Hi! I'm Lenna (you can call me Len), 22 y/o, she/her, native Spanish speaker but most things here will be in English.
You're more than welcome to send asks, I love to read what you think/would like to read/want to share (this includes requests!! I can't promise I'll write them, but I'll do my best).
You can find me in ao3 with the same name.
This is a safe space for everyone, but there might be NSFW content, so please stay away from that if you're a minor.
Yes, this list has even the stupidest things I have to say, I'm just a fan of having things organized and would probably bleed to death if I couldn't find a silly post I made five months ago. Feel free to go straight to the actual fics.
Fandoms masterlist
COD:
- Thoughts on the 141: Charlie
- Soap:
Neighbor Soap, NS continuation
Dog Soap, More Dog Soap
Roomate Soap, pt2
Tsar Bomba
Thoughts on Soap: piercing; he doesn't fuck, he consumes
His Home (Ace Week)
Boom
- Ghost
Three times Simon wanted to hug you (and the one time he did): First Time, Second Time, Third Time, The First Time
Every coin has two faces (ask)
Mercy (ask)
Winter back home
Good Girl
Drunks tell the truth
What he can take, Hidden in plain sight (pt. 2)
To be known is to be loved (Reader w/ ChronicPain)
Thoughts on Ghost: driving, being in love with someone like him
Now you see me
Stranger Things
- Eddie Munson:
Good Boy Eddie
Eddie gives two tipes of hugs
Eddie's unrequited love
Dustin's Mom
Eddie's double heartbreak
Pure Imagination
Ex-husband!Eddie, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, holidays (?), first break-up, his version of happy birthday
Wish granted
Seven Minutes in Hell (Ace Week)
The Heartbreak Chronicles
The Resurrection of Eddie Munson (or The Good Mechanic)
Toughts on Eddie: nerd theater kid, flirting, ace Eddie
Danver's Delirium
This is mostly so I can keep track of my ramblings. These are just thoughts and stuff, but you can pick any number you like and see where it takes you.
this post inspired something bc. yes. this is eddie. he would confess on his deathbed.
eddie munson x grumpy!reader. canon compliant / fix it (happy ending). gn!reader (long hair mentioned), no use of y/n. blog is 18+, this blurb isn't.
wc: ~ 1k
There's three things Eddie knows for sure:
1. You hate his guts.
2. He just saved your life.
3. He's going to die.
So in all likeliness, this might well be his only chance to say it.
"I-"
"Shut the fuck up," you snap immediately, trying desperately to keep pressure on way too many wounds at once while Dustin is scavenging for anything to bind them with. Your brows are drawn together in concentration, and despite the blood and demo-bat viscera splattering your face, you look damningly cute.
Spots dance across his vision, blurring you. Fucking rude. If he's going to die after all of this, you should be the last thing he sees. He should get to keep looking at you, the way he's always been.
Over his shoulder in the cafeteria, where you'd sit right at his back on the next table over, flipping your hair obnoxiously often, half in his face, just to piss him off.
Through the shelves at the record store, where you'd purposefully scrunch your nose or raise your brows whenever you shelved the new arrivals. Few things got your stamp of approval, but one of his recs once made it to the in-store record player while you were on shift. You'd denied it to hell and back, but he was thrilled you'd actually listened to him. And his music.
At the hideout, when you came to pick up your dad from the crowd of five drunks watching Corroded Coffin play, and actually stayed till they finished their set. You looked like you were both intrigued and angry about it, and Eddie couldn't help but lean right into your face off the stage, delivering lyrics straight to you. He'd never seen your cheeks this red before. He felt a little drunk off it, with the music and the lights and you sticking out your tongue at him before retreating to the bar. He'd wanted to kiss you so badly it hurt, but you'd dragged your dad out of there the second they were done playing.
Wasted time. Wasted opportunities. This is it.
He tries again: "I think I-"
"Will you STOP!" There's desperation in your tone. He only notices your hands are shaking when he covers them with his own, unsteadily, weakly.
Adorable as your efforts are, they're not gonna change a thing, and he really really needs to get this out now while he still has some focus left. "I'm-"
"You are NOT dying, Eddie Munson. Not today. Not on my watch. Absolutely fucking not. So just shut up and-"
"I love you."
That stuns you to silence. Finally. Good. Your mouth works like you're chewing on a reply, but nothing comes out. Can't exactly give a dying man the brush-off, he knows, but he's not expecting anything. He just needed to tell you. To see your face while he does. His chuckle is laced with blood.
He squeezes your hands, once, and the spots in his vision take over. Vaguely, he hears Dustin in the distance, and feels a bit sorry he won't get to say goodbye. But as last words go, a love confession is pretty epic, if he says so himself.
He wants to hear your reply. He wants to ruffle Dustin's hair and push his Hellfire kids around. He wants to play on a big stage with his band and he wants to hug his uncle again.
The future slips away in the dark. It may be a shit ending, but at least it's a heroic one.
Between the sun and the reflecting white of everything in the room, Eddie's eyes burn. There's something stuck in his arm. And in his nose. Everything itches and scratches and hurts. If this is Vecna's idea of hell, the bastard needs some pointers. The torture aspect is on point, but the aesthetic could use some work.
His throat is too dry to even cough, but as he slowly blinks, two dark shapes in the too-bright room take form. One of them, still in a chair by his side, is his uncle, and Eddie can feel his eyes tear up at the sight. The other one moves, a flash coming from the window sill, and he only recognizes your face when it's right in front of him.
You look worried and desperate and strung out and tired. "Hi," seems like the best way to approach this. His dopey smile doesn't seem to chase your tension away, though. It seems to make you furious.
"You fucking dumbass idiot asshole!" you whisper-scream, evidently trying not to wake up Wayne before you could get your tirade off your chest. "What the fuck were you thinking? Oh, what nice day to die? What a cool way to leave all of my friends fucking mourning? What a great fucking storybook-ending to say that and then-"
Well. Good to know it did have the desired effect, then.
"Sorry if I killed the vibe, b- OUCH." his voice rasps out an almost-scream when your fingers claw into his arm. Through the blur of pained tears in his eyes, he only barely realizes the tears in your own.
"Oh? Does that hurt? Yeah?"
"Yeah!"
"Asshole."
And then you kiss him. And he thinks, alright, if this is hell, maybe he can live with it. It's over far too soon, not much more than a peck, and you ease up your grip and pull his covers back straight and check on his IV and seem altogether very much too busy to acknowledge his even dopier smile now.
"Fuck you," you mumble, and despite the life-threatening injuries he is, after all, just a boy, so he thinks Please do. Still, he's wise enough about his condition not to say it out loud. Considering your sudden interest in his health, your wrath might not be his biggest problem, though. "Just you wait till Dustin gets here. He and Steve are gonna rip you a new one."
description: everyone in hawkins thinks you and eddie munson are already married. honestly? you can’t even blame them. between the shared garage, the constant flirting, and the way he cannot help but stare, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend there’s nothing going on between you.
pairing: mechanic!eddie x mechanic!reader (fem!reader)
tags: mechanic!eddie, eddie x you, no y/n, coworkers to lovers, unresolved sexual tension (until...), small town romance, flirtationship, mechanic core aftercare, old married couple energy, fucking on a '67 impala, workplace romance, tension tension tension, whimpering eddie, teasing each other mercilessly
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!!, PiV, unprotected, needy eddie
WC: 4.1k
A/N: requested by my beloved @bitterestwillow I HOPE YOU ENJOY QUEEN AHHHHHHH. reblogs are a writer's best friend <3
yes, i had to use this gif for this fic...it does something to me idk......
The bell above the garage door jingled as Mrs. Patterson dug through her purse for her checkbook, glasses sliding halfway down her nose, while you leaned against the counter with a rag tucked into your back pocket.
“So,” you said, tapping the invoice with your pen, “the rattling sound was your serpentine belt. Thing was practically shredded.”
The elderly woman gasped softly. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah, but you caught it before it snapped completely, which is good. We replaced the belt, topped off your coolant, changed the oil, and Eddie patched that little leak underneath your radiator.” You smiled reassuringly. “She’s good as new now.”
Beside her, Mr. Patterson squinted out toward the garage floor where the familiar sound of classic rock echoed through the open bays. “Which one’s Eddie again?”
Almost on cue, Eddie emerged from beneath a lifted pickup truck with grease smeared across his cheek and curls shoved back with a bandana.
Sweat darkened the collar of his black tank top, coveralls hanging around his hips, while he carried over a sweating tray of lemonade cups.
“There you are,” he said, setting them carefully on the counter. “It’s too damn hot outside not to hydrate.”
Mrs. Patterson practically lit up. “Well, aren’t you sweet?”
“Tell her that more often,” Eddie said, jerking his thumb toward you. “She’s mean to me.”
You rolled your eyes. “I told you to stop using the good shop towels to wipe down your van.”
“They’re towels.”
“They are expensive towels.”
Mr. Patterson laughed under his breath while Eddie handed them their drinks with an exaggerated flourish.
“Anything for my favorite customers.”
Mrs. Patterson smiled fondly at him before looking back toward you. “That husband of yours is such a gentleman.”
You nearly choked on your own spit.
Eddie froze for exactly one second before slowly turning toward you with the most insufferable grin imaginable.
“Oh?” he said. “You hear that, sweetheart?”
“Oh my God,” you muttered immediately.
The poor woman looked horrified. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just assumed—”
“No, no,” Eddie cut in smoothly, leaning against the counter. “Please continue. This is the best day of my life.”
You shot him a glare while he looked seconds away from laughing himself unconscious.
Mrs. Patterson pointed knowingly between the two of you. “You’ve got the look.”
“What look?” you asked suspiciously.
“The ‘been in love for years’ look.”
Eddie outright cackled. You grabbed the invoice and shoved it toward them. “Okay! Your total is—.”
The elderly couple left smiling to themselves while Eddie leaned against the counter, watching you with entirely too much amusement. The second the door shut behind them, he pushed off the counter and followed you toward the office.
“Husband, huh?” he mused.
“Don’t start.”
“I personally think it has a nice ring to it.”
You dropped into the squeaky office chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re unbearable.”
