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eowynstwin · 1 year ago

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imprimatura / muses

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish shows up one day to model for your studio class. He's flirtatious, too attractive for his own good, and more interested in you than you'd ever expect him to be. And his boyfriend Ghost is interested too. - ao3

He arrives early as you’re setting up for your students, in jeans and a tight t-shirt, and the first thing that crosses your mind when you lay eyes on him is Jesus, he’s fit.

You are no stranger to bodies. Hundreds of them have cycled through your studio, all shapes and sizes and colors; you think you may know every dip, every roll, every hard angle and soft curve that a human body is capable of holding. The mystique of defined muscle has long lost its novelty. Bodies are bodies, and each holds the same value as the next when subject to brush and canvas. It never matters, you teach your students, what a body looks like in the modeling chair. It only matters if they can reproduce it accurately.

Even so, when a body like this walks in, you really can’t help but take notice.

Decadent muscle, fed and worked well, round and full with hydration. It’s impossible to miss, even through his clothes; each group delineated clearly, gracefully, as if sculpted rather than built, and alive with soft, subcutaneous movement. It’s indulgent to look at, the comfortable breadth of his shoulders and chest down to that slight taper of his waist and bulk of his thick thighs. It’s a physique no hard-bodied gym rat could hope to achieve merely with extra time at the racks—a physique that is easily, harmoniously attractive in its makeup of muscle and healthy fat.

The man is also mohawked and suntanned, and his mouth rests at an angle that suggests he often smiles—as if he knows that Michelangelo would have swooned at the sight of him. He comes into your classroom, saunters over to you, and stops precisely two paces away from you.

“Sergeant John MacTavish,” he says, offering his hand. “I understand you’re the instructor?”

He has gorgeous, vivid blue eyes (pthalo and cremnitz, with a touch of hamsa). You blink several times. Fit is still rattling around your skull, and begins knocking against sergeant at the same rolling frequency as his warm Scottish brogue. You realize his hand is still outstretched and quickly take it to shake.

“Yes!” you say. His palm is tough, callused, and not soft in the slightest, but very warm. “Nice to meet you, sergeant.”

He gives a grimace. “John’s fine. Or Soap.”

“Soap?”

“Nickname, y’know.”

Neither of you have released from the handshake. Soap’s grip is firm, the kind of firm that suggests he can squeeze much, much tighter if he needs to. And if the grip isn’t any indication, the broad forearms, dusted soft with dark brown hair, certainly are.

Black lines, a sword and helmet framed in laurels, catch your notice. The ink has the soft edges of having lain in the skin for a few years. You turn his arm to see it more fully. “Oh. Nice tattoo.”

He looks at the ink as if it is entirely new to him, and then gives an easy grin. “Thanks. I’ve got a few more too. Hope they aren’t hard to draw.”

When you loosen your grip on his hand, he releases you immediately. You still feel the squeeze in your bones even as you drop your hand to your side.

“So, then, Soap,” you say, “have you ever modeled before?”

He shakes his head, tucking his hands into the front pockets of his low-slung jeans. It tugs the waistband just a bit, revealing a sliver of warm, tan skin (raw sienna, flesh ochre, naples yellow). “Should have, honestly, with how much it pays.”

“It gets very boring, very fast,” you say. “What do you plan to wear for the breaks?”

“Was I supposed to bring that m’self?”

You are unable to suppress a laugh. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck and going a little sheepish—as if expecting a reprimand. You suppose it’s a valid expectation to have, in his world. You aren’t terribly familiar with the military, but you do know it’s one hell of a stickler for rules.

You also can’t help but admire the appealing pull and stretch of his bicep and deltoid, the flex of his pectoral as he lowers his arm.

“Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go see if I can find something for you?” you suggest kindly, letting him off the hook.

“Sorry,” he says, pretty blue eyes filled with genuine apology. “I’ll remember nex’ time. Thanks.”

The expression is so hangdog that you almost want to pat his head and noise at him reassuringly, like an actual dog. You press your lips together to hide a smile, and leave the studio.

When you get back from the models’ changing room, you find Soap with one hip against the counter where you’d been organizing your supplies, one knee loose and shoulders set at a relaxed angle. You want to laugh at his easy contrapposto. He’s going to be an excellent model. You can feel it.

It looks as if he’s moving around the sticks of vine charcoal with one outstretched finger; he pulls his hand guiltily away when you reenter the studio, crossing his arms over his chest as if to hide the evidence of his snooping. It makes his pectorals bunch and round out, gathers the thickness of his biceps up into chiseled, full definition.

You lift one brow at him as you walk over.

“Never could keep my hands to m’self,” he admits, still sheepish.

“It’s alright,” you allow, smiling back. “Do you draw?”

“Used to,” he says. He looks back at the charcoal. “No time, now.”

“Are you deployed often?” you ask, taking the opportunity to look at his face.

Beauty is cheap in art, but you notice it all the same—appreciate the strong brows, the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble of a beard you suspect he can’t keep shaved down, and the long scar that cuts through it across his chin. The light brown of his complexion is speckled with sun exposure, and there are the faintest of creases at the corners of his eyes, which you expect will deepen into genuine, gorgeous crow’s feet as he ages.

He’s not all rugged, though. There is a soft, thick curl to his lashes, which are as dark as strong coffee or expensive chocolate, and an equal decadence to the pink, plush little swell of his bottom lip—which, in the very middle, has the smallest of divots, as if he regularly spends time biting it.

They’re traits that are far too sweet to belong on an otherwise masculine face, and their effect is such that they turn an objectively average set of features into a shockingly attractive portrait—that suddenly has something fluttering, just a bit, in the roof of your stomach.

He looks at you, and catches your survey. You can see him realize you’d been watching, the knowledge of it blooming in ocean blue eyes like ink dropped onto linen.

“More often than no’,” he answers, showing teeth in a crooked, interested grin. And now he’s looking at you—attention flitting across your face, dropping down your body and jumping back up to meet your gaze. The creases deepen at the corners of his eyes.

The fluttering intensifies. The sudden role reversal has you feeling at once flustered and unmoored. You are never the subject of any perusal—always comfortably the observer.

“Well—” you try, and you’re embarrassed at the low tone of your voice. You clear your throat. “Well, let’s make use of the time we have you, then.”

His smile remains, cocksure and easy. “Let’s.”

He knows the effect he’s had.

“Anyway,” you say, blinking several times and proffering the sheet you’d retrieved, “none of the other models are your size, so I’m afraid this will have to do.”

He takes it in his hands, which are sun-dark and striking against the clean white linen. “So it’s a toga, then?” he asks.

“Whatever you like. Let’s go over the basics, and then you can undress.”

