#bob oc

As the train screeched to a halt beneath the huge sign reading ‘London Bridge’, Faye shouldered her way towards the door, jostling past the passengers attempting to board as she made a beeline for the escalator, shoving her book into the gaping pockets of her coat as she reached its peak, once again at ground level. The station had seen better days, its war-torn exterior still displaying the damage it had taken during the Blitz. But such wreckage had grown so common that it was no longer worthy of note for the average Londoner, who could hurry past without so much as a second glance. 

A grin reached across her expression as she passed through the exit, coming face-to-face with a dear friend. “Henry,” She greeted, tipping an imaginary hat as the aged man did the same, holding out a paper bag containing a couple of biscuits. “Oh, you’re a darling - I’m starved, my cereal ration for the week ran out yesterday.” 

“You always have bread,” Henry pointed out, the wrinkles that covered his face deepening as he smiled. 

“I can’t stomach more of that national loaf. It’s even worse when the jam runs out,” She grimaced, eating the first of her biscuits with a hum of satisfaction. 

Henry Arbour was a man old enough to be Faye’s grandfather, himself nearing his mid-seventies, too old to even have fought in the first Great War. He had been a close friend of her father’s, and the realisation was beginning to dawn on her that he might be her best friend too. She had begun her time in his company as his mentee, but it had soon become clear that they had more in common than they thought - Henry as an elderly, childless divorcee, Faye as a borderline workaholic with few friends to speak of. But they were content in each other’s company. 

“What do you think he’ll say?” Henry asked, hands burrowed into his trouser pockets as they headed towards the office, eyeing her sideways in expectation. 

“Same as always,” She shrugged, speaking around the biscuit in her mouth. “The old men of our nation don’t like how I write, and they wish I’d focus on something more ladylike and digestible. Although why they bother with me when Carr’s gone Communist, I have no idea.”

“Hey, as an old man of our nation, I object - you know I like your work.” 

“You’re in the minority. They think I’m annoying.”

“They’re threatened by you.”

“Oh, I know that,” Faye grinned. 

The pair reached the building and swiftly entered through the great revolving doors, Faye’s heels clacking against tiled floor as they made their way to the elevator, shrugging off her coat and slinging it over her arm. She stepped inside, pressing the correct button, but her brow furrowed as she noticed Henry enter as well, neglecting to select his usual floor. “What are you doing?” She asked, voice hushed so as not to disturb the other office workers cramming themselves inside. 

“I’ll wait for you outside his office. I anticipate it’ll be… a short meeting.” 

Faye turned to face him, raising a brow. “You think he’s going to fire me?” 

“No! I think you’ll wipe the floor with him.”

She smirked, turning back towards the elevator door as it slowly rose. Leaning over, she spoke softly once more. “If he does fire me, I’ll jump ship over to the Guardian.” 

Henry gasped mockingly. “Traitor.” 

Faye chuckled, feeling her shoulders tense as the elevator let out a ding, stalling to a halt at their floor. Their footsteps rang out in dull thuds against the worn carpet as she scanned the names painted in gold upon each door until she reached the right office, handing Henry her coat without a word. 

“I’ll be waiting right here,” He assured her, offering a warm smile as she took a deep breath and knocked sharply upon the door. 

“Come in Faye.” 

Sauntering in as if without a care in the world, Faye sat herself down in the seat opposite her editor’s desk. “David,” She nodded in greeting. The man frowned. She knew he preferred to be called Mr Abernathy. But then again, he knew she preferred Ms. Warren. 

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” He sighed, shuffling a mound of papers on his desk.

“We both know I’m not interested in anything else.” 

Mr Abernathy stared at her over his glasses for a long moment before sucking in a sharp breath. “I’m taking you off international news.” 

“What? Why?” Faye scoffed.

He shook his head slowly, deliberating carefully over his next words. “We’ve been getting complaints about your articles. People think you’re… too authoritative. Too sure of yourself.”

“Is that not literally my job?” 

