general-kenobi357

[general-kenobi357]

1. tie the knot

javier peña x f!reader* | chapter one of let us pretend

summary: peña has been back in Texas for all of five minutes, thinking he wants a simple life. but, when steve offers him the chance to gather information on a potential new player, he jumps at the chance. the only problem is, to do so, he'll need to go undercover with a female agent—and pretend to be her husband.

wordcount: 4.6k chapter themes: fake dating/relationship/marriage, forced proximity / sharing one bed, colleagues to lovers, no use of Y/N, *female agent has a nickname (sunny) for use undercover. an: this week i am full of surprises. welcome to the world of let us pretend. this chapter might not feel different from htcu, but it is.

All he has to do is pretend. Put on an act.

It’s simple on paper. Easy. A thing he’s already a master in, something he has never found particularly difficult or hard: pretending.

Javi, after all, had had always been pretty good at concealing, at masking—

“Y’need to pretend to be married.”

Faking being a husband was a new one.

Having lived with far too many emotions for so long, it’s not hard for him to fake nonchalance.

Colombia had been his school. The place where he collected his degree—days of pretending he was okay. Hiding the fact he couldn’t sleep the horrors away, that he wasn’t falling apart at the seams. That stress wasn’t making him chain smoke and the pressure wasn’t making him sink his cock into women he couldn’t save.

He picked up his doctorate when he returned home. When ranch life had felt so fucking dull it made him want to pick the smoking habit back up, just for something to do. When he saw boats that made his insides twist, but found he had to wear a smile. Hiding, as expertly as he could, so he didn’t bristle each time someone called him a hero—when all he wanted was a drink, a fuck or a newspaper.

Mostly, Javi had become a master in squirrelling away the fact he saw every minute of the hours at night, feeling nothing short of relief when his alarm chimed so he could get out of his homemade prison.

Bluffing had always been a skill of his. But, this, this was new to him. His bluffing had never required him to wear something shiny on his left hand and—

“And, Jav. Try not to fuck her.”

He’s not surprised that Steve heads up a department in Miami—or that he’s happy and content.

From the moment the two of them reunited, he took in the glow on his old partner’s skin (the one he strongly suspects isn’t just from the sun) and listened as he heard short (in Murphy’s opinion) stories about his daughter growing older.

Javi couldn’t relate—not that he’ll admit it. Just another thing he disguises. Smothers his face in what he assumes is what happiness looks like, wears it like an accessory, something akin to wearing a jacket, rather than actually feeling it.

Picking up a ring, rotating it between his thumb and finger, he snorts. “Wouldn’t be very husband-like of me, if I didn’t, would it?”

He’s nudged. An intentional elbow to the side sparks a grin as he places the ring back into its velvety spot.

Because none of them look right. None seem right—even for a fake thing.

“Fake husband. And don’t fuck this up.”

“I’m hearing a lot of don’ts and not a lot of do’s, Murphy. What the fuck is it you want me to do?”

He’s already been told, informed. Briefed.

Tricked in fact. Requested down here for an opinion, but when his worn-in soles landed in the office of his former colleague, it unravelled into something so much more.

Handed a file—one he knows everyone expects he won’t read—and given a rundown of what the operation is supposed to look like. But Javi knows better. Had known it too. Even suspects, Murphy does too.

One thing Colombia has taught him is that plans don’t mean shit, not when you’re up against an ever-evolving problem.

You don't just want me here for a consult, do you, Murph? Was hopin’ you were bored in Texas.

He suspects that’s why his Pop had given him an arched brow, an expression that was accompanied by pinched lips when he’d first mentioned it. Even his assurance that it’ll be a few days—just helping Steve out was met with a look Javi hadn’t banked on. Realising as he stood admiring wedding rings that his Pop had figured it out long before him.

At least now he understands why he got the Chucho-treatment—not quite quiet, but not quite the same treatment from him that he did the day before.

Instead, that kind of treatment that pierced itself into him, attempted to bury itself inside of him and made guilt flood through him like a poison.

Even if once before he would struggle with it, found himself desperate to apologise—make it up to his Pops—he didn’t this time. Because Javi already struggled. Already grown tired of itching for something.

So, he said nothing. Because he knows Murphy wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t need him.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Murphy closes his eyes. The same noticeable twitch in his fingers and chewing inside his cheek that Javier can relate to: the sign of a recent quitter, and one attempting to use gum as a replacement.

Needing too.

“Where is she, anyway?” he asks, shifting the conversation, suppressing a yawn.

Before he’d even got on the plane out here, he’d been tired. Already beginning to fray at the edges, sleep had already become an even more distant friend.

All of it had been made worse by the worried look on Pop’s face when he dropped him at departures. It thickened, slathered itself on his shoulders even more so when he calls him from Murphy’s office to tell him it’ll be three months.

“You managed longer than I thought, Javi.” “Pop…”

Even though he had known it wouldn't matter, he had still tried to explain it all over again. From the top. All softly, with patience—the phone receiver leaving an indent on his cheek as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Reminding his Pop that this time he was doing his friend a favour, that it was a one-time thing—a few months, at most.

It didn’t shift the tone—didn’t stop Javi from imagining the disappointed lines bleeding into worried ones, mixing with the ones caused by age. It didn't lessen the tightness over the phone, simmering in the miles of air, because they were both at a standstill in the centre of a formerly (albeit temporary) happy situation.

Sighing, Murphy drops his hand, pulling him back from his thoughts. “She’ll be here, alright.”

Javi snorts, swallowing.

Glancing back over another table, seeing other things, other accessories. Things that’ll help him blend, help the two of you blend. You and him, him and you—a person he knows the name of and nothing else.

Steve had shared that you were good, brilliant, the only one he’d trust. That you knew the work so far better than anyone.

He’d been about to begin unpicking those earlier statements when the door opened, blouse and black tailored trousers walking towards him.

It isn’t anything cliché.

Time doesn’t stop, the room doesn't silence, but something happens. Something shifts, changes—alters. Because instantly, Javi realises you’re pretty. A thought which confuses him, especially when it dawns on him that usually, it’s a woman's figure he notices and admires first, but he finds that it's your eyes that he lingers on.

And fuck do they cut into him.

Practically reach inside of him, before they go through him, digging into flesh and fucking bone.

Then, all at once, ceasefire. A chance to strengthen his façade as you turn to greet Murphy, a handshake, a sea of pleasantries. Enough chance to shove it down, whatever attempted to rise in him.

But, he swears he can still see them behind his lids. Something which makes his jaw tighten, teeth grind—

“You must be my husband,” you say, smirk sliding up into your cheek.

Your body suddenly turns to him, hand sticking out towards him, adding your name to the statement as though stamping it into the air and his body goes clammy, grows warm and makes him suddenly desperate for water, coffee or even whiskey.

Slipping his hand into yours, he’s not surprised to find that it’s soft, the right kind of warm. He’d suspected about as much from just appearances alone.

“Agent Murphy has told me a lot about you, Mr Peña.”

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he eyes you. “Think my wife should call me, Javi.”

Javi learns, rather quickly, that you have a nice voice.

It doesn’t grate, doesn’t annoy him—it’s informative, but there’s something else there, a playful edge, a little thing within you that hasn’t been crushed.

He remembers when he’d been as sprightly.

Rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm as he does, fingers desperate to clutch a pen, his jaw tightening as he thinks about how he could roll it in his fingers, hold it like he used to hold a smoke.

Fuck, he wishes he could chew his gum.

A thing which is slowly making him more tense.

Not that you seem to notice, too focused on getting him up to speed on the actual investigation. He’d read much of your notes before today, it was the next part he was more on edge by.

Because, whatever his earlier opinion of you was, he was getting the distinct impression you’d rather set your skin on fire than be fake married. A thing you stop trying to hide, your face displaying your disgust at it each time it is casually mentioned.

It was mandatory—Murphy’s words—for the two of you to get to know one another. A crash course, a 101 in the other. It’s told to you, that the two of you are going to be stationed in your new home for the next few weeks, starting from today. But, because they’re merciful—

“Wanted to make sure you had time to get to know one another. So, take the day—work can begin another day.”

“How nice of you, Murph,” he responds, words dipped in sarcasm. Briefly catching sight of you smirking as you study something on the table.

Javi had already imagined that—since it was recon, and more surveillance than anything else—for the most part, everything could remain the same. He learnt he was right moments later when it was confirmed his name would remain very much his own, and you were handed his surname like a gift you’d rather burn than accept.

It was you who had to surrender more.

“Y’need a new first name.”

If you were surprised, you didn’t show it. A sea of reasons given, the main one being if anyone asked around with a photo and your name, it would be easier to put two and two together. You lived here, for one.

You keep your eyes down, glancing over the table of possessions you’re allowed to borrow, to play dress up with. Fingers brushing over a watch (silver, a white face)—something haunting in your eye you’re quick to blink away when you meet Murphy’s stare.

Folding his arms, Steve sighs. “Jus’ something you’ll answer to. That can be used in public.”

Javi watches you smirk, something secretive, a hidden joke simmering between the two of you—leaving him very much out in the cold of it.

After a beat, you lick your lips.

“Sunny,” you reply, lifting your eyes, digging each syllable of the name you’re going to use into him.

“Let me guess you’re someone’s ray of sunshine?”

He doesn’t mean for it to fall out laced in bitterness, but it does all the same. His mouth tilted into a smirk, your eyes hardening as you placed down a pair of earrings you’d picked up.

“Think it’s more because of my sunny disposition.” He snorts, watching you move around the table. “It’s a family nickname—I’ve… I’ve always been called it, so, I’ll answer to it.”

Swallowing, Javi lets his eyes wander to the wall of the room.

“Alright, you two. You need to sell it, y’hear me?”

“Then we need money.” It’s short, stern, the way you deliver it, head tilted and face unreadable. “We’ll be sniffed out immediately without it. These people deal in money, not handsome faces.”

"So, you think I'm handsome?"

The roll of your eyes doesn't dispute it, not as you direct your attention back to Murphy.

Who, until now, Javi hadn't realised (with his hands on his hips) how big boss Murphy looked as he whispered fine, or how much it rather annoyed him. How it would be quite easy to give him a shove. More so when he’s handed a new phone, a set of documents, credit cards and given more instructions he wishes he could shove down his throat.

He almost gets close enough to do both when briefing ends and he’s handed the keys to the hotel suite they’d be living in—their story simple, easy:

“We have a fake house for you both being made ready as a cover story, but for now you’re both in the hotel. Prime location. Beach views, and very much in reach to the top places the targets visit.”

And, Murphy hadn’t been lying.

It did have good views, the suite was even nice—really nice.

Almost too nice for a little surveillance, a little fake marriage and a drug bust. But, he didn’t complain, barely said a thing in the ride over, or when you wheeled your own case. He even remained silent when you refused to look at him in the elevator or on the walk to the room, and even when the two of you entered.

In fact, the first words he said were: “You gotta try and look at me like you don’t wanna peel my skin off. You know, if you want this to work.”

He expects it; braces for it, the tongue lashing, an icy stare. Picturing you as the kind of woman who is already to sharpen your tools and pierce him with them when he blinks. But, you don’t.

If anything, Javi watches in slow motion as your shoulders sink, your cogs turning before your expression softens.

“You’re right—I’m… sorry.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he nods. “There’s one bed.”

“Well. We can sleep in the same bed, Peña. We’re adults. However, for your sake, I’m going to put a pillow between us.” Your eyes sweep over him, cold, drowning him in a chill. “Two actually.”

“You a cuddler, or something?”

Smiling, you sigh. “No. The pillow is so that if you roll over all sleepy and desperate for some affection, I won’t have to cut you. Because if you touch me, that is what will happen.”

“How are we meant to sell we’re in love if I can’t touch you?”

“Oh, out there, you can touch me. In here, no.”

His snort rumbles from his chest. Tugged up, wrenched from some cobweb-filled depth, as you smile. Nothing big, nothing life-changing, but a start—the beginning of a level-playing field.

“What kind of touching, cariño?”

Jaw tightening, you smirk—but it’s cold.

He suspects you’re used to charm. Easily able to disable it, switch it off, unfazed by his gaze or the edge of his words. If anything, you seem really fucking bored of it—something he’s not sure if he admires or despises.

“Nothing like you used to pay for, Peña.”

Before he’s even recovered, he learns that you take things seriously.

Your bag opens, pulling out a notebook—upside down cursive etched over a page, your eyes scanning over it, before you ask if he’s ready. He’s barely able to ask for what, when you begin firing things at him.

Favourite food. Comfort film. Where did we meet? What song do you sing in the car when I’m not around? Are you allergic to anything?

The list goes on, and on. The more things continue to run out of your mouth, the more he begins to admire you—to settle into some comfort that you want to do this properly. That you’re going to take it seriously too, something he wants.

Needing it to matter.

Needing to have something work out easily, not have it all end for nothing.

The only time you pause is for a dinner—room service, his treat and his choice. A way of providing proof that he’d been listening, paying attention—somehow wanting to prove something to you, even if he’d known you for only half a day.

“So, how did Murphy get you on this?”

He studies the way you cross your leg over the other, the base of your heel tapping against the carpet—all very much guarded, on edge.

“You can tell it’s my first, can’t you?”

Javi smiles, making it softer purposefully. “A little.”

“He said you were good,” you sigh, placing your napkin down. “I assume I was chosen because it was easy. Y’know, than someone with… higher priorities. Plus, I already know the case. Guess it just made sense to send me.”

Nodding, he watches as you avoid his sight, focusing instead on the swirls in the carpet. Something ticking in your pretty little head, it forcing your nostrils to flare, for your jaw to tighten—and he’s watching it happen, practically feeling the air around you begin to vibrate from it all.

“M’not gonna let anything happen to you, Sunny. You know that right?”

That does it. Further digs in the hatred you’re feeling tenfold because the use of your new name makes you flinch. And he knows, like he had suspected earlier that it means more than just a name. Especially from the look on your face.

At first, your expression is soft, almost mask-less—no walls, no defence. Then, like magic, it shifts. It drapes down, rebuilds, and suddenly there within seconds, the same expression he’s been working with since introduction.

“I have heard how you take care of the women who work with you.”

Picking up your drink, and stirring the straw, you let your eyes meet his. The small wooden table suddenly even smaller—the large suite, suddenly constricting in a way he hadn’t expected so far.

“S’not what I meant.”

“I know.” It’s curt, your reply. Clearing your throat, you snort, “You are handsome. I can see why you did so well. And, I might not need to say this, but I need you to know I like my job, and I don’t require that kind of care.”

Rubbing his jaw, he sighs. “That so?”

“I have something that can help with that. It doesn’t talk. It doesn’t need to remind it that it’s ‘so big’, and it doesn’t need me to call it baby. It just hums—politely—and makes my thighs shake. I just need you to be with me in this.”

He snorts, draining the rest of his glass. The ice clangs just before he places it back down on the table. “You bring it with you, your something?”

Licking your lips, your mouth slides into your cheek. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Steve had told you his credentials—how he worked, how smart he was. How easily he was able to decipher a read on someone.

He did also mention much of Peña’s backstory—including his rich history with the opposite sex. A thing you hadn’t wanted to let escape out coated in catty and wrapped in bitchy. And yet, it had all the same.

You did want to get on with him, you admired him after all. Hearing the truths from Steve made the things that swirled like gossip even more impressive.

But, in all of the briefings you’ve had before agreeing to this, your boss had failed to mention that it wasn’t just the man’s tongue that got women to confess all their secrets, but his ridiculously handsome face too.

The one that keeps turning towards you—eyes concentrated in on you as though you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever had the chance to listen to.

But, it wasn’t just that. It’s that he’s quick-witted, observant, and it most definitely doesn’t help that he’s all broad shoulders and brown eyed. That, in part, you thought you could handle.

Then, he’d flirted.

On any other day, in any other place, you’re sure you’d have melted. Likely leant forward, elbow on your knee, tracing your bottom lip with your finger just to make his eyes drop to your mouth.

But, this isn’t any other day—it’s work, a job, one that requires him (in part) to be a flirt.

Clearing your throat, you smear on a smile. “You not tried to date since you’ve been home?”

His face hardens, just slightly.

