#Birthday mare! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ohtobemare · 5 months

Note

Happiest of birthdays to you! Would love to request my man Slider and the prompt “you remembered?!”¹ “what kind of question is that? of course i did!”

Hope you have fun plans for your bday (or at least good VK dreams!)

Alright, nonny. Here it is. The kickoff to my birthday celly. And woof, she was rough. Slider is so hard in all the right ways, of course and I really hope it doesn't take me this long to get through all of these. Enjoy our favorite RIO (sorry, Goose!) and thanks so much for celebrating with me!

Favors

“Sli? Sli baby, you here?”

Ankles all but throbbing as you wobble through the front door in heels, quick eyes skirt the kitchen for any signs of life potentially lurking in the after-5 shadows crisscrossing the tiles of the floor.

Nothing but the quiet hum from the open window and the overhead light on the stove fills the space. Huffing a little breath, the groceries drop to the granite countertop of your island with a hard thunk, overflowing arms aching with the sudden relief.

Tossing keys on the counter and kicking your heels off against the island, cool tile feels miraculous on your feet. Does wonders for the dull flame in your arches as you curl your toes, adjusting to the change. Eyes catching the time on the stove, your hand slips along the granite countertop as you cross the kitchen. Do the mental math.

And that makes you a little more anxious than you were before, hurrying towards the stairs.

Calling for Slider again, you’re not sure where he is. That piece of shit he drives is parked at the curb, just as it had been last night. When Ron had passed out on your couch. He obviously hadn’t bothered leaving, the hood on his pickup was still cold.

You head upstairs, two at a time, surveying the living room from the open banister. TV still, Ron’s once-rumpled blanket from where you’d covered him up folded with clinical care on one of the cushions. His Navy duffle parked by the recliner he’s been calling his since the day you’d moved it in.

Nothingness. It’s there, like a taut wire. Waiting to be plucked, for the butterknife to come and cut the tension like it’s Sunday dinner. Odd that Slider isn’t rumbling around your duplex in your absence—usually he’s doing something. Working out, changing a lightbulb, that one time he’d taken it upon himself to wash baseboards. The man isn’t prone to stagnancy. Even if you insist he relax.

At the top of the stairs, a hit of familiar peach tickles your nose and gives you pause. Wriggling toes into the plush carpet, you hear the running water at the end of the hall. This house is nothing if not held together with paper-thin walls and discount nails. A true product of the 1970s, you’d replaced the carpet last year. Slider had wrangled up some of the boys, beer and home cooked food had brought them around to help lay carpet and new tile.

The neighbors hadn’t been so nosy, or visible, since.

Curiosing your way down the hall in the direction of running water, you slip into the master to find light cutting into the shadows of your bedroom from the on-suite. Fusty shampoo and steam roll from the cracked door, and your lips quirk up into a goofy smile at the little off-key humming.

Some tune you don’t know, but coming from Ron? It’s like front row seats at Billy Joel. Or it might as well be.

Stopping at the door, you gently grab the knob and use your other hand to knock a knuckle against the door. Immediately mute, nothing but the rush of the shower slapping water against the backsplash takes up the space.

Peeking past the door to the mirror hanging over the sink, you can see Ron in the shower. He’s paused, mid-shampoo. Eyes squeezed shut, adorable crow’s feet and all.

“I’m back from the store, Sli,” you check his watch, which has been hanging out on your wrist since you’d snatched it off the nightstand this morning. Resting your head against the door, you twist the ball of your foot against the carpet and gnaw teasingly on your lower lip.

“Yeah?” The titter of a laugh is there. More of a chuckle, really. “Get what you need, baby?”

Baby. It punches low, white-hot. Sends tingles of pleasurable heat; promises all the things he does right buzzing through your fingertips.

Sticking your head through the crack of the door, you smile crookedly at the reflection of him trying to clear the soap from his face. Mirror half fogged over from the heavy steam, something similar rolls through the low of your gut. Pleasant but clawing, devastating but delicious.

And he really is a beautiful creature of a thing—all hard muscle and suntan, there isn’t a part of him that isn’t near to carved bronze. Little more than Icarus flying into a too-near sun, he cuts you at the knees every time he smiles your direction. When his hand takes yours, the atmosphere thins into hardly-there air that’s all too good and impossible to breathe at once.

And that little thing he does, the slow drag of his lips against the line of your jaw, down the soft flesh of your neck to the collarbone? It shakes you all the way down.

