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valmare · 4 months

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*running into the room, skidding to a stop*

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARE!!! I absolutely LOVE you and I hope you have the best birthday!!! 🥳🎁🎉🎊🍾🥂

For the celebration, could I have Slider with "you remembered?!" "what kind of question is that? of course I did!" and taking a bid of icing off the cake and putting it on their cheek

Fighter, love. I adapted this a little from the OG ask, but I think it turned out okay. Actually got away from me, but, I don't think I'm complaining? Hopefully you enjoy it, and thanks for asking!

Something Dangerous

“Don’t forget the brownies, Ronnie!”

Of all the things to be doing, running late to a volleyball game in the middle of scathing San Diego afternoon was not topping anyone’s list, especially on one of the hottest days of summer. And most especially when the air in your boyfriend’s car wasn’t functioning. Even more especially when you’re approximately three degrees south of absolutely terrible—hair’s a wreck, your feet throb from wedge heels, and that sunburn from all-day yesterday on the sand was starting to smart.

Hustling across the cracked pavement of the military housing unit’s apron, you stop and rest a hip against the offending vehicle in question. Ron’s K1500 looks exhausted, sitting under open sky and pristine blue skies. And if the thing could cry, you know she would—sagging on worn suspension, the front passenger tire needs air. Cracked rubber checkered with snaking crags across RADIAL lettering, most of her V6 and 4x4 badging either missing, sun-faded or busted in half. Tucked away in the bowels of your closet, Daddy had wrangled some replacement badges from a local junkyard back in Tulsa—he’d mailed them earlier in the year. Ron being the nosy one of your relationship, you’d socked them away for Christmas.

The most adorable powder blue, most of the clear-coat is spotty and peeling in all the wrong places. Almost 20 years old, the first time you’d seen Baby, as Slider affectionately named her, you’d assumed she’d survived the war. Or, at the very least, some nuclear fallout the world forgot to remember.

Stepbars aside, you can barely wrangle in and out of the thing—Kerner had lifted Baby himself, put her on some fat rubber. Relished in his ability to all but Frank Sinatra himself in and out of the thing. Perfect for a Gorgon-sized backseat RIO, but not a pocket-sized girlfriend. Five feet almost exactly, plunking your ass in Baby’s front pass seat took effort. It was like tight-wiring at the circus, precariously dangling over whatever terrain you found yourself in. Today it was the driveway, later the beach. Tomorrow would be church’s parking lot. Next week—wide open Tulsa interstate, hot pavement stretching for eternities.

Baby’s fender is ripping hot, sunlight glinting off this-is-the-best-it-gets polished chrome enough to make you squint. Hissing at the heat against your thigh, you reflectively pull away. Readjust to rest your knee against the warm rubber of the tire, strap of your purse dropping off your shoulder as a hand dives into the knockoff Vuitton for keys. Halfheartedly and early in your relationship you’d exchanged spare keys as a couple—the key to Baby tinked right alongside the key to your Land Rover, and vice versa. Two years had all but worn the painted NAVY off your leather keychain.

Muttering under your breath, your fingers brush the allusive keychain at the bottom of your bag. Snagging the keyring with your finger, you snatch them out of the bag before dumping it to the truck’s hood, moving to pop the latch on the door. With a rough tug, the hinge all but slips open—and if you hadn’t helped Slider wipe away the WD-40 drips left behind after lubing the doors, they’d take all the credit. Huffing a breath, you balance a wedge on the stepbar, grab the handle assist, and rest a knee on the seat to lean over the column and insert the key. With a flick, she turns over, stutters for a moment in the cradle. Rips to life with a throaty roar, body shaking a little beneath your feet. A satisfied little smirk at the radio has you slipping back down to the driveway apron, nudging the door lighting with your hip. Turning, you angle the side mirror to check your makeup and your hair—curls clipped back, you’d opted for simple makeup. Base and SPF didn’t mix, and the slight red on your nose from yesterday is testament to it.

