#cw: age gap

[glassbxttless]

RUSTIC SOURDOUGH with SALAMI and MUSTARD with a side of HUSHPUPPIES

(only if you feel like it, delete this if it stresses you out lol)

Had to See My Girl

older!eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 2.7k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from reformedkingsmanagement | You stop by the shop to drop off lunch for Eddie. You decide you just might have to do something about the pretty little thing that’s definitely flirting with him over her civic.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Smut, PinV, Unprotected sex, Semi-Public (they’re in the office at the shop during a lunch break), Age gap

notes: I always get so nervous writing Eddie, but I’ve realized my older Eddie can be however I want him to be. So y’all get a guy who loves his girl so much he’ll rearrange her guts anytime she wants him to lmao. This story falls in my Older Mechanic!Eddie AU! Thank you so much to @punkrockmlchael and @robinbuckleywife for reading this over for me! And to @peachyproserpina for editing!

The sun’s burning down on the auto shop. The rays bouncing off the pavement in shimmering waves, making everything smell like hot metal, burning asphalt, and way too much gasoline. You spot Eddie the second you pull into the lot— he’s leaned under the hood of some girl’s blue Honda Civic. One of his hands braced on the frame of the car, the other is lost in the tangle of belts and grime below. His hair’s tied back with the red bandana you used to keep tied to your purse handle, sweat dripping down his neck, and his coveralls are shrugged down around his waist. His tank top soaked through and clinging to the ink that spreads across his chest.

She’s leaning too, all legs and fucking lip gloss. She’s laughing way too hard at something he didn’t really say. You clock the way her eyes sweep over his shoulders, the slow curve of her smile as she twirls the straw in her drink. She’s flirting with your boyfriend, like it’s a job she gets paid well for.

Eddie doesn’t look uncomfortable per se, but you know him. You know that smile he’s got on as he nods along— that polite, tight-lipped, please don’t make me be mean to you smile. You know the way his shoulders tense when he’s stuck trying to be nice. He doesn’t see you until you’re already halfway across the lot, a brown paper bag in hand, the breeze tugging at your shirt. The second his eyes land on you, something shifts within him. He stands, spine straightening up, and his hand drops from the car. He gives you a look— half-relief, half something that gets your heart jumping right behind your ribs. “Hey,” he says softly, brushing his hands off on one of the shop towels. “You didn’t say you were coming in today.”

“I didn’t,” you reply, holding up the bag. “Brought you lunch.”

“She’s so sweet,” the girl pipes in, her voice all soft and dripping in artificial sugar. “Is this your assistant or something?”

You turn to smile at her, eyes sharp and unbothered. “Nope. I’m his girl. Can I steal you for a second, baby?”

Eddie doesn’t hesitate when you ask. He just jerks his chin toward the garage office and drops the rag on the nearest tool bench. Then he follows you inside, with heavy steps and a flushed neck. The door clicks shut behind you both, and the second it does, you spin on your heel and grab a fistful of his shirt.

Your mouth hits his hard. It’s greedy. It’s hot, and you aren’t talking about the temperature. You taste the sweat that’s been collecting on him, the motor oil he’s been around all day, and the faint remnants of that shitty corner store gum he chews because he’s finally trying to quit smoking. His hands slide up your sides, smudges of grease staining your skin. Oil from his coveralls now clinging to your skirt. His fingers slip under your top like he’s been starved for the feeling of your skin.

You reach behind him blindly where he was pressed up against the office door and twist the lock, and that’s all he needs. He groans low, rumbling his chest, and then he shoves you back onto the desk. His tools rattling off somewhere behind you, his body slotting between your legs like he fucking belongs there— because he does.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth dragging down your neck. His teeth scrape your throat just enough to make you gasp. “You really had to come in lookin’ like that while she’s out there makin’ heart eyes at me?”

“She was making eyes at you like she wanted a discount,” you breathe softly, tugging the bandana off his head and threading your fingers into his sweaty hair. “I just want your cock.”

That earns you a growl you’ve never heard him make before, and he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise. He’s dragging you closer to the edge of the desk until your thighs are spread wide, his hands palming them, and your ass is just barely balanced there. You can already feel how fucking hard he is through those stupid coveralls, he’s straining against the zipper. “She was talkin’ about my eyes,” he mumbles as he kisses your throat, the corner of your mouth, your collarbone, anywhere he can press his lips. “Told me I didn’t look forty-six. Think I’m gonna tell her it’s because I’ve got a hot girl and get laid on my lunch breaks.”

You grin, reaching between your bodies. You fiddle with where the arms of the coveralls are tied around his waist until you get the knot free, and then you tug his zipper down. He’s already hard and heavy when you wrap your hand around him. “Better make it a quick one then, boss. Wouldn’t want her little Civic to explode.”

He swears under his breath the second your skin makes contact with his, even gives a shallow thrust of his hips as he pulls your underwear to the side. His fingers sliding through the wet heat of your cunt like he’s been dreaming about it all morning. His eyes flick up to yours and the look he gives you is pure fucking adoration, all dark brown eyes and flushed pink cheeks, his teeth sunk into the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to lose it. But he can’t keep his composure when you’re sitting there on his desk looking like this. So he does lose it. And he makes sure you’re going right down with him.

You don’t say anything else— you don’t need to. The second his fingers slide through the slick heat between your thighs, his mouth parts. A hungry little sound escaped him, and it sent a thrill straight down your spine. It starts the same every time, Eddie, towering over you. His eyes exploring every inch of your body, like the sight of you laid out in front of him wrecks him before he even gets inside of you. Like he’s not the one who holds any of the power in the room, but the one completely fucking owned.

“Fuck, baby,” he sighs out softly, his voice low and rough. “So wet for me already?”

“For you,” you confirm, your fingers slide up from his cock to grip the front of his tank top. And then you drag him down to kiss you again. “Always for you.”

He moans loudly into your mouth, dragging two of his fingers through your folds again, slow and lazy, like he wants to savor every slick sound it makes. Then he draws back just enough to watch your face as he slides one of those thick fingers inside of you, curling up until your hips jolt off the desk. “Christ,” he hums, leaning in to kiss your jaw, your neck, the space behind your ear. “You’re squeezing already, baby, and I’m not even in there yet. Could live in this fucking pussy.”

You don’t get a chance to bite back the sound that leaves your mouth. You don’t even try to stop it. Your hand had already left where it had gripped his tank top and has already slid back down around him. You’re stroking him slow, his cock hot and heavy in your grip. His hips twitch forward into your palm, thrusting slowly like he needs something to work him up. He moans again— broken and deep. It’s a sound that shoots straight to your cunt.

“Need you inside me, Eddie,” you whisper to him, your voice desperate now. “I want you to fuck me right here. Don’t really care if she hears us.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, his head drops forward onto your shoulder as he slides his fingers out of you. Then he grips your thighs, jerking you forward so your hips are hanging off the edge of the desk so fast your breath catches. “You keep saying things like that, puppet, I’m gonna fuckin’ die right here in this office.”

You let him shove your skirt up and drag your panties down with confident hands. He’s tossing them somewhere behind him without really looking, without really caring. He wraps one hand around himself, and jerks once, twice, before he’s lining up and pushing the blunt head of his cock against your waiting cunt. The stretch that follows is perfect. He’s thick and slow, sinking into you inch by inch while your hands scramble for purchase on his sweat slick shoulders. His lips parted slightly, head cocked in a tilt as he watches you take him. His chest is heaving, every muscle in his arms going tight as he squeezes your thigh.

“Fuck me,” he grits out between his teeth, his jaw clenched. “You feel so good, baby. Always so fucking tight— like your pussy knows it’s mine.”

You nod in response. You can’t form words, let alone the right ones. You can only cry out when he finally bottoms out with a rough grunt and pauses there, deep and throbbing inside you. His noses along your jaw, pressing kisses against your skin, the sweat sticking between your bodies before he finally stops, his lips brushing the corner of yours.

“You okay?” he asks softly, panting just a bit.

“Move,” you whisper, but it sounds more like a plea. “Please, Eddie— move.”

If there’s one thing he’s learned in his forty-six years, is to fucking listen to his girl. So he does. He grabs your hips and fucks into you hard enough to shake the desk beneath you. A particularly punctuated thrust of his hips sends a wrench off the desk and onto the floor with a loud clang. Your legs wrap around him tight, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs as he pounds into you. Each thrust pulling that little band in your belly more taut. His teeth are clenched, his breath ragged. Desperate sounds are swirling around you both— his name, your moans, the wet slap of skin on skin as he fucks you like he doesn’t have a client standing twenty feet away. He’s relentless as he rocks his hips into you, his head resting against your shoulder for a moment before he’s pulling back to watch his hand snakes between your bodies. His fingers clamping down and circling your clit in messy, tight circles that have you coming apart fast. Too fucking fast. The pressure building low in your belly has your brain dizzy. “C’mon, baby,” he moans out, leaning forward until his mouth is at your throat. “I wanna feel you cum on my cock. You know how much I love it when you squeeze me like that— fuck— there it is, that’s it—”

What finally does it alongside his words, is Eddie slipping a finger inside of you, right along his cock. That taut band deep within you snapping back against everything. It sends a flash of white hot pleasure through you as your eyes close, your back arches off the desk, and your fingers bury in his hair. Your orgasm tears through you like lightning. Your whole body tenses, shakes, your mouth hangs open in a silent cry as the heat rushes down your spine and pulses around him, squeezing him, within what feels like, an inch of his fucking life.

“Jesus fucking Christ, baby,” he moans, he’s chasing his own orgasm now— he’s desperate in his ministrations, letting you ride out your own through each roll of his hips. Then that pressure in his own belly peaks and he’s burying himself deep, stopping only when he’s at the hilt. Then he’s spilling inside of you, his hips stutter, his hands gripping so tight he knows he’s bruising your thighs as he empties himself with a few broken thrusts. His head falls back, facing the ceiling “F-fuck, fuck— yeah— take it, baby— juuuust like that.”