“Oh, already, aye? Y’move fast, hen,” he drawls, still grinning. “I like it.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you don’t feel embarrassed enough not to laugh. You busy yourself with tapping your charcoal sticks back in place, putting them back in an even row ascending in order of length, and saving yourself from having to look him in the eye. “Ha! We don’t do a lot of foreplay in this studio, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Soap hums, and he steps closer. He’s very warm, enough that you can feel it even with the space between you. You do have to look at him then. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting pretty shadows on his cheekbones as he gazes down at you. “That’s a shame. I’m right partial to it.”

Your brows lift, and you will your pulse to remain steady even as you inhale, catching a thread of—cologne? Aftershave? Just plain deodorant?—coming off of him. The scent caresses you, almost beckoning you to lean forward. You swear you can see the thrum of his heartbeat, there in the soft hollows by his Adam’s apple.

You blink. He is your model. “Well—I’ll try to set you up as best I can, anyway. Follow me, please.”

And you turn your back on him, because this is your workplace, and you are at work, and if you don’t get on with things you might do something stupid like actually flirt back.

Soap hadn’t been sure what to expect when he arrived at the art studio. He’s never been to one before, much less one housed in a university—which he has also never been to—and hell, he only ever took one art class in high school.

If pressed, he’d have imagined old brick walls covered in diagram posters, shelves of supplies in all colors, the smell of paint hanging permanently in the air. What he finds instead is modern, clean, and impersonal. Stage lights hang from fixtures in the ceiling, pointing at a platform in the back center of the room. A tight line of easels, all folded up, stand pressed into a far corner, next to a tower of stacked chairs, and waist-high cabinets line half the room against the bare, painted cinder block wall. The linoleum floor looks new.

None of this, however, has any opportunity to disappoint him. His final unmet expectation, standing across the room and organizing a tray of art supplies, is a very welcome surprise.

You’re bonnie. Like, every point on his wishlist bonnie. Christ, he must’ve done something really good lately, because he can’t imagine just lucking into this. There’s not a hard angle to you, all sweet and soft, but when you meet his gaze during introductions there’s a sharpness to you that skewers him through the chest. You are much smarter than him, he can tell immediately.

He’s always had a thing for smart women. Soft ones, too. And if that weren’t enough, you let him flirt shamelessly with you, while checking him out the whole time.

Steaming Jesus.

You direct him to get onto the platform and sit down, still clothed, in an armchair draped in another pristine white sheet. The stage lights are bright overhead, and they highlight free-floating wisps of your hair in gold.

“You want to ensure that you don’t rest your weight on only one or two points,” you explain. You have a nice voice. Steady, confident—this is your territory, your studio, and in it you are clearly the master. “The main danger is that your arms or legs might fall asleep, and you won’t realize it until you get up, in which case you’ll fall. We can’t touch you, so we can’t save you from that.”

“Y’canna touch me?” Soap repeats.

“Not without your explicit consent,” you say.

He smiles at you, the kind of smile he saves for bright nights at the pub over platoons of shot glasses. “I explicitly consent to you touching me.”

The corners of your mouth tug upward, just a bit, and you look away, clearly bashful. Something in Soap’s chest starts beating a drum. He knows already he’ll ask you to drinks after the class ends tonight.

“I doubt I’d be able to do much,” you say, “you’re a bit more substantial than the usual models.” Your eyes flick down his torso and back up.

“Guess I’ll have to follow your advice, then,” he says.

“You should,” you say, and he looks at your thigh shamelessly as you pat it—even beneath your jeans, he can see the ripple of the impact. “One of the worst-case scenarios is nerve damage.”

“So you have done this before!”

He can’t help it—Soap’s imagination runs wild. Titanic, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls wild. It’s not exactly polite to imagine a teacher naked while she’s in the middle of giving him directions (and Jesus, what a concept, he might be half-mast already), but Soap has always found that people like it when he’s a little rude.

You drum your fingers. “I have.”

He finally hears the nerve damage part of your instruction. “How, uh—how bad can it get?”

The drumming stops. “For me? It just starts to twinge a bit if I sit on this side very long. So don’t rest your weight all on one hip, yeah?”

Concern assuaged that he had not ignored your genuine pain in order to objectify you, Soap grins. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you say. “Also—even if it doesn’t hurt, Soap, you can stop at any time, okay?”

That has him blinking. “Kinda defeats the purpose, doesnae?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. This is your first time modeling. You don’t know how you’ll feel, sitting here with your clothes off and everyone looking at you. If you need to stop, I want you to stop. I’ll make sure you’re paid anyway, so don’t worry about that.”

You are…so serious about this. The line of your brows is furrowed, imploring, like a little discomfort on his part is a violation of the highest order.

“Sure,” he says, a little dumbstruck and mostly lying. He’d be a rubbish soldier if he tapped out of a little thing like sitting down, but it’s nice that you care.

You purse your lips, nod, and then move onto the task at hand, stepping back and then down off the platform. When you begin to survey him—gaze flitting up and down his body, more pensive than appreciative—he has to resist the urge to flex.

Instead he watches you as you look at him. He especially likes, he decides, the slope of your nose and the smart, serious press of your mouth. You could get him all turned around, he thinks, if you gave it half a try.

Your tits are also great, but that’s by the by.

“Try resting your elbow up a little higher, and twist at the hips a bit,” you instruct, and Soap obeys. “Hm. How would you feel about crossing your ankles?”

You continue like this—nudging him in directions he doesn’t think make all that much of a difference, standing in different positions around the room to check the angles. He half-wishes he could step out of his body and join you, curious as he is about what you’re seeing, what your students will see. He’s not sure he has any clear expectations for how the class will go, but if you’re any indication, it’ll be more fun than he expects.

“Not sure if I’ll remember how to get back into this,” he says, partly to be helpful and partly to get you to talk to him again.

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” you say. “Okay, I think that’s a good one, you can move now—I’m going to start setting up, the students should be here any minute.”

He stands, and you turn away to collect your supplies, so Soap figures this means it’s time for him to strip. He pulls off his shirt and drapes it over the chair’s arm, unbuttons his pants and shoves them down to his knees.

“Soap!”

He freezes. Then he looks at you. You’re blushing again, deep and saturated, mouth parted in surprise and hand pressed to your chest. He does not miss the quick flick of your gaze down his body; he’s probably violated some rule or another of the studio, but he can’t help but grin.

You’re adorable.

“Gotta happen eventually, right?” he says.

You cover your face with your palm. “I was going to leave the room first!”

“First time someone’s wanted to run away when I’m takin’ my clothes off, I won’t lie—”

“You just come get me when you’re done!” you say hastily as you beeline for the door. “I’ll be right outside!”