Ron Kerner is the glistening sun, you all too thrilled to orbit. A clear northern sky. Endless canvas of midnight sprinkled with the glow of far-off worlds only ever promised in poems and movies and stories, what he does to you is nearly sinful. Little does he know that he grips you in strong, calloused hands that balance so much more than the way he holds your hips, the way he cups your face—you little more than putty in his hands. They hold your world, your heart, your ability to love.

Two years together—two revolutions around the sun—has throttled you into never letting go. Into thinking you can’t exist without the hard planes of him fitting so perfectly against you. He’s a disease you can’t shake, radiation poisoning that corrupts the body and soul; toxic divinity that’s contaminating every realm of your fathomable existence.

Even here, separated by doors and steaming clouds and frosted glass of a shower door that hides all the things that matter, you’re one calculation from drowning in the way he’s smiling crookedly. How his hair curls so beautifully when it’s wet—how rivulets of water carve what feel like unexplored chasms down his breastbone, his pecs, obliques.

Hands dropping from working shampoo through his hair, his little smirk twists when he goes to bite the corner of his bottom lip. He can feel you staring, obviously. And the frosted strip of glass on the door is doing a magnificent job of hiding everything that crosshairs your line of sight. Welded there and unable to move for any amount of collateral known to man, you hardly notice the door moving. Or the fact that you’re squirming.

Until Ron steps forward, head poking through the opening to grin at you, goofily.

“My eyes are up here, gorgeous.” And his wagging brows make you blush. Eyes dragging away to far off places, all conveniently across the bathroom, your bottom lip rolls inward.

Drumming your nails against the back of the door, he snorts at the color lighting up your face. “Well don’t be shy about it, for Christ sake,” teasing is only half of Ron’s game.

Cool eyes find the inferno of yours, the corner of his mouth ticking up a quirk. “Get over here.”

And before you can even breathe, he’s waving his hand for you to come.

For a few beats he doesn’t say anything. You weigh the decision from behind the door as if it's stock and your flat-footed stance behind the door is Wall Street. But you’re burning in all the right places—for a moment, thinking you might be combusting from beneath the collar of your button down shirt.

Because you can’t feel the limp noodles that have conveniently replaced your arms at either of your sides. Legs feel like they’ve disconnected from your body. All you can feel is the pulled-taut hot little feeling between your legs, the way your core is absolutely throbbing in need of the way he’s looking at you.

Fingers curling and uncurling at your sides, you slip through the door. Gently toe it closed. Pressing your ass against the twin sink countertop, your toes flex against the cool tile of the floor. It’s slick in that way that cool tile gets when steam is in the air, and one wrong move will have you skating like a newborn foal.

And suddenly everything about this room is hyperaware, flogging you in deeper living color. The atrocious color of the walls you haven’t repainted; that ugly spot that one painting from your mother was supposed to cover, but sits perpetually at the back of your closet because it’s not your style.

It’s all so here, so alive, as Slider does nothing but hold your attention. Waving you come like a damn siren of a thing and not the Naval aviator you've been pining over since that day you'd seen him at the O-Club.

Fortifying your position, your fingers curl into the granite countertop before a desperate, coy little smile twists your lips. Shaking your head, the throaty chuckle rolling around the back of your throat is a little deeper than you thought possible. And your tongue is thick, clumsy in your mouth over him.

Your eyes dart immediately when he slips further out of the shower, one of his tree-like legs stepping home on the bathmat. Water pours from him like the gates of Sesame have opened, taking with it all moisture from the back of your throat.

Chuckling in disbelief at your stubbornness, he leans out of the shower to reach for you. “What? Don’t trust me?” How his brow lifts conspiratorially confirms that he knows, and you lift to your toes to lean back from his grabbing hand, farther over the sink. “Oh come on, gorgeous—”

“—you get over here, Kerner. Away from the shower.” Your eyes drop to the center of his abdomen, more telling than you'd like to be.

You heave yourself onto the counter with a heavy plop, planting heels against the cupboards beneath, the heavy oak a little rougher on your feet than you remember. Then, crooking a finger at him, your chin lifts as your eyes drop to a lusty half mast.

His face might as well be a landing strip the way his brows take off, and you chuckle when his tongue so visibly fills the pocket of his lower lip.

“What? You don't trust me?”

Return smile slow, “Not even for a second,” has your brows bouncing suggestively. That tight little snake that’s been slipping low down your spine curls into a tight coil at the base of your stomach, poised. Waiting. Like springs; catapults that clamp metric tonnes of aircraft home to the cold blue surface of carriers. Waiting for the greenlight. Of flight. Of going.