Eddie leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. “And yet you keep having me back every morning.”
“You work here.”
“Semantics.”
“Hey,” Eddie said suddenly.
You looked up, and he tossed something shiny toward you, and you barely caught it before it hit your face. Your keys, the little keychain Dustin made you years ago, swung between your fingers.
“You left ‘em by the toolbox again.”
“Oh.” You blinked. “Thanks.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed smugly. “Good thing your husband’s lookin’ out for you.”
You pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
Instead of leaving, Eddie just grinned wider, sunlight pouring in behind him from the open garage bays.
“Say it once.”
“No.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Just one little ‘thank you, my husband.’”
You threw a balled-up receipt at his head while his laughter rang through the entire garage.
By noon, the July heat had turned the garage into a furnace.
Every bay door was rolled open, old fans rattling uselessly in the corners while the smell of motor oil, hot pavement, and cigarette smoke clung heavily in the air.
Foreigner blasted low from the radio perched near Eddie’s toolbox, occasionally cutting out whenever someone used the compressor.
You were bent over the hood of a Mustang, wiping grease from your hands while talking to a customer, your laugh carrying across the shop floor. And across said shop floor, Eddie was staring. Not subtly, either.
Steve had noticed immediately, mostly because Eddie had been holding the exact same wrench for nearly three minutes without moving.
Steve slowly lowered his sandwich. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hm?” Eddie hummed absently.
“You are down catastrophically bad.”
That got Eddie to blink. “What?”
Steve pointed dramatically across the garage where you were explaining something with animated hand gestures, sunlight catching the sheen of sweat on your skin.
“You’ve been staring at her this entire time.”
Eddie scoffed, finally looking away. “I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been holding that wrench upside down.”
Eddie glanced down, and sure enough, he was.
“Shut up.”
Steve barked out a laugh and leaned back in the lawn chair they’d dragged outside for Eddie's lunch break. It was honestly kind of ridiculous to witness at this point.
Everyone in Hawkins knew something was going on between the two of you, except apparently the two of you.
The lingering touches, the teasing, the way Eddie always magically appeared beside you whenever some asshole customer got too flirty.
The way you unconsciously reached for his cigarettes to steal one straight from his mouth…and the constant staring, especially the staring.
Steve watched Eddie’s eyes drift right back over toward you again.
“Oh my God,” he groaned. “There he goes again.”
Eddie ignored him completely. You’d just looked up from the engine bay, pushing hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist, and the second your eyes met Eddie’s from across the garage, you smiled.
It was quick, maybe two milliseconds, but enough to make Eddie smile back immediately without even realizing it. Steve made a loud fake gagging noise.
Eddie finally tore his eyes away. “What is your problem?”
Steve stared at him incredulously. “Dude. I genuinely thought you two would be married by now.”
Eddie choked on his drink. “What?”
“I’m serious,” Steve continued. “Like three years ago, I would've put money on it.”
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, trying very hard to act unaffected while heat crept up beneath the grease on his cheeks.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Hasn’t happened.”
“Why not?”
Eddie began to argue, but froze up. Because honestly? He didn’t fucking know.
Somewhere along the way, the flirting had become second nature. So had the late nights at the garage together. So had sharing fries at the diner after closing. So, had you climbing into the passenger seat of his van without asking. So had you wearing his flannels whenever the shop got cold in winter.
It had all become so normal that crossing the line felt weirdly terrifying. Steve watched the gears turning in Eddie’s head and sighed dramatically.
“You’re both idiots.”
“Says you.”
“I’m serious.” Steve pointed between him and you across the garage. “She might as well have personally invented beer by the way you stare at her. It’s honestly kinda sad, man.”
Eddie snorted. “That’s dramatic.”
Steve deadpanned, “You literally stopped mid-cigarette yesterday because she walked by in shorts.”
“That is such a lie!”
“It is the truth.”
Before Eddie could argue, your voice cut across the garage.
“Munson!” Both men looked over.
You stood beside the Mustang with your hands on your hips. “You gonna come help me, or are you too busy staring at me again?”
Steve immediately burst into obnoxious laughter while Eddie nearly dropped his beer. And from the way you smirked before ducking back under the hood, you absolutely knew what you were doing.
The next morning was somehow even hotter.
By ten a.m., the air inside the garage already felt thick enough to chew through, every fan working overtime while the sun beat down through the open bay doors. You had your coveralls tied around your waist, a cropped tank clinging to your skin with sweat, as you worked under the hood of a Jeep.
And Eddie was being an absolute menace. It started innocent enough; he’d complained dramatically about the heat for twenty minutes straight before finally yanking his shirt over his head with a frustrated, “I’m gonna die in this godforsaken town.”
You had looked up at exactly the wrong moment. Because suddenly there was just, Eddie. Shirtless. Hair tied back messily at the nape of his neck. Grease streaked across his stomach and chest. Dog tag and guitar pic hanging against tan skin. His jeans slung low on his hips while he wiped sweat from the back of his neck with a rag.
And the worst part? The asshole noticed immediately. You looked away so fast you nearly smacked your head against the underside of the hood. From somewhere across the garage, you heard another mechanic whistle loudly.
“Ohhhh,” he sang. “How the tables have turned.”
“Shut up, Mark,” you muttered.
Eddie, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself. For the next hour, he became absolutely insufferable. Needlessly stretching, standing too close, asking you to hand him tools he absolutely could’ve reached himself.
At one point, he bent over the engine bay beside you, and you caught the smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and his cologne and nearly forgot your own name.
“Wrench?” he asked casually, but you evidently handed him the wrong one.
Eddie bit back a grin. “Sweetheart, this is a screwdriver.”
Heat flooded your face. From behind him, Mark made an obnoxious gagging noise, and you narrowed your eyes.
Fine. If Eddie wanted to play this game? Two could absolutely play. Play a stupid game, win a stupid prize, right?
About twenty minutes later, Eddie was halfway underneath a truck when he heard your laugh ring across the garage.
That’s not unusual. However, what was unusual was the guy you were laughing with. Some customer leaned against the front counter while you smiled up at him, twirling a socket wrench lazily between your fingers.
Eddie immediately rolled himself out from under the truck on the creeper.
“What’s that?” Mark asked innocently from nearby.
“Nothing,” Eddie muttered.
“Looks like jealousy.”
“Not jealous.”
“Mhm.”
The customer laughed at something you said, briefly touching your arm, which caused Eddie to sit up straighter. Then the asshole smiled.
“Oh,” Mark murmured. “He’s flirting.”
Eddie stood immediately.
Mark burst out laughing. “THERE he is.”
Before Eddie could storm over there and make an idiot of himself, the rumble of an engine pulled into the lot. All three of you looked over automatically, and then Eddie froze.
“No fucking way.”
The car rolling slowly into the garage was gorgeous: black paint gleaming beneath the sunlight, chrome shining, low growl of the engine unmistakable.
A 1967 Chevy Impala. The entire garage seemed to pause.
Even you looked impressed. “Well,” you said softly. “Would you look at that?”
The driver climbed out, explaining something about rough idling and overheating, but Eddie barely heard a word. Because holy shit, it was pristine.
You walked slowly around the car, fingertips dragging lightly over the hood appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”
And unfortunately for Eddie? The way you said it sounded dangerously similar to the tone you sometimes used with him. Mark caught the look on Eddie’s face and immediately started grinning.
“You alright there, big guy?”
Eddie ignored him entirely, stepping beside you near the Impala. “Think it’s the thermostat,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward you instead of the car.
You glanced up, and there it was again: that stupid tension. Especially when your gaze dipped briefly down his bare chest before snapping back up. A smug little grin tugged at his mouth.
“Oh, now who’s staring?” he asked quietly.
You held his gaze for a long second before reaching forward and grabbing the grease rag tucked into the back of his jeans. Eddie blinked, then watched you slowly wipe your grease-covered hands on it while maintaining eye contact.
Mark made a strangled noise somewhere behind him while the customer looked wildly confused. And Eddie? Eddie looked like he was about two seconds away from losing his mind entirely.
By the time the sun finally started setting, the garage had gone quiet.
The OPEN sign in the front window buzzed faintly before Eddie reached up and flicked it off with grease-stained fingers, plunging the office into dim golden light. Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Indiana night while the last of the heat clung stubbornly to the concrete floors.
Most nights ended like this lately. Just you and Eddie lingering hours after closing, claiming there was still work to finish when really neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
The Impala sat in the center bay now, hood propped open while you leaned halfway into the engine compartment with a flashlight between your teeth. From the radio near Eddie’s toolbox, a slow rock song crackled softly through static.
And across the garage, Eddie was still shirtless, still. All damn day.
You tightened something with your ratchet a little harder than necessary before finally glancing over toward him. He was bent over the workbench this time, curls falling loose from his hair tie while sweat gleamed across his shoulders under the overhead lights.
Honestly, it was getting ridiculous.
“You know shirts exist for a reason, right?” you called.
Eddie didn’t even look up. “Do they?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
You rolled your eyes, ducking back under the hood. “Pretty sure OSHA would have a field day with you.”
That finally made him laugh. Then you heard the scrape of his boots as they crossed the garage floor. A second later, Eddie appeared beside you, leaning against the Impala with crossed arms.
Still shirtless, and still oh-so-very smug. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked innocently. “You don’t like what you see?”
You made the mistake of looking at him fully then. Big mistake, because up close was somehow worse.
Grease streaked across his stomach, forearms flexing where they crossed over each other, and his stupid hair half falling out of the tie from working all day.
Your eyes dipped for half a second too long, and Eddie caught it immediately with a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Oh my God,” he murmured. “You do.”
You snapped your gaze back to the engine. “Shut up.”
“Nah.” He leaned closer. “C’mon, tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re sweaty.”
“Thought girls liked that.”
“I don’t.”
“Liar.”
Heat crawled up your neck as you tried very hard to focus on the engine instead of the fact that Eddie was standing close enough for his knee to brush yours every few seconds.
“You’ve been staring at me all day,” he said softly.
You scoffed. “You wish.”
“You handed me a screwdriver this morning because you were too busy looking at my chest.”
“That happened one time.”