The air between you grows hot and heavy. It’s sticky with sweat and smells of sex. He leans over you again, panting against your mouth as he presses soft, dizzy kisses to your lips. He’s sweet, his hands not as tight on you as they once were, now they’re roaming— rubbing the ache out of your body as you both try to breathe again.

“Next time,” he chuckles softly, his kisses trailing along your jaw until he stops at your ear, “I’m gonna fuck you in front of the window over there. Just so she knows.”

You laugh, breathlessly and bring a hand up to cup his cheek, guiding him in for another kiss. One that’s slow and soft and filled with so much love your heart could burst. “Next time,” you whisper, “I’ll let you.” 

You’re still a little shaky when he pulls out of you, his hands even gentler now than they were before. He tugs your skirt back down in place over your hips and kisses the inside of your thigh. His eyes flick up to you in a silent apology. Like he’s grateful. You’re not sure which one it is, but it makes your chest ache in that stupid soft way he always manages to drag out of you, even after absolutely wrecking you on top of a cluttered auto shop desk when he’s not even off the clock.

Eddie wipes you off with one of the old shop rags from the shelf— muttering something under his breath that sounds a whole lot like, “this is probably not OSHA-approved, but I’m a man of convenience”— and then leans in to kiss the crease of your smile before his hands are wrapping around yours and he helps you off the desk. His fingers linger at your waist when you find your footing, like he doesn’t actually want to let you go. He only drops them when you swat at his chest playfully and tell him, “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna climb back up there and be late for literally everything else I have to do today.”

He snorts, glancing down as he zips himself back into his coveralls. “Really wouldn’t be the worst thing, no?”

You find your panties just under one of the chairs across from the desk— crumpled and inside-out— and shoot him a look as you step into them again. “Your aim’s getting better, Ed. Didn’t hit the light switch this time.”

“Practice makes perfect, sweetheart.”

Once you’ve smoothed your hair down and tucked your shirt back into your skirt, you hand him the brown paper bag you had originally came with— his lunch, now mostly forgotten— and he takes it with a sheepish, but satisfied grin. You both look thoroughly fucked-out and still completely in love. It’s a dangerous combination. You kiss him again anyway.

The kiss feels so quick— but truly it’s so soft and a little slow. His thumb brushes under your jaw like he hates not being able to keep you longer. “You staying over tonight?” he asks softly, his lips brushing against yours.

“If you promise to feed me.”

“Baby, I just did.”

You shove him in the chest, laughing as he opens the office door. The sharp scent of oil and asphalt hits you immediately, reminding you of just how hot summer in Hawkins can get. Your heels click on the concrete floor as you step out behind him. You fortunately look more composed than you feel.

Eddie walks back toward the Civic like he didn’t just rearrange your entire insides, and the girl is still standing there. As soon as she sees him, she’s twirling her straw again, her eyes shaded behind big round sunglasses. She looks up when she hears his voice and gives him a bright smile— that is, until she sees you.

You can’t help it. You smile at her, wide and unbothered. You turn slightly and blow him a kiss as you pass the garage bay, heading for your car. You don’t look at her again, not directly— but you catch the shift in her face out of the corner of your eye. The tight little squint of suspicion as she looks over you as you pass. The way her mouth pulls down at the corners, like she’s trying to piece something together and doesn’t like the answer she’s winding up at.

And Eddie? Eddie doesn’t even flinch. He just grins and leans back under the hood of her car and says, real casual, “Sorry about that. Had to see my girl.”

You slide into your car with a grin that doesn’t leave your face the whole way home.

tags ;; my taglist is currently down, therefore I couldn’t tag the ones who wanted to be tagged! I’m sorry! It’ll be back in business soon— hopefully!

[ruesol]

John Price never really understood your humor. But it was the same for most older people. Especially when it came to someone as detached from the internet as John. It was a good thing your boyfriend had you to keep him updated with whatever new ridiculous term or phrase was popular.

“I can’t hang out today–nature’s punishing me for not being pregnant.”

It started as a fleeting joke. Something you and your friends always said whenever it was that time of the month. It had been ingrained into your entire group’s vocabulary after years of use. Now, it was just a casual way of saying, ‘hey, I got my period.’

It was odd to him at first. Why would the trees care if you’re not pregnant? he asked with a confused face, prompting you to giggle and kiss his bearded cheek. Fifteen minutes later, the man was enlightened on why you were blaming nature–Mother Nature to be more specific. You expected him to forget about it afterwards (like he did with most slang), but what you didn’t expect was for him to take it seriously. Not in the way you thought at least.

You were expecting more care from him–tip-toeing when you were sleeping, not cooking meat while you felt nauseous, and buying ample sweets and unhealthy snacks for you to munch on while crying over silly romcoms.

But instead, you received more sensual touches and lingering stares at your lower abdomen. You’d often have to push him away from your sore and tender breasts. “You wouldn’t be so uncomfortable if you were pregnant, you know,” he’d often joke, making you choke or spit out whatever was in your mouth. He’d massage your back and take small breaks to palm himself as he imagined you requesting a massage because your belly had been feeling too heavy lately.

It was all too much. Too surprising. The two of you had never spoken about children, yet you felt like you had unlocked a different side of him. A side that was hidden away for your safety because now, the man was convinced that you needed to be with his child to satisfy Mother Nature.

“I don’t think we should disrespect Mother Nature like that. Don’t you agree, love?” he mumbled into your ear as he parted your legs with his big, rough hands. “I don’t wanna see you in pain. You’ve been punished enough.” He kisses your neck with fervent need–a deep and dark desire to fill you with his seed. You sluggishly try to push his shoulder to get him to stop leaning over you. “John–”

But the man’s strength prevents him from budging an inch. “Shh, none of that. You’ll take everything I give you,” he says as his cock nudges your entrance.

[rori-is-writing]

⎯⟢ Life Line ⟣⎯

⟪ ⟨ Ch 1: Fancy Meeting You Here ⟩ ⟫

A The Pitt Reader X Soulmate AU.

Multi-Chapter | Explicit | Dr. Robby x Fem!Reader | 2,110 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: You had always wondered what it would be like to meet your soulmate...Yet, of all the scenarios you had dreamt up over the years, meeting your soulmate in the ER as your lifeblood poured out onto the floor was not one of them.  ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Age Gap (20+ years), Brief mentions of near-death experience/shooting trauma, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Soulmates

Read on AO3 | The Pitt Masterlist

[ A/N: Inspired by @i-mushi's wonderful Soulmate AU, Strings That Bind.

For my dear @wisps-writes-fic. Happy Birthday (yes, I know it's not your birthday but I finished early)! I tried so hard to make this a one-shot and failed miserably. So you're getting a multi-chapter fic. Everyone is very upset about this I'm sure. 😂

I would just like to apologize in advance to all medical professionals who read this. I am not a doctor or any kind of medical professional so my knowledge about medical and hospital procedure is limited. Please forgive me. ]

You had always wondered what it would be like to meet your soulmate. 

As a child you’d always assumed it would be like something out of a fairytale. Some dashing faceless person come to sweep you off your feet and battle the monsters under your bed. And later, when you’d grown into a teenager you had begun imagining more realistic—but still romantic—scenarios. A meet-cute in a coffee shop perhaps. Or reaching for the same book in the library. 

Yet, of all the scenarios you had dreamt up over the years, meeting your soulmate in the ER as your lifeblood poured out onto the floor was not one of them. 

“Oh,” you slur when you lock eyes with the man who upends your entire world.  “You’re taller than I thought you’d be…”

It is a feeling like no other. A reordering of the universe. A wild, giddy elation that is headier than drugs and more shocking than a punch to the gut. Like a piece has finally slotted into place in your chest and you can finally breathe normally for the first time in your life. 

He’s handsome, your soulmate. With wide brown eyes and hair that has just started to go gray around the edges. You wonder what he looks like when he smiles. He’s not smiling now though. In fact, he looks positively petrified. You reach out and touch his cheek, inadvertently smearing your blood across his skin—a subconscious sort of claiming if there ever was one. 

“Hey,” you say, a little delirious, as if scolding a toddler. “Turn that frown upside down.” 

And then the blood loss pulls you into its seductive embrace. 

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It feels as if it’s only moments later that you see him again, though he tells you it’s been hours. 

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he says softly, an agonized look on his face. He sits at your beside, elbows on his knees, hunched over as if the weight of the world were dragging him down. 

You nod at him, not so sure what to say now that blood loss and copious amounts of morphine are no longer loosening your tongue. 

“We nearly…” he trails off, his eyes haunted by some unseen vision. “…I…nearly lost you.” 

You can hear the terror in his voice. The sheer, unadulterated fear of losing his soulmate only moments after finding you. 

“I’m…glad you…didn’t…” you say, your throat scratchy and raw from from what you assume was a tube that had been shoved down there while you were unconscious. 

You move your fingers across the blanket until they brush against his. He stares at them for a beat. Two. Three. And then, slowly, curls his fingers around your own with a gentleness that breaks your heart. 

“So…” you rasp with an awkward smile. “What’s your name?”

Your question must catch him off guard because he suddenly barks out a laugh, and finally—finally!—you see that smile you were so hoping to see when you first met. Somehow, you think, he is even more handsome than before. 

“Michael,” he tells you, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Michael Robinavitch.”

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You’re not really sure what the protocol for meeting your soulmate is. Are you together now? Should one of you ask the other on a date? Or was it like that one reality show you liked to pretend you didn’t watch where a couple were expected to marry after a week of knowing each other? 