Soap chuckles a little when you’re gone, the door slamming mortified behind you, and folds his clothes up behind the armchair he’ll be sitting in. You’re so cute. He can’t wait to sit naked for you for the next three hours.

And he’s definitely asking you out for drinks.

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chasingrainbowsforever · 2 months ago

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Raw Sienna Macchia With Deep Red Lip Wrap - Dale Chihuly, 2002

Blown Glass

#glass art #art glass #colorful #black background #Chihuly

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simplyghosting · 19 days ago

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Her loyal retainers are the burnts of umber and sienna, of course.

High school me was a fool, an ignorant whelp. Yellow ochre is the most gorgeous color. A queen among earth tones. I would fight for her honor.

#ghost posts #i can’t quite say raw sienna and umber bc they’re cooler but did not appreciate the four of them enough either #i actually have always liked raw sienna but I did not appreciate the umbers enough in my youth #burnts have that lovely warmth that pairs well w ochre #but the raws are lovely as well #raw umber is almost an icy brown to me #pairs better with a cooler palette

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shouyuus · 7 days ago

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colorimetery

kuroo; 1,843 words; fluff, lapslock, no "y/n", abuse of extended metaphors, none of this makes sense, kenma is the most in-touch person in this entire fic and that should tell you something, awk!kuroo, whipped!kuroo

summary: in which kuroo is down bad for you and nothing much else happens

a/n: @seiwas this is for u! u asked for kuroo and i humbly deliver :) hope u liked it bby; fun fact, a lot of these colors are pulled from the gamblin oil paints website bc i love their paints and also i love the thought that a lot of pigments were poisonous way back when and ppl were just... casually poisoning themselves while making their art; there's a metaphor in there somewhere... but i'll leave that up to interpretation lol

─── 鉄朗 THERE ARE COLORS he doesn’t know the names for, just like there are birds who will sing songs that no human will ever understand, but somewhere between the viridian of a sun-lit forest and the minor trill of a mockingbird’s call, he finds the shape of you.

and he doesn’t remember exactly when he’d started feeling like this, only that he’d woken up one day to a pastel sky, heard the tell-tale blip of a message from you, and felt his entire body flush vermillion, hard enough to poison.

c’mon, bedhead. time for school.

he grins down at the message, his lips pulling wide, his fingers still blunted by his honeyed dreams (how many of you? don’t ask him — he’s long since lost count) as he types out a reply.

be there in three.

he stumbles out of bed in the raw sienna sunrise, pulling on his uniform pants, shoving the hems of his un-ironed white shirt into the waistband before dashing out the door. he finds you haloed in liquid gold, standing on his doorstep, flicking through your phone before you notice him and your face breaks into an earth-rending smile.

kuroo feels dizzy, punchdrunk, a sake-shot of fire sizzling down his front till it pools in the base of his belly as he pulls on his shoes and tries to hide behind a well-timed cough.

“c’mon, we’re gonna be late.” he brushes passed you, but not before reaching out to ruffle at your hair, savoring in the midnight-soft of your tresses as it slips through his fingers.

you bicker the entire way to school, picking up kenma somewhere along the way. he casts you both a tired, reproachful look before slouching off ahead of you, content to resume whatever game he’s currently hyperfixating on while you and kuroo snipe at each other a few steps behind him.

“you could just ask her out,” kenma says during free period, his eyes never leaving his phone screen as he mashes at the attack button, watching the health bar of the boss monster dwindle even as kuroo makes an indignant sort of choking noise.

“w-what? she’s just — she’s just a friend.”

but at the scathing look kenma darts his way, kuroo finally relents.

“i — we’ve been friends for so long i just… i don’t wanna fuck it up, y’know?” he cards a hand through his already mussed up hair, eliciting a string of giggles from a cluster of girls sitting behind them, heads bent in towards one another, their long hair swishing like willow branches in a mid-autumn breeze; but neither of them take notice.

kenma heaves a world-weary sigh, grimacing as a large WIN!! image flashes across the face of his phone and he slumps back to frown at kuroo.

“i feel like you’ve built up enough affection points to unlock whatever good ending she’s got for you by now, so,” he pins kuroo with a pointed look, “i don’t think she’s gonna say no.”

kuroo can only blink, his mind churning around this strange yet apt analogy.

“aw man, you’re the best, y’know that?” he laughs, reaching over to catch kenma in a headlock, digging his knuckles into the crown of kenma’s head even as he struggles fruitlessly to get free.

it is in the cadium orange glow of sunset, after your art class and his volleyball practice, that kuroo finally works up the courage —

“hey uh — can i ask you something?”

you hike an eyebrow, a dangerous grin sharpening the shape of your lips.

“didn’t you just?”

kuroo lets out a frustrated sigh, “fuck you, you know what i meant.”

you laugh, the timber of it ringing through him like church bells on a sunday morning, and suddenly, he wonders if this feeling might be what inspired the ancients to worship at the feet of so much divinity — just this, the giddiness and anticipation, the knowledge and uncertainty. this, the insurmountable weight of something (call it love or infatuation, he doesn’t care) pressing down on his chest hard enough to rob him of every last breath.

he think that perhaps this is all anyone’s ever needed to start believing in magic.

“okay, okay,” you say, stifling a grin behind pink-pursed lips, “what did you wanna ask?”

“go out with me,” kuroo blurts out, well before he can stop himself. and he almost wants to sink into the earth with the way his entire body goes hot, the aftermath of a tectonic shift, the pluming heat of a volcanic hiccup.

you stare up at him, your expression curiously blank as he watches you, desperate for any sign of your answer, the most minuscule tells of how you might be feeling.

finally, you cock your head and ask, “was… there a question in there somewhere?”

kuroo almost swears*. almost*.

“fuck — fine! i meant — will you —”

“yes.”

“— it’s just i’ve — wait, what?” kuroo freezes, staring down at you with slack-jawed disbelief, blinking as if he doesn’t quite understand what you’re saying.

you allow yourself a smile, and kuroo feels his insides melt to something very much like molten marshmallows.

you let out a sigh that sounds remarkably like kenma’s — exasperated and amused in equal measure — before glancing back up at him with a bashful smile.

internally, kuroo wonders if this is what being “k.o-ed” feels like and he resolves to be just a bit more merciful to all of videogame opponents.

“i said yes, you big volleyball-obsessed oaf —”

“oh,” kuroo says, still not quite sure what he’s supposed to do from here.

you roll your eyes and turn back towards the sidewalk, taking a few steps before twisting your head to look at him.

“aren’t you gonna walk me home?”

kuroo nearly trips in his eagerness to level himself with you, but once he does, he straightens his shoulders and puffs out his chest.