“And then you wiped your hands on my jeans while making eye contact with me like a psychopath.”
A smile tugged at your mouth despite yourself. “That was funny.”
“It was hot.”
Your ratchet slipped loudly against the engine, then silence. Then Eddie laughed quietly under his breath. You pointed the flashlight at him threateningly. “Don’t.”
But Eddie just leaned further over the hood beside you until your shoulders bumped.
“You know,” he said casually, “if this is your way of admitting you’re into me, there are easier methods.”
You snorted. “Into you? Please.”
“Sweetheart, half this town thinks we’re married already.”
“That’s because old people are nosy.”
“That’s because you look at me like that.”
You frowned. “Like what?”
Eddie’s eyes flicked slowly over your face, enough to make your stomach flip and your face burn pink. “Like you want to kiss me every time I open my mouth.”
Eddie’s grin faltered just slightly when you stepped closer instead of backing away.
“Oh yeah?” you asked lightly.
His eyes flicked over your face. “Yeah.”
You crossed your arms, leaning against the Impala beside him now, shoulder brushing his bare arm. “What about you, huh?”
Eddie blinked once. “What about me?”
“You think I don’t notice?” you continued, voice quieter now. “The staring. Following me around the shop all day?”
“That is not—”
“You literally almost dropped a transmission last month because I called you pretty.”
“That was one time.”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Mhm.”
Eddie opened his mouth to argue again, but you stepped even closer first, close enough now that he had to tilt his head down to look at you properly. And suddenly, he wasn’t smirking anymore.
Interesting.
“You wanna know what I think?” you murmured.
Eddie swallowed visibly. “What?”
You reached up slowly, fingers hooking around the chain of his dog tags. The sharp inhale he took was immediate.
“Oh, you like this way more than I do.”
His eyes went dark instantly. “Careful,” he said softly.
“Or what?”
Eddie laughed once under his breath, disbelieving almost, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to kill him on purpose. Then, the tension snapped like a fan belt under too much strain.
You tugged harder on Eddie’s dog tags, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours. He groaned into the kiss; raw, needy, and immediately pliant.
His hands hovered at your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, even after years of circling this exact moment. You solved that for him by grabbing his wrists and planting his grease-streaked palms firmly on your ass.
“Kiss me like you mean it, Munson,” you growled against his lips.
Eddie melted. His mouth opened for you instantly, tongue sliding hot and desperate against yours while you backed him up against the Impala’s fender.
He tasted like cigarettes and the beer he definitely should not have had earlier, and he whimpered, actually whimpered, when you bit his bottom lip and sucked it between your teeth.
“Fuck… sweetheart,” he panted when you finally let him breathe. His cock was already straining against the front of his coveralls, obvious and aching. You shoved a hand between you and palmed him roughly through the fabric. Eddie’s hips jerked forward into your grip with a broken sound.
“Close the hood,” you ordered, voice low.
Eddie blinked, dazed. “Wh—”
“Now.”
He scrambled to obey, reaching over and slamming the heavy hood of the Impala shut with a solid thunk that echoed through the empty garage. The second it latched, you pushed him back, hopped up onto the glossy black hood, and spread your legs in invitation.
Your coveralls were already half-off, tank top shoved up, work jeans unbuttoned, and yanked down your thighs along with your underwear in one impatient motion. Eddie’s eyes went wide and dark, pupils blown as he stared at your exposed pussy glistening under the overhead lights.
“On your knees,” you said, hooking a boot behind his shoulder to drag him forward.
He dropped so fast his knees probably bruised on the concrete. The first drag of his tongue was tentative, almost reverent—then you grabbed a fistful of his messy curls and ground against his face, and Eddie moaned like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.
He licked broad and sloppy, sucking your clit between his lips exactly how you liked it once you told him, “Higher—there, fuck, just like that.”
His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, but he never tried to take control. Every time you tugged his hair or rolled your hips, he whimpered gratefully into your cunt and doubled down, tongue fucking into you while his nose rubbed perfect circles against your clit.
Sweat and grease streaked his bare chest; his cock was leaking a wet spot through his coveralls. You came hard on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through it, moaning his name loud enough that it probably carried out the open bay doors.
Eddie kept licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to stop. When you finally pushed his head back, his chin was shiny with your slick, lips swollen, eyes glassy and adoring.
For a second, you thought he was going to stay soft, sweet, and submissive, but then he grabbed your hips, spun you around, and bent you over the warm hood in one rough motion.
“Eddie—” you started, but he was already kicking your feet apart.
“Please,” he whined, voice cracked and needy as he shoved his coveralls and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavily against your ass, dripping wet. “Need to be inside you—fuck, I can’t wait anymore.”
He didn’t give you time to answer. He lined up and pushed in with one desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The broken whimper that tore out of him was pure filth.
“Oh my god—oh fuck, you’re so tight,” he gasped, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His hips jerked forward again, shallow and frantic. “Feels so good… so fucking good—”
You gripped the edge of the hood, moaning as he started fucking you harder. He was still whimpering and panting with every thrust, but he had you pinned now; big hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, cock driving deep and relentless.
“Eddie—shit—”
“I’m sorry, I just—fuck—” He sounded wrecked, voice cracking as he slammed into you again, the car rocking under the force. One hand slid around to rub messy circles over your clit, too desperate to be coordinated, but perfect anyway. “Can’t stop…wanted this for so fucking long—”
You pushed back against him, and he sobbed a moan, pace turning sloppy and needy.
“Please—please let me come inside you,” he begged right in your ear, hips snapping faster. “I’ll be good—I'll be so good for you, just—fuck, I’m so close already—”
You clenched around him on purpose, and his rhythm stuttered, another broken moan spilling out as his cock throbbed inside you.
He came with a loud, shattered moan, hips jerking as he pumped deep inside you, shuddering and whimpering through every pulse. Even after he finished, he stayed buried in you, breathing hard against your neck, cock still twitching.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I think I just died.”
You laughed breathlessly and gently tugged his hair. “Good,” you murmured.
You sat on the edge of the workbench, now wrapped loosely in Eddie’s discarded flannel, while he rummaged through one of the lockers near the tiny office bathroom.
“You alive over there?” he called.
“Mhm.”
“Liar. You sound deceased.”
You laughed tiredly, resting your cheek against your shoulder as you watched him move around the shop, half-dressed and still unfairly attractive. Honestly, it should’ve annoyed you more. Instead, your chest felt warm.
Eddie finally turned around, holding a towel triumphantly over his head. “Ha! Told you I left one here.”
“You keep towels at the shop?”
“Sweetheart, sometimes engines explode on me.”
He crossed back over toward you, hair falling loose around his face again now that the tie had disappeared somewhere in the chaos.
Up close, you noticed how pink his cheeks still were, how his lips looked swollen from the relentless eating and hungry kisses.
“C’mon,” he said gently, nudging your knee apart so he could stand between them. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
The bathroom attached to the office was tiny and honestly kind of terrible. Half the lightbulbs buzzed, the water pressure sucked, and the shower curtain had little motor oil stains near the bottom from years of mechanics rinsing off after long shifts. Still, with Eddie in there with you somehow, it felt strangely intimate.
You stood beneath the spray, rinsing soap from your arms while Eddie sat on the little built-in ledge beside you, lazily rubbing shampoo through your hair with surprising gentleness.
“There’s no way you know how to do this,” you mumbled.
“I’m multi-talented.”
“You use dish soap on your hair sometimes.”
“That is slander.”
You snorted softly while he carefully worked his fingers through the ends of your hair. His touch slowed after a minute, fingertips brushing lightly along the back of your neck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
The softness in his voice caught you off guard, and you turned slightly to look at him. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
Then he reached forward, wiping a little mascara smudge from beneath your eye with his thumb. “Pretty girl,” he murmured.
You leaned against the tile wall while Eddie stood close enough for the warm water to run down both of you at once. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he grinned suddenly.
“So.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “What?”
“You think fucking on an Impala counts as our first date?”
anywayy... hope you all enjoyed ;) dean winchester fic coming later today if you're interested MUAHAHAHA
description: you spend your birthday at the renaissance faire with the hellfire boys. you and eddie are both very obviously into each other, but you're the last two to figure it out. cue dustin and gareth meddling to knock some sense into the both of you.
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x you, no y/n, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff the house down boots, everyone knows but them, cute confession, renaissance faire, pirate captain reader, hellfire club shenanigans, dialogue heavy, group teasing, acts of service! eddie, light angst if you squint, they share one braincell, "fucking finally"
TW: nada.
WC: 5.4k
A/N: requested by @enderbite i hope you love it!! i lowkey adore this concept, and i know for a FACT eddie would get dowwwwn at a ren faire. also these dividers are cute as fuck. reblogs are always appreciated<33 enjoy (some more) fluff! this is my apology for not making the next parts of my series' lolololololol
The first thing Eddie notices is the way you fit here. Not like you belong to the faire, no, that would be too small of a statement. You look like you stepped out of a story someone forgot to finish writing.
Leather boots worn just enough, a loose white blouse tucked into a corset that laces tight at your waist.
Rings on your fingers that glint when you move, and a sash slung low on your hips where a prop dagger rests like it’s been there your whole life.
Your DnD character: exiled princess turned pirate captain. And somehow, standing under the flutter of striped banners and the distant crash of staged cannon fire, you make it look real.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters beside you.
You glance at him. “What?”
He shakes his head like he’s rebooting. “Nothing. Just, uh. You look…” He gestures vaguely, like words have abandoned him. “Yeah.”
Helpful.
You snort. “You clean up alright yourself, Munson.” And he does. God, he does.
Black poet shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows. A belt slung low with a fake cutlass. Rings, of course, and a bandana tied around his hair like he belongs on the deck of some cursed ship.
He grins, recovering. “Careful, sweetheart. You keep talking like that, I’ll start thinking you’re into me.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers too long to be casual. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Behind you, the rest of Hellfire erupts.
“YO—BIRTHDAY GIRL!” Gareth yells, already halfway to some game booth.
Jeff is holding a turkey leg like it’s a weapon. Dustin is arguing with a vendor about historically accurate dragons. Mike looks overwhelmed. Lucas is laughing at all of them.