Flipping up the collar of one of Ron’s shirts, a hot sunburn simmers beneath the light material—he’d all but insisted you cover. Compliance had left you irritated, Mr. Bronze Adonis didn’t even need SPF. He could bar on-base all day ass-naked as the day he was born and not even pink. Kerner’s tan was almost as dark as the eyeshadow you’d opted for—a bronzy thing you didn’t even remember the name of, but set off the flecks of gold in your eyes. The way you knew he liked, the way you liked.

Pinching your cheeks for extra color, movement in the reflection over your shoulder catches your eye. Here comes Kerner, gliding out the front door on long legs that are effortless, all but ripping out of too-tight light wash Wranglers. Dogtags thrown over his bare shoulder, he’s wedged a t-shirt into his back pocket.

Balancing effortlessly in his flattened palm is the pan of aforementioned chocolate walnut brownies, the other split between his keyring and two six packs of Budweiser bottles that, even from across the lawn, clack together in the most beautiful sound a weekend could offer. Barefooted, sunglasses poised on the end of his nose, Ron toes the screen door back into place easily before hustling off the front step and across the offensively dead lawn.

Meeting him at the edge of the apron, you gesure for the pan of brownies. You’d lovingly made them at his request for this picnic volleyball game—all the girlfriends were bringing food. A phone call to the roster later; Charlie (and thus, Maverick) was bringing macaroni salad, Carole and Goose were bringing condiments and drinks, Hollywood had all but threatened violence toward anyone who dared bring meat he wasn’t responsible for; Wolf had been instructed to bring paper products, and Kazansky had already secured pineapple and vegetables, because healthfood.

That left dessert. And Ron was an absolute slut for anything chocolate, and he’d almost died when you’d whipped together your stepmother’s chocolate walnut recipe last year for his birthday. Groaning sinfully, he’d devoured almost the entire thing himself before you’d leaned across his finely-toned abs, reaching for the pan of dessert he’d dared to hold just beyond short stack reach. Successful in ripping them away, Slider earning brownie privileges had been entertaining to say the least.

You still hadn’t replaced the broken headboard. “These are safe?” Pulling back the cheesecloth pulling overtime to protect all-but glistening chocolate icing from the elements, you peek into the pan as Ron’s now-empty hand falls to brush your lower back.

“Ha ha,” the drill reply is all but eye-rolling as he steps up to the pavement. “We ready to rock and roll or what?” Moving to the driver’s door, he pops it open, deposits the beer to the floorboards, and rolls down the window before peeling at the gauges. “Shit, she’s warm already. It’s hot.”

Finding the brownies satisfactory and fully intact from their escort, you gently work the cheesecloth back into place. Watching him step up halfway on the bar, it takes effort not to notice the ripple of hewn muscle in his arm as he grips the open door. Instead your eyes cut to his feet, brows lifting behind your own sunglasses for a moment.

“Where are your shoes?” Like talking to a child, you balance the pan of brownies against your palm, other hand planting at your cocked hip. “I had them out, right next to your jeans. Ron. You need shoes.”

“Do not,” he challenges with a lopsided chuckle, leaning through the open window. Fingers drumming against the powder blue paint, his smile twists up, smirking. “It’s a day on the sand, babygirl. Who needs shoes? Let these dogs bark.” Nose wrinkling with a chuckle, he reaches to push his shades into place with a knuckle. His gaze casts over you quickly. “And you’re wearing heels.” Wolf-whistling, his brows bounce.

Ron loves when you wear heels, it’s a near-constant request every time you go out. It’s the long line of your legs, the light tick on the right service. Mostly, though, you assume it’s the added height benefit. Ron alone has contributed to your shoe collection more than probably necessary, you sometimes worry it’s more of a passtime for him than not.

Because, while Kerner isn’t exactly rolling in the dough (thanks so much Uncle Sam) you’d never know it with how he spends money. On you. Despising the fact that you’d just as soon shop Salvation Army or the clearance rack at Bloomingdales, he insisted on new clothes. New designer shit that neither of you could afford. And shoes alone, well–whether or not it could be called a fetish is neither here nor there. He’s obsessed with watching you try on shoes, how they look in your closet he’d single-handedly remodeled.