Truthfully, you didn’t actually know all that much about soulmates. They were uncommon enough that you’d never actually met anyone who had one, and the movies made it seem like some fairytale where the couple was swept up into some epic love story where the realities of real life were glossed over entirely. 

Luckily for you, you had more than enough time to figure it out seeing as how you were essentially chained to your hospital bed these days. The one time you tried bringing up going home Michael had looked at you like you had lost your mind. 

“I spent two hours repairing your liver.”

You blink at him, uncomprehending. 

“…Oh…kay? So I’m fine now?”

You certainly don’t feel fine—in fact, you feel a bit like you’ve been hit by a truck—but you figure that little admission won’t help your case so you choose to leave that tidbit out of your argument. 

As if he can hear your thoughts, he shakes his head with a ‘can you believe this?’ look on his face. 

Wow. Rude. 

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so.” 

You realize with slowly dawning comprehension that your new soulmate has a bossy streak a mile wide. 

How charming. 

(Not.)

There are other things you learn about your soulmate in the following days. He likes Italian sandwiches (delicious). His favorite genre of music is dad rock (you prefer bubblegum pop, much to his dismay). But, most importantly, he is a wizened fifty-three to your paltry twenty-five. Perhaps the vast age gape should bother you—and, in some small ways, it does—but instead you find it oddly…comforting. 

It’s just…nice. Knowing that your soulmate is so grounded and knowledgable. That he has his shit together when you yourself still feel like you’re in that wobbly, awkward stage of life where you have no idea what you’re doing. You may feel like a teenager still playacting at being an adult sometimes but he is a real adult. You bet he even has a retirement portfolio. 

(What must that be like?)

On the flip side, you wonder what he must think of you. What does your mysterious, soft-spoken doctor think of having a soulmate just over half of his age? Do you seem naive to him? Childish? God, you hoped not. 

Eventually a week in, you try to suss the information out of him through careful—i.e. blunderingly obvious—questioning. 

“So,” you say nonchalantly as you watch him squint at your chart on the computer monitor. Technically he isn’t your doctor anymore as you’ve long since been moved upstairs into one of the surgical recovery wings…but that certainly hasn’t stopped him from visiting you every day before, during, and after his shifts to check up on you and critique your care team’s work. 

“Mm?” Michael grunts in acknowledgment, still distracted by whatever he’s reading. 

“What’s your type?”

You see the moment the question finally breaks through his focus because he frowns, eyes flicking to the side to stare at you through those black-framed glasses of his. 

(Have you always been attracted to men with glasses? Or is it just him? Much to think on.)

“My…type.” He doesn’t say it like a question, but like he’s parroting the phrase back to you to make sure that is indeed what you said. 

“Yeah. You know, like some guys like blondes, some like brunettes…” you trail off, urging him to pick up where you’ve left off because this isn’t going nearly how you’d expected. Most men loved talking about themselves. Especially about the kinds of women they were into. It was practically their favorite subject outside of sports and the Roman Empire. 

Or maybe that was just men your age…

What did older men talk about anyway? Stocks? Their aching backs? The AARP? 

Michael just stared at you, a furrow between his brows like he can’t quite figure you out, before turning back to the monitor. 

“Can’t say I have one.” 

Now you’re the one to frown. 

“Everyone has a type.” 

He shrugs. “Not me.” 

“Who was the last person you dated?” 

You can see his jaw working, like he’s fighting a smile—or a grimace. “Have you always been this chatty?”

“It’s not like I have a whole lot else to do in here,” you insist. “There’s only so much daytime TV and TikTok I can consume before I start wanting to grill all the nurses about the local gossip.” 

This is, in fact, true. You’ve probably learned more from the nurses about the inner workings of this hospital than even some of the doctors are privy to. 

“Oh?” He asks, amused. “And, pray tell, what have you learned?” 

“I can’t tell you that,” you say gravely. “I was sworn to secrecy. On pain of death.” 

“Death?” Yep, that’s definitely a smile. “That seems a little extreme. Do I have to fight the nurses?”

“No, because I would never give them up.”

“Good, because if it came down to me and the nurses…my money is on the nurses.” 

You nod sagely. “You’re so wise.”

“Years of experience,” he says, and then frowns—as if only just now realizing the age gap between you. 

Ah. So he hadn’t thought about it. Well, in fairness, he has been very busy lately. Poor thing. Taking pity on him, you reach over and pat his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry,” you tell him sagely, suddenly feeling much more calm about this now that you know he’s just as hopelessly in over his head as you are. “We’ll figure it out.” 

He stares at you, long and hard, before finally nodding—like he’s too afraid to voice whatever he’s feeling. 

And later, after he’s left for the night and you’re settling into a doze, you suddenly remember that he never actually answered your question. 

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“Who are you?”

You blink awake to a strange new doctor scrolling through your chart on the monitor beside your bed. A doctor that is, distinctly, neither your usual doctor nor your soulmate. He looks around Michael’s age—middle-aged or close to it—with soft curling hair that is almost as much silver as it is brown. He turns to face you, seeming surprised to find you awake. 

“Doctor Abbot. I’m from downstairs. Robby asked me to check up on you.”

“Robby?” You ask groggily. While you’re grateful for the drugs that knock you out every night, you’re not so thrilled about how lethargic and fuzzy they make you feel every time you wake up. 

“Michael,” he corrects. “Your…well…you know.” 

Yes. You certainly do know. 

“Mm,” you say instead, as good an acknowledgment as any. “Is he busy or something?” 

“Surgery,” he explains simply before turning back to your chart. “It’s a complicated one so it might be a bit.”

“I see.”

You wonder then if this will be what the rest of your life will be like. Waiting around for your more important other half as he saves lives and is late to see you. But almost as soon as you think it you feel guilty. Of course whoever is being operated on takes precedence over you. You don’t get to monopolize the man just because you’re bored and have gotten greedy with his time. 

Ugh, you needed to get the hell out of this place. 

You eye Doctor Abbot then, wondering if he’ll be more open about your care than Michael is. 

“When do you think I’ll be able to go home?” 

His eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t say anything, just scrolls through your chart. 

“It says here they’ll likely discharge you in a week if you continue the way you have.” 

You make a face. “Ugh.”

“I didn’t realize I was such terrible company,” he says, lips quirking into small smile. 

“No offense, but I hate hospitals.” 

“This might surprise you, but most people do.” 

“I just…feel like I’ve been in this bed forever,” you complain, the floodgates finally bursting open after a week of your soulmate’s constant hovering. “I feel useless.”

You can feel tears of frustration beginning to well at the corners of your eyes, which only makes you more upset. You’ve been independent since nearly as long as you could remember. You’re not used to just sitting around. And yet all it had taken to derail your entire life was some dumb fucking idiot with a pile of guns who probably spent way too much time on 4chan or 8chan or whatever other creepy website weirdos like him hung out on. 

It just…it wasn’t fair. 

“Hey,” Doctor Abbot says softly, attention now turned fully to you. His eyes are brown, you realize. Just like your soulmate’s. “You’ll be home before you know it. You’ve been doing real well. Your chart says you’re healing on schedule. We’re only keeping you here a little longer because we need to make sure your liver will be alright once you’re on your own. Okay?” 

You sniff, feeling simultaneously pathetic and reassured. He squeezes your shoulder, a strange mirror to you comforting Michael only the day before.

“We’ll get you through this kid. Just let us help you.” 

You nod. 

“Okay.” 

Next Chapter | Life Line Masterlist

Thanks for reading! 🩵

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[fuctacles]

<< six | 😺 | eight >>

"Yes? Hello, officer? There's a man in my apartment." 

Eddie stirs awake, his surroundings coming back to him in hazy waves.

"What?" he slurs out, blinking to clear his vision.

"Oh, I was just telling the officer that I've found a man sleeping on my couch," Stephanie says with a troubled expression, hovering over him.

Over the couch that he fell asleep on.

He sits up so suddenly he loses his balance and falls back against the cushion.

"I'm so sorry, please don't call the cops—!"

Stephanie immediately shakes her hands, which are free of a phone.

"I was joking, I was joking!" she reassures him quickly. "I'm sorry." She smiles apologetically, taking a seat next to him. "I guess that wasn't the best way to wake up someone." 

"No," Eddie chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Especially not an ex-drug dealer," he huffs dryly. 

Steph cocks her head with a surprised "huh" and only then does Eddie realize what he has just blurted out. 

"Ah, shit. Am I ruining my good neighbor status?" he winces.

"Not at all," Steph shakes her head, and gently pats his knee. He zeroes his focus on her hand when she decides to rest it there on his jean-clad leg. 

"I know my nice neighbor Eddie, not the drug dealer one," she smiles reassuringly. "What made you turn around? If you don't mind me asking," she squeezes his knee and retrieves her hand to lean back more comfortably on the couch. One of her cats, Garfield, jumps on her lap for a greeting, and Eddie realizes she's still wearing her jacket. He looks at the clock on the wall and realizes it's almost midnight. 

"Sorry, I'm holding you back, you're clearly tired," she backtracks quickly, watching his eyes dart around. But Eddie shakes his head.

"Nah, I just took an invigorating nap." She laughs at that and he can't help but smile as well. "I'd assume you're tired after traveling."

"I took an invigorating nap on the bus," she smiles, petting her cat. Arwen finally decides she's not above greeting her human and jumps in next to her as well, occupying Stephanie's other hand. 

Eddie reminds himself not to get jealous of felines.

"I managed to graduate," he says and when Steph looks at him in confusion, he adds: "I dealt in high school to save money for my band, thought that was my only route. But then I did graduate, on my third try, and the art teacher pulled some strings, asked around, and told me I could go study music. The guys forced me to go for it," he smiles at the memory. "My band, I mean. They said at least one of us should know some theory," he chuckles. 