It pinching, eyes more so than anywhere else—his smile falling, descending to a thin line as he traces his teeth with his tongue. Then, his eyes shift into an entirely different brown, an explosion of shades swirling—flecks of gold and sadness-infused umber.

“No.”

Nodding, you pick at some salad on the side of your plate. “Probably a good job—don’t need any angry people coming for me when I’m curled up on your arm.”

He snorts, but it doesn’t flutter over his face. His hand remains balled up, resting on the arm of the chair—something more there, prodding, needling him. He may be so easily able to read you, but you’re sure he’s about as clear as a warm day himself.

Landing his gaze back on you, you feel it linger, hover—before it begins to slip down from your eyes, landing somewhere at your neck, before the buttons off your shirt. Something warming inside of you, flooding out, spreading across your skin as you try your damnest to level your breathing.

“Got any more questions?”

“Plenty,” you reply, almost catching the y on your teeth before placing a light smirk out over your lips, letting it move across your face.

Gesturing, Peña licks his lips and so you begin with more. Not needing the book now, just working your way through the things which populate, which appear like bubbles he bursts with his answers.

He’s open about some things more than others. The two of you covering family quickly, childhoods even quicker. You both discreetly avoid too many details of Colombia, about the things you’d already heard in chunks from your superior.

Your 101 beginner class in your new husband proving to be easier to understand than your field handbook—although, you supposed the intermediate and expert levels to him would be far harder to crack.

He’s unmarried, not dating—there’s his dad, a sea of distant family and a town full of people whom his father would class as family. You suspect some guilt there, it layered between the conversation on his dad, and the one which followed when you’d asked if the ranch would be okay without him.

“—My Pops has had help for a long time. One of them has been promoted. He… He works there full time now.”

Even if he had tried to say it simply, it was laced in bitterness—not from jealousy, you suspect from the sadness that had poisoned over time. A well stuffed with things which had rotted and gone mouldy over time.

Upon sight of him this morning, you had known you’d need to be clever, smart—find ways to compartmentalise it all. Because, when he traces his nose with his finger, when his eyes widen a little more than normal—coffee-brown all but drowning you—you had known it would be hard otherwise.

Something there, niggling, piercing through.

“Any lovers I need to be aware of?”

Smiling, you slide your feet from your heels, pulling your legs up more, swallowing. “No, you’re good.”

“Any potential risks I need to be aware of—anyone who’ll call into question your new name?”

Your stomach knots, uncomfortably so. A thing balling inside of you, that same fear you’d been plucking at for days—ever since Steve had suggested your name, thrown it out on the conference table with a bunch of greedy eyes seated around it.

“No, I… you have nothing to worry about.”

He looks at you, lets it hover, hold. Something there, trying to disguise itself in the way he narrows his eyes a fraction, in the way his lips pinch together—the way his brain seems to whir like a fan that can be heard even across the table.

When you yawn, he makes a move to tidy up the plates for the tray—batting your hand away. “I’ve got it, cariño.”

“Cariño?”

Your cheeks are warm, more so under his stare. Easily able to smother it the first time, but found it difficult the second. It’s all wide, blooming—it tracing your eyes before it sweeps back to the tray.

“Gotta call my wife something original, special.”

“I’m hardly special, Peña.”

“If I’ve married you, you’re special.”

Clamping your mouth shut, you say nothing.

Something churning, a horribleness that you know stems from the fact this isn’t real. None of it. The niceness, the ring on your finger—the one your finger slides up your palm to brush over, to trace.

The one which didn’t have a home there this morning, but now sits like it’s always supposed to. Your stare on his back as he goes to the door, pushing the metal tray, the jingling of plates and glass sounding out as your heartbeat pounds in your ears, your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

It continues to hammer when your back flattened against the bathroom door—safe amongst marble, mirrors and an array of complimentary products which covered most of the sink.

Only as you begin to undress and change for bed, does it lessen, does your composure return back to you. The mask which you so delicately applied, the one which had taken more words of encouragement in your bathroom mirror this morning than you’d thought.

Because, it isn’t that you thought you couldn’t do this—but rather why would you?

This isn’t your expertise. Not your usual field of knowledge. The last time you’d even been on a date had been at least over a year ago, and the last time you’d lived with a man had been so long ago you were worried you’d wake tomorrow and learn you have habits you weren’t aware of.

Did you kick in your sleep?

Did you grind your teeth?

“Cariño?” Peña calls out, knuckles tapping on the door. “You good in there?”

No, you want to reply. Hands gripping the sink basin, staring at your makeup-less face and the nightie he was about to see you in.

“Yeah,” you call out, washing your hands, and flushing the toilet before unlocking the door, and emerging.

He’s polite enough to not drink you in, even if you're sure he’s craning his neck not to do so.

“Look. Before you crack your neck from not doing so.”

Smirking, he traces his fingers across his chin, before slowly dropping his eyes.

And you feel them.

Warm. Hot. Sliding over your neck, collarbone, down the silk which covers your chest, abdomen and most of your thighs, before he’s running his vision back up.

“Better?”

“Nice legs.”

Narrowing your eyes, you straighten your spine. “Try not to dream about them, and Peña?”

He hums.

“Try to remember you’re not actually married, don’t want you falling for the fantasy we’re putting on. Hate to break your heart.”

Leaning against the doorframe, staring at you, you somehow manage to level your breath. “If it’s you breaking my heart, Sunny. I might just let you.”

Your mouth almost falls open. Almost.

Something you think he's aware of from the way he smiles, from the way he drinks you in before he whispers about getting passed.

Then, you're alone.

Filling your lungs with a breath, staring around the room not sure how you're going to make it a week not cracking, never mind more.

CHAPTER TWO ->

AN: tag list won't be around from chapter two, thank you for letting me tell the story how i always envisioned. your kindness is appreciated.

taglist: @thetriumphantpanda @texassmiller @wordywarriorwrites @iknowisoundcrazy @thundermartini

@secretelephanttattoo @belliezz @picketniffler @thelightsandtheroses @sawymredfox

@toomanytookas @auteurdelabre @grumpygrumperton @noisynightmarepoetry @missladym1981

@maried01 @livswayout @casa-boiardi @msjarvis @perotovar @inept-the-magnificent

@copperhalfcent @morallyinept @inside-the-mind-of-a-wallflower @nabiiturner

@venturawriter @blablablasssss @half-moon16 @nerdieforpedro

[general-kenobi357]

Sun To Me- Javier Peña x f!reader

Main Masterlist | Javier Peña Masterlist

Summary: Javi wakes up early to do chores, but can’t peel himself away from you just yet.

Rating: T? I guess but my entire blog is 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 1219

Warnings: some PTSD related stuff, smoking and drinking (come on its javi) but other than that just some sweet domestic fluff, reader is able-bodied but otherwise undescribed.

Author's Note: This was inspired by the Zach Bryan song of the same name. I had the idea a while back and just dropped it in a doc and forgot about it. but last night I was laying in bed with my husband just like this and it reminded me! so I woke up this morning and wrote this whole thing! shoutout to @catchallfangirl for beta reading!

dividers and banner by @saradika-graphics

Javi wakes to the sound of his alarm. Five-thirty on the dot, just like every other morning. He slams the button on the clock radio, silencing the loud beep before it can wake you. Just because he has to be up at this ungodly hour every morning, doesn’t mean you should have to suffer along with him. He hears you rustling in bed beside him. A soft moan escapes your closed lips and you wiggle around in the bed, trying to get comfortable. Javi looks at the clock and then back at you. Fuck it , he thinks, chores will hold for five more minutes. He lays back on the bed, and reaches his arm out for you. 

You curl up into him automatically. Even asleep, you know exactly where your spot is. You nestle your head into the spot between Javi’s collarbone and the underside of his jaw, you throw your leg over his. Your knee just brushes where his cock sits in his sweatpants, eliciting an involuntary twitch. Your hand rests on his chest, between his pecs. Your fingers absently play with the small smattering of dark brown hair there. You seem to take glee in the fact that the patch grows with every year older he gets. 

Javi wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you even closer to him, reveling in the warmth radiating from your body. His fingers draw circles on the soft skin there and he kisses you softly on the crown of your head, careful not to wake you up. He smiles when your quiet snores fill his ears. You swear up and down that you don’t snore. You get embarrassed every time Javi brings it up, but it’s the sweetest sound in the world to him. 

Javi will never understand how he got so lucky. He knows he doesn’t deserve you. Never has, never will. For some reason, you agreed to marry him and he’s not going to question it. Though it does give him some reservations about your judgment. He thinks back on the night he met you. Sometimes it feels like a dream. Sometimes he’s afraid to go to sleep because he fears that when he wakes up, he’ll be back in that tiny, sweaty Colombian apartment. 

He had only been home in Laredo for good for a few weeks. He spent that night the same way he spent most others, in the corner booth of a dark bar, chain smoking and drinking whiskey. He didn’t miss the way the eyes of the patrons fell on him as he walked through the bar. He was trying to disconnect from his former life in Colombia as much as he could. He was trying to do things differently, so he didn't take any of the women home. 

He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table and pulled his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans. He threw some bills on the table, enough to cover the bill and a more than generous tip. There’s a reason he never has to wait for a drink in this bar. He nodded to the bartender and pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the humid Texas air. He lit another cigarette and just as he blew the smoke out, the most magical sound filled the quiet night air. 

Your face came walking through the cloud of smoke, pushing it away with your hand. “Ugh, do you have to smoke right in front of the door?” You asked him. 

“Sorry about that.” Javi replied, throwing the cigarette on the ground and stomping it out with his boot. You brush past him without even looking at him, reaching out for the gold door handle. Javi beats you to it, opening the door for you and following you inside the bar he had just left. You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he’d never forgive himself for not giving it a shot.

“Hey, Peña ! Thought you left?” the bartender, Jorge, called from behind the bar. 

You turned and smirked at him but didn’t say a word. 

“Just stepped out for a smoke.” Javi called back, without breaking eye contact. 

You giggled when Jorge opened his big mouth once again. “You paid your tab already, hermano . Sure you’re okay to drive?” 

Javi gestured at his friend from behind your back. “Shut. Up.”  He mouthed at him. Jorge just laughed as he poured Javi another whiskey. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked you. You rolled your eyes and shook your head.

“I don’t date guys who smoke.” You told him bluntly. “It’s a disgusting habit and I could never kiss a man who tasted like an ashtray.” 

“Tell you what, if you go out with me, I’ll quit.” when you scoffed, he insisted. “I swear. One date and I’ll never smoke again.” he holds up three fingers pressed together. “Scout’s honor.” 

Javi never smoked another cigarette after that date. 

After Lorraine, Javi never stuck with the same girl long enough to catch any feelings. His life up until now had been dangerous. Letting someone in would have put their life at risk. More than once, someone had been harmed or killed because of their association to Javier. 

He never thought that he would have the kind of love his parents shared. He never thought that he deserved it. He still doesn’t. His mother always told him that the right person would accept every part of him, every side. The dark and ugly along with the good. And you did. 

You weren’t scared off by the lingering trauma that came with spending a decade of risking his life every time he walked outside. You stuck by his side through it all. The nightmares, his reflex to reach for his gun every time a noise was too loud or too close, his drinking. For a while there, it was so bad you’d have to pick him up from the bar in the middle of the night more than once a week. But you did it. You bitched his ass out for it, but you never just left him there. 

You helped him find a therapist so he could work through his shit. Something Javier was deeply uncomfortable with at first. He had asked you to move in with him but you told him not until he got some help. So he went to appease you, at first. But when the nightmares slowed, then almost stopped completely, he started putting in the effort. It was difficult to face the things he had seen, the things he had done. But he would do anything for you. To make you happy. To see you smile. 

Before he met you, Javi thought he would live the rest of his life in the darkness. With darkness inside of him. But you brought him into the light. You are the sun to him. 

His eyes flick over to the clock again and it reads five thirty-four. He sighs deeply and in your sleep you mimic the action. He needs to get up. The chores aren’t gonna do themselves. His arm is numb and he's gotta take a piss something fierce. But he knows all too well just how short life is. Five more minutes.

taglist: @planet-marz1 @rhoorl @nerdieforpedro @hyzer34 @littlegrungegirlaf @joeldjarinff @harriedandharassed @casa-boiardi @disassociation-daydreams @inept-the-magnificent @elegantduckturtle @magpiepills @cherubispunk @milly-louise @party-hearses @megamindsecretlair @survivingandenduring @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @callmecath1 @pedge-page @justagalwhowrites @morallyinept @heareball @yorksgirl @clawdee @fluffygoffpanda @poodlebae @readingiskeepingmegoing @amanitacowboy @casuallyfancydonut @for-a-longlongtime @hiddenbabynyc @missladym1981 @noxturnalpascal @joelsflannel @rosi3ba3z @professionalpromqueen @anoverwhelmingdin @heavennumber2 @pascalpvnk @joels-shitty-puns @weho2kcmo @uncassettodiricordi @noisynightmarepoetry @spookyxsam @apesarecuul @maried01 @tammythr @violinchick @thepetitemandalorian

[general-kenobi357]

Given To The Wild [Javi Peña]

three four parts, three four The Maccabees songs from their Given To The Wild album.

pairing: javi peña x f!reader

word count: 3.4K

summary: "One can always find a way to blame Stechner," Javier offers, a flicker of humour lighting up the dense air, drawing a fleeting lift of her lips. It’s bashful and beautiful. And Javier wants to capture it. Lock it away somewhere safe within him for those days when everything else feels like it's sinking.

warnings: reader is she/her, drinking, cursing, overall safe to read

Part 01 - Ayla | Part 02 - Go | Part 03 - Free To Follow

There is a woman on Javier’s lap tonight. 

But, Javier is hardly aware of her being there. Even as she straddles him; puts her mouth to his neck. 

She is attractive. Skin kissed by the sun, soft and silken. Feels like a dream. 

Coy when she had approached him, her laughter had been light and her touches fleeting. Now, her demeanour has shifted; coyness replaced by boldness as her fake nails trace a path through the neglected hair at his nape. Whispers and words are tumbling from her lips into his ear. Into his space. Uninvited. 

His hands, though engaged, seem to move without any direction, wandering beneath the thin fabric of her skirt, now gathered at her waist. Her own are restless, moving down his neck, skimming the collar of his shirt, putting her dainty fingers around the first fastened button—her breaths laden with requests of what she wants; what she needs. 

She is there, body close, tangible in her warmth and weight upon him. 

She is there, but in Javier’s mind, she might well be miles away. 

“Espérate…,” Javier breathes out. “No va—”

The woman stops in order to respond, not with words but with a purr: a sound that replaces her question. 

She waits. Expects.

But all Javier can do is look at her. Swallow a lump that sits uncomfortably in his throat. 

She's a pretty thing. Lips full and inviting. A painting; a masterpiece that breathes and smiles, and yet, he cannot bring himself to admire. To explore. 

When he doesn’t elaborate, she gives him a smile. It’s not innocent or bashful. It’s wicked, carrying a tone that Javier fails to enjoy. Some other night, perhaps, yes, but tonight, not so much. 

"¿De verdad?” she asks. Tilts her head a little. “¿Necesitas una mano?” 

Her hand is quick, determined as it slides down his torso in order to palm him through the coarse denim of his jeans. But Javier’s answer to her directness is as resolute as his hands when he grabs her by her waist and lifts her up with ease and away from him. She yelps a little, out of surprise than anything else. 

The woman is now on her feet, trying to figure him out, but Javier doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t even try to give her an explanation. What he does, though, is give her a resolute instruction to leave.

Watching him busy himself with lighting up a cigarette, she waits for a moment. Probably thinks that he’s joking, that he isn’t being serious. Then, she’s grabbing her shoes—irritation simmering as she hastily pulls them on and collects her purse, doing as she is asked to.

Only when she slams the door, Javier hears the echo of her farewell, ringing out in the hallway: 

“¡Pendejo!”

—

It isn’t the first time Javier feels it. 

Sure, it’s been a long time, but he recognises the feeling. That heart-sinking, self-loathing, restless nights and second-guessing feeling of regret. Familiar as an old enemy. It creeps back into his heart with a vengeance. Only this time, Javier doesn’t even try to ignore it or fight it. 

Instead, he welcomes it; gives it space. 

