of his thighs and his back aching something awful. He softly grunts before he turns to release some of the pressure there. The resounding crack it makes causes Jake to grimace a little before his face returns to the snarky default position it always seems to have.

“I’m sorry I’m an adult? And have responsibilities?” Bradley rolls his eyes and traces his index finger around a watermark on the wood next to him.

He notices his Nalgene water bottle sweating and subconsciously picks it up, using the bottom of his t-shirt to dry the wet spots it left in its wake. Jake and Natasha watch him without his knowledge and share a knowing look with each other, but remain silent. Sometimes it’s hard to determine if Bradley’s behavior is because he’s in a vastly different life stage than they are, or if it’s just a Bradley thing.

Trying to figure it out makes everyone’s brains hurt so they often just let it be.

The blonde groans again. “You say it like flying a billion-dollar aircraft every single day isn’t a huge responsibility,” he licks his lips before throwing his head back, “Can you take that huge stick out of your ass for once and let yourself have fun?”

“I have a baby, shithead. I can’t just stop being a dad to go to a Halloween party.”

Javy slams his locker shut and prances over to Jake and Natasha. A wrinkle in his eyebrows starts to form as he thinks over Bradley’s statement. He finds himself standing next to Jake; his stance is identical and his bargaining skills are tuned and ready to be used.

“It’s hardly a party at all, man. It’s a costume, a couple of beers at Pen’s place, and maybe one other bar for like an hour,” he speaks and pats Bradley’s shoulder, “Live a little.”

Bradley sighs; the puff of air housing a hint of playfulness and a hint of annoyance. He knows he’s already lost and that there is absolutely no way he’s getting out of it this time. And so help him God, he can’t believe he’s thinking this, but maybe what Jake and Javy are saying doesn’t sound like too bad of a plan.

It would be good for him. It would be good them. It would be good for Quincy, and if any of the parenting magazine articles (that he’s kind of ashamed to have budgeted for paying for the subscriptions, if he’s being honest) had anything to say about it, children thrive when their parents are thriving.

Besides, Penny and Mav have kinda been on his ass about it. Because yeah, she goes to daycare during the day and yes, she’s technically been around other kids and for sure has had her share of being around adults, but she’s one anxious biting attack away from being kicked out of daycare and all the people Bradley trusts (outside of Miss Charlene at the daycare who is a friend of Penny’s and was his babysitter when he was small) are up in the sky so he’s really running himself dry with options.

Natasha calls it separation anxiety but Bradley calls it a bond. Which is true, Nat had agreed, but it wasn’t just about Quincy being attached. It was also about Bradley being just as attached, if not more.

In the eleven months that Quincy Elaine Bradshaw had been on this Earth, Bradley hadn’t left her side for longer than four hours at a time.

And he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s never really had anyone to call his own before or if it’s a “Papa Bear” thing or if there’s some unexplained biological phenomena that won’t allow him to be away from his daughter without spiraling, but he hardly thinks its a problem. . . .

Except when he leaves on his lunch break to go see her at daycare and she’s in a fit of hysterics whenever his hour break is up and he has to return to work. Or when she’s eleven months old and has never slept by herself in her own room before (which is why his back is so fucked, but he’ll never admit it). Or when she’s biting kids and teachers because she’s so anxious she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

So, yeah. Maybe it is a problem and maybe the root of it all is guilt.

He can’t let his daughter out of his sight because he can’t help but feel guilty for raising her the same way he was and giving her a ghost that she never asked for – a parent whose approval she will always seek despite never knowing who that person truly is.

Something about that makes him feel like he has to make up time for two as a punishment for only being one, and being the one who can’t provide her everything she’ll ever need as a growing girl and eventually as a woman.

“I don’t know,” he says lamely. He wraps his finger around the loose thread on his t-shirt and pulls it in one fell swoop.

“Okay, fuck. You need to get out. What do you need?” Natasha pipes up, rolling her eyes before sitting down next to him.

He raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth to answer but she cuts him off before he can. “What’s it gonna take? Do you need a sitter? A lobotomy? You need to live a little, dude.”

“Well, we know the sitter’s not the issue. The kid’s cute as shit,” Jake speaks up and Bradley scoffs.

“She’s so fucking cute,” Javy agrees and Bradley has to hide his grin despite being annoyed.

He helped make the cutest baby ever. Who wouldn’t be obnoxiously proud about that?

“Absolutely adorable. People are lining up to babysit her,” Reuben Fitch interrupts and joins the group of aviators which further puts a pin in Bradley’s desire to decline the invitation. Rueben doesn’t involve himself in Jake or Javy’s bullshit very often, but when he does, it’s evident that the idea isn’t absolutely batshit crazy.

Bradley gives him a playful middle finger before straightening his posture and coming to the realization that maybe Jake was right for once.

“Yeah.” Holy fucking shit. “Rueben’s wife would put her in her pocket and take her home if you let her.”

And the golden rule is that if Bob is game for something, then everyone else should be. So now he really has no excuse to not go out on Halloween night because he has the Southern Californian equivalent of the fucking Pope giving his two cents on to why he needs to go.

Fuck you, Bob Floyd for always being the voice of reason.

“See? Everyone agrees. You’re the odd one out so it’s only fair,” Jake taunts again. Everyone around Bradley seems to be shaking their head in agreement to which he realizes that he’s stuck and there’s no way he won’t be in attendance to the group’s Halloween plans.

“But it’s her first Halloween,” he tries to reason, “I can’t leave her alone on her first one.”

Javy sighs. “She’s not even gonna remember it. Yeah it’s a holiday but she’s not missing out on much. She doesn’t even have teeth yet.”

Jake laughs sarcastically. “Q-dawg’s been chompin’ away on all of her little daycare friends. Haven’t you heard?”

Bradley narrows his eyes. “Fuck you! I thought you left the room when I was on the phone with the daycare.”

“Her business is our business now, Bradshaw. Aren’t we allowed uncle duties?” Reuben teases. Natasha clears her throat to interrupt him. “And aunt duties?”

“Auntie Nat reigns superior and we all know it, but holy shit. She’s biting people? How is she more badass than her dad?” Nat goads and shoves the back of Bradley’s head playfully. She chuckles at how slow his head pops back up and he mocks her laugh and sticks out his tongue at her.

“Guys, c’mon. I can’t leave her with a sitter on her first Halloween.” Although he knows he sounds silly (and he feels silly saying it, too), his daughter is his best friend in some ways. Despite her not being able to walk yet and only having a vocabulary of a few words, he can’t help but know how deeply he loves her, and how much everything about her matters to him.

“Then don’t,” Bob says, “Just bring her to Hard Deck for like an hour and then you can run home, meet the sitter, and then meet us wherever else we decide to go.”

And sometimes Bradley hates how much sense Bob tends to make and wishes that he was wrong. That no, the Hard Deck isn’t a suitable place for a baby, and no, there’s absolutely no way Quincy would keep her cool while being there during one of the busiest nights of the year.

But he knows it’s a lie because her grandparents are the owners, everyone loves her and fights over having their turn to hold her or even catch a glimpse of a baby smile directed at them, and the fact that Quincy has been to the Hard Deck enough to have developed an affinity for diluted cranberry juice over the Mott’s Tots apple juice sitting in his pantry.

“Fuck, fine. But you’re finding me a fucking babysitter,” he speaks, pointing a finger between Jake and Natasha before standing up abruptly. He turns on his heel and makes his way toward the door, knowing the only way he can make sense of the predicament he’s put himself in can be solved by seeing his joyous baby girl.

The sounds of muffled chuckles and shoes squeaking on the ground fill the silence of Bradley’s absence; all of their eyes flitting to each other to decipher if they actually made the most stubborn man alive give into their bidding with minimal effort.

“Did we just make Rooster. . .cave?” Reuben speaks, his arms coming up to cross in front of his chest. His thumb rolls his wedding band around on his ring finger as he waits for someone else to speak up.

“Huh,” Jake huffs, “I think we did.”

“So I’m guessing the lobotomy is out of the question,” Mickey ponders out loud, “Y’all better know a damn good babysitter.”

Natasha and Jake’s eyes widen in realization. They better find a damn good babysitter soon.

Carrying a baby is harder than it looks.

Bradley swears that his daughter is an eighty-year-old woman trapped in the body of a drooly and overly excitable eleven-month-old.

It's not the worst thing in the world, he figures.

But God, is she giving his arms a workout from the amount of times she’s tried to contort her small body to get a good look at all the ruckus and excitement going on around her. It’s when Bradley feels a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck that he realizes the costume he’s picked may not have been the smartest move; especially when no one seems to get what he’s supposed to be.

Secreting sweat by the gallon seems like an unfair exchange to be dressed in what he thinks is the greatest daddy-daughter costume of all time. The flannel shirt he has on and the overwhelmingly hot coveralls to go with it was a good idea in theory (that theory being how frigid the Halloweens he used to spend in northern Virginia were when he was a little kid).

He finally makes it to the saloon-style doors of the bar and is met with “Thriller” by Michael Jackson playing from the overhead speakers above him. Every surface seems to be decked out in cobwebs and dark purple and neon green spiders, and Quincy stares in awe at all the patrons meddling about around her before making grabby hands at the faux snakes dangling around the jukebox.

She almost slips out of Bradley’s grasp before being wrangled back to a stable position by her chunky rolled arms.

“Jesus, girl,” he gasps, swallowing the lump in his throat while Quincy giggles in his face. “You tryna kill me here?”

“Well look who it is!” Penny’s teasing voice sounds in his ears.

Quincy’s little eyes catch the figure of her faux grandma and she begins to squeal in her father’s ear before reaching her arms as far out as they can go; reaching and moving so frantically it looks as if she’s attempting to swim in midair.

Penny moves closer to them and raises her eyebrows. Her arms instinctively reach out and she grabs Quincy from Bradley. Her fingers trace the burgundy felt of her costume before she tickles the baby. Quincy erupts in a fit of laughs.

“What has your crazy daddy got you dressed as?” she teases, her elbow coming out to knock Bradley in his ribs playfully. “Are you an. . .apple?”

Bradley huffs and rolls his eyes. His gaze instinctively lands on his daughter who clasps her hands on Penny’s face and traces her chubby (and insanely sticky) baby fingers across her red lips. She puckers her lips and chuckles to herself at Quincy’s amazement of red lipstick.

“She’s a cranberry,” he exaggerates his pronunciation of the word for extra emphasis, “Has Ocean Spray become a relic around here?”

Penny’s eyes flicker between Bradley and the baby she holds in her arms. The splotchy rosy cheeks and honeyed hazel eyes tells the tale of twins, and she’s reminded of the little boy she used to casually see around Fightertown all those years ago dressed in different variants of the same dinosaur on Halloween.

“Sweetheart, you’re saying it like it was the most obvious thing in the world,” she starts, simultaneously giving her attention to Quincy and the million and one different things going on around her, “I almost thought she was one of the cement balls outside of Target but realized the red was too dark.”

He groans, his eyebrows furrowing together and a slight scowl forming on his face. Penny’s heart is warmed because his daughter has a propensity to make the same face when she’s frustrated.

A beat absent of dialouge passes. Hoots and hollers fill the silence as well as strangers stopping by to coo at Quincy before being on their way to the pool table of their desire. Quincy babbles and talks as if she’s a lawyer prosecuting a case and Bradley’s heart softens at how animated she is.

Her awkward tongue pushes out more saliva than what would be socially acceptable and the drool begins to gather on her face. He reaches out and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of his flannel while she flops like a dead fish away from the makeshift napkin in protest.

God, this girl is so dramatic.

“I handmade it,” he says softly. He runs a dry part of his sleeve across her lips more firmly to ensure he had gotten all the wetness.

Penny hums in acknowledgement. “And you did good.”

And he doesn’t know why he’s expecting it; why he’s waiting on Penny (of all people) to see him picking a scab and rub more salt in the wound. He knows that she would never do that and he knows that most of the people (if not all of the people who he considers close to him) see him that way. He knows that people know he’s trying his best and that he’s doing everything he can.

Bradley knows but he just can’t make himself feel it, and he can never figure out why.

Maybe it’s because he’s a single dad. Maybe it’s because he’s a single dad without a “real” mom or dad to show him the way. Maybe it’s because he’s finally gotten used to having someone around who relies on him and needs him and loves him unconditionally, and he’s terrified of doing something that will make her sit on a couch in a therapist office and say the words that he’s trying his best to avoid: “My dad doesn’t love me enough.”

Bradley knows what it feels like to not be loved enough. Bradley knows what it feels like to not be liked enough. But Bradley doesn’t know what it feels like to not try hard enough, and that is something he is determined to never stop doing when it comes to his baby.

“You’re saying it like I didn’t though.”

Penny’s face falls and she shifts her gaze from Bradley’s daughter to him.

“Oh, Bradley,” she sighs, her open palm coming up to cup his face, “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re an amazing dad and you’re doing a fantastic job.”

He grabs her hand with his and gives her a weak smile in return.

“Doesn’t feel like it, though.”

He’s usually not one for feeling sorry for himself. He’s never been too keen on throwing pity parties and inviting everyone he knows to them, and in all actuality, he doesn’t know why this bid for reassurance that he’s serving Penny is even coming up.

“No. Stop it. No,” she playfully chides, tickling Quincy to make her erupt into a ball of silent baby chuckles. “You’re an amazing dad and everyone knows it. You’re her world and that’s all that matters.”

Bradley opens his mouth to respond but can’t find the words to accept her compliment. He simply nods his head before the already loud noise of the bar is split by an even louder whistle.

His neck cranes around to see his group of friends waving him over to the pool table and the anchored weight of doom starts to sink in his stomach. He remains frozen with his hands in his pockets and his body emitting heat from his personal heater of rubber waders. He feels like a seven year old at the park again; his mother standing before him and wordlessly encouraging him to go play and make friends.

The high pitched scream of his daughter is heard as Maverick approaches. Both Penny and Bradley wince more and watch as his daughter mindlessly babbles and almost flies out of Penny’s grasp in favor of him.

Pete smiles to himself before grabbing her from Penny. She rolls her eyes at him and he playfully sticks out his tongue.

“Like father, like daughter,” he says, “M’never not a Bradshaw kid’s favorite.” Quincy sticks her chubby fingers near Maverick’s mouth and squeals as he pretends to bite them.

“Did the past fifteen years just. . .not happen?” Bradley quips. In the past, the snarky comment would have made Maverick freeze on the spot but since they’ve repaired their relationship, (and Quincy’s frequent stays at Nana Pen and Papa Mav’s on the weekends) the insult rolls off Maverick’s shoulders into oblivion.

“You’re making fun of the old timer, but I’ve been havin’ myself a grand ole time and you’re in the corner pouting like you’re in timeout,” he comments back, “Don’t you have friends or something?”

“I’m just – taking my time to get over there.” They all look as Jake lets out an obnoxiously loud holler after hitting the eight ball into the pocket to win his pool game. “M’trying to choose joy tonight.”

“And choosing bad costumes too.” Maverick holds his granddaughter out in front of him to get a full fledged look at her costume. She kicks her legs in the air gleefully before he pulls her back to his chest. “Who makes their kid the…Target balls?”

Bradley lets out a groan and rubs at his temples. “Oh my God! She’s a cranberry!”

“Love you to pieces, kid but I think you need your vision checked. You can’t put a kid inside a red sphere and call it a cranberry,” his finger comes out to poke his granddaughter and he’s met with a giggle, “A quack doesn’t always mean duck.”

“Aren’t you, like, 5’4 –”

Penny interrupts the conversation with her hands and quickly grabs Quincy from Maverick’s hold. He flashes her a small pout and is met with the ice cold glare of his girlfriend.

“Bradley, go talk to your friends, babe. We’ll bring her over in a second,” she says, squeezing Pete’s bicep to drag him with her to the bar.

“But –” they both begin to complain in unison. Penny gives them a pointed look that immediately shuts them both up.

“Let’s go get some cranberry juice! How does that sound?” she asks Quincy who begins to smile and clap her hands in approval. Penny turns on her heel to head to the back while Maverick stands frozen in front of his nephew.

“Do you really think I’m only 5’4?” he meekly asks, genuine concern covering his face.

Bradley shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. The paper “Ocean Spray” label he’s taped onto his waders bends and he mentally cringes at the crease he knows will probably be there.

“I mean, sometimes when you turn to the side it’s hard to imagine that you’re actually 5’7.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I said, let’s go get some juice!” Penny’s yells, annoyance dripping off her tone. Maverick claps Bradley on the shoulder before retreating to go accompany Penny in getting Quincy copious amounts of diluted cranberry juice.

With Maverick’s departure, Bradley realizes that he actually has to go interact with his friends. After all, they’re the reason that he’s here. But when he takes in the swell and dip of the loudness that is contingent on the World Series playing on the televisions around him, he wonders if he’s made the wrong choice tonight.

He imagines that he would’ve taken Quincy up the street to trick or treat at a few houses before her impatience and curiosity made her lose interest in the activity. They would have abandoned trick or treating and ended up on the couch where she would be cuddled up beside him with her feet tucked somewhere in between his ribs (because she seems to have a talent for finding the most tender spots on his body to lay) and stroking the tip of his mustache with her perpetually sticky fingers as she begins to doze off. They would be probably watching It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown before her bedtime came, and she would be read three books, tucked in, and off to sleep before he caved and pulled her from her crib and let her sleep with him in his bed.

While it’s mundane and certainly not what he would have considered the epitome of “fun” even two years ago, he feels a weird ache in his chest knowing that he’s missing out on that reality. But he has to snap out of it if he doesn’t want to be miserable and ruin everyone’s night.

Besides, Jake and Nat promised him free drinks all night and they already found him a babysitter and paid her for him. He’s in too deep to back out now.

