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munson-blurbs · 2 years ago

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Summary: It's finally time for your coffee date with Eddie, leading the two of you to fall even harder for each other.

Warnings: brief mention of drug dealing, Reader's grandma has dementia, character death

WC: 6.5k

Chapter 9/20

Divider credit to @saradika

The lime green numbers of the microwave clock reads 11:57, which means that Eddie will be here any minute. You drag your palms on the thighs of your boot-cut jeans, triple-checking that your perspiration hasn’t left a visible stain on the light-wash fabric.

“Okay, her lunch is in the fridge. And the number of the coffee shop is on the counter,” you tell Jess, pointing to the scrap of notebook paper in front of her. “If you need something, just call, and I’ll come home.”

Jess waves away your concern with a kind smile. She’d been pleading with you to get out there and date for ages now, and she was just glad you’d finally taken her advice. Though, you note wryly, she would not be happy if she knew who that date was.

“We’ll be fine,” she reassures you, bracing a hand on your shoulder. “If anything, we’ll need to check on you. Who is this mystery date, anyway?”

“Just a guy,” you say, trying to remain light and casual while simultaneously fighting down the barrage of nerves in your stomach.

Jess takes a step back, wrinkling her nose and crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, God, it’s not one of those creeps from a dating hotline, is it? Because I’ve never heard of one of those that didn’t end up on 48 Hours.”

“No, no, don’t worry,” you shake your head, spotting a piece of lint on your cable knit sweater and plucking it off carefully. You flick it off of your finger, silently berating yourself when you remember that you’ll have to vacuum it later. “It’s a guy from around here.”

Your friend wipes imaginary sweat from her brow as the buzzer rings. You race to the intercom to let him in before he can say anything, but your reflexes are too slow.

“Hey, it’s me.” The sound of his voice has your body pulsing, an eager grin tugging at your lips despite your intentions to keep calm. His slight rasp has you craving the sting of tobacco just to flatten your nerves.

You clear your throat before speaking. “Okay, I’ll be right down.” Grabbing your jacket from where you’ve haphazardly thrown it over the back of the couch, you’ve almost made it to the door, when—

“No. No.” You cringe at the way Jess’s words bite into your excitement. “Please tell me that your date is not Eddie Munson.” You can only offer her a sheepish grin, and she rolls her eyes. “Seriously?!”

You huff out a sigh, both impatient to go on the date and flustered at being caught. “Look, he’s changed. A lot.”

“Oh, you mean he stopped calling you a bitch and making shitty comments about your grandma?” Jess snorts. “How chivalrous.”

There’s no time to explain everything that’s happened, so you simply say, “I’ll be back in two hours,” before closing the door behind you, making sure that it latches before you start down the hallway.

Eddie is waiting in the tiny lobby. He’s leaned up against the double doors, tapping one Reebok-clad foot and examining his fingernails anxiously. A memory crashes over you; one where his nails are painted jet black, though there hasn’t been any polish on them in some time.

He smiles as soon as he spots you, standing up straighter and walking to meet you before you can get to the door. “Hey,” he says softly, letting his hand brush yours as he kisses your cheek.

“Hey, yourself.” You want to kiss him back, but not on his cheek. Your lips yearn to crash against his once more; this time, anchored in belonging rather than lust. Instead, you manage a compliment. “You clean up nice.”

It’s the truth. His gray jeans are free of any holes, sometimes intentional but often the result of overwearing. The sleeves of his red sweater are pushed up slightly, exposing the litany of tattoos on his arms, and it occurs to you that you want to know each of their origins.

“Can’t lie, Harris helped pick out my clothes today,” he admits. “He caught me trying to figure out what to wear and we finally agreed on this.” He sweeps a hand down his side to emphasize his point.

“Was the ponytail his idea, too?” His curls are pulled back and rest at the nape of his neck.

Eddie shakes his head with a laugh as his cheeks tinge pink. “Nah, that was all me.” He pauses, gaze briefly landing on your mouth before his eyes are drawn back to yours. “You’re…you’re beautiful.”

You try to shrug off the compliment, still caught off-guard by his kindness. You wonder when—or if—that unease will dissipate. “I think you’re just used to seeing me with Play-Doh stuck to my shirt,” you tease, but he doesn’t break his trance.

“You’re always beautiful.” The sincerity of his statement clings to a silence that should be awkward, but is somehow comforting. After a few seconds, he clears his throat, lifting the fog of budding romance that clouds the lobby. “Let’s go get some coffee, yeah?”

Eddie takes your hand in his when you nod, leading you to his car and opening the passenger door for you. He sweeps his hand in the direction of the seat, and you giggle.

“Such a gentleman.”

He doesn’t divulge that Wayne reminded him to open doors for you when he’d come over to the apartment for dinner last night, or that the older man had slipped him a crumpled ten dollar bill and whispered, “get her something to eat, too,” punctuating his statement with a wink.

His left leg bounces as he starts the engine and he grates his teeth over his lower lip. He doesn’t even realize that he’s doing either of these things until you timidly rest a hand on his right knee and ask, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, gliding the gear shift from ‘park’ to ‘reverse’ as he backs out of his spot. “Just, uh, been a long time since I’ve gone on a date.” And never with someone so goddamn perfect, he wants to add, but he’s stopped by the fear of coming on too strong.

You graze your thumb over the gray denim and smile at him. “Well, you’re doing great so far.”

“Yeah?” Eddie grins at your reassurance, the soft dimples at the corners of his mouth deepening.

“Yeah.”

He turns on the radio with a slight snap of his wrist, shifting the skull ring that wraps around his middle finger. A metal song comes on that you don’t recognize, drumbeats thumping through the old speakers. Eddie winces, nudging the volume down so he can hear himself speak over the impending guitar solo. “You can change it to something you like better.”

“Nah, this is fine,” you shake your head. “Kinda warming up to heavier music since someone gave me a Guns ‘N Roses tape.”

Eddie’s eyebrows brush the edge of his tousled bangs in surprise. “You really listen to it?”

“All the time,” you confirm truthfully. It’s quickly become one of your favorites; each time you play it, you’re reminded of Harris dressed as a miniature Axl Rose, drawing a picture of you and Eddie holding hands. Not to mention the way that Eddie adoringly gazed at you while you calmed his son down, quickly throwing together an art project and saving the day.

“How’s Grandma?” he asks now, pressing on the brake as he approaches a stop sign.

“Same as always. Her aid had to take her to the hospital the other day because she fell, and she’s been losing more language.” You try to play it off like it doesn’t bother you, but your heart pangs as you speak. When she was initially diagnosed, you’d known that she’d forget who people were, but you hadn’t realized that she would eventually forget how to talk. “Good news is, she hasn’t lost her appetite for Oreos. I have to keep the package you brought over hidden away so she doesn’t eat them all.”

Eddie laughs at this. “Told you; there’s nothing Oreos can’t fix.” He pulls into the cafe parking lot and snags the first available spot he sees. “I really am sorry that you have to see that, though. It can’t be easy.”

You keep your eyes trained on the dashboard, knowing that you’ll tear up if you catch a glance of his sympathetic expression. “‘S just par for the course with dementia, I guess.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything else–he isn’t sure what to say–as he kills the engine. He clicks off his seatbelt to scramble to your door, but it gets snagged in the crook of his elbow, yanking him back.

“Jesus, shit,” he grumbles, untangling himself from the trap he’d inadvertently created. “Don’t move; I’m not done being a gentleman.”

You put your hands up in surrender, watching as he walks to your side and opens the door. “Wow, that was such a surprising gesture,” you mock him, letting out a breathless scoff when he flips you the bird. “Giving me the middle finger kinda negates the whole ‘gentleman’ thing, dontcha think?”

Eddie pretends to consider this, crossing his arms over his chest while shifting his weight to one leg, bringing his hand to his freshly-shaved chin. “Mm, nope.” He helps you out of the seat, still not letting go of your hand once you’re standing next to his car. He holds it tighter, so you can feel every etch of the lifelines across his palm.

The mouth-watering scent of warm pastries and freshly brewed coffee swirls throughout the cafe, wafting to your nose as soon as you open the door. Or, more precisely, as soon as Eddie opens the door for you. You assume he’ll slip his fingers back through yours after you’re both inside, but he hesitates before letting his palm hover on the small of your back. You can barely feel the pads of his fingertips through your thick sweater, but as soon as you give him a smile, he allows himself to hold you a bit closer.

A chipper, twenty-something barista whose name tag reads Stephanie greets you as you approach the counter. “Hi! What can I get you folks?”

Eddie nudges you to place your order, which you give with a polite smile. “Just a coffee with room for milk,” you tell her.

You turn to Eddie so he can give his order, but he says softly, “Get something to eat, too.” He points to the display of baked goods before you, and you peer into the case. The prices are listed next to each item, and you furrow your brow at the $2 brownie.

“Oh, s’okay,” you murmur, trying to play it off. The last thing you need is for Eddie to think you’re pitying him, which, okay, maybe you are. He just doesn’t have to know that. “You can get something, though.”

He shakes his head with a grin. “I’m not falling for that trick, Sweetheart.” It’s odd to hear the nickname without the prefix Ms. in front of it, or without a sneer in his voice. It’s kind, comforting, dare you even venture…a term of endearment? “You tell me you don’t want anything, and then you end up eating half of what I pick. Nope, you’re getting your own.”

“Fine, fine,” you roll your eyes playfully, eventually settling on a blueberry muffin. Eddie’s coffee order is the same as yours, but he gets a chocolate chunk cookie with his. He digs into his back pocket for his wallet, worn and frayed around the edges, and pulls out a ten-dollar bill, leaving a remaining dollar in the colorful jar marked ‘Tips’.

You grab the plated pastries and Eddie shuffles behind with the coffee mugs, gently placing them on the counter next to the silver thermoses and baskets of sugar packets. You pour a bit of milk into yours, watching in amusement as Eddie dumps some of the coffee into the trashcan, filling the mug with half & half and tearing open three Domino packets.

“You want some coffee with that sugar bomb?” you gently tease, and he flicks your shoulder with a dramatic pout on his lips.