He gives it enough room to turn into a raw, burning frustration. The kind that makes him angry with everything and everyone a little more with each passing moment. With Stoddard, and Feistl; Van Ness, too. And that frigid fossil of a woman that guards the archives and denies him the documents he needs. And his old man, for not answering his damn calls, and Stechner, for merely breathing. And whoever leaves the coffee pot empty in the kitchenette. And jammed traffic. The tepid air and the sudden storms over Bogotá. The wrinkle on his shirt; the stain on his boots.

But most of this anger, Javier reserves for himself. At his own actions, his own failings, and the maddening gap in his knowledge on how to mend what's broken. 

And he isn’t blind. He sees the avoidance, the quickened pace in corridors, the averted gaze at the mere chance of eye contact. He doesn’t fault her, though it hurts more than anticipated. So, the same way he accommodates his regret, he extends the same courtesy to her—he gives her space. Convincing himself it’s better this way. Thinking that the distance will ease the tension. Make it somehow less frustrating. 

It doesn’t. 

Left with no other choice, Javier lets his days blend together, fills them with voluntary stakeouts, paperwork and chasing leads—some successful, others best left unmentioned. And it’s good, sort of… at least, at work he has plenty of ways to distract himself. But, when he walks through the doors of his apartment in the evening, he feels odd. Numb, even. He barely sleeps and every night's a date with a bottle. He steers clear from going out, too, and keeps to himself with no desires to bring anyone home or seek out company. 

He tries, and it just doesn't feel right. Especially when he finds himself looking for someone who looks like her. 

Sometimes he pretends to be watching a telenovela, or whatever crap they’re pushing on the cable that the tax-payers’ money pays for him. Other times, he just stares at the kitchen counter, forking over leftovers, cold and straight from the fridge. 

Most of the time, though, Javier just sits there. He thinks and he overthinks. 

But nothing changes. 

She still keeps her distance, and his sleep still won't come. Whiskey becomes a crutch, and the merry-go-round of thinking and overthinking persists. 

So, he pours another one, trying to drown whatever’s clawing at him, but deep down, he knows no amount of whiskey is gonna wash away the truth.

He’s got it bad for her.

—

Javier wouldn't call it hate, this feeling he's got for his profession; but calling it love would be stretching it too thin. 

It’s somewhere in the grey, he’d answer, if anyone bothered to ask. 

Sure, he enjoys the thrill of it. The adrenaline. The kind of excitement that makes dodging bullets and tailing suspects feel like the most alive he's ever been. But then there are those other moments when the same thrill plunges him into deep, dark waters of sorrow, guilt, and the kind of despair that’s hard to shake off.

And tonight, he’s right there, in those waters, and by gods, he’s sinking fast. 

He’s been hiding in his office ever since disembarking the service van earlier—whether it’s been an hour, two, or the entire afternoon, Javier can’t tell. Not that it matters. On days like today, time morphs into a cruel joke, slipping through his grasp, both heavy and utterly meaningless.

Yet, Javier knows that it’s late. It’s in the quiet that had taken over some time ago; the way the noise had died behind the walls. Typing had stopped. Printers went silent. There are no more footsteps. No doors slamming. There are no laughs or fiery discussions. Just him. Perhaps a cleaner or two haunting the upstairs corridor. And the rain, hammering against the windows. Silence inside. Storm outside. 

The weight of his tactical vest presses unforgivingly against his torso, yet, the thought of removing it feels like too much effort. Feels like moving mountains when all his body screams for is stillness. 

And Javier is aware that he should shed it, just as he ought to wash away the day’s grime from his hands. Perhaps change into the clean set of clothes he keeps at the office for times like these. But the flecks of blood, stark against the grey of his shirt, almost feel like they’ve earned the right to stick around — a bleak trophy of the day’s shitshow.

Yet what presses down on him with even greater force are the looks from his men—or rather, the looks he’s been avoiding. Because, today’s raid was supposed to be by the book. Routine. Something in their wheelhouse so familiar it should’ve been second nature. A simple in and out. No complications. No unexpected twists. 

Except it was anything but. 

For missteps were made, plans went awry, and what should have been routine turned into a debacle. 

Javier closes his eyes for a second, allowing the colours to blaze too brightly and sounds to cut too sharply. The shouting, the harrowing screams, the crackling of radios cutting through the air, the chaos and the noise, and amidst it all, his own breath, desperate and ragged as they fought to make it out alive. 

Not everyone did, though. 

Exhausted, Javier lets himself sink deeper into the couch. He rubs his hands over his face, trying to find something solid to hold onto. He tries to remind himself of the life that pulses stubbornly within him. Tries to be grateful.

As though gratitude could untangle the knots of guilt tightening around his heart.

His fingers, sore and shaking, clutch at his hair in a vain effort to pull out the remorse embedded in his mind. Then, with a deep, shaky inhale, he reaches for the flask—her flask—resting on the side table, ready to wash away what's left of his conscience.

He doesn’t make it that far.

Instead, he’s forced to pause as the sharp knocks against the window pane slice through the silence. And for a moment, Javier wants to ignore it. Wants to sink back into the comfort of pretending he’s not there. However, another row of knocks follow shortly after, breaking through his feigned ignorance. And these ones are different. They are quicker. More insistent. More demanding. 

Dragging the weight of the day's failures, Javier stands. Each step feels like wading through mud, his hand firm on the doorknob as he swings the door open.

Javier doesn’t mean to hesitate. He sure as hell doesn’t want to, but it’s as though every cog of his mind stutters and stalls at the mere sight of her. It's like his mind hits a wall, an unexpected stop he didn't see coming and sure doesn't welcome.

"Hey," she says gently, shifting where she stands. "You alright? I didn't see you head out, and your car's still out front—" She cuts herself off, swallowing the rest of her words, gearing up to keep going. "Heard about what happened today..."

He looks away. Finds a spot somewhere off in the distance to stare at. A bunch of wilting flowers on one of the secretary's desks. And after what feels like eternity, a rough, noncommittal sound is all he manages to push out, mumbling, "M'fine."

It’s a lie. As transparent to her as it is to him. 

She nods. Offers him another silent pause. A moment perhaps; ample space for him to retract his dismissal, to offer more. But he doesn’t take it. Instead, the silence just gets thicker, and Javier notices the way the grip on her leather satchel tightens. As if that’s the only thing that’s holding her together. 

“Should I go?”

Her question is soft. Careful. Thoughtful. And everything that Javier doesn’t deserve. Yet he takes it. Allows it to ignite a flicker of warmth within him; a tight feeling in his chest that has nothing to do with the gear pressed against his torso.

Javier says nothing. Rather, he takes a step aside and gestures slightly. Extends her the possibility to step inside; to join him. And it takes a beat or two of uncertainty on her part and silent hope on his, before she crosses the threshold, maintaining a cautious distance as though afraid of even the slightest contact. 

And it stings. More than he’s willing to admit.

Javier walks back to the couch, sinking in its familiarity. Breathes out. Lets his eyes linger on her silhouette, leaning casually yet somehow reserved between the door and the filing cabinet he seldom bothers to open.

"Sit." The word comes out more as a plea than a command

Silence hangs heavy, stretching into what feels like forever before she finally nods. Then, with a deliberate scrape of the chair against the floor, she places it right in front of him. She won’t meet his eyes as she settles down, fussing with her satchel between her feet, as if it's a makeshift barrier in this awkward space they’ve created.

Javier’s caught in his own battle of words. The smooth lines he’d rehearsed, turned over in his mind until they were second nature, now scatter like dry leaves caught in a sudden gust. His brain, tired as it is, offers no help in gathering them back.

Yet, the quiet doesn't hold. She's the one to break it, her voice cutting through the stiffness, despite the noticeable shyness. “I’d share some whiskey if I hadn’t already passed my flask along.”

He finds a small chuckle, the tension easing just a fraction. “Well, guess I should return this, then.. Refilled—hope it’s to your liking.” Javier’s voice is steadier than he feels as he hands over the flask.

Taking it, her eyes linger on the metal container, a softness crossing her features. Then, with a slight smile, she offers it back to him. “Whiskey? Might smooth things over?”

Javier manages a smile, albeit a weary one, as he takes the flask back, and takes a sip. Offers it back to her, but she just shakes her head. Leans back and looks away. 

After that, they stay quiet, even though he knows he needs to say something. Anything. So he does—his gruff voice piercing the quiet. "Today was a mess."

Her fingers cease their nervous dance in her lap, pausing perhaps to iron out the wrinkles of her thoughts as much as her trousers. "I’ve gathered, and I know you might not want to," she starts, halting as if words were a terrain too treacherous to navigate hastily, "but if you want to talk about it…"

His response is a mere click of his tongue; a gesture of dismissal. "Talking won't change what happened. And I don't want you tangled up in this mess," he says firmly, making it clear he's not up for discussion. "That's the last thing I want for you."

She nods, darting her eyes around his spacious office. Then, she sighs, but doesn’t look back at him.

"Look, I know this is all kinds of awkward," she begins again, her gesture drawing a line through the air between them. As if she’s trying to acknowledge the invisible divide they're both painfully aware of. "And this time, it's not something we can pin on Stechner."

"One can always find a way to blame Stechner," Javier offers, a flicker of humour lighting up the dense air, drawing a fleeting lift of her lips. It’s bashful and beautiful. And Javier wants to capture it. Lock it away somewhere safe within him for those days when everything else feels like it's sinking.

"You know what I'm trying to say, Javi."

Yes, he knows. Understands it all too well. 

In an attempt to fill the space between them with something, Javier awkwardly reaches for a cigarette from the worn pack on the table, pulling one out with surprisingly steady fingers. Lighting it, the first drag is a small solace. 

“I didn’t think you’d come by,” he confesses, gazing at the cigarette, smouldering between his fingers.

Her response is soft and it comes in the shape of his name wrapped in a sigh. “Why wouldn’t I? I care about you.”

I care about you. I care about you. I care about you.

“Because I don’t deserve it,” Javier spats. Feels the frustration simmering. And then, in a sudden move he abruptly stands, brushing past her and nudging her legs aside as he strides towards the desk. "Fuck," he hisses, the word rough and heavy with frustration and anger he harbours for himself. "Why aren’t you furious with me? For Christ's sake, you should be."

"I am," she says, her voice carrying a weight, a sort of acceptance. "But what’s the point?" She tries to shift away from the heaviness of their conversation before her gaze catches on something. "Why are you still wearing that?"

For a second, Javier is lost, then realises she’s pointing to his vest. 

"I don't know," he responds with a shrug as he perches himself at the edge of the desk, pressing a hand against his temple hard enough to hurt.

"It doesn’t look comfortable," she comments, standing up and moving towards him. Cautious yet filled with a resolve as if he’s a cornered, injured creature.

"It’s fine," he says through a veil of smoke, his voice barely more than a murmur.

Then, with a courage that seems to gather around her like a cloak, she reaches out. Finds the first buckle of his vest. 

Javier's eyes snap shut, the heat enveloping him—a sweltering, oppressive wave that threatens to suffocate. It's too much, too intense, and he finds himself caught in a tide too powerful to swim against.

And then he remembers. The pain he’s caused. The sting of words he can't take back. The ghost of her touch against his skin, soft and inviting, clashing with the harshness of his own actions. 

As if she was anything less than everything he needs. 

As if the real issue wasn't him—his fears, his damned inability to accept something good when it's staring him right in the face.

When his eyes flutter open, she's still there. Still wrestling with the damn buckles. Still frowning at it, her brow furrowed in concentration. It's the same furrow he yearns to smooth out with his thumb, the same close distance he aches to close with a kiss—a kiss heavy with the weight of unsaid things and a desperate need to bridge the chasm he's created. Yet, he remains frozen, a prisoner of his own doubts and insecurities.

Her voice breaks through his reverie. "You know, I was talking to one of your guys earlier. The one who can’t dance," she mentions, her gaze lifting to his for just a fleeting moment.

"Van Ness," he offers, the name rolling off his tongue as he turns to pull from a cigarette he'd all but forgotten was burning between his fingers.

"They don’t blame you, you know..." she continues, her voice a gentle whisper in the heavy air. "They don’t think you are a bad guy.”

“And what do you think?” he asks, leaning back to reach for an ashtray, pressing the glowing tip against the heavy glass. 

She pauses and takes a step back. “You know what I think,” is her response. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

He isn’t sure why, but he nods. It’s instinctive, maybe, as he starts pulling at the velcro of his vest, peeling off the day’s weight breath by breath. The vest hits the couch, and suddenly, it’s like the room’s air shifts, heavy with everything he’s been trying to outrun—his mess, her being here seeing him like this, and all these tangled feelings with nowhere to go.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he slumps against the desk, pressing the ball of his palm against his eyes. He feels like laughing, or maybe crying; he’s not really sure.

"Are you okay, Javi?"

Her question hits him harder than expected. He pauses, then shakes his head, no pretences left. "No, I’m not, hermosa. Not at all.”

Then she’s talking, and her words are like something he didn’t even let himself wish for. Quiet, almost too quiet, but they cut through the noise in his head.

“Oh, Javi… come here.”

Before he knows it, she's closed the gap between them, wrapping him up in a hug that feels like it could put him back together.

Javier breathes out. Feels like he’s drowning—in his sorrows, in her arms; her scent. He curls his fingers around her blouse; her own carefully touching the hair at the nape of his tense neck. Tracing. 

And it’s soft. And gentle. And says more than any words ever could. Javier's heart is about to burst at the contact, ready to spill out every single thing he is feeling. Every emotion he’s been trying to hide from her; from himself. Because Javier is tired. Tired of hiding that he wants her; that he needs her.

Still, Javier knows he ain't a saint. Especially when the feelings are involved.

His past relationships—if one could even grace them with such a term—have been fleeting at best. Nothing more than an endless cycle of thrilling beginnings and swift endings that left nothing but cold sheets and whispers of promises that turned out to be empty.

But she's different. She deserves more, and Javier's ready to face that challenge.

"I'm not good at this..." he muffles into her shoulder.

A confession. A revelation. 

She says nothing, but only tightens her hold around him. 

And then she whispers, pulling away from him, but keeps her hands against his face. “Let’s get you home, Javi. Okay?”

Okay.

tag: @pedroschka , @idontcareihavenoidea , @avastrasposts @anoverwhelmingdin

[general-kenobi357]

Given To The Wild [Javi Peña]

three parts, three The Maccabees songs from their Given To The Wild album.

pairing: javi peña x f!reader

word count: 2.4K

summary: "Outside, they navigate around the chaos of the city, alive on Friday night. There are street vendors shouting for attention, and there is music leaking out of every crack and crevice. There’s laughter and there’s singing, and whistling, and yet, the two of them are quiet. "

warnings: reader is she/her, drinking, cursing, overall safe to read

Part 01 - Ayla | Part 02 - Go

Katie looks all but thrilled to see him. And she looks even less impressed with him when she looks at the bottle of red that Javier had pushed into her grasp only moments earlier. 

It’s a good vintage, he’s almost certain, and it had looked sophisticated and expensive enough when he discovered it in one of the less-used cabinets in his office, earlier that day. Why he even owned a bottle of such wine lying around in his office, Javier can’t tell. He reckons that it must have been a gift from some diplomat, back when he first arrived in Bogotá. 

His congratulations are murmured, devoid of any real warmth and barely cutting through the giggles and chatter of Katie’s acquaintances—women whose faces Javier vaguely recognises but struggles to place their names or even the department they hail from. Which is fair. They all look the same to him, anyway. 

Katie’s nod is brief and her glance at the wine label fleeting. “Fancy,” she states, her tone devoid of any real interest. “Can’t say I expected to see you here, Peña.” 

Javier just shrugs, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Didn't have anything better to do,” he replies, his frankness drawing a sharp intake of breath from one of Katie's friends—a clear indicator he's just stepped further into territory he ought to have avoided, his attendance a faux pas in itself.

“Well… thanks , I guess,” Kate answers, her words loaded with sarcasm so thick, one could cut through it with a knife. 

What ensues is silence. Awkward, expected, and so charged that Javier can almost hear and feel the collective anticipation for him to retreat. 

So, he does exactly that. 

Muttering a half-hearted ‘ladies’, Javier tips an invisible hat in their direction before pivoting around, leaving the whispers in his wake to fade into background noise. 