It’s chaos. Perfect, familiar chaos. And Eddie leans closer to you, voice dropping just enough to be heard only by you. “Your court awaits, Captain.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “Walk with me, then.”
The faire is loud in the best way; music drifting through the air, boots crunching gravel, performers shouting, people laughing, somewhere a fiddle playing too fast.
You spend hours like that.
Sword fighting demonstrations where Eddie loudly critiques everyone’s technique like he’s an expert (he is not), shouting things like “WRIST WORK, MAN, IT’S ALL IN THE WRIST,” while you try, and fail, not to laugh. At one point, he grabs your hand to “demonstrate,” stepping behind you, guiding your wrist with his.
“See? You’d totally win in a duel,” he says, voice low near your ear.
You tilt your head back just enough to glance at him. “Are you saying that because it’s true or because it’s my birthday?”
“Both,” he says easily. “But mostly because I’m trying to stay on your good side in case you overthrow the monarchy again.”
You snort, but you don’t pull your hand away right away.
A fortune teller who tells you something cryptic about “two paths becoming one,” which Eddie absolutely does not let go of.
“Two paths,” he repeats, walking backwards in front of you as you move through the crowd. “Becoming one. Sounds familiar.”
“Oh, my god.”
“I’m just saying, kinda feels like foreshadowing.”
“It feels like you’re being annoying on purpose.”
He grins. “Working?”
You shove his shoulder. He barely stumbles, just laughs, reaching out to steady you instead like you’re the one who needs it.
There's a 100% rigged ring toss that he insists on winning anyway because he refuses to lose on your birthday. You’re standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching him absolutely lock in like this is life or death.
“Eddie,” you call, laughing, “it’s literally plastic rings.”
“Not today,” he shoots back. “Today it’s about honor.”
“You missed the last three!”
“THAT WAS A WARM-UP.”
The vendor looks unimpressed. You’re trying not to double over. Then miraculously, he lands one. And the way he turns to you after, eyes wide, arms thrown up like he just won a championship…You clap dramatically.
“My hero!”
“Damn right,” he says, breathless, already grabbing the prize like it’s something sacred. He hands you the prize, a cheap, gold-painted ring, and slides it onto your finger with exaggerated reverence.
“For the captain,” he says.
You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Only for you, though.”
Because before you can even respond:
“OH, MY GOD.”
Dustin appears out of nowhere like a summoned entity, eyes locked onto your hand.
“Is that a ring?”
Mike’s right behind him. “Did he just—?”
“DID YOU JUST PROPOSE?” Gareth shouts, already halfway doubled over laughing.
Eddie physically recoils. “WHAT, no! Jesus Christ—”
Jeff snorts. “Man really said ‘for the captain’ and got down on one knee.”
“Every great hero needs a quest,” he says, as if this is obvious. “And since you’re—” he gestures at your outfit, “—clearly the main character today—”
“Finally, someone said it,” Eddie mutters.
“—We are assigning one.”
“Oh no,” Mike says. “This is going to be bad.”
“It’s going to be epic,” Dustin corrects. “Objective: acquire the finest treasure in all the land.”
“What does that even mean?” Lucas asks.
Dustin turns, pointing dramatically across the faire. “That.”
You follow his finger. A booth, a very crowded booth. With a massive, ridiculous stuffed dragon hanging overhead as the grand prize.
You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Eddie cracks his knuckles. “Absolutely yes.”
“You saw the line, right?”
“I also saw my competition,” he says confidently. “And I’m not impressed.”
“You missed three rings ten minutes ago.”
“That was a different sport,” he shoots back. “Different skill set.”
“Uh-huh.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice just for you. “You doubtin’ your champion, Captain?”
You raise a brow. “You haven’t proven yourself yet.”
“Wow,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Wounded. Devastated, even.”
“Then go win me something,” you say, smiling sweetly. And that’s it, challenge accepted.
What follows is a disaster, for lack of better terms. A loud, chaotic, hilarious disaster. The entire group crowds around the booth, shouting conflicting advice.
“USE MORE FORCE—”
“LESS FORCE—”
“YOU’RE OVERCORRECTING—”
“JUST THROW THE THING—”
Eddie misses. Again. And again. And again.
He turns slowly. “I need new friends.”
“You chose us,” Gareth reminds him.
“Biggest mistake of my life.”
You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, leaning into the wooden railing for support. At some point, Eddie looks over at you, and his expression softens.
“Hey,” he calls.
You meet his eyes. “Yeah?”
He nods toward the game. “Watch this.”
“You’ve said that every time.”
“And this time I mean it.”
You grin. “Alright, Munson. Impress me.”
He lines it up, throws, and lands it, clean. The group erupts.
“NO WAY—”
“HE DID IT—”
“OH MY GOD—”
Eddie just stands there for a second, staring at it like he doesn’t believe it either. Then he turns to you. That same stupid, boyish, so proud of himself grin spreading across his face.
“Told you,” he says.
Your smile softens without you meaning it to. “Yeah,” you say. “You did.”
He comes back a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, holding the most obnoxiously large stuffed dragon you’ve ever seen.
“Your treasure, Captain.”
You laugh. “Eddie, it’s huge.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Felt right.”
You take it from him, arms barely wrapping around it.
“Thank you,” you say, quieter now.
“Anything for you,” he replies, just as soft.
And the group immediately starts making gagging noises.
“UGH—”
“DISGUSTING—”
“GET A ROOM—”
Eddie flips them off without looking.
“Alright,” Eddie says suddenly, clapping his hands once like he’s got a mission. “I’m getting a drink before I pass out in medieval agony.”
“Beer?” Gareth perks up immediately.
“Beer,” Eddie confirms.
Gareth’s already moving. “Say less.”
Eddie starts after him, then pauses, glancing back at you like he almost forgot something important.
“You good?” he asks.
You nod, adjusting your grip on the giant stuffed dragon. “Yeah, go.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking between you and the crowd like he’s debating something.
Then he points at Dustin. “Watch her.”
Dustin straightens immediately. “I always do.”
Eddie squints at him. “…That didn’t sound reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
You laugh. “Go get your beer, Munson.”
He huffs, but he’s smiling, already backing away. “Don’t let her join another crew while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” you call after him.
He points at you like he doesn’t trust that at all, then disappears into the crowd with Gareth.
You and Dustin fall into step together, weaving through people a little slower now. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, which is suspicious.
You glance at him. “What?”
He looks up at you like he’s been waiting for that. “So.”
You groan immediately. “No.”
“I didn’t even say anything yet!”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask a perfectly reasonable question.”
“Dustin.”
“Okay, fine,” he says, not even trying to sound innocent. “What’s going on with you and Eddie?”
You keep walking. Very focused on walking.
“Nothing,” you say.
He snorts. “Right.”
“Nothing,” you repeat, stronger this time.
“Yeah, okay, and I’m the king of England.”
You shoot him a look. “You’re literally fifteen.”
“Sixteen,” he corrects. “And also correct.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you didn’t answer the question.”
“There’s nothing to answer.”
Dustin stops walking.
You take two more steps before realizing, then turn back. “What are you doing?”
He crosses his arms. “I’m not moving until you stop lying to me.”
You stare at him. “I’m not lying.”
He raises a brow.
You sigh. “Dustin—”
“I’ve known Eddie for, like, years,” he says, suddenly more serious. “I’ve never seen him act like that.”
Your chest tightens a little. “Like what?”
“Like you single-handedly molded the Earth and all it’s creation,” he says simply.
You blink. “That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate,” he shoots back. “He literally almost fought a guy earlier because he looked at you for too long.”
“What?”
“Okay, not fought,” Dustin amends. “But there was definitely a moment.”
You try to picture it. Eddie, getting weirdly protective. Eddie, hovering. Eddie, looking at you like that.
“…He’s just, Eddie,” you say, a little weaker now.
Dustin softens, just a bit. “Yeah. He is.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing classified information.
“But he doesn’t look at anyone else like that.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the plush dragon.
“Not even close.”
You look away first. Because that feels like too much, because you don’t trust your face not to give you away. Dustin watches you for a second.
“…You like him,” he says.
It’s not a question. You let out a slow breath. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Still right.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling now; small, helpless, a little caught.
“That obvious?” you murmur.
Dustin grins. “Painfully.”
You laugh under your breath, glancing out at the crowd where Eddie disappeared.
“…Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
Dustin lights up like he just won something. “I KNEW IT!”
“Keep your voice down!” you hiss, swatting his arm.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, absolutely not sorry. “Does he know?”
You hesitate.
“…No.”
Dustin makes a face like that’s criminal.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just…what if I’m wrong? What if I say something and it ruins everything?”
Dustin stares at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.
“You are wrong,” he says.
Your stomach drops. “Wow, okay.”
“You’re wrong because he’s already gone for you,” he interrupts. “Like, gone gone. There’s no ruining it. It’s already ruined.”
You blink. “…That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s supposed to be,” he insists. “I’m saying you can’t mess it up because he’s already…” he gestures wildly, “ …like that.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Like that?”
“Yeah. Like a loser. About you.”
You smile, you can’t help it. “…He is kind of a loser.”
“The biggest,” Dustin agrees. You both laugh.
“…Don’t tell him I said anything,” you add.
Dustin immediately puts a hand over his heart. “My lips are sealed.”
You narrow your eyes. “Dustin.”
“I mean it!” he pauses, then grins, “…Mostly.”
“Dustin.”
“Okay, okay!” he throws his hands up. “I won’t. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.”
“Hey!” Eddie’s voice cuts through the crowd as he reappears, Gareth trailing behind him with two drinks already in hand. Eddie’s eyes go straight to you, like they always do.
“There you are,” he says, like he’s been looking.
Dustin glances at you, smug. You elbow him hard before Eddie can see.
“What?” Eddie asks, immediately suspicious.
“Nothing,” you and Dustin say at the exact same time.
Eddie squints. “…I don’t like that.”
He steps closer anyway, holding out one of the cups toward you.
“Peace offering,” he says. “Or, y’know, birthday tribute. Depends how you wanna frame it.”