And like the crack of a whip, Slider slaps open the shower door with a wet palm. Stepping out, his hand drags through the rivers of water cascading down the glass to the floor, like life itself depends on finding paydirt.

In a breath he’s suddenly standing between your legs, water from every crevice of his finely-hewn body pouring to the floor. Fingers curled into the granite at either side of your thighs, the running shower that’s wasting water by the gallons disappears from thought.

The only thing tangible is Slider’s hot breath between the two of you. His cock, heavy between the yummy, God-ordained V of his hips. The way his breathing is just a little ragged when he steps between your legs makes you forget your name; one of his thick wet hands sliding home to your hip.

Fingers twisting in the Rayon of your shirt, his other comes to brush your bangs from your forehead, playing. Exploring. Investigating how they whisp away, how it sends shivers down your spine.

Even two years under Ronnie’s spell, you still can’t breathe when his eyes move from yours to your mouth. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, you attempt to steady the heart that’s practically pulsating between your ribs. Any second you expect it to jump into his awaiting hand—little’s changed since the first time he’d kissed you in the front seat of your Pontiac, tasting like beer and chapstick and cologne that didn’t match his personality. Your heart had beat just as quickly then.

Jury’s out on when it would ever not.

Slider leans forward a little to brush his lips against yours. And you try to kiss him, breathless and head spinning, but he pulls back a little, smiling. Angling to skim his mouth along your jaw, his nose brushes the apple of your cheek. Wet, and his like-steel grip on your thigh has left a wet handprint in the denim of your Levi’s. But you don’t care, not really.

Because it’s so hot, so perfect the way his fingers skim to the sensitive juncture of your legs. To that whiny, needy little spot that aches just so in way’s only God Himself could smile at.

Goosebumps chase up your arms as his fingers curl into the meat of your thigh. Fingertips brush up the curve of your side to the collar of your shirt as he works thick, inferno kisses to that spot he knows you love. It’ll be all kinds of red and blue by tomorrow, and it will all but stand up and demand your best full-coverage base, but that’s a tomorrow problem.

Right now all you can feel is the magnetism in the base of your gut, the twitch of fighting the urge to close your thighs around his waist and pull him close.

His lips drag back to your mouth, hovering. Tasting, teasing. And he smells like shampoo, like peach and rain and that musk that only men seem to ever have on their skin. Nose brushing the end of yours lightly, his lips curl into quicksilver as he takes your hand, laces his fingers through yours, and guides it to the middle of his chest.

All but shaking, you gnaw at the inside pocket of your cheek. “Smile for me, sweetheart,” and the throatiness of it rips a breathless little whimper from the back of your throat, his fingertips brushing down the column of your neck. Head tipping back as your eyes flutter closed, toes burning against the rough oak cabinets like you can feel every splinter of rough wood.

“Smile for Slider on your birthday, hm?”

And that punches your gut like nothing ever has. Head snapping forward, you can’t resist—your mouth crashes against his like steel punching steel, teeth knocking together in a way that makes neither of you pause but pulls a surprised grunt from him. Legs lift to wrap around his waist. Pull him forward, suck him in.

Your fingers memorize every swell and curve of hard muscle as they trace up his arms, across his collarbones. Until all at once your arms slip around his neck, pulling him down, flush against your chest. His fingers skip along the hem of your shirt, dangerous. Possessive. It’s nearly treason.

“You remembered,” between lazy kisses that pull and push in all the right ways, your smile grows. And his fingers slip up your back lightly, fisting the material of your shirt as he holds you. Dips you forward with gentle pressure until you’re chest-to-chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Until you’re looking up into lusty eyes beneath your lashes, hardly able to breathe.

“‘Course I remembered,” his brow furrows a little, like he’s a bit confused by the question, “what kind of guy would I be if I forgot my babygirl’s birthday?” Ownership is definitely a thing between the two of you–-a bedroom kink that snaps you just short of a rubber band. Curls heat down your spine like its smoke in the air.

Biting your lower lip, you smile at him before your nose wrinkles a little. “You’re bad for me, Ronnie,” his lips curl up into a grin as he chuckles against your mouth, a singular finger tracing the line of your shoulder blade beneath your shirt.

“And you’re too gorgeous to be twenty-nine,” it's almost whining. Taking your bottom lip between his teeth, his brows wag a little when you blush up at him. Pulling away, piglet cheeks warm under his attention as you arch back into his hands, the front of your shirt stains wet from his chest.