Once at the bar, Javier slouches against it, idly wiping away the condensation on the beer bottle with his thumb as he looks around. Truth to be told, the mental list of places he’d rather be and activities he’d rather be doing, is embarrassingly long and certainly doesn’t include rubbing elbows with people he could care less about. And yet, despite all the racing, grappling, seeking and digging for a solid reason for why he’s here, Javier can’t come up with a single one. 

But, Javier is no fool to his own heart. 

Only, he’s far from being ready to admit to anyone—especially himself—that beneath the indifference and feigned confusion, he’s painfully aware of his actions and motivations. 

He’s painfully aware why he had spent an absurd amount of time, looking for the right shirt and then fretting over whether the damn tie matched; why he nearly stopped to get his hair trimmed on his way to work.  

He’s painfully aware how many times this week he’s had to restrain himself from going to the back of the compound, or how often he’d found himself lingering by the copier just so he could catch a glimpse—or three—of her. 

He’s painfully aware of his pulse quickening when he’d heard Stechner barking out a name—her name—as he ordered her to follow him down the corridor as if he was leading some sort of ceremonial procession. 

Javier nearly gave himself a whiplash after craning his neck to make sure it was her Stechner had addressed. 

Above all, he's painfully aware of the weight and rightness with which her name held on his tongue the first time he dared to utter it, quietly and in his own company.

It’s the same kind of sense or rightness that envelops him when he says it out loud, sensing her presence next to him. As if he had found and tried a key to a cabinet he thought he’d never unlock—unexpected, yet fitting perfectly. 

"I don’t recall ever telling you my name," she points out, having wedged herself between Javier and a colleague he recognises from PAS, craning on her tiptoes to catch the bartender's attention.

“That’s because you didn’t,” Javier admits, taking an unhurried sip of his beer as she places her order. "Guess it’s a DEA thing. We’re pretty adept at... digging stuff up."

She’s smiling now, the rim of her bottle poised against her lower lip, dragging it out slightly. He knows it’s an unconscious action on her part, devoid of any deliberate intent, yet it catches his attention far longer than it is appropriate. Longer than he cares to admit.

"You could've just asked, y’know?" she chides gently—beer in hand—before turning around in order to lean casually against the bar.

She’s wearing the same trousers he’d seen her wear so many times, but the blouse from earlier that day had been replaced by a soft-coloured, long-sleeved tee that sits tucked in her waistline. He notices some dainty jewellery, too; a small brooch in a shape of sun at her collarbone and tiny pearl earrings. 

Before she can catch him staring, Javier decides to shift to mirror her, seeking whatever has caught her attention, and it comes as no surprise that it’s Feistl, attempting to teach Van Ness what can only be described as a dance routine gone wrong. And it’s even less of a surprise that seeing Van Ness fail to mimic Feistl is what coaxes a genuine giggle out of her. 

“So…,’ she draws out—eyes still following his men, making fools out of themselves across the room. “If I were to ask how you're holding up, would you give me an honest answer, or should we save our breaths?”

“ Honestly ,” he begins, a light chuckle escaping him. “Given everything that’s been going on, I’m not even sure I know how to answer that question truthfully. But ask me anyway. Might just surprise you—and myself.”

She gives a nod, and takes a sip of her beer— fingers idly scratching her jawline, right below her ear, in what might be a moment of contemplation or a brief display of vulnerability. Javier can’t tell, so he allows himself to wonder.

“How have you been?”

With the question out in the open, Javier retrieves a cigarette and lights it up—the dimple in his right cheek making an appearance at the absurdity of the interaction they’re about to have. Still, he takes his time before answering. Sifts through the week’s events with calloused hands, deliberately hiding away a detail he wants to keep for himself—not quite ready to confess how many moments he'd caught himself watching her, whether by chance or choice.

At last, Javier is leaning over, tapping the ash into a nearby ashtray as he answers, “I’ve been good.”

"Wow, you really are a man of few words," she notes, a pause in her motion as the bottle hovers near her lips.

"I prefer the term ' mysterious ' but sure," Javier replies, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "Everything okay on your end? All quiet on Stechner's front?"

She nods, her eyes darting to meet his for what feels like a fraction of a second. “As quiet as it gets. Tough... the other day, I spent hours searching for my flask. Nearly drove myself mad. And then I remembered…”

“Was meaning to return it,” Javier chuckles, “but I didn’t see you around.”

The white lie that falls off of his lips is effortless, and is met with a quiet that lingers for a moment or two before she ventures again. This time, her voice is curious; even hesitant. “I’m surprised that you actually came to this thing. Especially after you and Katie… after everything, y’know?” 

Javier doesn’t answer straight away but simply clicks his tongue and turns around, signalling the bartender for another round. The beer is cold when he wraps his hands around the bottle, and so is his response, “Ah, of course. I should've known you’d bring that up.”

“I’m sorry,” she hurries, busy with nervously peeling the label on her bottle. 

“Don’t be,” he reassures, watching as her shoulders slump with relief. “You’re just saying what’s on everyone’s mind.”

She falls silent, her lips pressed to the damn bottle again, a barrier of sorts. And Javier finds himself fighting the urge to let his gaze linger once again. 

"But, y’know, it didn’t come as a surprise," she ventures once more, her shoulders lifting in a shrug that carries a weight her smile fails to mask. There's a hint of melancholy, a touch of sadness perhaps, as she adds, "Katie's… well, Katie. And I must admit, I do wonder sometimes what it is like to be on everyone’s radar.”

It's a quiet confession, one she punctuates with a glance towards Katie before taking a long drink from her beer, seemingly searching for distraction.

"You're probably on more radars than you realise."

Javier doesn’t expect her to laugh, but she does. And it’s nothing sort of ladylike, but a snort so vigorous and erupting with such a force that it causes her beer to tragically make its escape through her nostrils. She’s mortified, amused and embarrassed at the same time as she brings her sleeve up and against her nose. 

“Javier—,” she attempts once more, clearly amused by his statement. “The only radar I've managed to blip on is Stechner's, especially when I’m lagging behind on typing up his ‘genius’.”

“¡Tonterías!” Javier's grin is involuntary, sparked by her self-deprecating humour. “Bet it’s just your shyness. Throwing off your frequency or something.”

"I'm not shy," she protests, albeit with a smile that suggests she's partly in agreement.

Javier, busy with lighting up another cigarette, looks at her. “Of course you’re not.”

As he rearranges the ashtray around his bottle, sliding it closer, she makes another attempt. “Seriously, I’m not. It’s just—” Her words trail off, and she makes a vague gesture with her hand, as if physically grappling with her thoughts, trying to pluck the right words. “It’s a tactical silence.”

It’s Javier’s turn to chuckle, though it’s more of a gruff laugh, and not nearly as unrestrained as her earlier display. “Tactical silence, huh? Sounds like some fancy term for avoiding trouble. Stechner teach you that?” 

When she laughs, Javier finds himself glancing at her. Lingering. But then, she is answering, and he is looking away yet again. “Occupational hazard, I’d say. Dodging his ego is a full-time job.”

His smile is wry before he’s leaning in slightly. “You know, there ain’t nothing wrong with being shy.”

“Are you saying that just because I shared my whiskey with you, or…,’ she trails off, suddenly crawling back into that place where she is avoiding his gaze. 

"I was going for a compliment, actually.”

A pair of striking eyes is what he focuses on when she gives him a bashful smile. “Really now?”

Javier doesn’t know what to say, so he simply holds her gaze, not really surprised when her own falters, darting away as she murmurs a quiet ‘ thanks ’. 

Not shy —he thinks, bringing his bottle to his lips for a slow sip, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eye for a reason he can’t quite place. Yeah right.

When he zones back, after he's almost gone through his entire beer, she’s not facing him, but instead setting her bottle down on the bar with a finality that suggests departure. 

“I should probably head home. Don’t like walking when it’s too late.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” he offers impulsively, the words escaping him before he can weigh them.

She pauses, her wallet in hand as she tucks a few bills beneath the now empty bottle. “It’ll take you longer to start your car than for me to walk back home.”

That indescribable feeling, stubborn and persistent, refuses to loosen its grip on him. So, when he speaks again, the resolve in his voice surprises her, but not him. “Let me walk you home then.”

Outside, they navigate around the chaos of the city, alive on Friday night. There are street vendors shouting for attention, and there is music leaking out of every crack and crevice. There’s laughter and there’s singing, and whistling, and yet, the two of them are quiet. 

Javier can't help but try to rationalise what he's doing. He's been down this road of justification more times than he cares to admit, each attempt leaving him questioning his own sanity. Because this fixation on her, this pull he feels whenever she's near—it doesn't make sense. There's something about her that kicks up a storm inside him, a mix of feelings and gut reactions he can't quite name.

He wonders, not for the first time, if putting some distance between them might break the spell. Maybe if he stays away for a while, this obsession will fade, dissipate like the morning fog under the sun. But as he navigates the crowded streets of Bogotá with her by his side, Javier is far from convinced.

The walk to her place messes with Javier's sense of time, stretching and compressing the moments between their synchronised steps and the beating of his heart. Before he knows it, they're standing in front of her apartment building, the night's magic fading as they're confronted by the cold, hard reality of concrete and steel.

And then she’s speaking, asking one question Javier had hoped she wouldn’t. “Do you want to come in?” 

Despite every warning bell in his head, Javier finds the word slipping out, almost against his will. “Yes.”

Her smile is tentative but genuine, and leads the way. 

And there is something both disconcerting as it is compelling to be in her home, Javier thinks. To occupy her place—her sanctuary—feels both entirely right and unsettlingly wrong at the same time. Feels like stepping onto a stage where he's unsure of his role, caught in a script he hasn't read.

"I'll make us some coffee,” she offers, kicking off her shoes and putting her bag away, “make yourself comfortable.”

And he does. He sits down on the couch—his eyes tracking her figure that moves around the small kitchen.

In that quiet moment as he watches her, a realisation tingles at his fingertips and seeps from every pore: his resistance is fading fast. The struggle against his own denial grows weaker with each moment spent in her proximity, with him here and her there.

Perhaps that's why he lets his guard down, and doesn't question the unravelling of his denial. Why he doesn't immediately reach for the mug she offers. Instead, he looks up at her, eyes wide and searching.

“Is something wrong? Do you prefer tea? Whiskey?” she inquires, her smile gentle.

Ignoring every internal warning, Javier wraps his hand around her wrist, pulling himself to his feet. Suddenly, he's there, right in her space, so close that the minute details of her face become a landscape he could navigate—if only he dared. 

There is a moment that puts the world on pause where his gaze drifts to her lips—those soft curves that promise whispers and secrets and everything that he yearns to hear. But as quickly as it comes, the impulse retreats.

This isn't him. Or rather, it's not the him he allows the world—and women like her—to see.

Javier steps back, his hand instinctively going to his hair, a gesture of frustration and confusion. “We shouldn’t—I… I can’t. This isn't—” He struggles, the words as tangled as his thoughts. 

“I understand…” she whispers, the vulnerability in her voice striking a chord he wishes it didn’t. “Silly of me to think I fit the bill, no?”

Javier says nothing. His silence is heavy, laden with words he can't—or won't—speak. Instead, he lets his departure do the talking.

—

tag: @pedroschka, @idontcareihavenoidea, @avastrasposts

[general-kenobi357]

Given To The Wild [Javi Peña]

three parts, three The Maccabees songs from their Given To The Wild album.

pairing: javi peña x f!reader

word count: 2.3K

summary: "He knows her. Had seen her around—always with her head down, quiet, perhaps even tedious, and marked by an invisible link to Stechner—a connection that would normally kindle Javier's disdain effortlessly. However, this time, the sight of her distress unnerves him more than he cares to admit."

warnings: reader is she/her, drinking, cursing, overall safe to read

Part 01 - Ayla | Part 02 - Go | Part 03 - Free To Follow

—

It’s late in the day when he decides to make his escape. 

Just as the sun’s starting to think about dipping low, Javier steps out, only pausing to light up a cigarette. And then, tucking one hand into the pocket of his pressed trousers, he descends stairs. There are a few colleagues congregating at the landing. Faces he’d seen before but cannot, or simply isn’t bothered to attach names to. They offer greetings; he responds with polite nods, his stride unbroken and his mind elsewhere.

The embassy itself is a fortified compound with high walls,  rigorous security checks, and guards with an eye for detail so sharp, they'd notice a pin drop before it hit the ground—except, maybe, the small pathway that snakes its way around the building. The very same one that leads to a hidden corner. 

Javier's little slice of nowhere.

The air there is stale, thick with the dust and stories of the city it overlooks—a stark contrast to the crisp, air-conditioned corridors he’s left behind. And most of all, it’s quiet.

Except, when he gets there, it isn’t. 

Javier spots her before she can catch the sight of him as she is too busy fighting a silent battle against a ghost only she can see. 

He knows her. Had seen her around—always with her head down, quiet, perhaps even tedious, and marked by an invisible link to Stechner—a connection that would normally kindle Javier's disdain effortlessly. However, this time, the sight of her distress unnerves him more than he cares to admit. 

Curled into herself against the dusty wall, her breaths are coming in short sharp gasps as if each inhale is a hard-won triumph itself. Her hands are entwined in her hair, a silent scream that her head has grown too burdensome for her neck, and her shoes lay abandoned beside her as if they’re the last of her worries. 

Javier pauses, torn between the urge to leave and a flicker of empathy that simmers inside of him at the sight. 

“Hey,” he offers before he can talk himself out of it—the gravel under his shoes betraying his approach. “You alright?” 

Her startled gaze meets his, a storm of surprise, perhaps embarrassment, swirling in her eyes. 

“I… yeah, I’m fine. Just needed to… breathe, I guess?” Her attempt to articulate her thoughts stumbles, her fingers brushing back strands of hair, some of which cling stubbornly to her sweat-dampened forehead. 

Offering advice feels clumsy on Javier's tongue. “Breathing’s good,” he remarks, internally chastising himself for the banality of his advice.

Yet, she seems to take no offence. “That much I know,” she responds with a strained smile. "I just can't... seem to catch enough of it,” her words falter, barely making it past her lips. 

Javier feels an inexplicable tug, a pull towards... something. It's enough for him to drop his cigarette and crush it under his heel as he moves closer. 

“Okay, listen to me. Just focus on the sound of my voice, alright? We're gonna breathe together. Nice and slow,” he instructs, taking deliberate breaths to set a pace for her. “Inhale... hold it... now exhale. There you go, just like that,” his tone is gentle, yet firm, encouraging.

After her breathing evens out, she's quiet. Time passes—a minute, maybe two—before she ventures, her voice tinged with vulnerability, “Why are you helping me?”

Javier, bemused, as if the answer is self-evident, replies lightly, “Why wouldn't I help?”

Her eyelids flutter open, revealing a pair of striking eyes that dart away, cautious, not quite meeting his, and Javier wonders if she’s actually not aloof or uptight as he had pegged her for.

Perhaps, she is just… shy?

Her answer is preceded by a shrug. “It’s just… I know all about the tension with Stechner… kinda makes this awkward, no?” she offers. “But, look—I'm not them. I have no interest in being them. All I'm trying to do is survive, really. Pay my bills, chase after a few dreams.”

It quickly dawns on him that she's trying to apologise for her situation.

Silly girl—he thinks to himself as he shifts a little, seeking a more comfortable position on the unforgiving concrete. He stretches out, the movement languid, and a soft sigh breaks free as he fishes another cigarette from the pack. He offers one to her, already anticipating her refusal, which comes as a gentle shake of her head.

He exhales a stream of smoke, the smirk never quite leaving his face. “If I judged everyone by their associations, I’d be a very lonely man. You're alright by me."

"That's good to hear."

He nods. She nods back.

“So…,” he starts again, his tone casual but probing, “what had you fighting for air?”

She is contemplating as she picks at a loose thread on her trousers, a colour that does no favours for anyone. “I don’t know… well, I kinda do—,” she starts, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, “but it's hard to imagine you'd actually want to listen.”

“You wound me,” Javier retorts, his voice tinged with mock offence.

Twisting her fingers in her lap, she looks up, focusing on nothing in particular. “It’s just… every day feels like walking a tightrope, y’know?” She pauses as if gathering her thoughts. "And it's not just the politics, which are a labyrinth in their own right. It's the people—colleagues who smile in your face while sharpening knives for your back. The constant second-guessing of allies and the pressure to stay one step ahead of... well, everyone." She shakes her head, the weariness evident. "And when you do find the lapse, when you patch up one leak, there's always another waiting. It's... exhausting.”