“Well… one could argue, yes, but-. We have to conduct ourselves based on what our readers want to see. When people read an article with your, uh, tone… they don’t like seeing your name at the bottom.”

“You mean they don’t like seeing a woman’s name at the bottom.” 

David batted a hand. “Let’s not throw around accusations like that. You’re too blunt - too cynical. But you haven’t been in this game long enough, people don’t think you’ve earned the right to write the way you do, not yet.” 

“What does the general British public know about my employment history exactly, David?” 

He sighed deeply, drawing a hand across his creased brow. “Can’t you just take a position in entertainment? Or fashion? You could be a really excellent reviewer if you just-”

“David?”

“Yes?”

“I would rather throw myself on a landmine,” Faye stated, her expression calm despite the rage she could feel bubbling inside her. 

Abernathy sat back in his chair, brow raised in a look of indignant shock. “You know, I could fire you.” 

She shook her head, smirking as confidence began to grow. “You could, but you won’t - the fact you’re even willing to offer me a transfer to another section shows that you want me on this paper. You know I’m good, even if you are a slave to whatever the ‘people’ want.”

“So what do you want?” 

Hands folded in her lap, Faye considered this for a moment, gaze wandering about the office. Upon Mr Abernathy’s desk lay a pile of recent papers - he liked to peruse them, to see if he could find any stories worthy of a follow-up in future. On the very top of the pile was the June 7th edition, chronicling the Normandy Landings from only two months prior. Suddenly the gears were turning in her mind. Suddenly, Faye had an idea. 

“Put me on war correspondence.” 

David struggled to fathom this for a moment, spluttering as he tried to speak. “What?”

“Let me go out there and report back. You know it’ll play to my strengths - hell, I’ll even let you publish me under initials - keep it gender-neutral, give the people less to complain about.” 

He paused, considering this for a moment. “We already have correspondents.” 

“Well, sure, if you think Hoare and Norman are really doing anything groundbreaking. They’re fine, David. But people aren’t buying The Times to read what they’re writing - I only know their names because we’ve worked in the same building for the last four years.” 

“You’re really so certain you can do something they can’t?” 

Faye sucked the inside of her lip, fighting to suppress a smile so as to mask the lack of reverence she held for the man. “Put me in touch with the Americans. We don’t have anyone doing special reports on the Airborne - that’s where the public intrigue is. The paratroopers are new and shiny and exciting - you’d double female readership just by publishing a few photos of the Yanks.” 

It was a good idea. Even worse than that, David knew it was a good idea. He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t find some excuse to refuse her. Faye Warren was never going to accept easy work when she could make life harder for everyone else. 

“Fine. I will see what I can dig up. If I can find something upcoming that’s worth reporting on, you can go.” 

Satisfied with her success, Faye rose from her seat, reaching for the door handle when Abernathy spoke again. “But I swear, Warren. You do this story and you come back when I say, or you’re done.” 

The corner of her mouth curled in a smile, hand clasping the golden doorknob. 

“Of course.” 

Henry was waiting faithfully in the hall as she exited, staring at the floor and gripping her coat with both hands like a dog awaiting its master. He looked up, smiling expectantly, and as she took her coat, Faye couldn’t help but wonder who she was to this wonderful old man. A prodigy? A reminder of the friend he had lost? A daughter? It didn’t quite seem to matter. He had waited, just as he said he would. That was the important part. It was difficult not to grin at her own fortune - far more entertaining to let him believe, if only for a moment, that the terrible outcome they had expected had come true. 

She began to walk, Henry swiftly falling in step beside her as they retraced their steps towards the elevator. “So?” He prodded. 

“I’ve been booted off International News.” 

“That bastard,” Henry muttered, turning on his heel to storm back towards Abernathy’s office before she could say a word. Letting out a squawk of laughter at the man’s sudden aggression, Faye seized his arm, pulling him back in her direction. “I’ll wring his neck, I swear I will.”