And arching back only snags his attention. Ducking to press an open-mouth kiss to the pulse in your neck, his teeth lightly drag against your skin when he sucks. Hard. Twisting a delicious little hiss that tastes like heat on your tongue, he chuckles. Your finger playing through the curls on his chest sends goosebumps across his skin, you feel them pebble beneath your fingertips. Droplets on his skin have fanned cold, but the room is still swirling with team from the nearly overwhelming thunder of the shower.

“Feel any older?” His murmur is thick against soft skin. Very suddenly nothing about him is chilled–he may as well be cut from volcanic rock.

Throaty hum chasing any reasonable response from your head, his hand lifts to the back of your hair, fingers searching for a handful of hair before the light tug drops your head back.

Pain is momentary before it bleeds into warm heat that lights up your nerves, sends blood ripping through your ears like a stoked locomotive on fire and threatening the rails. Chest rising and falling in tandem with his, your fingers curl into the damp curve of his bicep, pulling him a little closer.

“'Only as old as you feel, Ron,” your tongue skates your bottom lip, eyes darting over his shoulder to consider the shower, “And I don’t feel very old. Not yet, anyway,” head canting to the side, his other hand cards through your hair. Looking hungry, looking very engaged with what you’re saying, your smile grows. Sweetly, innocently.

“I think I’ve got some miles left in me. Don’t you?”

It’s taking visible effort for him to stay composed, you can tell. It’s in the twitch of his fingers, the little tick of muscle in his jaw. Ron has never, in two years, been very good at keeping a poker face—the man is too animated. Too much of a card to keep any secrets, and today he’s as much Ron Kerner as you’ve always known him to be.

But the push and pull of your body against his working off your shirt is uncoordinated and hot, too many steps to even fathom as that familiar twisting serpent hums in the base of your belly. In the perfect, God-designed V of your legs, the damn thing.

And Slider is nothing if not easily entertained—it takes little to no effort for his attention to drop to the growing cut of your shirt as one by one, your fingers work at buttons like they are hardly there.

Watching to the point of huffing, Slider resolves to just rip the garment the rest of the way off, tossing it away into the abyss this on-suite has become. His disregard–the nerve. It was your favorite shirt. A white and gray little striped thing that you got at Bloomingdales, on sale. Normally couldn’t afford.

But Ron hasn’t ever really cared about clothes, not in the heat of the moment—he’s replaced every garment he’s destroyed. Bless him and his generous soul, you’re willing to bet a week’s salary he’s prepared to buy you three more. Had planned to rip that one off of you as soon as you’d kissed him goodbye to leave for the damn store.

Chest to chest, your skin nearly ripples with feel-good bumps that make you shiver—it’s the only thing keeping you boots on the ground. And he wastes exactly zero seconds—his fingers are nearly lithe with the button of your jeans, laying them open with a mere pop of his thumb.

And all too quickly, his hands are in yours, fingers interlaced as he steps back from the sink, tugging you with him.

“You think so, huh?” You’re nearly a full foot shorter than Slider, a fact he’s never failed to bring to your attention. Lowering to lazily play with your bottom lip, his smile grows as he steps back a few more paces, and now you can all but feel the spray of the shower dance across your skin. “How about putting money where your mouth is, baby?”

And like a crack of lightning, both of you are suddenly beneath near-scalding water, chest to chest with your back pressed hard against the backsplash.

“You hate shower sex, Sli,” never mind saturated jeans weighing heavy on your legs, and how truly awful that feels—you couldn’t wriggle out of them if you’d even tried, “Why would you—” Boxed in between either of his arms, there’s little more between you than him.

And there’s nowhere to run, pulse of hot water lighting up your skin like fire. Another fistful of your hair has your head tipped back against the tile, his fingers slipping through the droplets clinging to your skin.

“But you don’t,” he shakes his head once, saturated curls all but bouncing with the effort before he rakes them back with a smooth hand, “and today is about you, gorgeous,” hands falling to either of your hips, he guides you forward until his dick presses softly to your thigh.

"And besides," In a sweet, hardly-ordinary-for-Slider nose-to-nose kiss, his smile becomes loose for all of a few seconds. Leaves you breathless, dizzy. Stupid—more stupid than you want to feel on your birthday. Almost conspiratorial.

“—my birthday is in a couple weeks."

#ron slider kerner #ron kerner x reader #top gun #top gun 1986 #top gun imagines #slider x reader #ron slider kerner x reader #mare's top gun 29 birthday celebration #writing prompts #prompts #asks #ask box #anonymous #anon ask #ask mare #answered asks

54 notes · View notes