“I’d rather this than whatever bitter concoction you’re drinking,” he retorts, taking an exaggerated sip from his mug and punctuating it with an aaaahhh.

You roll your eyes. “You really should be grateful that I like bitter things. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t like you.” Your response earns you another flick to the shoulder before Eddie brings the drinks to a table tucked away in the corner.

You set the cookie in front of him and the muffin at your spot across from him, pulling a crumb from the side and popping it in your mouth. The sweetness of the pastry with the slightly sour berry is heaven on your tongue.

“‘S good?” Eddie asks, smiling brightly when you nod your head. “Wanna try a bite of mine?” He breaks off a piece, and a smattering of crumbs fall to the table. You expect him to place the piece in your hand; instead, he leans over and brings it to your lips. His fingertips brush against them, parting them ever-so-slightly. An electric buzz hums down your spine, and you wonder if he feels it, too.

You’re careful not to let your tongue graze his fingers as you take the chocolate-flecked dessert into your mouth. Eddie, however, is in no rush. He lingers, slowly moving the rough pads of his fingers across your soft lips. In doing so, he wipes away rogue remnants of the cookie he just fed you, though you strongly doubt that that was his intention.

“Here, try mine.” You pinch off a piece of the muffin, a bit bigger than the piece you took for yourself, and bring it to him. His lips close around the very tips of your thumb and forefinger where you’re holding the bite of muffin. You feel the brief flicker of his tongue, gone before you can even process it, taking the muffin piece with it.

“Not bad,” Eddie says with a grin. “I don’t usually like fruit in my dessert, but I’d make an exception for that. Could definitely use some more chocolate, though.” As if to illustrate his sentiment, he takes a comically large bite of his cookie.

“One of these days, I’ll get you to eat a vegetable.” You mean it as a joke, a ribbing towards his poor eating habits, but it implies that you’ll stick around. That you care about him. You’re unclear about how he interpreted your statement, so you quickly change the subject before he can think about it. “I do have a question for you. Completely unrelated to the lack of nutrients in your diet.”

Eddie ignores the teasing jab and takes another bite of cookie. “Shoot.”

“The, uh, lock-picking kit,” you start, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your nerves calm. “Do you just keep them laying around?” You hate the idea of him using it to commit break-ins. If that was the truth, would he even admit it to you?

But Eddie just laughs, sipping his barely-coffee with a knowing smirk. “When Harris was about two, Wayne was watching him. He left for a second to grab the mail and the little stinker locked him out.”

“Out of the trailer?!” you ask incredulously, jaw dropping in shock.

“Out of the trailer,” Eddie confirms, shaking his head as though he still can’t believe it himself. “So, yeah. Ever since that happened, I’ve kept a lock-picking kit in my car.” He takes a deep breath, looking into your eyes with a gaze that makes your heart skip a beat. He drums his fingertips on the table as he says, “Tell me about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Eddie accentuates his request with a quick poke of your hand before returning his grip to the mug handle. “Like, how did you end up being the one schlepping out to Hawkins to take care of Grandma?”

You shrug and bring the hot cup to your lips, letting the steam tickle your nose before you drink. “She and I were always really close, and teaching is a job that’s everywhere. It was just easier for me to pick up and move, I guess.”

Eddie pauses, nodding as he considers his next question. He rubs his palm back and forth on the side of his mug; there’s an air of nervousness around him. “Tell me about her. Grandma, I mean. Like, how she was before she got sick.”

“Where do I start?” It’s strange, you think, the way memories work. Sometimes it seems like the more Grandma forgets, the more you remember. You’ll just be lesson planning, or hurriedly making photocopies at work, or heating up leftovers in the microwave, and a memory will crash over you. Suddenly, you’re plucked from reality and transported to Benny’s Diner where you and she used to split a giant stack of pancakes. Or to the shoe store where she’d buy you a new pair of sneakers every August before the start of the new school year. “She just loved taking care of people. Cooking for them or cheering them up. She wasn’t the type of person to tell you to stop crying when you’d get upset, y’know? She’d sit there with you, rub your back, and let you get all the tears out.” You muster a wistful smile in a paltry attempt to hide the shame blooming in your chest. “It’s all so fucked, the way I talk about her like she’s gone when she’s still here.”

“No.” Eddie’s voice is soft yet adamant. “I don’t think it’s fucked at all. Because, I dunno, it’s like she’s not here, in a way. Physically, yeah; but almost like…” He stops himself to avoid speaking out of turn and making a fool of himself.

“Like she’s a shell of who she used to be,” you finish for him, and relief floods his body when you understand the point he’s trying to make.

He nods. “Exactly.” He smooths his ponytail reflexively. “I think you’re a lot like her. How she was, anyway. The way you’re always looking out for people, like…let’s say…a bitter wannabe rockstar and his adorable yet mischievous son?”

“That’s the best compliment I’ve gotten in a long time.” It’s all you want, really–to spread joy and kindness to others, filling in gaps that have remained empty for so long that they seemingly go unnoticed. “Maybe ever, actually.”

Good, Eddie wants to say. He wants to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, each one kinder than the last, until you’re utterly flustered. Instead, he abruptly changes the subject and asks, “What made you wanna be a teacher?”

This is a much easier question for you to answer. “I just love seeing kids learn,” you beam. “Being able to do things they couldn’t do before; things they never thought they’d be able to do.”

He returns your smile easily; something about hearing you speak about your profession with such gratification has him buzzing.“Speaking of which,” he says, sneaking a mouthful of cookie between words, “I took Harris to the supermarket yesterday. And when we passed by the seafood section, he points to a sign, sounds out cuh-ahh-d, and goes, ‘that says cod!’”

“That’s incredible! Look at our little reader go!” You could jump out of your seat with excitement, held back only by the desire to not go overboard in your display of enthusiasm.

Eddie nods in agreement. “I was so proud, I damn near bought all of the candy in the store.” He cocks his head, amusement tugging the corners of his lips upwards. “Any idea where he learned how to read like that?”

“Not a clue.” You try to force a deadpan expression to reinforce the sarcasm in your remark, but your happiness betrays you in the form of a giggle. You clap a hand over your mouth, but he reaches out to pull it down, keeping your fingers clasped with his.

He strokes his thumb over your knuckles, watching the digit sweep back and forth for a moment. “You really are pretty, y’know.” The admission feels like a weight has been both removed from and added to his shoulders. Now you know how he feels, but now you know how he feels.

You, meanwhile, are far less fixated on his vulnerability and focus instead on his phrasing. The opportunity has presented itself so perfectly, and you have to seize it.

“Like a princess?” Your eyes gleam with playfulness.

“Wha–oh, Christ.” Eddie’s features shift from confusion to embarrassment over the span of a second. “What did that kid tell you?”

“Not a lot,” you say nonchalantly, taking an innocent swig of coffee. It’s cooled down considerably, but you’ve never been one to let a drop of caffeine go to waste. “Just that you think I’m ‘pretty like a princess.’”

Eddie uses his free hand to rub his eyes, swiping his thumb and forefinger across the lids. “What a little snitch.”

“It’s true, then?” You perch your chin in your hand, batting your eyelashes and reveling in his awkwardness. His cheeks flush red and a nervous chuckle splices the silence between you.

“To be fair,” he finally counters, trying to gather his thoughts before they scatter again, “I was asked if I thought you were pretty like a princess. I didn’t, like, come up with that on my own.”

You purse your lips into a pout, feigning disappointment. “So you don’t think I’m pretty like a princess?”

“N-No, you are!” He takes a deep breath and composes himself as he notices you trying to hold in your laughter. “All right, which would you prefer? We talking trading your fins for legs or losing your glass slipper at a ball?”

“Neither,” you chide, scratching at the base of your neck absentmindedly. “More like…bookworm who rescues people in need no matter what the personal cost and captures the heart of the town outcast.” You hope that he doesn’t take offense to that last part, as true as it might be.

“So…Belle?” Eddie chuckles when you raise your eyebrows at him. “What? I have a little ankle biter, I know Disney movies.”

“Harris would never bite your ankles,” you scoff, grinning at the mere thought of the littlest Munson gnawing at the bottom of his dad’s legs mid-tantrum. “He’d just lock you out of the house until he gets what he wants.”

Eddie lifts his half-drank cup of coffee. “I’ll drink to that,” he agrees, and you gently knock your mug into his. The porcelain rims make a slight clink as they touch, echoes muffled by the chipped edges.

“So,” you start, allowing yourself to swim in his deep brown eyes for a beautiful moment before you pivot the conversation. “Why did you move to Chicago? Why not, like, LA or New York?”

He shrugs, wiping the residue of a coffee mustache from his upper lip. “Guess I wanted to stay kinda close to home. In case something happened to Wayne, or the music thing didn’t work out, or,” he smiles wryly, “if I knocked up a groupie and needed help raising a newborn.”

You press your lips together to stifle a giggle of your own, careful not to smudge whatever’s left of the lipstick you meticulously applied earlier. “So you moved back after Harris was born?”

“Yeah, when he was about…” Eddie silently does the math in his head, “a month old? Six weeks, maybe? When I realized that the whole ‘parenting’ thing is a hell of a lot harder than I thought. Especially doing it alone.” He drops his voice to a whisper as though he’s about to divulge a great secret. “Did you know that babies wake up, like, every half hour?”

“You don’t say?” Sarcasm is thickly woven into your tone. “Tell me more, Dr. Spock.”

Eddie snatches the muffin from your plate and takes an unprompted bite in retaliation. He chews like a cow on cud, slow and deliberate, relishing in his baked good thievery. You watch, unblinking, as a smirk crosses his face. “All right, smartass,” he snorts once he finally swallows, “not all of us specialize in taking care of kids.” He breaks off a hunk of his cookie and leaves it on your plate, a delicious peace offering that you gladly accept. “Anyway, Wayne let us stay with him until I found a place. Took a while to build up some funds, but I finally managed.”

“Where were you working?”

His face blanches at your question, and he finds himself inclined to bunch the paper napkin into a ball and shove it in his mouth to avoid answering. “Wh-What?”

