I don't know why it took me so long to finish my picfor1000 story this year, except that there are too many things I want to write right now, and they all kept getting jumbled together in my head. Anyway, here's the picture I was assigned, and I ended up writing a New Girl fic for it. I also used these Nick/Jess prompts from Porn Battle XV: furniture, revelation, lunges, and dressed. Takes place after 3x15 ("Exes"). No spoilers for future episodes.
So, every moron knows this - you don't fly into Chicago in February - but Jamie's a special kind of idiot, apparently, because not only has he decided his wedding's going to be on Valentine's Day, but that his bachelor party's gonna be that same morning. No matter how many times Nick explains that the strippers won't be swept away by the romance of the day, and that they certainly won't be giving any discounts, Jamie isn't hearing him, and Nick is almost out of money or minutes or whatever it's costing him to make this phone call.
"What, you know a stripper personally, College?" Jamie asks, his voice cracking in the middle of the question like he was still that little kid who'd followed him and Winston around for years, and Nick suddenly remembered what a fucking cockblock the kid had been every time he'd tried to look cool in front of Alisha.
"Dated one over Christmas last year," Nick says, trying not to sound too douchebag-braggy. He doesn't need to be putting ideas in Jamie's empty head. He's definitely not telling the kid about the models he talked back into their clothes at Prince's house.
"God bless America," Jamie says fervently after a pause. "She had great hooters, right?"
"Yeah," Nick allows. Objectively speaking, they were great. "But I got something better now -"
"What? Oh, you gotta bring the new one, then! DeAnn's dad's paying for the whole thing!"
Nick sighs and prepares to educate his brother one last time on the concept of the polar vortex, and why Jess isn't "the new one" anymore. She's the girl he said I love you to without the world ending. She's the girl he said I love you to after years of biting the words back.
Winston is making that face, the one he'd made when Nick'd snuck a real earthworm into his packet of gummi worms and that was the one Winston put in his mouth. That story might not be as funny, now that he knows Winston's colorblind.
Anyway, Winnie's making that face as he theorizes about the Wedding of Doom. "He didn't knock her up, did he?" God, like Nick needs to think about the runt doing anything with DeAnn other than holding hands.
At least he's safely out of the way, if that is the case. DeAnn's brother Declan, of course the one built like a fucking truck, had popped up at the bar he'd been relaxing in on his first trip home from college and broken his nose, roaring something about "that little shit" and "put a leash on him." Like Nick, away at Syracuse, was supposed to know that Jamie had gotten it together long enough to figure out how sex worked and what went where.
And now those crazy kids are getting married. And Jess likes to ride the bump in his nose whenever he goes down on her. What can he say, he really likes happy endings.
He doesn't think he's who Schmidt pictured sitting in the other valley of this wavy red loveseat, but he's curious enough to park himself there anyway. Schmidt follows him, sitting in the other scoop with his laptop. "I can't talk you out of this? Getting from the airport to your mother's house will be like the lower-middle-class Iditarod."
"Shut up," he says, "and just book us tickets with your miles." He got out of the loft just so he wouldn't have to watch Jess and Coach, in matching Pistons jerseys, making valentines out of red construction paper and white lace and decorating brown-paper lunchbags with hearts and arrows. Stupid Coach. Stupid Pistons. The Bulls are the ones with seasonally appropriate red jerseys.
"Have you talked to Jess about this?" Schmidt asks, like he knows something Nick doesn't. "While I approve of your attempts to be romantic now that I'm out of the loft, isn't Jess working on that day?"
That's right, V-Day's a Friday this year, and Jess doesn't want to get on the bad side of the cool-teacher clique, so she hasn't called out even once. Nick wonders how he can talk her into this one.
"Nick," Schmidt says with that weird emphasis he gets. No one else he knows makes his name into such a production. "Your flights are booked. I couldn't get you adjacent seats, but unless you're flying with complete animals, someone should swap with one of you." Duty done, Schmidt browses the offers for flights to sunny beaches and grins. "Oooh, Daddy likes."
"So," Jess says, panting into his mouth, and he's not gonna lie, that is a huge turn-on, "do you think all of my deep lunges have paid off?"
Only this girl would be able to ask him that when she's sitting on the two inches of airplane-bathroom counter with one foot braced against the foldable door and the other between his shoulder blades. He loves her like he didn't even know was possible.
"You are the bendiest girl in all the world," he affirms, pushing back inside her, where it's hot and wet and fantastic. Half her ass is in the sink at this point, but she wore thigh-highs instead of tights, so she had to have anticipated a mile-high membership. His fingers press down on the embroidered hearts at the tops of her stockings and her hands clamp down on his ass to keep pulling him forward. "C'mon, Jess," he coaxes, rotating his hips as best he can without tripping over his pants, crumpled around his ankles and probably getting grosser by the second thanks to the sticky floor.
Jess's mouth is smearing wet imprints all over his face and he remembers how sweet it is, so he turns his head and catches it with his own. She's pulsing around his dick and grabbing at his hair, and he bottoms out.
"That's the new girl?" Jamie asks, having the nerve to sound disappointed. "I already met her!"
Nick just smiles, thinking of her naked in his childhood bed.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
This same entry also appears on Dreamwidth, at http://innie-darling.dreamwidth.org/436290.html.