Bradley takes a deep breath before approaching his friends and tries to ignore the ringing in his ears as Jake and Mickey scream as the Texas Rangers score their first homerun of the game.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” Reuben teases, forcing a beer into his hand that had been on standby until Bradley’s arrival.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too excited,” he deadpans before moving around the group and telling everyone hello.

He’s met with joy and little jabs about graduating to “old timer” status that he playfully ignores. Bradley knows that they’re all just joking with him and that they mean no harm by their comments. Even he’s slightly surprised that he went through with coming out tonight; not to mention coming out while wearing a costume.

His eyes catch Jake slyly handing over a twenty dollar bill to Javy accompanied by a middle finger before he turns his attention to Bradley.

He can already sense the half-assed greeting he’s about to get from him before Jake even begins to speak.

“Got a lot of questions for you but I’ll start with this one,” Jake begins and Bradley rolls his eyes before he finishes his statement, “What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

He groans before pointing to the crumpled “Ocean Spray” label taped to his front. “Fucking Christ. Does no one know where the fuck cranberry juice comes from?”

Jake laughs before taking a long swig of his beer. His ridiculous belt buckle and cowboy boots tell Bradley exactly what he’s supposed to be. Well, that and the fact that for as long as he’s known Jake, he’s always the same thing every year for Halloween.

Leave the Texan to always be a cowboy.

“My first guess was one of the guys from “Deadliest Catch” but since you wanna be a diva about it. . .I’ll just pretend like the Ocean Spray farmer was beyond fuckin’ obvious” he takes a long swig from the beer bottle he has in his hand, “But that’s not important. Where’s our girl?”

Bradley sighs and looks around near the back of the bar where he knows his baby is being given the spotlight by all the older Hard Deck patrons that can’t believe that, “Little Bradley Bradshaw has a baby now!” He’s known that he’s always had a knack for attention, but his daughter lives for the limelight. He’s never known anyone in his life to be so incredibly outgoing, nevermind the fact that Quincy is already the life of the party and she can’t even speak coherently yet.

“Pen and Mav took her to get cranberry juice,” he emphasizes the word and Jake rolls his eyes at him this time instead of the reverse, “They’re gonna bring her by in a bit.”

Natasha makes her way over to the two men; extra smiley and smelling like she had bathed in tequila. Natasha always parties hard but never lets it keep her down. Her ability to drink liquor like a fish and be perfectly fine the next morning has always been a mystery to Bradley. She’s called Phoenix for a reason, he knows.

“Bradley!” she cheers. Her dark hair is hidden by a copper colored wig and he almost wouldn’t recognize her if he hadn’t known her face so well. The green eye makeup and the plastic vines wrapped around her shoulders and legs cue him into the fact that she’s dressed up as Poison Ivy.

“Hey!” he cheers back, matching her enthusiasm.

“You’re the fisher guys from “Deadliest Catch”! That’s so clever!”

Bradley’s face drops and Jake begins to lose his composure beside him. Natasha’s eyes immediately soften with worry and she starts to search for the words to profusely apologize.

“No I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings! I swear it! I was just – I thought — I think that it’s really cool and the overall thingies look great on you! I’m so sorry,” she word vomits and Jake continues to laugh hysterically.

“Nat, it’s okay. I’m not mad,” he speaks gently, “Just calm down a little.”

She takes a deep breath and Bradley can physically see her brain wipe the incident away as if it had never happened. He’s been her best friend for years and knows what she looks like when she’s close to being black out drunk. There’s maybe a thirty-five percent chance she even remembers this interaction at all. She blinks blankly at him before getting distracted by the baseball game and almost topples over with how fast she turned her head.

Jake lightly smacks Bradley’s chest with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna go grab her a water. You want anything?” he asks, gently. He doesn’t want Natasha to overhear him because they both know that she’ll refuse his help no matter what state she’s in.

He shakes his head “no” before hearing the clunk of his boots carrying him to the bar, leaving him and Natsaha alone in the pocket of the bar that their friend group has claimed as their own.

Natasha’s eyes follow Jake’s path to the bar and Bradley has to hide his grin and hold his tongue to not set her off while she’s so vulnerable. Natasha has always been the tiniest bit sweet on Jake but is too stubborn to admit it. Even with all the logical circuits in her brain turned off, she refuses to let herself ponder on this fact for longer than a few seconds. She catches herself staring at the blonde in a half-assed Halloween costume before she returns her attention to Bradley.

And just as expected, she changes the subject as if their earlier conversation had never even happened.

“Where’s Quincy Wincey?” she asks and Bradley chuckles.

Even with no coherent thoughts in mind, Natasha still loves his daughter and wants nothing more than to see her.

“She’s behind the bar with Pen and Mav. She’ll be here shortly.”

Natasha nods before opening her mouth again. “You know, you’re a great dad, B.”

Her sudden revelation takes the words out of Bradley’s mouth. He’s known Natasha Trace for nearly fifteen years and he has never known her to give out genuine compliments half-assed. He has half the mind to ask her what she means by it, but knows that it’s no use given the state she’s in.

All that matters is that she really means it, so he settles for a simple “Thank you” instead.

Jake announces his return by forcing a cup of ice water into Natasha’s hand which she gripes about but begins to drink anyway.

“Your daughter’s back there chummin’ it up, by the way,” Jake states simply and Bradley pauses.

“What do you mean?” His hands come out to rest on his hips.

“Well, for starters,” he begins, unwrapping a toothpick and putting it in his mouth, “She’s got people handing her candy and peanuts into a little paper bag. She’s being pretty efficient about it if I say so myself. Had half the mind to grab her from Mav while I was up there cause I wanna see her, but I didn’t wanna get in the way of her business efforts.”

“She’s what?”

“Paper bag. Candy. Peanuts,” Jake lists, “C’mon, man. Keep up!”

Bradley stalks toward the bar to go get his daughter. He’s not angry, in any sense of the word, but kind of disappointed given that she’s technically trick or treating for the first time and he’s not there to witness it. Part of him is starting to feel restless at his lack of interaction with her and wants her back in his arms immediately.

“Hey, don’t insert yourself in her business endeavors! Be happy your daughter is likable. We all know she doesn’t get it from you,” Jake shouts before returning his attention to the World Series playing out in front of him.

By the time Bradley arrives to the bar top, he takes note of exactly what Jake had seen upon his visit. There is his daughter with ruddy cheeks and a toothy grin absolutely hamming up her cuteness at some captains and their wives with Maverick holding her up so she can stand semi-confidently on the table. Her little fist holds a brown paper bag that Penny uses for her peanuts and is full with candy and crinkled due to her lack of a proper graspar reflex.

His daughter is a world class charmer and she has an equally charming grandpa to help her do her bidding.

“Bradley!” Maverick cheers, turning Quincy his direction so that she can have eyes on her dad.

Like magic, she abandons the little bag she was holding in favor of the arms of her father. He grabs her without hesitation and she glues herself to his side as if it’s her permanent position.

“You better not be making my baby a con artist, Mav,” he weakly threatens. He coos at Quincy and marvels in the way she lays her head on his shoulder.

“Hardly. She’s a people magnet, kid. Everyone would be happy to do anything she wanted them to do.”

Bradley sighs, knowing that he’s missed one of her milestones. This is the price he’ll have to pay forever with being a more than single parent with the kind of job he has. He swallows the disappointment down and saves it for later. He knows that it’ll come up another time anyway, so why even bother with addressing it now?

“You’re treating my kid like a Kennedy, Mav. Don’t get any ideas on how to sneak her onto base to get you out of trouble.”

Pete laughs and holds up his hands in defeat. “Can’t make any promises,” he simply says, “Don’t you have to go meet the sitter soon?”

Bradley groans at the gentle reminder his uncle is giving him. Maverick doesn’t know what it’s like to be a parent in the slightest, but he knows what good parenting looks like. He had seen it with Goose and how much he had cared for Bradley in the very short amount of time he was given, there’s no doubt in his mind that Bradley is the best dad that Quincy could ever ask for.

But what he also knows is how perfectionistic and borderline obsessive his nephew can be. He deserves a break and a break Maverick knows will be spent in good company with people who love him.

Bradley deserves this, and he knows that Mav’s gentle reminder is more of an order telling him to be kind to himself.

He looks down at his watch and sees the little hand inching towards the eight. “Yeah. We need to get going.”

Pete leans over and gives Quincy a kiss on the head as a “goodbye” before shoving the paper bag of candy into her father’s hand.

He closes his hand around Bradley’s fist and gives it a firm shake. “Have fun tonight. You deserve it.”

Bradley nods before bidding goodbye to Penny who is beyond excited at the idea of Bradley finally going out, baby free, for the first time since he found out he was going to be a father.

And when his daughter incoherently hums along to “The Girl is Mine” by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney in the backseat, Bradley knows how hard leaving her alone tonight is truly going to be.

She shouts at him which he knows is her trying to get his attention to sing along with her.

“You ready, babe?” he asks, eyes flitting up to peek at her in his rearview mirror, “Because, the doggone girl is mine.”

Quincy bursts into a fit of baby giggles as he tries to ignore the feeling of impending doom brewing in his chest. He grabs a piece of chalky bubble gum from her candy bag and pops it in his mouth. He cringes as he chews.

Who the fuck gives gum to a baby?

Bradley doesn’t know why his heart is pounding out of his chest.

He knows that he’ll only be gone for two hours maximum and that Quincy will probably sleep the entire time anyway. She may be precocious and charming, but she loves bedtime more than anything, and from the active night she’s had, he’d be surprised if she even made it fifteen minutes before passing out somewhere on the living room floor.

He trusts Natasha’s judgement (and Jake’s, he’ll begrudantly admit) and he knows the sitter they found for him is nothing less than amazing. You’re a childhood friend of Natasha’s that had recently moved to the area and had been Jake’s date one time to the Navy Ball six years ago (which he had learned from an Instagram post dated from 2017).

And Bradley will say he doesn’t know much about you (outside of his deep dive stalk that he had done days before, but that remains beside the point, he thinks) but that would be a big fat lie. He feels a little pathetic to admit that he had created a faux LinkedIn profile to be able to look you up and see your credentials as well as finding every mutual follower you had amassed between Natasha, Jake, Javy, and Bob.

And it’s a little creepy, he admits, but he’s only just looking out for the safety of his daughter! Just because you know his friends doesn’t mean that he knows you (which he knows is wildly untrue given the overwhelming amount of Internet stalking he had done on you in the past week).

Bradley is burning a hole into his living room floor by pacing back and forth with his daughter in his arms. As anticipated, she’s started to doze off and he chuckles to himself. Quincy loves bedtime and that remains uncontested by the way her little lips are pursed and she lets out light snores.

The sound of a car door opening and shutting keys him into being aware of your presence and he scares you half to death because he opens the door before you can knock; your knuckles almost coming into contact with his chin had you not been paying attention.

“Oh,” you mummer, “Ummm. You’re Bradley, right?”

And you’ve never felt as dumb as you do now because of course he’s Bradley. You know what he looks like and the baby asleep on his shoulder and the last name “Bradshaw” printed on the doormat outside should be enough for you to deductively reason that that’s him right in front of you.

Not to mention, you’ve been Internet stalking him and know what he looks like for a fact because of the amount of photos Natasha has of him on her Instagram and in her story highlights. You had always found him attractive whenever your eyes graced those pictures, but that’s all it was; a fleeting thought that was never watered and was gone as soon as it was there.

But now that he’s in front of you, now that you’re getting a really good look at him holding a precious baby on his hip and somehow making rubber waders look amazing, your mouth starts to get dry and your heartbeat starts to quicken.

“You must be the sitter,” he declares and he mentally kicks himself for how cold he’s coming off. His nerves have a tendency to put him into fight or flight and the pressure of being in your presence merely adds to that.

He clears his throat when he notices your lips forming a thin line and rejection teeming from your body language.

Fuck. Why do I always do this?

“Oh! Uh – Come in,” he steps aside and closes the door behind you as you walk in.

From what you know about Bradley, you know that he’s a single dad who had a less than stellar record for wanting female companionship. When Nat would come to Williamsburg to visit you all those years ago when you were fresh out of undergrad and working as a TA, barely scraping enough money to pay your rent, she would lay on your floor and crone about how she had a friend who never seemed to be able to keep a girlfriend.

But he was amazing, she would insist, and he’s such an awesome person, she would say. Somehow though, Bradley always seemed to be heartbroken and searching for the next way to smash what little he had left of it into unsalvageable pieces.

Even though that was close to a decade ago, you know that the fact remains true when you peer across the pictures in his living room. Photos of a blonde couple and a dark haird little boy that you know are his parents. Photos of him with the infamous and insane Maverick. Photos of him with his daughter, but no photos of him and his daughter’s mother; let alone a girlfriend of any kind.

“So she’ll probably sleep the entire time. Don’t put her in her crib because she’ll scream bloody murder and not calm down for a long time so you’re free to keep her on the couch or put her in my bed,” he lays her down in the corner of his couch and puts the large blanket laying there on her lower half, “She’s allergic to strawberries but I don’t think she’s gonna be eating anything while you’re here and I don’t have strawberries in the house.”

He pauses, wracking his brain for more information to tell you that wouldn’t just be him retelling his daughter’s entire life story. “Oh! This is kind of weird, but if she wakes up and won’t go back to sleep, just play “The Girl is Mine” –”

“The Paul McCartney song?” you question. Your eyes search his face and are full of amusement. He can’t help but feel his chest flutter at the little glimmer they give off.

Focus. You can’t flirt with the babysitter. What’s wrong with you?

“Well, it’s Michael Jackson’s song featuring Paul McCartney but yeah. It usually calms her right down and she’ll settle enough to doze back off.”

He knows that his daughter is more than quirky. Sometimes he settles for the word “particular,” but he knows quirky is the right one to use.

You start to laugh a little. “That’s so –”

“Weird?” he inserts, “Yeah, I know. I’m raising a sixty-year-old but there could be worse songs. Be grateful she’s phased out of only wanting to listen to “Break Free” because there’s nothing worse than listening to EDM on a loop at three AM because she won’t fall asleep unless it’s playing.”

You shake your head and agree. “Well, I promise that we’ll behave ourselves and not get into anything too crazy. She’s adorable, you know, so if she asks, I don’t know if I can stand it to say no.”

You can’t flirt with her dad. You can’t be the babysitter that’s trying to get banged by the dad. What’s wrong with you?

He chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll see to that. Her sitter is pretty cute too so I think I’d be pretty forgiving.”

And fuck. Is he, is he flirting with you?

You’re left speechless before his phone rings and he rolls his eyes before grabbing it off the entryway table.

“Hang on a sec,” he says before swiping across the screen to answer. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Jake. I’m on the way.”

He grabs his keys and starts heading toward the door, his cell phone wedged between his shoulder and ear and you have to stop yourself from drooling. “Calm the fuck down, dude. I’m leaving like right now. . .Yes, I’m literally walking out the door – Can you chill? I’ll be there when I get there?”

He bids you goodbye with a simple wave before shutting the door and running to his car. The sound of the front door closing instantly wakes Quincy who shoots her head up and frantically swivels it around in pursuit of her father. When she can’t spot him, her bottom lip droops and starts to wobble.

She spots you and immediately lifts her arms up, telling you that she wants to be held. You graciously comply and coo softly to her and marvel in the way she instantly koalas to your side as if she had always had a spot there and had always known you.

Part of you thinks that it’s fate. That in some way, you’re meant to be in her life and meant to stick around but you know that this silly schoolgirl thinking will only get your heart smashed to pieces. You decide to ignore it.

Besides, Natasha would kill you if you ever expressed to her how hot you found her other best friend.

Some things just aren’t meant to be.

Bradley jogs into the next bar that his friends had decided to go to with a slight smile on his face. He scans the crowd and spots Jake and Bob trying to hold up a beyond inebriated Natasha.

“You’re awful happ — Oh dear God. Don’t tell me you screwed the sitter,” Jake greets and Bob looks away bashfully once the statement leaves Jake’s mouth.

Bradley mocks him before helping them guide Natasha to a booth.

“Can you ever just say "hello" like a normal person? Do you always have to be bitchy?” he remarks.

Jake lets Natasha rest her head on his shoulder and looks down to check on her. “It was just a comment. You know we picked her because we wanna set you guys up, right?”

Bradley’s world stops. He raises his eyebrows and feels his mouth go dry.

“You what?”

“I mean, she’s cute. She’s smart. She loves kids and she obviously didn’t vom on you from getting a look at your face, so I assume it went well,” he starts listing his reasonings on his fingers, “You also bounced in here like you have a can of jumping beans shoved up your ass so you’re giddy about something.”

Bradley scoffs. “I do not have anything shoved up my a– Why do you care so much about who I’m seeing?”

Jake looks at Bob who starts to shrink a little in his seat. He instantly knows that the set up wasn’t all just Jake and Nat. It was probably the entire squadron.

“We want you to be happy, dude. I mean, this is a good opportunity for you and for Quincy,” Bob starts and Bradley knows that he needs to listen and take it into actual consideration if he knows what’s good for him.

Jake and Natasha are class A meddlers, but everyone else getting involved shows how much this matters to him.

“You’re doing great and I know for a fact I’m not half the man you are, but you also gotta cut yourself some slack. You have to let yourself be happy, too. Life isn’t all just about sacrifice, you know?”

“And we made a reservation for you both at that one rooftop restaurant downtown. There’s a $250 cancellation fee so you kinda have to go,” Jake adds and Bob facepalms himself at their friend’s lack of tact.

“You did what?”

“Also she thinks you’re hot. She texted Nat about you ten minutes ago and she’s way too drunk to respond so we did for her and as of now, “He totes thinks you’re hot too. Make a move when he gets back.””

Bradley’s mouth opens and closes as he tries to find the words to say.

“Thank us when you’re getting us together about the proposal.”

There’s something about the way that life flashes before your eyes and there’s never anything you can do about it.