“so —” he says, in a stab at his usual carefree bravado, “do i get to call you my girlfriend now?”

you shrug, “sure, if you want to.”

kuroo deflates ever so slightly, “what? you don’t want me to?”

you slant him a look that makes his knees turn to jelly.

“yeah, i do. but that won’t matter if you don’t, right?”

“i — i do!”

“so then…”

you turn your back on him again, though he’s sure this time he catches it — the dash of sweet magenta, swept across your lips like a kiss, or a promise.

or, the thought licks up the back of his throat, tantalizing — the promise of a kiss.

“oi.” he jogs to catch up with you, reaching out to sling an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in to press his lips into the thick of your hair, breathing you in, losing himself in the familiar smell of your shampoo — green tea and apples, or something of the sort.

you laugh, and he basks in the sound.

by the time he walks you home, the street is gilded in goldenrod yellow, your shadows stretching long beneath you, the slant-wise light painting everything in an ethereal glow.

“well,” kuroo says, shoving his hands into his pockets, if only to keep them from fidgeting, because guys like him don’t get nervous. at least, not like this.

“well,” you echo, letting your voice linger over the ‘l’, letting it twist around your tongue, the sound lulling at the top of your palette till kuroo feels his stomach catch.

“see you tomorrow?” he asks, cursing himself internally for sounding so uncertain. since when has he been so uncertain?

your lips twist into a tease, just a fish-tail flicker, and kuroo knows he’s done for.

“do you wanna stay for dinner?” you ask, just as he opens his mouth.

“unless you don’t —” his voice jerks into an abortive breath.

somewhere behind him, a raven fluffs out it’s feathers on the low-cut wall that separates your house from the rest of the street. a single black feathers flutters to the ground, dark as an oil spill.

“unless i don’t what?” you ask.

kuroo swallows around his thundering heartbeat, feeling the last dregs of sunlight seep from the far horizon.

“i was gonna say… unless you — you didn’t wanna say goodbye,” he admits, his eyes flicking away from your face if only to give himself a momentary reprieve from the intensity of your gaze.

you purse your lips, shrugging up a shoulder, a single lock of hair slipping from its place behind your ear.

“i never do. c’mon — or else they’ll start eating without us.”

kuroo is speechless as he watches you make your way up the shallow steps to your door, glancing over your shoulder towards him. he doesn’t know how many times he’s stayed over for dinner, how many times he’d lingered in the perfumed warmth of your room while you showered, flipping absently through the latest volume of jump, how many times you’d fallen asleep with your damp hair slowly soaking into his school uniform.

he couldn’t count them all if he wanted to. and he doesn’t really want to.

he takes a breath and takes the front path two steps at a time, leaping up the staircase with a smirk as he skims his palm along the top of your head. you make a sound like an annoyed hamster and kuroo allows himself a laugh that bubbles up and up and up till it’s spilling over, till he pushes open your front door and is greeted with the familiar sandalwood radiance of your front hallway, the light pooling around his ankles as he toes off his shoes.

“hey,” you say, and he turns around, only to find you leaning up on tip toe to brush your lips against his.

he freezes, but you’re pulling back already, shrugging off your coat, shouldering off your school bag and shouting down the hallway to ask what’s for dinner, and to say that kuroo’s here.

kuroo finds himself caught in the sharp cerulean blue of your laughter like the rain-washed sky, the smoke-ridden darkness in the shades of your eyes, he turns to see you blushing, even as you motion for him to follow you into the dining room. he does, only tripping over himself once (though he’s been feeling wobbly since this afternoon, when he’d resolved to ask you out in the first place).

and he tells himself that, yes, there will always be colors he doesn’t know the names of, bird songs he will never be able to understand. but colors, he can learn. and as for the birds — well, he figures that they’re all probably singing about falling in love anyway.

TAGLIST: @yaoduriaa @ominouslywritinginmyhead @naomihatake @cheesypuffkins87 @crispynutella @dira333 @stunies @phroggii @fennecnco @encrytpta @simpingdailyforthem @ryescapades -- join the taglist!

#⛈ monsoon season #kuroo x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu fluff #kuroo fluff #tetsurou kuroo #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kurou tetsurou fluff #hq fluff #x reader #tetsurou kurou x reader #there r entirely too many different romanized versions of his name wtf #i love when reader makes a mess of the character i rly do #i love a simpy man and honestly. kuroo would be a massive simp #i'll be taking no comments on that thought #LMFAOOO

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jerzwriter · 5 months ago

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Ethan and Kaycee have a little secret... there's a big reason to celebrate Father's Day this year. But when Kaycee's plans go awry, she learns Ethan's were just falling into place.

Story/Fandom: Open Heart (Post Series) Pairing: Ethan Rasmsey x Kaycee (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 1,600 Summary: Please see above A/N: Last year, I wrote Mother's Day fics and left the poor dads in my world unloved. lol This year, I switched that up a bit (sorry, moms!) I hope you enjoy this! :) Participating in @choicesjunechallenge2024 - Threshold/new beginning - I didn't have much of a chance to edit. I hope it's not dreadful! :)

Kaycee had locked herself in the bathroom. A pretty drastic step for remaining undetected, considering Ethan was still fast asleep, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Confident her emotions were finally under control, she attempted to stand up from the bathtub’s edge where she had been perched, only to sit back down when another wave of tears washed over her.

“This is ridiculous,” she mumbled as she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her bathrobe.

She was never out of bed before ten on a day off, but that had changed lately. Ethan finally respected her sleeping habits; based on the snoring she heard coming from down the hall, he had even adopted them for himself. But morning sickness was something else. Morning sickness had no respect, so being awake at 8:00 on a Sunday morning was no longer very strange.

Six weeks earlier, they celebrated Mother’s Day – at least Kaycee did. She had told her parents Ethan couldn’t get time off of work, but that wasn’t entirely true. Mother’s Day was difficult for him – he sold it as his disdain for Hallmark holidays, but Kaycee knew better. What she hadn’t known was a reason to change his mind already existed. Something she’d discover a week later, alone, in this same bathroom, and she still found it hard to believe it was true.

It was still early—so early that the only others who knew were Kaycee’s parents and Sienna. Based on the side-eye and attentiveness received by the rest of her team at Edenbrook, Kaycee was pretty sure they suspected, but she and Ethan had decided that until the first trimester ended, no one else was to know.

They had no way of knowing last Mother’s Day was of significance to them, but their baby-to-be made themselves known early enough for Father’s Day to be viewed differently, but Ethan put the kibosh on any celebration.

“It’s too soon,” he whispered, with his hand protectively laying on his wife’s stomach. “I don’t want to jinx anything.” “Jinx!” Kaycee sputtered. “You’ve never been superstitious! Not once, and now you decide to be!” “Maybe I finally have something to be superstitious about,” he smiled.

