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masterlist / rules / requests & talks with me!
SUMMARY౨ৎ it was a rough weekend to say the least. sadie's first tennis tournament didn't exactly go as planned in her mind. how does oscar handle his little girl being to down with herself?
PAIRING ౨ৎ Not really a pairing, but reader makes multiple apperances 🩵
WARNINGS ౨ৎ sadie being a perfectionist :( (me tbh)
A/N ౨ৎ I HAVEN'T SEEN IT FULLY BUT I SAW SNIPPET OF IT 🥹 i can see this happening 100% 🩵 (minus the karting! little sadie is a tennis player in the future 😋) small little imagine for today before i do school notes!! (sadie is about 7 here!)
Part of the Dad Oscar mini-series 🩵
Two sets. Two sets was all it took to get eliminated from her first tournament final.
Sadie sat in the backseat of the car, arms crossed and gaze fixed out the window as the ride remained quiet, with Oscar glancing at her in the rearview mirror, noticing the way her lips pressed together tightly.
She wasn’t one to cry easily. If anything, she hates crying. But at this point, the lump in her throat was undeniable.
Oscar gave a sigh before speaking, “Sadie, you did great. You know that? Getting second in your first ever tournament is amazing.” he smiled softly.
“If i did great then I wouldn’t have lost.” Sadie replied bluntly.
He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. God, how he wished you were here right now. You’d know what to do. “Sadie, you didn’t lose, you came second. And that’s something to be proud of.”
“Second is first to lose.” Sadie replied, rather quickly as she fiddled with her fingers while looking out the window.
Oscar gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the weight of Sadie’s words hanging in the air. He understood her frustration all too well, but it was hard to see his little girl already feeling the pressure of expectations.
“I get why you're upset, Sadie,” Oscar started, glancing at her in the mirror. “I really do. But you know what? I didn’t win all the time either, especially not at the beginning of karting. It takes time, and every time you play, you’re learning something new.”
Sadie didn’t respond right away, her eyes still fixed out the window, but Oscar could see the slight frown on her face.
“And you know, you always keep the memories with you,” Oscar added softly, remembering what he had said in that interview not long ago. “Every match, every race, every time you give it your all—it stays with you. It’s not about always being the best. It’s about getting better and enjoying what you do.”
“Do you always remember the times you lost?” Sadie asked quietly, her voice breaking the silence as she turned to look at him.
“…Some more than others.” Oscar replied.
“What about wins?”
“Everyone remembers when they win.”
“Even your first win in Hungary that the team messed up the pit stops making the whole race behind Lando and when lando didn’t change positions until the very end?” Sadie asked, tilting her head slightly with her blunt tone.
“…You know, you’re making this really hard for me to comfort you now.” Oscar blanked.
“I know,” Sadie replied, the corners of her lips twitching up ever so slightly, despite her sadness. “That’s why I said it.”
Oscar couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, “Well, thank you for that, Sadie… but seriously,” Oscar said, his voice softening again, “I know it’s tough, but you should be proud of yourself. It’s not about comparing yourself to me, or anyone else for that matter. Tennis is your thing. It’s your journey. You love playing, right?”
Sadie’s frown deepened. “…mhm.”
Oscar noticed Sadie’s eyes wandering to the tennis bag in the backseat, her small fingers tracing the strap. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, but he took the opportunity to continue. “Nothing comes from nothing, Sadie. It’s okay to be sad and want to do better, but don’t ignore the amount of effort you put into it.
Sadie was quiet for a moment, her little fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt as she mulled over Oscar's words. "But it’s not enough," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Oscar's heart squeezed at the sight of his daughter, so young and already feeling the weight of expectation. “Sadie, you don’t have to be the best at everything right away," he said gently, “and you don’t have to be as good as me, either… besides, I’m barely any good at padel, let alone tennis.”
Sadie finally turned to look at him, her expression serious. “But you’re always good, Daddy. Everyone always says how great you are.”
Oscar bit his lip, trying to think of how to explain it in a way she would understand. “That’s because I’ve been doing this for a long time. Sadie, you’re young. You have time to grow.”
Sadie stayed quiet, though her frown softened just a bit. Oscar smiled softly, taking that as a sign to keep going. “You love tennis, right? That’s what matters. If you enjoy it, you’ll keep getting better. And guess what? I’ll be there to watch every match.”
“You really think I did good?” Sadie asked hesitantly, her voice smaller now, as though she was afraid to believe it.
Oscar nodded, catching her gaze in the rearview mirror. “I know you did. I was watching, remember? Every single serve, every single shot. You didn’t give up, even when it was tough. That’s what makes you great.”
Sadie finally met his eyes in the mirror. “But I wanted to win.”
“I know you did. But you’ll have more matches, more chances. It’s okay to be sad now, but you should also be proud of what you did today.” Oscar paused before adding, “Plus, second place means you’re already better than most people on the court.”
That earned him a tiny smile from Sadie. "I guess.” she mumbled, her hand resting on her tennis bag.
“Now… ready to show your Mum your trophy?”
`· . ୨୧⭒๋࣭ ⭑
“Second place? …In your first tournament?” You asked, stopping what you were doing to look at the pair that just returned home.
Sadie stood next to Oscar, her tennis bag slung over her shoulder and the silver trophy cradled in her arms. Her gaze was still shy, as though unsure whether her result was something to be proud of.
Oscar gave you a small, knowing smile, as if to say, Please help me here.
You knelt down, meeting Sadie’s eyes as she shifted on her feet. “That’s amazing, Sadie!” you exclaimed, your voice full of pride. “Second place in your first ever tournament? That’s incredible!”
Sadie blinked, as if she hadn’t expected your reaction to be so positive, her lips parting in surprise at the compliment, making her cheeks slightly redden. She looked at you for a long moment before glancing at Oscar, who place a hand on her shoulder. "But I wanted to be first…" she whispered, her voice trailing off.
