#the way ive had to split this chapter in two....thnis fic is growing at monumental rates

[narcolini]

white room - pt. 3

johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 4k words, 3 of ? part one | part two a/n: if anyone's curious, the fics named after the song white room by cream, which was both relevant enough, and playing on spotify at the time, to be chosen for such reasons skskssk gif credit to @hausofmamadas mi amor

Friday, well, that one turns out to be a movie. Not in the romantic feeling kind of way, but in the real movie theatre with a bucket of popcorn and everything else kind of way, and you would’a never expected that from a guy like Johnny. 

Really surprised you at first, caught you so off guard that you made him say it twice when he picked you up, but then he said besides riding and racing, movies are his favourite way to spend an hour or two, which really warmed you up to the idea. And you know, he wasn’t lying, neither. Everyone likes movies in some sort of way, sure, but Johnny? He loves them. Really really. His eyes lit all the way up when he told you which one he’d picked out for you, and you didn’t mind anywhere near enough to complain or choose something else, so that’s what you ended up doing.

And on the way there, he asks what your favourite thing is, for passing time and stuff, and you tell him, well, you suppose that’d be writing. So he says, books? And you says, yeah, stories. Adventures. 

“You ever think about writing a movie script?” he asks.

And you shrug, cause you ain’t never thought about it really. “I could do.”

“Bout some guy who starts a bike club?”

“Yeah, and he thinks he’s the coolest guy around, til he meets someone cooler, that is.” 

He smiles. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, someone they call Lips.”

Then he’s laughing, and not looking at all where he’s going, eyes all sticky to yours, but the road's straight, so you figure it’s alright for a little while. “It’s good,” he says, “but, ah, I don’t think it’ll make it. Won’t get the audience, you know?”

“Sucks,” you tell him, “I had a real good feeling bout that one.”

Oh, and he picked you up in his car this time too, which you ain’t never seen before. With the bikes and the trucks, you thought you had his wheels all covered, but then he pulls up in this thing—real neat looking, all black and low to the ground, but not too showy, like something he could still put his girls in, when it’s his turn or something. And you know as much about cars as you do about bikes, which is nearly fuckin’ nothin, so you couldn’t tell him anything about it, other than it looks nice, and that he was in a real surprising mood today. Keeping you on your toes, you said. 

His reason was something about not wanting to leave his bike someplace he can’t get to in a pinch, and apparently that’s the movie theatre. So, you’re sitting next to him this time, instead of clinging on like a second jacket, and talking all that crap about movie scripts while he drives you there.

You figured you’d be feeling a sort of way about the car thing, cause you were getting real used to having him in front of you, really enjoying it, you know, but side by side? Well, that’s a whole other drug. Spent the whole ride so far just looking at him. At his face, his hands. His thighs in those washed out jeans of his—cause he sits the same in a car as he does on a bike, would you believe it, his knees all spread out like that. And sure, maybe it’s not polite to eat him up so much with your eyes, but you’re listening too, and talking when he needs something from you. 

Plus, you only caught him a couple times, but he’s been looking at you as much as you’re looking at him. At your jeans and thighs as well, you reckon. Between the both of you, you’ve made the car feel like one of those Swedish sauna things on wheels, or maybe it’s just you thinking that way, but your neck is hot, real world hot, and even your brow’s a little damp too. God, if he notices the sweat on you, you’ll be opening that door and rolling out onto the road before he can shout at you to stop. 

At one point, he says, “You like the bike or the car more?”

And you say back, “Well, whichever one you like driving, Johnny,” cause the real answer is that one makes you dizzy and the other makes you act like you ain’t never seen a man before. You’re not precious neither, about what he thinks of you, but you’re not gonna go and say something that’ll make you sound like that now, are you?

By the time you’re finally getting out of that thing, you’re thinking thank God, cause you don’t know how much longer you could’ve survived without taking one of his hands off that steering wheel just to feel some part of him. Not in a freaky way, you know, just something to stop you thinking all crazy like. Some little bit of him to hold on to, like you have on the bike. 

Who would’a known that was the lesser evil of the two, right? At least when you’re pressed up against him like that he can’t look at you, all hungry and curious like he has been doing—and you can’t look at him neither, but you can feel him. All big and strong and warm. Then you don’t gotta sit and wonder like you were just then, going all crazy thinking about how it would be, how it would, well, you know. With his hands and his face and his lips and stuff. Thinking bout that, you know. 

So you get out the car, and for a few minutes you’re free, feeling normal, and he buys the tickets and the candy, and the soda that you need dowsing with, and you think, yeah, sure, you can play nice. You’re chatting and laughing just like last time. And he’s letting you go in first, cause he’s a gentleman with things like that, so it’s easy to feel like you’re a respectable person still. 