"That's very nice of them," Stephanie comments. 

"Yeah. The bastards followed me after high school too." He grins. 

"And I still haven't heard your music," she sighs wistfully. 

"I'll bring a tape next time," he promises. 

"You better."

They sit in silence for a while, only the cat's purring filling the night ambiance. 

"Want some tea?"

"I guess I should go."

They speak over each other, eyes wide when they meet awkwardly. They chuckle, and Eddie can feel his cheeks warm up.

"Or I can get us a beer? Since you're not an old lady," she offers, spotting the empty bottle on the table. "Unless you really need to go."

"Beer sounds good. Considering there are no old ladies here," he smiles charmingly, daring her to protest. 

Steph doesn't say anything, only rolls her eyes and gently nudges Garfield from her lap onto the couch cushions. She scratches Eddie's head when she passes, thankfully missing the way it causes his whole body to shiver. 

"Won't your uncle be worried where you are?" she asks from the kitchen, giving Eddie the space he needs to collect himself. 

"I told him I'd wait for you," he answers, scratching Garfield and trying to forget how good it felt when done to him. "Also, I don't have a curfew anymore. Never had, in fact. Not with Wayne."

"Lucky you." She steps back into the room, handing him a chilled bottle. "How long have you been living with him?"

"Since high school," he answers before taking a swig. "Spent a short time in a halfway house before that. My parents couldn't handle me anymore, but they managed to reach my uncle and he took me in."

"The hell do you mean 'couldn't handle you'?" Steph asks with a frown.

Eddie chuckles at her immediate offense.

"They got into legal trouble, and couldn't afford the house anymore, I think my dad spent some time in prison too. Tax fraud and shit, never cared enough to dig into it and Wayne doesn't like talking about them either. He's a better parent they'd ever be anyway."

"Yeah," Steph softens. "I'd love to have had someone like him back in the day." Then, she deflates with a sigh. "Though even the nicest people can turn out to be bigots. Not Wayne, of course!" she rushes to add. "He knows about Robin and he's really cool about it." 

Eddie sees his opening and feels comfortable enough to use it finally. 

"He better be, since his nephew is bisexual," he says with a little huff. 

"He is?" Steph picks up curiously. 

"Yeah," Eddie scratches his cheek, suddenly sheepish. "Turned out I wasn't watching Indiana Jones for the plot."

"I think that sweaty chest is plot enough," she says and they both laugh.

"Have you dated a guy, then?" Stephanie asks next. 

"Only one for real," Eddie admits. "But it's not like I've dated many girls either, though it is easier."

"A young bachelor like you?" Stephanie raises her eyebrows in surprise. "You should be swarming with marriage proposals, the way your uncle describes you."

Eddie groans, throwing his head back against the cushions. 

"What nonsense is he telling about me?"

"Only that he has a talented, smart boy in Indy, who's always helpful and protective of his friends and family. Also, he has really frizzy hair."

"Excuse me?"

Eddie picks up his head to look at Stephanie. She's suddenly closer than before, rubbing a lock of his hair between her fingers. 

"When was the last time you had your hair done?"

"Uh." He looks between her hand and her face like he'll find the answer there. "Never? Probably? At least not that I remember."

Stephanie's mouth purses with displeasure. 

"I can fix them for you. For taking care of my cats."

Eddie wants her hands in his hair so badly, but he raises his beer like a dumbass. 

"But I already got a beer," he points out. 

She shakes her head. 

"I share beers with friends for less. I'd usually buzz Wayne too, and you'd be doing me a favor because I can't focus with your split ends right in my face."

She's really playing it up, pout and all, and unfortunately, it's working on him. 

But he'd probably do anything she asked for. 

"Then, uh... Sure, I guess."

[sp00nful0fsuga]

Warriors doodle requests <3

[gamesetart]

has anyone seen that old movie the crush? im thinking of something similar rn with patrick... (without all the going crazy and manipulation and the underage stuff)

your parents have a big house. a gorgeous country home, complete with a stable, for you horses, a back garden with a pool and a tennis court, and, of course, a guest house. a spacious little one-bedroom located literally within spitting distance from the main home.

and you - home for the summer, sophomore in college, headstrong, pretty, interesting, a sports medicine major - you were supposed to move in there. it's embarassing to be your age (a precocious twenty) and still living in your childhood bedroom, for godssake! but, at the last minute, your father tells you you can't. which is absurd: you've never been told 'no' in your life, why on earth should he start now?

well, after two weeks of complaining, whining, begging, bargaining, and straight-up threats, your answer arrives. arrives in the form of a single black suitcase and one heavy sports bag. arrives in the form of a tired, scraggly looking man parking his fucked-up car in your gorgeous gravel driveway, right next to your perfect, pristine white vintage mustang. it's insulting.

your guest house is occupied. by son of family friends, sort-of professional tennis player, patrick zweig. you hate him instantly. hate that because of him, you're confined to your stupid childhood bedroom, with your stupid baby-pink walls your mom won't let you change, your canopy bed with the gauzey curtains. you hate that your parents invite him in all the time. you hate that he drinks your coffee and eats your food. you hate that he found your contraband stash of cigarettes and weed, and you hate that you know he stole some, because you counted, and that you can't confront him about it in case he tells your parents.

and you hate how he's hot. hate that he plays tennis on your court, damp curls sticking to his face, sweat running down his tanned, toned arms, stupid shorts clinging to his thick, hairy thighs... you hate that he swims in your pool in nothing but his underwear. you hate that he has these bright blue eyes, almost green in certain lights, the pupils ringed with a hazelish, almost golden halo. and you despise how those eyes look at you, like he's going to fucking eat you.

not like he doesn't hate you, too. he hates how you parade around like you own the world. he hates how you are: too smart for your own good, too aware of it for everyone else's. he hates how you've obviously never been told no until the guest house. he hates that you're a know-it-all brat.

and he hates you (and himself, a little, but mostly you) for being so damn attractive. he hates that he'll come home, from a run, or a bad date, or something, and find you in a clean white tennis set - ralph lauren, or lacoste, or some other bougie brand mean less for atheltics and more for style - lazily serving to no one. he hates that you'll read by the pool, austen and shakespeare and poe, in your little bikinis, sucking on a lollipop, or, if your parents aren't home, smoking a cigarette. he hates when you get dressed up because your parents are throwing yet another party, hates you in your babydoll dresses and your sweet skirts and your sweetheart necklines.

like you don't know what you're doing to him.

the funny thing is, both of you are smart enough to see that the other is physically attracted to you, but you're both too proud to admit it goes both ways. so you strut around in tiny tennis skirts and bikinis. he swims in his underwear and comes in in nothing but a towel to steal from your fridge. waiting for the other to break, to snap, to trip up and fall. if patrick breaks first, you get to laugh and call him a dirty old perv for going after you - he's like, a decade older than you, for christssake! - and if you break first, patrick gets to bully you open on his cock, make you cry, finally bring you down a peg.

just a matter of time.

[ofmermaidstories]

speaking of old men, i have a age gap bakugou x reader idea up my sleeve that im never going to write bc it makes me too sad LMAOOOO. but sometimes i think about bakugou being grumpy and old…. having to contend with the reality that he is being replaced………… bakugou i love u in any form.

[glassbxttless]

Hi there! 👋🏽😊 As promised I have made it here to your little sandwich shop!

I would like salami and provolone on rustic sourdough, with mustard and why not make it a combo with hush puppies!

Excited to see what you whip up 😍

Much love,

- T🌙

Dinner for Two

older!eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from 28bohemianmoons | when your car breaks down and the very handsome mechanic that promises to fix it invites you over for dinner, he gets a little more than he bargained for.

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, smut, bit of an age gap, eddie’s 46, reader’s in her 20’s (i picture her as late 20’s but it’s never explicitly stated. so it’s up to you), oral f receiving, pinv

notes: Order up for T! Thanks for coming by and checking out the sandwich shop 🫶🏻 There’s some parts of this I feel like I could’ve elaborated more on, but it’s already almost 5k and these fics were supposed to stay under 2k lmao (I’m also just a bit tired of fussing with it). So I hope you enjoy! Big thanks to @prettycalla & @keeryhours for reading this over and as always, the biggest thanks to @peachyproserpina for editing! I’m a mess without her.

Your engine coughs once. Then it sputters. Then it fucking dies completely.

You coast to the shoulder of the road with a sinking feeling in your stomach. Your hazard lights blinking uselessly in the evening dusk. You’re not far from town, but far enough to know this is going to be a pain in the ass. You sit behind the wheel in silence for a few seconds, trying to will the car back to life as you turn the key again. No turn over. Of course, just your luck. You should’ve taken your friend’s offer to borrow their car while yours was “being weird”. But no. You had to prove that your own car wasn’t possessed by Satan.

The irony is strong when you hear the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching behind you. You glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of it— black, sleek, and loud. It’s pulling in behind your stalled car like some kind of metal savior. The guy gets off it in one smooth motion, worn in denim and soft leather with wild curls, and to top it all off, rings glinting as he pushes his hair out of his face.

 “Hey,” he calls as he jogs up beside your window, ducking down slightly with one hand pressed to the top of your car. “You okay in there?”

You roll the window down halfway and blink up at him. He looks like he walked out of a hot biker calendar. Except, you know, a bit more real. His jeans are grease stained, you could see a homemade faded Corroded Coffin T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days since the 90’s, hair greying slightly, and a pair of wide brown eyes that seem way too gentle for someone built like a God.

“Car died,” you say softly, suddenly a little sheepish under his gaze. “Pretty sure it hates me.”

He grins, standing up a bit straighter, “Let me take a look, yeah? I speak fluent piece-of-shit car.”