Javier nods. Looks at the cigarette between his fingers, and then glances at her. “You ever think about walking away?”

She pauses, the question seeming to pull her from a sea of thoughts. With a sigh, she leans back slightly against the cool wall, the tension in her shoulders easing as she finds her words.

"Every day," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper, resonating with a mix of resignation and defiance. "But, you know, fear's got a tight grip. And hope…,” she trails off and then shrugs once more, as if she’s hoping that he’ll get the hint.

And he does. Moreover, he knows exactly what she means. 

“Yes, I get it,” he admits at last. 

"I'm sorry," she begins, her voice carrying a hint of regret, "It was silly of me to just... unload everything on you like that."

"You're fine. I asked for it, didn't I?" Javier's response comes with a reassuring ease, his tone gentle yet firm, dismissing her concern. He allows the silence that follows to stretch, using the time to savour the last of his cigarette. Then, slowly, rising to his feet, he offers her a hand. "Come on, let's get you up."

Hesitantly, she takes his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. There’s a moment of awkwardness as she steadies herself, brushing off the dust from her clothes. Ever so gentleman, Javier then bends down to collect her shoes, and offers his arm for support as she slips them on. 

“Thanks again,” she mumbles. “But, I better get going.”

He nods in response, but says nothing, and it’s only after she rounds the corner and disappears from his view does he realise that he hadn’t asked her about her name.

—

Twelve days have passed and Javier still doesn’t know her name.

That’s not to say that she is a stranger. At least, not any longer. No, she’s a presence now. Fleeting and ephemeral. 

Their exchanges are brief—a nod of his, a ghost of a smile of hers, the brush of their elbows in the corridor’s fleeting passings; two planets sharing an orbit, if only for a moment. 

Except when they linger. 

It's in those unguarded moments across from Stechner's office, under the guise of his own preoccupations with the damn copier, that he finds his gaze seeking out for her. That's when she becomes unmistakably vivid: seated behind the desk, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, fingers deftly dancing across her keyboard.

This newfound awareness of her is disorienting and unsettling, to say the least. And as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Javier finds himself searching for her, even though they never speak again, not really.

She never shows up at that spot where their paths first crossed, not that Javier's really keeping track. Or so he tells himself. It's just routine, or coincidence maybe, that he ends up back there more often than not. He’d deny it if asked—deny that he's looking for her, deny that part of him hopes to see her again. Because it's not like him to dwell on what's probably nothing more than a chance encounter, but there he is, making excuses to check that alley, as if he's expecting something to come of it.

Sixteen days in, and Javier’s mood is thunderous, a brooding storm of frustration fueled by Stoddard’s latest stunt. He’s all but stalking towards his usual solace at the back of the building, annoyance riding him hard. The last thing he expects—the last thing he thinks he needs—is company.

Yet, there she is, a quiet presence against the wall, her lunch abandoned, book in hand, shoes kicked off just like that first day.

“¡Ostia!” The curse slips out, raw and instinctive, before he can catch it, his hand coming up to shield his eyes.

A part of him—a damned stubborn part—wants to hold on to his anger, to remain unaffected by her presence. But there’s another part, quieter, more insistent, that recoils at the thought of her seeing him like this.

He breathes out a long breath through his nose and tugs on his tie in order to loosen it.

Why the fuck is he wearing a tie?

“Want me to leave?” she suddenly asks, and only then Javier realises that he hadn’t really made an effort to go back before she had a chance to spot him. 

He struggles to form an answer—the anger, or rather annoyance at Stoddard, thickening his tongue. It's the sight of her gently marking her page with a thumb, the careful closing of her book, that jolts him back to reality. 

“No,” he says, trying to lose his voice of its earlier edge. “I’m not… it’s not you,” he adds gruffly, struggling to navigate his words while fiddling with his cigarettes. “It’s just… Stoddard has been a real pain lately.”

She nods, but says nothing as he lights up one, and takes a deep drag, raking a hand through his hair. Then, she’s speaking again, gently. “Well, if you want to talk about it…”

Leaving the invitation hanging, she opens the door for Javier—the one he’s not obliged to walk through. So, he doesn’t. Instead, he shakes his head, releasing the cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

“Nah, it’s not worth the breath,” he dismisses, yet appreciates the gesture more than he wants to admit. 

Then, with a grace that seems to contradict the setting, she is suddenly leaning over to the other side of her, reaching into a bag that Javier hadn’t noticed before. Wordlessly, she pulls out a flask, unscrews the cap, and offers it to him with a timid smile. 

“Here, might take the edge off.”

Eyebrow raised, Javier accepts it. It’s heavier than it looks, cold against his palm. 

“Now, this is a surprise,” he chuckles as he leans back against the wall, sniffing out a familiar aroma. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to carry whiskey around.”

“It's for emergencies,” she quips, the corners of her lips tilting up more noticeably now. “Consider this one. M'not good at breathing exercises, but this'll do.”

Javier smirks and takes a first sip.

It feels like a wordless communion as they pass the flask back and forth, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of the city beyond their secluded spot. And it’s not a surprise that that’s exactly what Javier had hoped for when he stormed out of the office, annoyed with Stoddard, the case, with himself. 

He craved silence. No probing questions. No forced understanding. No digging deep.

After a few rounds, she breaks the silence, her voice tentative, betraying a hint of hesitance that hadn’t been there moments ago. “Are you...um, going to the bureau thing later this week?”

Her question tumbles out awkwardly, as if she's navigating through it in real-time, her eyes not quite meeting his.

Javier's response is immediate, a touch of sarcasm lacing his tone as he takes another sip before passing the flask back to her. “Probably not. Mixing private and professional?” He lets out a short, humourless laugh to a joke only he understands. “Ain’t really my style.”

“Fair enough.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unasked questions and unsaid words. Then, almost against his better judgement, Javier finds himself speaking, curiosity edging out his initial reluctance. “You going to be there?”

She hesitates, her fingers tracing the edge of the flask. “I usually skip these things,” she confesses, a slight shrug accompanying her words. “But lately, I've felt...on the edge, thinking maybe it's time to stop being such a...hermit. Plus, Katie’s been kind to me.”

Under his breath, Javier mutters a curse, more to himself than to her. The words are bitter, carrying the weight of a regret he doesn't care to examine too closely—the aftermath of a one-night stand with Katie that had complicated things more than he'd like to admit.

“It's her birthday,” she adds as if she's trying to clear up the fog that sits on Javier's understanding. Then, abruptly, her calm shatters. “Oh, fuck—” she exclaims, eyes widening as they catch the time on her watch while she's gathering her things. “I've got a meeting in ten minutes.”

Reflexively Javier reaches out his hand, and this time, she doesn't hesitate to take him up on his offer to help her up. Her hand is cold against his. Tiny, too.

As she begins to hurry away, she pauses—a moment of hesitation—then turns back to him. With a small, decisive motion, she retrieves the flask, extending it towards him once more.

“Wait, why—?” Javier starts, confusion threading his voice.

“You can refill it and give it back some other time."

Javier doesn't know what to say so he nods, and with that, she's turning around and hurrying away, cradling her belongings to her chest as she yet again disappears behind the building.

“¡Mierda!” he finds himself hissing as he looks down at the flask in his palm, realisation burning his chest.

He still doesn't know her name.

[general-kenobi357]

(𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞) 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

Steve hears you wrong, thinks he’s your boyfriend, and begins to act accordingly. You try your best to go along with it until you can’t anymore. 3k, fem. requested here ♡ 

cw shy(ish)!reader, misunderstandings, steve being a huge sweetheart, fluff, hurt/comfort, bonus fluff scene 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The arcade is loud and brisk this evening, doors thrown open to allow for the constant ebb and flow of younglings, the machine music turned up to account for so many voices. You’re lost in a sea of rainbow flashing lights and the ticklish smell of sugar. Without Steve’s hand behind your shoulder, you’re pretty sure you would’ve gotten lost and trampled half an hour ago. 

A candy necklace pinwheels past your heads like a torpedo, forcing you closer together, your shoulders tight with a flinch. 

“We can leave,” Steve says immediately. He’s weirdly thoughtful. Before he asked you out you had no idea he thought so much about other people, but he’s always thinking about other people. You could argue he thinks a little too much, like you. 

“I wanna see Max.” 

“She has to be here somewhere.” 

That theory proves less and less likely. Steve’s hand falls away from you, tugging through his hair in a marker of stress as you circle the Palace Arcade for the tenth time. “Maybe she quit?” you suggest. 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as he gives the arcade another sweep. Max’s rough patch freaked him out, as it freaked you out, because ‘rough patch’ is a kind way to describe it. She could’ve got a whole lot worse; she was suffering, capital S. It’s nice to see her returning to society, but not if she isn’t actually settling in. That’s the whole reason you’re here. 

Steve frowns at you worriedly. 

“Who died?” asks a new voice.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Max!” Steve cheers. 

“That’s me,” Max says, looking at you both sceptically. Her ginger hair is pulled into two tight braids either side of her face, her cheeks flushed red. Mascara paints her usually pale lashes a darker brown, and a rosy tinted chapstick shines on her lips. 

“Hey, the uniform looks good on you,” he says affectionately. “You look like a valued member of society.”

“A society in need of better labour laws. I’m pretty sure this is child abuse.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Is it awful?” you ask. 

“It’s fine. Better when your stupid friends aren’t here making themselves sick on candy like they’re nine years old,” she says pointedly to Steve. “Are you going to throw up too? You look–” she grimaces in place of insult. 

“Who’s throwing up?” you ask. 

“Dustin. He’s outside.” 

Steve sighs and gives your shoulder a kind squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he says, squaring his expression. “Goddamn kids.” 

He sounds like an old man, you think to yourself with a small smile. Disgruntled, he still goes to make sure everyone’s alright. He’s nice, even when that nice is begrudging and tiresome and plain gross sometimes. 

“Why are you smiling at him like that?” Max asks.

You school your impression. “Like what?” 

“Like you like him.” 

You shake your head. “Tell me about work, Max. What’s it like here? Are they giving you your breaks?” 

She drags you over to the counter to sit in the seat waiting behind. She glares at any kid who approaches, but besides that she seems in good spirits. The job isn’t hard, it’s just a job. She’d much rather be at home reading, but wouldn’t everyone? “And I get this sweet uniform,” she says, pointing at the embroidered icon on her shirt pocket. “What’s with you and Steve?” 

“Nothing,” you say, though it’s something. You’re mortified to have been caught having feelings. 

“Looks like something. Are you dating?” 

“I mean, this is a date,” you say, almost whispering as heat floods your face. “But we’re not together.” 

“He was touching you a lot.” 

“Max, he’s really nice. He’s a really nice guy,” you say gently, “and we’re not together, but if he does ask me out eventually, maybe I’ll say yes.” You realise what you’re saying and attempt to backtrack —you do like Steve, but Max doesn’t need to know that. “It’s not like he’s my boyfriend,” you say strangely. 

“Ew,” Max says with a laugh. 

“Not ew,” you correct. You hadn’t meant it in a bad way, it’s— 

“Not ew,” Steve says from behind you, his arm a heavy weight across your shoulder. 

You look wide-eyed up at his face, surprised by his huge beaming smile, an intense loveliness about him as he gives you a half hug. 

“What’s ew about that?” he asks you softly. 

Oh, boy, you think. 

As it turns out, being Steve’s girlfriend is kind of nice, but you aren’t ready.

From that afternoon at the Palace Arcade onward, he treats you like you’re made of gold. And it’s great, he’s so kind, he brings you flowers and takes you out for breakfast, where he pays the tab without any flourishes and talks to you as casually as always. You almost hope he hasn’t got it wrong at all, and that his soft tone a few days ago had been down to a brief overwhelming fondness. You’d get that. You have your moments with him, you’re falling for him, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re desperately in love, you’re sure, but then the waitress asks if you need anything else and he says, “Just a water for my girl,” and you realise you’re not getting off easy. 

Dating is sort of like being good friends; you’d planned to spend the day together anyways. You enjoy his company. It’s clear he���s eager, optioning off the day’s agenda as you return to the car, the bottom of your face hidden in your bouquet. 

“We could go to the movies,” he says, opening the passenger door, his smile seemingly permanent as you climb inside. “No science fiction, I promise.” 

“I kind of like sci-fi.” Petals press fragrant to your top lip.

“Well, we don’t have to go to the Hawk. We could go into the city. I bet they’re playing any movie you wanna see.” He checks that your leg is properly inside the car before he closes the door, jogging around to the driver’s side and practically throwing himself inside. He’s giggling like a kid. “Shit, I’ll see anything you want to.” 

“Steve.” 

“Or we can go do nothing? Until dinner.” 

“Steve,” you say again, thinking you’ll tell him. Nothing good ever comes from dishonesty. 

“What?” he asks. 

His eyes are so brown. Billions of people with brown eyes and you swear you’ve never seen anything like it before, their centres like hot honey, the sweetheart shape to them when he smiles 

You sigh. His smile is contagious, even while your stomach hurts. “Nothing. Let’s go see a movie.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What?” 

“What do you mean, what? You sounded weird.” 

“I sounded weird?” 

“No!” He winces. “I mean, yeah, you sounded weird for you, like you… I don’t know. Sorry.” 

You feel bad, then. His apology is earnest, his hand resting open on the console for you to take if you could manage the flustering heat of it. 

“I wanna go to the movies,” you say, ‘cos you really do. 

“Alright, good. It’s just, I think my last relationship, I– I didn’t pay enough attention, and I want to do that better this time around. So yeah. Sorry.” 

Oh, Steve, you think. How are you supposed to tell him now? You’re gonna have to pretend to be ready for a relationship with him until you really are, it seems. He doesn’t deserve to have his heart played with twice. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you say gently. “Let’s go watch a movie, okay? I want to go, with you, we’ll watch a shitty daytime flick and then get dinner after. It’ll be fun.” 

You aren’t lying to him about what you want. It’s clear to everybody, Steve and his friends and especially you, that you like him, that you want to be around him and make him laugh. Maybe being his girlfriend won’t even be that different to being his something. 

After all, what’s romantic about seeing a movie? 

“You good?” he asks, half an hour later, your agony prolonged. 

You’re at the back of the movies where the seats have the most leg room, more popcorn and candy than you could ever eat at your feet and a litre cup stuffed into the armrest between you. Steve is tucking his shirt back into his jeans, his head parting the light of the projector and leaving a silhouette in the previews. 

“Steve,” you advise, gesturing for him to lean down out of the way. 

He leans down, further and further, face to face with you with his hands on his hips. A flirtatious teasing makes its way onto his lips. “What?” he asks, amused. 

“You were in the way of the light.” 

“That what it was?”

“Seriously!” you whisper-shout, laughing despite yourself. 

“You’re so cute,” he whispers back. “Want to take your jacket off?” 

Your lips part at his good suggestion. You hold your arm out and start to peel from your jacket, but he takes your sleeve and helps you out of it before folding it and sitting in the seat next to you, your jacket on his thigh. “How’s that, babe?” he asks. 

“It’s good.” 

“Okay, perfect.” He beams at you. He’s always smiling when he’s with you, like you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Like he loves you. “Tell me if you need something, yeah? I know you’re kinda shy.” 

He settles back in his seat with your jacket still in his lap and no indication that he might want to move it. Your knees touch as he relaxes, your knuckles as he puts his arm on the rest between you, a picture of contentedness as the movie begins and the opening credits play. “That’s us,” he says without looking at you. 

Two people walk down the street holding hands as the title of the movie blazes in yellow font with thick red outlines. A Day In Paradise! 

You bite down on a slither of the inside of your lip until it stings. You try to fight it off but the longer you sit there, the more your eyes burn, thinking about Steve and what he deserves and how unfortunate this whole thing is, and yeah, you’re overwhelmed, too. You aren’t ready for so much sweetness all at once. You don’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve this. 

You force the tears away. The movie goes on and on, the lights low, the chatter of moviegoers and the occasional popcorn crush not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of Steve’s breathing. 

He pushes his hair out of his face. Somebody on screen makes a joke, his hand brushes against yours, and then takes it gently as he laughs. 