"I know," you replied softly, nodding in understanding. "And that’s okay. It’s good to want to win, but it's also okay not to win every time. What's important is that you did your best, and look—" you pointed to the trophy in her hands, "you still achieved something incredible. Second place out of all those players? That’s huge."
Sadie’s eyes finally lifted to meet yours, and you could see the tension in her shoulders ease a little, though she still looked unsure. "You really think so?" she asked, her voice small.
“It’s not just me.. we know so.”
Oscar watched the exchange, his heart swelling as he saw the tension ease from Sadie’s small frame. You always knew exactly what to say.
“Now,” you said, pulling back slightly and smiling at her with a playful glint in your eyes, “how about we put that beautiful trophy somewhere special? I think it deserves a place on the self, don’t you?”
Sadie nodded, her earlier disappointment fading away bit by bit. “Yeah… I think so.”
Besides, there was still more that the future holds.
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ohhh, can you do hcs for what the sdv bachelors say during sex?
Bachelor Volume Headcannons
18+ 🌱 NSFW 🌱 MDNI
PART II of the double feature!!! Happy New Year lmao I hope you enjoy this filth 😈 shoutout to @hopefuloverfury who did a HOT bachelor volume headcannon list very recently that I ate UP. Check that out Here
Poll said post as you finish and I had this finished so here you are everyone. As always, MDNI, NSFW content under the cut.
Harvey-
💚 Kinda loud, tbh.
💚 I envision him as captain dad noise already, so I think during sex it carries over and he’s groaning and grunting these hot gravelly moans.
💚 Genuinely. I could go on about the sounds this man is sure to make. Because DAMN. Somebody get him into ASMR sex audios he’d make a fortune.
💚 Now that said I don’t see him as much of a dirty talker.
💚 It doesn’t come naturally to him. He’ll do a bit and try his best to appease you if you’re into it, and he’s definitely a person who could learn, but it’s never been easy for him and won’t be.
💚 Gets too in his head about if what he said was hot or if it was weird. Takes him out of it worrying that he’s taken you out of it. Which, relatable.
💚 But he does know through empirical evidence that his sex noises are hot, so he doesn’t hold back. Especially if you two are going at it rough, or you’re sucking him off, it’s obscene.
💚 Will praise you with that same sultry rasp, because that’s another thing he thinks is safely in the always-hot category.
💚 Such a good job baby, feels so good, etc. Can never go wrong.
💚 Loud to the point his voice cracks when he cums 😇
Elliott-
❤️ My hot take is that I think Elliott would say the filthiest things you’ve ever heard during sex.
❤️ HEAR ME OUT!!!
❤️ I just think that as a man who is incredibly well read he knows what’s hot. And he’s not afraid to say it, either.
❤️ Especially with some of those dime novels that are his guilty pleasure, he’s picked up a thing or two.
❤️ Of course it’s still in a very Elliott way, but he’s a dirty talk king.
❤️ He’ll be worshiping your body while he details everything he wants to do to you. How he’s going to mark you with hickies where everybody can see that you’re his, how hard he’s going to ravage you with his cock, how many times he’s going to make you cum, etc.
❤️ Matches it with equal praise and romantic lines, too. It’s all about balance, and he wants to fuck you like a beast while still reminding you that you’re precious to him.
❤️ Grunts and huffs and moans, but not a lot unless he’s right about to cum. Man’s got more important uses for his mouth!!
❤️ Kind of irrelevant, but I see him as the type to passionately fuck you against the door to his cabin or overtop his writing desk or deep into the mattress. It’s not often that the furniture isn’t creaking and knocking in time to his thrusts.
Alex-
🤎 Okay so another hot take. But I think Alex is secretly incredibly shy and romantic.
🤎 Empirical evidence includes: his heart events imply that he puts on the machismo front as a defense mechanism, and he was raised by the most lovey-dovey old people you’ve ever seen.
🤎 SO. I think he would be very sweet in the way he talks in bed.
🤎 Lots of softness and nerves, but he’s still kinda noisy.
🤎 Tries to muffle himself because he’s embarrassed about making too much noise, but he can’t help it.
🤎 He’ll be about to tell you how good you’re doing, how much he loves it, and his words will warp off into a whimper because it’s too much.
🤎 I feel very strongly that he is a whimperer. I’m sorry. It makes sense.
🤎 Especially with his insane physical endurance he ends up overstimulating himself because he can’t get enough.
🤎 Like he can go a third round, sure, but he’s overstimulated and his voice is cracking and his cheeks are bright pink with exertion.
🤎 Lowkey he’d love it though I mean let’s be real. Let’s be so real. He wants to come until he’s crying. And he will.
🤎 Please don’t come for me abt this it’s just my take.
Shane-
💙 The curse words. The curse words.
💙 Listen. This man is already somebody who swears a lot so in bed? He’s letting FLY.
💙 Fuck that’s so good, you’re so goddamn tight, holy shit that’s hot, et cetera.
💙 Not much for moans but he does grunt so like. Same difference?
💙 Like it’s not that he’s stifling himself he just grunts and groans and swears instead of moans
💙 No whimpering I’m afraid 😔
💙 But he makes UP in dirty talk good lord.
💙Since he’s not a mean person just prickly from his defenses he’s well practiced in being mean even when he’s not.
💙 So ladies gentlemen and those of us that know better, we’ve got the makings of the PERFECT mean dom
💙 Dirty little slut, you’re so fuckin’ pathetic for it, beg on your knees just for the privilege, I could Go On.
💙 Only like that if you want it of course, but like with his gravelly sex voice asking if you think you’ve earned the right to cum yet? Somebody take me AWAY.
💙 Cums with a bit of a yell.
Sam-
🩷 It’s been said before I know.
🩷 But I must also agree. Sam is the loudest in bed. Far and away.
🩷 Good LUCK getting him to shut up honestly, between his whines and whimpers and moans he’s either apologizing for his lack of control or thanking you profusely for letting him hit.