You take it, your fingers brushing his.
“Wow,” you say, inspecting it like it’s something rare. “My crew finally proves useful.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it.”
You take a sip, then glance at him over the rim. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”
Eddie leans in just a little, voice dropping. “Only a little.”
You raise a brow. “Bold move. Killing your captain on her birthday.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs. “Kinda need you around.”
Your stomach does that annoying little flip again.
“…Yeah?” you say, quieter.
His eyes flick to your lips for half a second before snapping back up. “Yeah.”
There’s a moment. And then:
“OH MY GOD, CAN YOU TWO NOT.”
Gareth. You both jolt apart like you’ve been caught doing something illegal.
“What?” Eddie snaps, turning on him immediately. “We’re literally just standing here.”
“Yeah,” Gareth says, completely unimpressed. “Standing there like you’re about to recreate a romance novel cover.”
Jeff chokes on his drink. Mike and Dustin are visibly trying not to laugh. Lucas is not trying at all.
You bury your face in your cup. “I hate all of you.”
Eddie gestures wildly. “THANK YOU.”
Gareth points between you two. “You handed her a drink like you were presenting her with the Holy Grail.”
“It’s her birthday!”
“And then you leaned in,” Gareth continues, relentless. “And did the whole low voice thing—”
“I did NOT do a ‘low voice thing’!”
“You absolutely did,” Dustin cuts in. “It was like—” he drops his voice into a terrible impression, “‘Only a little.’”
You let out a strangled laugh, immediately covering it with your hand.
Eddie spins to you. “Don’t encourage them!”
“I’m not!” you insist, failing miserably because you’re smiling.
Gareth folds his arms, grinning like he’s having the time of his life. “So what I’m hearing is…you admit there was a vibe.”
“There was NO VIBE.”
“There was a vibe,” Jeff says helpfully.
“There was NOT—”
You take another sip of your drink, trying to play it off, but Gareth clocks the ring again immediately.
“And the ring,” he adds, like it’s evidence in a trial. “Let’s circle back to the ring.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter.
Eddie throws his hands up. “IT WAS A PRIZE.”
“Uh-huh,” Gareth nods. “And the way you put it on her finger?”
“IT WAS FUNNY.”
“Romantic,” Dustin corrects.
“Shut up.”
“Intimate,” Mike adds.
“SHUT UP.”
“Life-altering,” Lucas finishes.
You laugh into your drink, shoulders shaking.
Eddie looks at you like he’s seconds away from betrayal. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” you admit.
He groans. “Unbelievable. I do one nice thing!”
“Oh, you do one nice thing?” you cut in, smiling. “That’s your story?”
He leans closer again without thinking. “For you? I do plenty.”
The group goes dead silent for half a second. Eddie freezes. You freeze. Gareth’s eyes go wide.
“…Oh, that was good,” he whispers, impressed.
Eddie immediately backtracks. “I meant, like, general nice things, I’m a nice guy, I—”
“Yeah,” you say softly, saving him just a little, though your smile is teasing. “You’re a real gentleman, Munson.”
He exhales, relieved, shooting you a quick look like thank you.
“Finally, some recognition.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.”
Your fingers brush his again as you adjust your grip on the drink.
“Alright,” Gareth claps, like he’s wrapping up a performance. “I’ve seen enough.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “Of what?”
“This,” Gareth gestures between you both. “Whatever this is.”
“Nothing,” you and Eddie say at the same time.
Gareth grins. “Sure.”
Dustin nods. “Definitely nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” Mike agrees.
Lucas snorts. “Nothing at all.”
Eddie points at all of them. “You’re all dead to me.”
You laugh, leaning slightly into him without thinking.
Gareth watches Eddie’s arm settle at your back, smugly.
“…Nothing,” he repeats under his breath.
Eddie points at him. “Say another word and I’m pushing you into the moat.”
“There is no moat!”
“Don’t test me.”
You laugh, shaking your head, only to feel a sudden tug on your sleeve.
“C’mon,” Dustin says, already pulling you backward.
You stumble a step. “Wait—what—?”
“Emergency,” he insists.
“What kind of emergency involves dragging me away from my drink?”
“The important kind.”
You glance back once, catching Eddie mid-argument with Gareth. His eyes flick to you immediately, and they soften.
“You good?” he calls.
You nod. “Yeah!”
Dustin waves dramatically. “We’re stealing her!”
Eddie frowns. “For what?”
“CLASSIFIED.”
“That’s not reassuring—”
But you’re already being pulled into the crowd, Dustin weaving through people like he’s on a mission.
“Okay,” you say, catching your balance. “Explain.”
Dustin turns, practically vibrating with excitement, and then gestures grandly behind you.
“Behold.”
You turn, and immediately light up.
A storefront packed with DnD merch: dice sets glinting in glass cases, character sheets pinned up like posters, cloaks and accessories hanging from wooden racks, little carved figurines lined up like they’re waiting to be chosen.
“…Oh my god,” you breathe.
“I KNOW,” Dustin says, thrilled with himself.
You step closer without thinking, eyes scanning everything at once.
“This is insane,” you murmur, picking up a set of deep blue dice, turning them in your fingers. “These are gorgeous, look at the detail!”
“So,” he says casually.
You don’t even look up. “If you say ‘Eddie’ right now, I’m leaving.”
“Wow,” he says. “Didn’t even have to try.”
You grin despite yourself, still focused on the display. “You’re predictable.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
“I am browsing.”
“You’re avoiding.”
You glance at him. “I’m doing both.”
He nods like that’s fair. “Okay. Respect.”
You turn back to the table, picking up a small pendant, a compass design, worn-looking, like something a pirate might carry. Your thumb brushes over it absently.
“…It’s just,” Dustin adds, quieter now, “you should know he almost didn’t come today.”
“…What?”
“He said he didn’t want to make it weird,” Dustin shrugs. “Since it’s your birthday. Didn’t want to mess anything up.”
Your chest tightens a little. “He did come,” you say.
“Yeah,” Dustin grins. “Because I told him he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he missed you dressed like that.”
You snort. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m right,” he says, again. “Also, he’s been staring at you like you’re gonna disappear if he blinks.”
You look down at the pendant in your hand.
“…He does that,” you admit quietly.
“Yeah,” Dustin says. “Because he likes you.”
You huff a small laugh. “You’ve made that very clear.”
“And you like him,” he shoots back.
Dustin leans closer. “So what’s the holdup?”
You hesitate, your fingers curling slightly around the pendant.
“…I don’t want to lose him,” you say, softer now.
Dustin’s expression shifts; less teasing, more certain. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says. “Because he’d rather chew off his own arm than let that happen.”
You laugh under your breath. “That’s a very specific image.”
“I stand by it.”
You shake your head, but your shoulders relax just a little.
“…He called me ‘Captain’ like, five times today,” you say, almost to yourself.
Dustin grins. “Yeah. That’s his thing now.”
“It’s not his thing.”
“It’s definitely his thing.”
You smile, small and helpless again.
“…I don’t hate it.”
“I know you don’t.”
You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re in love,” he says sweetly.
You freeze. “…Don’t say that.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” you admit.
“…Okay,” he says. “Then don’t say it.”
“…But maybe do something about it,” he adds.
You groan. “Dustin.”
“I’m just saying!”
You laugh, shaking your head, then glance back down at the pendant in your hand.
“…You think he’d think this is stupid?” you ask.
Dustin looks at it, then back at you.
“He’d think it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen,” he says immediately. “And then he’d make some dumb joke about being your first mate.”
Meanwhile…
“…You’re staring again,” Gareth says.
Eddie doesn’t even look at him. “I am not.”
“You are,” Gareth nods. “Like, aggressively.”
Eddie tears his eyes away, scowling. “I was just making sure she didn’t get lost.”
“She was gone for, like, five seconds.”
“It’s a crowded place.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eddie takes a long sip of his drink, like that’ll end the conversation, it does not. Gareth leans closer, dropping his voice like he’s about to share a secret.
“So…you gonna tell her or just keep doing the whole ‘yearning in silence’ thing?”
Eddie chokes. “The what?”
“The yearning,” Gareth repeats. “It’s loud, man.”
“I am not yearning.”
“You just watched her walk away like your entire soul left your body.”
Eddie blinks. “…That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “There’s nothing going on.”
Gareth just stares at him, then looks in the direction you went. Then back at Eddie.
“…Right.”
“Shut up.”
“You put a ring on her finger.”
“IT WAS A PRIZE.”
“And then you held her hand after.”
Eddie freezes. “…I did not.”
“You did.”
“…Okay, maybe for like, half a second.”
“It was not half a second.”
“I can’t believe you considered not coming today,” Gareth says casually.
Eddie goes still. “Who told you that?”
“You did,” Gareth deadpans. “Yesterday. When you were pacing.”
Eddie groans. “I was not pacing!”
“You were pacing.”
“You said you didn’t want to make it weird,” Gareth continues, ticking it off on his fingers. “That it’s her birthday, and you didn’t want to, oh, what was it? ‘Ruin the vibe.’”
Eddie points at him. “I didn’t say it like that.”
“You absolutely did.”
Eddie exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.
“…I just don’t want to screw it up.”
“You’re gonna screw it up,” Gareth says.
Eddie glares at him. “You’re so helpful, thank you.”
“I mean, if you don’t say anything,” Gareth adds.
“…I don’t want to lose her.”
Gareth snorts. “You’re acting like telling her would be the thing that ruins it.”
Eddie looks past him, back toward the crowd. “…What if it is?”
Gareth follows his gaze and sees you standing there, smiling softly at something Dustin’s saying.
“…Dude,” he says, almost incredulous. “She’s the only girl I have ever seen out up with your bullshit. If that’s not evidence enough…”
Eddie lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “…That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah,” Gareth says. “It does.”
Eddie shifts his weight, suddenly restless. “…You really think—?”
“Yes,” Gareth says immediately. “I really think.”
Eddie exhales, long and slow. “…Shit.”
Gareth grins. “Yeah. Shit.”
From somewhere in the crowd: “HEY!”
Eddie’s voice cuts through, and you and Dustin both turn. He’s already moving toward you, Gareth right behind him.