You pull your hand away and tip your head down, a frantic tear flicking from your lashes. 

“You okay?” he whispers. 

You try to answer. You whimper instead, a terrible, sorry sound stuck to your throat —you can’t hold it in anymore. It’s too much. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble tearily, looking up, a tear rolling fast down the bump of your cheek. 

Steve sits still in moderate horror. “Why are you crying?” he whispers.

The thing about Steve that people tend to forget is that, while he takes care of people the best that he can, he’s really young. He doesn’t always know what to do. He stares at you now like you’re a foreign object, hand tucked back into his abdomen. 

A tear drips onto your lip. It tastes salty. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Why?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“I really like you, Steve.” 

He stares at you. “…But?”

“But I–” His frown hurts your heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, I never– never had someone like me like this, I don’t know why I’m crying.” You say that last part to yourself rather than him, scrubbing your cheeks with your hands roughly before hiding your face completely. “It’s not you.” 

“I thought…” And of course he did. 

“I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Steve. I thought it wouldn’t matter but everything’s going so fast.” 

He touches your arm gently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought you wanted this. You– you said I was your boyfriend, to Max? I thought you liked me.” 

“I do like you,” you insist, meeting his eyes. 

“Can I wipe your tears away? They’re everywhere,” he says. You struggle to read his expression, but there’s no resentment or anger there for you. He looks quite serious. 

“Yeah.” 

Steve bends in his seat to wipe your tears off of your face gently. They really are everywhere, on your cheeks, your top lip, your chin, even down the arc of your neck. “I don’t understand,” he says, going back to your cheek for a missed streak, “but you don’t have to be upset. Please. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, I promise.” 

“Steve, when I was talking to Max, I said,” —you wince— “that it’s not like you’re my boyfriend. She was asking me about you, and I got all panicky because I like you, but I’m too weird about this stuff, I’m panicking now–”

“Don’t.” His hand lingers on your face, before a sorry flash of dejection passes over him, and he drops your face altogether. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please believe me.” 

“Of course I believe you.” He grimaces at you, and the heartbreak turns to something more manageable, like he’s brushing himself off. “I’m sorry. For getting the wrong idea.” 

“I like you,” you whisper. Your voice is nearly lost to the rustle of popcorn and drinks. 

“I like you too!” he says loudly. 

A few seats down, somebody turns, an angry whirl of hair and clicky nails. “Can you guys shut up?” 

You and Steve leave your mountain of snacks behind to stand in the theatre hallway, where the winter air is cool on your flushed skin, and the silence is stifling. You lean against a wood feature wall and try to calm down, because he’s the one who should be upset (or maybe he’s not that fussed about you). He stands a half foot away with his arms crossed, looking down at his shoes, though occasionally he glances at you for a split-second and looks away again. 

“You okay?” he asks tightly. 

“I’m sorry.”

He pokes his cheek with his tongue. “So you don’t want to be together?” 

You don’t know. He deserves the truth, even if you barely understand it yourself, and it stings to say. “I do, I like you, but I… I want to take things slowly.” 

He stands there without talking for a while. When he does talk again, he’s laughing, that achy awful sadness he’d worn a far off memory. “You’re this upset because you want us to take things slow?” 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“You haven’t,” he promises. “That would never hurt my feelings. I knew when I heard it that it was too good to be true.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I guess I gotta earn the title like everybody else does. Is that… cool?” 

You nod vehemently. 

Steve blows a relieved breath of air up his face, his hair ruffling off of his forehead. “I thought I was gonna lose you completely,” he says, smiling. “This is fine. I can work with slow. Slow’s my middle name.”

—♡—

The sun is a blistering heat today. “Can’t believe it’s only spring,” you murmur, eyes covered by the back of your arm. 

A weight sits down on the blanket beside you, the sound of dry grass crushed underfoot. He brings the fresh scent of lemon slices with him, the zest sticking to his hands.

“I think I might melt.” 

“I’d never let that happen,” Steve says, laying down beside you. 

“You can be my parasol.” 

“Your what?” 

“It’s a sun umbrella.” 

“Like this?” he asks, gently laying himself across your front, his face on the slip of your stomach that’s bare, his arms sneaking behind your thighs to hug them as you bring them up. 

You reach down to stroke his hair, taking your fingers through the silky lengths of it, fingernails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp. “Thanks,” you say.

He kisses your naked leg. “You’re welcome, honey.” 

If he’d done that at the beginning of your relationship, you’d have frozen up; not because he would’ve done it differently, not because he wasn't always your handsome sweetheart, but because being comfortable with someone this intimately takes time, and that’s okay. 

“Your face is digging into my hip,” you murmur. 

He shifts back, his ear above your belly button. “Is that better?” 

“That’s perfect.” 

“Are you falling asleep?” he asks softly. 

“No… I’m thinking.” 

“Nothing good ever comes of that.” 

“I have something I want to talk to you about.”

“I love talking to you,” he says. He sounds as though he might fall asleep himself, his tongue heavy in his mouth. 

You stroke his hair away from his face by touch alone. Long, warm minutes pass without conversation. You aren’t scared to tell him how you’re feeling. He’s proved to you over time that he’s someone you’ll always be able to trust, and that whatever you have to say will hold weight. 

“It’s a question.” 

He turns in your hold to face you. You raise your arm, greeted by the image of him sun-kissed and lazing, laid out across you without a care in the world. 

“Don’t tell me then,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, you’re terrifying.” 

“Would you wanna be my boyfriend?”

He narrows his eyes at you. A myriad of emotions pass between you both, until he’s smiling, and you know he’s sitting up for a kiss seconds before he actually does. He presses his lips to yours carefully. “Baby,” he says as he pulls away, voice as mild as his soft kiss, “I think we’ve passed that point.” 

“I realised I’d never asked you, is all.” 

His hair falls down into his eyes. You tuck it behind his ear. It’s pretty clear now you’re together, even after such a bumpy start. 

“Can I get it in writing this time?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours, your eyes fluttering closed in tandem. 

“Give you anything you want if you kiss me,” you murmur. 

His laugh fans over your lips. He cups your cheek, your heart a hummingbird drilling at your ribs as Steve moves in to kiss you properly. Your lips part under the pressure, your head tilting a touch to one side to accommodate him as he searches down for you, melty hot pleasure and nerves that never seem to fade arising as his thumb moves up your cheek, a semi-circle of touch. It promises undulating care whenever you want it. 

You tip your head aside to catch your breath.

“Better late than never,” you joke. 

Steve talks into the soft skin beside your mouth. “You weren’t late, babe. I was early, and I didn’t mind waiting.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank u for reading!! pretty please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed cos it means so much to me and inspires me to write even more!!! but either way i hope u enjoyed❤️❤️❤️

[general-kenobi357]

It’s been a long day and you want nothing more than to crawl back into bed, snuggled up with Eddie. Thoughts of what’s for dinner fall second to how badly you’re aching for the comfort of his presence. The safety of his arms.

You all but drag your way through the house and up the stairs, finding him standing by the closet door in your bedroom, yanking a black hoodie over his head, causing the bun on the top of his head to become even messier.

An affectionate smile floods his face as he notices your presence.

“Hey sugar.”

His voice floods your senses, comforting you like a cup of hot tea before bed, like your favorite blanket to wrap yourself up in on the couch, like your favorite book you visit over and over again.

“5 minutes.”

The smile stays even as his face screws up in confusion.

Your own tingles with the threat of tears ready to fall as the weight of the day really hits you.

“Just hold me for a bit before dinner?”

Please.

Eddie’s face softens some more as he meets you at the end of the end, hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb brushing along the frown sitting on your face, trying to smooth it away as you melt into his touch.

He hums a bit before replying.

“I think we can make it 20.”

If it ends up being an hour because you both doze off, who’s to complain?

[general-kenobi357]

love language.

“hm,” he hums, face scrunching in disappointment when you lean over the bed to open the window on the wall. sunday morning rain on soggy earth from the storm last night sends a soft patter through the room. the breeze feels nice, wanting that more than any overcast light the parting of the curtains let in.

you settle on your stomach, chest and face propped up on the pillows to look outside and watch the trees sag. watch a few neighbors walk their dog far and few in between. some families quietly getting more damp as they hurry to the car for eight o’clock mass.

“hm,” softer now, more needy. his face relaxes, reaching a tattooed arm out for you with closed eyes. you feel his hand run warm over your back, sticky with sweat from the room overheating last night. he’s like a human furnace. his fingers walk over to your side, giving you a little tug. you smile, letting a breath out of your nose as you give into him, scooching over to let him wrap himself around you. bare chest against your skin.

“morning, baby.” he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice, “you feelin’ better?”

“hm,” you shrug, “the weather helps. you feelin’ better?”

“hm,” he nods, wrapping a tattooed leg between yours. tangled up tight, entwined, “this helps.”

the fights weren’t often, but they were explosive. as big as the storm last night, fed by thunder and the promise of a downpour. who can yell the loudest? who can be the meanest? who can get the last word? two bolts of lightening that always need to be right, striking moments between each other. then the rain starts, it never matters who it is first. it’s never regularly you or him, almost always at the same time. crying like babies so hard you don’t even know why you’re fighting anymore.

you both never go to bed mad the way you used to. got in the habit of settling when the eye of the storm past over.

“i’m sorry, baby,” he’d rasp out, “m’sorry for yelling.”

“m’sorry for smashing that plate,” you’d guiltily cry, “i love you.”

“i love you, too.” teary confessions, drowsy needs.

“let’s just clean up and go to bed, okay?”

warm silence. you were both never violent, not even in bed. soft cascading hands, desperate clingy touches. but never speaking in bodies, never keeping score with him inside you. you kiss goodnight and draw the curtains so the moon doesn’t interfere.

and morning. wrapped up in each other in the rainy breeze, clouds joining for breakfast. you feel his limbs slide out of yours while he sits up in bed, bare aside from a pair of his boxers. he yawns and stretches, hand coming down to squeeze the fat on the back of your covered thigh while he crawls out of bed.

sweatpants from a pile of clean laundry are all he adds, a pair of socks with holes in the heels. his fingers glide over a hung acoustic guitar in a strum.

“gonna make us some eggs,” he tells you. he means more than eggs, but he always just says eggs.

“we’re out of sugar,” you mention, rolling onto your side, legs stretching like a cats, “for coffee.”

he smiles lazily, the cold breeze from the window catching his curls while he leans over you. he presses a warm kiss to your cheek, and then your lips, “you’re sweet enough for me.”

“hm,” you hum, sticky syrupy affection slipping in from your head to your toes, “smooth this morning.”

“it’s the munson way,” he mumbles, his voice still gravelly, noses brushing. butterfly kisses.

“hm,” you reply lazily, your lashes and his lashes meeting.

“hm,” he grins, another warm kiss against the cool breeze. he looks back at you before he leaves the room, brown eyes saying all he needs to say and yours match. he blushes. you’ll have a few more moments to yourself in the window before you go meet him in the kitchen.

[general-kenobi357]

love language.

“hm,” he hums, face scrunching in disappointment when you lean over the bed to open the window on the wall. sunday morning rain on soggy earth from the storm last night sends a soft patter through the room. the breeze feels nice, wanting that more than any overcast light the parting of the curtains let in.

you settle on your stomach, chest and face propped up on the pillows to look outside and watch the trees sag. watch a few neighbors walk their dog far and few in between. some families quietly getting more damp as they hurry to the car for eight o’clock mass.

“hm,” softer now, more needy. his face relaxes, reaching a tattooed arm out for you with closed eyes. you feel his hand run warm over your back, sticky with sweat from the room overheating last night. he’s like a human furnace. his fingers walk over to your side, giving you a little tug. you smile, letting a breath out of your nose as you give into him, scooching over to let him wrap himself around you. bare chest against your skin.

“morning, baby.” he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice, “you feelin’ better?”

“hm,” you shrug, “the weather helps. you feelin’ better?”

“hm,” he nods, wrapping a tattooed leg between yours. tangled up tight, entwined, “this helps.”

the fights weren’t often, but they were explosive. as big as the storm last night, fed by thunder and the promise of a downpour. who can yell the loudest? who can be the meanest? who can get the last word? two bolts of lightening that always need to be right, striking moments between each other. then the rain starts, it never matters who it is first. it’s never regularly you or him, almost always at the same time. crying like babies so hard you don’t even know why you’re fighting anymore.

you both never go to bed mad the way you used to. got in the habit of settling when the eye of the storm past over.

“i’m sorry, baby,” he’d rasp out, “m’sorry for yelling.”

“m’sorry for smashing that plate,” you’d guiltily cry, “i love you.”

“i love you, too.” teary confessions, drowsy needs.

“let’s just clean up and go to bed, okay?”

warm silence. you were both never violent, not even in bed. soft cascading hands, desperate clingy touches. but never speaking in bodies, never keeping score with him inside you. you kiss goodnight and draw the curtains so the moon doesn’t interfere.

and morning. wrapped up in each other in the rainy breeze, clouds joining for breakfast. you feel his limbs slide out of yours while he sits up in bed, bare aside from a pair of his boxers. he yawns and stretches, hand coming down to squeeze the fat on the back of your covered thigh while he crawls out of bed.

sweatpants from a pile of clean laundry are all he adds, a pair of socks with holes in the heels. his fingers glide over a hung acoustic guitar in a strum.

“gonna make us some eggs,” he tells you. he means more than eggs, but he always just says eggs.

“we’re out of sugar,” you mention, rolling onto your side, legs stretching like a cats, “for coffee.”

he smiles lazily, the cold breeze from the window catching his curls while he leans over you. he presses a warm kiss to your cheek, and then your lips, “you’re sweet enough for me.”

“hm,” you hum, sticky syrupy affection slipping in from your head to your toes, “smooth this morning.”

“it’s the munson way,” he mumbles, his voice still gravelly, noses brushing. butterfly kisses.

“hm,” you reply lazily, your lashes and his lashes meeting.

“hm,” he grins, another warm kiss against the cool breeze. he looks back at you before he leaves the room, brown eyes saying all he needs to say and yours match. he blushes. you’ll have a few more moments to yourself in the window before you go meet him in the kitchen.

[general-kenobi357]

Yay I'm so happy you like my drawing! I do have a request if you don't mind writing it. I'd like a cute story about Eddie and a shy girl who works at an electronic shop. I imagine Eddie has to go to the shop sometime when he needs something for his electric guitar.

a/n: thanks for the request! i really enjoyed writing this. i tweaked it a little, hope you don’t mind! looking forward to any more art/requests :D

& ,, STALKER IN AISLE FIVE

eddie munson x gn!reader

warnings: mentions of sexual themes, eds calling himself a pervert lol, lots of awkward convo and fluff.

you notice a certain curly-haired nerd frequently visiting your workplace. finally, you decide to acknowledge his stalking. 1.9k

WORKING at Hawkins’ electronic store was not on your bucket list. Sure, you were fascinated by the up-and-coming technology that was slowly progressing as the years went on. But that didn’t stop your distaste for having to actually go in for your shifts.

Although the summer job had slowly spread into the rest of the year and your mind was ready to explode, you’d be lying if you said working there was all bad.

There was at least one thing you enjoyed. A certain curly-haired ‘freak’ who had a habit of stopping by multiple times a week.

You’d noticed him around three months ago. He had pranced in, mop of curls bouncing with every step he took. He was pretty to look at, although extremely eccentric, and you gathered that’s most likely the reason why your eyes had drifted to him in the first place.

But what held your gaze was how it was extremely obvious that he was coming there to see you.

You had only joined Hawkins High for your senior year, trying your best to avoid as many people as possible. You weren’t exactly the most friendly — Curse your awkwardness in social situations — But despite your quiet demeanour and sarcastic humour as a defence mechanism for your nerves, you had caught his eye years ago.

He’d thought he’d lost his chance to speak to you when you had graduated, but seeing you working here had felt like some sort of sign. He didn’t believe in God, but somebody had taken pity on him, and he would forever be doing penance for that.

The small, rusted bell above the door chimes as the hinges squeak, announcing a customer has arrived. You don’t bother looking up from your magazine, knowing already who’d be stupid enough to come in at 8:02am. 

You can feel a set of eyes on you as he wanders across the various aisles of cables and antennas, watching your chest press against the wooden counter. The only sound that fills the store is his heavy footsteps and the occasional turn of your page.