You stare at him through your half opened window, unsure of what to make of him, “You a mechanic or just… good with insults?”

“Both.” He winks at you, then adds with the most charming smile you’ve ever seen a man wear, “Name’s Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

Of course it is. A perfect name for a dreamy man. 

You pop the hood, and open the car door to slide out of it. He slides off his jacket, placing it out of the way and then he leans over, poking around while you stand back. You watch him mutter to himself as he checks connections, pokes at belts, and scowls at your battery. That faded grey t-shirt had a few holes in the hemline and it was riding up his back to show just a sliver of skin above the waist of his jeans. If you look close enough you could even see a bit of his soft belly. You flick your eyes up, taking in the set of his jaw. He was focused, wound tight as he tries to locate the problem, there’s a few wrinkles by his eyes, laugh lines settling close to his mouth. You smile. He’s one of the most handsome men you’ve had walk into your life. After a few more minutes of your silent gawking, he slams the hood down again— it’s not hard, just enough to snap your attention back to the present. He wipes his hands on his jeans as he turns to you.

“She’s gonna need some love. Maybe a sacrifice or two,” he says with a chuckle. “Starter’s shot, and your alternator isn’t looking too friendly either.”

“Awesome,” you mutter. “You have tow trucks too? or do you just deliver bad news on the side of the road?”

He laughs and shakes his head, already pulling out his phone. “No, but I’ve got a buddy at the shop who can come grab it. We’ll get it to my garage, fix it up cheap. No dealership shit. I swear on my Iron Maiden collection.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look him over again. “And you’re not just saying that to lure me into your mechanic lair?”

Eddie grins wider, those laugh lines and dimples on full display, like he appreciates the sass you’re shooting at him. “Hey, you’re welcome to keep your guard up.” He chuckles, sending a text out, as he shakes his head. He might as well give it a shot, “I do have a lair. It just also happens to have a killer lasagna and a very patient dog.”

“…You cook?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says softly, cocking an eyebrow up as he tests the waters. “Could come by sometime. I promise not to kill you. Unless you’re allergic to good conversation and metal records. Then maybe I’ll have to make a sacrifice… you know, for the car.”

You roll your eyes and let out a laugh, pulling up the contacts in your phone just to humor him. “I’ll think about it.” He flashed you a grin at that. He leaves you with his number and a promise that your car will be better than it was brand new— or at least newer than it looks now. 

You don’t mean to text him. Really, you don’t. But a few nights later, after a really long day at work, a too-long shower, and a look in your fridge at the leftovers from the night before— you find yourself in your bed. Aimlessly scrolling through social media, that man and his greying curls heavy on your mind. You bite your lip as you think of his arms, splattered with dark ink. You think of that little bit of skin you saw as he leaned over your car. And you let out a breath, opening up your contacts app. You think about it a moment, really weighing your options. It’s just dinner, yeah? If it turned into more you’d be okay with that. He was funny, not too bad on the eyes, certainly one night of a lapsed judgement wouldn’t kill you. But he’s double your age. And you shake your head, scrolling past his number in your phone. But then you pause and scroll back.

Hey. That dinner still on the table?

You half expect him to ignore the message, it’d been days and the last time you spoke was about your car. But he responds shortly after..

Hell yes. Tonight? Come hungry.

When you pull up to his house— a small place outside of town with a beat-up mailbox with MUNSON scrawled across the side, you can see an old blue Chevy in the garage through the open door, right next to that pretty metal savior from the week before. His neighbors are close enough to almost share walls. But the porch light is on and you knock gently. Hearing shuffling around on the other side of the door for a moment, you wait, holding your bag to your chest. The door creaks open and there he is. He’s got an apron on, a shirt with the sleeves cut off showing each of the intricate tattoos adorning his skin. His hair is pulled back in a bun messily underneath a bandana to keep back the flyaways. His face a little flushed and red from the heat of the kitchen.

“You came,” he says softly, clearly shocked to see you standing at the door.

“Of course I did,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “You said to come hungry… and I wanted to meet the dog.”

The dog is a sleepy little border collie named Ozzy, who’s spread out on the couch not paying any mind to the new visitor in his home. “He’s a real killer, can’t you tell?” Eddie jokes softly as he steps back to let you step in. He shuts the door behind you and makes his way back over to the kitchen with you close on his heels. He hands you a glass of red wine and says it’s “the cheap kind, on sale.”

The lasagna he whipped up is genuinely amazing. So is the music— a vinyl spinning in the background, something heavy that makes him close his eyes and nod along like he’s feeling it in his bones. You think you’ve hit the jackpot of men; handsome, a great cook, and has a great taste in music? You ask him about his band when he mentions it in an offhand comment— he still plays sometimes, mostly local gigs. You ask about the shop— he owns half of it now. You ask about the rings— he shrugs and says he’s always had em, “Sweetheart, these fingers were born for flair.”

By the time you finish with dinner, you’re laughing way more than you had planned to. You rest your elbows against the table top, watching as he leans back in his chair. He’s looking at you with a smile that’s almost shy.

“What?” you ask softly, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish yourself.

“Nothing,” he chuckles a bit. “I just…didn’t think you’d actually show. Let alone stick around… I really can’t believe it.” He shakes his head a bit, the bandana holding back midnight colored curls from his face. 

You tilt your head, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Why not?”

He shrugs, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. Bashful. “People don’t usually stick around this long.” He says it like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop with you. But there’s something in his voice— something that makes you want to lean closer, so you do.

“You’re not as scary as you look, Munson.”

He smirks, that playful confidence you’d caught more glimpses of than the coyness he’s been exhibiting tonight.

 “Careful. I’ve got a reputation to protect.” He pushes back from the table to stand, so you follow suit. And then there’s that moment— the pause that stretches quietly. A question that hangs in the air between two people who are both wondering the same thing; Are you going to kiss me? He steps closer just as the thought crosses your mind and you don’t move back.

“You want to see the garage?” he murmurs, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. His voice is low, a little rough, nothing like before. The apron he’d been wearing before dinner was long discarded, showing the front of the cutoff Dio shirt he’d been in. He reaches up, tugging the bandana from his head, the bun still keeping most of his hair contained. 

You grin, biting the inside of your cheek. “That code for something?”

His laugh is quiet now. He’s nervous, that blush that had graced his cheeks earlier is back, plastered across his nose— mixing with the freckles that peppered his skin. As embarrassed as he may be, he holds your gaze. He bites the inside of his cheek and lets out a breath, whispering, “Only if you want it to be.”

You nod. You do. You so desperately want it to be.

And he moves closer in a blink of an eye. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it since the moment he saw your broken-down car on the highway. His hands are tentative at first, one sliding up your back so gently you barely notice it’s there. And when you melt into him, your front pressing up against his body, he moves more confidently. The hand that wasn’t occupied by holding you close to him slides up and tangles in your hair. The pressure makes you gasp into his mouth. And he presses you up against the kitchen wall right between his dining table and countertop. The warmth of his chest is seeping through your shirt, his rings cold where they skim your waist.

You break the kiss just long enough to whisper, lips brushing against his as you do, “So, is this part of the tune-up package?”

He laughs again, cheeks redder than before and a bit more breathless now. “Oh, sweetheart. This is way more than the tune-up package… this is the extended warranty.”

You laugh, still pinned to the wall when he kisses you again. He’s slower this time, taking his time. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he’s memorizing the way you taste for when you’re inevitably gone again. His hands settle at your waist, his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt and press in against your skin just enough to make you lean into him, instinctive. You’re needy and you both know it.

“God, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips before he’s dragging his mouth across your jaw, down your neck. He doesn’t stop until his teeth graze the spot just under your ear. “Can I—? Shit. I didn’t think you’d actually come, and now I’m two seconds from ruining my chances at a second date completely.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Ed,” you breathe out softly. Your hands brushing over his shoulders. “You’re doing great, actually.”

He huffs a laugh as he shakes his head. Hair working its way out of his bun. You feel the rumble of his chest more than you hear it— his breath hot against your skin, his chest is rising against yours. And then he gets quieter, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

You reach down between your bodies and grab the hem of your own shirt, whispering, “Help me get this off before I change my mind.”

For him? That’s all it takes.

He tugs your shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere behind him. He scans your newly revealed skin so slowly it almost hurts him. His eyes are glinting in the dimmed light of his kitchen, words stuck on his tongue like he’s in the presence of something so holy that he can’t believe he gets to touch it— that look makes heat coil deep in your stomach. He kisses your chest so gently, you barely even feel the press of his lips. Then he’s trailing his fingers over your hip, up your side. He settles on your ribs, thumb brushing over your skin— he’s not in a rush, he can savor his time with you. He dips his head down again, stubbled chin scratching against your chest as he presses another kiss against your shoulder. His nose brushing against your neck as he slides up to press another kiss below your ear, against your jaw, and then finally your lips. He kisses you like he’s starved for it. His hands are warm and a little rough as they slide up your sides. One reaches back to settle on the clasp of your bra, greedy. You gasp into his mouth when he presses his hips into yours, he’s already hard, straining against his jeans. 

It’s good. So good. So good you almost don’t notice when he adjusts his grip on you, trying to work the clasp loose (he’s been out of practice for longer than he’d like to admit), his free hand knocks something off the counter. You both flinch, breaking from the kiss, as a metal mixing bowl hits the kitchen tile with a clang that rings through the room like a damn alarm bell.

“Shit,” Eddie mutters, lifting his head to look you in the eyes. He’s breathless, cheeks flushed and lips kiss bitten. “That was… expensive-sounding.”

You lean forward resting your forehead against his jaw as you laugh softly. “That’s what you get for trying to fuck me next to your Gran’s stand mixer.”

You’re still catching your breath when you catch his eyes flick toward the back of the house. “You know,” he says slowly, voice dropping to a raspy whisper, “there’s a lot less cookware out in the garage.”