🩷 Because Sam genuinely can’t control himself when he’s fucking half his vocabulary consists of sorry. He wanted to do it slow and sweet, but fuck, you’re so hot and tight around his cock he’s pounding you instead and he’s really sorry but he just can’t help himself.
🩷 I don’t see him swearing much tbh, not unless he’s completely fuck drunk. If he’s not babbling some pseudo-polite good boy nonsense, he’s whining. Maybe the stray shit or fuck, but not to excess.
🩷 Also throws in a ton of compliments. You’re so hot, you feel so good, you sound so beautiful, and so on. I just see him as an open complimenter, and when his mental circuit board is on overload he’s unable to stop himself.
🩷 Gag this man. Do it. I dare you.
🩷 He’ll be moaning and whimpering and drooling all around the gag, his eyebrows drawn up and in, eyes pleading for you to let him moan properly.
🩷 The most pathetic man you’ve ever seen and all because he can’t whine for you. God somebody just take me away, lock me up.
Sebastian-
🖤 King of being amused by how turned on you are.
🖤 He’s chuckling, huffing, asking incredulous rhetorical questions like “yeah? Already?”
🖤 I could see him falling hard and fast, so he’s probably using his dry sense of humor to hide how fucking gone he already is.
🖤 Because emotional vulnerability isn’t his thing so it gives him some distance while still allowing him to enjoy how fucking hot and adorable everything you do is.
🖤 As far as his own sounds, though, he’s not moaning or whining a whole lot.
🖤 He does whisper a lot of swear words, and he’s HEAVY on the panting, as a consolation prize.
🖤 Dirty talk gets a little spicy with him just because he lives to tease. He’s not the heaviest dirty talker even on this list, but he can definitely turn up the heat.
🖤 Lowkey I can see him being a hand holder because he can’t help himself. He can only keep his affections at bay so much.
🖤 And I bring that up only because he’d lose his breath the moment your fingers twined with his and reward you with a soft, stuttering moan.
🖤 Definitely bites you to keep from making noise when he comes. He’d probably end up whining if he didn’t.
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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
Summary: Thanksgiving brings back memories of happier times, and all you want is to recreate the past. But when those plans go awry, Eddie--and Harris, of course--are there to help you look forward to the future.
Warnings: mentions of Eddie's parents, brief familial conflict, Reader's grandma has dementia, most of this chapter is fluffy tbh
WC: 6.8k
Chapter 8/20
Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @vexed-n-hexed
Divider credit to @saradika
Thanksgiving, 1975
The sound of the kitchen timer beeping draws nine-year-old Eddie Munson’s attention from the television set. The local news network had been replaying the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on a loop. It was now the third time that Eddie had watched Santa Claus make his way into Herald Square in a comically oversized sleigh, but he couldn’t get enough of it. The colorful balloons that hovered over the crowd, the marching bands playing in perfect unison, the feeling of excitement in the air—it was palpable all the way from his new home in Hawkins, Indiana.
“Dinner’s ready,” Wayne announces, grabbing the worn mitt off of the counter and pulling two TV dinners from the oven. “‘S not much, but at least we got turkey and mashed potatoes,” he bashfully adds.
Eddie nods, trying to walk without taking his eyes off of the screen.
Wayne’s bushy brows pinch together as he watches his nephew. “You always get this into the parade?” he asks.
“Never seen it before,” Eddie says softly. His parents had had a TV for a couple of years until they’d pawned it, but he doesn’t recall ever watching a parade. “Pretty cool.”
“We can keep it on while we eat, if ya want,” Wayne tells him, smiling when he sees the boy’s face light up. He places the plastic trays on the snack table and heads back to grab forks. “Ya got a favorite balloon? I’m partial to Snoopy, if y’ask me.”
Eddie nods, still transfixed on the TV. “Yeah, Snoopy’s good. I like him.” He takes the utensil from Wayne’s outstretched hand, absentmindedly dipping it in the congealed mashed potatoes. He pauses for a beat before bringing it to his lips. “Do I have to go back?”
“Hm?” Wayne mumbles, too focused on his own food to fully hear him.
“Do I have to go back with them when they get out?” Eddie repeats, keeping his voice low and training his gaze on the floor. “‘Cause I like it better here. With you. ‘S nice and quiet.”
There’s a lurch in Wayne’s chest at Eddie’s request. “Technically, I only have ya till your folks are sprung,” he admits, scratching a nail against the table, “but I can talk to a lawyer or somethin’ about keeping you here longer. Only if you want,” he adds.
“I wanna stay here,” Eddie confirms, spearing a pale turkey slice and popping it in his mouth without any attempt to cut it. “If it’s okay with you. I can sleep on the cot an’ you can take your bed back.”
Wayne shakes his head. “Room’s yours, Ed.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t wanna promise you that the courts will agree to it, but I’m gonna try my damndest to keep you safe.” And it’s true. He’ll work double overtime at the plant if it’ll cover legal fees. When the social worker dropped Eddie off last week, Wayne had no idea how either of them would adjust. But aside from a few growing pains—like having to shave his nephew’s head when they’d discovered he’d had lice—things seemed to be alright.
“I, um, I wrote something at school yesterday,” Eddie pipes up, traipsing to his backpack and pulling out a sheet of paper. In his sloppy, boyish handwriting is written:
I am thankful for my Uncle Wayne because he takes care of me. He’s really nice and he works hard and he doesn’t mind that I listen to loud music. He also lets me feed my dinner scraps to the stray dogs in his trailer park. My Uncle Wayne is the best. I hope he’s thankful for me, too.
Wayne feels his throat constrict, and he clears it before Eddie can catch on. “‘Course I’m thankful for ya, Ed,” he manages. He reaches out to put his hand on his nephew’s back, flinching when the boy jerks away nervously. Eddie’s reflex to defend himself rather than embrace touch stirs up a reserved anger Wayne didn’t know he had, and he wills himself to simmer down before his nephew can sense it, lest he think he’s angry at him.
He slowly brings his hand to the couch cushion, careful not to make too much noise. We’ll get there, he thinks as the parade starts up for a fourth time. We’ll get there.