She had wanted to argue the point, but exhaustion took over, and when sleep was possible these days, she took it. But as the day got closer, Kaycee couldn’t let it go by without acknowledgment. Ethan Ramsey was going to be a dad! And as much as she wanted to scream that from the rooftops, she would respect his wishes and refrain. But the man wouldn’t deny her making the day special for him, of that she was sure.

So, she set her alarm for 7:30, just in case the nausea didn’t come through. Her goal was to make him a special breakfast—his favorite: eggs benedict with Hollandaise, rosemary-roasted potatoes, and mimosas—at least mimosas for him.

Kaycee being in the kitchen was a rarity – as much of a miracle as Ethan’s pending parenthood, some would say. But as she quietly took out the pots, pans, ingredients, and utensils that would make her husband’s first Father’s Day breakfast, she couldn’t have been more excited or relieved.

The waves of nausea that had become commonplace were nowhere to be seen until she attempted to drop that raw egg into the boiling water. Poaching an egg, how hard could it be? At another time, perhaps not hard at all, but during her first trimester, the faintest smell of boiling eggs sent her running to the bathroom. By the time she was well enough to return to the kitchen, the potatoes had started to burn. Tossing everything in the trash, she gave up. At least she could order in.

But that didn’t go as planned, either. The order had been placed, and instructions were to leave the bag with the doorman. The app notified her of their delivery, and she rushed downstairs, only to be disappointed again.

Henry, her favorite doorman, saw her face fall and was full of concern. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“These aren’t eggs benedict! They sent tofu scrambles!”

“Well, that doesn’t sound anywhere near as appetizing!” the old man empathized.

“Ethan would hate it,” she said with a sigh. “Would you like it?”

Henry crinkled his nose. “I’m afraid I’ll have to side with Dr. Ramsey on this one – a true rarity,” he chuckled before offering to give it to someone in the maintenance department who would appreciate it. Grateful it wouldn’t go to waste, Kaycee got back into the elevator. But by the time she reached their floor, her hormones took over again, and her thoughts began to race.

She couldn’t get anything right. Why had she even attempted to cook? Everyone knew her skill set was best served outside of the kitchen. Would she be able to cook for her baby? She was going to be a terrible mother. She had already ruined Ethan’s first Father’s Day, after all, no matter that he was still sleeping. When she stumbled in the condo door, she headed right to the bathroom again. That’s how Kaycee found herself here, perched on the bathtub with a face full of snot and tears. Her only consolation? Ethan was unaware of any of this, but a knock on the door changed all that.

“Kaycee, honey? What’s going on in there? Are you OK?”

“Uh, yeah,” she said, splashing cold water on her face. “Just uhm, going to the bathroom.”

“Why are you in the guest bathroom?”

“I, uhm... didn’t want to wake you.”

Ethan always understood Kaycee, even when he was determined not to. But after their years together, she couldn't fool him.

“Kaycee, open the door, please.”

She opened the door, her face red and eyes puffy, and fear struck his heart.

“Kaycee...”

“I'm fine," she reassured. "Come with me,” she said, taking his hand and leading him back to bed.

“I’m sorry,” she cried into his shoulder. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Nice... for what? What are you even doing up this early? You know if you’re sick, you should get me.”

“I wasn’t up because I was sick, well, at least not at first. I wanted... I wanted to make you a nice breakfast, but everything went wrong!”

She relayed the story of the eggs that betrayed her – no wonder they’re called Benedict! – then the burnt potatoes. She attempted to rectify it with delivery, only to receive a tofu scramble. Ethan waited patiently, rubbing her back soothingly until she was done.

“That’s terrible,” he acknowledged with a half smile.

“I know!”

“First, it appears the alarms I set up to keep you out of the kitchen failed miserably, and then... a tofu scramble? No wonder your morning sickness returned after that!”

"Ha-ha-ha," she jeered, poking his chest as her tears turned into laughter. “I know you said you didn’t want to celebrate Father’s Day; you think it's too early, but I wanted to make the day special for you.”

“Well, you’re wrong about something. I did want to celebrate it in my own way. In fact, I already had plans on how to do it.”

“You did?” She marveled.

“Yes. The plans were me, and you, home alone with me spoiling you as much as possible."

“But, it’s Father's Day. Shouldn't I be spoiling you?"

“Not at all, without you, I would have never even imagined being a father, yet look at me now. So I’m going to spoil you rotten today, and you're going to let me."

“Ethan," she sighed.

“Ethan, nothing. If all goes well, you have years of making cards with handprints, buying gifts, and preparing meals with our child – God help them..."

"Hey!" She said with a smack to his shoulder.

"This year is extra special, but you’re doing all the work to get our little one here, so let me spend Father’s Day the way I want to... by showing you the kind of husband I am and the kind of father I intend to be."

Kaycee broke into tears once again.

"Are you OK?"

"No! How dare you say something so sweet to me when you know my hormones are a freaking mess!"

"Come on," he smiled. "Let's get you in the bathtub and I'll make breakfast for you. What do you want?"

"I have to think on it, but not eggs benedict, and definitely not a tofu scramble."

“Well, whatever you decide? I'll make it happen."

A short time later, the couple sat on their balcony overlooking the Charles River. Kayce, in a fresh new bathrobe, with her attentive husband at her side.

"You really don't have to eat this, too," she said, biting into her breakfast.

"Why not?" he asked, trying to swallow his bagel with peanut butter, bananas, greek yogurt, and lox. "This is a delicacy in some... you know what, I can't even lie. This is horrible. The thought of eggs benedict made you sick, but this doesn't?"

"Hey, I don't make the pregnancy rules! If we did, we’d both be otters and then you would be the pregnant one!"

"Kaycee, you're being otterly ridiculous."

"Kaycee, you’re being otterly ridiculous."

"Thank God you're gorgeous and a brilliant doctor," she laughed. "Because you would have never made it as a comedian."

"I love you," he smiled, then leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"I love you, too," she replied. "Now, what do you have planned for the rest of the day."

"Easy. Romcoms. If your emotions can handle them."

"You're watching romcoms with me! Willingly!"

"Mmm-hmm, until we cap the day off with watching the Eras Tour again."

Kaycee let out a soft gasp. "The world has no idea what a big softie you are, Ethan Ramsey."

"Shhh," he whispered. "Let's keep that our little secret."