“You will do no such thing! Let me finish, old man!” 

Henry took a deep breath, nodding hurriedly as he smoothed out his knitted vest. “...Good news?” She nodded affirmatively, and he let out a long sigh of relief. “Right then. I need a smoke first.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The pair stared down at the murky, green water in silence, the smell of the Thames shrouded by the scent of cigarette smoke as Henry wordlessly took a puff, passing it into Faye’s hand. The pair had always used London Bridge as their designated space for a smoke break, and by sharing one cigarette instead of lighting their own it was easier to pretend it wasn’t bad for them. As they stood with their fronts pressed against the railing, the bustle of people and constant traffic of buses crossing behind them, it was easy to feel the sheer enormity of the city - its life, its resilience, all the things that made it home. 

“So? What’s the news?” Henry asked, tapping ashes from the cigarette into the river below. 

“I’m going to Europe,” Faye said. “I proposed he make me a war correspondent.” 

“I knew he didn’t like you, I didn’t know he wanted you dead.” 

“You don’t approve?” She asked, eyeing him sideways.

“Oh, I do. Your father would be thrilled - he always told me he regretted joining up for the Great War as a soldier, not a reporter. I always told him, if that had been the case, he’d have kept the fingers he lost - but he’d have never met your mother.” 

“A worthy exchange,” Faye smiled. 

“So… the front line, eh?”

She shrugged. “David’s going to get me in touch with an American Airborne unit. We both agreed it would be the best course of action on the public intrigue side of things.” 

“...Will you call your sister before you do?”

“Heather? No.”

“She’ll be angry with you.”

“When isn’t she? She’s content as she is, she’ll find out when she reads my articles - if she ever reads them.” 

Henry frowned, stomping out the end of their cigarette with his boot. She could tell he wanted to say something. She knew he wouldn’t. 

A drawn-out silence hung in the air between them, and with a sniff, Faye pushed herself away from the railing, turning on her heel to face the road. Just as she did, a bus came streaking past, its rear wheel catching in a puddle left from the previous night’s rainfall, the splash soaking her tights and the hem of her skirt. Jaw clenched in irritation, she slowly looked over to Henry, who was visibly struggling to contain a laugh. Reaching into her coat pocket, she seized the book she had been reading on her morning commute and used it to whack the man across the shoulder, eliciting a startled yelp. 

“Oi! I never said a word!” He protested.

“Call it preventative measures,” Faye shrugged, her friend quickly falling in step as they began to make their way back towards their office building. 

“... You know, before you leave, you should say goodbye to Clark from downstairs.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “What.” 

“What? He fancies you.” 

Reeling back her arm, she delivered an affectionate punch to his side. “Will you stay out of my business?”

“I want you to be happy, Faye!” 

“I don’t need a boyfriend to be happy,” She scoffed. “I need a good story.” 

“Who says you can’t have both?”

“Look, no offence, ok? But you’re not exactly someone I want relationship advice from. How’s Margaret?” 

At the mention of his ex-wife, Henry frowned. “Oh, I don’t know,” He batted a hand, swiftly noticing the pointed look on her face. “Alright, I hear it.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It hadn’t been much more than an hour since her meeting with David when Faye returned to the newsroom, the familiar cacophony of clack-clack-clacking typewriters sounding from every desk as she passed row after row of fellow writers, working against the clock to finish their articles. Tossing her coat over the back of her chair, she collapsed into it with a sigh, staring at the blank page protruding from her own typewriter, unused since she had finished the article that had ultimately sealed her fate as no longer ‘suitable’.

Faye failed for several minutes to notice the note left on her desk as she attempted to sort the stacks of papers she had allowed to fall into disarray. But as it caught her eye she stilled, hands hovering in the air for a moment as she moved to shove another file into her desk drawer, her brow beginning to furrow at the familiar handwriting. In David’s hand was penned the words:

101st Airborne has accepted you. 

Snip, snip, snip.

