e.b. neal | she/her

LOUD AND CLEAR, a Steddie fanfic by emmy_award

chapters 1 and 2 up now part of @steddiebingo round 3

rated E / AU / modern AU / rockstar!eddie / teacher!steve / slow burn / missed chances / light angst prompts -- "should I stay?" / phone / modern AU

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He woke, fuzzy, muggy, a stale taste in his mouth, to a dark room and a loud, distant pounding.

“Fuck,” Steve mumbled, lurching out of bed.

He stumbled through the dark apartment, the pounding getting louder as he got closer to the front door. “Yeah, yeah,” he yelled, “I’m coming—” He yanked open the door, chilly air flooded in, and an angry pair of eyes met his.

“Sorry,” Steve said, trying for a sheepish grin. “I sort of fell asleep—”

“Nice,” the guy bit out. He had piles of dark, frizzy hair and these huge, arresting eyes. “I thought I had the wrong address or something. My cab already left.”

“Well.” Steve looked at him, wondering how on earth to fix something he hadn’t broken. “You wanna come in?”

The guy shot him a glare. “Sure, why not?”

Steve stepped aside, let him pass, and smacked the lightswitch, bringing the apartment to life. The light showed him that the guy was tall, easily over six foot in his fuck-off boots, and he was dressed like he’d tripped and fallen out of a rock show, all denim and chains and torn fabric. His leather jacket had a screaming skull painted on the back of it, and Steve blinked a few times. Who in the fuck was this guy?

“Sorry, um.” Steve cleared his throat, scuffed a hand through his hair. A part of him still felt dead asleep, like he was dreaming. “Remind me your name?”

“Eddie,” the guy said, dropping a beaten duffel bag on the floor, followed by a large, flat, hard-shelled case. An instrument? His glare hadn’t softened — his gaze raked up and down Steve’s body, like he was sizing him for a punch. “Buckley said she had a roommate, but I was expecting another girl.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. Sure, maybe he wasn’t at his best, standing here in his pajama shorts and a shirt that had seen better days, but he didn’t deserve this. “I’m not a girl.”

here’s a hefty chunk from the accidentally married au for my sweetie @shorelinetides bc she deserves some sweet sweet hangster to keep her going this week 💕

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Jake’s kids had the early hop, so Bradley bypasses the locker room and angles to the admin wing, taps his knuckles on the little door with a sign that reads, SERESIN, J.

“Yeah?” comes that cowboy grumble, and something twists happily in Bradley’s gut. He steps in, smiling. Behind his desk, Jake’s eyes widen just a little, but beyond that, he hardly reacts. He’s pin-neat in his uniform, hair combed perfect. “Rooster,” he says, mellow. “As I live and breathe.”

“Bluesy just kicked your boy off the leaderboard,” Bradley says. He drops his helmet on the desk, settles his weight in one leg and rests his hands on his harness. “Wanted to deliver the news myself.”

“Goodness gracious,” Jake says, dry as the Mojave. “That’ll last for all of five minutes.”

Bradley rolls his eyes. “C’mon, man. Just admit defeat.”

Jake clicks at something on his computer, then locks the screen with a quick tap on his keyboard. “I don’t know that word, Rooster. Not my fault it’s so familiar to you.”

“What’d you do with them today? Live fire?”

Jake nods. “You hear the booms?”

Bradley nods in return, thumbs some sweat at his temple. “Anyone shit the bed?”

“No,” Jake says, corner of his mouth twitching. “My kindergartners are a little smarter than yours, Bradshaw.”

“Anyone hit all their targets?”

“No,” Jake concedes, and he swallows hard, throat bobbing like he was choking on something, and it’s odd, out of place — Bradley almost frowns at him. Jake’s gaze fixes on a point somewhere on Bradley’s right shoulder. “But Viper came close. God, she’s a fuckin’ animal. Like a scarier version of Phoenix.”

“Don’t let Phoenix hear you say that,” Bradley tells him, with a reflexive glance at the open doorway. “You’ll wake up choking on your own balls.”

“Please, she’s the size of my foot.”

Bradley huffs a laugh, gestures at the hall. “Squad’s going to mosey to the Hard Deck, you wanna join?”

Jake nods once. “Sure.”

Bradley holds the door open, waiting, but. Jake doesn’t move, doesn’t get up from his desk. Bradley lifts an eyebrow. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Again, Jake swallows. Hard. “I’ll head out in a minute.”

