savemydarlings

[savemydarlings]

Stupid

The humming of the fluorescent lights above was the soundtrack to your life, a dull, constant drone that vibrated through your bones almost as much as the numbers did. You were Ten, but El was Eleven, and you were meant to protect her. She was smaller, more fragile, though her mind was a tempest. You were two years older, your own powers a simmering, controlled fire, but just as lost. You understood the lab, the tests, the Demogorgon drawings El scribbled. You understood the fierce, unyielding bond you shared. The outside world, however? That was a cipher, a secret language whispered by the scientists but never truly explained.

When the monster came, it wasn’t some abstract threat on a wall. It was real, terrifying, and its shadow fell over El. You didn’t hesitate. Your hand shot out, a raw power the lab had barely begun to quantify, slamming the creature against the wall as El shrieked, her own mind straining. Together, a furious symphony of psionic energy, you tore at it, rendering it into dust and screams. The room was a wreckage, the air thick with ozone, but you were still there, panting, eyes fixed on El, who was still there too. Neither of you had vanished.

A large, gruff man with a kind tremor in his voice found you. Hopper. He was a new kind of silence, comforting and vast. He brought you and El to a cabin, teaching you about Eggs and waffles, about the strange dance of people called "families." El gravitated to Mike, her small hand finding his with an instinctive certainty. You watched them, a quiet observer of their burgeoning connection, still bewildered by the intricacies of laughter and whispered secrets.

Then came Steve Harrington. He was loud, initially, and full of hair. He was the "babysitter," as the others called him, but something in his easygoing nature, his genuine patience, drew you in. Mike and Dustin and Lucas and Max – they often got frustrated, their explanations of movies or social cues tangling into exasperated sighs when you still didn't grasp the concept. "It's just basic," they'd say, and you'd feel a prickle of shame, a confirmation of your inherent otherness. You weren't a small, cute child like El, whose innocence was readily forgiven. You were a teenager, expected to know.

But Steve… Steve was different. He’d pause, his brow furrowed in thought, then rephrase things, using simple metaphors. He’d mimic expressions, or act out scenarios, until a flicker of understanding lit your eyes. He seemed to genuinely enjoy it, a quiet satisfaction in his own patience. You learned about "cool" and "uncool," about "sarcasm" and "teasing." You learned to differentiate between "friends" and "acquaintances." You learned, slowly, to love him.

He was the first boy you’d ever really spoken to who wasn't a doctor or a subject of study. He held your hand differently, a gentle squeeze that felt like a secret. He listened to your hesitant questions about the world, never laughing, always explaining. When he finally stammered out an invitation for a "date," you just blinked. He chuckled, explaining it was "like, just us, doing something fun." You loved "fun" with Steve.

Dating Steve was like learning a new language, one word at a time. He'd tell you, "I love explaining things to you, Ten. It’s… it’s cool. Never think it’s a burden. I actually like it." And you believed him, because his eyes were so earnest, his touch so reassuring. You’d started calling yourself by the name he eventually settled on for you, the one that made your chest ache with warmth: Y/N.

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But even Steve had his limits. The world outside the lab was a swirling chaos of unspoken rules and emotional nuances that continued to baffle you. One evening, after a particularly trying day where you’d misinterpreted a dozen social cues, accidentally offended Mrs. Henderson by asking if her hair was "a wig" (you’d meant it as a compliment about its perfection), and then tried to "fix" Dustin’s broken bike by levitating it, which only succeeded in bending the frame, Steve was tired. He'd just finished a long shift at Family Video, dealing with customers who’d clearly never heard of the concept of "being kind."

You were in the living room, trying to understand why a character on the TV show was pretending to be someone else. "But why would he be… lying?" you asked, genuinely confused. "Doesn't everyone know it's him? His face is the same."

Steve rubbed his temples. "Y/N, it’s a disguise. It’s a plot point. They don’t know. Just… suspend your disbelief, okay?"

"But he still looks like them," you persisted, pointing at the screen. "It doesn’t make sense."