Corrie closed her eyes and let Momma cut her hair, bit by bit, into a soldier's close crop, not wanting to watch the long hanks of shiny brown hair float to the kitchen floor. She had to do this, sure, her plan would never work without it, but it still hurt her heart to see years of memories hit the ground, destined for the trash. Instead, she forced herself to listen - to her mother's shallow breathing and the wind chimes faintly ringing on the back porch, to the dog snoring in the other room and the kettle bubbling just behind her, to Johnny Mack and Russ whispering upstairs and to her own heartbeat, thumping away behind her ribs.

Snip, snip, snip.

“I used to despair over those broad shoulders of yours, but now it seems they will be your saving grace. Nothing to do about that jawline of yours, though. It's positively girlish.”

“If you're trying to discourage me, it's not working. I'm sure there will be other privates with equally ‘girlish’ jawlines, as you say.”

Snip, snip, snip.

“Yes, but none of them are named Corina Judee Brewster, are they?”

Corrie stayed silent at that, and her mother did not speak again. Eventually, she finished her daughter's hair, and while she swept, Corrie reached into the cabinet and grabbed the tin of loose tea, measuring out enough for two cups (they may live in Texas, but Elsa Brewster is a born and bred Michigander, and as such, took her tea hot with milk and sugar).

“Are you going to say goodbye to your brothers?”

She wasn't planning on it. “You know I can't do that.” Please don't make this harder on me, she thought.

“It wasn't a question.” Momma was suddenly so much heavier, her blonde hair greyer, her furrows deeper. It hit Corrie, in a lightning strike sort of way, that she did this - made her mother so old before she should have been. She's only forty-three, but tonight has put ten years on her face in a way that losing two husbands and the Depression didn't. “When we're done here, you're going to go upstairs and tell them goodbye. You're gonna get up there and tell them exactly where you're going, too.”

“Can't I-”

“No, you can't just tell them you're off with the WAC. You can lie to everyone else, lie to the government, I don't care - but you can't lie to me and you can't lie to your brothers. Especially not Johnny Mack.”

Corrie smiled. “He'd see right through me anyway.”

“Always could.” Momma did not smile, but her lips lifted a little, and her crow's feet tightened up around her grey eyes. “When you're done with them, I've got something for you.” She patted the table and got up, signaling to Corrie that it was time to get going, now that the tea was drunk. Corrie lingered in her chair, though, dreading all the possibilities of what might happen after she opened that bedroom door.

Russ will almost certainly cry. He was gentle like that, and she was glad he was too young to fight this war, at least for the moment. His eyes - grey, like their mother’s, but wide and still full of boyish wonder - will well up with hot, salty tears, and he won't fight the urge to let them flow freely like an older, tougher boy might. Johnny Mack, though, will act mad. His face, already naturally rosy in the cheeks, will flush a dark red. He'll demand she give up, and when that doesn't work (because it won't work, not in a million years), he'll demand to come with. But that's just it - it's an act. He knows there's nothing he can do about this and he hates it. He'll act mad when all he is is hurt.

After one last sip, Corrie stood. The steps creaked in a familiar cadence that almost stopped her in her tracks, but she pushed forward anyway, stopping to gather her thoughts just a moment before she, inevitably, tore their relationships apart.

She opened the door. They were both stifling laughter as she came in, but when they saw her serious expression, their faces fell. Breathe, she told herself, just… breathe. Closing the door behind her, Corrie's feet felt like lead weights, and she stayed where she was as she delivered the news before it could choke her. Between sobs, Russ begged to know why. Every answer she gave set off a new rush of tears, and so she stopped trying to explain and pulled him into her side, like they were kids again and this was all just a bad dream she could soothe away.

“Johnny Mack?” She looked over to her oddly silent brother. This was not what she had expected at all.

“I can't ask you to be safe, but I can ask you not to be stupid. Don't forget to write, Judee.” There is not a single ounce of anger in his voice, not even a drop of hurt or a dash of surprise, but there is a glint in his eye that says he - somehow! - knew she was going to do this. You can't lie to Johnny Mack, her mother had said. He'd see right through me. “Gonna tell momma?”