Something crackles up Bradley’s spine. Something white-hot and filthy. He looks at Jake, really looks. Sees the way his chest hitches, the way he’s gripping the arm rests of his shitty old desk chair hard enough his knuckles are turning white.

Ah.

A smirk sneaks across Bradley’s face, and he steps towards Jake’s desk. “Why don’t you stand up for me, soldier?”

A muscle jumps in Jake’s jaw. He looks like a cornered wolverine, piss-angry and growling. “No, thanks.”

Bradley leans forward, bracing himself on Jake’s desk. “That was an order, Lieutenant.”

“We’re the same damn rank, Bradshaw.”

Bradley hums, runs his tongue over his bottom lip. His pulse thrums in his ears, still drunk on good flying and sunshine and whatever’s going to happen now. “Stand up, Jake.”

A beat passes. Then Jake shakes his head once, firm.

Bradley’s smirk slides into a knowing grin. Heat pulses, thick and lush, between his legs. “Why not?”

Jake’s chest heaves. His gaze cuts to the open door, the hallway beyond.

Bradley steps back, closes the door. Locks it. Uses his boot to nudge the trashcan up against the backside of the door, just in case. Turns back to Jake.

“Bradshaw.” The word is brutal, but almost pleading.

“Jake.” He uses the wheedling tone that worked so beautifully yesterday. “Stand up.”

A beat passes, then two. Then Jake clenches his jaw, eyes flashing. And he reluctantly slides his chair away from the desk and stands up.

Bradley’s gaze falls to where Jake’s straining at his uniform trousers, pitching a perfect khaki tent. He hums low and coveting, moisture pooling in his mouth. “Well, how about that.” He meets Jake’s gaze, tilts his head to one side. “Thinkin’ about something in particular?”

A little gift for @seekstrivefind <3 and because musician!Bradley is one of my favorite headcanons!!!

From the accidentally married AU ~~ some delicious Hangster on this fine Wednesday~~

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“You can play Elton John?!”

Bradley lets himself laugh, glancing over at Jake. He keeps playing the song, but quits singing. “Why’re you so surprised?”

Quite a few things are happening in Jake’s face, like he can’t decide what say.

Bradley turns his attention back to the keys. He’s a little surprised at how well he remembers this one, it’s been years since he played it, but it was always one of his mom’s favorites. He winces as he flubs his way through the start of the bridge, but recovers — he doubts Jake could tell anything was wrong — and it gets easier as he goes, his hands remembering before his mind does. And he loses himself in it, in the warm familiarity of Elton’s chords. On his shoulder, his mom’s hand, resting. On his cheek, her kiss, fleeting. When he draws the song to a slow, lingering end, he looks over at Jake again. “Satisfied?”

“Not even a little,” Jake says. “Play something else. You know any Hank Williams?”

“I’m not your personal jukebox,” Bradley says, but he’s enjoying himself, he’s enjoying the look of shock that Jake’s trying so hard to conceal, so he thinks for a moment, takes a steadying breath, and straightens his spine. Like that, his mind zips into silence, the air plush around his face, and his hands move, opening into the notes he knows so well.

Beneath his hands, the nocturne develops and curves, rising slowly from the belly of the piano. Distantly, he is surprised by how easily some of the notes come to his fingers, the long-resting pieces of himself rising to breathe. The piece builds from within him, builds and dies, builds and rests, builds and lingers, then crashes into itself, a flurry of sound that dies back again. The only moment of disharmony comes when he hits the highest notes in the piece, the cascade of raindrops, and they come out a little sharper than they should — he really needs to get this thing tuned — but he continues playing, ebbing in the flow, reaching, pulling, something in his chest ebbing along with it, opening as the piece yawns and settles, curling into itself. He lets the final note linger into a low hum before slowly easing his hands away from the keys, his foot away from the pedal. Something in him is cold and clear now, precise where it was messy before. He swallows past it, and looks over at Jake.

Jake is staring at him.

A long moment passes before—

“What the hell was that?” Jake says, voice low.

“Chopin,” Bradley says. “One of the nocturnes.” He scratches his arm absently, his ears going hot.

Jake blinks at him. “Fucking what?”

“Chopin,” Bradley says again, a little slower. “Polish guy.”

“No, no.” Jake puts up a hand, as if to stop him. “I mean… you. What the hell… what are you, some kind of savant?”