He sighed, a long, drawn-out sound. "It doesn't have to make sense, Y/N! It's TV! Not everything is logical! Sometimes you just gotta… you just gotta get it!" His voice was rising, frustration coloring his tone. "God, sometimes it's like talking to a brick wall. It’s basic stuff! Are you doing this on purpose? You’re so… so stupid sometimes, and it’s just so incredibly annoying!"

The words hit you like a physical blow. Stupid. Annoying. The labels you’d always feared. The confirmation that you were, indeed, a burden. The air in your lungs suddenly felt too thick, too heavy. Your vision blurred around the edges. Steve, your patient, kind Steve, had just confirmed what everyone else implied. You were too much. You were broken.

Without a word, you pushed yourself off the couch, the noise of the TV fading as your own heartbeat roared in your ears. You walked out, the screen door slamming shut behind you, not noticing Steve’s immediate gasp of regret, his frantic "Y/N, wait!"

You just ran. Away from the cabin, away from the accusations echoing in your mind. The chill night air was a shock against your flushed face, but you didn't slow. You didn't know where you were going, only that you had to be gone.

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Steve felt a sickening lurch in his gut the moment the words left his mouth. Stupid. Annoying. What the hell was wrong with him? He watched you walk out, your shoulders stiff, and the immediate, crushing weight of his mistake settled heavily on him. "Y/N! Y/N, wait! I didn't mean it!" He bolted out the door, his heart hammering. He searched frantically, calling your name, the guilt a hot, bitter taste in his mouth.

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He found you huddled beneath a large oak tree, the one by the creek, your knees pulled to your chest, your face buried. He approached cautiously, his voice softer, laced with desperate concern. "Y/N? Hey, Y/N, baby. Please. Look at me."

You flinched, not looking up.

He knelt, his hands hovering. "Y/N, I am so, so sorry. God, I'm such an idiot. I didn't mean any of that. Not a single word. I was just stressed, and I… I took it out on you. It was unfair. It was cruel. You are not stupid. You are not annoying. You are the furthest thing from it, Y/N."

He poured out explanations, his regret a torrent of words. How much he loved you, how important you were to him, how he was just tired and lashed out, how he respected your unique way of seeing the world, how he treasured it – but it was all too much. Too fast. Too big. Too complicated. It was just more words, more things you couldn’t quite grasp, confirming that you were too slow, too simple, unable to process what seemed so obvious to him. Your trembling intensified, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling down your cheeks. He was just proving it, wasn't he? You were stupid. He couldn't even explain it simply enough for you to understand why he called you that and why he was taking it back.

Steve saw the raw pain on your face, the uncontrollable tremors in your body, the quiet despair in your eyes that screamed, I don’t understand. He saw that his passionate torrent of apologies was only making it worse. He took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself to slow down.

He reached out, his hand gently settling on your arm. "Hey," he whispered, his voice soft, low. He slid closer, his hip bumping yours. "Just… listen to my hand, okay?" His fingers threaded through yours, squeezing lightly. "My hand is here. It’s holding yours." He took your other hand, placing it against his chest. "My heart is beating. For you."

His touches were slow, deliberate, grounding. A gentle stroke on your cheek, wiping a tear. His thumb tracing the line of your jaw, then resting against your pulse point on your wrist. He didn't speak for a moment, letting the simple physical comfort begin to anchor you.

Then, in a quiet, steady voice, he began again. "What I said. It was wrong. All of it. I was in a bad mood, Y/N. I said things I didn't mean. I hurt you. I regret it. More than anything." He pressed your hand tighter to his chest. "You are not stupid. You are smart. You understand things no one else does. You see the world in a way that’s beautiful and real." He paused, letting that sink in. "You are not annoying. You are amazing. You are gentle. You are kind. You are strong. You are everything good."

He took a slow breath, his eyes locked on yours, finally seeing a flicker of understanding there. "I love you," he stated, simply, undeniably. "For everything you are. And I love helping you understand things. It’s my favorite thing to do. I promise."

You searched his face, your own still streaked with tears, but less tense. The simple words, the steady touch, they were a lifeline. One question, the most important one, still formed on your lips, small and fragile. "Am … am still yours?"

His eyes softened completely, shining with an emotion so pure it made your chest ache. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. "Always," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Always, my love. And I am yours. Completely. Forever."