Thanksgiving, 1978
Ten years old is a strange age.
Too old to play with the little kids, but too young to hang around the teenagers or adults. You’re just kind of…there, like a piece of furniture that everyone absently walks around. This hiss of beer cans opening is barely audible over the men shouting at the football game on TV. You don’t know who’s playing, and you don’t really care, but it’s the only place you feel like you’ll be out of the way. Taking a seat on the floor, you remain there generally unnoticed until one of your uncles calls out your name.
“Couldja get me a refill?” Uncle Tim slurs, shaking his empty can of Bud Light to emphasize his request. Before you can respond, he throws a, “thanks, kid” and goes back to yelling at the football players.
It’s not like they can hear you through the screen, you snidely think, but you keep your comment to yourself as you pad into the kitchen. A collection of spices tickles your nose, the mixture of cloves and garlic and thyme and rosemary warming the room. You rummage through the refrigerator until you feel someone bump up against you.
“What are you doing in there?” Your aunt asks, disapproval carving her already sharp features. Her gaze drops to the can in your hand. “Seriously? Trying to sneak beer right in front of us?” she scoffs.
Grandma quickly becomes aware of the commotion, and she wipes her hand on her sunny yellow apron as she assesses the situation. “Everything okay?” Her soft eyes are concerned, not accusing, and you feel your anxiety slowly dissipating.
“I caught her trying to steal some beer,” your aunt reports proudly, as though she’s caught some serial offender, and you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. “Not even a teenager yet and already getting into this kind of trouble.” She shakes her head with a tsk.
“No, I wasn’t,” you insist, setting your jaw in defiance. “Uncle Tim asked me to get some more for him. That’s all.”
“Tim!” Grandma calls out, tone thick with irritation. “Get over here!”
Uncle Tim trudges out to the kitchen, head already hung low in anticipation of the tongue-lashing he’s about to receive. He may be a grown man, but his mother can easily put him in his place.
Grandma folds her arms across her chest. “Why are you having your niece fetch your drinks like a barmaid? Your legs broken or something?”
“No,” he mumbles, taking the beer from your hand and haphazardly tossing a “sorry” in your direction before returning to the game.
“C’mere,” Grandma beckons you, crooking her finger to join her at the counter. She’s got a bowl of Granny Smith apples, half of them peeled, their green skins piling on the cutting board in front of her. She hands you the peeler, picking up a sharp knife and cutting a peeled apple lengthwise and cubing each slice. “Help me out. It goes a lot faster when there’s two of us. And it’ll keep you out of trouble,” she adds with a wink.
You grab an unpeeled apple from the pile and drag the tool down its curve, repeating the motion until the inner fruit is exposed before starting on the next one. You and Grandma work in tandem; you peel and she chops in a comfortable silence. As you’re finishing up the last of the bunch, she leans over and whispers in your ear, “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re the best helper I’ve ever had.” She starts placing the cubed pieces into a pot, shaking the cinnamon container over it until she takes a satisfied step back, no measuring spoon required. “Mix it together for me?”
You nod eagerly and pluck the wooden spoon from the canister behind the sink, dunking it into the pot and stirring until the apples are fully coated in cinnamon. “That good?” you ask, giving another stir for good measure.
“Perfect.” Grandma smiles, covering the mixture with water and setting it on an empty burner, twisting the knob until the coil turns red. “Once it softens up, you can mash it. Give these old arms a break,” she teases gently.
“You’re not old!” you protest, and she smacks a kiss to the top of your head.
“I love you, kiddo,” she murmurs, voice muffled against your scalp. “To the moon and back.”
You wrap your arms around her waist and squeeze her tight. “I love you, too. To the moon and back.”
Thanksgiving, 1996
“Daddy, look! It’s Santa!” Harris points at the TV excitedly, bouncing up and down on the couch. He kicks his feet and squeals. “He’s gonna come to our house, right? An’ bring me presents?”
Eddie chuckles as he spreads mayonnaise on white bread, layering thin turkey slices on top. Three sandwiches for three Munsons. “I dunno, Har-Bear; have you been good this year?”
Harris scrunches up his face in contemplation. “Um, I think so,” he answers honestly. “I can’t remember.”
“Hey, Wayne?” Eddie calls out as his uncle walks out of the bathroom. “Has Harris been good this year? I feel like he’s been a bit…mischievous.”
Wayne shakes his head. “My angel of a grandson? He’s never caused mischief a day in his little life!” He sits down next to Harris, letting out a small grunt as his bottom hits the sofa cushion.
“Yeah! I never cause mischief a day in my little life!” Harris echoes confidently. He turns to his grandfather. “Grampa, what is Santa gonna bring you for Christmas?”
“A toupée,” Eddie says from the tiny kitchen, piling their plates with potato chips. Normally, he’d make sure there was a fruit or vegetable on there, but it’s a holiday.
Wayne has to hold his tongue in front of the impressionable young boy, though he shoots Eddie an inconspicuous middle finger when he’s setting the plates on the coffee table.
The three Munsons tuck into their sandwiches and crunch on the chips. This is how Thanksgiving has been since Eddie moved back with Harris: watching the parade followed by an early lunch so Wayne could pick up a shift at the plant. He always insisted on it, saying that the holiday pay helps offset the cost of Christmas presents. It was quiet, but nice, and Eddie couldn’t ask for anything else.
“Y’know,” Wayne says to Harris with a mouthful of sandwich, “the first time your Daddy watched the parade was with me. And now, we got to watch it with you.” He bumps his arm against Harris’s, making the boy giggle.
“Oh, yeah,” Eddie muses, chomping on a potato chip thoughtfully as the memories flood back in. “Forgot about that. Is Snoopy still your favorite, Old Man?”
Wayne considers this. “Hmm. Who’s our favorite balloon this year, Har?”
“Clifford!” Harris answers without missing a beat, kicking his little legs in excitement. Eddie should’ve known; the boy was damn near obsessed with dogs.