The first Naval ball you’d attended Ron had all but seized when you suggested borrowing shoes from Carole Bradshaw, since you were the same size and she lived right next door. Scooping you up like nothing short of a farm sack, he’d tossed you over his shoulder, smacked your ass, and plunked you in the front seat of his truck. To go shopping.

And Slider knew shopping—he had two sisters. Two sisters and a mother that was an attorney. Not only did his stamina for the urban jungle know no bounds, he knew the game. Understood brands. And he knew your shoe size from peeking around your closet, had dropped your ass in a chair and plucked selections from shelves like some possessed thing from a retail version of the Shining.

His credit card was practically on fire before you’d left the mall with Jimmy Choos, Calvin Kline, Valinto. The dress alone was hundreds of dollars you were pretty sure he was still making payments on, but Slider never seemed to mind. He just grinned, wagged those brows while his tongue traced his bottom lip with a snide, But you can wear it anytime I ask you to, which was, apparently, entirely the point. You hadn’t worn the thing since the naval ball, but, you regularly checked on it in the back of your closet.

Your cheeks dust pink at the way he tips his head to peer over his sunglasses at you. Dogtags all but glistening in the sweat that’s pearling in the curls of hair on his chest, you take a leveling breath. Chest opening a little, your shoulders roll back as your toes curl a little in your shoes. Pan of brownies warm in your palm, you pluck your own sunglasses from the top of your hair and slide them into your place.

“Your funeral,” you chime in a cheeky, sing-song tone at the mental image of his feet hitting the blacktop of the parking lot. Ron, for his size, tends to whine about pain. Unless it’s pumping iron and working out, then he’s steady as an oak. Any other time pain is involved, he’s as weak as a newborn foal. “Don’t cry to me when your feet fry like an egg on the blacktop, Ronnie. It’s a heckuva walk from the parking lot to the beach,” head canting to the side, you lazily twist the ball of your shoe against the concrete apron. On purpose, teasingly. “Ice is the toughest sonuvabitch I know and even he wears sandals, baby.”

Slider’s mouth purses into a tight o, and he whistles a little low. “Listen to you,” he reaches through the open window for your arm, but you step back sharply to evade the grab, “does Kazansky know you talk about him with that mouth?” You giggle when his fingers brush your arm, but you twist away. Slider grins brightly as he slips from the truck to dodge around the door, cutting off your escape.

“You never talk about me that way,” his rough hand successfully snatches your arm at the exact moment you tuck the pan of brownies against your chest for protection. Feet skitching against the pavement, you’re in Ron’s thick arms, pressed against his rippling chest before your heart can even skip a beat. “I love it when you talk filthy.” His tongue skates his bottom lip, his palm smoothing your hair tenderly. Even behind shades, you can see his eyes sweeping over the features of your face. “Why don’t you ever talk filthy about me?”

Face wrinkling into a less than serious pout, his lips twist into a fake turndown that stabs between your ribs. The snort escapes you before you can even track it, and you arch back a little from his chest, over the strong arms pinning you in place. He’s sweating and smells like SPF, but in the best way. Nerves alrighty aflame with inferno light that skips through your blood, you very quickly can’t feel past the way his heart seems to leap at his ribs for yours.

And before you can even think about it, “You keep track of how I talk about Ice?” has slipped from your pretty pink lips like blades laced with poison. Cutting through the thick air that ripples between the two of you, the look that settles on Slider’s face is, at first, unreadable—for seconds, maybe. Within a heartbeat his lips are curling into quicksilver that slices through your facade of confidence. It grabs your spine with chilled fingers, and like smoke in the air, you aren’t able to process past the way he’s looking at you behind dark lenses.

Breathless for all of a few seconds, your brain stops functioning. Fritzes like a static TV. And before either of you can respond, your eyes cut to the tray of brownies resting between your chest and his. Biting the corner of your lip turns into restless gnawing on the inside of your cheek, and for a few seconds you don’t know what happens—except your finger skips along the smooth frosting of brownies. Reaches up with a mind of its own and bleps it on the tip of his nose.