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

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@kyra75 @secretaryunpaid @stars-are-within-me @tessa-liam @thosehallowedhalls

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#open heart #open heart fanfic #open heart choices #choices open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x kaycee #choices fanfic #playchoices #playchoices fanfic #choices stories you play #fathers day fics

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bettyfrommars · 9 months ago

Text

Ring of Fire

a biker Steve au

Part 2: More Than Words

masterlist playlist

18+ONLY, MDNI, longing, friends to strangers to lovers, mature themes, mention of sex work and violence, reader has secrets, so does Steve, eventual smut, dirty deeds, biker!Hopper. It's the mid 90's and Steve is in his early 30's.

word count: 4.3k

Summary: Getting to know the town of Hawkeye, including Munson's Garage and Patsy's diner. Steve has dreams of another life he never lived. Reader has dreams of Steve. Hopper spends his spare time looking out for Lorelei.

A/N: There will be references to I'm on Fire in the first part of this chapter by way of dreams, but it is not a crucial plot point to the story, just in case you are not familiar with the other series. I keep wanting to bring more of the places/people in from IoF, but every time I do, this Steve morphs into the old one, and I love the idea of exploring him this way, without the other backstory.

Morning cracked open through your blinds, a bright sun void of warmth. Rolling to face the wall on your floor mattress, you curled the lemon-yellow comforter up over your head, only to be bludgeoned by the onslaught of birds tweeting outside your window.

A motorcycle grumbled by on the street below and you were officially awake.

There was a kitchenette in your apartment, but you didn’t have a coffee maker or grounds yet. The diner opened at 6am on weekends, and that is where you planned to go. You considered throwing a coat on and shuffling over in your pajamas, but ended up pulling on a change of wardrobe that did not match and a shirt that was inside out.

7:30 was far too early for clever dressing.

The sky matched the color of the pavement by the time you stepped out onto the sidewalk, now that the sun had been obscured by hulking clouds. You pulled the hood of your sweatshirt up as a soft drizzle misted your skin, waiting for a big truck to pass before making your way across the street.

One block over and two blocks down was the red and white sign for Patsy’s Diner. You spotted it just as the rain fell unyielding, your feet picking up the pace.

There were three cars in the slant street parking out front, including a big black Chevy truck with a square body style from the early 70’s.

You didn’t see Steve until it was too late. Not until you locked eyes through the diner window.

—-----

Steve picked Robin up every Saturday morning to have breakfast at Patsy’s, which had been their ritual for almost a decade. There’d been a couple exceptions, including the months Robin was locked up for voluntarily taking the weed possession charge for one of her girlfriends, and a few when Steve had been out of town on a run with the Coffin Kings. Other than that, even with the worst head-splitting hangover, they never missed it.

Robin chucked her leather jacket into the booth first before she slid in wearing paint-splattered overalls over a baggy tee with the band Heart on the front. Her warm golden hair fell to her shoulders, worn in a low ponytail, exposing the “lover” tattoo inked in cursive just under her ear.

Their booth was right at the front corner of the L-shaped diner, next to the window. Steve had even carved their initials under the table at one point with his old utility knife. The booths were burnt sienna vinyl that were so worn at the seat that they were ripped in places, exposing the gauzy innards. The waitress Jeanette collected steaming plates from the kitchen hatch to carry to another table while Sharon, her co-worker, brought over a pot of coffee and two stout, brown mugs.

Steve rolled a toothpick around in his mouth from side to side as he held open the laminated menu to look it over, even though he could read the whole thing with his eyes closed.

“Rough night?” Robin asked while she concentrated on stirring three spoons of sugar and a hearty dollop of cream into her coffee.

Steve didn’t look up from the menu. “How could you tell?”

Between the raw strawberry on his knuckles and the dark purple half-moons under his eyes, he knew the answer.

“Your hair looks like it’s trying to evacuate your scalp.”

She waited for him to start combing the mess back with his fingers to give a soft chuckle.

Steve let the menu go flat on the table and palmed the rim of his black coffee to pull it closer. “I had another one of those dreams last night.”

His best friend’s eyes snapped up, but then Jeanette was there to take their order and the conversation had to pause while Steve got his standard hotcakes with bacon, and Robin her omelet with hash browns and sourdough toast. They exchanged a few pleasantries, since Jeanette had worked there as long as the two of them had been alive, and then Robin settled back in her seat with a weary huff.

Steve felt like he had to remind himself to blink, his eyes were so dry. He looked at his hands as he spoke. “I had a kid, a little boy.”

Robin leaned forward to rest her forearms on the table. “Was I his mother in this one? These dreams of yours freak me out. I can’t imagine being someone’s mother, like, not ever.”

“You were a really good one though,” a hesitant smile quivered on his lips. “You helped me raise him even though he wasn’t biologically yours. But in the dream last night I—”

Every time he woke up from those particular dreams, he mourned the loss of a child he never had.

He cut off what he was about to say, the memory of the love he felt in his dream hitting him like a wave. “Last night I was about to get married to some woman, and we had a baby on the way. My baby.”

Robin was about to crack a joke, but then thought better of it. “I know what it feels like. To have the kind of dreams you don’t want to wake up from. Who in the hell would want to wake up to our lives.”

“Wayne is healthy though,” Steve nodded to himself, trying to find the positives. “In these dreams he’s…sick or something, and I’m always worried he's not going to live much longer.”

“The apocalypse couldn’t kill Wayne,” she smiled. “Old man will outlive all of us.”

The food came, and the topic of conversation changed, until Robin shoved a bite into her cheek. “What was his name, do you remember? Your son?”

“His name was Oliver,” Steve held a strip of bacon out, not ready to take a bite yet.

Robin bobbed her head a few times. “That’s a good name,” and then, “you want to talk about what happened last night?”

“Same old shit,” he huffed, slapping a few crumbs off his black tee while he chewed. “Hop and I were called out to the junkyard and—”

There you were again, like another dream he was bound to wake up from.

Robin was concentrating on shoveling a particularly big bite into her mouth, so she didn’t know why he’d gone so quiet, until she followed his line of sight.

You stepped inside, wiping the rain off your face, but you kept your hood on while you waited for a waitress to greet you. Inside the diner was cozy, wall to wall carpeted a teddy bear brown, and smelled of cooked meats, coffee, and syrup. It made your mouth water, and you wondered if you should splurge on something.

Jeanette tried offering to seat you at the bar, but you were adamant that you’d take a brew and some sugars to go. Also a toasted bagel, you added that in at the last second.

“You want egg on that, honey?” Jeanette asked, nestling her pen in the curly silver hair above her ear.

Peeking out from the side of your hood, you noticed Steve lifting up to get a better look at you from his window booth. “No, plain is fine, thank you.”

“Who is that?” Robin asked, wiping her mouth as she turned around in her seat to get a look at you.

“No one. Someone I knew in middle school,” Steve mumbled, hacking into his stack of pancakes with the side of his fork. “She’s the new renter above Donna’s place.”

“Huh,” Robin turned her attention back to her plate. “Why do you look so flustered?”