A small, hiccuping breath escaped you. A single, tender word, the one you'd been practicing, the one that meant him, and yours, and safety. "My Stevie."

He pulled back, a soft, adoring smile on his face, his thumb brushing over your lip. "That's right, baby." And then his lips met yours, a gentle, comforting kiss that sealed the promise, chasing away the shadows and filling you with a warmth that felt like coming home.

[savemydarlings]

❤❤❤

The Rookie (ABC Series)

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Page 1 - contains fics and sequels before 12/25/2024.

Page 2 - contains fics and sequels after 12/25/2024

Page 3 - contains series and blurbs.

[savemydarlings]

Steve Harrington

Good Girl

Stupid

[savemydarlings]

Good Girl

The soft glow of the bedside lamp barely pierced the gloom of the late evening, casting long, dancing shadows across Steve’s bedroom. Outside, the autumn wind whispered through the leaves, a melancholic hum that seemed to echo the unsettling quiet inside [Y/N]’s mind. She sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of Steve’s oversized flannels, feeling small and adrift.

It had been a brutal week. A disastrous job interview, a minor fender bender that had left her car sputtering and her bank account whimpering, and a series of cryptic calls from her mother that left her feeling like a perpetually disappointing child. She’d tried to shed the weight of it all when Steve picked her up, plastered on a smile, and tried to talk about anything but the crushing sensation in her chest.

Steve, bless his heart, had noticed. He always did. He’d tried to coax it out of her over a takeout pizza, then again while they watched some terrible B-movie. But she’d just shaken her head, mumbled something about being tired, and retreated further into herself. Now, the silence in the room was heavy, thick with the unspoken.

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She watched him from across the room as he changed into a pair of sweats, his back to her. The familiar ripple of his muscles, the confident way he moved, it was all so… him. And she, by contrast, felt like a crumpled paper, insignificant and useless. A sudden, desperate urge to bridge the gap, to remind him what she was capable of, to prove her worth to him in the simplest, most undeniable way, surged through her. If she couldn’t be successful, couldn’t be carefree, couldn’t even keep her shit together, she could at least be this. She could be good for him.

He turned, catching her gaze. His brow was furrowed with concern. "You okay, pretty girl?" he asked, his voice softer than the rustling leaves outside. He walked towards the bed, his eyes searching hers.

Her heart fluttered, but it wasn’t from desire; it was from a tremor of fear. Fear that he saw through her facade, fear that he was already tired of her silent burdens. "I’m fine," she whispered, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. Her hand went to the hem of the oversized flannel, twisting the fabric.

He sat beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight. His large hand covered hers, stilling her nervous movements. "You don’t look fine," he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "Talk to me, [Y/N]. What’s going on?"

The words caught in her throat. How could she explain the gnawing insecurity, the feeling that she was a burden, a disappointment, or that she was somehow failing to be the person he deserved? Her mind, already a chaotic mess, latched onto the one thing she felt she could do. The one language she felt confident speaking tonight.

She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, conveying a silent message he misinterpreted. He saw the shimmer of unshed tears, the vulnerability, and the sudden, desperate glint in her eyes, and his protective instincts kicked in. He leaned closer, his free hand cupping her cheek. "Hey," he breathed, his voice laced with tenderness. "Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. You know that, right?"

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she leaned into his touch, then, with a small, shaky breath, she shifted. Her hand moved from his, trailing up his arm, then around his neck, pulling him closer. Her lips found his, desperate and seeking, not just pleasure, but an affirmation she felt she had to earn. Steve, surprised but willing, deepened the kiss, his initial concern slowly giving way to a different kind of warmth. He thought she was seeking comfort, or perhaps just a release from the day’s stress. He didn't realize she was trying to prove something.

Against his better judgment, a tiny voice in his head, already dulled by the escalating passion, whispered that something felt off. Her movements were a little too urgent, her touch a little too frantic. But her lips were warm and seeking, her body pressed against him, and he was, after all, Steve Harrington. When a pretty girl wanted him, especially this pretty girl, he wasn't one to refuse. He told himself she was just wound up, needed to decompress. He could help her with that.