But then you’re sitting next to him again, and this time it’s in the dark, and his knees are touching yours, actually touching, cause your seats are closer in the theatre and he’s still spread out like he’s got a damn engine under him. 

Like, fuck, you feel altogether insane by the time the movie’s going. 

No other man’s ever got you like this, right? Sure feels that way at least, like you’re fifteen again, and letting the kid next door take you out for the very first time. All heart hammering and sweating like you ain’t never kept a guy’s company before. 

Johnny don’t notice of course. He’s watching the movie with both hands on his lil’ pouch of M&Ms, and every time he laughs, he’s no idea that his knee’s rubbing up on yours or that his elbow’s bouncing right into your arm. You don’t tell him though, cause these are perfectly normal things to happen on a date, right, and you wouldn’t want him to stop, you only want your brain to quit thinking all these things you ain’t got the right to know yet. 

Like how his lips are so big and pretty looking. Like they’re made for kissing, carved out just for that one thing, but they don’t make his face any less handsome, right, and you certainly wouldn’t call him pretty allover. Just, rugged, you know. Good to look at. And, Jeez, you can’t even go five minutes without something like that. Wondering what his lips are really like to kiss, or whether he’s got any more tattoos any place you can’t see. 

It’s a good thing you ain’t supposed to talk in here, cause the way this is going, something might slip out that you really shouldn’t say. So you just keep looking forward and watching the movie that you’re already losing track of. 

_____

Turns out, biting your tongue is worth it sometimes, cause about half way in you get the answer to one of those crazy questions of yours.

Only a little something, but it gets your heart going all over again. Out of nowhere, his hand goes right there on the arm rest between you, and it’s not just resting, it’s inviting, cause the palms up, you know, waiting for you. And when you don’t move, like you might not’ve seen him do it, he reaches and puts his fingers through yours until, yeah, you’re holding hands, and he’s sitting them both in the middle right where he wanted them.

Before, you’d been wondering if his hands were as rough as they looked like, and well, now you know. And they are. But that bird tattoo, that swallow by his thumb? That’s smooth as anything, and once you start feeling it, you can’t stop. Running your own thumb all over it like you’re in love or something. But his hands are a little cool, you know, compared to yours, and you guess you got some habit you can’t help, about warming things up by rubbing them all sweet like that. 

You guess you’re also feeling like he’s sort of familiar already, and that’s what you do when you hold a hand and it’s one you’re used to, right?

But how’s he got you feeling that way after doing so little? Like he’s got you holding hands and tracing swallows and thinking about his thigh against yours, when really, you’ve seen him three times and that’s it. Which is next to nothing, you know? You haven’t even kissed him properly yet. The other night, when he dropped you home, you got a peck on the cheek and a mouthful of cologne and that was that. Which you’re not complaining about, course not, it sent your heart scattering like a mouse across the kitchen floor, but normally you got a real hold of yourself at a point like this. 

Instead, here you are, acting like you know who he is and what he looks like under all the layers. Acting like maybe you wouldn’t mind so much to one day marry a sort of guy like him—if you were to marry anyone at all, that is. You figure one like Johnny wouldn’t be too bad. Quiet when he needs to be, rough looking, but nice still. Someone you couldn’t bring to your mother but would bring to an office party. It could work, you know, if you were ever really wanting something like that to work. 

Boy, you’re almost making yourself sick thinking about it. You barely know the guy and you got no interest in marrying, not any time soon, and God knows Johnny ain’t wanting that either, so what does it matter to you? You’re just thinking all sorts of things for the sake of thinking them—just to avoid thinking about all the other things that you’re trying not to think about and, yeah, you’re really going round in circles about it. If he could hear you now, he’d be leaving you right there in the dark. 

Then he breathes by your ear, and he’s whispering about the girl on screen looking like his Aunt Tina in a hair piece, and you laugh so loud the people in front turn round to shoot you with their eyes—until they see Johnny, that is. Cause then it’s right back to the screen again like they didn’t see nothing. Even in the dark, when all you can make out is what the light off the screen gives you, that jacket of his means something. One look at the leather and the patches and, whoosh. Suddenly nobody’s got the guts to say anything about it.

And the worst part? That all makes you feel even more like you’d marry him. Or someone like him, if it came up, of course. You’re even squeezing his hand a little afterwards, like you’re thanking him for it even though he didn’t do nothin. Just sat there looking mean, you know. 