“There you are,” Eddie says, a little breathless.
His eyes go straight to you, like always. Dustin looks at you, smug, and you elbow him. Hard.
“What?” Eddie asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Nothing,” you and Dustin say at the same time.
Gareth snorts behind him. “…Yeah,” he says. “Nothing at all.”
Dustin and Gareth glance at each other; it’s quick and silent. But understood.
Dustin straightens. “Actually—”
Gareth cuts in, grabbing his shoulder. “We should, uh, go check out that thing.”
“Since right now,” Gareth says, clapping him on the back. “Don’t screw it up.”
Eddie blinks. “Don’t screw what—?”
But they’re already gone, vanished into the crowd like they were never there.
Eddie exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re acting strange.”
“Yeah,” you say, though your voice is softer now. “They are.”
“…You wanna do a lap?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
You fall into step beside each other, slower now, drifting away from the thicker crowd. For a moment, neither of you speaks, just walking close enough that your arms brush every now and then.
“I, uh—” you start, then stop.
Eddie glances at you. “What?”
You hold up the pendant, turning it slightly so it catches the light.
“What do you think?” you ask.
He glances between your face and the pendant, a small knowing grin forming.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s…that’s very you.”
You smile a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Captain’s gotta have something like that.”
You huff a small laugh, looking down at it again.
“…Dustin said you’d say something like that.”
Eddie groans. “Of course he did.”
You smile, but it fades just slightly. “…He also said something else.”
Eddie’s shoulders tense a fraction. “Oh yeah?”
You nod. “Why did you almost not come today?”
He goes still, like completely still. The noise of the faire fades a little around you.
“…What?” he says, quieter.
You glance at him. “Dustin said you almost didn’t.”
Eddie shoots a quick look out at the crowd, like he’s checking if Dustin’s within range to strangle.
“He talks too much.”
“Eddie.”
He releases a long exhale and runs a hand through his hair.
“…I just didn’t want to make it weird,” he says finally.
“Weird?” you echo.
“Yeah,” he huffs, a little laugh slipping out, nervous. “Like, your birthday, and I didn’t wanna show up and mess it up or something.”
“You wouldn’t mess it up.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, a little too quickly.
You stop walking. He takes a step before realizing, then turns back to you.
“What?”
“…Why would you think that?” you ask.
He shakes his head like he’s already regretting the inside thought, but it becomes an outside thought anyway.
“…Because I like you, okay?” he blurts.
“I always have,” he adds, quieter now, like it’s something he wasn’t supposed to say out loud. “I just…I didn’t want to make things weird or screw it up or have you look at me differently or—”
“Eddie.”
He stops and swallows. “…Yeah?”
“You wouldn’t,” you say softly.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Mess it up.”
He searches your face like he’s trying to figure out if this is real. “…You sure about that?”
You smile and nod. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m pretty sure.”
His voice drops, barely above a whisper. “…You don’t think I’m ruining this right now?”
You shake your head.
“No,” you say gently. “I think you’re finally catching up.”
He blinks. “Catching up to what?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach for his hand and slip your fingers into his.
Just like earlier, only this time, it’s not accidental.
“…I like you too,” you say.
Eddie short-circuits.
“…Oh,” he breathes.
You laugh softly. “Yeah. Oh.”
He stares at you for a second like he’s trying to process it. Then a grin breaks across his face, slow and disbelieving and oh-so-Eddie.
“Okay,” he says. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”
You laugh. “You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah,” he nods immediately. “But I’m your dork now, right?”
You tilt your head, teasing. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He squeezes your hand. “Too late. Already planning our pirate crew dynamic.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Captain and her extremely devoted, very attractive, first mate.”
You snort. “Very attractive?”
“Had to throw that in there. Branding.”
You shake your head, smiling, but your grip on his hand tightens anyway.
“Good,” you say.
His expression softens again. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Good.”
Eddie looks down at your joined hands, then back up at you. Still smiling like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“…So,” he says, clearing his throat a little. “We should uh, go back?”
You smile, squeezing his hand once. “Yeah. We should probably let them stop being weird about it.”
He huffs. “Bold of you to assume they’ll ever stop.”
“Fair.”
Your fingers are fully laced together, swinging slightly between you as you move.
And Eddie? Eddie is so aware of it. Every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckles like he’s checking you’re still there. You catch him doing it more than once.
“…You okay?” you tease.
He glances at you, a little sheepish. “Yeah. Just making sure you’re not gonna vanish on me.”
You smile, softer now. “Not going anywhere, Munson.”
His grip tightens just slightly. “Good,” he says.
You spot the group before they spot you. Clustered near one of the food stalls, all mid-conversation, and then Dustin looks up and freezes.
His eyes drop immediately to your hands, then snap back to your face. His expression goes nuclear.
“Oh my—”
He slaps Gareth’s arm so hard it echoes.
“WHAT—” Gareth turns, annoyed, then follows Dustin’s line of sight.
“…No way.”
Jeff squints. “What?”
Mike turns. Lucas turns. One by one, they all clock it.
The hand holding, the very obvious hand holding.
“FUCKING FINALLY—”
The group erupts. You flinch, laughing immediately as Dustin sprints toward you like he’s about to tackle you.
“I KNEW IT—I TOLD YOU—I LITERALLY TOLD EVERYONE—”
“Back up!” Eddie laughs, holding out his free hand like he’s fending him off. “Give us a second, man—”
Gareth is howling, doubled over. “Oh my GOD, I thought you were gonna die before you said it—”
“Shut up!” Eddie shoots back, already turning red.
Mike shakes his head, grinning. “That took way too long.”
“Painfully long,” Lucas adds.
Jeff just nods. “Embarrassing, honestly.”
You bury your face in Eddie’s shoulder for a second, laughing. “I hate all of you.”
“NO YOU DON’T,” Dustin says, still buzzing, pointing between you and Eddie. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE—”
“It’s her birthday!” Eddie argues.
“SECOND BEST DAY OF MY LIFE,” Dustin corrects immediately.
Gareth straightens, wiping at his eyes. “So what happened? Who said it first? I need details.”
“Absolutely not,” you say.
“Come on—”
“No.”
Eddie nods firmly. “Nope. Classified.”
Dustin gasps. “You used my line against me?”
“Learned from the best,” Eddie shoots back.
Gareth leans in closer, lowering his voice, but clearly not enough.
“So you’re, like…official now?”
Eddie glances at you, and you glance at him. A small smile passes between you.
“…Yeah,” he says.
“Yeah,” you echo.
The group collectively loses their minds again.
“OH MY GOD—”
“DISGUSTING—”
“I’M SO HAPPY—”
“I’M GONNA THROW UP—”
Eddie flips them off, but he’s laughing.
“Alright, alright,” Gareth claps, regaining some composure. “So what’s the plan now, Captain?”
Eddie perks up immediately at that, nudging you. “Yeah, Captain. What’s next?”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. You glance at the group, then at Eddie. Then out toward the glowing lanterns and distant docks.
“…I think,” you say, “the crew owes me one more adventure.”
The first time Ghost ever held you at gunpoint, you did the last thing he expected.
You grabbed the barrel and shoved it forward, pressing it into your forehead. The cool metal kissed your skin as you looked up at him with bright eyes. Sweet and sultry.
He made a choked sound behind the mask when you cocked your head just slightly, fluttering your lashes, daring him to do it. Pull the trigger.
He couldn't.
He barely caught the edge of your smirk under the moonlight before the gun slipped from his gloved hands and a shot rang out into the night.
The next thing he knew he was on the ground. You shot him in the leg. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to keep him down while you escaped with the intel.
He lay there, splayed out, contemplating his life choices when Soap rounded the corner, eyes wide, gun at the ready.
But he took one look at his masked comrade on the ground and holstered his rifle with a sigh. He grumbled as he hauled Ghost up, slinging one of his massive arms over his shoulders.
“Christ, L.T...again? What are we always tellin' ya about lookin' girls in the bloody eye?"
The first time he calls you bird, it isn’t planned.
It slips out low and rough over comms, threaded between gunfire and static.
“Got eyes on the east stairwell—two hostiles,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos crackling through your headset. Your fingers move fast across the keyboard, pulling feeds from three separate cameras, stitching angles together in your mind like a map only you can see. “Third one lagging behind, limping. Might be wounded.”
A beat.
Then, in your ear—gravel and smoke and something almost amused.
“Christ… you see everything, don’t you, bird?”
The line goes quiet again, but the name sticks.
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Your world is small, contained.
A dim operations room buried somewhere deep in the base, humming with electricity and recycled air. The overhead lights are always too soft or too harsh—never just right—so you’ve taken to leaving only your desk lamp on. It casts a warm, golden pool over your workspace, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of permanent twilight.
Screens line the wall in front of you—six in total, each flickering with different feeds: satellite imaging, drone footage, helmet cams. One is always reserved for him.
Ghost.
Though you never call him that out loud. Not really.
To you, he’s just a voice. A presence. A constant thread in your ear during long nights and longer missions.
You know the cadence of his breathing when he’s crouched and waiting. The way his voice drops half a register when something’s wrong. The quiet, almost imperceptible hitch when he’s injured but refusing to say it.
You know him in pieces.
“Talk to me, bird,” he says one night, softer than usual.
You glance at his feed. He’s tucked behind a crumbling wall, dust coating the camera lens. There’s blood—dark and drying—on his glove.
“Two tangos left,” you reply. “One on your six, slow approach. Other’s posted near the exit.”
A pause.
Then, quieter.
“You always watchin’ me that close?”
Your fingers still for half a second before you recover.
“It’s my job.”
A faint huff of something that might be a laugh.
“Right.”
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It becomes routine.
Late hours. Your voice guiding him through shadows. His voice grounding you when the silence between updates stretches too long.
Sometimes, when the mission lulls, he talks.
Not much. Never too much.
But enough.
“You ever leave that room, bird?” he asks once.
You glance around at your little corner of the world—half-empty coffee mug, a blanket thrown over the back of your chair, a sticky note peeling off your monitor with scribbled doodles and coordinates.
“Sometimes,” you say. “I think.”
“Think?”
“It’s… easy to lose track of time in here.”