“You said you had to build up some funds,” you explain, as though it were a convoluted construct. “Were you at the music store back then?”

“Oh, um. No.” Quicksand. Volcano eruption. A piano falling from the sky like in a classic Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote showdown. Eddie would’ve taken any of these options over giving you an answer. “I went back to my old high school gig of, uh, dealing.” His cheeks are beet red, the heat radiating from them is the only distraction from the shame curdling in his lungs.

He keeps his eyes on the floor; to his surprise, your feet remain planted on the ground. You’re not leaving. “Oh.” Your voice draws him back to reality. “But you don’t…”

“Nope.” Eddie shakes his head. “I’m totally done with that scene. It’s just minimum wage, on-the-books bullshit for me now. I even pay taxes.” He laughs when you roll your eyes. “Although…the manager is transferring to another store soon.”

You slam your hands on the table in excitement, eyes alight with joy at this new opportunity for him. “Eddie, you have to apply!” Your eagerness fades when you notice the frown on his face. Shit, did he think you were telling him what to do? “I’m sorry if–”

“Nah, you’re good.” He bites his thumbnail without thinking, withdrawing it from between his front teeth when he sees you watching him. “‘S not like I haven’t considered it. Just feels like…if I do that, I’m officially giving up on the whole rockstar dream. Like I’m closing that chapter of my life.”

This time, you’re the one who holds onto him. His palm is pressed flat on the Formica table, and you bring your fingers underneath it to scoop his hand into yours. You give it a quick squeeze, watching a delicate smile develop across his lips. “Is that necessarily a bad thing, though? You’re not giving up on anything; you’re just shifting your priorities to make sure that Harris is always number one.” He nods halfheartedly, but you continue. “And you can always get back into music, find another band, or…maybe even make up with the Corroded Coffin guys?”

Eddie sighs, taking a strand of hair that’s fallen from its rubber band enclosure and tucking it behind his right ear. “Yeah. Maybe.” He doesn’t quite believe it; not after the terrible things he said to Jeff. Not after Gareth said he doesn’t look up to him anymore. A Corroded Coffin reunion seems about as likely as Wayne becoming a Radio City Rockette. He clears his throat and shifts his gaze back to you. “This is, uh, not first date conversation.”

You laugh at this, nodding in agreement. “No, it most certainly isn’t.” You use your free hand to take a final swig of coffee, now on the cooler side of lukewarm. “But I don’t think you and I have done anything conventionally, so it seems to be par for the course.”

Eddie shifts in his seat to lean in closer. He’s heard your response, but he’s not accepting it. Just because things began backwards didn’t mean they had to continue that way. “Tell me about you,” he says. “What do you like to do for fun? Like, hobbies and stuff.”

Your mind goes blank, as though you’ve never enjoyed any activity in your life. “Hmm,” you ponder, trying to remember a moment that wasn’t spent lesson planning or breaking up big arguments between small humans or taking care of an elderly woman who couldn’t stand you half the time. “I really love to cook,” you finally manage, thinking of the hours when you and Grandma stood in her kitchen, preparing meals or snacks or baked goods to munch on.

“No shit!” Eddie blurts out, eyes widening. “I really love to eat.”

“I’ll have to cook for you sometime,” you tell him. Surprisingly, you’re not shy when you say it. The image of you standing before the stove, stirring a pot on a burner or taking a tray of roasted vegetables from the oven while Eddie and Harris set the kitchen table, warms you from the inside out. You express your love by making meals for others, just like Grandma does. Did. “Your favorite food is olives, right?”

Eddie rolls his eyes playfully, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back in his seat. He opens his legs slightly as he bites the inside of his lower lip to hide his smile. “I hate you sometimes, y’know that?”

“Yeah, I hate you, too.”

As soon as you and Eddie step out of the little cafe hand in hand, the bitter slap of winter is all-consuming. Snow flurries flutter to the ground, melting as soon as they touch the faded green grass. The coldness of the flakes stings the tip of your nose, and you wiggle it to try to ward off the impending numbness.

Eddie breaks the connection to dig out a crumpled pack of cigarettes from one pocket and his lighter from the other. He flicks the switch a few times before it finally catches as he shields the flame from the harsh winds. As soon as it does, he tucks the lighter away and immediately re-laces his left fingers with your right, taking a long drag and offering it out to you with a grin.

“Since you’re just a social smoker and don’t keep any on you,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes. You wonder how he could possibly know this until memories of that fateful night at the Hideout come roaring back to you. You and Eddie standing outside, making painfully awkward small talk while you figured out how to initiate a sexual encounter.

You inhale, letting the tobacco mingle with the taste of coffee and muffin already saturating your tongue, and pass the cigarette back to him. It’s a slow walk to his car; the two of you take your time as you breathe in smoke and each other’s closeness. Eddie lets you kill out the cigarette, eyes never leaving your body as you stub it into a nearby ashtray.

“I have a little confession to make,” he begins, quickly amending his statement when he catches the horrified expression on your face. “No, nothing bad; I swear!” He laughs lightly when you exhale, pressing your hand to your heart in relief. “Okay, the reason I took you out for coffee is because, well, I figured if things went well, I’d know your coffee order and could bring it to you at work or something? Like when I drop Harris off in the morning.”

The early December chill dissipates at his offer. Just the thought of Eddie memorizing your coffee order, handing you the styrofoam cup with a chaste kiss to your cheek so that none of your students or co-workers can catch you, fills you with a buzzing warmth. “I’d really like that.”

“Good,” Eddie nods, stopping at his parked car. You spot Harris’s carseat in the back, reminding you of the night Eddie drove you to his place after his show. The way he tried to hide the existence of his son from you, as though it would deter you from pursuing anything further. You can’t help but wonder how many women had turned him down after learning that he’s a dad. It has to be a decent amount, a pattern that developed, for him to become so jaded and guarded over it.

His calloused thumb ghosts over your cheek, though you can hardly feel it after being exposed to the stinging air. His gaze meets yours and he holds it, chocolate orbs fueling the fire within you.

“Feels weird asking to kiss you after we’ve already…” he trails off with a chuckle, tone laced with ambivalence. The last time he’d pressed his lips to yours, he didn’t want to stop, which scared the living shit out of him. And that was under the pretense of casual sex, not intended to go any farther than a one-night stand. But now? Now he was about to kiss you after a date, after telling you that you look pretty, after admitting that planned to get you coffee in the mornings.

If he kisses you now, there’s no going back.He’s sealing the deal, opening himself up to heartbreak, the potential to be crushed when the relationship comes to a screeching halt.

But, he reminds himself silently, it also means someone to watch movies with. Someone to buy flowers–or coffee–for. Someone to hold, to touch. Someone to share stories with, from the mundane tasks of the day to big, exciting news. Someone who I could love, who could love me and my boy.

“Eddie?” Your voice breaks into his mind, overrun with racing thoughts about the good, the bad, and the ugly of falling in–

You bring your lips to his, effectively silencing his inner monologue. His right hand stays on your face as his left grips your waist to return the kiss, deepening it with a gentle prod of his tongue. It’s wanting, but not hungry, like he’s savoring every last bite of a long-time craving. He wants this, he wants you, forever. He swears he’d never let you go if he didn’t have an oversugared, overtired four-year-old to attend to.

“You are…” he murmurs, nudging his nose with yours, but he has no idea how to end the sentence. Perfect? Mine? The one for me? “...the best.” It feels like a cop-out, but he doesn’t want to come on too strong. The irony is not lost on him that he had no problem spewing insults at you, but hesitates when it comes to affection.

“The best coffee date?” you tease, resting your hands on his chest. The sweater’s scratchy wool itches your palms, and you can’t imagine he’ll make it ten steps through the door before changing into one of his signature band tees.

“Yes. No. Yes.” He kisses your nose, an electric spark flying between you. “But also just…the best.” His fingers clasp around the door handle as he begrudgingly opens your door, not wanting the date to end. “Shall I take you home?”

No, you think, biting back your protest. No, take me to your place. Kiss me more, kiss me deeper, kiss me where the curve of my hips meets the plush of my thighs. Let me help you with your sweater; you’ll be so much more comfortable without it, Eddie.

“Okay,” you manage, sliding into your seat. He closes the door once you’re inside, jogging around to his side with a breathy chuckle.

“Gotta keep warm,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. The car rumbles to life, and as soon as he’s out of his parking spot, he takes your hand once again. Your intertwined fingers rest atop the gearshift for the entire drive to your building.

He turns off the car and faces you. “Let me walk you in.” Five simple words that ordinarily would preface sex; Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever uttered them in that order without at least the anticipation of getting laid. But there’s none of that now. He just wants to spend as much time with you as he can, before the spell is broken and he turns back into a pumpkin. Could the prince turn back into the Beast? he wonders wryly.

You cock your brow. “You sure about that? What if Grandma’s gotten herself into more trouble?”

“I’m willing to take that risk.” And he is. He’d risk everything, and for the first time in a long while, he’s not running from that feeling.

Luckily, there’s no crisis when you and Eddie arrive on your doorstep. You trade a few more giggle-laced kisses before you finally part.

The stars align on Monday morning, with Harris actually cooperating and getting ready with enough time for Eddie to stop off at the cafe to get your coffee. Okay, letting him have a Pop-Tart for breakfast instead of cereal definitely helped the situation, but it was a special occasion! And it’s not like he could tell Harris that he needed to pick up coffee for Ms. Sweetheart; the kid would be hiring caterers for a wedding if he knew.

Eddie had wanted to call you on Sunday, maybe see if you wanted to go to the playground with him and Harris and get some ice cream afterwards, but he’d ultimately decided against it. Give it some time; don’t be too eager.

It occurs to him that bringing you coffee is something that a boyfriend would do, and he hasn’t actually asked you to be his girlfriend yet. Do adults do that? Or is it just kinda implied? Shit, maybe I can take her out again this weekend and ask, just to be sure.