For a few bleeding moments, nothing happens. Until the brown splot on his nose is so glaringly staring back at you that it snaps you like a rubber band back into reality. Eyes flicking from his nose to the pan of now effectively destroyed, brownies, the hinge of your jaw fails. Lips parting into a sweet little o, your face flames redder than it already is with recycled sunburn painting your skin, and you look back up at him.

“Oh.” Your bottom lips rolls beneath your top teeth.

His brows have all but taken flight off his face. Clearing his throat, his posture tightens. His chest opens, shifting the pan of brownies enough that your hand moves to stabilize it. Blowing out a breath from between his lips with gusto, he blinks a few times as he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. With a finger, he points to his nose.

“Oh,” he mocks, making a face that immediately rips a giggle from the back of your mouth. More bubbles up your throat as he continues to mock your tone, over and over, until he wrinkles his frosting-tipped nose and moves in for a nose-to-nose kiss that only means trouble.

“Ron, no,” you try to sound serious, but it fractures under your fissure of giggles, “Slider, stop it! The brownies—the brownies!” Never mind the fact you’ll be late to the game if this keeps up–time is all but a construct beyond his arms, the way he holds you. How he looks at you so adoringly. Since the minute you’d laid eyes on him at the South Bay Drive In, you are Icarus flying into his too-close sunlight. The fact that he picked you is so Hollywood, the stuff of cinematic masterpieces and Shakespearean dreamscapes. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real.

“‘Oh, Sli, the brownies!’—I’m not the one who went and wrecked the goods, sweetheart,” you lean back enough that it fractures his arms from their hold around your middle, allowing you to backstep away from him. But Slider is all about the chase, the game—the cat and mouse that sends the two of you round and round, like always. “Now what are you gonna tell everyone when it comes time to cut your birthday brownies?” His voice drops to an uncharacteristic low, like he’s putting on airs.

It’s not the bedroom low you’ve come to adore from him, but it’s something else entirely—like the very accusation has roused an entirely new character from within his veins, one that is dark and tortured just by the very thought of that emerald monster. Halting your retreat from him him, your hold on the brownies against your chest tightens a little, almost to white-knuckle. His words echo through your brain like he’s spoken into some grand chasm, the words reverberating through your very bones. Birthday. He’d said birthday, you’re pretty sure. Willing to bet good Vegas cash on it.

“You remembered,” blinking like a complete idiot, your mouth ticks up into a pleased grin.

“Of course I remembered,” his fisted hands land on either of his hips, disbelievingly. Shooting him a deadpan look, his cheeks darken. Which isn’t like Ron. He’s never bashful, is rarely the butt end of anything. “Oh come on.”

“Last year you forgot,” you correct, cocking a hip. “Tom help you remember this time? Is that what this game is about?” After all, Ron is the one who insisted on a weekend volleyball game and picnic. His idea, his coordinating the details. He hadn’t uttered a word about anything birthday related, and you’d been fine just keeping it lowkey. Had fully planned to have a night-in; cook some pasta, enjoy Wheel of Fortune. Maybe play some naked cribbage.

Slider not remembering your birthday last year wasn’t a big deal. He’d made it out to be more than it was, but you turning twenty-nine was not something worth fretting about this time around the sun. But you suspected, with the way he was babysitting this entire thing, that it was all for you. Not saying anything, you’d let it slide—but now, the way he was looking at you. All dangerous and suntanned and sweating in the sexiest way?

You just couldn’t not.

His brows lift again, teasingly. “For someone who’s supposed to belong to me, you sure talk about Ice a lot.” And he rushes you before you can even counter, but it isn’t fast enough. Skirting around the corner of the truck to put Baby between the two of you, Slider eases up to make the corner. You’re already scrambling up into Baby’s front passenger, tossing the pan of brownies up on the dash with a sharp thunk!, baking pan colliding with the windshield.