A quiet hum through the comms. Thoughtful.
“Sounds like a cage.”
You swallow, eyes flicking back to his feed.
“Not really.”
A beat.
Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him.
“Still.”
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You imagine him, sometimes.
Not the mask—that’s all anyone ever sees.
You imagine the man underneath. The lines of his face, the thoughts in his mind, the way he probably looks at a room before stepping into it.
You build him from fragments.
From silence.
From the way he says your name—rare, but it happens.
From the way he says bird—like it means something.
The first time something goes wrong, really wrong, your hands shake.
“Ghost, you need to move. Now.” Your voice is tighter than you’d like, eyes darting across the feeds. “They’ve rerouted—there’s a squad heading straight for you.”
No response.
“Ghost.”
Static.
Your chest tightens.
“Simon.”
The name slips out before you can stop it.
And suddenly—
“I’m here.”
Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.
“I lost visual,” you say quickly, forcing yourself back into focus. “Camera’s down. You’re blind to me.”
“Not blind,” he mutters. “Still got you, don’t I?”
Your throat goes dry.
You guide him anyway. Off memory, off instinct, off the rhythm you’ve built together over countless missions.
Step by step.
Breath by breath.
Until he’s out.
Safe.
They tell you later it was close.
Too close.
You stay in your chair long after the room empties, screens dimming one by one until only your desk lamp remains.
The silence is louder than gunfire.
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You don’t expect to meet him.
Handlers don’t meet operators. That’s not how this works. You’re voices, not faces. Ghosts in different ways.
So when your door opens one evening—quiet, deliberate—you don’t look up right away.
“Room’s off-limits,” you say absently, eyes still scanning reports. “You’ll need—”
You stop.
Because the room feels… different.
Heavier.
You look up slowly.
And there he is.
Filling the doorway like something pulled straight out of shadow. Broad shoulders, tactical gear, the skull mask stark in the low light. Real in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then—
“…Bird.”
It’s quieter in person. Rougher. Real.
Your heart stutters.
“You’re not supposed to be here..” you manage.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping inside anyway, boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Got that impression.”
He looks around your space—your screens, your notes, your carefully controlled chaos.
“This where you’ve been watchin’ me from?”
You nod, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. How close he is.
“All of it,” you say. “Every mission.”
His gaze shifts back to you.
You can’t see his eyes. Not really. But you feel them.
Heavy. Intent.
“Then I figured,” he says slowly, “it’s about time I saw you back.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Wanted to.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not like before. Not like the empty kind.
This is… full.
“You’re quieter in person..” you say softly.
A faint tilt of his head.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate. “But less… hidden.”
A low exhale. Not quite a laugh.
“Funny..,” he murmurs. “Was gonna say the same about you.”
Your lips twitch.
“Guess we’re both a little different off comms.”
“Maybe.” He steps closer—slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
Up close, he’s overwhelming. Not just in size, but in presence. Like standing too close to a storm.
But there’s something else, too.
Something familiar.
“You called me Simon.” he says quietly.
Heat rushes to your face.
“I—thought I lost you.”
A pause.
Then, softer..
“Didn’t.”
Your breath catches.
For a moment, it feels like you’re still on comms—like this is just another fragile thread of connection stretched across distance.
Except there’s no distance now.
Just him.
Just you.
Just the quiet hum of the room that’s held your voice for so long.
A/N: I'm a day late to Ace Week, but I really wanted to post this. I'd love to see more ace representation in fanfiction, so I'm doing my part. Plus, this kind of relationship has always been my favorite- there's something about undefined love that makes it perfect. I really like this one, so much that I wrote it while studying for my History exam. I hope you love it too, happy belated Ace Week!
Ghost is the first one to ask about it.
About you.
It’s late, you went to bed an hour ago, and Johnny offered him a beer. They’re looking at the empty front yard, a normal street in a normal neighborhood- a rare sight for soldiers of their kind. The food you and Soap made for the occasion sits warm in their bellies. The air smells of quiet and night.
Simon has known Johnny for a long time- and he has known him well. He didn’t know about this, though. He heard about you, of course. The first time Soap wasn’t sure if he’d make it back home, it was your name he mumbled. Instructions were clear: his dog tags were for you to receive. Along with everything else in his barracks. Ae dinnae care aboot all the rules. Ye gotta take me home tae ‘er.
Ghost knew you weren’t married- he would have seen it in his sergeant’s paperwork. He decided you were his girlfriend, then.
Until someone flirted with Johnny at a bar, and he happily told them he was single. Single. It didn’t lead anywhere, anyway; he came back to base with the rest of the team that night. Maybe he didn’t have a bird at home anymore, thought Simon.
But then there was the roommate. Soap was always talking about the roommate, how she would always leave hairs in the shower, how the laundry detergent smelled like flowers back home. It was said with fondness, the kind of affectionate jab one develops with family or very close friends. Ghost supposed you might be a childhood friend, then. Someone who had always been in Johnny’s life.
Come the end of their last mission, he had nowhere to stay at. His apartment was waiting for him, of course, but it was as empty and cold as any hotel room. His sergeant invited him home- tae meet ma girl. His girl. That was not a relationship status- no friend, no sister or girlfriend. Just girl, his girl.
He had to say yes.
Then there were you. Johnny’s age, bright eyes full of affection when you saw him. Small, soft hands ruffling the mohawk, saying it was getting out of hand. Nodding when he asked for another trim, bonnie, aye?
You hugged him around the neck, face under his chin. Ghost feared you would suffocate his sergeant. But Johnny’s face was pink, relaxed for the first time since before the mission. His arms were at your back, hands rounding your waist- they were used to that place. His nose deep in your hair- Simon felt like he was overstepping, like he wasn’t meant to see that. No one was.
Until you gave a step back- soft smile, soft eyes, soft Johnny- and welcomed him to your home. You called him L.T., like you knew him. Simon suspected you did. You didn’t try to shake his hand or- God forbid- hug him hello. You didn’t even risk a step into his personal space. He didn’t think it was out of fear- you didn’t blink twice at the black surgical mask. You just smiled and gave him a tour of the house.
That was another thing, the house. Tiny and tidy, cozy. Ghost didn’t have much experience with homes, but that’s what it looked like to him. A place lived in, well loved. A place with a past. Even more intriguing, a place with a future. By the way you talked, he gathered you weren’t renting. This place was owned. Something for the long run.
When you got to the hallway, though, you pointed to the last door. That’s my room! You can knock if you need anything, I’m a pretty light sleeper. Then to the one before that: That’s Johnny’s. Then the guest bedroom and the bathroom.
So you don’t sleep together.
Which would have been an answer to his curiosity, if it weren’t for the kitchen. After he left his stuff- a half-empty duffel bag- in the guest room, Simon went back to the small but charming space that is- all in one- your kitchen, living room and dining room. He was still in his soldier headspace, which means his steps were quiet. When he stepped into the kitchen, neither you nor Soap noticed him there.
You were laughing, hand on his bicep, eyes closed. Johnny was smiling. His shoulders down, his face soft. He grabbed your hand and brought you closer in a weird hug. You swayed together, and Simon almost heard the music you were dancing to. It went on for a while. Johnny went to grab a knife and you’d already placed the cutting board in front of him. You grabbed the oven mitt and he opened the oven.
You two are the perfect machine, always knowing where the other is going next. The smiles never falter. For the first time in years, Simon feels like he’s in a home. It’s confusing and startling. How come Soap has this waiting for him? How is he even able to go on deployment, knowing he might not have the chance to dance around you in the kitchen again?
The thought sparks memories. Soap’s sketchbook, a gleaming eye peeking from the page. His tactical jacket, jasmine perfume as they march through a field. A hair tie in the keychain. Gunpowder hands buying a bracelet in a faraway country. Making flower crowns while waiting for the target to show up. Dodging bullets with blue fevered eyes. Take me home tae ‘er.
He cleared his throat, and you handled him the plates to set on the table.
After dinner, you said goodnight. Johnny kissed your cheek; I left some beers in the fridge. Another kiss on the forehead. You waved at Simon, sweet and tired. Soap’s eyes followed you through the hallway.
Out in the cool night air, Simon asks.
“Tha’ ‘er?”
Soap flinches in his seat. The bottle in his hand twinkles under the stars. Doesn’t seem willing to reply. Maybe he doesn’t know how.
“The one from yer drawings?”
The nod is soft.
“Aye.”
Interrogation is an art. Ghost knows many ways to get information out of people. None of them work better on his sergeant than silence. The man has a need to fill empty spaces.
So he waits until Johnny takes the bait.
“A’v always known her.”
Another silence. Simon doesn’t need to ask the question out loud.
“We arenae datin. She isnae ma girlfriend. Or wife,” Jhonny’s voice is warm and liquid. “She's the love o ma life.”
Curiosity bubbles again. How does this life fit with the man out in the field? How come a cozy little house is home to a demolition expert?
“How’s tha’ work?”
Soap’s shoulders tighten, preparing for a defensive stance.
“She doesnae want sex.”
That’s not quite an answer, so Simon waits. Johnny’s back relaxes slowly, as if relieved by the lack of a reaction.
“But ‘a dinnae care aboot all that stuff. She's here whan ‘a come home, an she takes care o’ me. A tak care o’ her. Thare's nothin more than that.”
Nothing more he could ask for. Nothing more he’d ever want. His eyes glow blue, melting ice in the night. Ghost wonders, surprised, how he never saw it. How he didn’t realize.
After that, he doesn’t ask any more questions. There’s nothing else he’d need to know, really. When the bottles are empty and the air a little too cold, they retreat to their rooms.
The next morning, Simon stays in bed a little longer than usual. He listens to your soft steps in the hallway, the little knock on the door and Johnny’s raspy laugh. He hears the sheets and the whispers, the way he tells you stories about their last deployement- some true (only the lighter ones), the rest made up, with a handsome, Scottish hero. He pictures you tucked in Johnny’s side, his hand in your hair, easy smiles lighting up the room. And he understands. Once again, his sergeant’s words sound in his head.
A dinnae care aboot the rules. She’s ma girl, L.T.