She broke the kiss, her eyes still clouded, but now with a different kind of determination. She slid off the bed, kneeling before him, her eyes fixed on his. It was an unspoken question, a silent plea for permission. He looked down at her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then a slow, pleased smile stretched across his lips. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw, a silent invitation. "Whatever you need, pretty girl," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

And so, she began. She unzipped his sweats, freeing him, and took him into her mouth. Her movements were practiced, precise, a blend of instinct and a desperate need to perform flawlessly. But internally, the spiralling began almost immediately. Is this good enough? Am I doing this right? He deserves better. He deserves someone who’s not a mess. Don’t mess this up. Make him forget everything else. Make him happy. Make him see you as valuable.

Each suck, each stroke, was driven by a frantic energy, a silent negotiation with her own insecurities. Her mind raced, replaying every minor slight, every perceived failure of the day. The car, the interview, her mother’s disappointment – they all merged into a single, overwhelming fear: I’m not enough. This was her desperate attempt to counteract that feeling, to earn her place, to prove her worth. If she could make him groan, make him lose himself, then maybe, just maybe, she was still good for something.

His hand found her hair, gently guiding her, his breath hitching. A low sound of pleasure rumbled in his chest. "Oh, God, [Y/N]," he breathed out, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling softly. Then, a moment later, a pleased sigh escaped him, and he whispered, almost an afterthought, "Good girl."

The words hit her like a physical blow. "Good girl." It was meant as praise, as encouragement, as genuine appreciation. But to her fractured mind, it twisted into something else entirely. See? You’re only good when you’re doing this. You have to work for it. You have to earn it. The thought solidified, a cold, hard knot in her stomach, even as she continued, driving herself harder, faster, more intensely. She had to be perfectly good. She had to erase any doubt, any flicker of disappointment he might feel, by being undeniably, exquisitely good at this.

When she felt him tense, heard his sharp gasp, she pulled back, lips slick, eyes wide and a touch feverish. She climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, determined to continue. She needed to see it through, to leave no room for doubt. She positioned herself, her hands bracing against his chest, and slowly, carefully, began to lower herself onto him.

The initial feeling was a stretch, a slight discomfort she mentally pushed through. Just push through it. It’s for him. It’s for us. You need to do this. She tried to match his rhythm as he reached up, his hands finding her waist, guiding her, his eyes dark with desire. But as she moved, a deeper, sharper sensation bloomed, not pleasant, but a dull, aching pressure that spread through her lower abdomen. Her face, usually flushed with pleasure during these moments, now tightened. A faint grimace flitted across her features, a subtle clenching of her jaw, her eyes losing their focus, the sheen of unshed tears now more prominent.

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Steve, caught in the throes of the moment, initially missed the subtle shift. But as his body grew hotter, and his eyes focused on her face, he saw it. The flicker of pain, the shadow of discomfort that stole the usual glow from her eyes. It wasn't the look of someone lost in pleasure, but someone enduring. Someone trying too hard.

His hands, which had been stroking her hips, stilled. The rhythm faltered. "Hey," he said, his voice husky, laced with immediate concern. "[Y/N]?"

She didn’t seem to hear him, or perhaps she was unwilling to acknowledge. Her eyes were glazed over, her movements becoming more mechanical, less fluid. The discomfort on her face deepened, almost a wince now.

"Stop," he said, more firmly this time, his hands gripping her hips gently but decisively. "Stop, wait." He tried to lift her slightly, to break the connection.

But she resisted, a panicked whimper escaping her. "No!" she cried, her voice thin and choked, tears finally spilling from her eyes. "No, Steve, please, I… I just want to be your good girl. I just want to be your good girl, please." Her body stiffened, a silent scream of desperation. Her hips pressed down even harder against him, as if pain was preferable to stopping, preferable to failing.

His heart instantly sank, a cold, sickening dread washing over him. The pleasure vanished, replaced by a surge of overwhelming regret. "Stop," he repeated, his voice firm, but laced with a profound sadness. He slipped his hands from her hips, pulling her up and off him completely, gently but quickly, and then held her still, preventing her from re-engaging. She struggled for a moment, whimpering and desperate, but he held her firmly, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her close against his chest.