You're halfway into the cab when both of Slider’s big hands grab either of your hips, “Not so fast,” pulls you off the stepbar. Shoulders flush to his chest, your head falls back to rest against his shoulder, the toes of your wedge heels skimming the pavement just so that you know it’s gonna leave marks.

Dipping to brush his nose against the soft flesh of your neck. Slider brushes aside the collar of his shirt to nip at your collarbone. His hands at either of your hips dip you back harder against his frame, and the heat of his chest flares to life against the sunburn flaming on your back. Hissing, you wriggle a little uncomfortably, until his hand slips up the curve of your frame and fondles your tit, lovingly.

“Sli,” it’s more of a plea than anything else, and you hate how he’s reduced you to little more than a flailing pile of goo. He hums against your skin, his hand moving from your breast, up the valley of your tits, to firmly latch around the column of your throat. Delightful pressure, but nothing that hurts—just the way you love it. “We shouldn’t—”

“Why not,” He’s chuckling, now. It’s not a question. Instead, simmers low in his chest, like bubbling magma. You can feel it between your shoulders. It lights up your sunburn, stirs the churning pot of your sex like you can’t believe. Seconds and he’s rendered you both incoherent and stupid, two things you are notoriously not. Other hand slipping from your hip to dip beneath the ruffle of your skirt, his fingers brush the apex between your legs. And he chortles, like the devil. Because he is.

“Look at you,” he whispers it into your ear, hot breath chasing across your cheek in a way that sends you keening. Preening at the praise, his hand moves to curl fingers into the meat of your thigh. It burns, deliciously, sending volcanic heat to that delicious little spot between your legs that is throbbing. Achingly empty. Desperate for more, anemic like the starving. “Sensitive, aren’t you, baby?”

Your mewl is lewd. Sinful. Traitorous, even. “Ron—”

With a pleased chuckle, the world flips in a blur of movement as Slider spins you around. Chest-to-chest, he slants his mouth over yours thick and hot, milking a slow little whine from the back of your throat the way he likes it. Licking into your mouth, there’s nothing for you to grab now that the world is rocking, spinning as your senses light up like a control panel. World spinning, reality shattering like it always does every time he kisses you this hard, this deep, you yelp at the sudden cold of him being ripped away. His absence, the daylight between you as he hoists you up, into Baby’s front passenger seat.

And before you can even breathe, he’s spreading your legs apart. Heels planted in the door jamb and on the frame, you’re dizzier than you first thought when his lips curl into a cocksure smirk from between your legs. Core on fire from supporting yourself half-cocked, his big hand comes to rest on your belly, and adds pressure. It’s an unspoken ask, and you flop back to the seat with a desperate whimper, gnawing on your bottom lip as Slider places hot, light kisses to your inner thighs.

His nose brushes your apex as he hums, curiously. “I was gonna save this for later,” his chuckle is devilish. Burns like silver that’s been melted into another state altogether, waiting for the mold of something beautiful. Something dangerous. “But I guess you could talk me into giving you your present early, babygirl.”

Back arching off the seat, your fingers pull at the hem of his shirt that feels little more than a straightjacket on your flaming, searing skin. Eyes pinched closed, that want in the base of your gut may as well be a rabid thing, clawing for release. Desperate for satisfaction. Hungry, your toes curl against the base of your shoes, the straps all but cutting into your flesh. Propping up on an elbow, you reach for his head of curls. With a flick of your wrist, tip his head back.

He’s grinning at you, goofily. “You’re such a cocksucker,” and he is, really. Or, rather, is inches from. His eyes jump with a brightness that makes your heart stutter a little behind your ribs, and you try not to smile. Instead, you bite your bottom lip, noting that it’s still swollen from where he’s kissed you so damn fully. “You want me to beg, hm? On my birthday, Ron?”

“Now’s a good a time as any,” his brows bounce, “so how ‘bout it, hm? Gonna be a good girl and beg for Slider on your birthday?”

He didn’t really have to ask.

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