You can take photos or collect trivial keepsakes. You can talk about the events in past tense and have the story change slightly every single time the words leave your mouth. You can dream about it in watercolor memory and try to make sense of it all.

But no one ever tells you what it means when you’re standing before your daughter, a dark haired beauty with such elegance and spunk that it’s impossible to put a label on it, as she embarks on a journey to truly be her own person.

No one ever tells you how to cry so you don’t smudge your mascara. No one ever tells you the hole in your heart this day will give you but the rainbow of joy that supersedes it when it’s all said and done. No one ever tells you how all the times she had a nightmare or scraped her knees or needed you sit at the forefront of your brain.

And when you stand before your daughter dressed in a white dress and getting married to the love of her life, you can’t help but recall the night that you fell in love with her and remember the little baby she was all those years ago.

So around all the orchids and wedding guests and happy tears, you settle to retell this moment in the only way you know how.

“The first time I met my daughter, she was dressed as a cranberry.”

And somehow, that statement is all you need to explain the love between the two of you.

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steddieas-shegoes · 10 months ago

Text

oh, that's why

for @steddielovemonth prompt 'love is showing up when someone doesn't ask'

rated t | 1,533 words | cw: implied sexual content | tags: friends to lovers, getting together, realizing feelings, love confessions, fade to black

💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Eddie was nervous.

He hadn't bothered mentioning Corroded Coffin's first show back to anyone except Wayne, didn't want anyone he knew to see him stumble over chords and lyrics with nerves he'd never had before Vecna. The guys didn't really say anything, but they'd casually suggested some slower songs mixed in to give him a break during the set. They just seemed to know that he didn't have the stamina anymore.

It's not like the Hideout was Madison Square Garden, but news had spread amongst the locals about Eddie's return to the stage and people must have gotten curious. The bar was busier than Eddie'd ever seen it, people lined up against the tiny stage and filling the tables spread out around the room. Every stool at the bar was filled, the door constantly opening to welcome someone new with a chilly breeze from the fall air.

"Hey, man. You ready?" Gareth's hand on his shoulder was meant to be comforting, but all it did was remind him of how much everyone in the crowd probably wanted to watch him fail.

"Yep," Eddie breathed out.

It was fine. This would just be another show, maybe not the best they've ever had, but they did fine during practice. He was fine.

There was no announcement for them, there never was. The bar owner and the main bartender pretty much only invited them back because the regulars would order double the amount of drinks when they performed.

The lights were already dimmed in the bar, and the spotlight stayed on on the stage all night.

It wasn't anything special, but it still felt like a step towards more.

The crowd was loud, and barely paid them any attention during Jeff's introduction.

They started playing Master of Puppets, a shorter version without the solo since Eddie still struggled getting through it without having a panic attack. It was part of "reclaiming his trauma" or whatever the government appointed therapist told him on his second and final visit.

He took the first minute to really look out at the crowd, passed the obnoxious spotlight.

Most of the people were unrecognizable, dressed a lot like Wayne, but lacked the friendly smile he gave him when he managed to make it to his shows. He saw a few people he knew from his first two senior years hanging by the back, probably trying not to be noticed by him.

And then he saw him.

Steve.

His fingers skipped over the strings, missing a note and then two, though only his band and maybe the bartender would notice.

Steve smiled back at him, mouthed 'lookin' good', and gave him a thumbs up.

How did Steve even know about this? None of the other guys had told him, he begged them not to, made them pinky swear that they wouldn't invite anyone they knew for the first show.

Eddie smiled back at him still, happy that Steve was here, realizing now that a friendly face was the only way he would get through this set. He should have told them all.

Most of the set went surprisingly well, and most of the crowd seemed content to watch and sing along. Only a few people walked out when they realized it was mostly metal music, but he figured they weren't really there for any music at all. Watching the freak was the only entertainment a lot of people had in this town.

Steve was nodding his head, nursing the same beer for the entire hour they were on stage, smiling every time Eddie made eye contact with him. He seemed to be enjoying it, despite his usual refusal to listen to any of Eddie's music.

When they got off the stage, Eddie rushed to Steve, not even bothering to put his guitar back in its case first. Most of the crowd had gone outside or settled around the bar anyway, so his sweetheart would be safe.

"What are you doing here?" Eddie bounced on his toes, adrenaline pumping after a successful show. "I didn't tell anyone about this."

"Wayne mentioned it by accident. He assumed you'd asked me to come," Steve shrugged. He didn't seem hurt about not being invited, thankfully, but Eddie still felt guilt bully its way into his chest.

"Sorry. I just wanted to get the first one done before I had anyone here," Eddie nudged his hand. "But thanks for coming. I'm glad you came."

"I'm glad I did too. I'll always be here if you need me, Eds."

It sounded serious, less like what friends do and more like what love does.

"How do you always know what I need?" Eddie couldn't help asking. "It's like I think I'm fine, but then you're there with a glass of water because I haven't remembered to drink all day. Or like tonight, when I thought I could do it on my own, but played much better because you were here."

"I just know you," Steve smiled.

"Wait," Eddie started thinking back to all the times Steve was there. All the times he would show up at the trailer after work to make dinner, not knowing that Eddie had been feeling lonely. All the times he sat next to him on the couch while he planned out Hellfire campaigns because he needed someone to bounce ideas off of who wouldn't be involved. All the times he had to brave the general public and Steve always managed to find a reason to be right by his side, silently protective. "Wait."

"I'm waiting," Steve said. And was he sounding smug? What was that smile on his face? "How long am I supposed to wait?"

"I didn't ask you to be here."

"That's true. You didn't even tell me you'd be here."

"I never ask you to come over. Or go places with me. Or anything."

"You do sometimes," Steve argued.

"Wait."

Steve's lips pinched together, but a smirk was starting to tease its way onto his face.

"You're here because you want to be. Because you knew I'd be a mess and would actually want someone here even though I didn't tell anyone. Because you're always there when I need someone even when I don't admit I do. Because you care about me."

"Love, actually."

Eddie stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"You said I care about you. Duh, of course I do. But I actually love you."

"Like...the way you love Robin?"

"No. Like the way I thought I loved Nancy. But with you it's more. It's way more, Eds."

Eddie was grateful for the dim lighting and Jeff's sudden appearance by his shoulder.

"Eddie! We fuckin' nailed it! I signed an autograph for a girl who knows my name!" He yelled before he noticed Steve. "Oh, hey Steve. Enjoy the show?"

"You all did great, man. Glad you're back out there," Steve reached out to grab his shoulder, a friendly gesture that Jeff wasn't expecting judging by his face. "Need any help loading up?"

"Uh. No. I was actually gonna let Eddie know Gareth's dad came by to help bring all our stuff home so we don't need his van." Jeff gave them both a knowing look, then smacked Eddie's shoulder and smiled. "See you tomorrow!"

Eddie waved at him, still in shock from everything Steve had said before Jeff interrupted.

"You should probably put her in her case, Eds," Steve gestured to the guitar still slung across his back. "People aren't that careful in a bar."

"Wait."

"You've said that a lot tonight."

"Because I'm having a stroke or something. I'm having a very lucid dream. Or maybe I got too high." Eddie shook his head and pinched his own arm. "You love me."

"That's what I said, yeah."

"And you meant it?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."

Eddie still felt like he might be dreaming, but he decided to lean into it. If Steve loved him, then that meant-

"Wait."

"Oh my God," Steve groaned, but he was smiling. "What now?"

"I love you, too."

"Yeah? You just figure that out?" Steve definitely sounded smug now.

"Yes! I thought I just had this stupid crush on my straight friend. Sorry I didn't realize the way my stomach does cartwheels when you're next to me meant I loved you!"

They both started laughing.

"So, that's why you were staring at me like that at the pool," Steve finally said through his laughter.

"And that's why you asked me to read to you when you had a migraine," Eddie crossed his arms across his chest to avoid doing what he really wanted to do: pull Steve into the most John Hughes-esque first kiss ever.

"We should probably get out of here," Steve said when he recognized Eddie's twitching fingers fighting to not reach out. "Don't think anyone here would like it too much if I made out with you next to the bar."

"Give me two minutes. I'll meet you outside."

Their actual first kiss was just as John Hughes-esque, but it was in the privacy of Eddie's bedroom, and immediately followed by Steve pushing him against his own door and dropping to his knees.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddielovemonth #love is showing up when someone doesn't ask #friends to lovers #getting together #realizing feelings #love confessions

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mediumgayitalian · 8 months ago

Text

part two

———

Getting outrun for seven miles by an eight year old is a uniquely humbling experience. Compactly humiliating, coincidentally, is being outrun by an eight year old while dragging along a bouquet large enough that it cannot be adequately contained with two hands and must therefore be carried between two people.

Lee is having something of an afternoon.

“It starts in seven minutes!” shouts Will, at least twelve solid yards ahead of them and running backwards. He does not appear even to be sweating. “Hurry!”

“Could not be hurrying more if I tried,” Lee wheezes.

(It’s not that Lee isn’t a good runner. He is. It’s that Will is freakishly fast, because he has dimples when he smiles and has endeared himself to the dryads, who have been teaching him how to sprint like the hopped up little Energizer Bunny he is. Michael has been calling him Soda Boy for ages, on account of how he so closely resembles a can of pop that has been vigorously shaken, which he hates. Remembering it brings Lee some peace.)

“Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

Clamping his mouth shut in a desperate attempt to preserve energy, Lee surges forward. Michael matches him, having to run significantly faster to keep up with his long legs. Their panting forms a discordant melody of despair. Poetic.

When they stumble through the door, chests heaving, Lee considers collapsing to the ground and weeping for joy. He will never run again. If a monster chases him, he will simply fight or accept his fate. He has reached his quota.

But, for perhaps the first time in his life, there is no time for dramatics. The lobby is devoid of the massive crowds it held earlier, shadows eerie in their absence, and only the final tail end of a line shuffles through the stage doors.

Despite his internal vow, Lee sprints forward to catch up with them.

“Hold it,” says a man in a venue volunteer! vest, holding up a hand. He glances at them, resting his gaze on Will’s messy hair, Michael’s scuffed shoes, Lee’s wrinkled shirt, and pausing for quite a while on the giant bouquet. The narrowed eyes and thinned lips are familiar. Lee stiffens.

“Go on in,” the man says to the middle aged couple in front of them, who’s crease-free jackets read ‘Dance Mom’ and ‘Prop Team Dad’ respectively. He shoos them inside, complimenting the honest-to-Apollo corsage in the woman’s hand, chortling along to the man’s joke. The laughter drops from his face the second the couple is guided through the doors, and the man turns back to the three of them.

“The show,” he says, nose upturned, “has begun. I can’t let anyone else in lest they cause any…disturbances.”

“The show starts on three minutes and forty-seven seconds!” Will protests, sticking his watch in the man’s face. Completely oblivious to his murderous look, he continues, “Forty-six seconds! Forty-five! Time’s-a-tickin’, let us in!”

The man bares his teeth in a smile. “Regrettably, you are too late. You’ll have to wait for the intermission.”

Will blinks at him. He looks at Lee, at the doors, then back at the man.

“But…we’re on time. And if we come back later, we’ll miss my sister’s dance!”

The man shrugs. “This will be a valuable lesson, then.” He purses his lips, glancing again at the bouquet. “Perhaps be more prepared, next time.”

Will turns back to Lee and Michael, crestfallen. He swipes quickly under his eyes, squeezing his thumb into fists, but the tears well up anyway. “We’re going to miss it?”

Michael snarls. In one quick move he shoves the massive bouquet entirely into Lee’s arms, yanks Will by the shoulders to stand behind him, and gets right in the man’s face.

“You listen here, you slimy ratbag, you had no fuckin’ trouble letting those last scragglers in so you better clean up your act quick before I —”

A loud crashing noise makes them all jump, interrupting him. Nearly crushing the flowers, Lee whips towards the source of the sound. One of the competition banners has been yanked down, metal frame collapsing on the tile floor. Fastening screws rattle to a slow stop beside it.

“What the —”

Another banner crashes to the floor. This time, the little hands that tore it down are a touch too slow to dart away, a blonde head not quick enough to duck behind a corner.

“Hey!” the man shouts. Shoving Michael aside, and moving quicker than Lee can think to stop him, he sprints towards the corner Will disappeared behind. “Get back here! You can’t do that!”

Lee curses, trying to manoeuvre the flowers to see and run at the same time. Michael runs ahead of him, on the man’s heels, chanting shit shit shit shit under his breath. Lee’s brain takes the initiative to alternate, chanting fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck every time he takes a breath.

They’re going to get kicked out for sure. Diana is going to kill them and it’s going to be justified, because Lee is going to have to live with the noble look he knows Cass will have on when she realises they’re not there to watch. The shakey, practiced smile she’ll slap over the disappointment in her dark eyes.

Shit shit shit shit indeed.

“Lee! Michael! Over here!�� whispers a voice. Lee whirls around to face it — boy does he ever feel like a puppet on a stick right now — and, for the second time in as many minutes, feels his head pound at the disorienting frenzy of emotions that bubble up when he sees his baby brother’s face. Will stands half inside a doorway Lee hadn’t noticed on the way in, tucked in the shadow of a corner.

He is fast, holy shit.

“What the hell are you doing,” hisses Michael.

“Getting us inside! Hurry up!”

Lee doesn’t need further prompting, clock ticking in his brain. Gods, how long do they have left? Thirty seconds? Less?

“Most big theatres have sideline entrances,” Will explains after Michael helps shove the giant bouquet through the tiny door. He guides them, upright to their hunching, down a tight corridor. “They’re for performers to pop up in the audience without being seen. Mama and I race each other to find ‘em when she did shows.”

Lee had forgotten, for a moment, how much of his life Will has spent in and out of theatres, bars, stages. Naomi Solace has been growing more and more famous since…half of his life, at least. Lee remembers hearing about her four years ago, when she’d done a smaller show in Queens. A friend of his had gone.

Michael reaches out and tugs the mostly-undone ponytail he’d wrestled Will’s hair into that morning. “Good job, kid.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

They stumble into the darkened audience in the nick of time. The second Lee steps out of the cramped little corridor, dragging the stupid flowers (he is, in fact, regretting his choices at this point in time; when he has a free moment he will add this to the list of reasons he will be kicking his past self’s ass if the Hephaestus cabin successfully recreates DeLorean time machine) along with him, the stage lights come on. An announcer’s voice calls out, “Entry 109, Competitive Open Solo: Cass Hasapi.”

“Fuck,” Michael mutters. A quaint family of four gasps. He sneers at them. “Fuck, you see Diana?”

“No, is she maybe —”

“I think that’s her hair —”

“That person is way too tall, what are you —”

“I swear to the gods, I am going to kill you both,” whispers a beautifully familiar voice, and then Lee is being dragged. “Sit the hell down and shut the hell up. Will, baby, c’mere.”

Will climbs happily over the two empty seats, settling onto Diana’s lap and curling under her chin. He sticks his tongue out when Lee and Michael follow in behind him, struggling with the bouquet, muttering about favouritism.

“I’ve literally known you for six times longer than you’ve known him,” Michael mutters, sticking his tongue out right back. A grandmother with a severe bob whirls back and hushes him.

“Yeah, I’ve had all that time to get tired of your bullshit. Shut up.”

Before Michael can retort — Lee is sure he has an eloquent and devastating response, Lee has been helping him practice — soft piano drifts out from the speakers. A light turns on, pointed at the stage.

All four of them snap their mouths shut.

In the centre of the stage, Cass stands, poised. Her back is turned to the audience, arms extended above her and tilted to the right, as if reaching for the setting sun. Her hair, braided loosely back, brushes the edge of her thickly draping purple costume. Her knees are bent and locked and one bare foot sticks out like she’s trying to balance herself, like she’s mid fall.

A gravelly, male voice sings lowly along to the piano. How do you know which time might be the last? She moves along the dip of his voice, dragging her limbs through the rigid air. What I would give just to see you again? She moves with a swooping twist of her heels, twisting at the waist. Under the heat of the stage lights, her face contorts, forehead deeply wrinkled, mouth parted, breathing quickly. I’d walk to the depths of a world down below and demand to get back what some circumstance stole. She holds herself with such tension that Lee finds his own shoulders hiking up to his ears. Her chest moves rapidly, hands shaking, knees buckling. His breath goes stale in his lungs.

When the chorus starts, hard and heavy and sudden, I turned back one last time just to prove you were there, Cass hits the floor. He gasps with the rest of the audience, clutching the plush armrest, but it’s intentional, part of the dance. ‘Cause the last ray of sun made Eurydice cold. Collapsed on the floor, limbs bent, dress askew, she crawls, begging, towards the audience. Did she know? Did she know? Did she know? Did she know?

Cass does not move gracefully. She moves like a beached, gasping siren dragging herself back to the depths, like someone climbing out of a pit. Every movement looks heavy and painful. She looks at the audience and Lee is surging forward before he can stop himself, breath hitching, brain screaming: help her! help her! help her!

If I knew how it’d feel back then, I wouldn’t take another step.

Her body twists again, hair escaping her loose braid and sticking to her neck, her forehead. She claws at her throat like she’s suffocating, eyes accusing everyone watching like they’re holding her under. Each movement of her arms swell and sway on the beat, bare feet slapping the ground with every hit of the kettle drum. If you can see me it’s all in your head, but it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then.

Everything ends.

The piano fades out, the drums hit their last beat. All that’s left is the wretched guitar, taught like strings snapping, taught like the tense pull of her suspended muscles.

But I opened the door and went down the stairs; I turned back one last time to prove you were there.

As the last word fades, she drops. Not slowly, not evenly, but like whatever was holding her up crumbled to dust. Like she was shot. Her purple dress pools out around her like dark Hyacinth. She lays completely, entirely still.

The lights cut. The air in the audience goes heavy.