But maybe you want someone sitting there looking mean. Maybe you don’t wanna be doing it for yourself no more, and are perfectly happy to let someone like Johnny do it for you.

Who knows, but you really should be watching the movie now anyhow, cause he’s gonna ask you all about it, you’re sure, and you don’t even know any of their names yet.  

_____

“So you like it?” he says after, just like you knew he would, when you’re walking back over the lot to that four wheel surprise of his. 

“Yeah, I think so.”

“What, you only think you like it?” He throws you one of them big, crumply, frowns, with a cigarette bouncing in his mouth already. “How can you not know if you liked it or not?”

“I’m still deciding,” you tell him, cause you are, cause you were distracted for most of it. But that part you’re not telling. “I know I prefer things where I can talk to you, though. Face to face and stuff.”

He don’t smile but his eyes do, and you know before he says anything, that he’s gonna say something in a real sort of a way, just to get a rise outta you. “There I was,” he says, “thinking I was doing something good, you know. Giving you a break from all that talking, Lips.”

“No way.” There it is. “That’s not stickin, Johnny.”

“Yeah…” He nods in a sorry looking way. “I kinda think it already has.” 

“And I kinda think three dates is enough. How’s that for thinkin?”

“Oh, calling it then, are you?”

“Yeah, I am.” But neither of you are pretending like you believe it, not even for a bit of a game to play; like it’s a given that you’re lying, you know, three dates and he and you both know you’re sticking around for more. No question. “You ever gonna light that thing?” you ask, pointing to the long smoke dangling over his chin. You’re at the car now and he still ain’t touched it, acting like he’s not even thought about it since he put it there.

“Was getting round to it,” he says, making no move to do anything other than standing there looking at you.   

And you’re looking right back. 

It’s dark out already, cause that movie was longer than you thought it’d be, but there’s enough street lights round here that nothin’s really hurting by it. He’s just got a little orange on him, shoulders glowing like you’re sitting with a campfire or something. 

So you lean back against his car, right on the driver’s side, and ask him what he thought of the movie, cause you can tell he’s thinking a lot on something or other, so you figure it’s probably that. And he sets off talking like you’re right, going on about one of them cowboys in particular, but you gotta admit, you're not listening to a word of it.

Real bad manners it is, really awful of you to get a guy talking and not even hear one thing he says, but Jeez, you’re just watching those lips and that cigarette and not helping yourself in any sort of way at all. You just agree and shake your head when it feels like the right thing to do—and you know you’re making it obvious, may as well be screaming kiss me, Johnny, kiss me, but he just keeps going. Talking more than you ever heard him talk about anything. 

And right when you think he might ask you something, or call you up on that look you’re giving him, he takes the smoke from his mouth and tosses it. Never even lit, clean as the day they made it, and he throws it right into that grimy little puddle there with no warning at all. He could’a kept it you know, put it back in the box and had it later, if he didn’t want it no more.

“What d’you do that for?” you ask him.

He says, “You wanna go?” 

It’s the way his voice sounds when he asks, it makes you frown a little. Like he’s upset or something. Or maybe, and most likely, he saw how rude you were being and got worked up about it, instead of going the other way. And you wanna tell him it’s not that at all, and you’re sorry, yeah, you’ll listen better now, but all you can do is shake your head at him. 

No, you don’t wanna go. What you want is—well, you’re trying to be good about it, cause he said before that you’re the first person he’s looked at in any real sort of way since Betty left, and that’s a whole load of weird, every step of the way for him, you know—but, God, what you really wanna do is kiss him. You want to kiss him. 

Guess he’s used to you by now, cause you’ve been so quiet that he notices something off about it. Then he don’t look upset, or mad, he just looks confused when he asks, “You okay?”

 Well, then you figure, screw being nice, just for a little bit. 

“I’m thinking it’s getting real hard to look and not touch,” you say.

Slips right out of you, gone without stopping, but you said it in a dazed kind of way, so it came out sort of nice, you guess. Honest without being crazy about it. And he says nothin, no surprise right, but you do catch something—yeah, right there, he goes and does it again—his eyes drop from looking at yours, to looking down at your mouth. Bingo. He’s thinking about it too. All you can do is wait it out.

After a second that feels like a minute that feels like an hour, his head shakes halfway and he says, “I don’t,” but that’s all he says, I don’t. Then he goes and pulls you into him. 

Just like that.

Two hands, either side of your face, scratchy on your cheek and cool feeling cause you got hot real fast, and then he’s kissing you. Not quick like some other guy might, but slow and careful like a man really thinking about it. Kissing you like. Well. Like nobody’s ever been kissing you before. 