You were standing at the door, watching the rain come down in sheets, when you felt a warm body sink in behind you.

“You need a ride back?” It was Steve with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It looks pretty…wet out there.”

When you turned to face him, you brushed some forgotten crumbs off of his chest with your hand. It was a very familiar gesture, one that neither of you thought too much about.

It was on your tongue to decline, but it was the integrity of your bagel that concerned you. Jeanette brought you the big to-go cup and warm bread in a paper bag.

“Just as long as you aren’t here on your bike.”

—------

Steve ran over to tell his companion to sit tight while he drove you the 3 blocks home. His friend waved at you from her seat, and you gave a tentative wave back. More like just holding your hand up in the air actually, something of a Spok greeting.

“I don’t want to interrupt you—”

“She’s fine,” Steve assured, lifting his jacket up to hold over your head as the two of you pushed through the door and into the frey. “This will only take a minute.”

Hunkering down, you jerked the heavy metal door of his ‘78 Chevy pickup open, and then spread yourself long across the bench seat to reach over and pop the lock on his door.

Rain dripping down his face, Steve watched your two fingers pluck the lock up, and it was a small gesture to most, but a tender one for him. Not even his ex-girlfriend had afforded him such consideration, not once.

You weren’t his girlfriend though, you were barely a friend. An acquaintance he’d fantasized about in his formative years.

Once you were both under shelter in the dry cab, you glanced up through the windshield and saw Robin keeping an eye on the two of you from her place at the window. Even through the visual distortion from the rain, you could make out a soft smile lingering, perking up her cheeks.

The interior smelled like him: old leather, cigarettes, and the yellow, vanilla, tree-shaped freshener hanging from the volume knob on his radio.

“Sorry if it stinks in here,” he reached down to swat the ashtray closed that was full of smoked filters. “I need to clean that out.”

“Are you familiar with the dumpsters in the alley behind Donna’s place?”

He nodded yes as he put the key in the ignition.

“Well, they are right under my bedroom window, and I have no air conditioning. I’m looking forward to how my place will smell in the dead of summer.”

The truck grumbled to life and he anchored his arm around the seat to turn and see where he was going as he backed up. “You just need one of those air conditioning units that fits in the window. I know a guy, I’ll get you one.”

You hadn’t been fishing for help but, “that’s really nice of you, thanks.” His offer made you feel small for a second.

Less than a minute later, you were at your place. He pulled in as close as he could to the awning without crashing into the cement structure.

Not many words were exchanged as you got out, just a few mumbles of “thank you” and “good to see you”, but then you were out and slamming his heavy door shut to hurry inside. He waited out there for a few beats, wishing he would’ve said more before coasting back to the diner.

—---

Later that day, as the sun faded to a collage of pink orange behind the low hills, Hopper sat on his Harley in the parking lot of the Rosebud Motel.

The amount of time spent waiting there, watching the door to room 11 might have sounded absurd to some, but he knew that no one could look after her like he could.

He’d read about a trucker in the news who was paying women for sex and then hurting them. A few of the girls were missing, and foul play was suspected, but no one cared about the victims enough to investigate much. Most of Lorelei’s clientele were locals; lonely hired hands and married men, but there were always transient travelers looking for some company when they passed through town. Those were the ones he was concerned about.

The door to her room opened just as he lit a fresh cigarette. The guy that stepped out was pushing 70, adjusting his suspenders over his shoulders. She stayed in the doorway, covered in one of her satin robes, and kissed him on the cheek. Her appointments weren’t always about sex. Some were, for sure, and those he preferred not to think about, but a lot were touched starved hermits who craved conversation and a shoulder rub from a beautiful woman. A few liked to worship her feet. One guy preferred to feed her ice cream while they watched Cheers reruns on the bed together. Bottom line, nothing she shared surprised him any more.

The local customers knew that Hopper was her watchdog, and they’d be too afraid to cross a line with her, even if they wanted to.

Hopper had not yet been intimate with Lorelei though; not even a kiss.

For years, he’d managed to keep it platonic, ever since she hired him to be her driver and bodyguard for a date with a new customer she wasn’t yet comfortable with. He’d known that same night that he wanted to be with her, but he also knew he wasn’t special, that she saw him as a bit of a necessary evil to keep the bad man away.

But, Hopper was a bad man who had done many bad things. She deserved better.

He would protect her with his life at the drop of a hat.

Ned, the guy in the suspenders, shuffled to his Chrysler LeBaron, and then Lorelei turned to smile at Hopper.

He fixed his hair, slicking it back on each side, squinting as he plucked the last of his smoke from between his lips, tossing it to the pavement before adjusting his Coffin Kings cut to wave back.

—----

The rain was off and on all day, until the night shadows snuffed it out, allowing only a damp mist to remain. Earlier, you’d found a coffee maker at the thrift store, and when you still couldn’t sleep at midnight, you decided to caffeinate yourself to see if it counteracted your awakeness and made you sleepy. Not much logic to it, but still, there it was.

Deciding to go out for a walk, you zipped your jacket up and headed out, down along the dumpster alley, and out into the street that led to the park. The playground equipment sat so ominously motionless, the empty expanse felt eerie for a moment as you made your way over to the swings, hands shoved deep into your pockets.

You grabbed onto the chain, sitting in the teal plastic seat. Beneath you, the ground was worn into a large divot where years of dragging feet had been. You remember sitting on the same swig when you were a little kid and your feet couldn’t reach the dirt.

“Do you want to be alone?” His voice came out of nowhere, making your head turn so fast you almost kinked your neck.

You saw the plume of cigarette smoke before you saw him. He was cloaked in darkness, but there was something about his shape, the way he sauntered forward.

“Steve?”

“Miss me?”

You took a deep breath, attempting to slow your heart rate. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was just wondering the same thing about you,” he came fully into view then, illuminated by the full moon through the tree boughs. “This is my park.”

“Oh,” you looked around with mock surprise. “You own this whole park? You did well for yourself.”

With a flick of ash from his cig, he sank down into the swing next to you, chains clinking against the aluminum bracing as he did so. His hair curled at the base of his neck, the thick top part flopping to one side as he raked a hand through it. He was wearing that same type of v-neck shirt under his leather jacket to give a peak of his chest hair and tattoos, as if he knew you’d be looking. As if he’d known he’d run into you.

He smirked. “When Eddie and I were kids, we lived in that trailer park a few blocks that way,” he nodded over his shoulder. “We spent a lot of time here. Any excuse to get out of the house.”

He extended the pack of cigarettes out to offer you one, but you declined that time. “What were you out here doing tonight though?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he grumbled a laugh. “Decided to go for a ride. You?”

“Same, with the not being able to sleep thing. In the city there is more to do but not many options here.”

“Tell me about it,” he scoffed.