They come back on and no one says a word. Lee realises, as it drips onto his hands, that he is crying. Diana is, too, tear tracks too fresh to dry on her face, and Will is leaned forward so far he sways precariously. Michael’s hands are pressed harshly to his eyes.

Trancelike, Lee stands. All eyes snap, abruptly, towards him, but he ignores them. He looks straight across the rows of chairs and locks eyes with his sister, upright now, heaving, standing hesitant. She looks at him, and then beside him at Michael, and then at Will in Diana’s lap. They scramble quickly up next to him, and without any of them saying anything, they begin to cheer.

Cass’s face lights up.

With permission, much of the audience claps. No one stands as they do and as they continue hooting and hollering the claps fade quickly, replaced with stares and murmurs, but Cass still stands there, beaming, looking away and looking back like she can’t believe they’re there. That someone is there, that someone watched her, her, from beginning to end. A hand tugs on his sleeve.

“Can I sonic?” Will asks, raising his voice to be heard.

“Level four,” Lee allows.

He needs no further permission, grinning. He lets out a piercing whistle that makes everyone around them shout in alarm and Lee’s ears ring. But Cass laughs, loud and bright, so it’s worth it, and when Will looks at him in question he nods. The second whistle is definitely beyond a level four, but Lee doesn’t care. Cass looks the happiest he’s seen in a long time.

———

None of them care too much about staying for the other performances. But Cass has two more dances with her studio classes, spread out as they are, so Lee remains doomed to two hours of an aching ass and performances that come nowhere near Cass’s masterpiece. Will seems intrigued, though, by some of the pieces, so he grits his teeth and bares it. Besides, the rolled eyes he shares with Diana and Michael every time someone does something exceedingly cliche or tries and fails at depth (someone, often, being one of Cass’s teammates, shocker) makes it somewhat worth it.

By the time the judges call the last entry, though, Lee is ready to book it out of there.

The lights come back on and pop music plays through the speakers as dancers, in track suits over their costumes, congregate on the stage. Lee stands and stretches, letting Will stand on his shoulders and jump off into Michael’s arms to get some of his energy out. (And, also, ‘cause tossing a small child between them is fun. Diana jogs into the aisle so they can throw farther, but they all decide against it when a security guard glances over.)

After what feels like eight million years, the judges finally lumber over to the stage. The building voices hush as they climb the steps, standing in front of the gathered studios with cabled mics and stacks of foreboding envelopes.

“Welcome, dancers and families,” starts one judge.

She blabs on for several minutes about what an honour it was to judge and how wonderful everyone was. Blah, blah, blah. Lee spaces out about the time Diana’s eyes glaze over, and he looks instead to the gathered stage, observing. There are five different studios that he can see, each with about forty to fifty dancers. Mostly young women. They sit tangled together, legs on legs, arms around shoulders, feet tucked under thighs. Cass, he notices, sits on her own, at the very back of the stage. She sits straight-backed and proud, though. Chin lifted, braid resting over her shoulder.

Impossible to miss.

Two of her group dances win Diamond (Diana explains to them that this is Very Good. She thinks). Most others do not get this honour. Lee notices especially the older couple to their left looking quite sour. The glee he feels is indescribable.

“The winner for our open solo, for all age groups, was actually unanimous. It’s been a while since that happened!”

A girl near the front of the stage, who Lee recognises as the one to make a cruel joke about Cass’ mother, preens. Her solo was boring as hell. He’s not sure what she’s so smug about.

“With a score of 97.6, congratulations to Entry 109, Cass Hasapi!”

The four of them scream like lunatics.

They don’t even wait for scattered applause. Each one of them clambers up on the pristine chairs, covering them with scuff marks, and yell at the top of their lungs, jumping and cheering like chimps in a cage. Cass goes red, but she can’t hide her smile as she stands and accepts her award, grinning over at them. Michael holds up his camera and snaps a photo of her, pink-cheeked and wild-haired, glowing.

———

“Cass!”

Will sees her before the rest of them, sprinting towards the changeroom doors at top speeds and leaping up into her arms. She catches him easily, spinning them both around, pressing a thousand kisses to his hair and face.

“Hello, my darling! Hello hello hello!” Every word is punctuations with a kiss, or rather a press of her wide smile to anywhere she can reach. In seconds his cheeks are stained with her lipstick. “Oh, it has been weeks, darling boy, I missed you!”

Will clings to her sweater, face buried in the crook of her neck. She holds him just as tightly.

(Will has seen Cass more than Lee, in the past few months. He knows she’s made a few sudden trips to camp. But he also knows that she was the first one to welcome him into camp, the day his mother dropped him off, and when he was claimed she was the first to bring him home. She loves to tote him around, too, to have him trail after her for cabin inspections, holding the clipboard, or paint his nails when she’s bored. He misses her something fierce in the winters. She holds on tightly when she comes back home.)

Squeezing him one last time, she turns to the rest of them. Despite her wide smile, her mascara runs.

“You came,” she says, voice wobbling.

Michael clears his throat. “No shit.”

His voice wobbles, too.

“Come here, you goober.”

He’s the next to cling to her, inserting himself under her arm. She presses a kiss to his temple and he pinches her ribs, complaining, getting louder when she digs a knuckle into his hair. Diana jogs up and separates them, as she always does, flicking Michael on the forehead and pressing a kiss to her sister’s cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, squeezing her hand.

Cass’s tears spill over again. “Thank you.”

Lee clears his throat. He feels, suddenly, like a doofus, holding a bouquet of flowers the size of him, but Cass looks at them and grins again, chuckling.

“You sell your kidney for that or what?”

Lee snorts. “No, we exchanged Will. This is a clone.”

“Did not!”

Lee blows a raspberry. “Did too. Clone.”

“I’m not a clone! I’m me!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Ya-huh!”

“Alright,” Cass interrupts, rolling her eyes fondly. She kisses the tip of Will’s nose again and sets him down, turning towards Lee, hands outstretched dramatically. “Hand me my dues.”

Because she is, at the core of her, a true daughter of Apollo, even though the amount of poise and grace that bleeds from her at any given time contradicts almost directly with the guy who beams Pocketful of Sunshine directly into their brains at five in the morning every single day without fail, she kneels with a flourish. Because Lee is, at the core of him, also a child of Apollo, he goes unquestioningly along with the bit, pulling out one of the flowers to knight her before resting the entire bouquet in her arms. She has to hold it with both hands.

“You guys are ridiculous,” she says, grinning.

“They are ridiculous,” Diana stresses. “Dumbasses were damn near late getting this for you. They already had flowers, mind you. They’re just dumb.”

Will holds up his hand with his watch. “I kept us from being late!”

Diana squishes his cheek. “Thank you, sweetpea. You’re already smarter than your brothers combined.”

“Stick out your tongue again and I’ll grab it, you little snitch,” Lee warns.

Will, darting to hide behind Diana, does not heed his warning. Because he’s a little shit. bc

The walk out of the building in a gaggle of movement. As other dancers and their families walk by, glowering at Cass’ flowers and at Cass in general, Lee makes a point to catch their eyes. To smirk. To let them know, without saying a word — you were wrong. Of course you were wrong. Look at how she’s better than your bitter ass without even trying.

It warms him inside, truly.

“I’m thinking,” Diana says, walking back to the car, “that we stop at Dairy Queen on the way home. On Michael’s dollar. Will, look real excited so Michael can’t say no.”

“I am excited,” Will says, turning to face him, “so that’s real easy.”

Michael sighs. He taps his foot on the pavement, glaring. He sighs again. “You’re getting s plain cone and that’s that. You understand me?”

Will takes that as code for ‘begin negotiating’. Diana joins him, the two of them chasing Michael to the car, yelling about Blizzards and sundaes. Cass falls into step next to Lee, adjusting the flowers.

“So,” she says, shooting him a small smile.

“So,” he intones.

“Diana told me you snuck the boys out of camp.”

“…Yes.”

“Organised the whole trip, basically.”

“It wasn’t hard. I just told Michael to pack his shit and he listened, for once. So.”

“Lee.” She waits for him to open the trunk, letting him stuff the ridiculous flowers inside before facing him, grabbing his hands and squeezing. “Thank you.”

“I don’t —”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. How can he say it? How can he tell her about being fourteen and older than half the unclaimed kids in Hermes, still reeling over camp as a whole, and the fear that had dissipated from his chest when she stood in front of camp and said, firmly, he’s ours? About the hours she spent listening to him ramble about Pokémon, learning the game for him, mailing him cards she finds around? About the letters she sends him every week without fail, even though she’s swamped with her own shit, because she remembers the night he cried, months and years of being weird and lonely and unlike anyone else he knew? How can he explain the bubbling in his chest, the ache for her, because of her?

“Of course, Cass.”

She opens her arms and he falls into them, forehead on her shoulder, arms tight around her waist. She grips around his back, pressing a kiss to his hair. His throat is dry, choking back the thickness of his tears.

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Lee.”

#AND WERE DONE #AND ITS FIVE THIRTY IN THE MORNING FUCK #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #hoo #heroes of olympus #lee fletcher #will solace #michael yew #diana mckinney #cass hasapi #cabin seven #my writing #fic #longpost #song is orpheus by vincent lima btw #pjo hoo toa

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ladykailitha · 9 days ago

Text

The Hellfire Exotic Club Part 13

Do I mourn the fact that this isn't the last chapter because it's a spooky number? Yes, yes I do. But!

Have fun!

In this we have the renovation and reopening of the club, the trial of Robin's attacker, and Steve gives the performance of his life.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Construction of the new stage went smoothly with guardrails to keep the dancers from falling off and keeping the crowd from getting to handsy.

The chairs and tables were red leather and black metal fittings. The chair backs had the club logo in wrought iron. It was really cool. The wood floors where replaced by red and black tiles. The walls were painted with flames and the lighting was changed over to faux candles.

The whole vibe went from converted speakeasy to an actual Hellfire Club. When the second set of dressing rooms were finished; it would be the backup dancers on the right, because they had more costume changes to go through in a night and needed the bigger space for all their costumes and the Sins on the left.

Each Sin would have their own vanity and closet where they would have more room to change into their Sin costumes, because they tended to be more over the top. Well, all but Brian’s. Brian’s was his three piece suit, but he was a large guy, so he still needed all the space he could get.

When Steve asked where Eddie was getting all the money to do the renovations he merely grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

The truth was that Eddie had gone to Nancy’s boss and told him about her schemes. The man offered $300k to make the problem go away. Which Eddie happily took and then someone *Wayne cough cough* call in an anonymous tip to their main rival. It wasn’t Eddie’s fault that of the fifty odd people who were there that night decided to take justice in their own hands, was it?

He kept $100k of it back, and put the rest into updating the club. Upped all his insurances and made sure all his licenses would cover the bigger place, getting all his ducks in a row.

Opening night was packed to the gills, even for a Saturday night. Just like addicts needing their fix.

The three new dancers fit in seamlessly. Mason considered themselves to be non-binary so it was a bit of an adjustment getting use to the new pronouns but Eddie was proud to say he hadn’t hired a single fucking bigot among them as they all got used it. Admittedly, some quicker than others, but they all adjusted.

Steve really got along with Micaella, the new Wrath. Which privately Eddie thought was pretty hilarious considering how little he got along with Stella.

Eddie got up to the stage and pulled out a microphone. “I don’t usually do this public speaking bullshit. Singing, dancing, and playing in front of an audience is fine, it’s the talking that scares the hell out of me. Go figure.”

There were some polite chuckles.

“So why am I doing this you ask?” Eddie said, pacing back and forth on stage. “Well it’s because the club isn’t the only fresh face around here. Our Satan wasn’t given a proper introduction because we literally threw him into the deep end. So let’s give him a round of applause.”

A thunderous roar came and Steve blushed a deep red as he waved.

“I don’t stand for bullies no matter the form they take,” Eddie continued. “And when a couple of my dancers started to bully our Satan, I had to gather up the evidence I needed to make sure I fired the right people. So it pains my to say that Dagon, Leviathan and even our very own Wrath, Lamia, will no longer be preforming with us.”

There was some oohing and disgruntled mumbling on that one.

“When they endanger the life of fellow dancer,” Eddie said solemnly, “that’s line that needs to be drawn. So that’s why the guardrail was put up. It won’t interfere with your viewing pleasure. I checked.”

There was some appreciative rumbling and Eddie took that as a win.

“So to replace our little demons,” he continued, “we have Set and Kimaris. And to replace our Wrath, we proudly introduce Megera, the Fury!”

The three of them stepped forward, waving and bowing. Then they stepped back

“And to celebrate our grand return,” Eddie concluded, “we present Fairy Tails!”

There was some wolf whistling and stomping as the lights went down.

They did the fairy tales Seven Deadly Sins style and Ellie’s costumes were an absolute treat, coming off with a sultry ease.

The new additions fitting in so seamlessly that soon the audience had forgotten their counterparts in light of their new titillation.

Mason Clark was a non-binary black person whose Set was chaotic and fierce, the way they danced with Cheryl or Choronzon was electric. So much so Eddie was starting to think of changing her name to better fit the Egyptian god theme. He would just have find a really good that match their style. He was thinking Apothos or Ammit. Whichever one she liked the best.

Kyle had that sweet country boy look off the stage, cowboy boots and blue jeans. He had blue eyes and red hair. But once he got on stage all of that fell away and he was phenomenal. And if Eddie ever retired from dancing, he knew he would have his perfect replacement in Kyle. The man could move and move you in a style that was both rough and tender at the same time.

Eddie still wasn’t sure how managed it. Maybe rough wasn’t the right word. Raw. Raw was a better word. It was like he was showing you a side of himself reserved only for the stage. It was breathtaking.

The money flowed in as easily as it had before the two week closure, leaving Eddie, and by extension, Wayne feeling very relieved indeed.

So Wayne made the decision to go back to Hawkins, safe in the knowledge that Eddie now had everything under control.

Eddie sat in the back of the courtroom, squirming in his seat. He had never be in the gallery before, usually the defendant’s chair, so it was making him twitch.

Robin had given her testimony last week and now it was Steve turn. He wore a simple grey sweater vest over a long sleeved white button up and grey slacks. You wouldn’t have known from the look of him that he shook his ass on stage five nights a week.

The prosecutor was up first and got Steve to lay out the events of the day as plainly as he could remember them.

The defense lawyer stood up. He was slick man in a thousand dollar suit, diamond rings on almost every finger. The man screamed slime just from his appearance.

“Can you state your current employment?” the lawyer asked smugly.

“Objection!” the prosecutor cried, leaping to his feet.

“Goes toward the character of the witness,” the lawyer said.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said dryly, waving his hand to the prosecutor’s visible displeasure.

“Hellfire Exotic Club.”

There was some twittering in the jury box but the gallery remained silent.

“And what do you do there?” the lawyer asked, standing up and walking around to the front of the table.

“I’m a dancer,” Steve said, with clenched jaw. His hands gripped the sides of the witness chair.

Eddie could tell it was taking every ounce of self-control for him not to rip this guy’s balls off. Which he was happily willing to do the job for Steve because this guy reminded him of his dad in all the worst ways.

“You strip,” the lawyer corrected, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes.”

The lawyer turned around and picked up a folder from the table and flipped through it for a moment. “It says that you were the lead dancer at the Indiana Ballet Company, is that correct?”

The room was tense as everyone waited to see where this was going. Eddie crossed his arms and leaned back in the seat, taking a desperate measure not to leap over the guardrail. Robin grabbed his knee and gave it a squeeze. He looked at her and she gave him a weak smile back.

“Yes, sir,” Steve agreed, leaning further into the microphone.

"And why did you leave the Indiana Ballet Company?" the lawyer asked, throwing the folder back on the table.

"Because I tore a muscle in my shoulder," Steve replied tersely.

The lawyer rolled his eyes. "You're a dancer, why would a shoulder injury make you quit?"

"Because a male danseur must be able to lift other dancers,” he said slowly as though he was talking to a small child. “Do you know how useless a danseur who can't lift is?"

"No."

"About as useless as this line of questions is in reference to my character as a witness,” Steve bit out. “Move it along."

There was some snickering among the prosecutor’s table.

“Mr. Harrington...” the judge warned, giving him the eye.

“May I say something really quick,” Steve asked the judge, looking over at him on the bench, “before this becomes a ‘gotcha’ moment?”

“Your honor!” the lawyer huffed. “This is most unusual!”

“I think he should have a say if it’s relevant to his character,” the prosecutor said, leaning back in his chair.

“And is it?” the judge asked Steve sternly.

“Yes, your honor.”

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said waving off the defense’s further objections.

“I only started working at the club because I was fired from the rec center,” Steve said, shyly. “The bills were piling up and I needed to make a lot of money fast.”

The courtroom was a still as a statue and as quiet as death at that proclamation.

The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Is this true?”

“It is your honor.”

“So let me get this straight, counselor,” the judge said angrily, “that the reason Mr. Harrington was working at the strip club in the first place is because he was fired from the rec center for reporting your client? Do I have that right?”

“I can’t attest to the cause of Mr. Harrington’s dismissal–”

The judge cut him off with a single glare. “Do I have that right?”

“Yes, your honor,” the lawyer hissed.

“So all his working at the strip club attests to is that his firing made him desperate,” the judge said. “As Mr. Harrington said, move this line of questioning along.”

The lawyer seethed but did as he was told. He tried to work every angle to get Steve to trip up but Steve was flawless on the stand.

Eddie was proud of him. So fucking proud.

Then it was time for closing remarks and Eddie really enjoyed the prosecutor’s.

“...Not only did this man brutalize a young woman for the sheer fact she was gay,” he said solemnly, “but their subsequent firing left them destitute and having to turn to working at a strip bar to make ends meet. The sins this man has enacted upon Robin Buckley is immeasurable and despicable.”

Steve was silently crying into his silk and lace handkerchief and Robin and Eddie held on from either side.