"No, no, no," he murmured, his voice filled with self-reproach. He rocked her gently, her body shaking with silent sobs against him. "Oh, God, [Y/N], I should never have let this happen. This should never have happened." He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face into her hair. The realization of what she’d been doing, and why, hit him like a physical blow. The frantic energy, the lost look in her eyes, the desperate need to please – he’d seen it, he’d felt it, and he’d let it continue, misled by his own desire and her deceptive zeal.

"You don’t ever need to do anything to be my good girl," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his lips pressed against her temple. "You are always my good girl, [Y/N]. Always. You don’t have to prove anything to me. I would never, ever want you to force yourself to have sex, or to do anything, if you aren't feeling good. If you're hurting, if you're upset, if you're not in it, I don't want it. Not like this."

He held her tighter, her sobs slowly quieting into shuddering breaths. He pulled back just enough to tilt her chin up gently, forcing her to look at him, his thumbs brushing away the tracks of her tears. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, but the desperate, panicky look was starting to fade, replaced by a raw vulnerability.

"Don’t cry, pretty girl," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Please, don’t cry. I hate it when you cry." He reached up, his fingers gently caressing her wet cheek, then ran his thumb along her jawline, stroking softly, tenderly.

She leaned into his touch, a deep, shaky breath escaping her. The simple, non-demanding contact was a balm to her frayed nerves. It wasn't about performance or pleasing; it was just about comfort, pure and unconditional. She felt the warmth of his hand, the solidity of his shoulder beneath her head, and for the first time all day, the rigid tension in her body began to ease.

A small whimper escaped her, but this one was different. It wasn't of pain or desperation, but of profound relief. He saw it, the subtle shift in her eyes, the softening of her features. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

"That's it," he murmured, his gaze loving, steady, and utterly reassuring. He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. "See? You are always my good girl. Always."

And in his arms, held close, not for what she could do for him, but for who she was, [Y/N] finally whimpered in happiness and comfort, feeling more truly cherished than any forced act could ever achieve. The chaos in her mind quieted, replaced by the steady, comforting beat of Steve Harrington’s heart against her ear. She was safe. She was wanted. And she was more than enough.

[savemydarlings]

Give Me A Reason To Hold On

TW: Suicide mentions

The crisp, clean air of the Metro Division hit you different than it did most rookies. For them, it was the smell of fear, of uncertainty. For you, it was just… Tuesday. When Sergeant Tim Bradford, notoriously the toughest Training Officer in the precinct, looked you up and down on your first day, you met his gaze with an easy smile that bordered on audacious. He raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. You just shrugged, a small, confident gesture that seemed to annoy him instantly.

Your first week was a whirlwind of Tim’s infamous "Tim tests." He threw everything at you: simulated high-stress scenarios, obscure sections of the penal code to recite on the spot, physical drills designed to break most people. But you weren't most people. You aced the physical challenges with an unyielding stamina that surprised him. You calmly de-escalated a role-playing domestic dispute that had other rookies stammering. You accurately recalled the minutiae of legal statutes as if you'd written them yourself.

Each time, you emerged from his gauntlet with a quiet confidence that bordered on nonchalance. Tim would scrutinize you, his eyes narrowed, searching for a crack, a moment of weakness. He never found one. You didn't boast, didn't gloat, you simply… performed. It annoyed him. He lived for the struggle, the grit, the molding of raw talent. You seemed to arrive pre-molded, a finished product. Yet, because you never messed up, because your reports were flawless and your arrests clean, he couldn't say a damn thing. It burned him, a little, but he also couldn't deny your competence.

Your quiet efficiency and genuine kindness quickly endeared you to the rest of the precinct. You offered to help Lucy Chen with a tricky report, shared your lunch with a grateful Nolan, and even managed to get a rare, genuine laugh out of Grey during a briefing. Angela Lopez, ever observant, watched you with a keen eye. She saw past the confident exterior, noticing the subtle grace in your movements, the way your eyes, while bright, held a certain… depth. Not sadness, not exactly, but a profound understanding that seemed older than your years.

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"So, the new golden girl, huh?" Angela teased you one afternoon, leaning against your desk. "Bradford actually looks constipated when he's around you. It's hilarious."

You chuckled, shrugging. "He just likes a challenge, I guess. And I'm not much of one."