You shared a silence then, one that did not feel empty or awkward, but then he looked up at the sky that was clear and bright with stars.

“Do you wanna get out of here? Go for a ride?”

It took you a full minute to answer, but it was not a hesitance based on uncertainty. It was hesitance based on wondering if Steve knew what he was getting himself into with someone like you.

“Where are we going? New Mexico?”

He shrugged, making eye contact again. “We could. If that’s what you want.”

You ran your tongue along the ridge of your teeth, waiting for him to come over and take your hand to help you out of the seat. He pulled you up so fast, your chests crashed together, your mouths inches apart.

“I want to show you something,” he said, brushing his lips against yours.

—-

When you blinked awake the next morning, you realized that meeting Steve on the playground had been a dream. You let the weight of its loss sink in as you rubbed sleep from your eyes, fumbling for the key around your neck as if you might’ve misplaced it in another dimension.

On the other side of town, Steve revved his bike to life in the garage of the picket fence house he’d been renting from Eddie Munson. Eddie’s ex Melanie left him high and dry with a mortgage on his hands, and he was quick to offer it to his friend when he had nowhere to go. Steve took care of the small lawn, and did any repairs with money from his own pocket. He didn’t really care about the quaint seaside bungalow look of it—the garage was all that mattered to him. He could keep his bike in there and fix up project cars when he had the means.

He was running late, so he took the shortcut through the back alleyways of town.

Or maybe he knew he’d be on time, he just wanted to cruise by your apartment and see if he could get a glimpse of you.

Coffee was brewing in the office at Munson’s Garage when he got there and from behind the desk, Robin looked surprised.

“You’re almost a half hour early,” she dropped her attention to the papers she was organizing. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“I slept great actually,” he lied, pulling a styrofoam cup off the stack to fill it with steaming brew. “At least five hours.”

“No shit,” she returned under her breath. “If you’re ready to clock in, Eddie has that Plymouth up on the lift for you to take a look at. The owner wants to pick it up this afternoon.”

She stood to hand Steve a sheet of paper as she spoke. “A few vehicles are coming in to get serviced at 9. Eddie has to pick up a tow in Everett, so it’s just you and Hopper today.”

Through the window over Robin’s head, Steve could see the inside of the garage and Hopper leaning against a tall red tool caddy to have a smoke. He bucked his chin at Steve when he caught his eye.

A few hours into the daily grind, Steve was murmuring the lyrics to the song More Than Words by Extreme while he was on the creeper under a car, thankful for Hopper’s presence since he really didn’t give a shit about the music. Eddie though? His tastes were very particular, and they usually had to flip a coin. When Steve won the toss, Eddie grumbled around the bay all day, rolling his eyes at Steve’s enthusiasm for Prince’s entire discography.

Hopper kicked Steve’s foot to get his attention.

“What’s up man?” Steve grunted, continuing to work.

“Protection run tonight with Bones and a few of the others. Are you coming?” Hopper had on cement gray coveralls and pulled a red rag from his back pocket to wipe carburetor fluid off his hands.

Steve stopped what he was doing and used his legs to inch out from under the Pontiac Firebird. He’d scratched his neck several times and wiped his eye, so there were dark smudges in those spots. A protection run was when members of the Coffin Kings went along to escort precious, most likely illegal, cargo across state lines.

Steve didn’t answer, so Hopper continued. “Sounds like we’ll each be getting a couple grand a head.”

A couple grand? For a few hours of work when he wouldn’t be sleeping anyway? Oh yeah, Steve was going on the protection run, no matter the risks.

“Steve?” The voice belonged to someone else that time.

Someone who sounded a lot like you.

Steve sat up on the creeper and fiddled with the wrench in his hand, sure that it was only Robin and he was just hearing things.

But, there you were, stepping into the garage from the parking lot with what appeared to be a Pyrex casserole dish in your hands.

“Um, hi, you—um,” Steve got to his feet after a clumsy shuffle with the creeper, wiping his hands off as well as he could on his jeans.

“I brought you some lunch,” flustered, you realized it was past noon and surely he’d had lunch already. “Or dinner, whichever. As a thank you for driving me home yesterday.”

Hopper looked from Steve to you and then back to you again before excusing himself to the other side of the garage.

Robin hurried to spy on the conversation from the air conditioned privacy in the office.

“For me?” He wasn’t trying to be obtuse, he was genuinely confused.

“Well,” you steadied the dish in your grasp, glancing around. “Or whoever else might want some. It’s lasagna. My mom’s recipe. Donna let me use her oven, I made some for myself earlier and just thought you might…um…do you like lasagna?”

“Sure,” he reached out to take it from you. “Who doesn’t like lasagna?”

The words were there, but you couldn’t read the expression on his face. The scowl lines in his forehead and the down-turned side of his mouth told you that he was repulsed by all of it: the lasagna, you, everything.

Steve was speechless. Not for lack of words, but more an abundance of them. The last time anyone had cared to make something for him was his grandmother before she passed. Robin had made him dinner a handful of times, but that was different. Still, all he could do was stare at the tin foil cover and wet his lips.

Your brain raced. “If it’s too much, I can take it back?”

“No,” Steve moved the dish away as if to protect it from your reaching hands. “I’ll make sure to clean the dish when I’m done and get it back to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you shuffled back, turning on your heel to beeline for your car as fast as you could.

We were going to run away to New Mexico together, remember?

A few other Coffin Kings had just pulled into the parking lot, and with narrowed eyes, Steve noticed that they were all watching you walk away.

Fuckers.

He struggled to find a place to put the blue dish down, and finally settled on the concrete, so he could head off after you at a jog.

“Hey,” he caught your arm, moving with purpose to block their leering view of you. “Is that your car? Let me walk you over there,” pointing to the yellow Dodge Omni parked under the awning.

You moved a few steps, so did he, and then you eyed him suspiciously. “What’s going on?”

One of the Kings whistled their approval of you, and Steve gnashed his teeth.

“Nothings going on, I just wanted to make sure you know how grateful I am. For coming over here. With the food. For bringing me food.”

You tried to see where the whistle had come from, but Steve darted to the side to block your view.

God, he was blowing it. What a tool.

You wanted to tell him about the dream you had, but right then didn’t feel like a good time.

“I have to get back to work,” you looked at your hands, and then lifted them to the heartbeat in his tan throat, and eventually up to his full lips. “See you later?”

He reached out as if he might hug you, but then put his arms down again, slapping them to his sides. “Hey, are you busy tomorrow night?”

“I work during the day, but otherwise I’m never busy,” you swallowed, avoiding his gaze.

“Do you want to get out of here? Go for a ride?”

But then, your eyes snapped up at the familiarity of the questioning.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he added.

----

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