“She cut my hair.” Johnny Mack nodded and in an act of brotherly affection, ruffled her hair, the short, slightly damp strands going every which way. It got Russ’ attention and made him chuckle wetly.

“Yeah,” her youngest brother said, “I wanna hear all about it.”

When she leaves the room, she's calm, calmer than she was before she told her mother, even. Now, everyone who needs to know - everyone who matters - knows. Corrie feels a bit boneless now; she kind of doesn't want to go back downstairs to where her mother has settled in the living room. She's spilled herself out to her family, and it's left her feeling like a wrung-out towel left hanging on the clothesline. That's just how it goes, sometimes, she thinks. The man she needs to be cannot exist alongside the woman she already is, and so Corina must be poured out to make way for Private Brewster.

Momma was sitting in her chair, eyes fixed on a point far in the distance when Corrie made her way back to the living room. She stirred as Corrie settled on the couch. “I was thinking,” she began, “when the war's over, and when you've come back-’

“If-”

“When.” Momma’s voice was firm, final. “When you've come home, will you come back to me as my daughter or… or would you like to be my son from now on?”

Corrie thinks on it for a moment. It's a hard question to give a simple yes or no to, even if the possibility had crossed her mind before, which it hadn't. “I think- I think you'll have to ask me again when the time comes.” She can't quite make herself say when I come home.

Her mother nods. “And what name should I call you in the meantime, darlin’?”

“James. James Conrad Brewster.”

“Well, then. Goodnight.” Corrie can hear the creaks of her mother's bones as she stands to kiss her on the forehead, her shaking hands caressing gently her now-dry hair. “Goodnight, Jamie. Write soon.”

—☆—

Louella insisted on walking with her down to the station. Despite the early hour, she was dressed up in her second best set of clothes - stockings, makeup, and all. The streets were busy, but not bustling, and Lou had her arm threaded through Corrie's as they slowly made their way from Lou's family home to the train station.

“You didn't have to get all dolled up just for me, ‘specially since I know you'll have to go right back home to change for work.”

“It was worth it to give you a good and proper send off,” Lou purred.

“Know what would make it even better?”

“What?”

A giddy grin tugged at Corrie's mouth. “A kiissss,” she sing-songed, and dove for Lou's lips. Pink Champagne, her mind supplied. She had bought the tube while they were out running errands together, and Corrie had a matching one in Red Raspberry. Bet most GIs don't have that in their bedside drawers, Corrie thought.

“Oh!” She ducked, putting a hand on Corrie's chest to keep her away. “You are not getting on a troop train covered in my makeup!”

“Aww, why not? It'll make all the other fellas jealous.” She still said no, but compromised on letting Corrie kiss her on the cheek. Her face powder was sweetly bitter on her lips, and she savored the uniquely ‘Lou’ scent of garden dirt, cooking oil, and a spritz of rosy perfume - not an ideal smell, but a human one, and it made Corrie feel stronger at heart. She lingered there, not letting a single second be wasted. “Can I expect a letter or two?”

“Of course not.” Corrie pauses, her heart in her throat. “You can expect a great many letters, every week if I can manage it. Can't let you forget me in favor of some Georgia peach, can I?”

“Good God, woman, don't scare me like that!”

The station clock ticked nearer to her departure time. Neither of them wanted this to become a tearful goodbye, but they were beginning to feel their remaining time together slip away. Her heart raced as she pulled out of Lou's embrace, half-inch by half-inch. She wants - needs! - to impress every detail into her mind before she goes, but it seems they have wasted their chance, they've only got a minute or so, no time at all. “Goodb-”

“This is not goodbye. I will not tolerate such finality.” There was not a single tear escaping her eyes, but her voice was thick with the strain of keeping it that way.