No one was surprised when the jury returned the verdict as guilty on all charges in less than twenty minutes.

As they walked away for a little celebration, Eddie turned to Steve, “So... you’re still going to work at the club, right?”

Robin and Steve shared a glance and then burst out laughing.

“Yeah, of course,” Steve said, stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket. “My mother is a complete bitch, but she absolutely is also one of the best lawyers in the state. I have seen her coach many a client on how to cry on command. Not a single fucking tear was genuine, let me tell you.”

Eddie’s shoulders sagged in relief. “That’s is so good to hear.”

“Now let’s call the crew and have them all meet us at Kincade’s for drinks and barbecue on me,” he replied with a grin. “We have some real celebrating to do!”

Part 14

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @gloomysoup

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @garden-of-gay

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @dreamercec @sadisticaltarts @too-much-tma-stuff @dolphincliffs @chameleonhair

10- @themoonagainstmers @novelnovella @micheledawn1975

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #dance club au

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uzumaki-rebellion · 12 days ago

Text

"Pot Liquor" Afropunk!Erik Killmonger

youtube

Pairing: Erik Killmonger x Black Plus-Sized OC

Warning(s): 18+, Smut, Angst, Romance, Drug Use, Bisexual Characters, Threesomes, Foursomes, Queer Characters, Cursing.

Summary:

Three women. One man.

Erik “Killmonger” Stevens is the guitar player for a female dominated Black alternative rock band fronted by the powerful larger-than-life lead singer, Oya Mason. About to perform in front of their largest audience ever on one of the most influential stages in the music world, Erik and Oya have to face band in-fighting, jealousy, drugs, sex, and the love of rock-and-roll.

Can they keep it together before their big night?

Word count: 14, 890

A..N.: Bringing this back for @blvcksundays !

"I said if I'm in luck I just might get picked up I said I'm fishin' trick and you can call it what you want then I said I'm wigglin' my fanny I want you dancing I'm a doin' it doin' it This is my night out

So all you lady haters don't be cruel to me Don't you crush my velvet don't you ruffle my feathers neither I said I'm crazy I'm Wild I said I'm nasty Say you will for a little while Say you will Say you will"

Betty Davis –"If I'm In Luck I Might Get Picked Up"

Begin at the beginning...

Eighteen-year-old Oya Mason stood in the middle of the stage of the National Poetry Slam Finals in Oakland, California ready to recite a three-minute free verse that took her two weeks to dream of and three days to write. It wasn't her best poem, but it was the most potent that she had ever written and would be reciting for the first time in public. She hated America and everything it stood for and the words swimming in her brain and marinating in cerebral spinal fluid were ready to erupt on stage.

Thick black leggings covered her dimply thick thighs that rubbed tightly together and the black Buckethead baseball t-shirt she had on accentuated her heavy breasts and generous stomach. Her toes were jammed into brand new black chucks and her nose septum piercing was a shiny silver like the frosted silver tips of her frohawk locs. She was a big beautiful Black woman with an even bigger first name to live up to. Her parents plucked the name from a book they had in their home. "Oya: In Praise of An African Goddess."

"We knew that if we had a little girl, we were going to name you that," her father, Teigen Mason, had told her.

Her Mama, Gia, squeezed out a big fat dark brown loud crying baby that grew up into a big beautiful teenager that could no longer be simply called full-figured or extra thick. No, those words were too small for her. She was a Goddess and a Goddess took up all the space she wanted. On that stage, Oya, the Goddess of the Hurricane winds, the warrior, and the protector of the dead looked out upon an eager audience of poetry spectators waiting for her to do linguistic tricks and over-enunciated theatrical emoting with her culled words.

Well...that didn't happen.

Oya Mason stood there with her Goddess frame and shrieked out every single word she had written in the depths of her gray matter and birthed her first metal song live onstage. The poem-turned-rage-clarion call was titled "To Sleep With Anger", an ode to the movie that was filmed in her grandparent's house in South Los Angeles way before she was born. She found the old Danny Glover movie online and watched it over and over until she fell asleep and dreamed of the actors walking in her family's kitchen, living room, bedrooms, and backyard, and the words to the poem came to her in the underworld of slumber and there was a burning there. A heated twisting of past and present that had her worried about her future as a big boisterous girl with a runaway mouth making it in society where Black women were expected to be quiet mules for the world.

Not her.

Oya dreamed about that old house for two weeks waking up enraged every morning and thought about what the movie meant and pondered why she was already hating a world that she was barely stepping into. It had to be ancestral rage. A fiery anger handed down like generational trauma and the unyielding hair texture on her head.

A three-day heat of writing on yellow legal pads and listening to Bad Brains and Mother's Finest while trippin' on shrooms in her bedroom while her parents were away, produced a piece of work that she could get down with.

Other poems in her extensive repertoire allowed her to advance in poetry slam rounds in local competitions and by the time she was on the National level, she was tired of the scene. The performative aspect of it seemed disingenuous. Many of the older poets she watched seemed to be interested in shocking people instead of sharing real evocative language that opened the heart and mind.

That was probably why Oya screamed her words and left the stage switching her meaty hips and not caring about her scores or if she won.

She did win that year.

The individual poet category. At her young age.

The previous winner, another full-figured Black woman with thick braids, full lips, and a body of work so blistering that she was named the Poet Laureate of her city approached her backstage.

"You don't belong here," the woman said.

Oya blinked. The fuck?

A sly smile creased the woman's glossy lips as she pointed at Oya with a commanding right index finger.

"You belong out there doing what you just did. This is too small for you," the former champion said.

Oya Mason bid adieu to poetry slams.

She returned to Los Angeles from Oakland and started a part-time job at Amoeba Records on Hollywood Boulevard. While selling records and sorting vinyl and CD bins, she met her best friend, Deidre who rocked short hair and a smooth undercut, Oya fell in love with Deidre's whole vibe instantly and they fell into creating their first band together.

To Sleep With Anger.

Oya named them that. Deidre played electric guitar just like Oya did and after work and university classes at USC, they shredded in Deidre's parent's garage in a sizeable house at the bottom of Baldwin Hills. The Black Beverly Hills. The house sat on forty-eighth and Crenshaw, so the upwardly mobile Black folks couldn't get too far away from the bustle of working class and working-poor negroes down the street. Oya's parents couldn't handle two loud Black metal chicks screaming about capitalism, death, and societal destruction right next door to the neighborhood church at their small home near Leimert Park. Deidre's house was ground zero for their start as a unit.

School. Work. Shredding.

That was life for three years until Oya had written a ton of songs that were good enough to put together a fuller and more serious band. They had both become better axe players. She and Deidre posted up an ad for a drummer and bass player at the Amoeba Community board and online, and that was how they met Shameika, a mean pocket queen originally from Long Beach who went to UCLA.

Deidre and Oya had to set aside their USC rivalry because Shameika was nasty on the skins. Their bass player, Jody, was discovered by accident when she came into Amoeba asking for Me'Shell N'degeocello vinyl. Anyone into Me'Shell had to be hip, and Oya asked the lithe light-brown beauty if she were a musician. The stars lined up. She was their missing link.

They were complete and of one accord by the time they began playing publicly at gigs around L.A. and making road trips to San Diego and also local music festivals. Shameika handled their webpage, Deidre handled booking, and Oya fell in love with Jody. Then broke up with her. Then got back together. Then broke up in one final blow-out that thankfully didn't tank the band. It did become a little awkward when Jody and Shameika became a couple, but Oya grew past it. They were picking up traction as a band. Getting better paid gigs. She was writing better songs. Blending genres. Learning to control her vocals better with a private coach. It took them awhile to be taken seriously as a band. People expected them to be an R & B singing quartet and did double takes when they walked into venues with their gear. They were tested a lot by the mainly white male audiences. Lots of booing at shows and sometimes beer bottles were thrown at them onstage. Oya was often brutally called names because of her size. She didn't know how many times she had climbed onstage to bring the noise with her girls, and there was laughter tossed her way.

"Look at this big bitch!" was a common jab along with a few expletives.

But the music shut them up. They could play fucking circles around many of the bands, even the headliners.

"It's here!" Deidre shrieked as they opened boxes for new stock.

Oya stared at the twelve-inch vinyl of a song she was hearing about on every streaming platform and alternative music chatroom. She knew the group.

Slippage.

An alternative band that she used to fuck with heavily until they started going a little too commercial and polished for her tastes. Oya did feel excitement about new music from them. She hoped they were returning to their roots of hard driving sounds and not the softened new-branding that recent major-label signed groups were morphing toward. Deidre was practically salivating, her copper brown skin glowing and matching the copper brown of her short fade.

"This dude right here...I swear, I would buss it wide open if he walked in here right now. You think the scars are real? I heard they weren't," Deidre said.

Oya picked up the album and stared at the four guys on the cover. One Mexican with long glossy raven hair. Two white guys with stringy pony tails and tats on their faces and arms. And the Black guy.

Erik Killmonger.

Gold grills. Perfect locs. Scars.

His upper body was covered in small shiny lumps of skin.

"That looks real," Oya said.

"That's hardcore. I get the tats and piercings...I mean I have that shit, but...cutting your skin like that. All over. You think he has scars on his dick?"

Oya burst out laughing.

"Only you would ask that!"

"That would be kinda sexy," Deidra whispered admiring the man's shirtless body as he held his guitar.

Deidra stroked the cover.

"He's so rude for biting his lips like that. Letting us see all that gold in his mouth," she quipped.

They stocked the store with all the new vinyl before heading to the registers to help customers purchase music. When they had a break, the assistant manager let them listen to the new Slippage single. Deidre loved it, but Oya turned her nose up at it. Killmonger sounded dope as always, but the song itself was weak. Defanged.

"We should make something like this," Deidre said bobbing her head and air playing guitar with her nimble fingers pretending to be Killmonger.

"I think the fuck not."

"This is good!"

"No it's not. It's just loud and...vanilla."

"You're buggin'. This is the best thing they've put out."

Oya stood behind the counter and watched Deidra, the assistant manager, and several customers nod their heads and give kudos to Slippage.

"Tasteless," Oya muttered as she grabbed a stack of country CDs from a young woman and began ringing up her purchases.

The music blared from their store speakers and Oya couldn't help but think about Killmonger's grill and the scars that went up and down his muscled arms, wide chest, and down his chiseled stomach...

Begin at the beginning one 'mo' 'gin...

They knew they had something special when Amoeba allowed them to play in their in-store mini-concerts when another group failed to show up because of a delayed flight from Phoenix. The four of them wore tattered jean skirts with leggings and old vintage bullet bras they found at a thrift store in Venice Beach. Oya had to add a bra extender for hers. Thick extra-large safety pins prevented the weak hooks from bending across her back and gave the right touch to the stylized look. She kept a t-shirt handy in case a titty or two broke free and slapped a customer unexpectedly, which would've been the most punk thing ever, but luckily that old 1950's find held on as she sweated her way through raw, screeching vocals that caught her boss by surprise. Hamp was forced into a bind with a store full of patrons waiting to see Desert Troll City, so he gave in when Oya said they had equipment in their cars ready to plug in and rock out. Instead of ambient new vanguard trip music, the customers were treated to ear-splitting altie sounds that tip-toed between experimental and...what? Oya and her bandmates hadn't quite found a true name for their sound, but the crowd there loved it. The music attracted spectators from off the street and it became their first viral performance online.

Hamp started acting like their musical godfather, allowing them to sell their CDs at the counter on consignment as part of their local indie musician sales program. It was a boost to their confidence watching people buy their homemade EP. Gigs followed. The new visibility started their small music festival appearances. Their biggest live performance before their second full album came out was the Joshua Tree Music Festival. The drive to the desert had been joyous. They performed before the closing night's headliner and killed it. They were so good that the headliners gave them a shoutout during their set making Oya feel like a Queen.

And like any great rock-and-roll story, it was where the first rift in the band appeared. All because Deidre felt the need to insert an unnecessary guitar adlib that threw Oya off their closing number. The audience, blitzed out on 'shrooms, weed, liquor, pills, and whatever choice narcotics they brought for fun, became mesmerized by Deidre doing Jimi Hendrix tricks on her axe. Oya could concede that Sis was in her bag at that moment, but they had always stayed in tune with one another by using eye contact and onstage whispers to let each other know if they were going to go off. Sometimes it was just a well-placed guttural sound from Oya's throat to clue the others in, or Deidre would swing her guitar a certain way with a slight chord change. J Tree organizers had the performers on a strict time allotment, and Oya knew they had to finish with a new song in just the right intro...but Deidre fucked it up by trying to upstage Oya with the ole razzle dazzle. The normal thunder growl that would erupt from Oya's diaphragm kicking in "Acid Babe Blues" was usurped by some random guitar wah wah licks from Deidre's foot pedal muting her guitar.

Oya felt the "Acid Babe Blues" lyrics dry up in her throat as her eyes cut to Deidre's. Sister girl was oozing with charismatic energy and the people ate it up. Rightfully so. Oya stood down for twenty seconds before she turned to Jody on bass with aPlease gather this bitch uplook.

Jody slapped her bass and snapped Deidre from her moment. Time ran short, so Oya had to improvise and just gave an improper snippet of the new song before their time ran out. That meant Deidre had to sing the bridge to start the song, and Oya had to fake her way into the second verse. The fierce tone she gave thrilled the music lovers, but Oya was full of piss and vinegar. "Acid Babe Blues" was their lead single from the new joint, and the audience didn't even hear the true beginning.

As the crowd switched their positions to watch the main stage for the closing act, Oya and the others packed up their gear. Her hackles were up.

"What the fuck were you doing?!" Oya snapped.

"Vibin'," Deidre said.

"You stole valuable time for 'Acid'."

"They heard you scream when you first started twenty-five minutes ago. It still sounded great without a closing field holler—"

"That's not the point, Deidre," Shameika interjected as she shoved her drumsticks into a case, "it threw us all off."

"Ohmigod, we murdered this gig. It's good to shake it up sometimes.Ididn't hear a mess up—"

"It would've been nice to know what you were going to do. I'm the lead singer. I wrote that song. We all agreed that 'Acid Babe Blues' was to bring it all home and we practiced the hell out of it and you fucked it up!" Oya said,

"They loved us. That's all that matters."

Deidre did her usual lip pout when she was done discussing anything.

"I know you're feeling yourself right now, but this is becoming a habit with you," Oya barked helping Shameika break down the rest of her drum kit.

"So I can't get no shine too?"

"We all get shine—"

"Only when you let us. Don't forget, I write a lot of the songs too. I'm on the cover of the EP too. So is Jody and Shameika—"

"Are you failing to understand what the problem is? Am I trippin'? I'm not talking about getting shine, I'm talking about you disrupting and switching up how we do things mid-performance without a cue or an okay from the rest of us."

Deidre pressed her lips tight. An irritated exhale followed with a roll of her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I was carried away by the energy of the crowd. I wanted to jam for a minute..."

Deidre clutched her guitar pedal to her chest.

"I wanted to be that bitch...okay? I mean, look at us. We look amazing in these little black latex dresses! We're serving hot and sexy and being all sweaty and nasty up here. Tell me you didn't feel that rush?"

"We felt it, but...teamwork," Shameika said with her soft-spoken voice.

"I'm tired," Jody said holding her bass case.

They were assisted by some J Tree staff as they loaded up their gear into Deidre's S.U.V, and Oya's Jeep Cherokee.

"Are we staying to watch the closer or what?" Shameika asked.

Jody stayed in Deidre's S.U.V. to sleep, and the rest of them sauntered back in their laced-up pit-stomping boots to watch Boredroom, a band on the brink, sing out To Sleep With Anger's praises. Deidre turned her head and smirked at Oya as the lead singer of Boredroom pointed to all their latex-wearing greatness and shouted them out on the mic.

"See?" Deidre said, "We are the shit."

"It's about the music, Deidre, not just showing off," Oya grumbled.

Oya new instinctively that Deidre wanted to be the main shit. She wrenched her eyes away from her friend and tried to engage with the rest of the festival, but there was a sour taste in her mouth. That taste would grow and root deep. Then it would spread, choking them all.

Begin at his beginning...

Oya knew how to hustle a job.

When Amoeba became less flexible for gigs, she took a job at KCRW assisting the COO. On Saturday nights she worked the cashier booth for a trashy West Hollywood dance club to supplement her income.

Those were rough days for To Sleep With Anger ever since Deidre left for a high-profile band's line-up switch the year before. It was right after a showcase with an East Coast label. They were all broke, still hungry to make their own music, and lucked out when an A & R rep from Sony Music Group caught their live show at the Austin Music Festival.

Hair cut into a short bob that she slicked up to look like a match flame, dramatic make-up, and low-cut tight dresses with oversized coats that doubled as capes became a signature look for Oya. Her shoe game grew sick, with custom thigh-high boots, and walking canes to match her seductive stroll onstage. Their band logo was a black flame with red highlights. Her signature do always matched the logo onstage, and it became an instant hook with their audience. Sophisticated Punk. Seductive Alternative. Oya leaned into the sensual side and the other women found their looks too. Deidre became pure femme fatale, Jody, the edgy stud, and Shameika was their darling Goth ingénue.

Oya's lush body became the center of think pieces in the music scene and she welcomed the coverage and even took the hits with some women musicians who questioned the overt sexuality of the band. Were they sex kittens, or hard rockers? Cock teases for a gimmicky come up? A flash in the pan for some future music history footnote? She ignored them and the other women did too. Her favorite moments were to stroll onstage after Jody plucked the bass like a beast sporting her flamboyant capes and big hats and do a twirl wielding her cane before dropping the cape to the floor revealing couture that accentuated breasts, flared hips, thick thighs, and a rump to die for. The more popular they became the more she found herself amazed at how people projected onto her. She rarely showed any explicit skin other than the tops of her breasts with dep cleavage, but the audacity of her being her bold self with tight clothing was a problem for so many people. But a revelation to others.