Once we can afford a house with a yard, I’m getting you that puppy, Har-Bear, he thinks, though he doesn’t dare make the promise aloud.
“Then that’s mine, too.” Wayne brushes the crumbs off of his lap, calloused hands scratching the worn denim of his jeans. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he adds, “I wonder what Ms. Sweetheart’s favorite balloon is.” He acts like he’s speaking to Harris, but Eddie knows it was aimed at him.
Harris claps his hands together gleefully. “I know! Let’s call her!” He turns to Eddie with the sweetest puppy-dog eyes the man has ever seen, lower lip jutted out exaggeratedly in the most precious pout. “Please, Daddy? Pleasepleasepleaseplease–”
“Okay, okay,” Eddie says with a laugh, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Once you finish up lunch, we can call her.” Harris opens his mouth to protest that he wants to call right now, but Eddie cuts him off before he can start. “Ah ah; no whining, or we won’t call.”
Harris harrumphs but ultimately complies, taking another bite of his food. Wayne gives Eddie a small thumbs-up, and he preens slightly at the acknowledgment of his parenting win. They didn’t happen very often, and they rarely happened when someone was around to witness them. He takes a long gulp of water; as soon as he does, his son lifts his own cup to his lips and takes a sip. Another reminder that he’s watching, even subconsciously, wanting to be just like his dad.
For a split second, Eddie allows himself to believe that that might not be a bad thing.
“‘M done!” Harris chirps; sure enough, his plate is clean, save for the bread crusts. He squirms a bit in his seat, a gesture that Eddie has come to learn means only one thing.
“Go pee while I find her number,” Eddie tells him, purposely omitting the fact that he’s already committed those seven digits to memory. In case of an emergency, he thinks, and I don’t have the slip of paper on me.
Wayne can sense that his nephew isn’t being completely truthful; as soon as Harris closes the bathroom door behind him, he starts in with a shit-eating grin.
“Y’don’t need to find her number, do ya?”
Eddie flicks off an imaginary speck of dust on his shirts. “Knock it off, Wayne.” But he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, further affirming his uncle’s point.
“Look, Ed,” Wayne exhales, adopting a more serious tone. “You clearly like this girl. I mean, all Harris did was say her name and you smiled–don’t give me that look,” he chastises lightly when Eddie rolls his eyes. “I know you two didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but all that seems to be in the past now, right?”
“Guess so,” Eddie mumbles. “But not hating me doesn’t mean she’s into me. Maybe she’s only being nice to me because of Harris.”
The older Munson pauses, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks; his reflex when he’s deep in thought. “One date,” he challenges, holding up his forefinger to emphasize his point. “Ask her on one date, and see where it goes.”
“Fine,” Eddie relents, the nerves already churning in his stomach. You’d just found this good rhythm together, and he was going to risk messing it up. Again. “I’ll ask her. But on one condition.”
“Whas’ that?”
“Don’t say anything to Harris.” He crosses his arms over his chest when Wayne chuckles. “‘M serious, Wayne. I don’t want him getting his hopes up. For Chrissakes, I gave her a tape and the kid had us getting married.”
“Fair enough,” Wayne agrees, clamping his mouth shut when he sees the little boy enter the room. “You wash your hands?”
“Yep!”
“With soap?” he presses, narrowing his eyes.
Harris heaves an impatient sigh. “Yes! Can we call now?”
Both Wayne and Harris keep their eyes glued to Eddie as he punches in the numbers. When it starts ringing, he holds out the receiver to his son. “Say hi and your name when she picks up,” he reminds him, grateful for the opportunity to collect himself before asking you on a date. He takes a deep breath, shoving his hands in his pockets and gnawing on his lower lip so forcefully that he swears it might bleed.
You got this, Munson. The worst she can say is no.
But that’s not quite true, is it? The worst you can do is laugh in his face, leaving him a rejected mess. Scratch that–the worst you could do is accept the date, have him fall head over heels in love with you, then leave him in the dust to pick up the pieces while you move on with someone better.
Maybe you won’t pick up the phone. Maybe he’ll have more time to–
“Hi, Ms. Sweetheart! It’s me, Harris!”
It was a small thing. Miniscule, even. Just your meager attempt at reclaiming part of the past that had been lost to time and disease. A simple family recipe, apples boiled and mashed into a sauce that you’d hoped even vaguely resembled the way Grandma made it. A tiny cut on your fingertip serves as a battle wound from peeling, the sweet aroma of cinnamon still lingering in the kitchen.
You try to convince yourself that it isn’t a big deal. It’s just applesauce. But the thought falls flat as you stare into the trash can. You can still see all of your work literally tossed away through the tears that blur your vision.
You’d left the room for two minutes, two goddamn minutes, and when you came back, the plastic pink bowl that held the applesauce was nowhere to be found. You could’ve sworn you left it on the counter, but maybe you’d already put it away? A quick scan of the refrigerator gave you nothing but a chill. Where the hell did it go? Were you losing your mind?
A rogue apple peel had fallen to the floor, and you scooped it up, flustered at how you could have misplaced an entire bowl of applesauce. Sure, it wasn’t as much as when you and Grandma made it for the whole family, but it was still a decent amount. Your foot presses the pedal that lifts the bin’s lid, and that’s when you see it.
“Grandma?” you choke out, looking over to where she’s sitting on the couch. She doesn’t respond, and you raise your voice a bit to grab her attention. “Grandma, why did you throw out the applesauce?”
Her empty gaze briefly flits over to where you’re standing, not even registering the burgeoning frustration and sadness coursing through your veins. “Wasn’t me,” she says flatly, scratching at the side of her nose with a jagged nail. Before dementia, her nails were always painted bright hues of red or blue; now, it was difficult enough to get her to leave the house for essential doctor’s appointments. You weren’t going to put up a fight trying to get her to the salon.
You know you should just close the lid and walk away instead of torturing yourself by continuing to look, but your feet are glued to the linoleum floor. A cold drop of something lands on your toes, and that’s when you realize that you’re crying. Crying over goddamn applesauce.