Corrie shook her head. “Please, let me say it. For myself.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“Goodbye, Lou.”

Lou's soft blonde curls trembled as she replied, “Goodbye, Corrie,” and yanked her down onto her lips. “Goodbye.”

He goes anyway. Takes the cut through old man Lowry's backyard and shins over the fence. A strange figure hovering at the edge of the party, sharp bones poking through too much skin. He should have worn a t-shirt or something under his dungarees, but that would mean going home and he doesn't really want to do that right now.

Nix is manning the barbecue. He's wearing one of those shitty red shirts with the little stripes that make him look like an amateur golfer. Belly poking out just a little over his belt. His eyes flick up to Sean's face with just the barest flicker of reaction before he looks away.

"Burger or dog, kid?"

"Burger," Sean says. He's too hungry to flirt, as tempting as it is with all these people - and presumably Nix's husband - around.

Nix gives him a burger and Sean demolishes it in four bites. The taste makes him a little dizzy, reminding him how long it's been since he last ate. He holds out his plate for another.

"Shit," Nix says. "When was the last time someone fed you?"

"A while."

"Uh-huh. You need to take better care of yourself." He flips another burger and lowers his voice. "Don't really wanna be that guy, but what the fuck are you doing here, kid?"

Nervous. Sean's mouth quirks.

"Maybe I wanted to see you," he says, and watches Nix flush in a way that has nothing to do with the half-empty beer beside him.

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true." He steps a bit closer, tilts his head. "Did you miss me?"

It's an old line, but it works. Nix grips the spatula so tightly his knuckles are white.

"You should go," he says, but there's no conviction in his voice.

Sean follows his gaze across the yard to the tall redhead chatting with some neighbours. Oh.

"Okay," he says sweetly. "Can I have another burger first?"

Nix gives it to him and Sean moves away. He drifts across the yard with deliberate slowness, chewing on the burger as he goes.

The patio door is half open. Sean glances around once quickly, and then steps inside.

Nix and his husband have a nice house. The outside is fairly modern, but the inside is more old-fashioned: all wood panelling and cupboards with the little gold handles. There are even door knobs that twist round instead of handles. It's kind of sweet.

Sean wanders into the kitchen and rummages through the cupboards. They're not snack people, more's the pity. He might have to take some more food from the buffet later.

He hears footsteps behind him and goes still.

"Hey," Nix says, and the next moment he's kissing Sean. It's messy and awkward and a little desperate, but Sean allows it because it proves his point - he has been missed.

"You're fucking crazy, you know that, kid?" Nix says between kisses. "Walking in here dressed like that." He's hard, Sean can feel it, and a messed-up little thrill travels between his shoulder blades. "You even wearing anything under it?"

Sean reaches down, cups him and gives a little squeeze. "Guess you'll have to find out, won't you?"

He kisses Nix one more time and pulls away, loping up the stairs. Doesn't even turn around to see if Nix will follow.

He always does.

There's a bedroom at the end of the hall, all neat carpeting and monochrome duvet and pillows. Books on one nightstand and a framed picture on the other.

Perfect.

"Sean," Nix says behind him, a little out of breath.

Sean turns around. "What?"

"We can't…" His throat bobs. "Not in here."

"Why not?" The faintest break enters Sean's voice. "I thought you missed me." He peeks up through his lashes at Nix, watches the man's fingers curl and uncurl.

"Fuck, you know I did. It's just…" Nix's eyes stray over to the picture again. It must have been their wedding day or something. They're both wearing suits. Smiling. Happy.

The dungarees are too big anyway. Sean pushes the straps off his shoulders, steps out of them. Hard not to feel vulnerable like this, but it's a sensation he's become used to.

"I'm here," he says quietly. "If you want me."

He catches the almost imperceptible shift in Nix's gaze, guilt blocked out by lust. It's all he has time for before Nix is on him again, backing him into the bed so they both fall on it.