You lift a brow, that’s the second time he’s mentioned the damn place. “That supposed to be your version of romance?”

“It’s where I’m my truest self,” he says solemnly, nuzzling his nose against your hair, lips pressing a kiss against your temple. “Surrounded by tools, loud music, and we have absolutely zero chance of knocking over my Nana’s cornbread tin and denting it beyond repair.”

You narrow your eyes as he speaks. “If you’re just trying to get me out there so I’ll see your stupid truck, you left the door open and on my way in, I already—”

“No arguing, sweetheart,” he says with a tut, already tugging you toward the door. He reaches up and presses a button, until you can hear the tell tale sign of the garage door closing. “You’ve questioned the sanctity of my second favorite place in this entire house. Now you have to come see it, and that isn’t code for anything.”

You let him lead you with all his golden retriever enthusiasm— one hand in his, the other folded across your chest to keep your bra in place. You’re still half-laughing, that spark between you hasn’t dimmed in the slightest— it’s just waiting, simmering, threatening to boil over the second you get your lips back on his. He opens the door, helping you carefully down the two steps until you hit the cool concrete floor. The garage is warm and faintly smells like gasoline, it’s lit by a few overhead bulbs and the sliver of moonlight pouring through the window. You hadn’t realized it was this late. His tools are organized along the back wall in a way that only he would know where anything was. The blue chevy truck’s parked square in the middle, just as you had seen it earlier. His bike parked next to it. Windows rolled down and the hood closed. 

“Wow,” you say, mock impressed as you look around the room. You take in the posters along the wall, worn in and incredibly obvious he’d saved them from his teenage years. “A whole garage dedicated to metal bands. You trying to marry me or something?” You joke softly, feeling hot as soon as Eddie turns his gaze back to you. 

He tuts softly with a roll of his eyes, backing you up until your body is pressed between him and the front of his truck. “Careful, sweetheart. This truck’s seen a lot of action.”

“Uh-huh. Bet it’s jealous.”

“Oh, it will be in a minute.” He dips his head down letting his lips hover above yours. His breath is hot, his eyes are flicking from yours, down to where he’d like to be. He presses his hands against the hood of the truck on each side of your hips, leaning in until he can close the distance between the two of you in a kiss. It’s deeper this time, all of the teasing now burned away by the low throb of tension that’s been building since you stepped through his front door. He shifts his hips closer, until he’s flush against you— one hand leaving the hood to settle on your hip, like he’s finally letting himself have you. He slides it beneath your waistband, toying at the hem of your panties as he lets out the lowest groan you’ve ever heard a man make. 

Your own hands snake upwards, resting on his shoulders. Your fingers brushing along taught muscle before you’re tugging the bun he was wearing loose, a shy little smile on your face. He shakes his hair free, letting his forehead fall onto your shoulder. His breath against your skin ragged as you grind your hips towards him— the bulge in his jeans growing by the second. He swears so much blood is running downwards, his knees may buckle. And before you can even catch your breath, he turns you around— your back to his front— and bends you forward over the cold metal hood of his truck. He leans his body over your own, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades, his mouth at your ear as he finally unsnaps the clasp of your bra. “You okay with this?” he asks softly, his voice a little hoarse, from want, from need. 

You nod, letting your own forehead rest against the metal. Your breath hitches in your throat, “More than okay, Eds.”

He laughs. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about doing this since the second you popped your damn hood up on the side of the road.”

His hands slide the straps of your bra down off your shoulders, and he carefully tugs it out from under your body, tossing it over the mirror of the truck. He lets one hand trail forward, cupping your tit before giving it a squeeze. He presses another kiss against your shoulder, moving his hands back down to your hips. He thrusts against your ass, fully clothed. You gasp, a little dazed by the sudden shift in energy. He’s not teasing you anymore. He’s hungry, he’s greedy. And he wants you so badly. 

You barely have time to register that his hands have left your body and he’s no longer pressed up behind you. You glance over your shoulder, gasping softly at the sight. He’s on his knees behind you, letting himself look up at you through those pretty eyelashes before his hands are back on you, parting your thighs with an ease you hadn’t seen him display before. “Are you—”

“Yeah,” he says softly, his tongue darting out to wet his lip. He lets his hands drift to your front, unbuttoning your pants and dragging the zipper down so slowly. When he’s finally got it, he makes a big deal of slowly tugging your pants down. He’s deliberate, letting himself get worked up by every inch of cotton that’s revealed to him. “I fuckin’ am.”

He runs a palm over the swell of your ass with an appreciative hum. Then he dips his head lower, pushing your thighs a bit further apart. He presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses up, up, up— until he’s right where you want him. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his breath hot over your clothed core, his eyes flick up to watch you, pressed over the hood. “You cold or just impatient?”

“Eddie, pl—”

He doesn’t make you say it. He really doesn’t need to. Not with the way your panties are sopping wet for him already. One hand settles on your hip as the other drags the soiled cotton down to join where your jeans are bunched around your feet. Dipping his head down once again, he slides his tongue over you, so slowly. You nearly collapse forward at the sensation. His grip is firm on you, keeping you steady, holding you there— his mouth is relentless, tongue plunging into your cunt before alternating to lick a fat stripe through your folds. He’s focused, intentional in a way that makes your toes curl with each prod of that muscle against you, with each nudge of his nose. He groans into your pussy when you moan his name, like he’s getting off on the sound of it. Like he could live here between your thighs forever. And it sends a shockwave of vibrations through your spine. That white hot coil in your belly starts to build oh-so-slowly. 

You press your forehead to the truck, your eyes fluttering shut. You rock your hips back into his face, desperate for more. Desperate for him to let you cum. 

“Fuck, you taste good,” he pulls away to press another kiss against your thigh, muttering softly. “How the hell am I supposed to let you leave after this?” And if those words didn’t make you keen, the flat of his tongue surely did when it runs up your thigh, almost to where you’d like him to be. 

Your laugh stutters out halfway into a gasp, fingers curling into fists where they had been pressed against the truck. “Who said I wanted to leave?”

That earns you a sharp nip of his teeth, followed by a kiss right over the bite— so gentle it almost makes your head spin. And then just like how he’d gotten down there, with no warning at all, he pulls away.

“Eddie—” you breathe out, standing on the edge of what may be the best orgasm of your life.

He’s already standing, his own chest heaving— sweat clinging to his bangs and plastering his curls to his forehead. His eyes, blown wide as he unbuckles his belt— tugging his own jeans down just enough to free himself. “You still good?” he asks again, waiting for you to pack it up. Tell him you don’t fuck the town freaks. Even in his forties, Eddie’s scared of letting anyone in. 

You nod, turning your head slightly to rest your cheek against the metal. “Fuck. Yeah. Please.”

That’s all the confirmation he needs. He wraps a hand around his cock, thumbing the base to line himself up with your pretty cunt. He’s so hard he can barely stand it, so he sinks into you with one smooth, steady, hard thrust that knocks the air completely out of your lungs. You gasp, bracing yourself on the hood. Your knees are already trembling. “Jesus Christ,” Eddie breathes behind you, both hands tight on your hips. His thumb rubbing circles into your skin. “You feel— fuck. You feel like a dream.” It’d been too long since he’d been here, balls deep inside a pretty girl. Let alone one probably half his age. 

You try to respond to him, but the words in your head die in your throat before you even have a chance to speak them. He pulls back out until there’s nothing but an inch or so of his cock left inside of you, and then thrusts in again, harder this time. That stupid blue chevy rocks beneath you. You moan loud, unable to hold it in— and that’s when his hand snakes up from your hip, covering your mouth from behind as he leans over your body once again. 

“Shh,” His lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. “You gotta be quiet, sweetheart. I’ve got neighbors.”

You whimper against his palm, letting your eyes close as he grinds his hips deeper inside of you. The hair growing back in at the base of his dick scratching against your skin burns in a way you’ll know you’ll feel it tomorrow. And he groans, letting himself get an eyeful of you. Fuck, you’re so pretty like this— bent over his truck, desperate and begging with just the rock of your hips. Taking everything he lets you have. He rocks his hips hard, steady, pushing deeper each time like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else. His pace is unrelenting as you clench around his cock. One of his hands slips down the front of your body and between your legs, deft fingers finding your clit. He starts working against that little bundle of nerves in tight little circles, and it’s enough to make you start seeing stars. The pressure in your stomach growing more taut by the second “That’s it, baby.” he grits out between his teeth. “Let me feel you cum. You’re squeezin me. I know you’re close.”

And that band finally snaps with a particular hard thrust of his hips, dragging against that spongy front wall of yours. You cum with a choked out cry against his hand, in which he just presses harder against your lips. Your body is clenching around him so hard he nearly follows you into euphoria right then and there. He drops his head to your shoulder, the hand on your hip sliding around your waist to hold you as close as he can. His thrusts are slowing, getting a little sloppier. There’s another slip of your name, and two more thrusts, before he buries himself deep inside of you one final time. He squeezes his eyes shut, burying his nose against the nape of your neck as he spills inside of you. Cumming hard. 

You stay pressed against one another there for a second— both of you panting, trembling, bodies still resting over the hood of his stupid truck. After another minute passes, he pulls his head up and presses a kiss to your shoulder. He’s a little shaky and a little pussy-drunk. “Well,” he chuckles a bit. “This service is definitely going in an ad for the shop. Imagine the business boom.”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head just enough to catch a flash of his smile. “You put this in an ad and I’m keying your truck and the bike.”

He grins, curls falling every which way as he gives a gentle shake of his head. “Fair.” 