He gives Harris a hug and a kiss goodbye, careful not to spill any of the hot beverage as he crouches down to his height. Jitters course through his veins as he approaches your classroom, but he knows that the joy on your face–either from his kind gesture or the prospect of caffeine–will make it all worth it.

When he gets there, he only sees Will. He can’t stick around long; he doubts his boss will accept trying to impress my maybe-girlfriend as a valid excuse for tardiness.

“Hey, Byers,” Eddie calls out with a wave, pointing to the cup. “I’m just gonna leave this on her desk, if that’s cool.” He spots a black Sharpie and is about to use it to write Date night on Friday? when he catches Will’s expression. It’s a combination of confusion and sadness, with his brows pinching together as he walks over to Eddie.

Will shoves his hands in his pants pockets. “Um, she’s not coming in today. Probably not for the rest of the week.”

“Is she okay?” Worry mars Eddie’s confidence, and the sense of dread only worsens when Will quietly ushers him to the corner of the room away from the kids. “Is she sick or something?” he adds once the students are out of earshot. Will looks up at Eddie, though the height gap has decreased considerably since he was a freshman and Eddie was working through his third senior year. His eyes are shiny with tears, and he blinks them back and clears his throat. “Eddie…” he says softly, “her grandma died last night.”

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#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

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pekoehoneyncream · 2 months ago

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Ghoaptober # 28

Prompt: Help

Words: 800~

TW: None (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

Very domestic, very acts of service.

Enjoy!

“Here, Si,” Johnny says, plopping the book Ghost had been reading in the mess beside his hand. Ghost had gotten to talking with Price and had put aside the book. He must have forgotten to grab it when they’d left and now Johnny was hand delivering it back into his possession. Casually, like it was nothing.

Ghost laid a possessive hand over the cover, sliding the book to rest directly in front of himself and watching Johnny settle into the chair to his left with equally possessive eyes. The Scot had been doing this for some number of weeks now. Not this -returning forgotten books to him- specifically, but little things. Innocuous favors that made Ghost’s day that small bit easier.

He couldn’t be sure how long Johnny had been doing it exactly, but Ghost had taken a hit from the clue-by-four when they were on a long stake out and Johnny had pulled tea bags and honey packets out from amongst his gear, tea bags and honey packets he’d brought along just so that Ghost could have his cuppa exactly how he liked it while they were squatting in squalor half a world away from home.

On another mission a tango had gotten a lucky shot in and cracked Ghost across the nose, not enough to break it, but enough to give him a gushing nosebleed. It had soaked through his mask in an instant, and Ghost had stoically withstood being half waterboarded by his own blood, until Johnny had cornered him and pulled a clean skull-marked balaclava out from one of the many pouches on his kit. After Ghost had taken the mask, Johnny had turned his back, giving him privacy and guarding him from any looky-loos in one action. No masks had gone mysteriously missing from Ghost’s stash and a closer inspection showed that the balaclava Johnny had given him wasn’t an exact match for any of the masks Ghost had made. Johnny had made a mask for him and then carried it about, just in case Ghost ever needed a spare. That mask had immediately dethroned the balaclava that Ghost had previously -privately- considered his favourite.

If, on another occasion -after the mask Johnny had made had started getting tattered from Ghost overwearing it- Ghost had gotten into a scuffle and emerged suspiciously unscathed except for a rip in his balaclava, just to see if Johnny would do it again -he did-, that was his own business thank you very much.

Ghost had taken it upon himself to return the gestures as best as he could.

He’d bought Johnny a replacement journal when he saw that Johnny's was starting to get full. Splurging in a way he knew Johnny never would, by buying one that’s covers could be folded out into a self-containing waterproof pouch, fleshed out with what was advertised to be anti-bleed quick-drying pages.

Ghost was now constantly at risk for accusations of being a druggy if any fool demanded to search him, because he’d taken to packing a baggy -the canister was too unwieldy to carry around- of the powdered creamer that Johnny liked to put in his coffee. He hadn’t yet gathered the confidence to actually tell Johnny however, and had instead been putting his sleight-of-hand skills through their paces to sneak it into Johnny’s cup, basking in the baffled gratitude Johnny gave him every time he did it.

The look in Johnny’s eyes and the sincere thanks he’d given Ghost when the Sergeant had been cursing over losing his pen and Ghost had pulled another -of the exact same brand and type- out of his kit for him, had banished the nightmares from Ghost’s dreams for weeks.

Ghost had thought he’d known what he’d been signing up for when he’d agreed to Johnny’s nervous proposal that they officially call what they were doing ‘being boyfriends’ instead of just fuck buddies, but with all the little ways Johnny had been going out of his way to be helpful and care for him -the way he stoked an insatiable need in Ghost to see Johnny warm, safe, and wanting for nothing-, he made Ghost feel like they were actual partners.

Voluntarily trapping themselves into a holding pattern of giving the other all they could.

One day Ghost was sure that something would come of the fact that they were both too eager to give and too wary of taking, but today wasn't that day.

Deftly, Ghost flicked his book open to the last page he’d been reading with his right hand, his left hand busy clamping greedily onto Johnny’s upper thigh. A hidden smile ticked up the corners of his mouth when Johnny firmly took hold of his wrist, not to move his hand, but to reciprocate the connection, and Ghost happily settled in to read until Price and Gaz managed to force the video call that some higherup was demanding into working.

Thank You For Reading!

This one's set early relationship, they're still feeling things out.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

#ghoaptober #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #pekoehoneyncream #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon riley #john soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap cod #john mactavish

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joannasteez · 6 months ago

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tanks of blood (6) - the trouble was always here - part two

pairing: biker!roman reigns , biker!cody rhodes (mentioned) warning: mentions of violence and explicit descriptions of blood. dialogue and descriptions pertaining to guns. roman talk to someone without being a jerk challenge. slight non-con moment but turns consensual quickly (its a kiss)! authors note: if ya'll ever watch sons of anarchy... you’ll know, im stealing little pieces of plot lmaooooooooo. imma give yall a spicy little flashback after this, i promise. will also attempt to not make the following chapters as long. just so that they remain relatively digestible. i'm working on being more precise with words. all the medical stuff in this chapter is half done research and my own brain. this chapter picks up where i left off in chapter 5. ALSO… if you want or dont want tags on this fic let me know! word count: 3k tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

-wednesday night. the first week in june-

that marriage of ignorance and bliss did not last long. having to suffer as a lone soldier amidst silent dinner table battles. displeasured dispositions and their eyes performing like the greatly sharpened edge of well smithed daggers. and then came compromise, toiling through the thick of it to wave it's white flag. a surrender of a promise. your mother and fathers union holding as much sanctity as a soon to die vehicle's tank, holding its last dregs of oil but whose fuel gauge reads empty. running still, a quick speed into the darkness, wheels tired and the road too coarse to bare. an abrupt end of the engine as it slips against the asphalt at full speed. a collision terribly par for the course. their rings fettered to their fingers, pretty diamond but a prison, making forever impressions upon the skin. that marriage of ignorance and bliss did not last long. dying with the useless wear of wedding rings, and redeclaring itself with the overwear of leather kuttes.

because there was more to the life than just that simple enthusiasm for motorcycles. your father transforming before the eyes. leather slipping over his shoulders, not so dissimilar to the tough metal, shrilly chime of chainmail. custom rings taking their homes over the marred skin of his knuckles. fingers worn and always just barely healed. scarred from one brutal splitting open after another. his eyes working to harden. the keys to his bike clutched in hand.

"should i be worried?", your mother asking right on time. examining his pace. the work in and change over of his demeanor.

and he never answered. never dignifying her question enough to speak to it. because then the trouble would be true, so much so that it would live, breathing well to make room in their home. no. KG, your father, only ever lingered by the door, a slip in of hesitation before he turned to kiss your mother gracefully. the small appearance of a forever ago passion. an i love you without the weight of words. and then he went, heavy steps leading out the door.

so its almost second nature. those faithful coming together of words. cody slipping on his leather near the door. shoulders squaring as the material adjusts to his body. demeanor unsoftened. the ease of the words as they leave you filling your stomach with a burdening weight. memory working tedious and so terribly true.

"cody, should i be worried?"

he sighs. cold blue eyes hesitating enough to take the time to commit your face to memory. his palm warm as it cradles your cheek. kissing you firmly before he leaves.

-early friday morning. first week in june-

there was, is, and will never be a time too early or too late for violence. for blood and that faithful nerve warp of adrenaline. and maybe that's why the hospital is so easy. old, early moments in your youth, piercing your fathers skin with a needle, sewing together split skin as he washed his tongue with the burn of his favorite liquor. a warmth in his belly till the pain from the prick of your fixing turned numb. a simple pressure in the skin there at his arm, turning inevitably, to pressure in his leg, a slit at his thigh from a brawl with which he gave no further information. bruises and gashes and deep cuts to him, more by the day, by the year. near quiet grunts and the emptiness of the house loud enough to swallow you both whole. cleaning his marred skin and bandaging the area's as best you could. the slow to ease push and pull of his breaths. his hands smelling like iron as he cradled your face, mouth kissing your forehead. "thank you", but a whisper, before falling into sleep.

maybe that's why the hospital is so easy. the color of blood and caked earth, the silver of knuckle rings and the black of over worn leather more familiar than summer green trees.

text message | cody r: in an emergency. need your help.

it shouldn't come as a surprise, but the sudden rush takes you all the same. a deep plunge of the heart in your chest, something odd creeping beneath the skin and fevered steps. making to call cody quickly. a ring, and then a second, before he's answering. breaths labored some as he goes. "can't say much about it but it's medical. how soon can you get to the clubhouse?"

you assess the long hallway. the trauma unit, quiet. a squeak in your sneakers that makes you cringe as you move to collect things. only minutes from the end of your shift. "uhm, in like twenty minutes". a series of grunts and yells that indicate the messiness of a situation he's all to willing to abruptly rope you into. "cody what's going on?"

he sighs. his patience a thinning thread. "what did i say before about becoming an accessory?"

"you gotta give me something", you stress. continuing an awfully secretive journey to where you could gather some other helpful supplies. "i can't just show up not knowing what for".