Especially men.

Often teased for not having a body that conformed to whatever was in fashion at the moment, that quickly changed when she sang. Her voice shifted the critiques. People had to listen to the music because it was fucking divine. Oya's talent made people notice she had a face. A gorgeous one. And that face was attached to a stunning big body. Online chatter brought out the lovers of her plus-size physique, especially when she catwalked up and down a stage and pointed her cane at the audience, then stuck it in front of her as she wiggled down and back up from the floor with it. There was a shift in the air. The thirst for her was just as great as her other bandmates.

They were on the cusp of reaching greatness and Oya was going damn near bankrupt funding her on stage style to create her visual greatness. They all were.

The Sony Rep schmoozed them and set up the showcase for the "Yes Men". Oya could taste victory, money, fame, freedom...

The showcase was a disaster.

Not because Oya didn't incinerate the Sony office with her talent or the girls didn't bring it with their playing. The Yes Men wanted Deidre to front the band and insisted on smoothing out their rough sound. Less edge. More mainstream puff rock. Less 90s Trent Reznor-esque proto Black Girl Rock/Metal and more old school Gwen Stefani cutesy kitsch.

Oya put her foot down. Get set aside because they found Deidre the more marketable? She didn't have the voice. She didn't have the vocal chops to strike people down from the stage like Oya did every time they performed. To Sleep With Anger laid out the roots of Betty Davis, Bad Brains, A Band Called Death, tastefully gave homage to Tina Bell, Mother's Finest, plus a smidgeon of early Prince with the heavy guitar opening of "Bambi" that Oya played herself, and all they could mention was Nine Inch Nails and No Doubt?

They weren't signed.

Deidre left them.

Six months later Deidre was on tour and became a media sensation by joining Ark Ten. They were top tier. Grammy winners. Global fanbase. English darlings credited with reviving the UK rock scene. Deidre joined them right when they went in to record a second studio album. An all-male band that fired their lead guitarist, Ark Ten recruited Deidre to become the new focal point of hyped publicity for the group's sophomore outing. She looked like a High Rock Glam Priestess on their magazine photo spreads. Their album went triple platinum within months as Oya took credit cards and damp dollar bills at a cashier's booth while listening to her ex-bandmate's overdone guitar flourishes in songs at her crappy club job.

Shameika and Jody moved in with her in an upstairs apartment near Slauson. They turned the small dining room into a second bedroom and pooled their resources to perform where they could. Oya wrote new songs and just as Deidre predicted, Shameika and Jody followed her lead without pushback.

After a long day in Santa Monica, Oya walked into their kitchen and made an announcement.

"We're going to audition a new guitar player. We need a fourth member. I'm better at singing and not playing at the same time."

Jody fried up some sliced potatoes and onions at the stove. Shameika washed dishes.

"Another woman?" Shameika asked.

"Black?" Jody added.

"Let's just put the call out and see who shows up. I have a hook up for a try-out space next week. There's a music studio moving to another location in Santa Monica. KCRW used it for live shows and one of my co-workers has access to it for a Saturday before they leave. We can sneak in and use it for four hours. Six to ten at night."

"But you're great on guitar," Shameika lamented.

"I can't do all my theatrics if I'm playing the whole time too. It's too difficult. Plus, it's part of our brand. Jody?"

Jody set down the spatula in her hand and turned down the fire under the food.

"I want another Black woman," Jody said.

"But if we can't find one?"

"Hold another audition?" Shameika suggested.

"In time for Afropunk?"

"We can do a stripped-down show. Jeans, tees, and chucks."

Oya put hands on her hips and closed her eyes.

"No, we go full out. We need this moment more than ever. We have to look ready-made."

Shameika stopped stacking plates in the drainer.

"You don't think we'll ever make it big, huh?" "It's not just making it big...it's our music... we could change the game. I'm tired of us struggling and trying to be creative. I'm tired of us eating potatoes and spaghetti all the time."

"We'll make it," Shameika said.

"I'm tired,"

Oya let her arms drop to her sides. Jody pulled her in for a hug and Oya buried her face in the woman's neck and wept.

"I'm tired of seeing her out there...winning," Oya huffed.

"We'll do the audition. We'll make it work," Jody said.

Her fingers trailed up Oya's face and wiped away her smeared eye make-up. Shameika joined them and threw her arms around Oya's waist.

"Look at me blubbering like some loser. We're not losers."

"No, we're not," Jody said.

Her lips touched Oya's cheek and the loving pats from Shameika made her feel tons better. She broke away from the two of them.

"Just a tiny woe-is-me moment and now we'll get this new axe. Right?"

Jody and Shameika nodded sharing gentle smiles with her.

"We're too talented," Oya said taking up the spatula and turning over the potatoes for Jody.

She kept that mantra up as they sat inside the borrowed music studio a week later watching woman after woman jam with them. Oya watched Jody's weary face as she cradled her bass and studied a new guitar player plug in and prepare to audition. Shameika twirled one of her drumsticks in her left hand and gave Oya an encouraging wink, but the sentiment didn't help. After two hours, they hadn't found one musician who felt right. Benji, Oya's co-worker, sat next to her on plush red couch. There was a small line of women taking up the sidewalk outside waiting to come in and it gave Oya a headache.

"Give me a minute," Oya said, "I have to pee."

In the restroom, she splashed water on her face to hide the tears that threatened to drop.

"Please..." she whispered as she rinsed her hands and dried them.

Oya stared at her face in the mirror.

"Go back out there with your game face. Our new guitarist is coming. She is going to walk in and wow everybody. The band will be whole once more. We'll go to Atlanta and the record deal will come. We'll bring the heat. We'll bring the bodacious Blackness. Deidre won't be the only success story."

Oya walked back into the studio and nearly shit in her cargo pants.

Benji stood chopping it up with Erik Killmonger.

Killmonger wore dark shades, but Oya recognized the braided locs, the scars on his skin shown by his sleeveless white t-shirt, and the gold slugs in his mouth. He was bigger in person than what she imagined. Her eyes glanced over to Jody and Shameika and they were equally starstruck along with the white woman with tattered dreads waiting to audition.

"Oya, this is my old buddy, Killmonger. Killmonger, Oya. Lead singer—"

Oya did a one-eighty and hot-footed back to the restroom. She pressed her back against the door. Her breath sped up and she couldn't stop hyperventilating. Leaning forward to lower her head to her knees, she squinted her eyes and blew out long streams of air.

"Fuck."

Clenching her fists, Oya patted her hands up her thighs until she stood upright.

"Fuck."

She went back out to the studio area and threw her shoulders back.

"I thought I left the water running in the sink," she lied.

Killmonger sat on the couch next to Benji. Oya avoided contact to help keep her voice steady and non-chalant.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you know who Killmonger plays for—"

"Played for," Killmonger corrected.

Oya felt a tickle in her stomach. His scratchy voice had a rasp to it like he'd been smoking before he came in. He probably toked a good expensive strain that rich people smoked. They always had memes of him up every Four Twenty with kush sitting on his guitar. The shades were off and his bright brown eyes planted themselves on her face.

Played for?

"You're not with Slippage anymore?" the white woman asked.

Nosey.

Killmonger's eyes cut to her and the woman shrank into her guitar.

"How 'bout you play and mind ya business," he said.

Oya took her seat and stared at Jody. She mouthed the words "Play" to her homie, and Jody slid her index and middle finger down the neck of the bass to begin "Palo Alto", a song they liked using to test the guitarists. It had several difficult chord progressions and they wouldn't have to waste time seeing if a person could really play or not. The woman, Heather, got halfway through the song before they knew she wouldn't cut it. Deidre and Oya could slide through the song like butter. Even Jody could fake her way through it when she played around with Oya's guitar.

They allowed Heather to play another tune and jam for a minute before Oya took to the mic and sang a bit with the entire ensemble. They sent her away after asking a few personal questions about her background. When she left, Oya ran her hand over her hair. Jody adjusted the volume knob on her bass and Shameika tapped her sticks lightly on her ride cymbal. No words were needed to veto Heather. A statuesque Black woman came in next with a bright smile and high energy, and they all perked up, but she wasn't able to improvise all that well as they jammed together. Another no. They had an hour left and only two candidates had viable potential from the fifteen women they saw from the first three rounds. Oya was happy she pre-screened so many musicians online ahead of time. They were efficient and knew what they were looking for. The only problem was, no one fit.

They had a fifteen-minute break slotted before the last three candidates scheduled would come in. Benji gave Oya a supportive grin.

"Don't throw in the towel yet, Oya," he said shaking his ginger curls.

Killmonger stood up and walked over to their set up. He moved like king. She tamped down on the squeal in her throat fighting to come out.

"I can't believe Killmonger is in the same room with us!" Shameika blurted.

Thank God. Someone finally said it out loud. Jody and Oya laughed with relief.

"He ain't nobody," Benji said punching Killmonger in the arm.

"How do you know each other?" Oya asked keeping her eyes off of Killmonger.

"Before he was a big head star, Killmonger used to nag me to play his shit on KCRW years ago. We used to sweep up this place together as interns."

Killmonger glanced around.

"The place is a little different from when I worked here. Didn't last long though."

"Slippage?" Oya asked.

Dark orbs captured her gaze.

"Yeah."

"But you said something about not being with them earlier."

Benji stepped in.

"News is just now getting out," Benji said hitching his shoulders.

"Can I?" Killmonger asked pointing to Oya's guitar.

She stepped away from it and he lifted it off of the stand near her and draped the strap around his body hooking it to the instrument after adjusting the leather. It only took him two seconds to launch into "Acid Babe Blues" and Shameika brought in the drums automatically. Jody slapped her bass and they played for two minutes before Oya felt brave enough to jump in and sing.

Killmonger knew their song. By heart.

He stood in the middle of the recording studio slaying Oya's electric guitar and ripped into a blistering riff that made her jump and lose her shit in front of her desperate band.

"Give it to me from the top!" he yelled.

His fingers thrummed out the beginning again, and Oya gave a Black rebel yell,

"Show me someone not full of herself, and I'll show you a hungry person!"*

They tore through the song with Killmonger's lips peeled back to show glints of gold as he howled encouragement with whoops and loud shouts to them.

"C'mon Jody, dig into that bottom!" he called out.

Jody let her thumb do the most as Oya felt the vibration of Shameika sitting in her pocket on the drums from behind as she followed Jody's dip into a groove that Killmonger supported with tasteful licks from his fingers. They jammed for twenty minutes until Oya noticed their next band candidate standing wide-eyed and mouth agape staring at Killmonger.

"Sorry," Killmonger said unhooking himself from Oya's guitar.

They finished seeing the last three women and sat down on the floor together in a circle to discuss what they liked and didn't like. There were three women they agreed to call back for another try out just to be sure.

"We have to lock one in fast. Get them set with our music and stage cues," Oya said picking at her nails.

"When's your next performance?" Killmonger asked.

The three women glanced over at him on the couch. Benji had his arms folded watching them too.

"End of the month. Atlanta," Oya said.

"Afropunk?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Let me play for you."

Oya thought her lungs would implode in her chest right behind her heart.

"I'm not doing anything. I quit Slippage. I like your sound. Benji says you want more festival exposure. If I play with you, you'll get that."

"That would be a boss move...but..." Oya's brain grew dizzy.

"But what?"

"People would want you. Not us," Jody said.

"Then hire me. Let me join the band."

Benji chuckled but then he shut up when he realized Killmonger wasn't joking.

"Why?" Oya asked.

"I like your sound. Your style. I quit Slippage because it's tired. I outgrew it. Y'all got something fresh...different. Sticks to my ribs."

"People would just think it's your band," Oya said.

"How's that?"

"Your famous. You'd overshadow us."

"Did I overshadow Slippage?"

"You were Slippage," Jody mumbled under her breath.

Oya reached over and tugged on one of Jody's long straight backs. Jody slapped Oya's hand away from her hair. Killmonger chuckled.

"You have a strong personality," Oya said.

"Benji told me to come here to give you some tips. The best thing for you is to let me become part of To Sleep With Anger. You don't even have to pay me cuz you know I'm set. I just want to play pure music that's slowly becoming its own thing. I miss that."

"Will you dump us when you get bored?" Shameika asked.

Shameika tilted her head and the purple tips of her hair on the left side of her head touched her stomach. The right side was shaved with one long tuft left on the temple that was beaded with cowrie shells. When Killmonger's eyes landed on her, Shameika's top teeth tugged on her bottom lip making her lip ring more visible.

"Who would get bored with you, Princess?" he said.

Oya caught the territorial glare from Jody, but Killmonger's smoldering drag across Jody's lean athletic form made her flustered and forget the man was flirting with her woman. He flirted with Jody openly too. Dropping his body on the floor next to them all, he held out his hands.

"Let me come to Atlanta and play. Just as a featured guest. We can talk about permanent stuff after."

"You do sound good with us," Shameika said.

Killmonger pointed to her.

"See? Taste."

Oya's heart pounded in her chest from being next to him. She could smell his light cologne and the hair oil he used for his air. The scent of roses and pumpkin spice lingered near him. Moisture left her mouth and everything tasted like cotton. A miracle walked into their audition and served himself up for their use. Oya glanced over at Jody and Shameika. They were just as gone as she was by what was being offered. She swallowed dust and thought of Deidre. Ark Ten was a smart move for her career, but what she would never have was the baddest guitarist around who left an exceptionally better band, and wanted to play for them. But knowing Deidre, she would be flattered to be replaced by someone like Killmonger. Oya ground her molars and pushed her fingers into her thighs. Her cargo pants pocket vibrated. The cell alarm went off. Their time in the studio was up. It was now or never.

"What do you think?" she asked the others.

Shameika held a thumb up and they all saw her sultry eyes turn gooey staring at Killmonger.

"He makes us hustle and I like that," Jody said. Her forehead creased.

Oya gave her a curious look when she took forever giving her answer.

"Me and Shameika are together," Jody finally said.

"That's not a yes or a no," Killmonger said.

"I see how you are and I want you to know the dynamics," Jody said pursing her lips.

"That's your lady, aight beautiful, cool...so am I in?"

Shameika lowered her eyes and Oya felt second-hand embarrassment watching the jockeying for the drummer's attention.

"What's your vote Oya?" Jody asked.

Those magnetic eyes of Killmonger's became daggers on her skin and Oya couldn't shake the arousal affecting her decision-making. He pushed them into excellence with just one jam session. Imagine what they could glean from him with full rehearsals?

She raised a thumb, and Shameika squealed. He wrenched his eyes away from Oya.

"Jody?" he asked. His voice was a raspy assertion. Answer him.

Oya saw the attraction Jody had for the man too. They all were drenched in it. Carnal danger oozed from his pores.

"Okay...yes," she said.

Killmonger clapped his hands and jumped up from their circle on the floor.

"We rehearse at our place in the mornings when our neighbors are at work," Oya said shifting her body to stand up. Her foot fell asleep and she shook out her leg to get the circulation moving.

He took out his phone and they all exchanged numbers.

"I'll bring my stuff at nine if that's cool," he said.

"Yeah," Oya said.

She was almost his height. There was a gleam in his eye as he flashed them all big white perfect teeth and four gold slugs. Two at the top and two at the bottom. His scars were real and if she didn't know him a little better from hanging with him that night, the man could come off menacing. He took up so much space.

Oya threw back her shoulders again.

So did she.

Begin at their beginning...

Afropunk brought two things to fruition.

To Sleep With Anger became that bitch and Deidre felt the heat.

They didn't announce that Killmonger was with them. Flying into Atlanta with hours of tight rehearsals behind them brought them to a different level of being. He was a task master, but he made sure they were in control. Over four weeks Oya saw how he could influence them without it being obvious manipulation. Helping them improve their songwriting, playing, and bolstering their confidence to challenge themselves was something she came to love about him. Oya fell for him quietly and in secret, and unlike his first time meeting them, all flirtations vanished. He was about the music twenty-four seven. She wrote several songs with him at his home studio in Silverlake, and he even helped Shameika compose her first solo creation. It was a cold ass song and Oya wanted them to open with it. Shameika burst into tears when Oya said that and Killmonger gave their sweet Goth girl a hug and encouraged her to write more and take chances with her lyrics.

They left the stage itself in shambles after their quick set. It was like they took a grenade, pulled the pin, tossed it, and made sure the destruction was complete before their exit. No one wanted to follow them after that performance. The shock of Killmonger leaving Slippage hadn't fully been processed before the world saw him on a smaller stage obliterating all competition around them in Atlanta.

Shameika beat out a master class of percussion before Jody sank her teeth into the bass ushering in the deadly claws of Killmonger's fingers making his guitar roar as Oya stalked out from behind him. The moment the audience saw him, shocked gasps rippled out and then she pounced on them all, lacing her voice around Shameika's lyrics throughout the soundscape they weaved for the audience. Her signature flame upswept do became the rage after their first performance as a re-grouped band. The biggest surprise was that Killmonger didn't steal their thunder. He harnessed it and threw it out for the world to accept as a class act worthy of recognition. They trended on social media. Deidre and Ark Ten had been number one for two hours because of their new Coachella line-up announcement. To Sleep With Anger knocked them out of the top ten trending topics soon after. Pictures of their Afropunk performance were shared all over. Oya couldn't help but float and feel hopeful.

The man made her feel reckless and powerful onstage. Their styles meshed and the thrill of prancing around and growling at him with throaty moans while he jerked that guitar around her shirtless like he was working his manhood made her invincible. He underplayed his position as mega star to allow them all the shine. He got off on it. Flirted heavily with all of them while he worked the stage. Oya threw him solos but he would bring in Jody, opening her up to the point where she was dancing around the stage which was something she rarely did that fiercely.

The fans loved Shameika's song and they played it again at the end for their encore. Their short set grew longer because of Killmonger and he pushed it. Shameika broke one of her sticks by the end and it was the omen of more good things to come.