He tugs you upright as he pulls out. And then he’s tugging your clothes— at least your panties and jeans— gently back into place, pressing soft kisses to your neck like he’s trying to soothe the bruises he left behind. And then he’s stepping back, grabbing your bra from the side mirror to help slide it back up your arms. “Next time,” he says softly, turning you to work the clasp closed. He smiles as he reaches down, tugging his own jeans up and zipping them with a little hiss, “I’ll show you the actual bedroom.”

You arch a brow, teasing him. “Next time, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, grinning like he’s already planning it and knowing you aren’t going to object, “you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

tags ;; @peachyproserpina @missjadesfics @iheartgrayson @meetmeatyourworst @punkrockmlchael @prettycalla @getaapologist

[slimypaws]

Twilight x Celestia. THEY LOVE EACH OTHER, YOUR HONOUR.

[rori-is-writing]

⎯⟢ Life Line ⟣⎯

⟪ ⟨ Ch 2: Bother Me ⟩ ⟫

A The Pitt Reader X Soulmate AU.

Multi-Chapter | Explicit | Dr. Robby x Fem!Reader | 1,839 words ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Summary: You had always wondered what it would be like to meet your soulmate...Yet, of all the scenarios you had dreamt up over the years, meeting your soulmate in the ER as your lifeblood poured out onto the floor was not one of them.  ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Tags: Age Gap (20+ years), Brief mentions of near-death experience/shooting trauma, Caretaking, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Soulmates

Read on AO3 | The Pitt Masterlist

[ A/N: Hi there, how would you like another chapter of these two idiots being disasters together? ]

The trouble comes, it turns out, only when they try to discharge you a week later. 

“Do you have anyone who will be able to help you while you recover?”

You think of your parents—enjoying their retirement abroad—and of your sister—already stressed with a newborn and a useless husband on the other side of the country—and grimace. 

“Not really,” you confess with a shrug. The nurse looks less than convinced. 

It was fine. You’d figure out a way to convince them to let you leave on your own—surely they couldn’t just…hold you hostage here…right?

Michael finds you soon after. 

He bustles in a couple hours later with a bundle of blue fabric and a wheelchair. 

“I’m afraid we had to cut your clothes off when you came in so I hope you’re okay with scrubs until we get you home.” 

You blink at the wheelchair, not comprehending his words. 

“I thought I couldn’t leave unless I had someone to take me home?” 

“You do.” 

It takes you a frankly embarrassing amount of time to realize what it is he’s saying. 

“Oh!” You grimace, flustered as the pieces suddenly click into place. “You don’t have to do that! I’m sure I can call…someone…”

But your soulmate just stares at you calmly, waiting for your arguments to fizzle out. 

“Really!” You continue, doubling down. You are, after all, nothing if not stubborn. “I would never expect you to…I’m sure I can take care of things myself…I mean how hard can it be?”

You regret the words almost as soon as you say them because you see the way his eyebrows raise and his eyes go flinty. Suddenly, it’s not your soulmate speaking to you, but your doctor. And your doctor isn’t taking any of your shit today. 

“I’m afraid it’s hospital policy that someone has to drive you home. And seeing as how there are no emergency contacts in your chart and you’ve refused to give the nurses a phone number to call that leaves you with me.” 

“But—”

“You just had major surgery,” he says calmly—slowly—as if he were explaining something to a child. “Your liver was perforated when you came in. I had to open you up to repair the damage. That kind of trauma takes a toll on someone’s body. You’re going to be weak for a while. Hungrier too as your body burns through all of your daily calories just to heal itself. You need someone there who can take care of you because you’ll be lucky to have the energy to take a shower every day, let alone feed and care for yourself for the next couple of weeks.” 

“Weeks?!” You can’t help but gasp. You couldn’t lay around for weeks! You had work! Bills to pay! Things to do! It had already been hard enough convincing your boss to let you go on leave over the phone as you laid helplessly in your hospital bed. He had made it sound like you had gone out of your way to get shot just to make things harder for him. 

Typical. 

“If you’re lucky. Months if you’re unlucky…or if you decide you can do this alone and ignore your doctor’s advice.” He didn’t have to add the words ‘which you won’t be doing’ though they were heavily implied. 

You realize then, all at once, that you don’t actually know this man. Not really. Soulmate or not, he is essentially a stranger to you. A man you only just met a couple of weeks ago. If he were anyone else, you wouldn’t ever dare let him inside your apartment, let alone take care of you. 

But he’s not anyone else, your traitorous mind whispers to you. He’s your soulmate. 

Who else could you trust but him?

“Okay.”

He helps you change. You don’t bother fighting him on it. You figure, at this point, he’s seen more than enough of you for it to be a moot point. And, to his credit, he’s perfectly professional as he pulls the scrub shirt down over your head and folds up the wrinkled gown you’ve been wearing for days. 

Ugh. You really need a shower. Sponge baths only did so much. Maybe if you were really lucky you’d have the energy to just sit under the shower for a solid twenty minutes when you got home before you actually needed to get back out again. 

“You don’t have to take care of me you know,” you try to argue as he settles you into the wheelchair and rolls you out into the hall. Just because you’d agreed to this didn’t mean you couldn’t whine about it a little. “I know how to take care of myself.” 

“Need I remind you that you were shot in the liver and are lucky to be alive?” He scolded. “Let me do this.” 

A few people wave goodbye to him on your way out, making you feel a little awkward, but soon enough you’re being rolled out into a parking garage and up to a black Mercedes. 

You ogle the inside of the car as he helps you into the passenger seat. It’s so much nicer than your own car—an aged Honda Civic that was used even when your parents bought it, before later passing it onto you—with buttery leather and tinted windows and a touchscreen on the dashboard instead of the ancient cassette player in your car. 

Michael appear again, wheelchair no longer in tow, and climbs into the driver’s seat. 

“You’re going to have to play navigator.” He says as he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space nice and smooth. 

“Hmm?” You hum, distracted by the display in front of you and the soreness in your abdomen. They’d given you your last dose of pain meds just before Robby had come to spirit you away but the drugs only did so much. You were sure it would feel far worse if you weren’t taking them at all though, so you tried not to complain. 

“Your address? You’ll have to tell me where we’re going.” 

“Oh,” you nod. “Right. Turn left at this light.” 

He does as you say and you both lapse into silence except for the occasional direction from you. 

It’s…nice. Normally silences amongst company can be awkward. Like everyone is struggling to come up with something to say…but not this time. Silence with Michael is strangely soothing. Like neither of you need to talk. Like you’re both just content to enjoy each other’s company. 

Soon enough, he rolls up to your rundown apartment complex and parks beside your beat up Honda. You can see immediately in the furrow of his brows and the purse of his lips that he’s concerned. You’re well aware of how poor this part of town is, but not everyone can have a doctor’s salary. 

“Here?” He confirms, as if at any moment you were going to laugh and say ‘haha gotcha!’. 

“Yep,” you tell him before trying to open the passenger door. 

He looks at you with alarm. “Woah! Hey! Slow down there!” 

You huff with impatience as he gets out of the car and scuttles around to the other side to help you out. 

“This is unnecessary,” you say petulantly. 

He doesn’t even deign that with a response, just patiently takes you by the elbow—his fingers warm against your skin—and lets you hobble alongside him up the stairs to your second floor apartment. 

Damn, you think, cringing a little when you finally get inside. I forgot to clean up before I left. 

Michael though, seems to barely notice the dirty socks on the floor or the pile of dishes that have definitely been sitting in your sink for the last several weeks now, instead he helping you across the tiny little living room to collapse on the couch. 

Jeez, you think as you gasp for air after that particularly long and harrowing journey from the car. Maybe you had overestimated your recovery…just a little bit. 

Michael leaves you to proverbially lick your wounds and wanders into your kitchen. You clear your throat. 

“Thanks for bringing me home.”

He hums in acknowledgment as you hear him open your refrigerator. Likely taking stock of your distinct lack of the major food groups. 

“So…I can take it from here.” 

He doesn’t respond, instead closes the refrigerator door and walks back into your line of sight to stare at you with a very fatherly look on his face. Like he’s both annoyed and disappointed in you. 

“No,” he disagrees, looming over you with quiet authority. “You can’t.”

You frown. “Excuse me?” 

“You can’t take it from here,” he continues calmly. “In fact, the only reason your doctor agreed to discharge you today was because I told them I would take care of you.” 

“What.” You flush, embarrassed. That can’t be right…and yet you know it is. 

The nurses had been so concerned when you had told them you didn’t have anyone to call or come pick you up. Hell, your family hadn’t called even once since the shooting. It had been front page headlines for days after you woke up from surgery. And yet you hadn’t received so much as a single text asking if you had even been involved. Your family were just too wrapped up in their own lives to notice that one of their own had been inches away from death. 

And, frankly, you preferred it that way. 

The worst thing you could do, you always told yourself, was to be a bother. Nobody needed you ruining their day with your problems. 

You could take care of yourself. 

“You need help,” Michael said firmly. “You barely made it upstairs on your own. Maybe that line works on others but I’m a doctor. I know what major surgery does to a body. So you can complain all you like but I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.” 

You wanted to be angry. Furious. Fight back and tell him to get the hell out. But you were just so…tired. 

Maybe after a nap. 

 “I just don’t want to…bother you.” You say lamely. 

He stares at you like you’ve suddenly started speaking Mongolian. 

“You’re my soulmate,” he says slowly. “I would be upset if you didn’t bother me. Especially for this.” 

“I guess.” 

“No,” he says, “Bother me. Bother me when you’re hungry. Bother me when you’re in pain. Bother me when you need help getting up. If I didn’t want to be bothered then I wouldn’t be here. Hell, I wouldn’t even be a doctor.” He smiles crookedly, like he’s just told a very funny joke. 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod. 

“Good,” Michael turns to look back at your kitchen. “Now, please tell me you have something to eat in this place that isn’t ketchup and ramen noodles.” 