All you wanted was some semblance of normalcy, something reminiscent of life before Grandma got sick and your family still felt whole. But what you got was a thickening realization that you can’t relive the past, no matter how hard you try.
The ringing phone startles you from your wallowing. You have half a mind to ignore it, but you know that Grandma will just grumble about how she hates the sound of it, so you pick up the receiver and answer with a shaky, “H-Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Sweetheart! It’s me, Harris!” A little voice chirps through the other end. You can hear Eddie mumbling something, though you can’t quite make out what he’s saying. “Happy Thanksgiving! What’s your favorite balloon?” There’s more hushed speaking from Eddie, and Harris huffs out, “Daddy, stop! I know what to say!”
“My favorite balloon from the parade?” you ask, biting back a giggle.
“Mhm! I like Clifford,” he tells you.
You’d kept the parade on in the background, catching glimpses of it every now and again. Shit, what balloons did you see? “Clifford’s a good one,” you agree, “but I think the Rocky and Bullwinkle one was my favorite.”
Harris laughs so loudly that you have to pull the phone from your ear. “The squirrel and the moose?” he guffaws. “Ms. Sweetheart, that’s so silly!” You’re about to ask him how his holiday is going when he says, “Hold on, my daddy wants to talk to you.”
Your heart skips a beat at the prospect of talking to Eddie, and you wipe the tears from your wet cheeks as though he’ll be able to see them through the phone.
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving!” he says. Something resembling trepidation tinges his tone, though you’re not sure why. Could he still be anxious to approach you after he confided in you at the parent-teacher conference? After he’d watched you panic when Grandma locked herself in her room?
You swallow, trying to choke down the sadness rising within you. “Yeah, y-you, too.” Despite your best efforts, your voice breaks on the last word, and you hope Eddie doesn’t catch it.
But of course he does.
“You okay?” he asks with a nervous chuckle. “‘Cause it kinda sounds like you’re crying.”
“‘M fine. Just, um, chopping onions,” you lie, hoping you’ve done a convincing job.
“For the…applesauce you’re making?” Eddie sees right through you; you’d forgotten that you’d told him and Harris about your plan during your weekly post-tutoring dinner last night. “Not gonna lie, that sounds even nastier than olives on pizza.”
You manage a laugh, but it’s disfigured by the catch in your throat. “The applesauce was a bust, unfortunately,” you admit. “I left the kitchen for a second and Grandma chucked it in the trash.”
“All of it?” he asks incredulously, letting out a deep exhale when you confirm that she did, in fact, throw out the entire bowl. “Jesus H. I’m so sorry. Is that what’s got you upset?”
“Mhm. I know it’s stupid, ‘s just applesauce, but–”
“‘S not stupid,” Eddie interrupts softly, and you twist the phone cord around your pointer finger with the sudden drop of his tone. “I know you were really looking forward to it.” He pauses, and you wonder for a moment if the line’s gone dead before he says, “We’re coming over. Me and Harris. Be there in twenty; fifteen, if I don’t have to argue with him about wearing a jacket.”
Before you can protest, he really does hang up. You look down at the baggy sweats and college t-shirt you’re wearing; you weren’t expecting any guests today, let alone the Munson boys. You should probably throw on some actual pants, and a bit of mascara couldn’t hurt, either.
You find a pair of jeans that aren’t buried under a mountain of laundry and tug them over your thighs before quickly swiping some makeup on your face. It’s enough to mask your exhaustion while still looking natural.
It dawns on you that you’re not quite sure why you suddenly care so much about your appearance. Harris couldn’t care less, and Eddie…well, even if Eddie did care, why would that matter to you? He’s your tutee’s parent; a new friend at most. On more than one occasion, you’ve answered the door to Jess with a wicked case of bedhead. Why does Eddie Munson of all people make you feel the need to look halfway decent?
When the buzzer sounds, you nearly jump out of your own skin. “It’s us,” Eddie says into the speaker; the smoothness of his voice has your stomach in knots. “And we come bearing gifts. Well, one gift, I guess.”
“Fuck off,” Grandma mumbles from the couch, cranking up the TV volume to an ungodly loud level. One of the Law & Order detectives says–no, screams–something about a murder, and you quickly reach for the remote and click the power button.
“We have company,” you tell her, and she just grunts in response. Hopefully her mood will change in the minute it will take Eddie and Harris to get to your apartment. You can hear them down the hallway, so you open the door just as they’re about to knock.
Eddie takes a step back in surprise. “You psychic or somethin’?” he laughs, looking down at his son and giving him a small nudge. “Go ahead, you can give it to her.”
Your gaze drops to the curly-haired boy standing by his father’s side. He’s holding a brightly colored package of off-brand Oreos, which he brings closer to his chest, pressing it tightly against his zippered sweatshirt. “It’s s’posed to be a surprise,” he reminds Eddie, wide-eyed with genuine concern.
“Only until we got here,” Eddie says gently, soft brown eyes encouraging Harris to hand you the cookies. He brings his attention back to you. “I know it’s not the same as making applesauce with your grandma, but I’ve never been sad eating an Oreo. An oatmeal raisin cookie, maybe. But not an Oreo.”
Now it’s your turn to smile. “You may be onto something here, Munson.” You take the package from Harris and guide the two of them to the kitchen, calling out to Grandma as you pass by. “Grandma, Eddie and Harris are here, and they brought cookies, if you wanna join us.” Her non-response is familiar at this point; the sting is much easier to brush off than it was a few short months ago. But you still feel it.
Even though Grandma isn’t at the table, Harris still climbs onto his dad’s lap. “Daddy, can I have one?” he asks, resting his dimpled chin on his palms as he glances upwards.
“Gotta ask Ms. Sweetheart,” Eddie shrugs, tickling Harris’s ribs and loudly whispering, “and ask her if your poor, hungry dad can have one, too. She can’t say no to you.”