The mattress is soft underneath his back and Nix is kissing his neck and Sean thinks he could live like this. He spreads his legs wider at the first press of Nix's fingers against his hole, halfheartedly attempting to squirm away. Usually it's more uncomfortable, but he's still open from earlier and the intrusion only causes a little whine, his back arching into the touch.

Nix must feel it too because he frowns. "You got a boyfriend I don't know about?"

He sounds ridiculous, and Sean is suddenly torn between a mad desire to giggle or roll his eyes. He does neither.

"Used a toy," he explains between pants.

Nix's mouth quirks. "One of those shitty Amazon ones?"

Sean is vaguely surprised he knows about that. Things with the redhead must be worse than he thought. "Uh…huh." He squirms again as Nix puts a second finger in, curling them awkwardly. "I was bored."

It's not exactly the truth, but from the way Nix is acting Sean doesn't think he would take well to the news that his former secretary was the toy in question. Not that Tab would mind being called that.

Sean almost smiles, but then Nix touches his prostate and all thoughts of Tab go out the window. He keens high and needy, grinding down on Nix's fingers.

It's good. Better than any cheap blowjob or handjob given by some mediocre suburban dad trying to pretend he's straight. Sean's dealt with enough of those to know the difference.

He's half in his head, half chasing the orgasm, so it's an unwelcome surprise when Nix pulls out. Sean's hips twitch against empty air, eyes heavy.

"What was that for?"

"Greedy kid. Turn over." Nix doesn't wait for him to move, grasping him by the hips and turning him easily. Sean flops facedown onto the sheets with a pout. He ruts lazily against the mattress until Nix smacks him.

"Hey!"

"Knock it off," Nix says, and oh he's using his "army voice". A little shiver goes through Sean's body. He lies and waits, fidgeting only a little whenever Nix drizzles lube around his entrance.

"That's cold."

"You're a real brat, you know that?" Nix grasps his hips. "Don't worry, I'll warm you up."

Sean is tempted to roll his eyes once more, but the first couple of thrusts leave his mind empty of insults. It's not the best fuck in the world - he's had better - but there's an element of desperation to it that leaves him wanting more. Nix is still clothed, and the clink of his belt with each thrust makes Sean's mind go fuzzy.

He's moaning, little punched-out sounds that are only half affected, and Nix tugs him back until they're sitting up, his legs spread across Nix's thighs. The change in angle turns the world hazy bright and Sean leans into it.

"Good boy," Nix says, sounding out of breath. His belly is soft against Sean's back, and he smells faintly of beer.

"Dad," Sean slurs out. He doesn't mean to, not really, but it's kind of hard to keep a grip on oneself when every thrust makes it feel as though Nix is reaching inside his stomach. His cock is weeping, precome dribbling on his thighs and on the sheets, and he wants to touch it but he's not sure he's allowed to. "Dad, ah, please…"

"I've got you, kid," Nix says, something strange in his voice. He reaches around and strokes Sean's cock, the motions jerky and uncoordinated.

It takes an embarrassingly short time for Sean to come. He doesn't make a lot of noise, just whines and twitches his way through it while Nix thumbs at his head. Then Nix is saying, "Fuck, kid, fuck," and coming too, and there's sticky warm white leaking out of Sean and marking up the nice sheets.

Time ticks by. When Sean opens his eyes he's on his front again, Nix resting against his back. There are kids laughing outside. The picture of the smiling couple on the nightstand stares back at him, judging.

Sean doesn't look away. Maybe they were happy once, but not now. There's a reason it's him lying fucked out in this bed and not Nix's husband.

Speaking of which…

"You came inside," he says.

"Uh huh," Nix grunts sleepily. "Looks good on you." His fingers reach down and prod at Sean's hole, and Sean shivers and jerks.

"I didn't mean to call you dad."

"No? I liked it." Nix is fingering him, slow and lazy, and Sean doesn't want to move.

"Relax, kid. We've got a few more minutes."

For once, Sean listens to him. He rests his head on the sheets and shuts his eyes.