He feels like a pervert. The shame creeps up on him continuously when he finds himself staring, observing every small move you make. It’s the only thing that gratifies him, even though it’s just a reminder that he can’t find the courage to actually have a conversation longer than three sentences.

You sigh upon hearing him halt, never tearing your eyes away from the bold images in front of you. If he isn’t going to make a move, then maybe you can find some confidence from somewhere. “Can I help you, Eddie?”

Crash.

“Uh…” he lets out slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a quick peek at the mess of display tapes he’s knocked over, cursing internally at his body’s reaction to hearing you speak his name. “Clean up on aisle five?”

You try not to smile, tilting your head down further to hide your amusement. “Better put those hands to good use then.”

Eddie tries to ignore the sexual meaning he takes away from your words, burning red as he drops to his knees dramatically to quickly to stack the shelf again. He tries to organise them, but the current state of his bedroom proves that he’s already no good at that. You can hear him curse from your position behind the desk, despite him uttering it under his breath.

“Just leave it,” you announce quickly, worried you’d put far too much pressure on him. You’d only meant it as a joke, not expecting the boy to actually fold in half and bend to your commands. It’s a little too much power to hold, something you’d never experienced before. “I get paid to do that, so…”

“Right,” he lets out, trying to smoothly saunter up to the counter. He ends up whacking his knee into another cabinet on the way there, earning an actual physical laugh from you this time. He feels proud, despite knowing deep down that you’re really just laughing at his pain. If a fool is his part to play, then he’ll play it with an award-winning performance. “Anyways, uh, I’m here to…” He scans the shop, desperately looking for an excuse. “Guitar strings. Want ‘em. Need ‘em, actually. Pesky thing...”

He trails off with an awkward laugh, watching your eyebrows raise in amusement. You let him ramble on about the importance of his music and how sacred it is, unable to find your voice after initially greeting him. It’s something you’ve always struggled with. The sole reason you had graduated with decent grades but not a single person to celebrate that achievement with. You wanted interaction, but with the students of Hawkins High already making assumptions about your quietness, it was hard to do so.

Eddie notices your silence after a minute or two, cheeks reddening from his mouth’s persistence. He tilts his head, a grin widening on his face when you match his smile. “Yeah… and you definitely don’t get paid enough to deal with idiots like me.”

“You’re not an idiot,” you state almost immediately, words coming out a little raspy. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say in response to so much attention from one person, but luckily your brain makes that decision for you for once. “Kind of chatty, but that's okay.”

“Usually my voice can lull a thousand people. I’m like a siren, truly.” He gets another laugh from you, one that’s snorted and entirely unattractive. To him? It’s the most beautifully raw sound he’s ever heard. He decides then and there that he’s already in love with it. “Guitar strings? Yes?”

You falter, suddenly coming back down to reality from the cloud he’d ascended you to. Of course, the essential thing he’d ‘come in’ for. Even though you know it’s just a rouse, you can’t help but feel bad when you break the news to him.

“You… know this is an electronics store, right? We don’t sell anything, like, remotely close to guitars.” You watch his smile evidently drop, although he manages to somehow keep the corners of his lips upturned. There’s a flash of rejection that passes over his eyes, a look that has your heart squeezed impossibly tight. Eddie is the only person who’s remotely considered approaching you, other than the band of jocks that occasionally took a dig at your shy nature. In light, he was the only person who’d been kind. You didn’t want to let that go. 

You can see the tops of his thighs twitch, the only part of his legs visible from where you’re standing. It’s enough to alert you that he’s going to leave, and although this is your first time conversing something other than ‘Enjoy your purchase’ or ‘Have a nice day’, you found yourself oddly connected to him.

So much so, that you offer the only thing that comes to your mind.

“W-We do sell amps though!”

Eddie Munson finds himself the new owner of a glossed amplifier a few moments later, covering the empty hole in his wallet where his cash should be with a forced smile. He’ll have to explain the lack of groceries to his uncle later. Something a lot better than wanting to impress a person he finds attractive.

“Aaaand here’s your receipt. You can return it within ten days if there’s any issues. Company policy, and all that fine print stuff…” You don’t finish the rest of your trained response, deciding he’s probably bought enough things in here over the last few months to know what you’re going to say. He simply nods, patting the large speaker awkwardly on the desk.

“Forgot how big these things are,” he begins, smoothing his palm over the dials and buttons as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth to suppress another laugh. He lets out a low whistle, and you ignore how your neck begins to flush with heat at the sound. “Like, wayyyy too big. Huge. Enormous, even-”

“You already have an amp, don’t you?” You finally put him out of his misery, watching his nose scrunch in embarrassment before he pats the speaker again, this time a little more forcefully.

“...Yeah.”

You open the till. “Okay, give it back. I’ll refund you-”

“W-What? No- No no no, I can take it. I don’t wanna get you in trouble, or anything- I’m a bad influence but not this bad.” He rushes out, hands waving in front of his face in frantic motions. You reach forward bravely, taking a hold of them to still his movements.

His breath hitches.

You strain your neck to look behind him, gazing over the empty parking spots out front on the street. They’ve been barren since last night. “I don’t see your van outside. There’s no way I’m going to actually let you carry that.” You chuckle along with your words, watching Eddie blink rapidly at you.

“You know my van?” He asks out of disbelief, but there’s a hint of a teasing tone to his words. He doesn’t mean to. However, there’s a natural charm and cockiness to him that never seems to cease. You kind of like it.

The sound of the register opening distracts him from his shocked stare, coins jingling within the metal. You count out the bills he’d handed over, sliding them across the counter with another timid grin.

“Being off the radar means I do a lot of observing,” Eddie gingerly reaches up to swipe the money, short-circuiting when his fingers envelop yours, unmoved from where you had originally laid them down. “Like what car you drive, and the new patch on your jacket, and the fact that you’ve been in here five times this week already.”

This time, Eddie blushes. A full-on rosy tint that spreads across his cheeks like the first brush stroke to an empty canvas. It paints him beautifully, mentally applauding yourself for finding comfortability in talking to him. It’s a personal success you can celebrate later.

“I… didn’t realise you could see me.” He admits honestly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he takes a quick glance around the store. His body physically turns to spy his multitude of hiding spaces, ones that he’s thought were somewhat decent. He hides his dismay well.

“You’re kind of hard not to look at,” Eddie nearly contracts whiplash at your response, eyes wide and mouth agape at your somewhat confession. Him? Lanky, scrawny, non-showered, freaky nerd Eddie Munson? You giggle at his obvious starstruck expression, deciding to take another leap of faith. You lean forward over the counter with the cash in hand, fingertips tracing the waist of his jeans as you stuff the bills into his front pocket. “See you same time tomorrow for those guitar strings?”

Eddie nods, body numb and on auto-pilot as he backs out of the store. His parted lips soon pull together to produce a grin when he reaches the door, green notes protruding from his pocket like some sort of ‘mark’ you’d left on him. He tries not to let his mind wander too far at that idea, for his own sanity.

“It’s a date.” He mutters eagerly, despite knowing that a ten minute conversation at your workplace is the worst romantic idea he’s ever come up with.

Still, you eat up every ounce of his dorky charm with a wide grin and a flutter in your stomach. “Yeah... It's a date, stalker in aisle five.”

[general-kenobi357]

You can hear him muttering because he can't find the right one.

ok to use for moadboards, banners, and graphics -btw.

[general-kenobi357]

Where I Can't Follow — Eddie Munson x Best Friend Reader

summary: the tale of two best friends, trying to navigate through their unresolve feelings for one another.

author notes: here we go, my first fic. this is a rewrite/redirection of a story I wrote a while ago. I didn't like it very much, feeling like it could be better. I decided to keep it in my drafts until I got my creativity back, and we are back baby. I hope you enjoy the first part of this story, and please let me know what you think.

He sat in lawn chair — arms crossed, muttering under his breath while his uncle chats with his friends. His argument was strong, but Wayne insisted thirteen was too young to stay home alone, thus dragging him across town to his buddies surprise party.

"You'll have fun, boy. Now quit yapping and get in the damn truck!"

Fun, ha. What a joke! A perfectly good Saturday — wasted. He could be at the arcade, trying to beat the high score in Space Invaders or sneaking into the movies to see the new Dawn of the Dead. Instead, he was stuck here, bored beyond belief.

He groans, loud enough to earn a knowing look from his uncle. He sighs, abandoning all hopes — his eyes close, slouching down in his seat, letting his mind drift away until the world eventually fades.

Eddie was nearly asleep when he heard it — this sweet, joyous, beautiful sound that was music to his ears. He leans up, scanning the yard, lips curving into a boyish grin.

The melody happens again — louder now, closer. The glass door slides open, stealing his attention in time to see you run out the house. His gaze follows you, watching you prance over to the man at the grill. Your father, he presumes.

You wore denim overalls — a baby blue shirt, matching the scrunchie around your wrist and a white cardigan tied at the waist. You were barefoot, and really pretty.

A rare type of pretty — damn near perfection. The kind of pretty that could awaken a young boy's heart, haunts him forever. Infects him, consumes him. It comes to him in your dreams, only to disappear as him wake up. You grow to miss it, crave it, search a thousand lifetimes for it. If you're lucky enough to find it, you pray to all the heavens you never lose it because nothing will ever compare.

His eyes stuck on you, lingering as you skip over to a tree covered in russet leaves. He'd later lean it's an oak tree, and that it was planted by your father when he was a boy. You sit down, legs crossed — back leaned against the rough bark. You open a book, flipping through the pages until you reach one with a folded corner.

Eddie stands to his feet, tongue darting out the side of his mouth. He looks down at his outfit, sweaty palms quick to tuck in his shirt. As Wayne says, a man must always look his best in the presence of a pretty lady.

He swallows his nerves, hyping himself to build up the courage he needs to introduce himself. It's now or never. He walks over to you, standing in front of you — only you're so lost in the book, you don't notice. He takes it as an advantage, noticing every detail even the smallest.

Like the small, faint scar on your forehead, nearly unnoticeable unless someone looks at you — really looks at you. How your eyes shimmer when the light reflects off them at just the right angle. How your brows furrow in concentration sometimes as you read and how you lick the tip of your finger when you turn every page.

"Are you going to tell me your name or just stare at me?"

He froze, eyes wide — cheeks flush pink. He stammers, looking down at his feet as he rubs the back of his neck. "Eddie, I um, I'm Eddie." He clears his throat, unable to look you in the eyes. "What's your name?" He ask, and you tell him yours.

"That's — That's a good name!"

He chews on his bottom lip, swaying on his feet and fidgeting with his jacket sleeve. He's unable to form words, mentally cursing to himself as Eddie just stares at you.

You just giggle, staring up at him through the your lashes. He laughs nervously, the collar of his shirt feeling extremely tight all of a sudden — he fidgets with the oversize ring on his finger.

By some miracle, fate seem to be on his side — his face lights up, catching a glimpse of the title of the book. "Lord of the Rings!" He beams, gesturing to it. "Which are you on?"

"The Two Towers, it's actually my favorite." You respond — voice delicate, looking down at your lap and tucking some of your hair behind your ear.

"That's my favorite, too!"

"Yeah!" You chirp, glancing back up at him. "Would you like to read with me?"

"Hell yeah I would!" Eddie doesn't waste a second, taking a seat next to you. The smile on your face stretches ear to ear, causing your nose to crinkle.

The two of you stayed under that tree for hours, taking turns reading and acting out your favorite parts. "Don't go where I can't follow." Eddie recites, eyes on you.

When reading grew tiresome, you resort to doodling. You challenged each other to a drawing contest — winner gets to draw a tattoo on the other, and that's how Eddie ends up with a daisy drawn on the back of his hand.

He asked you to go easy on him, give him something cool like bats or a dragon, but when you gave him that wicked grin — Eddie knew he was in trouble. He'd groaned, complaining the whole time about how daisies are so not metal.

You even made him hold up the back of his hand when your mother asked to take a picture of the pair of you. Truth is, he absolutely loved it — didn't wash his hands for weeks until eventually the tattoo vanished from his pale skin.

His uncle practically had to drag him out the door and to the truck as Eddie rambles about coming back as soon as he could. "If he won't bring me, I'll steal the truck!"

You stood in the doorway, nodding and laughing at his antics. Waving goodbye, the two of you wore matching smiles and longing in your eyes. Eddie kept his eyes train on the rearview mirror, watching your house disappear in the distance.

When he got home, he rushed to his room — almost knocking down Wayne in the process. He sits on the side of his bed, fingers gliding over the polaroid. Opening his bedside table, he takes out his copy of Lord of the Rings.

Page after page, he flips through the book until he reaches a specific page. "Don't go where I can't follow." He reads, reminiscing — a soft smile on his face, sighing Eddie closes the book.

[general-kenobi357]

stop making plans / start making sense

Summary: eddie finds himself smack dab in the middle of an ap english iv class, all because some do-gooders at Hawkins High happen to “believe in him” or whatever. the catch? it just so happens to be your ap english class.

A continuation of this blurb and the result of an ongoing eddie munson hc convo with @powderblueblood 💚

Warnings: eddie’s senior year 2.0, no Upside Down, scary smart debate team captain reader, NHS president and tutor nancy wheeler, ap music theory nerd and general nuisance robin buckley, pretentiousness alert - you have been warned!

W.C.: 1771

It’s his second time around as a senior, not even the first week of school under his belt when Mrs. Meloy calls him into her office. The counseling center, which he is unfortunately far too familiar with, is busy as it usually is at the beginning of the year— schedule changes, registration, students complaining about not getting late arrival or early dismissal. Before he can settle in one of the worn chairs by the door, a woman pops her outside of an office door. She glances around, blue eyes searching for someone or something, before landing on Eddie.

“Think the wall can hold itself up just fine Edward,” She calls as she opens the door to her office and waves him in.

He grouses at the use of his full name and rolls his eyes, languidly strolling into the smaller room that smells overwhelmingly of cinnamon.

“Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

She’s turned around, fingers flicking through thick manilla files in the cabinet in front of her. A cup of coffee sits on her cluttered desk, cold, from the looks of it. Mrs. Meloy mutters under her breath before turning from the filing cabinet in annoyance.

“It’s only the first week of school,” Eddie points out, “I haven’t done anything.”

The yet between them goes unspoken.

The older woman merely raises a knowing brow and takes her seat opposite him. She sorts through a few loose papers on her desk before letting out a surprised huff, “Gotcha!” Flipping through the file, his file, Eddie supposes, her eyes scan over what is undoubtedly his lack of academic achievement.

Satisfied with her perusal, she sets the papers down on her desk and addresses him.

“Round two.” Mrs. Meloy begins, resignedly. “Hopefully the NHS tutoring placement will be to your benefit Mr. Munson. Miss Wheeler is an exemplary student and I have high hopes for you under her tutelage.”

She then runs through his current schedule, emphasizing the classes he needs to perform well in (mostly all of them, save for English and a few others).

“Which brings me to the reason for our meeting today,” she says with a smile. “It has not escaped my notice, nor that of Mrs. Seguin, that you are quite adept in English class. At least,” she qualifies with a pull of her lips, “When properly motivated.”

And yeah, okay, he was decidedly not trying all that hard in Mrs. S.’s senior English class last year and he breezed through with a respectable A minus.

Wayne even got a little choked up when he read that particular report card.

“I guess so,” he says with a cross of his arms.

“Rather than having you repeat the same content and curriculum this year, Mrs. Seguin and I have petitioned the principal for permission to move you into a more challenging and appropriate English class.”

Well, that perks him right up.

“Principal Higgins has agreed to the change, with a few stipulations.”

Of fucking course.

The gist of it is, Eddie’s admittance to the AP English IV class will be probationary for the first quarter, given his past exploits and record. If he can keep his grades at a respectable B across the board, Eddie will be permanently placed in Mrs. Seguin’s advanced class. If he can’t, it’s back to regular Senior English with that crone, Mrs. Cotter.

Easy peasy.

And he’s almost out the door when Meloy stops him with a furitive, “Eddie,” and pauses to look him in the eye. “We believe in you and we went to the mat with Higgins on this.” She says emphatically, standing up to escort him through the office, “You can do this, Eddie, we know you can.”