Standing there with applause washing over them, Oya looked over at Killmonger. His eyes were slightly hooded. He was faded in a good way and she was too. They shared a joint before hitting the stage and she watched him make smoke offerings to someone named Bast. Oya gave a final bow and Killmonger leaned over covering her mouth with his lips. The crowd roared and she reached over with fresh acrylic black nails to scratch the scars on his nude shoulder. He bowed down to her like she was a queen and the audience lost it again.

"Let 'em see you, O," he crooned in her ear.

Oya swung her wide hips to the left and right of the stage with her black wolf's head cane in her hand. Her black laced combat boots matched the black mesh drawstring skirt and tank she wore with a short-waisted red bolero jacket. Their black flame logo was emblazoned on the back in satin emboidery. She sauntered over to Jody and Shameika who were shy about prancing around, but they basked in the sea of applause. Oya pulled them next to her so they could get their due.

Taking the mic from her hand, Killmonger stepped to the center edge of the stage.

"You're looking at three of the baddest musicians to come out of L.A. It's a privilege to play for them. Don't fuck around and miss out on this moment. Follow them. Support them. Snatch their EP at the merch table before it become a collector's item and you can't afford it. Take plenty of pictures so you can say you were there before they blow up. Give more love to Oya, Jody, and Shameika...To Sleep With Anger!"

Offstage they were mobbed by people trying to talk to them and get pictures. Killmonger was adamant that he took no solo pictures with fans. It was the group or nothing. That didn't stop people sneaking shots of him sipping on juice or talking to people. Security had to help them when the reality of his status went into warp drive. They had to have more security with them for the rest of the event.

Gracious, accommodating, protective, and a total fanboy, Killmonger acted as their professional handler. His personal bodyguard, Tyson, was a bruising giant that suffered no fools when it came to his boss. If Killmonger felt a fan was being rude to them, he sent Tyson after them. By the end of the festival night, Oya was exhausted by the lack of respect fans had for the personal space of huge stars. Oya wanted the same accolades, but the rudeness was astounding. So used to being ignored, or looked over, she adjusted to it quickly until a male onlooker reached out and squeezed her ass cheek near a speaker as she watched a headliner from Canada. She shoved the man and his weed-laced eyes narrowed. His lips became a snarl when he realized she wasn't interested in his tasteless unwanted sexual advances.

"You should feel lucky, bitch!" he spat.

A fist sliced across her peripheral and the next thing she knew, the man's face was punched in one direction while two of his teeth flew in the opposite. A crowd of male fans snatched him up and carried him off while Killmonger stalked after them cursing him out. Tyson pulled Killmonger back but he jerked away from his grasp. A random girl with long pink braids picked up the teeth with a napkin and ran after the owner of them.

"Shit!" Oya finally exclaimed. Killmonger only needed a bodyguard to protect fans from his fists.

Jody and Shameika were stunned and the crowd stood back from them when Killmonger returned.

"You alright, O?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head as Tyson made a wide berth for them to continue their evening.

"I've had my ass slapped, my dick grabbed, kisses placed on me without my consent..."

Killmonger's eyes looked them over before giving them a dimpled grin.

"See what you have to look forward to?" he told them with flashing gold teeth and drying blood on his fist.

On the way to Coachella and uneasy alliances...

Oya carried bags of Chinese food and soda to the apartment. She had to carry four bags carefully by herself because no one answered their cell to come help her. Climbing up the stairs and fumbling with keys, she entered the apartment hearing music, and smelling frankincense incense, weed, and burning vanilla-scented candles. The room divider from the living room to the dining room was up and Oya saw shapes moving behind the shadows of flickering light. Jody and Shameika were at it on their bed. They probably thought Oya was going to take a long time picking up food, however, she called ahead for once.

She ducked into the other doorway that led to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Clearly there was no rush to eat. Oya needed time to shower. Turning her head, the flimsy curtain they used to separate the kitchen from the dining room was parted and Oya could see Shameika on her back with Killmonger on top of her.

The hell?

She froze.

This was the fucked up shit that killed bands throughout history. Illicit sexual liasons...

Wayment.

Jody's fingers slid down from behind Killmonger's back and pinched his nipples. He turned his head to the side and they shared tongue kisses. Oya watched the man pull out his dick from Shameika, and dear God, he threw Jody down onto her hands and knees and plunged his sheathed thickness into her from behind. She watched him turn Jody into a quivering mess on her bed while he pulled on her hair. Shameika bent down and licked her tongue from the middle of his chest up to the side of his neck.

"Bounce on it," he whispered to Jody and she threw her ass back on him while Killlmonger

slipped fingers inside of Shameika's pussy. Oya could hear the squelching wetness and the woman's whimpers twisted around Killmonger's groans.

"Oooh, fuck!" he roared as Jody gave it her all.

Jody pulled off of his length and flipped over allowing Shameika to fall against her with her legs up in the air. Killmonger sank into her as Jody played with her peach-sized breasts and anchored her girlfriend's body for him. Their eyes stayed on that man's dick as it plowed deep and hard.

"Fuck me...Killmonger...!" Shameika was losing it.

"Shit," he yelped biting his lip as he hunched over her.

He was deep in her guts now and the thrashing she did under him made Killmonger double down on the snaking of his hips. Her arms flew back and Jody cradled them, sucking on Shameika's fingers before Killmonger pulled out again. Both women scrambled to get at his mouth for kisses and he held them both close to him as he fondled both their asses with greedy hands.

Oya slipped out of the kitchen and heard more movement. She wondered what position they were in now before jealousy seeped into her heart. She closed her bedroom door and sat on her cold bed in the dark. It was sad to think of how long it had been since she had sex with anyone. She didn't count the clumsy attempts of a man trying to fingerfuck her the previous year at a party, or even the coat check girl at her job. They were unconsummated misadventures.

She had no clue the three of them were fuck bodies. Killmonger kept sexual energy on stage and in their real life he was a gentleman guitarist coaxing the best out of them for work only. It was obvious Shameika had a big crush on him, but they all just settled into a mentor Rock-God relationship with him. He was playful during downtime, bossy during rehearsals, and flirty for shows.

"Cum in my mouth!" he shouted

His voice roared through the door and Oya pulled a pillow over her face and screamed. They were getting all that sculpted body. All that dick. All that mouth. Kicking her feet, Oya threw her pillow across the bed. Fuck 'em.

She turned on the lights and prepared to take a shower, not even bothering to keep quiet. They kept being loud even as she went into the bathroom and took a long shower.

Twenty minutes later she could hear their bed still rocking and rolling. Bitches!

Hunger trumped all and she made a ton of noise going back into the kitchen to fix a plate for herself. Dumping fried shrimp rice and walnut chicken on a paper plate, she yanked open the fridge to get a can of Pepsi.

Jody tumbled into the kitchen and washed her hands at the sink. She was fully dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and Oya could tell she was pretending that nothing had went on in the next room. She also wouldn't look Oya in the eye. Whatever.

Oya padded into the living room with her plate and drink and found Killmonger on their couch watching TV.

"Sup?" he said ogling her plate.

The shower went on again and Oya assumed it was Shameika in the bathroom. Jody walked out of the kitchen with two plates. She handed one to Killmonger who took it with gratitude as he tucked in with a fork.

"I would've gotten some egg rolls had I known you were coming over," Oya said with a little bite in voice.

"No worries. I just popped over."

"Yeah. I heard."

Jody's eyes almost fell out of her head. Pressure began to build behind her neck and Oya tried to eat her food next to Killmonger on the couch, but she barely tasted it. When Shameika came into the room with a small plate, Oya couldn't hold back.

"Is this going to be a regular thing?"

"What?" Killmonger said.

"Nigga, don't play dumb. You're fucking two of my bandmates. I'm really not trying to have no bullshit when it blows up in your faces."

Shameika's lip trembled. Jody studied the paint on the wall.

"It's none of your business what we do," he said poking out his full lips.

Oya knocked his food out of his hand.

"Oya...fuck..." he grumbled picking up the mess all over the floor.

Shameika jumped up to clean it and Oya shoved her back.

"Let him pick it up since he's trying to create a mess."

Oya's jaws clenched and she stood up to tower over him while he cleaned. He jumped up to face her.

"If you want some dick too, just say so. We don't need all the dramatics to get my attention."

"You think I wanna fuck you?"

"Every time you see me you want to."

"You said you wanted to see us win. This threesome will interfere with the work."

"Yeah...you wanna fuck."

"Killmonger, stop," Shameika said.

"Kill-monger, stahpppp," Oya said mimicking Shameika's mousy voice.

"Don't do that," Jody said stepping to Oya.

"Whatchu do? Let her fuck him so you wouldn't lose her?"

"Fuck you, Oya!" Jody shouted pushing her in the chest.

Oya pushed back and Killmonger stood between them.

"You are such a weak little pussy!" Oya shouted as the rage surged through her body.

Shameika ran to her bedroom and Jody followed after her.

"Weak bitches," Oya shouted to them.

A shock of pain blasted up her arm as Killmonger grabbed it and pulled her toward her bedroom. He opened the door and shoved her inside flicking on the lights and slamming the door behind him.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"Why are you fucking them?"

"Why is it your business?"

"The band is my business. You fucking up my business."

"What I do with them is between me and them—" "How long has it been going on?"

Killmonger rolled his eyes and she couldn't help but stare at his teeth and the locs flopping in his eyes. His blood was up and the look on his face was mean and it turned her on. She wanted to punch him and kiss him, but if she did that, it would only prove that she did want to fuck him and was angry that her friends got to him first. Wasn't she good enough? He was always gassing her up as the Queen Bee but he settled for drones...

Oya closed her eyes.

That was cruel. Jody and Shameika were her girls. Her sisters. She was acting like Deidre. Thinking she was better than all the rest. Fuck. Maybe Deidre was.

Oya flopped down on her bed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His eyes were still tight, but he uncrossed his arms.

"What's going on?"

"I don't like being left out."

"Left out of what?"

"Inner circles. I thought we were a team...I feel left out."

"Because of sex?"

"No...yeah...I dunno. I'm stressed...Coachella is coming..."

Killmonger sat next to her and threaded his fingers in hers.

"Coachella is big for you guys, but it's just a music festival. Like all the others you've played before."

"Easy for you to say. We only got there because of you."

"So."

"People are saying that's the only reason we were invited to play."

"So."

Oya shook her head and he squeezed her hand.

"If you're scared because Ark Ten is playing just say that."

"I'm not scared of Ark Ten."

"Deidre then."

"She's a star."

"You're a star. You, Shameika and Jody."

"This has to be the best performance of our life, and I want to show her up. I want her to regret leaving us—"

"She's living rent free in your head and not even thinking about you. We had three dudes jump ship on Slippage before we even signed with Warner. Shit, I wasn't even in the original line-up. People leave when opportunities open up for them. Deidre is where she's supposed to be. I'm where I'm supposed to be. So are you. This is your come up, O. Enjoy it. Stop worrying about Deidre and stop worrying about my dick."

She punched his arm and he kissed her cheek.

"You stink," she said wiping his kiss off of her skin.

"I smell like good pussy."

"Please don't play with them."

"We're having fun."

"You're having fun. They are in a serious relationship."

"I hear you, okay?"

Killmonger released her hand and left the room to shower and clean up. Oya meandered into the kitchen then knocked on the wall near the curtain divider.

"What?" Jody called out.

"It's me. I want to apologize. Can I come in?"

There was no answer.

"Jody? Shameika?"

Jody pulled the curtain aside. Her face was contorted with anger. Oya saw Shameika on the bed bundled up under the sheet, her eyes wet and puffy from crying.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to talk to you both like that. I don't want this thing you have with him to blow up in our faces. Shameika, sorry for teasing you...I was...jealous."

Shameika cut her eyes and Jody crawled onto the bed and put her arms around her. They both ignored her.

"Sorry," she said again and left them alone.

Oya went to her room and broke out her weed pipe and smoked alone on her bed. With her bedroom door open she saw Killmonger walk out wrapped in a towel brushing his teeth.

"I stole a toothbrush from the pack under the sink," he said.

Oya shrugged and he ducked back into the bathroom to rinse his mouth. He returned fully dressed and barefoot. He grabbed the pipe and lighter from her and took a few puffs and cooled out on her bed.

"They are pissed at me," she grumbled.

"You were foul."

"I know. I apologized."

They smoked and the high was easy. Languid. She fell back on her back and stared at the ceiling. Killmonger curled around her and threw an arm across her stomach.

"I wrote a new song," she said.

"Lemme hear it."

She giggled.

"I'm high and my lips are rubbery right now."

Killmonger licked her face and it felt like warm velour caressing her skin.

"Sing it to me."

He nuzzled his face in her neck and kissed her there.

"You ain't slick," she said moving her neck from him.

"What?"

"Tryna get in my panties too right now because I'm floatin'."

"I would never do that. My dick is tired anyway. They had my shit spittin',"

"Oh God, TMI."

"I couldn't get it up if I wanted too. Give me the song."

"Hmmm..."

"It sucks."

"Shut up!"

She slapped his cheek and he cradled her hand and kissed her palm. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers.

"Sing," he said.

Oya closed her eyes and thought of the yellow legal pad she wrote the newest song on. The words floated above the paper as the melody danced around her ears.

"There is no place for a soft Black woman... there is no smile green enough or summertime words warm enough to allow my growth...and in my head...I see my history standing like a shy child...and I chant lullabies...as I ride my past on horseback...tasting the thirst of yesterday tribes..."*

The words flowed from her lips and Killmonger caressed her hip as he listened to her. He gave her suggestions for word changes when she was finished, and they moved from the bedroom to the living room to work out the song with her electric guitar. He played her instrument while she sang to him. Shameika and Jody emerged from their bedroom to listen and after a few more word changes they joined in on bass and drums that sat ready in the room all the time. They jammed, worked out a decent intro with the drums and Killmonger shoehorned a bass-heavy bridge that added a full body sound to the lyrics. Oya felt the sexual tension between the four of them. It was thick and undeniable. They were all drenched in sweat by the time they had a complete arrangement that worked well.

"We should close with this," Killmonger suggested.

Oya glanced over at Jody and Shameika.

"What do you think?" she asked them.

Jody shrugged and Shameika stared at Killmonger.

"You like it Shameika. I can hear it in your drums," Killmonger said.

Shameika's foot tapped on the floor. Killmonger stood Oya's guitar on a stand and he walked over to Shameika and pulled her up to her feet. He blocked their view of her as he talked softly with her. Oya left the room to grab a bottled water and when she returned, Killmonger had his lips on Shameika and she had her arms around his neck. Jody stood with her arms resting on her bass watching them.

"You good," Killmonger asked.

Shameika nodded her head and Killmonger went to Jody and gave her a hug.

"Team, right?" he asked Jody.

Jody twisted her lips and Killmonger grabbed her chin and tilted it up toward him.

"Jody?"

"Yeah. We're a team."

Killmonger pressed his mouth on Jody and she gave in. His hand squeezed her left butt cheek and she swatted his chest with a laugh in her throat. Fiery eyes raked over Oya's form as Killmonger strode over to her.

"I'm not leaving you out," he said.

His mouth devoured hers overwhelming her with the pressure of his large tongue sweeping around her teeth and making her own tongue submit to his will. A trembling in her thighs commenced, and she grew bolder as she pressed her body into his. Whatever he said about his dick not being able to rise to the occasion again was a blatant lie because the hardness she felt pressing against her mound had her panties damp. His arm slipped around her waist and he walked her backward a few inches before he let go of her lips. He reached for his shirt and took it off allowing the hard slick scars all over his chest excite her even more.

No words were spoken as he forced her back into her bedroom and undressed her. He groaned when her breasts were freed from her bra, and she moaned as his thick fingers pulled off her underwear revealing a glistening prize for his mouth. He ate her out on the edge of her bed, pushing her thighs back so that he could smear her juices all over his face. He licked her folds until she was clawing her bed. Sucking on her clit made her cry out and she knew Jody and Shameika heard her.

Killmonger stood up before she could release again and she watched him fetch a condom from his wallet and roll it down his turgid erection.

"You gon' play nice?"

"Huh?"

Breath was cut from her throat as he sank into her. He threaded his fingers in her hair and locked her body down good and tight. Hard thrusts made her pussy clench around his pipe. He brought his face close to hers and the gold in his teeth looked sharp and threatening.

"I'm giving you this dick, but you better place nice with the other girls from now on!" he growled in her ear.

Oya lifted up so she could see his dick beating up her walls. The aggression of his fucking made it hard to breathe. His hips swiveled and hit another part of her pussy that she wasn't expecting and she clawed his back. The scars on his body rubbed extra sensations into her needy skin and she whimpered into his shoulder to keep her bandmates from hearing, but the dick was so good that she was panting his name every time he sank back into her.

"Be a good girl, alright? Don't be jealous..."

"Killmonger!"

He palmed as much of her breasts as he could and forced her back to arch just to catch all the length he was throwing into her fast. She took the pounding gratefully.

"I'll be good! I'll be good...ooh shit! I'll be good...fuck!"

She went cockeyed trying to match his pace and gave up when he was balls deep and making her toes bunch up. His teeth tugged on her nipples and she took that moment to breathe deep and catch her bearings.

"Turn around!"

Killmonger stepped back from her and his heavy dick bobbed with her shiny slickness all over the condom. She dropped her legs down to the floor and shifted her body so that she faced the bed. Before she had a chance to position herself, he had his hand on the back of her neck pushing her down. Her ass jiggled as he thrust into her again, and she gripped the blanket on her bed to brace herself. Oya's ass clapped loud and she was unable to make a sound from her mouth. The shouting she had done made her voice hoarse, and she snapped her eyes shut and sucked on the blanket.

"Hold these ass cheeks open!"