"think the worst".

"that doesn't help-"

the call dropping on his end. the angst sticking to your skin making room for an easy to settle in frustration. like you were an early twenty something again. attempting too diligently to remedy that divorce of ignorance and bliss. a tedious washing away and stitching together, performing so well now that the pungent smell of iron threatens to stain your skin again. and here does the soldier pay the price for wielding a double edged sword. for pensacola was home, is home, and forever will be home, the desire to return running too wild beneath the skin not to act on it. but there are things here. vicious rumblings above sunburned asphalt and the bitter steeping of blood between the cracks. the dross and the dregs that stick so loyally to the air and the skin just after a brutish performance of chaos too commonplace to live without it.

trouble taking up permanent residence, riding in over the clouds and rolling in with the heat.

and the clubhouse looks haunted amidst the beginnings of the friday summer sunrise. the dark colored build of it dreary against the beauty of the sky. the heat yet to reach its full potential but your scrubs and the exhaustion of a twelve hour shift do all too well of making you live with that thin sheen of sweat breaking over your cheeks. your car parked not too far from the clubs neat line of stationed bikes. true in how they've always done well to remind you of the clubs presence. after so long, living here and far away, that grimy power behind the roar of an engine, ever inescapable.

the clubhouse doors swing open as you make to leave your car. a small bag of supplies in hand as you rush up. cody's hand slipping at the low end of your back to guide you in. a small "thank you", leaving him breathy as you make way to pass through the double doors of the "church". a room that never seems to lose its luster from the looks of it. the sanctity of their meetings as important as the shine of a new chrome fender finish. men and their worried eyes flitting over your entrance as you approach the church table. seth laid out face down, with his pants at his ankles. his skin wet with sweat and an awful paleness. bloody cloths surrounding him and randy's finger lodged in where all the blood could possibly be spewing from. a small metal tin cup resting in the corner, holding the whole of a bullet.

dean taps seth's cheek. waking him up a little less than tenderly. "look alive sweetheart, the doctor is here to see you".

"nurse", you correct, to which dean just winks.

cody and a host of club members file out through the double doors much to your pleasure.

initial shock of your current state of affairs rolling off your shoulders as you settle into the routine of caring for the wound. gloves slipping on before you're tossing the box to dean. his take up of them swift and unquestioning. because it was never unusual to spend a night—especially in their youth—caring for cuts and bruises and wounds, before turning to do the same for another. a task as regular as breathing air.

seth groans. the drawl of it stressing the pain in his leg. "i don't know if you've noticed but i went to some extreme lengths to see you", he jokes. his little laugh coarse and overworked by the weariness of getting shot.

you laugh. an attempt to break the over work of tension in the air. "what an interesting way of saying you love me seth". sliding up to stand next to randy. his demeanor as quiet now as it was during richie's funeral.

you look to dean. "once randy removes his finger, you're gonna help me pack the wound, and then i want you to keep pressure on it till i'm ready to wrap it".

"you know what you're doing?", randy asks. the dark color of his eyes disrupted with little slivers of worry.

"no randy, i just wear the scrubs for fun". peering up at the hard set of his face. older now but his visage still holding that silent menace to it.

"can we banter when seth isn't bleeding out by the pint?", dean asks. so obviously done with the whole situation.

"on my three", you start. the both of them coming to a shared focus. "one...two...three".

thick blood springs upward, randy's finger dislodging quick. dean rushes in with your guidance, packing the wound as instructed. your hand taking the reins of the procedure as you allow dean a moment of reprieve. the little levee of seth's composure rupturing as his body goes taut, his mouth loose and lax as he curses his fill into the shined up wood of the church table. groaning wearily as dean holds the pressure against his legs, randy lifting it casually, allowing you to wrap the middle of his leg with a fresh dressing. a dead silent relief settling the room then after, before you're moving again. running on the extra dose of adrenaline.

you discard your gloves, peeling them off your fingers. picking through your bag to give dean a bottle of pills. "vancomycin, it's an antibiotic", you start. "give him two now and another two later tonight. keep going with that dosage for no less than a week".

"our lovely little savior". dean's boots heavy as he closes the distance to kiss your forehead. "thank you. go get cleaned up".

randy gives a quieter acknowledgement. a simple nod of appreciation that does you just fine. the double doors of the church room creaky as they swing with your exit. all the worried faces you'd met upon your arrival, taking up every inch of the clubhouse. their bodies drowsy and torn through by the chaos of an oh so terrible possibility.

your feet mindless as they walk down the infamous hallway gallery of framed photos. your last walk through of the area filled with a particularly horrible play of strife. twisting the knob of one of many of the little dormitory rooms to access it's bathroom. a deep breath releasing as you make to wash your hands, a slow thorough trail up over your arms to rid your skin of seth's soon to dry blood. your scrubs somewhat ruined and your shoes showcasing nasty little streaks of red.

but it is only exhaustion that takes you so brazenly. a sleepy sinking feeling in the body and nothing else. hands used to providing all the remedy's it can.

well maybe not nothing else. a fast to slip in weariness amidst the quiet. because he couldn't be too far away, lurking to siphon what he could again of the air about you in a means of suffocation. that faithful ability once upon a time, a favorite of yours for how sweetly it sought to consume you, now possessing a quality that unfurls something disdainful in your belly. a prick of a man seemingly beyond reproach, what with his positioning among all the others. surely it was never your simple exit making him this mountain of hubris, that streak of his character impossible to climb and overcome for the sake of reasoning with him. or even for the lesser sake of some cordiality. it was so obviously everything else—the grime and the chaos—giving the once duller edge of his pride a sharper corner. enough to will him into an endless keep of a grudge.

heavy thudding steps strip you clean of wandering anymore into thought. it seems even thinking of the devil causes him to appear. his disposition reminiscent of some weeks ago. shoulders squared and seeming too tall for you now to bare without feeling small. and he says nothing, attempting to take his kutte off without the inconvenience of pain but he grunts regardless. grimacing as he rids himself of his shirt as well.

a gash running against his naked arm, almost like it's purposefully found a heap of muscle to tear into. wanting to humble the strength of him. blood caked and running down tawny skin.

"i got grazed".

voice tired but oddly delicate. like the weariness of it is making him just that more fragile.

you point to the bathroom, eyes never really having the courage to part from him. "sit over there".

and your feet rush. tunnel visioned as they make to gather whats left of your little collection of supplies. fingers feeling less sure, and your body teeming with something akin to an unworkable angst. a realization long ago understood, and buried for the sake of a then wanted peace, unearthing itself to bring about a renewed sense of understanding. for he has always been the manifestation of this double edged sword. of home and of violence. wielding itself always but never one without the other. the slip of his skin over familiar in its warmth. doing your resolve the greatest amounts of violence as you clean his wound tenderly. the double edge of him piercing so well that you feel the damning effects. his eyes sharp, cutting over your face in a silent means to examine. like the appraisal of a curious stranger attempting to settle within themselves the validity of your existence.

the soft tender pads of your fingers remember him well. gloves and all. slight throbs that liven the nerves.

"you came straight from work", more like a statement than a question.

"i did".

he flinches. his arm flexing as he bares the pain. "thank you for being here", he gives. “for seth", like a thankfulness that includes him would hurt his pride too much to be made known.

"i'm sure that took a lot to say", you joke. feeling light in your head. drained of the will to keep up a proper guard. "you’re welcome though".

a hum of an acknowledgment is the only thing he gives you. and in an effort to savor the easy going nature of the moment you keep yourself occupied with dressing the wound splitting his skin open. your work of caring for it doing well enough that the bleeding has stopped. memory faithful as it nags, the wound of a forever ago accident pulsing to life about your hand. the scars there still, though faded, serving as a reminder of the former things. the heat of him, then, different as it sought to consume. brazen in how it dared to bring about affection. not like now, this flame threatening to flare, to show the lengths and widths of its destruction.

you finish. gloves in the waste basket. making tedious work of washing your hands. to rid the skin of such an indicative sensation.

his body does well in blocking the bathroom door. the whole of him bigger than the last time you saw him. scrutiny set some in his gaze. trailing over the ink that lays permanent at your neck.

"you still have it"

"it's a tattoo". feigning nonchalance as you dry your hands. "you never really plan to get rid of them".

he smiles mirthless. "well y'know, i figured a cover up, for you, would be worth the pain".

as in, forgetting him would be worth the pain. which couldn't be more further from the truth.

"and here i am doing a nice thing", laughing tired. "still gettin hit with the bitterness", a slow easy step that leads you closer to him. the own brazen make of your actions suffering you to fall into the scent of him. the note of it strong even as it lives amidst the pungency of blood. "you got some audacity too though, considering i could've half assed that clean up enough for a little infection to settle in".

"but you didn't".

"and why do you think so?"

creaks against the floor. the weird pitch of it roughing up against your bones. his body closer, forcing your back against the wall. his thumb reaching to graze against the ink tattoo at your neck. pulse thrumming harshly at the play of his touch.

body outdone by history.

and the way he holds you here, cradling your neck just at your nape. keeping you where he wants you to be. his eyes falling over slowly—at your nose and your cheeks and your lips—lingering as if he's gone down the path of a deep remembering.