She smiles and sends him off with his newly revised schedule, the summer reading assignment, and information for Wayne to peruse about Advanced Placement courses.

The rest of that day unfolded as expected despite his new schedule. Slight differences were made, such as: Eddie sitting in the middle of the class instead of the back, hopefully next to Buckley or Wheeler if he could swing it.

With Nancy’s help, he was able to narrow the summer reading options down to books that would hold his interest. The librarian, Ms. Berkowitz, was more than happy to oblige him with checking out a copy of Notes from the Underground by some Russian dude whose name Eddie couldn’t possibly pronounce.

The bell for the final class of the day rang just as he slipped through Mrs. Seguin’s door.

“Timely as ever,” she teased and kicked the door stop into the classroom.

Her room was the same as last year, but the mood within was markedly different— more relaxed and at ease. Students sat where they pleased and chatted amongst themselves while Mrs. S. checked off the roll and fielded a few questions from the group.

Eddie settled in the only open seat right in between Nancy and yourself. He tried not to be offended that you didn’t even glance up from your furious scribbling on the page, seemingly writing a mile a minute, as if you couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

Ink smeared on the college ruled paper underneath your hand.

Eddie found it endearing.

“Okay, okay, let’s get this show on the road.” Mrs. S. set her clipboard on the desk and leaned against it with a casual grace.

She was one of the newer teachers to Hawkins High, from some big name school out west with not one, but two degrees framed on the wall behind her desk. She was young and quick to laugh; the older teachers were a bit weary of her and those “new agey” teaching philosophies, but the results produced were proof enough for her to granted the AP English III and IV courses for this year. According to Nancy, she’d only had AP juniors and regular seniors last year.

Eddie, being one of those regular students, would know.

“Alright, hopefully we’ve brought in our summer reading novels today. The goal is to break you all into thematic groups based on your selected text. From there, you will collaborate with your peers to create a presentation on your findings.”

With this, she steps away from her desk and begins writing on the chalkboard.

“Consider such things as character archetype, thematic resonance, literary merit, of course. But more importantly,” she says, turning to the class with a smile, “How did the story affect you? What new perspective or insights were gained? What concepts were reinforced? Did you despise the protagonist, or did you identify too closely with them?”

The class has fallen to a hush, you’ve stopped writing and are rapt with attention. Eddie, used to overworked teachers and coaches who could care less, is shocked.

“I remind you, as always, that there are no right or wrong answers in here. As long as you can support your interpretation—” She begins.

“With evidence from the text,” The class choruses in reply.

“Good, exactly.”

At that, students break away into smaller groups and begin talking in hushed tones about the project.

“Whatcha got there?”

This, from Robin, who unceremoniously plucks Eddie’s book from his grasp. She flips through it, eyes lighting in interest, just as Mrs. Seguin makes her way over.

“Eddie, always good to see you.”

“Right back at ya, Mrs. S.”

She smirks, eyeing Robin scanning through Dostoevsky. “Had a feeling you’d gravitate toward the nihilists. Got a chance to start reading yet?”

He swipes the book back from Robin and ignores her petulant pout.

“Uh, kinda. Started it during lunch today.”

She nods knowingly, “Well, I’m sure you’ll be caught up in no time.” Surveying the classroom she nods to herself, “And now that I think of it,” She turns back to Eddie, “Looks like you’re in the right group over here.”

He almost says there is no group over here, but then he notices Nancy and Robin chatting with you. Feeling his stare, you turn back from where you’ve set up shop on Robin’s desk and jerk your head, an invitation by any other name.

“C’mon Munson, we don’t have all day.” You say this softly, chidingly, with no real heat behind it. Your eyes narrow as a group gets particularly loud across the way, “Because I’m certainly not about to let Phillips show us up.”

“Oh, bite me!” Phillips crows from his desk.

“You wish, you cretin!”

Eddie does his best to hide the curl of his lips and stifle a laugh while Phillips sulks at his desk.

Robin thumbs through a worn copy of Nausea while Nancy talks Eddie through the plan thus far. She’s read The Death of Ivan Ilyich and come to the conclusion that the novels in the group are both deeply depressing and deal with themes of existentialism, and in some cases, nihilism.

“I dunno. Philosophy is all well and good, but,” you pipe up, “Mine had elements of magical realism and a satirical critique of Soviet Russia.”

Eddie attempts to process what you and Wheeler have just said. Sensing a lull in the conversation, you slyly pass your novel over to Eddie and start to take notes over whatever it is Nancy is rambling on about.

The Master and Margartia.

Huh, weird title.

He reads the blurb on the back cover and kind of regrets not choosing this one to read. Maybe you’ll let him borrow it after the project is over. Setting it back on your desk, Eddie peruses the syllabus Mrs. S. must’ve slipped him.

“So, will that work for you Eddie?”

Lost in a daze of genres and titles, he looks up. “Sorry, what was that?”

Nancy sighs, “We’re going to meet at my house on Thursday for a study group. I know you and Mike have that thing on Fridays, so.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks Wheeler; that’ll work.”

With a smile, she goes back to chatting with Robin.

“Psst.”

A neatly folded paper lands on his desk. Eddie glances at you, curious, taking in your arched brow and smirk.

Scary smart, he reminds himself as he unfurls the page.

I know Nance is your NHS tutor, but if you feel like you need to catch-up for this class, give me a call.

Your deft hand and neatly printed letters dance across the page, an errant smear of ink where the heel of your hand drug across the paper. The digits of your phone number underneath your missive make his heart race.

Annotating your copy of Dune without permission was one thing. And at that you didn’t even bat an eye, but this…

Well, this had potential.

He tries not to let the possibility of what if turn to ash in his mouth.

[general-kenobi357]

Ernest Frank only has lovely things to say about you

Another Thursday morning in Mr. Moore’s home room to which Eddie is, as always, late. He prizes the white tardy slip between his fingers and tosses it on the baseball coach’s desk before slipping into his usual seat.

Right behind you, of course.

The composition book slaps against the wood laminate of the desk while he scrambles for a pen in his bag. His hand flexes in the various recesses of the backpack only to come up empty.

He sighs and rolls his head back to stare at the white ceiling tiles. He contemplates his options.

Eddie could ask Wheeler or Buckley, both only a row or two over from him and obnoxiously prepared for a day of classes.

Or he could ask you and risk disrupting your reading of… Dune? A book he definitely fell asleep reading and subsequently had given up the ghost only to reread The Fellowship of the Ring once more.

Only he’d never exactly gotten the courage to speak to you despite his many opportunities to do so. As member for NHS, it’d been a near miss that he’d lucked out with Wheeler as his tutor instead of you. And on one particular Hellfire night when he was walking back to the drama room, he’d passed the debate club mid-Lincoln Douglas prep when you’d inadvertently made some sophomore cry over being anti-death penalty.

You were smart. And you were scary. You were scary smart. But in a way that made him pop a semi in Government during yet another one of your tirades about the separation of church and state while the rest of the class rolled their eyes and complained.

He eyes the clock above the chalkboard, hands counting down the mere minutes left before the bell for first period. And yet again, he’s wasted another opportunity to talk to you.

Slinging a bag over your shoulder, you give him a small smile and wave to Nancy on your way out.

The bell trills out signaling yet another educational experience at Hawkins High, when he spies a worn and battered book left behind in your desk.

Grabbing the paperback before he can think better of it, Eddie realizes that he has no way to get it back to you. The debate team leaves for a tournament today, which means you won’t be in class this afternoon to hem and haw about the three branches of government.

He pockets the book and figures he’ll get it back to you later next week.

At least, that’s the plan. But then he starts reading it again, your copy this time, and finds that he can’t put it down.

He’s so invested, in fact, that he does end up borrowing a pencil from Buckley and writes his thoughts in the margins. Doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s too late. Just knows that he wants to talk to you about the Atreides and Harkonnens and the Kwisatz Haderach and the Fremen.

Eddie finishes the book just in time for home room with Mr. Moore on Monday. Drops the book unceremoniously on your desk and tosses his tardy pass to the coach as he takes his seat.

Holding the book in one hand, you thumb through the pages and scan his notes.

“Thought you didn’t crack books Munson, much less annotate them.”

“I read,” He quips back, affronted by your lazy drawl and smirk.

“Well, I distinctly remember you saying that you didn’t.”

“Much.” He supplies, smiling as you finally turn around with a raised brow. “I believe the question was if I read much.”

“And you said no.” You shake the copy of Dune, all 896 pages of it.

There’s a small furrow between your brows as you weigh the semantics of the conversation. He decides that it’s cute and vows to make you replicate it as many times as he can get away with.

“Well,” he sighs out with a slight shrug. “What is ‘much’?”

[general-kenobi357]

washing eddie’s hair 🫧🧼💆🏻

warnings: tooth rotting fluff, soft eddie, nicknames (sweetheart and baby, reader calls eddie “eds”), a few “i love you’s”, nudity but still sfw

ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　  ϑ𐑞 　 ꣑୧　   ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　 

“Sweetheart, I don’t want ‘Glacier Freeze’ it sounds like a car scent or something” Eddie sighs and shakes his head but you’re well invested in the shampoo bottles on the shelf.

“Come on Eds, it’s perfect. Good for curls, bigger bottle and smells amazing. Can’t use 3 in 1 forever” You put the bottle in the shopping cart and scan the rest looking for a conditioner.

“Baby”, Eddie wraps his arms around you. He rests his chin on your shoulder and mumbles into your ear. “I thought you loved me no matter what.” You laugh at his little antics, trying to dodge all the self care you’ve been. introducing him to. Last week was facials, this week hair routines and next week? The undeniable mani pedi time, of course eddie only lets you do this when he has a show coming up.

“I love you Eddie” You rub the ringed knuckles of the tall metalhead hovering you, back pressed into his lean physique. “This is part of my love for you. My pretty boy, my handsome rockstar, hm?” You gently tap his hands and walk foward to grab the conditioner. Of course he doesn’t let go of you, following right behind you as he pats your tummy.

He groans. He pouts. His usual behavior trying to pity you to just put it behind. He’s accepted defeat when you put the items onto the conveyor belt. Once you’ve made it back to Eddie’s trailer you set the items on the counter. Oil, shampoo, conditioner, brushes, combs, clips, scrunchies. All for Eddie. He never in his life imagined a girl would ever be doing something like this for him.

Eddie’s in his bedroom, stripped down to.. well nothing. You and Eddie have been dating for quite some time. You sleep over a lot, you help clean, you have seen each other in ways no one else has. So you find it humorous when you start undressing and Eddie starts gawking over your body.

“What is your problem.” You laugh and shake your head, tossing your shirt at Eddie. He laughs and smiles. “Can’t admire my pretty girl?” He fakes an offended look and walks up to you. Bare bodies and affection. “Well you were staring. Must’ve seen something you liked.” Eddie smiles and cups your face, softly stroking at the gentle skin of your cheeks. He runs a thumb over your soft lips, parting his own. “I see something I really like.”

Blushing. That’s what you do when eddie says things like this. You can barely hold the eye contact, and he knows it. so he pulls you into his arms and hugs you, soft yet very callous hands gently rubbing up and down your back, stopping at your hips. You love being affectionate with Eddie because deep down under the tough metalhead everyone thinks he is, he’s a softie for his girl.

Placing your hands on his soft shoulders, you look up into his honey smitten eyes. You whisper, “I love you.” He smiles and brings you in, pulling gently at your hips and plants a soft kiss on your lips. He nibbles and gives a small pull to your bottom lip. He smiles when he pulls away. “Love you more, sweetheart.”

You smile and look at the bottles of hair products lined up by the bathtub. “We’ll see if you feel that way after this.” He chuckles and finally, he starts his shower. Although now his showers have become your showers. Saves hot water and gives eddie extra time to be close to you. You and Eddie stand under the warm water covering your bodies. Once his hair is soaked enough you grab the shampoo bottle.

“Okay. First shampoo. I’ll do this part it’s more fun for me.” You start to lather his scalp with the shampoo. Oh.. Eddie’s never been more wrong in his life. ‘Glacier Freeze’ smells amazing. Feels great too, or at least that’s what the little happy murmurs from his lips are telling you. “Feeling okay?” You tilt your head a bit to see that Eddie has a small smile on his face. “I take it back.” He chuckles, “This is the best feeling ever.”

You raise a teasing brow. “The best feeling.. you positive?” He laughs a bit more, knowing what you’re getting at. “Okay second best. No wait..” He thinks to himself. “Fifth best feeling.” A bunch of laughs, followed by a bunch of scalp massaging and a bunch of complaints about ‘this taking way too long’ from Eddie and his hair is clean. Baby soft long brown curls.

Once you’re out of the shower and in much more comfortable clothing you sit on the sofa, Eddie sat on the floor between your legs letting them hang over his shoulders as you watch tv. It’s mainly eddie shutting his eyes to the comforting feeling of his girlfriend’s fingers in his hair, gently caressing in that conditioner that’s gonna make his hair smell so good. Feel so soft. He’s definitely gonna make you do this all the time now.

“Sweetheart, you were right.” He says a bit lazily, most likely dozing off from the comfort of your fingers in his hair. “What’s that?” He speaks up. “I’m thanking you,” He squeezes your calf that hangs over his shoulder gently. “For caring for me. My hair.. it’s never felt this nice”

You smile. “Aw. So sweet. You’re being so cute right now.” He groans and laughs a bit. “Okay knock it off. I’m not a softie I just love you. I love this.”

ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　  ϑ𐑞 　 ꣑୧　   ೀ　  ೨౿   ᠀𓏲　 

[general-kenobi357]

Collegeboy!spencer who you meet in your first year of college, even though he’s already been there two years and almost has a second PhD.

Collegeboy!spencer who you sit next to in your psychology class because you were late the first day, and it was the only seat left

Collegeboy!spencer who reads incredibly fast. When the professor gives you a few minutes to read the first pages of the next chapter you’ll be going over, you look over to your right and have to do a double take. The guy next to you drags his finger down the center of each page, it appears to be him just skimming the words, but it is done very seriously and swiftly.

“There’s no way you can actually read that fast” you say, in disbelief.

He looks up at you and says, “Our conscious minds can process 16 bits of information per second. Our unconscious, however, can process 11million”.

There was an awkward pause. You tilt you head at him still confused.

“Yes I- I can actually read that fast”

You giggle at that and smile. “Okay, boy genius” you say and then go back to reading. He was strange and It sounded like he was reading that straight from a book but you believed him.

Collegeboy!spencer who doesn’t know whether you were teasing him or being genuine, but he smiles none the less.

Collegeboy!spencer who’s glasses fall down his nose as he concentrates on the words he’s writing on his laptop. Only for him to push them back up on the bridge of his nose with his long fingers.

Collegeboy!spencer who you start to develop a small crush on as you sneak glances at him for weeks, but it’s silly because you don’t even know his name.

Collegeboy!spencer who thinks you’re just as pretty, but doesn’t think he stands a chance with a girl like you.

Collegeboy!spencer who usually does group assignments alone, but when the professor mentions a partner research paper, you see this as your opportunity to get to know the mysterious smart guy next to you.

“So what you say, boy genius, you wanna work together?” You ask.

He’s caught off guard, and is a little dumbfounded before he replies. “Oh, yeah uh, s-sure. I’d like that”

You find his shyness endearing as you proceed to introduce yourself. “Oh, by the way I’m y/n”

He gives you tiny smile as he pushes some of his hair out of his face. “I’m Spencer, Spencer Reid”

[general-kenobi357]

when spencer reid turns 30, you’re the only member of the team that remembers his birthday. a knock on his apartment door at 7pm surprises him, and he’s even more surprised when he opens it to you wearing a party hat and holding a cupcake with a candle in it.

“happy birthday, spence!” you exclaim cheerily and the grin that takes place on his face causes one of your own to grow.

“thank you, (y/n).” he opens the door wider for you to step into his apartment.

“when you didn’t mention it to the team, i figured you just wanted a quiet birthday but i also didn’t want you to celebrate on your own. i hope i’m not disturbing you.”

“i was just reading,” he shrugs. “i appreciate this, thank you.”

you spend the rest of spencer’s birthday night with him. a weird documentary, a split cupcake and two cups of tea later, you fall asleep on his shoulder. spencer looks down at you, smiles, and picks up his discarded book.