You open the package and shake your head at his antics, sliding out the flimsy tray and offering it to them. “Of course you can have one, Harris,” you say, tone saccharine sweet. His chubby fingers darting out and snatching up a cookie before you even finish your sentence. “But I don’t know about your dad. Do you think he should get one?”
“C’mon, Har,” Eddie urges him, “us men gotta stick together. All for one and one for all, right?” He flexes his bicep; it’s an attempt to emphasize the manliness that supposedly bonds him and Harris, but the gesture has your breath catching in your throat. You sputter and cough embarrassingly, excusing yourself to pour a glass of water.
“Anyone else want?” you manage once you can speak again, holding up the ceramic pitcher.
Eddie nods, lifting Harris from his lap and placing him on the nearest empty chair. “Here, let me help you.” He stands up and calls out over his shoulder, “Grandma, how about some water?”
You’re about to tell him not to worry about it, but to your surprise, she nods. “Ya.”
“So, four waters,” Eddie reports, taking the pitcher and refilling your glass.
You grab another just like it from the cabinet before taking two blue disposable ones, plopping a bendy straw in each. “Grandma, um, she needs stuff that isn’t breakable,” you explain lamely. “And the other plastic one is for Harris.”
Eddie grins. “Thought it was for me. Y’know, always making a mess.”
“Ah, but only of your life,” you tease. “You’re pretty good with basic human functions.” Your face burns at what you’ve potentially implied, but Eddie isn’t fazed.
“Y’know what? I’m gonna take my cookies back!” he pouts, crossing his arms over his chest in mock-indignance. A piece of curly hair sticks to his lower lip with his sudden movement, and you brush it away with your thumb before you can stop yourself.
The crinkling of the fake-Oreo package draws both of your gazes, with Eddie poised to tell Harris that he’s only allowed one more. But to your surprise—and perhaps Eddie’s, too—Harris isn’t the one rifling through the tray. Grandma’s taken a seat next to the boy, handing him a cookie before taking her own. She just nibbles on it in silence, but it’s the most present she’s been in days.
“Y’like Oreos, Grandma?” Eddie asks, pouring water into the two plastic glasses and carrying one in each ringed hand. He places them on the table, and Grandma brings the straw to her lips as she nods again. He pauses for a moment, lips tucked into his mouth as he ponders something. “What kind of music does she listen to?” he asks you.
“She has a record collection over in the living room,” you tell him, pointing to the low bookshelf near the door, “but we haven’t played any in awhile. She’s kinda…weird with noises.”
He considers this, walking over to the records and thumbing through them until he finds one that he recognizes. “Could I put this one on?” He holds up the battered copy of Frank Sinatra’s It Might As Well Be Swing. “I’ll take it off if she gets upset. I just wanna try something.” He carefully slides the record from its sleeve, lifting the player’s needle and placing it on the space for the first track.
There’s a soft static as the record starts to spin, and Ol’ Blue Eyes croons:
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On a-Jupiter and Mars
Eddie joins in with the next part. His voice still carries its signature rasp, but it’s noticeably smoother, warmer than the night he’d dedicated the Def Leppard song to you.
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me
His eyes remain trained on the record player, but you swear you can feel the lyrics drifting towards you. The melody wraps around you like a hug, and you momentarily lose yourself in a musical embrace.
Another voice, low and timid, chimes in. You have to stifle a gasp when you realize that it’s Grandma, her lips curling into the smallest of smiles–the most joy she’s shown in a long while–as she half-sings the words.
Fill my heart with song
And let me sing for ever more
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
“Holy shit,” you breathe out, and before you can exhale the third syllable, the world shifts back to normal. Grandma goes back to mindlessly munching on her cookie as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. You turn to Eddie. “What was that?”
He shrugs, suddenly feeling shy. “I read somewhere that music can, like, bring back some memories. Not permanently or anything, but I figured it was worth a shot.”
You can’t stop yourself from flinging your arms around Eddie’s neck, nearly knocking him over in the process. He pauses before he returns the gesture, pulling you tightly into him. One hand is on the small of your back; the other gently rests on the back of your head, allowing you to rest your forehead on his chest. Your tears flow freely, leaving tiny wet spots on his shirt. He doesn’t let go until you start to pull back.
“Thank you,” you whisper; when he pinches his brows in confusion, you elaborate. “You gave me back a little piece of who she was before…” you trail off, swiping at your cheeks messily. “Just…thank you.”
Eddie nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. His eyes are practically glued to your lips; this time, when his fingers brush against your palm, he hooks his pinky with yours. “‘Course,” he murmurs.
You’re not sure how long the two of you remain linked like this, joined hands swaying ever-so-slightly as Fly Me to the Moon fades out to I Wish You Love. It’s somewhere between ten seconds and ten years, because time seemingly slows to a halt.
You might stay with pinkies hooked forever if Harris doesn’t bolt from his chair, hugging your waist and looking up at you with concern.
“Ms. Sweetheart?” he asks. His wide, misty eyes indicate that he’s absorbed some of the emotion in the room, though he may not even be aware of this. “Why are you sad?” His chubby fingers grab onto the fabric of your pants.
You choke out a tearful laugh as you crouch down to meet him at his level. “I’m not sad…well, I’m sad and happy at the same time,” you try to explain, shaking your head when you realize you’re only adding to his puzzlement. “Grown-up feelings are weird sometimes, Har. But your hugs definitely help.”
With that, he squeezes you tighter, and you glance at Eddie with a full heart. He takes a step forward, scooping up Harris. You worry that you’ve crossed a line, that you’ve shown too much of your vulnerability to a four-year-old, but your fears are subdued when Eddie extends one arm and brings you back to both him and his son. Something brushes against your scalp, and you realize that he’s pressing a light kiss to the top of your head.
Harris squirms, and when Eddie puts him down, he runs over to the TV set. “Can I watch something?” It’s clear that the moment has passed, and Eddie throws you an apologetic shrug as he waits for your response.