"for the same reason you still got the ink".

unable to ever let yourself part with it, with the history staining your skin. the prick of a needle and the pain of it made simple for a full and the most earnest performance of devotion. your breaths shallow, overwhelmed by the thought and the domineer of him.

his thumb running to sweep at your skin. hot with an intention you can't place.

you make to warn him. “roman-”

but his tongue is quick, works with a faraway familiar passion as it curls between the soft seam of your lips. exhaustion and adrenaline, an effortful pair as they go about the task of stripping away your resolve. a return of this sudden fever of a feeling as your tongue makes to snake against his. lapping lazily, a mindless seduction as you fall into old ways. his throat groaning, surely taken by his own bout of reminiscence. nails racking dull over his naked skin, over the taut muscle at his belly. his palms cradling your face to deepen his kiss in spite of the pain. leaving you little room to breathe, his body fastening you harshly to the bathroom wall. making to suffocate you with the flick of his tongue and the fire of his touch.

his teeth prick you mean, biting into the supple flesh of your lip. suckling the pain with the tender pull of his mouth.

the harshness of it causing a whimper to break. instinct taking hold. subdued in an instant.

and it is only when he breaks for breath that you remember where you are. pushing at his tired body enough for a full separation.

you leave saying nothing. out of the bedroom, down the hallway and through the clubhouse doors. letting the silence of it speak for you.

lol we might need a roman pov after this huh… smh

#tanks of blood #reminder #eventual poly v relationship #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns x black reader #cody rhodes #cody rhodes fanfiction #cody rhodes x reader #biker au #randy orton featured #seth rollins featured #dean ambrose featured #joannasteez

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pixieperson19 · 4 months ago

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MABEL!!

this is my first time drawing her and I'm definitely in art block rn bc I cannot draw😭😭 but Im trying to get out of it!

I think Mabel would love boba tea and I got some today (I FREAKING LOVE BOBA TEA) so I knew what I had to do😈

also I think Mabel would wear those crappy bead necklaces that they sometimes throw at parades like that's just so Mabelcore

alsoooo I think Mabel overwears lipgloss and always gets some on her teeth/braces

#gravity falls #mabel pines #gravity falls mabel #gf #gf fanart #gravity falls fanart #mabel pines fanart #digital art #my art #artblock is a bitch

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thespiritssaidso · 3 months ago

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Blueberries and Blueberries and More Blueberries

Summary: A day at the market is a good place for a date and to help the locals at the same time. Shawn just needs to convince Lassiter how great it is.

Notes: Loving this challenge so far! Hope I did alright on today’s prompt.

Also Shawn pov this time (3rd person limited, of course. 1st pov isn’t really my thing) instead of Lassie’s!

Flufftober day 4: Market Day

—————

“Come on, Carlytown! You have to at least try it!”

“Shawn, I don’t have to do anything.”

“Look, it’s not gonna hurt you! It’s just a blueberry.”

It was a sunny day on the coast of Santa Barbara, not a single cloud in the sky. Which wasn’t especially noteworthy, considering it was always sunny in Santa Barbara. But, all the same, it was still nice to feel the warm rays of an unrestrained sun.

Not that two people in particular would be able to actually feel it on their skin, since they were both wearing some kind of long-sleeved overwear. It was a miracle neither of them were sweating like pigs.

One of them, Carlton Lassiter, had on a two piece suit. The jacket was dark in color, with a white button up buttoned all the way to the very top. Intermittently he’d tug on a startlingly red tie, fiddling with the knot to make sure it was still tight.

The other, Shawn Spencer, was wearing an unbuttoned green flannel over an Apple Jacks t-shirt paired with jeans that looked like he’d gotten them from somebody’s garage.

Currently, Shawn was trying to coax his boyfriend, Lassiter, into trying one of the stalls home-grown blueberries — with permission from the vendor, of course.

“Yes, one that was grown from an unreliable source! Who knows what kind of practices they used to grow those blueberries?”

Shawn scrunched his eyebrows. “Unreliable- it’s from a farm, Carly! That’s where all blueberries come from!”

“No, the ones at the store come from dependable and approved sources. They’ve been FDA approved. Those-” he pointed dramatically at the tiny carton Shawn was holding “- aren’t.”

Shawn should’ve known this would happen. This was the same man that literally claimed — quite proudly, too — that he only ate vegetables out of a can. Obviously that statement would extend to fruits as well.

Shawn looked at the lady behind the stand helplessly to try and get her to back him up, and saw she was doing her best to hold back laughter. It looked like she wasn’t really in a good position to talk at the moment, much less support Shawn and her fruit. He was on his own.

“Just- hey, look. Trust me, alright? You know I’d never make you eat something you wouldn’t like.”

Lassiter gave him a look of disbelief. ��Just a few days ago you begged me to try Queso… Cinco Fries, or whatever they’re called.”

“First of all: It’s Fries Quatro Queso Dos Fritos, and as I recall you loved it-”

“Up until I had to take three tums for the heartburn it gave me.”

“Irrelevant. Second of all: this is a fruit, not deep fried goodness. I’m more than sure that these have been at least washed.” Shawn faltered at that statement, and turned to the lady. “These are washed, right?”

She simply nodded her head, not saying a word. A big grin was still hiding behind her hand. But as he turned back to Lassiter he barely heard her mumble something along the lines of ‘Title of your sex tape’. He had to really try hard not to react and pretend he didn’t hear her.

Shawn watched Lassiter’s facial expressions change, obviously thinking over the choices. After about a minute of looking conflicted, he caved. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I get food poisoning.”

Yes! He caved! “Perfect! Now, open your mouth, I’m gonna toss it in.”

“I can feed myself, Shawn.” Nevertheless, he complied.

Shawn picked a blueberry and stood there a moment, both to angle his shot and to just drink in the sight of his boyfriend standing there with his mouth wide open.

“Boom! Hole in one!” Shawn cheered.

Lassiter stayed quiet, chewing on the fruit. Shawn could see he was hiding his true emotions under a mask of indifference. But he recognized that sparkle in his eyes. Yeah, he liked it. A lot.

“It’s acceptable.” He finally said after a second of faux consideration. And, facing the lady, he said “We’ll take a box.”

“Two! Gotta get one for Gus. He’d never forgive me if I didn’t get him something.”

“You mean if I didn’t get it. I am paying for this.”

“And you're such a wonderful provider, Carlytown.”

Lassiter knew that Shawn was just buttering him up, but he couldn’t help the smile growing at the praise.

The lady, finally gathering herself, smiled at the two. “Certainly! That’ll be eight dollars.”

One monetary exchange later, and they were walking away with two cartons of blueberries. Shawn reached over to the one Lassiter was holding and grabbed a handful, shoving them in his mouth. “You know, we should do this more often.”

Lassiter chuckled. “No, no way. I’m glad you like this, Shawn. But I’m definitely not cut out for walking from stall to stall.”

Shawn would have argued further, but something shiny caught his eye. “Ooo, look! They’ve got a glass blown pineapple!” And he was off, not checking to see if Lassiter was following him.

—————

Notes: A Brooklyn 99 reference? In MY Shassie fanfiction? More likely than you think

ao3 link

#shawn spencer #carlton lassiter #shassie #psych #psych 2006 #psych usa #psychusa #psych tv #psych tv show #psych show #psych fic #psych fanfic #psych fanfiction #flufftober2024 #fluff #toast tries to write

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the-californicationist · 1 year ago

Text

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 03)

AO3 Link

SEPTEMBER

“I’m not askin’ you to hang the moon, Johnny! I’m askin’ you to drive to Glencoe. I told you, I dinnae ken who made the appointment, but it cannae be changed. Please, just do this for me. I’m your sister.”

“Don’t pull that shite. I dinnae mind makin’ the wee drive to Glencoe, but I dinnae ken fuck all about cakes! I just got back from fuckin’ Faridah, didn’t I? What do I ken about fuckin’ buttercream? Tell your maid of honor to go. She’d pick a fine cake!”

“She is going! Haven’t you been listening, you eejit? You’re takin’ her with you. She’ll help you…” a pause, and then, “I know, I know. I’m sure you were gonna meet back up with Bekah, or Cherise, or Anjali, or -”

“Hey! Tha’s no’ fair. Take it back right now, or I’ll tan your hide.”

“Come on and try, boyo! All those wee military exercises and I’ll still have you whingin’ for mum like you did that one Christmas when -”

You knocked on the door, hoping to prevent fraternal bloodshed, and the voices stopped. A long pause stretched out into infinity.

You had been standing on the porch of the MacTavish house for quite a long time. At first, seeing his Jeep in the driveway had kept you trapped in the cab, much to the cabbie’s chagrin. Over the past three months, you’d had plenty of thoughts about Johnny MacTavish and his sister. He had taken you home from the bar and put you to bed, but not in the way you might have thought, given his…reputation. The next morning, he was gone again. Pidge said they’d given him only two days away, and then he was back to Urzikstan to do whatever sandy, nasty job he had to do there.

You’d been planning on leaving as well, needing to return to the endless slog of your studies, so you booked a train home. Back at your flat, you’d started overthinking and obsessing.

How embarrassing was it that you’d gotten so drunk? He must think you’re such a loser! A girl who can’t even hold her alcohol. They all must think that about you. And now you have to do a whole wedding with them! You were never drinking again. Well, that resolution lasted about half a day, because when you started rehashing the feeling of being carried in his arms and the smell of whisky as it hung on his breath as he tucked you into his bed, you needed a fucking drink.

So, wine in hand, you began to unpack.

You weren’t completely sure if it had been a drunken accident or not, but you found Johnny’s shirt in your bag, and you immediately felt a pang of regret. Perhaps you were a thief after all. You didn’t remember putting it in there. What else had you done that you didn’t remember?

Damnit .

You thought about it for a moment, but then you caved and you put on the shirt. You rationalized it, claiming you’d wash it. No big deal.

But then, three months went by and you had found a small hole in the sleeve from overwearing it.

“Fuck!” You lamented, fingering the threads as if it couldn’t be true.

You were not a seamstress by any stretch of the imagination, but you threw a stitch in it and prayed he wouldn’t notice.

Now, it was September, and he was back to attend the official MacTavish-Hamilton engagement party. You had planned to stay the whole week with Pidge, canceling your meetings and bringing your laptop with you. You had a chapter due next Wednesday, and it was crunch time. But now, apparently, you were going to Glencoe.

With him.

Alone.

You knocked again, a little louder. The door creaked open and only Pidge greeted you over the threshold.

“Hey, babes! Come in! We’re in the kitchen. Got loads to share. So much to do… Oy, your bags are so heavy! What did you bring in here, hen? Bricks?”

“Close,” you half-smiled, “Books.”

“Och, Jesus,” she struggled a bit and then dropped them in front of Johnny’s door unceremoniously.

“Thanks, Pidge.”