Reaching behind her, she stroked her backside with her long nails and pulled her fleshy cheeks apart.

"Look at that pussy!" he choked out.

His groans rained down on her and once he started grunting and slapping her ass, she knew she would fall apart all over his dick soon.

"...being my good girl...pussy stretched all around me...fuck...Oya..."

She couldn't take it anymore. He was rooted in her way down deep until he bottomed out and gripped her hips.

"Right there! Right there!" he groaned.

"Fuckkk..."

Her orgasm exploded when he slipped demanding fingers across her clit and stroked her to completion. Bucking his hips, Killmonger's body went rigid and he cursed a stream of expletives until he collapsed over her.

Panting together, she felt kisses planted down her spine from his lush lips. He pulled out of her and bent down to kiss her pussy, licking the essence that flowed out of her. When she sat up, he left the room to go into the bathroom. Killmonger returned with a smile on his face.

"Let's record your song tomorrow at my place around nine—"

"I can't, I have to work at eight."

"Jody...Shameika..."

He padded out of her bedroom nude and went to the living room. Oya grabbed her t-shirt and pulled it on. She rummaged for a pair of sweatpants and sought out Killmonger. He stood in Jody and Shameika's bedroom talking quietly. She watched his shadow on the living room divider and felt a bit miffed that he didn't bother to dress before going to them. Her scent was all over him. The divider shook and she watched Killmonger pull it aside. Jody and Shameika stared at her. The smirk on Jody's face made Oya feel uncomfortable. Nothing like fucking a dude her ex had just rode hours before. Messy.

"We'll record before you go to work then. We need to lay it down fast. Skip rehearsal in the morning and just record. Cool?"

She nodded. The others seemed pleased with the idea.

"It's a great song, Oya," Shameika said.

Her eyes were still shiny and the lilt in her voice was relaxed. That man was working them all over. It worried her. Worried her for the next two weeks that they recorded tracks at his house and took promotional pictures for Coachella with a photographer he hired. The PR machine for Coachella was going into overdrive. Killmonger made them cancel all appearances until the festival. He paid them all out of his own pocket to make up for gigs they passed up.

"It's to build anticipation," he assured them.

Their streaming numbers jumped, especially when they posted the new pictures of Killmonger with them on their official website. He was part of the group now. The man drove them to play until their fingers swelled up and bled and their voices felt like they chewed chalk all day. Their bodies ached from working so hard. Killmonger's work ethic was stringent but worth all the effort. Oya's stamina improved. Musically and sexually.

They all shared him.

He was more discreet with their liaisons. The new polyamory created a push and pull that made their music racy. Electric.

The only foursome they indulged in was a weekend before Coachella. They tripped on 'shrooms with Killmonger in his house after swimming in his pool, and danced in their swim suits his den listening to all the new music they had created together.

"If you bring this fire to Coachella, it's a done deal," he said lying on his floor gazing up at his skylight that covered half of the ceiling.

"Done deal?" Oya said watching her fingers grow watery-looking as she allowed her body to trip with the high she felt.

"Yeah, Warner will sign us," he said like it was no big deal.

She screamed with Jody and Shameika as they peppered kisses all over his face. He stayed on his back as they sat around him like a harem.

"All this work you put in, it's all simmering on the stove. I gave y'all some extra seasoning and now we're all cooked down to the pot liquor now," he said.

His eyes were seductive, and his mouth was lax showing them his bottom slugs. Shameika stroked his cheek and he smiled. Oya bent down and kissed him and he accepted her ripe lips with a moan and wandering fingers. Stripping for him, they all took turns riding his face and going through condoms as they rode his dick too. Reconnecting with Jody intimately was a sweet reminder of how they used to be years before. Shameika and Jody sucked on his balls as she ran her tongue around the bulbous tip of his glans and she felt extra special when he came in her mouth. Jody and Shameika cleaned him with lusty licks and were rewarded with slow drips of extra semen that spilled all over their lips. They slept together in a warm heap of arms and legs on the floor and she woke up with his Killmonger's tongue sucking on her tits. She climbed on top of him and bounced on his dick with her heavy breasts teasing his face, letting him cum hot and raw inside of her. Jody and Shameika watched her make Killmonger holler her name like he had the holy ghost and they giggled when his eyes rolled back from his orgasm.

All was well.

Until it wasn't.

Carrying coffee containers from Starbuck's, Oya and Jody returned to a final mixing session in the home studio catching Killmonger fucking the shit out of Shameika on the sound board. Jody dropped the coffee she had for herself and Shameika and cursed a blue streak. Killmonger yanked off the condom and fastened his pants looking confused by the reaction. Oya was just as confused when Jody snapped and she pulled her back before it turned physical.

"Why you trippin'?" Killmonger yelled.

Tears welled in Jody's eyes.

"You promised!" Jody screamed.

Oya glanced between them. Shameika hung her head in shame.

Shit.

It became clear to Oya.

"I thought we were all good," Killmonger said still searching for understanding.

"This is why..." Oya mumbled.

"It just happened!" Shameika shrieked.

Jody stomped out of the studio and left the house.

"Jody!"

Oya grabbed Shameika's arm to stop her.

"Give her a minute, Shameika. Just go to the bathroom for now and –"

"What is going on?!" Killmonger said still out of the loop.

Shameika cradled her waist. Killmonger stepped to her and stroked her arm.

"Shameika?"

"We had a rule. I wasn't supposed to be with you by myself."

"Well damn, why didn't you tell me that?"

"Cuz I wanted to be alone with you like Oya is!"

"Shameika, bathroom, now!" Oya pushed.

Shameika left them alone.

"I told you," Oya hissed.

"I didn't know about their rule. I would've respected it."

"That was their fault for not cluing you in from the beginning."

"Shit. Jody won't quit will she?"

Oya pounded her fists on top of her head. The doorbell rang. Killmonger glanced at his security video screens near the sound board.

"It's Doug and Anderson from my management. I invited them to hear the final mix. Fuck."

Oya left Killmonger and hustled Shameika out of the bathroom.

"Get it together. Deal with your problem at home, you hear me?" Oya clucked like a mother hen.

Jody wandered back in with her lips set in a scowl and she sat away from Shameika as they heard the playback in the studio. Doug and Anderson loved it. It was a full album worthy of representation. Doug, balding, in his late forties, and deadly serious with his facial expressions kept squinting his eyes as he listened.

"What do we call this? Seriously? What is this sound?"

"Pot Liquor," Oya said.

Killmonger chuckled.

"What?" Doug asked.

"Inside thing," Killmonger said winking at Oya.

They played the album back again and the three men chatted with big plans for the band. But Oya could only watch the tension escalating with Jody and Shameika.

It was hell in a hand basket and Killmonger kicked it on its way by seducing them all into thinking they could handle open sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

Fuck.

The end of the beginning making way for new beginnings...

Oya stood behind the stage of the Mojave Stage tent with a nervous heart hammering in her chest.

The press, Killmonger's fans, and online pundits billed it the battle of the bands when Slippage was to perform after them, and Ark Ten before them. It bummed Oya when she watched smaller more talented bands get pushed aside for big name acts that didn't need the exposure that Coachella gave. A-Listers ruined the vibe for her. Everywhere she looked people were there to be seen. It had ceased to be about the music for many there. Influencers had some pull, and she was able to speak with a few before she dressed for their set. Shiny black dress. Blood red overcoat. Hair slicked down, titties propped up, she twisted all the silver rings that covered every finger on her hands. Two chunky silver chokers rested around her neck. They all agreed to dress their personality, and for Killmonger, that meant topless, black basketball shorts and black trainers.

Jody and Shameika were barely on speaking terms. Oya stayed at Killmonger's place because hanging around the apartment was brutal. Icy stares. Early morning cuss outs. Crying. She stayed out of the way as much as possible, but left after two days. All her time spent before Coachella was used to play her guitar, get her voice pampered and ready, and pray that the audience was receptive. They were part of the two Saturday weekend line-ups, and she prayed Jody and Shameika could keep it together for the following Saturday.

It felt like she and Killmonger had a lot to prove. Oya facing Deidre with Ark Ten, and Killmonger peeping Slippage without him.

"Is it mean to want the other band to suck?" Oya whispered to him.

"Nah. Slippage is a different animal without me now. They have new music. It's a new era for them."

"You miss them?"

"No."

"If people don't like this, you don't have to stay with us. We can say you were just—"

"Shut up," he said slapping her butt.

The thumping of music from a small monitor screen drew her eyes toward it where she watched Deidre shred. They hadn't spoken since she left them high and dry. Deidre had on a revealing black dress that showed a lot of breasts without nipples, and a thigh high split that Oya hoped had a g-string at the top. Killmonger bobbed his head as he listened to Deidre do a solo. She was a star. It showed.

Oya inhaled deep.

"You got this," Killmonger whispered in her ear. He kissed her and she felt her nerves move to her neck.

So many people. So many high expectations.

Oya shook her hands and glanced over at Jody who paced with her earbuds on listening to meditative sounds. Shameika stood still tapping her drumsticks against the top of her thigh, her eyes glassy and focused on some netherworld.

Tyson stood nearby keeping his eyes on the crowd and people backstage.

Martina, the stage manager walked over turning down her headset.

"Ready?" she said.

Oya nodded and the band circled up. She stood between Jody and Shameika.

"Go out there and be yourselves," Killmonger said.

The glint from his slugs made her tamper down her nerves.

"You don't look nervous at all," Jody said.

"I still get butterflies. I want to do my best for all of you."

They bowed their heads and Oya did a simple prayer and they all squeezed hands.

"Do it Shameika," Oya said.

Shameika shook her hair, tugged on her tiny black halter and shorts and pranced out to her drums. Colorful lights made her look glamourous and there was a smattering of applause as their logo lit up above her head. One twirl and she slammed on the skins and got right into her lane as their pocket queen. Oya saw a sly smile spread across Jody's face and she stomped out to where her bass waited for her and hooked in. When the lights struck her face, her head whipped toward Oya.

"What?" Oya mouthed.

Jody put stank on the bass as her thumb slapped hard. Killmonger hooked into his guitar backstage and when he heard his cue, he began to play and a roar shook the open tent. Strolling out like he had always been with them made Oya grip the mic in her hand tight. She was bigger than life. Bigger than the stage. Bigger than the biggest galaxy in the universe. Switching on the mic she called out,

"Buckle up Coachella, you ain't ready for this shit. I promise you. Hold onto to your edges..."

She stepped out and her eyes bugged. Holy fuck. The Mojave Stage tent they were under was packed. More than packed, the crowd extended far out of the tent and many people had to watch them on monitors outside.

Killmonger sidled up to her to help her regain her focus as she felt disoriented for a second. She looked down at his fingers working his chords and he bit his bottom lip giving her a flash of his face when he orgasmed and her clit thumped thinking about the way he handled her body. Oya shook her hips and he moved against her body.

"This bad boy right here is ready...are you ready Coachella?"

The roar of the crowd rattled the stage and instead of feeling like an indie band, they performed like they were on the main stage as the sun disappeared. Killmonger took over and scorched the guitar intro that Deidre ruined so long ago at Joshua Tree. When his eyes sought hers out and he suggestively wiggled his tongue at her the way he liked to work her clit, she growled deep in her throat then let pure rage flow out as she threw back her head.

"Show me someone not full of herself, and I'll show you a hungry person! Ahhhh, yeahhhhh!"

Everything poured out of her and Killmonger drove the rhythm hard, pushing her to dig deep and leave it all on the stage. Sweat made his scars shine like perfect little jewels just for her fingers to touch, which she did like always making people scream with delight.

She dropped to her knees and he placed his guitar close to her face to simulate fellatio. She spun herself toward Jody who did the same as she screeched out

"Give it to me!"

The first song raised the crowd into a tizzy, and it was easy to slip into the next song. She adjusted to the more than expected size of the audience under the tent and outside of it. Fifteen minutes in she took off her coat and slipped on her own guitar and joined Killmonger for a battle and by the time she caught her second wind mid show, her eyes caught a familiar face in the wings.

Deidre.

There was a smile on her face.

Feeling a way, Oya strummed her guitar and stepped to her mic stand.

"I want to introduce you all to the newest member of To Sleep With Anger...you may recognize him from some other band...who did you use to be with?" she asked Killmonger.

The crowd laughed.

"Everyone put your hands together once more for Erik Killmonger on lead guitar!"

Killmonger showed off a bit, and they went off script and jammed.

It felt like magic. Oya's heart swelled and she felt generous when Jody finally noticed Deidre on the side.

"Would you all mind if I bring out an unexpected guest?"

The audience clapped.

"All the way from the Outdoor Theater across the way, Deidre Peterson of Ark Ten!"

Deidre held her hands up, but Oya put a hand on her hip.

"Don't make me come over there and drag you out!"

Deidre walked out humbly, her face showing doubt about what was happening. Her eyes lit up when she saw Killmonger looking at her, giving her dimples and a wink.

"Use my guitar, Deidre," Oya whispered in her ear when she leaned in for a polite hug.

She glanced around at Jody and Shameika before she took in the crowd.

"Go ahead," Jody shouted.

Deidre picked up the guitar and Killmonger gave her space as she strummed it then broke into the very first song she and Oya ever wrote as teenagers.

"Bitch!" Oya teased before Jody stepped to her mic.

"I won't let you suffer all the way through it. We were just learning!" Deidre joked.

Oya faced the audience.

"We wanted to be heavy metal queens because metal, like all good American music started with Black people... you know it's true!" she catcalled the audience.

Deidre played one of their last songs they performed together and Jody joined her with Shameika rounding out the sound. Killmonger followed the rhythm adding his gentle flourishes.

"Can we give 'em a tiny taste?" Oya asked.

Jody held it down as Deidre shared the mic with Oya and they harmonized two verses before Deidre stopped playing. There was too much emotion on her face and she unhooked herself from the guitar and placed it back on the stand behind them. She blew kisses to the audience and hugged Oya before leaving the stage in a near run. Killmonger brought the music back up and forced Oya to let go of the past and look toward the future. There was pain still there, but they were both where they were supposed to be. They couldn't hate on the universe for being correct in the outcome.

They jumped back into kicking ass and taking names with Oya showing off her octave range and playing off of her bandmates. Killmonger tried to spit bars to one song and she covered his mouth with her hands making the audience cackle as she took over and showed him how it was done. Their songs ran the gamut of sexual politics, race, class, love, and the rage of Black women who were overlooked and forgotten. She sweated out her hair and rivulets of her exertion ran down her neck and breasts. Wrapping up with a strong closing, they all knew that the world was their oyster now. They carried sharp knives on the stage to cut the oysters open from now on. She waved for Shameika to come away from the drums and the four of them stood side by side. Jody threw an arm around Shameika and Killmonger held Oya's hand as they took in the applause and whistles, and shouts for more.

Deidre was absent from backstage but it was just as well. It was To Sleep With Anger's moment. Not hers.

Bigger acts sought them out to chat and they took some time to watch Slippage perform. They weren't as good anymore without Killmonger. She saw the smirk on his arrogant face when their reception without him was less than stellar.

Killmonger had hired a crew to break down and pack up their instruments and they were driven home in a large black S.U.V. to Killmonger's house at the end of their Coachella stay that first weekend. Jody and Shameika went off to one of his guest rooms to work out some things leaving Oya alone with Killmonger. They had talked all night after their performance. There was hope.

"Think they'll make up all the way now?" Killmonger asked.

They sat inside his jacuzzi easing their weary bodies. It was early in the morning.

"They're in love. But we'll see what happens before next weekend."

Oya sat up on the edge when the water got too hot for her.

"What about you?" he asked.

"What about me?" she said flicking hair from her eyes.

Killmonger swam up to her and pressed his body in between her thighs and gripped her backside.

"You were letting the world know some things with how you were acting on stage with me."

"Know what?"

"We're feeling each other. More than just an occasional hook-up."

"We do have mad chemistry."

His eyes became dreamy looking up at her.

"You are amazing, Oya. Tonight...shit all three of you were just fucking raw. Coachella hasn't seen that in a long time. Fuck, music hasn't seen that in a long time. Period."

She stroked the top of his head fingering his locs and he closed his eyes and rested his head against her stomach. Rubbing gentle circles along his back, she touched his scars that had become so precious to her. He had become precious to her.

"Killmonger?"

He raised his head up and she lowered hers and kissed him. Their lips fought for leverage together and when their tongues sought heat and wet mouths, he stepped out of the water and held her hand. Her eyes felt heavy. Sleepy. She was still high from being onstage the night before.

"Where are we going?" she said.

"To make some music together."

"Oh, yeah?"

"All day, And the next day, and the next..."

He pulled her along and they took off their wet swimsuits and shared a shower together before he took her to bed. The man played hymns on her breasts with his calloused guitar fingers and hummed a sultry blues on her slick folds. Musical notes danced across her clit with the tip of his tongue and when he sucked sweet orgasms from her one after the other, she finally understood what Betty Davis meant by the lyrics in "Anti-Love Song" about a nigga making a woman "scrawl", because she was screaming and trying to crawl up the walls once he penetrated her, parting her folds like soft fleshy curtains. His short teasing thrusts had her begging him to fill her up with his entire length, stretch her wide open, and take her to the place where love rested easy.

They held hands as he went deeper and deeper and Killmonger made her lose all hope of ever letting him go.

The world made her a little less angry with him in it, and she was so grateful.

A.N. Song lyrics were from poems.

Nikki Giovanni poem ""Poem for a Lady Whose Voice I Like"

Sonya Sanchez poem "Present"

A.N.: This was originally published June 6, 2021. Brought it back for fun! I thought I would expand it as an indie book, but I'll wait on that!

#Afropunk!Erik Killmonger #killmonger fanfiction #killmonger smut #Erik Killmonger #Black Panther AU #Uzumaki Rebellion #Afropunk #Erik Killmonger Fanfiction

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