"Oh, you're a challenge, alright," Angela scoffed, a smile playing on her lips. "Just not the kind he's used to. You don't break. He doesn't know what to do with that." She paused, her voice softening slightly. "You know why he's like that, right? Why he pushes so hard?"

You shook your head. "Just figured it was his personality."

Angela sighed, looking towards Tim's office, where he was currently barking orders at a stack of paperwork. "He came from a tough place. Abusive father, military background straight into LAPD. He saw a lot, did a lot. He built himself up, brick by brick, into the man he is now. Every rule, every discipline, every gruff word… it's all part of the wall he built around himself to survive. To keep things orderly. To prevent anyone else from getting hurt, or from hurting him again."

You listened, truly listened. The pieces clicked into place. The unwavering discipline, the almost obsessive need for control, the rigid adherence to rules. It wasn't just about the job; it was about his life. A quiet resolve settled in your chest. You didn't know why, but you suddenly felt an inexplicable pull to reach behind that wall. You made it your mission.

Slowly, subtly, you began chipping away. You brought him coffee exactly how he liked it without being asked. You remembered obscure facts about his favorite baseball team. You offered insightful, non-judgmental observations about his methods, earning a grunt of acknowledgement that felt like a triumph. When you caught a glimpse of a rare, genuine smile, you’d simply hold his gaze, not pushing, just acknowledging the shared moment.

He started letting you in. Not much, but enough for a crack to form in his carefully constructed armor. He'd share more casual stories from his past, not the dark ones, but the funny ones, the frustrating ones. He'd ask for your opinion, even if he pretended not to care about your answer. You listened, you smiled, you responded with warmth and genuine interest. He confided in you, in small ways. He spoke about his frustrations with the system, his hopes for some of the community programs. He started to look at you differently, a subtle softening in his eyes when he thought you weren't looking.

You were a good listener. Perhaps too good. You absorbed his stories, his vulnerabilities, his unspoken needs. You offered comfort, understanding, and a quiet strength he hadn't realized he was missing. You felt a connection forming, a bond that went beyond the rookie-TO dynamic. He thought he was finally seeing you.

But he wasn't. Not really.

You let him into the carefully curated version of yourself – the competent, kind, empathetic officer who could handle anything. You let him see the parts you knew he would appreciate, the parts that would make him feel safe. You talked about your day, your opinions on cases, your love for obscure documentaries. You never, ever, let him see the real you. The parts that gnawed at your insides, the quiet disconnect that was your constant companion.

Tim, for all his gruffness, was perceptive. He started to notice it. A slight hesitation in your eyes when he asked about your personal life. A gentle deflection, a change of subject, delivered so smoothly he almost missed it. He saw the kindness you extended to everyone, but also the way you held a piece of yourself back, always. It was like looking at a perfectly rendered painting – beautiful, detailed, but with an invisible barrier preventing you from touching the canvas. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but a nagging feeling began to grow: he was in, but you were still out.

Then came the call that would change everything.

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"Code 3, a jumper on the roof of the old Chandler building. Female, roughly 30s. Multiple units en route."

The Chandler building was a notorious spot, thirteen stories high, overlooking the grimy sprawl of downtown. Its roof was always accessible, a magnet for those seeking to escape. You and Tim arrived, the sirens a frantic wail in the crisp air. Already, patrol cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck were on the scene. The woman was sitting on the very edge, her legs dangling over, a silhouette against the bruised afternoon sky.

Tim, his face grim, immediately took charge. "Perimeter secure! Get the air bag inflated! Keep the crowd back!" He turned to you. "Rookie, you with me. We're going up."

The climb to the roof was agonizing. Each stair, each corridor, felt heavy with the weight of the moment. When you finally pushed open the access door to the roof, a gust of wind nearly knocked you back. The woman was still there, a small, fragile figure against the immense backdrop of the city.

Tim tried first. He was good, his voice firm yet empathetic, filled with years of experience talking people down. "Ma'am, please, don't do this. My name is Sergeant Bradford. I'm here to help you. Just talk to me. What's going on?"