She plodded into the kitchen, and you followed behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw him busying himself with the dishes, putting away cups and plates. The kettle was on, and in a few minutes, there’d be tea. He stopped as soon as he saw you, drying his hands on the striped tea towel and smiling at you. The grin didn’t quite meet his eyes, and his obvious disappointment with needing to babysit you for this Glencoe outing put a stake right through your heart.

“So,” Pidge broke the news to you in front of her brother, “I know you were going to come with me to the dress fitting, but I double booked, and now the cake shop wants to do a wee tasting. I will owe you my literal first born if you go in my place, babes.”

You tried to act surprised,

“But, wasn’t I supposed to do a fitting as well?”

“Yeah, I told them the situation, and they booked you tomorrow bright and early. Please? Don’t let my fuckin’ brother pick out my wedding cake. It’d be chocolate on chocolate and nothin’ else.”

“What’s wrong with chocolate?” Johnny was indignant.

Pidge gave him a warning look and then turned her attention back to you,

“Will you pretend to be me for a day?”

The look in her eyes told you that an option for denial wasn’t even on the table, but the look in his as he gazed down at his white-knuckled grip on the counter, said there wasn’t room for anything but.

You didn’t care what he thought (liar), and you were there for Pidge, not him.

“You know I will. They think I’m you?”

“Yes, and you need to sign for it as well. Bring back the receipt, if you would. God, you’re the absolute best.”

She kissed you on the cheek and grabbed her bag from the counter, turning to you once more before she walked out of the door,

“And don’t let this dafty give you any shite. If he’s not on his best behavior, I’ll injure him, so help me God.”

As she walked out of the house, Johnny rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys,

“C’mon, lass. It’s a trek, so we need to get petrol before we head out.”

“Sorry that you have to go with me,” you apologized, acknowledging his disdain.

He smiled and shook his head, walking you out to his jeep. The top was off, along with the doors. You quickly braided your hair back, realizing it was about to be a wind-swept drive.

“Not your fault, hen. My wee sister’s just plottin’ against me, that’s all. You ever been to the Three Sisters?”

“No,” you told him, “Not much of a hiker.”

You knew about the famed mountains, and you had heard of their stunning beauty, but you hadn’t had the opportunity to go north to see them for yourself. Without a personal car, it was hard to get out of the city much less to the mountains of Glen Coe.

You climbed up into the Jeep, using the handle to hoist yourself inside. He jumped up into the driver’s seat with ease, pulling a pair of sunglasses down from the visor and shoving them onto his face. Johnny reached over you and into the glove compartment, digging around for a bit before handing you a matching pair. They were extremely sporty, and you were certain you looked ridiculous in them, but he made them look so stylish.

“Here ya are, lass. Gonna be a long drive. We’ll go the scenic route. Cannae believe you’ve never seen the mountains. Tha’s a bloody crime.”

As you drove, he pointed out landmarks, good coffee shops to visit, and sang loudly to the radio (which was muffled by the roaring wind). He made you feel so at ease, and now that Pidge wasn’t lurking around every corner, you let yourself explore him with your eyes indulgently. You laughed at his jokes when they were funny, and smiled freely. Johnny was constantly talking to you when he wasn’t signing, asking about your work, about America, and about the places you’ve been while you were in his country.

“Oh! I know you know this one! The Cranberries? C’mon, lass, don’t break my heart,” he turned up the song as far as it would go and watched you to see if you’d sing along.

“Who doesn’t know this song?” You smiled, singing right along with him.

“…You know I'm such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger…”

He smiled at you, pleased that you were playing along, practically screaming the lines.

By the time you’d made it through the gorgeous landscape to the base of the Three Sisters mountains, you were sore from laughing, and hoarse from singing, and you’d fallen head over heels for the handsome soldier again and again and again.

Eventually, you made it to the town of Glencoe, and you pulled up your map on your phone, giving him directions to the bakery. He parked in the street. It was misting a little, and he helped you out of the Jeep to bring you under the awning of a small Nero cafe. You zoomed in on the map to get a better view, and he leaned over your shoulder to see it.

He beamed,

“Aye, just ‘round the wee corner. And it’s right by the pub! Stop in for a pint after, what do you say, lass?”

“Only if we get out of there without arousing any suspicion. We have to convince them that we’re getting married.”

“Don’t worry about that. If you were my wee hen, I couldn’t keep my filthy paws off of ya. Havin’ a hard time now as it is,” he wiggled his eyebrows at you, keeping up with his jokester attitude.

“Easy does it, Hammie. I’m saving myself for the wedding night, you know?” You joked right along with him, playing coy.

“Dinnae worry your wee heid, lassie. I’ll take you to confession tomorrow, and all the sins of tonight will be washed away,” Johnny grabbed you by the hand and led you back into the street.

He paused for a moment, looking down at you as your palms touched, fitting together like a glove, almost as if he had forgotten something. He shook the thought away and walked with you to the store in companionable silence.

When you arrived, he held the door open and let you step up into the warm, quiet bakery. All of the wind and the noise of the street disappeared in the little shop, and the smell of sugar overwhelmed your senses. You heard Johnny sigh, enjoying the smell himself.

“Hello! Welcome to Stiff Peaks,” a cheery little grandmother of a woman greeted you from behind the counter.

Her earrings were tiny whisks, and she had a bit of flour on her cheek. She came out from behind the register and shook your hands,

“You must be the Hamiltons, or I should say the future Hamiltons.”

“Yes ma’am,” you smiled, downplaying your American accent, “We’ve come to try your wedding cake offerings.”

“Of course, right this way.”

She led you both down a tight corridor to the back room where a single two-person table waited for you. A black camera hung obviously in the corner. You eyed it when she wasn’t looking, and Johnny met your gaze, giving you a wink.

“Here you are, Pigeon, have a seat,” he held out your chair for you to sit down, adding a level of romantic gentlemanly affection that you were not expecting, kissing your neck from behind as you sat.

The feeling of his lips sent a shock through your system. They were so soft and plush, and when he pulled away, you could feel the cold air rush across the wet spot he left behind. The sting of it tortured you, and you felt your cheeks flush. He saw them, and instead of ribbing you, he averted his eyes with an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“Och, you lovebirds,” the baker beamed, “Warms my heart, it does. I’ll be back in a spot.”

She was gone from the room, and you were about to make a comment to him, and then you remembered the camera. He was looking at it, too, and then he focused back on you. He spoke to you in a voice that was low and deep, a slow rumble that covered you like a fog, blocking out everything around you,

“Feeling alright, Pidge?”

“Just fine, mo chridhe,” you used Hamish’s favorite nickname for Brigette, and smiled sweetly at Johnny, testing out your accent.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost, but he recovered quickly, whispering, trying not to be heard by the camera,

“Do you know what that means?”

“Babe? I call you that all the time, babe.” You raised your eyebrows as the baker came back in, warning him.

He shook his head slowly, as if fighting making a comment, drinking down most of the water she had brought to the table. She also set down the first course of cake bites, one plate for each of you.

“Okay, dearies, here is the first selection. We have the classic vanilla, Italian creme, lemon custard, and a black forest. These are less adventurous, and suitable for just about any wedding, no matter how formal. Gave you a pair of wee score cards there to keep up with your winners. I’ll leave you to it!”

You looked down at the scorecard and back up at the cakes. Johnny grabbed his and immediately crossed out the black forest and the lemon custard.

“Hey!” You protested, “You haven’t even tried those. And, besides, Pid- uh, I love lemon!”

“Aye,” he cut his eyes at you, “You do love lemon, Pigeon. But, you’re the only one in the family who does. It’s out.”

“Well, I think you, Hamish, would balk at vanilla and Italian creme. Too pedestrian for a man of your exotic tastes, wouldn’t you say, mo chridhe?”

“Sure, mo mhèirleach, I’m an adventurous sort of man,” his tone turned darkly suggestive, “You ken that well enough, don’tcha?”

You felt his hand on your leg as he skated it up your thigh, giving it a hard squeeze, making you gasp. Just before you could chastise him, he cut you off, whispering in your ear,

“Careful, bonnie. Tha’s a sound I’ll like to hear again.”

You whispered back, too low even for him to hear - almost,

“Johnny…”

He gave you a look that contained that same nameless emotion as when he first grabbed your hand outside in the street. You lingered there for longer than you should have, and you were interrupted by the baker.

“Annnnd…” She gave you both time to return to your seats politely, pretending like you hadn’t just been caught breathing each other’s air, “Here is the second round. How did we like the first set, lovebirds?”

You shrugged,

“They’re beautiful, but we’re looking for something a little more…”

“Sexy,” Johnny said in a matter-of-fact voice.

You backhanded his chest, hard.

“Hamish!”

The baker laughed,

“No, no! I get it! I agree. I think you’ll like these much more. Can I get you some more water, dearie?” She asked him.

“Aye, tapadh leibh.” Thank you .

“Se do bheatha. An ann à Gleann Comhann a tha thu?” You’re welcome. Are you from Glencoe?

He shook his head, the only part of the conversation you could understand,

“Chan e, dìreach an seo a’ fheuchainn ri cèic a bruadar fhaighinn dha mo bhean bhrèagha.” No, just here trying to get my beautiful bride the cake of her dreams.

“Is urrainn dhomh innse dhut gu bheil thu dealasach.” I can tell you’re dedicated.

He laughed,

“Aye. Barrachd na thuig mi, tha mi a’ smaoineachadh.” More than I realized, I think.

Then, the baker was gone. You whispered to him,

“What did you say to her?”

“Just told her I’m allergic to almonds.”

You searched his face to see if he was lying. You couldn’t tell.

“Are you?”

“No,” he smiled, looking down at his cue card.

In the end, you went with the hummingbird cake and coconut creme filling, with a cinnamon cream cheese frosting. It was perfect for Pidge’s love of citrus, and adventurous enough for Hamish’s tastes. The baker left you with a bag of goodies; cookies, slices of the cake you selected, some macarons, and a copy of the contract.

“Thank you so much for having us. We can’t wait for the big day,” you shook her hand again and she smiled at you.

“Of course, dearie. Looking forward to it. You two enjoy each other. The days go by so fast,” she winked.