You grimace. 

“Yeah…about that...”

Next Chapter | Life Line Masterlist

Thanks for reading! 🩵

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Tag List: @concentratedconcrete, @daisydark, @emma8895eb, @jjklesbianism, @li22ie2017, @littlezee80, @lonelyheartsm, @nicisthename92, @pocket-of-possibilities, @sebastianstangirl01, @silas-aeiou, @steviebbboi, @wisps-writes-fic

[fuctacles]

someone (thank you) has paid for my bday cake before i could share the link, but if you want, you can pitch in for new headphones for me as a gift ofc no pressure, you being here is a gift enough <3

<< ten | 😺 | twelve >>

To say Eddie is nervous would be an understatement of the century. His soul is one bump in the road away from skipping out of his body, leaving him alone to deal with whatever is happening inside his brain. Which is a lot on a regular day, but today, all his synapses and wires and whatever the fuck are screaming at him, you kissed Steph oh my gods, this is real, this is happening, oh no, Wayne is gonna be so smug about this!!!

No party hook up or any of his short-term girlfriends has made him this nervous. Because no offense to them, but they were young and simple and easy to understand. Steph, he might get to some extent—trans woman rejected by her family, feeling alone despite having a group of devoted friends, all of them scattered through states—but what she wants from life is surely different from finishing college and going on a summer trip. Right?

"Would you want to do it again?" he asks, hands shifting on the wheel. It's a good place to start.

"Your hair?" She gives him a fleeting glance. "Of course, it's nice to work with."

Eddie purses his lips. 

"Kiss. I meant the kiss," he clarifies. "Well, and anything that... might come with it." He winces at his own wording.

Steph murmurs something that sounds like "oh god" under her breath.

"Listen..." She drums her fingers against the bag in her lap. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Anything that involved you has been a good idea so far," he counters lightly. When she turns to look at him, he gives her a soft smile.

She nods slowly. 

"Okay, and how do you imagine that? You fuck me and then we awkwardly pass each other on the stairs? How do I look Wayne in the eye?"

Eddie winces. In his ideal fantasy, Wayne doesn't know until the wedding invitations get send out. 

"Well, unless I do something mortally embarrassing, I can't imagine an outcome where I wouldn't want to at least stay friendly and talk to you." He finally turns into their parking lot and goes silent as he looks for an empty space. Once parked, he kills the engine and turns to properly look at Steph. "What are you really worried about?"

She sighs, and when she looks up, her eyes are big and open, striking him right into his heart. 

"So many things," she admits.

"Tell me one of them," Eddie prompts. 

Steph quickly opens her mouth, almost aggressively, but clamps it shut just as fast. Her thoughtful frown tells him she's looking for something different to share. 

"I don't want to be a conquest, a one night stand. I don't do that, I don't do hook ups, to be honest I haven't had—" she cuts herself off abruptly, and her cheeks turn pink. 

Eddie tries to push down the sympathy from showing on his face, but it's hard to do. In his perfect world, he'd give her all the orgasms she deserves and then some. 

"And I don't want to be someone you can fuck whenever you visit Hawkins," she adds abruptly, rushing it out of her mouth like another forbidden thought. 

Eddie raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

"Do you think I'm so swarmed with opportunities in Indy that I can't pause my libido for a week?" he asks, almost amused by the idea.

"I don't know, Eddie!" She throws her hands up angrily. "I don't know you! And you don't know me."

"I know some of you," he insists. "I know your cats are Garfield, Dart, and Arwen. Your best friend is a lesbian named Robin, I know you're still friends with nerds you used to babysit, and that you like Star Wars. I know what kind of beer you buy, and that your couch is ridiculously soft. I know that you want to give your salon to Joyce and open a new one in Indy," he lists off. "And I'd like to know more." 

"No you don't."

Eddie holds himself back from throwing hands up in frustration as well. Maybe he didn't kiss her hard enough. 

"Well, you don't know me, so how would you know?" He never means to get irritated by her, but she's just so—ugh.

Steph presses her mouth into a thin line. 

"Let's just go in," she says, opening her door to leave the van.

Eddie curses under his breath, scrambling to gather his things and follow her. They don't talk, ruminating in their conversation (argument?), but she walks the stairs slowly, so his smoker lungs and barely used joints can keep up. It gives him hope that she's not really mad, and he could kiss her again in the near future. 

She stops on his floor, where they are meant to part.

"Do you want that conditioner?" she asks. 

For a second, his brain struggles to catch up, but he's nodding before it even clicks. Anything to keep her coming back. 

"Yeah, that would be great, thank you." He smiles, only slightly embarrassed by how out of breath he sounds. 

Steph nods, turning to the next flight of stairs, leading up towards her floor. 

"I'll call you when I find it. Thank you for today." And she smiles, finally, even if it's not as joyful as he'd like. 

"Thank you." He smiles more freely, fighting the instinct to nonchalantly lean against the handrail. It's not an ending of a date, after all. "And I was being serious, earlier. With—"

"I know," she interrupts him. "I know." She puts her feet on the first step, not looking at him. "I'll see you later."

"Will you think about it?" he asks before she can disappear, her pace much faster now that she doesn't have an Eddie-shaped ball chained to her ankle. Damn jock blood. 

Steph stops mid-way, turning to him with a slightly pitying smile that makes his insides churn. 

"Oh, Eddie," she sighs. "I think about it all the time."

For a while longer, he stays rooted to the spot, in the middle of his landing. Hopeful, turned on, but most of all, confused, listening to her steps fade out. 

When he finally turns back into their apartment, Wayne must sense something, because for once he doesn't bother him with questions and teasing remarks. Instead, he does something much, much worse, while he's pulling on the soft ends of Eddie's conditioned hair.

"You're going back next week, right?"

Because Eddie kind of forgot about that. That it's not some liminal time vacuum when he's just his uncle's kid again, driving through familiar streets, seeing faces that have known him since he was a young teen. He tends to do that, whenever visiting Wayne. Life in Indianapolis is great, but it's fast, loud and busy, so the contrast always make him feel like he's in a hazy dream. Like his life is on pause. 

Wayne is heartless in reminding him about the, so called, real life. Eddie sighs. 

"When is the appointment again? Wednesday?" He looks at the calendar on the fridge.

"Thursday," Wayne corrects him. "At 11." 

Eddie nods slowly, humming to himself. 

"We should stock up on the way back. So you don't have to strain your leg while I'm not here." He pats his uncle's knee, swiftly avoiding a kick with the cast after he does it. "How long until you can go back to work?"

"Two weeks, probably." Wayne shrugs. "Depends on what the doctor says. But I'm so ready to leave the house," he groans. "I'm bored out of my mind. Is this how you feel all the time?"

Eddie laughs. 

"Pretty much," he grins. "Should we grab some movies before I leave, too?"

"Please."

It's hours before the phone rings, and he's put it out of his mind, assuming Steph would want a break from him. But as soon as he hears it, he's up and walking towards the kitchen.

"Ed!" his uncle calls from the couch.

"On it!" he yells back before picking up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi, I found the conditioner. Do you want to come up or should I drop it on my way to work tomorrow?" Steph sounds normal, like nothing weird has happened between them. He's not sure is a good or bad sign for him. 

"I'll come up, no problem," he answers quickly. "Is right now okay?"

"Yeah, I'm not doing anything."

"Okay, see you in ten."

When he puts down the phone, he can hear his heart pounding in his chest. He turns to the mirror hanging in the dark corridor and fixes what he can see, any stray hair or weirdly shifted clothes. But upon further consideration, he goes to the bathroom, where he can check his face and teeth under better light.

"I'm going out," he informs his uncle as he slides on his shoes. 

Wayne shifts to look at him, eyebrows raised curiously.  

"To where?"

"Steph's, I need to pick something up. I'll be back in fifteen minutes, don't trip until then."

"Come closer so I can hit you with the crutch," Wayne glowers at him. "I'll handle a walk to the bathroom, you keep the lady some company." He waves him off, turning back to the TV. "Before she goes mad talking to her cats all the time."

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

"Well, in that case, I'll be back when I'm back." He grins. "Later! And goodnight, possibly. Maybe, I don't know." Eddie loses steam by the end of it, but his uncle believes in him. The kid always had a talent for being charming when he wanted to. 

He settles comfortably in his seat. 

"Goodnight, lover boy," he chuckles.

tagsies:

@wheneverfeasible @steddieinthesun @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff @bumblebeecuttlefishes @phantomcat94

@tartarusknight  @tinyplanet95 @steddiefication @estrellami-1 @disrespectedgoatman

@madigoround @tartarusknight @blasvemous @cryptid-system @hiei-harringtonmunson

@hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @dreamercec @manliest-of-muppets

@bookbinderbitch @marklee-blackmore @icecat

[sp00nful0fsuga]

some new ocs hehe

[goatgoesmbe]

"i think everyone write [a particularly popular dark content] too much, and i don't like it. can yall stop, it's concerning"

FILTER TAGS

but also... yeah, tag your fic

[melkyt]

Prompt: Rain!

Event Prompts can be found here!

Want to chat about the twins or ShanksAce? Join my personal discord server here!

[perelka-l]

Drayton doodles uwu mostly shippy lol

[dollfacefantasy]

hmmm thinking about dbf!frank castle(or any fine older guy). you had a crush on him for yeeeaaaars but now you’re in your 20s and over him (because you realized it was never going to happen). but then you have a flat tire or something and you have to call him for help because dads busy and somehow frank ends up with his hand around your throat and his p in your v

mmmmm 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 and then in the weeks and months that follow, so much of your stuff starts to break or need repairing… you’re always having to go to frank for help but he’s more than happy to. he’s never too busy to take care of you <3