The woman didn't respond, her shoulders hunched. The slight tremor in her hands was visible even from a distance. Tim continued, cycling through his practiced lines, offering help, resources, a way out. But she remained motionless, unresponsive. He was failing, and the frustration, the desperation, was etched onto his face. He glanced at you, a silent plea for an idea.

You stepped forward, your voice soft, almost a whisper against the wind, yet somehow carrying to her. "It's cold up here, isn't it?"

The woman flinched, a slight turn of her head. Tim shot you a surprised look.

You ignored him, your eyes fixed on her. "Sometimes, the hardest part isn't letting go, but trying to hold on when you don't know why anymore. When the reasons feel like they’ve all run out."

Slowly, deliberately, you began to walk towards her. Tim's hand instinctively shot out to stop you, but you gently ducked away, your gaze never leaving the woman. Each step was measured, calm. You removed your duty belt, placing it carefully on the ground, then your vest. You were disarming yourself, not just of weapons, but of the barriers that separated you. You continued to speak, your voice a gentle murmur, like a stream flowing over rocks.

"You look tired," you observed, now only a few feet from her. "So incredibly tired of fighting battles that no one else seems to see."

You reached the edge. Without a moment's hesitation, you swung your legs over, just as she had, and sat beside her. Your feet dangled in the dizzying void, the wind whipping your hair. Tim’s heart leaped into his throat. He started forward, a strangled cry escaping his lips, but you held up a hand, a silent command.

"It's a strange kind of quiet up here, isn't it?" you said, turning your head to the woman beside you. Your eyes met hers, and in that shared glance, a lifetime of understanding passed between you. "Like the world just… stops expecting things from you. For a moment, there's just… peace. And the urge to make it permanent."

Tim froze, halfway to the ledge. Your words resonated with a terrifying familiarity. The urge to make it permanent. He stared at your profile, the same quiet confidence you always had, yet now, infused with a chilling, profound empathy. He thought back to all the little things, the deflections, the guarded eyes, the way you never truly let him see you.

"But the peace is fleeting, isn't it?" you continued, your voice a soft hum. "Because you know. You know the pain you'd leave behind. The holes you'd tear in the lives of those who love you. Even if you don't understand why they love you, even if you don't understand why they love life, you know they do. And you wouldn't do that to them."

The woman beside you, tears now streaming down her face, finally broke. She let out a choked sob, turning into your embrace as you gently pulled her close. She buried her face in your shoulder, shaking uncontrollably. You held her, murmuring soft reassurances, until the firemen could safely pull you both back over the ledge.

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As you walked away, guiding the shaking woman towards the waiting paramedics, you glanced back at Tim. His face was a mask of shock, disbelief, and a dawning, terrifying understanding. Every single piece of your behavior, every quiet moment, every guarded glance, every act of effortless competence, clicked into place. The picture that formed was one he never could have imagined.

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The precinct felt heavy that night. After ensuring the woman was safe and taken for evaluation, Tim didn't let you go home. He led you to an empty interrogation room, the kind reserved for the most serious confessions. He sat across from you, his usual stern posture gone, replaced by a defeated slump.

"What did you mean, 'the urge to make it permanent'?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes searching yours. "And 'not understanding why they love life'?"

You met his gaze, no longer deflecting, no longer hiding. The dam had broken. "It means exactly what it sounds like, Tim." Your voice was calm, almost detached, as if discussing the weather. "It's not a secret I've kept from you, not intentionally. It's just… a part of me I've always lived with."

You took a deep breath. "I won't do it. I promise you that. I've lived with these thoughts since I was thirteen. Actively, every day, in some form or another. But I wouldn't dream of hurting my family and friends like that. The thought of inflicting that pain, of becoming the reason for their grief… I couldn't."

You continued, your gaze distant, reflecting on years of internal struggle. "I haven't wanted to live for a while. Not in the way other people seem to. I've searched for love, for a deep connection, a reason to feel anchored. But the love I had looked for, the kind that might pull me out of this… it just wasn't attainable for me. Or so I believed." A ghost of a smile, sad and fleeting, touched your lips. "And without that, I just don't see the point in life. I truly don't understand why other people love it. The mundane, the struggle, the constant effort. It just… doesn't resonate."