Johnny opened the door for you and let you out into the street again.

“So, Mr. Hamilton,” you said, keeping up the charade a little longer, “About that pint…”

“Mmm,” Johnny grinned rakishly, “I have a better idea, lass.”

He took you back past the cafe and ducked into a Spar. He said he needed to pick up a bottle of scotch for one of his mates, an Oban 14-year, and while he was there, he grabbed two cold pint bottles of Caledonia cider from the refrigerated section. He loaded up the Jeep again, and you waited patiently in the passenger seat, thinking you were heading home.

“You ready for your surprise, bonnie?”

“Surprise?”

He laughed, shoving his sunglasses back on and smiling as he turned off of the main road and onto a smaller lane. As you drove, the greenery became more verdant than ever. It was early September, so even though some of the leaves began to change colors, most of them retained their deep emerald hues. The branches and brush rushed by you, and from the open door of the Jeep, if you weren’t so afraid to lose a limb, you could have reached out and touched the leaves. Then, just as you rounded a corner, the hillside gave way to a stunning view.

A valley stretched out before you, showcasing the high, sloping peaks of the Three Sisters. You’d seen them from the other highway, but this road made it seem like you had entered into another realm. Just when you thought you’d have to pass them by, Johnny pulled off the road into a small car park and shut down the engine.

You got out, phone in hand, ready to take some photos. It was too beautiful not to, and if you were honest with yourself, you wanted to remember this day.

“Well, go on then, get my good side,” you spotted Johnny over your shoulder on the screen.

He put his hand around your body and squeezed you in, making sure you were both framed in the screen. You took the selfie, and then he made a noise of discontent,

“Ahh, that won’t do. Another!”

When you took this one, right as you reached for the button, he planted a kiss on your cheek. He pulled away and grabbed your phone out of your hands to look at it,

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

You watched as he texted it to himself, leaving his number in your phone as “Mo Chridhe”.

“Is that how you spell it? I never would have guessed that,” you tried to keep your voice level, pretending like the cheek kiss hadn’t phased you.

“Yeah, we just keep all the other letters in there to confuse you foreigners,” he winked, “C’mon, bit of a walk.”

He pulled the bag of drinks from the back of the Jeep, shoved a towel in the sack, nicked the macarons from your goodie bag, and left everything else in the car. You followed him up the hill quite a ways, but it wasn’t an impossible climb. By the time you reached the top, however, you were out of breath. He kept going up, motioning for him to follow you, and you found yourself next to a shallow pool, no larger than a hottub, out of view of the highway. It was quiet, and none of the tourists had followed you up even half as high. You were very much alone together.

He pulled off his shirt and glasses, tossing them on one of the towels, and went to shuck off his pants and boots. You raised your eyebrows,

“What are you doing?”

He looked up at you, knowing he was shocking you a bit,

“Braw days like this don’t come often. You heard the baker, yeah? The days go by fast. Live a little, mo mhèirleach.”

There was that nickname again. You vowed that you would look it up online later, if only you would be able to spell it.

“Johnny, we can’t just swim here, surely. Someone will come and -”

“And what? Tell us to get out?”

He dunked his head under the clear pool and came back up for air, panting from the chill of the fresh water.

“I don’t have a swimsuit…” You put the bag of treats down and sat on the edge of the pool.

“Aren’tcha wearing any knickers, mhèirleach? Gods, say no, hen. Say no…” He swam up next to you to tease you some more.

“I am!” You told him, and he gave you a look, rolling his eyes.

“Well, go on, bonnie. I’ll even turn around, since you’re savin’ yourself for our wedding bed and all tha’.”

You laughed in disbelief, unsure of everything and yet going along with his plan anyway. You waited for him to avert his eyes before pulling off your pants and as you went to take off your top, you thought you saw him peek under his lashes, but he averted his gaze again so quickly, you couldn’t be sure.

You dipped a foot into the pool. It was cool but not cold. You could stand it, but you wanted to complain a little anyway.

“Jesus, it’s cold in here. Brr!” You feigned a shiver.

“Och, c’mon, lassie. It’s no’ tha’ bad. Here. Have a wee seat by me, and I’ll get some drinks to warm us up.”

He popped the cap on the ciders using the edge of a rock, and handed you one. You drank it, savoring the dry, apple taste and soft fizz.

“There, mhèirleach. All better?”

You nodded, sitting next to him in the pool and laying your head back on the large stones, relaxing, taking in the view. It looked like something you would put on your laptop screen. It was unreal.

“You made a pretty good Hamish today,” you complimented him.

“Spent a lot of my life pretending to be other people. Comes natural at this point, ye ken?” He stared off at the mountains with you, enjoying the view.

“I’m sure you’re ready to be back in the action instead of tasting cakes with your sister’s American friend,” self-deprication was your bread and butter, so you offered it up to him to punish yourself with.

“No,” he turned his eyes away from the grandeur and focused them on you, “What did Pidge tell you about me?”

“Well, she…”

“Ah ah, no. Don’t sugar-coat it.”

You sighed, looking into your cider for courage,

“She told me not to let you get too close. Said you’re a bit of a playboy.”

He laughed in a bitter way, taking a sip of his cider,

“Did she, now? And what do you believe, hen?”

You paused, not knowing what to say. So, you just told the truth,

“I think she’s probably right. I don’t know why she’d lie to me. And Bekah and Cherise -”

“Bekah and Cherise are full of shite. And so is my wee sister.”

He shook his head, clearly upset by your appraisal. You stayed silent, not knowing what to say. You decided to try to lighten the mood,

“Bet you take all the pretty girls to this spot, playboy.”

You elbowed him in the ribs, and he spun on you, quick as a shot. He grabbed your arm that had elbowed him and faced you, standing in front of you in the clear water. It rushed along his chest, moving around the plump muscles and dusting of chest hair, matting it against his skin. He smelled so much like oranges right then, and it was invading your senses.

He ignored your attempt at a joke, and his face became serious instead,

“I ken why she kept you from me now. You’re off-limits. She knew how I’d feel. My sister knows me better than anyone, and I hate her for it.”

“Hate her?” You tried to understand what he was saying, but you didn’t pull away. His breath smelled like alcohol and apples and his eyes gleamed in the low light of the afternoon sun.

“Well, not hate, maybe. But, she must’ve known. She had to.”

“Known what?” You knew what. Some animal part inside of you bared its teeth and warned you, but you asked it anyway.

“She knew I’d like you.”

It was so quiet in your little secluded glade.

He pressed his hands to the sides of your face, staring into your eyes, looking into them, his own eyes searching them for an answer to a question you couldn’t hear.

You let him kiss you. You even kissed him back. He was cinnamon and apples and cake and sugar and tobacco and some other human taste that you chased and chased and chased.

Then, you pulled away.

“We can’t. I…I promised.”

“Aye, as did I. But, she’s a hypocrite.”

“She’s my best friend.”

He looked into your eyes and saw your desperation there, knowing he’d won but surrendering anyway.

Johnny let you go and finished his drink in a single gulp. He sat behind you, and you didn’t turn around. You felt him pull you into his lap to sit on the rough stone ledge, and he whispered,

“Tell me the sonnet you like, bonnie. You said you studied it.”

You tried to make excuses, not in the mood to show off,

“It’s not a very good one. A lot of people -”

“Say it for me. C’mon, lass. Just this once. I promise I’ll bring you back to your friend. But, just this once…”

You paused, feeling his arms wrap around you, not too tight, and nothing inappropriate, hugging you to himself platonically, waiting. You cleared your throat and tried to enunciate,

“Those lips that Love’s own hand did make, Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’, To me that languished for her sake…

His fingers made little circles on your ribcage, rubbing your skin beneath the water.

“But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue that ever sweet Was used in giving gentle doom; And taught it thus anew to greet…”

You grabbed his hand with your own, lacing your fingers together like a tied knot.

“‘I hate’ she altered with an end, That followed it as gentle day, Doth follow night, who like a fiend From heaven to hell is flown away. ‘I hate’, from hate away she threw, And saved my life, saying ‘not you’.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. You couldn’t breathe. Johnny MacTavish liked you, and you couldn’t do anything about it.

“Thank you, mo mhèirleach. Time to take you back. Been away with the fairies too long, I ken.”

The drive back was quiet. You held hands through the mountains. You let go as you pulled into the driveway. Your bones ached. Your wet bra and panties were making you cold, and you had tangles in your wet hair from the drive.

Johnny had left his phone in the Jeep cupholder, so you grabbed it along with the wet towels you had used. Pidge came out of the house to greet you and help with the bags,

“Jesus! What happened to you two?”

“Caught in the rain. Here’s your contract, Pidgie. I need a shower,” he covered for you.

“Roger’s here,” she reported.

Roger was Hamish’s younger brother, just a teenager. Johnny paused, looking at Pidge with a hard stare,

“And where’s he gonna sleep? We cannae put the lad on the floor, Bridgette.”

“You sleep on the floor then, you numpty,” she slapped his arm.

You interjected, torturing yourself,

“We can sleep in his bed. It’s not a big deal. It’s just for a few nights. Is that alright with you, Johnny?”

Pidge was standing between you, so she missed the pale face of fear plastered with Johnny’s open, shocked mouth.

“Shite, are you sure, babe? He snores like a bear.”

You nodded,

“No worries.”

“Johnny MacTavish, I swear on -”

“Go ‘way an’ bile your heid with that shite, Pigeon. I’m not in the mood to be your whippin’ boy.”

He walked into the house, leaving you outside with your best friend, just as he promised.

Something vibrated in your hands. It was Johnny’s phone. He had one missed call from Bekah, and as you were dismissing it, trying to close the lock screen, you saw her text pop up in the banner bar:

Ettrick’s for pints again, Soap? xx

You felt a cold shiver tremble through you as you followed Pidge inside.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Notes:

mo chridhe (moh HREE-yuh) - my heart mo mhèirleach (moh MER-lakh) - my thief

Chapter 04

#johnny soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #soap cod #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #soap mctavish #johnny mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader

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