You feel yourself curling in, right up close to him, and grabbing onto the edges of his jacket a little. Letting him kiss you, not the other way around, but doing all you can to keep it going, you know, cause you can tell by his lips, by the way he’s moving, he’s still sort of worrying about it. Like he knows how to but can’t remember yet, or doesn’t know if he likes your mouth enough to forget about the last one he was used to. 

And you’re not caring about anything to do with any of that, you’re just making sure you remember every bit of this, incase he decides he don’t like it after all.

But he keeps going still, and your mouth starts tasting like his mouth, which is like a load of ash and candy, cause he’s a sweet tooth, you know, who knew, and he was tossing them back like water in there. Which you’re glad of, cause somehow it’s all adding up to taste like the best sort of thing you’ve ever had, and you don’t think he’d get that title if it was just the cigarettes on his tongue.

When he pulls back—and God, you fight him on it—you make a noise like he hurt you. Embarrassing, right? A little whimper like an animal, or something, and that makes him keep you real close for a sec, just to be sure he didn’t actually hurt you somehow. Then you’re both saying “sorry” at the same time, for some reason. Sorry, you know, over nothin. 

And that’s dumb enough that you laugh right up against his lips, and he breathes in a lazy sort of way, all heavy like he’s not had his fill yet. 

Well, you’re already standing straight again and letting go of his jacket, cause it seems impolite to be tugging on him like that now he’s waiting a little, and one of his hands moves to your neck like he’s trying to leave but can’t make his body listen to his head. 

Course, you don’t mind either way. He could have another, or he could shove his hands in his pockets and rush you into the car, and you wouldn’t complain one bit because now you know. You know what it’s like. 

You’re smiling still too, while he looks at you all hungry like, and you know it’s in your mouth and your eyes and the way you find yourself saying to him,

“Take me home?”

Which is the wrong fuckin’ thing to say apparently, because his hands drop off you so quick it almost stings. Like you were never hot, he was, and now he ain’t there holding you the cold is real sharp feeling. Then he steps back a bit, and he’s clearing his throat and rubbing his nose with his knuckles, and you figure you’ve scared all of that right back out of him again.

“You know,” he says, like it really hurts him to say it, “I—I can’t. I mean. I don’t wanna rush into nothin with us, you know?” 

“I know,” you tell him. “Who’s rushing anything?”

You watch him scratch the back of his neck—always itching when he’s trying to get outta something, yeah, you seen him do it enough times already—and he’s screwing his face up like you ain’t getting it, and he can’t think of any way to put it that'll help. “We should probably, I mean.”

“You gonna tell me you don’t wanna date me no more?” you ask him.

Which is funny, cause you said that before he kissed you, and neither of you meant it then, but now there’s a little sour guy in your gut saying maybe, just maybe, you know. 

“No, no.” He shakes his head, voice all whiny like it actually is hurting. 

“Well what is it then?”

“I know how you get, yeah…you, when it gets like that. Taking you home, staying over. I mean," and then he says, "I can’t give you a life, you know?”

You stare at him real hard. “Did I ask you to?”

“Not yet, but,” he shrugs, “I’ve done all that before.”

A part of you is thinking, God, worrying about all that already? This guy’s a real piece of work. But the sensible part thinks, yeah, you too, even if you weren’t really thinking in any serious kinda way—plus he’s got a divorce two steps behind him, so why wouldn’t he be worrying about it? He’s figuring all this out like it’s brand fuckin’ new, and all the while trying to make sure you’re not getting cut up in the process. A little early on, sure, but that’s what you gotta do, right? Clear the gutter out before the rain comes.

So you tell him, “I only wanna spend time with you, Johnny.”

And he thinks on that, looking like he don’t believe anyone could ever say it and mean it, then he says, “S’pose that’s alright then, if that’s what it is.”

And you say, “Yeah, that’s what it is.” 

And when he drives you home, he’s got one hand on the wheel, and the other on his thigh, and you put your pinky round his like you’re scared of holding it proper. Scared of touching him like you’re used to doing it, and scared of him dropping you off without saying nothing else at all. Just your pinky and his pinky, and the radio on quiet like you’re dreaming, or something. 

But then it comes to it, and you get another taste of candy and ash right under your porch light.

It’s short and a little polite, like Mrs Saccone might be watching, but that don’t matter, cause you figure it means he’s decided you’re alright spending time with him still. Not rushing into nothing, yeah? 

He’s half-way down the steps again when he says, “See you tomorrow, Lips,” and he don’t even know if you’re free for him or not. Which you guess means you haven't scared him off at all, if that’s what it is. 

_________________

part four >>>>>>>

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