One-shot | Word Count: 1.5k | Tags: domestic fluff, mutual pining, soft angst, yearning, idiots in love.
Simon was halfway through his lunch when you walked into the mess hall with that container, and somehow he already knew his day was about to get complicated.
"Made too much last night," you announced, setting it between Soap and Gaz with a shrug that was just a little too casual. "Anyone want some?"
Soap's hand shot out before you'd even finished the sentence. "You're an angel."
You laughed - that soft, genuine sound that always caught in Simon's chest like a fishhook - and popped the lid. The smell hit immediately. Garlic. Herbs. Something rich and savory that made every head in the vicinity turn.
"Oh wow," Gaz muttered, already reaching for a fork. "What is that?"
"Just chicken. Braised with lemon and rosemary." You pulled out a sleeve of disposable plates from your bag like you'd planned this. Like you'd wanted to share. "There are mashed potatoes too, if anyone wants."
Simon watched from across the table as you served up portions with the easy competence of someone who'd done this a thousand times. You'd pulled your hair back today, a few strands escaping to frame your face. Domestic. The word settled in his mind, unwelcome and persistent.
Soap made an obscene noise around his first bite. "Marry me."
"Get in line, MacTavish," Gaz said, eyes closed like he was having a religious experience.
You rolled your eyes, but Simon caught the pleased flush creeping up your neck. "It's not that good."
"Bollocks," Soap said. "What's your secret?"
"My mum." You said it easily, spearing a piece of chicken for yourself. "She taught me. Said a soldier needs to know how to cook as much as they need to know how to shoot."
"Smart woman," Price commented, appearing from nowhere to claim his own plate.
Simon finally reached for a portion, your fingers brushing his as you handed him the plate. The contact lasted half a second, but he felt it in his spine.
He took a bite.
Fuck.
It was perfect. Tender meat falling off the bone, the kind of flavor that only came from patience and care - things that had no place in their line of work. Things he'd forgotten existed outside of half-remembered dreams.
You were watching him. He realized it too late, looked up to find your eyes on his, waiting.
"It’s good," he managed. His voice came out rougher than intended.
Your smile started small, then bloomed into something that made his stomach do complicated things. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
The conversation moved on - Soap demanding the recipe, Gaz already planning what he'd bribe you with for more - but Simon stayed quiet, cataloging details he had no business noticing. The way you gestured with your fork when you talked. How you'd portioned out the biggest piece for Price without making a show of it.
He'd seen you clear rooms with brutal efficiency. Seen you field-strip a rifle in under a minute. But this - this glimpse of domesticity, of home - felt more intimate than any of it.
Dangerous territory.
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Three days later, you cornered Soap in the hallway outside the briefing room.
"Hey, about that intel you pulled for me on the Saratov contact," you said, already reaching into your pocket. "I owe you."
Soap waved you off. "Nae, we're square."
"I'm making Moroccan lamb tagine tomorrow." You pulled out your phone, thumbs flying. "I'll bring you some."
"Aw, lass, you don't have to–"
"Too late. Already decided." You looked up with that stubborn set to your jaw that Simon had learned meant the argument was over. "You like apricots?"
Simon, standing close enough to hear but far enough to maintain plausible deniability, felt something ugly twist in his chest. Not jealousy, but something adjacent. Something that tasted like wanting.
You disappeared around the corner, and Soap turned to find Simon staring.
"What?"
Simon grunted, shouldering past him.
"Oh, come on, LT," Soap jogged to catch up, grinning like the troublemaker he was."You're not jealous, are you? Because if you wanted her to cook for you, all you'd have to do is ask. Or help her with something. She got a currency system and it's all food-based. It's so adorable."
Simon's glare could have melted steel. "Shut it, Johnny."
But the image was already there, uninvited and vivid: you in his space - his kitchen, because apparently his brain was generous enough to give him a kitchen in this fantasy. You'd be at the stove, hair twisted up, maybe wearing one of his shirts. He'd come up behind you, hands settling on your hips, chin hooking over your shoulder to see what you were making. You'd lean back into him like it was natural. Like you belonged there.
Like he deserved that kind of gentleness.
Fuck.
He shoved the thought down deep, locked it away with all the other things he couldn't afford to want.
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The tagine appeared the next day, and Soap's moan of pleasure echoed through the entire mess hall.
"I think you’ve won me over," he declared, and you laughed that laugh again, the one that lived rent-free in Simon's head.
Gaz tried to negotiate his own deal - fixing your laptop in exchange for whatever you wanted to make next. Price mentioned helping you reviewing some tactical reports and you immediately offered to make your grandmother's beef bourguignon.
Simon watched it all from his usual corner, coffee going cold in his hands.
You had this whole system, this economy of care. Someone did you a favor, you fed them. Simple and kind - the sort of thing that didn't exist in their world, except somehow you'd made it exist anyway.
"You're staring, son."
Simon didn't bother looking at Price. "Just observing."
"Mm." Price settled into the chair across from him. "She's thoughtful with people."
"I know."
"You could just talk to her, you know. Like a person. She likes you."
Something in Simon's chest went tight. "She likes everyone."
"Not like that, and you know what I mean." Price stood, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. "Stop being a coward about it."
Simon watched him go, then looked back at you. You were explaining something to Gaz, hands moving in animated gestures, face open and alive in a way that made him want to–
What did he want?
To pull you close and never let go. To know what you looked like first thing in the morning. To learn what other recipes your mother taught you, to watch you cook them, to stand behind you in a kitchen that was yours - both of yours - with his hands on your waist and your warmth against his chest.
That wasn't what you were. You were teammates. Friends, maybe, in the careful way he let people get close. You brought him coffee the way he liked it without being asked. He cleaned your weapons when you were too exhausted after missions. You laughed at his jokes. He listened when you needed to talk.
It was good. It was enough.
It had to be enough.
Because the alternative - the wanting, the needing - that was a vulnerability he couldn't afford. Not in this life.
"Ghost?"
He looked up. You were standing in front of him, head tilted in that way that meant you were worried. "You okay? You looked a million miles away."
"'I’m fine, don’t worry." The lie tasted like ash.
You studied him for a long moment, then held out a small container. "Saved you some. I know you don't usually eat in here, but..." You shrugged, suddenly uncertain. "Thought you might want it anyway."
He took it carefully, your fingers brushing again. That same electric contact.
"Thanks."
Your smile was softer this time. Private, and just for him. "Anytime, Simon."
You never called him Simon in front of the others. The sound of his name in your voice did dangerous things to his composure.
You walked away, and he sat there holding warm food you'd made, food you'd saved for him specifically, and tried very hard not to think about what it meant.
Tried not to imagine you in his home, the one he didn't actually have but could suddenly picture with painful clarity. You'd know where everything was because you'd helped him organize it. You'd steal his hoodies and they'd smell like you afterward. You'd cook and he'd help, or he'd just hold you from behind because he could, because you were his.
He opened the container. The smell alone was enough to hurt.
This was torture. Exquisite, perfect torture.
And he'd take every second of it, hoard these moments like that usual stubbornness of his, because this was all he'd let himself have.
Even if he wanted so much more.
Even if, late at night when he couldn't sleep, he let himself imagine the weight of you in his arms, the taste of your mouth, the sound of his name shaped like a prayer on your lips.
Even if he was pretty sure he was halfway in love with you already.
Simon took a bite and closed his eyes.
Fuck.
Tomorrow he'd go back to keeping his distance. Back to being smart about this.
But tonight, alone in his room, he'd let himself imagine. Just for a moment.
Valentine's day is Simon's favorite day of the year.
No one would ever guess. No one would ever think to guess. He knows when the shops start putting out red hearts on their windows. He knows when the chocolate starts hitting the shelves in bulk. He knows exactly how many days until you'll walk in wearing that red sweater again.
It's the same one every year. The knit has loosened slightly at the cuffs, and there's a snag near the hem you keep meaning to fix. He noticed the day it happened; he remembers which locker corner caught it.
(The locker isn't there anymore.)
Every year, like clockwork, you show up with your sleeves pulled over your hands, carrying a pocketful of those cheap heart-shaped candies that taste like chalk.
And every year, you hand them out like blessings to men who have done things that would curdle the sugar in your mouth if you knew.
Soap gets a fist full because he makes a spectacle of begging. Kyle pretends he doesn't care but takes two anyway. Price shakes his head, muttering something about sugar rotting teeth, but pockets one when you insist.
Simon watches you make your way across the room, and notes who lingers when your fingers brush theirs, who bends down closer than necessary to hear you better, and who laughs too hard at something that wasn't that funny.
He knows exactly how many hearts are left when you finally stop in front of him.
"Don't start," you say lightly, holding out a little folded card and a candy. "It's tradition."
He takes them without looking at you and waits until you've moved on before he looks down at his palm. A delicate pink— BE MINE— and when he lets it dissolve on his tongue, eyes tracking the sway of your red sweater, he imagines it tastes like the gloss on your lips.
That night, in the quiet of his spartan flat, he places the new card beneath a heavy book to keep it from curling and takes the old ones out of a tin box he keeps hidden behind spare ammo to read again, all of them dated in pencil on the back.
To my favorite person. Don't argue ❤️
You’ve written it every year, same wording, same little heart slanted to the right. The ink bleeds a little more on the cheaper cards. One year the paper was glossier, and in another, your pen ran out halfway through the word favorite and you pressed harder to make it last.
He knows your handwriting well enough now to read you in it. The loops are bigger when you're tired, pinched when you're stressed. The heart is fuller when you're in a good mood, and smaller when you're not.
He could replicate it if he needed to.
This year, when someone jokes about snatching you up before someone else does, Simon doesn't even look up from cleaning his weapon. He knows who he is. He knows the way the man stands— weight heavier on his right leg from an old injury. Simon also knows the man who signs off on deployment rosters and knows exactly what that man owes him.
Deployment rosters are delicate things; names get bumped all the time. Sometimes upward into a position they're not ready for, sometimes sideways into places much less comfortable for longer, and sometimes they fall off the list entirely, lost in administration reshuffling no one has the time to question.
“She’s already spoken for," Simon says flatly, cloth dragging down the barrel in slow, even strokes.