“Sure,” you say, trying to pepper cheerfulness into your voice. It’s easier now that the wave of loneliness has passed, taking with it some of the mourning you’d clung to earlier today. You click on the TV and flip through channels until a familiar cartoon appears on the screen. “I think we’re just in time to watch A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving!” you exclaim, and Harris mirrors your enthusiasm by flinging himself onto the couch, making his dad cringe.
“Careful, little dude,” Eddie says, clicking off the record player and gently placing the vinyl back in its sleeve. “You just got that cast off a few days ago. Don’t need you to break another bone.” Certainly don’t need another hospital bill, he thinks bitterly. He takes the spot next to Harris, silently begging you to join them.
You turn to the kitchen table and put a hand on Grandma’s shoulder. “You wanna watch Charlie Brown with us?” But she rejects your invitation with a simple shake of her head, mumbling something about being tired and padding into her room.
You take the empty space to Harris’s left so that the boy is sandwiched between you and his father. He’s a small kid, but it seems like there’s an entire ocean separating you and Eddie.
“Why’s Lucy so mean?” Harris asks no one in particular. “She’s always yelling. Like Ms. Marion.” You have to stifle a giggle at that observation, and when you allow yourself a glance, you see that Eddie’s doing the same.
The first half of the movie is filled with Harris’s constant commentary; he speaks more than all of the cartoon characters combined. But he tires out eventually, though in typical four-year-old fashion, he denies his sleepiness even as he’s yawning. He fights it pretty well, you’ve got to give him credit where it’s due, but eventually, the exhaustion takes over and he lays his head on your arm. His curls tickle your elbow, and you gingerly reposition him so he’s tucked up against your side.
“You can move him over, if you get uncomfortable or somethin’. Kid sleeps like a rock. Except, y’know, when I need him to sleep.” Eddie snickers as Harris lets out the softest, tiniest snore.
You return the laughter and shake your head. “Nah, I’m good,” you reassure him, smiling at the ruddy cheek pressed against you. “Don’t tell my other students, but Harris is the cutest kid ever.”
Eddie shrugs, but you can tell that the compliment tickles him. “Well, it makes sense, since his dad is a total stud.” He waggles his eyebrows before turning his attention back to Charlie and Lucy. You’re not quite sure how to respond to that; if you play it off as a joke, you risk hurting his feelings. If you tell him the truth–
“D’you like coffee?”
His sudden, seemingly arbitrary question snaps you from your indecision. “I teach four-year-olds,” you reply lightheartedly, hoping he can’t sense your mind continuing to linger on his stud comment. “I practically have coffee running through my veins. What about you?”
“I have a four-year-old, so, same.” He clears his throat, seemingly double-checking that his son is still sound asleep. His leg is bouncing up and down, and he nearly has to press on his knee to get it to stop. “Um, Harris is going to a birthday party next Saturday morning if you wanted to get some with me? Get some coffee, I mean.” He silently chastises himself, wondering if he’d ever been suave around women or if it had just been the unearned confidence of a young man in his early twenties convincing him that he had.
“Like...like a date?” Fuck, do you sound too eager? “Because if you feel like you owe me a date after…after our night at the bar, you don’t have to. I forgave you after you gave me those M&Ms, remember?”
“Yeah…wait, no. Hold on.” Eddie holds up his pointer finger as he collects his thoughts. He could deny that it’s a date altogether and throw out some bullshit lie about it just being something between friends. But he promised Wayne, promised himself that he’d give this a shot. “Yes, I’m asking you on a date. No, it’s not because I feel like I owe you one–although I definitely do,” he adds with a goofy grin that sends flutters to your stomach. “It’s because, fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you, and how happy you make me–and Harris, too–and how I get kinda nervous around you, which makes no sense because you’re, like, the nicest fuckin’ person ever. Oh my God, why can’t I stop talking?”
“Eddie.” The way you say his name is like a song he could replay forever. “I’d really like to get coffee with you. I just need to see if someone can watch Grandma…maybe Jess,” you surmise, biting back the fact that you’ll have to withhold your date’s name, lest she subject you to a lecture about sleeping with the enemy.
Eddie nods, swiping the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and smiling. “I can pick you up at noon? If Jess can watch Grandma, of course.”
“Noon works.” You want to kiss him right then and there; if Harris wasn’t nestled in the middle of you both, you might not hold back. “I can let you know on Wednesday when we have dinner together.”
Eddie’s not sure he can wait that long for an answer. What if you’re just buying time to get out of it? What if you’re only being nice to him because you’re afraid that he’ll get angry again and reignite the bitter feud you’d been locked in just a month ago? He swallows the insecurities, gaze flickering to your eyes.
And maybe it’s because you can sense his unease and self-doubt, or maybe it’s because you genuinely want to–Eddie doesn’t know for sure–but he feels you lace your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on his thigh. He shifts his grasp to weave them tighter together, learning back into the couch and allowing his body to relax. His shoulders let go of tension he hadn’t realized he was holding on to, and a contented sigh slips from his lips.
It’s you, him, and Harris. Sitting on the sofa and watching a holiday movie. An unconventional little family, but a family all the same. Eddie swears that he could stay like this forever, a thought that almost has him bursting out in laughter. The same man who had concocted an elaborate method to keep women around without actually committing to them was now reveling in domestic bliss.
When the movie ends and Harris begins to rouse, Eddie begrudgingly stands with an exaggerated groan. “These old bones, y’know,” he laments with a mischievous click of his tongue. “Everything starts fallin’ apart when you turn thirty.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, lifting Harris onto his hip and rubbing his back to help him fall back to sleep. “I know.” He grabs his keys from the shelf near the door as you walk them out. And before he can wimp out, he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead in a gentle kiss, stubble scratching against your skin. His hands are trembling when he pulls away.
“You’re the best,” he repeats the same statement he’d made on parent-teacher conference night. It’s even more true now than it was then. “We’ll see you on Wednesday for pizza?” And an answer, hopefully a ‘yes.��
“Wednesday,” you echo, still processing the fact that, for the second time today, Eddie Munson’s lips have been on you.
--
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