Tim stared at you, his face crumbling. The strong, unyielding Sergeant Bradford was devastated. His eyes welled up, tears tracing paths through the dust of his day. He looked utterly broken.

Seeing his pain, a familiar instinct took over. You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours, your thumb gently stroking his knuckles. "Hey," you said softly, "it's okay, Tim. I told you, I won't do it. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

He let out a choked, almost hysterical laugh, pulling his hand away only to bury his face in them. "You're… you're comforting me?" he croaked, disbelief warring with raw emotion.

You nodded, a small, sad smile playing on your lips. "Of course. I've lived with this for over a decade. This is new to you. It's understandable that you're… processing. It's a lot to take in."

He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "It's… it's everything."

The next week was a blur of quiet shifts and unspoken understanding. Tim watched you with a new intensity, a protective gaze that never wavered. He still pushed you, still demanded the best, but there was a softness around the edges, a vulnerability he hadn't allowed before. He saw the strength required not just to do the job, but to simply exist with the weight you carried. He saw you, for the first time, in all your profound, beautiful brokenness.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Then, one rainy afternoon, as you were finishing up paperwork in the briefing room, he walked in. The room was empty except for the two of you. He closed the door behind him, the sound echoing in the silence. He stood before your desk, his hands shoved into his pockets, a nervous energy radiating from him that you had never witnessed.

"I…" he started, then stopped, clearing his throat. He looked at the floor, then at you, his gaze earnest and unwavering. "I love you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and fragile. You shuttered. Your entire body froze, a shockwave going through you like ice. The love you had searched for, believed unattainable, was suddenly standing before you, raw and real in Tim Bradford’s voice.

"No," you whispered, pulling back slightly in your chair. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. "No, you can't. You don't… you can't. I'm not good for you, Tim. I'm not good enough for you." The old, familiar script played in your head, the one that told you you were undeserving, broken beyond repair.

He took a step closer, his eyes filled with a desperate intensity. "Yes, I can. And I do. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you think aren't worthy. Especially those parts. They make you who you are, and I want them."

And then, for the first time, truly for the first time in front of another human being, you broke. The carefully constructed facade, the years of silent endurance, the stoic acceptance of your own profound loneliness – it all shattered. A sob tore from your chest, raw and guttural, shaking your entire frame. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down your face, blurring Tim's concerned expression.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't need to. In two long strides, he was around the desk. He crushed you to his chest, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce, protective strength. You buried your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne and the solid warmth of his body a lifeline. You clung to him, sobbing uncontrollably, every repressed emotion, every silent battle, pouring out of you.

He held you, stroking your hair, murmuring soft, unintelligible comforts. When the intensity of your sobs began to subside, leaving you trembling and exhausted in his arms, he gently guided you. Not out of the precinct, not away from the world, but to a place where you could be truly safe, truly private.

You cling to him, your sobs subsiding to quiet sniffs. You feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, and it grounds you. It reminds you that you're not alone, that there's someone who cares enough to bear some of your weight, to stand with you in the storm. You lean into his embrace, letting the warmth seep into your bones, letting the tears come freely.

"I won't let you go," he says, his voice a promise, a vow. "Not now, not ever. We'll figure this out, together."

You nod, the weight of his words sinking into your soul. For a moment, the doubt, the fear, the exhaustion all seem to retreat, leaving room for a glimmer of hope. It's a feeling you haven't felt in so long, it's almost unfamiliar. But it's real. It's him.

He leans in, his eyes searching yours for permission, for confirmation. And there it is, the question he's been holding in, the one you've both been dancing around for weeks. "Can I kiss you?"

You nod, your heart racing. This is the moment you didn't dare hope for. The moment where the wall comes down, where you allow yourself to be seen, truly seen. You close your eyes and lean into him, feeling the warmth of his breath, the gentle press of his lips against yours. It's a kiss that speaks of a love that's been building in secret, growing stronger with every shared look, every silent understanding, every shared battle won.

Tim's arms tighten around you as your mouths move together, the kiss deepening. It's a declaration, a promise, a declaration of war against the darkness that has tried to claim you. His love feels like a beacon, a guiding light through the storm that is your mind. You've never felt so alive, so connected to another person. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

As you pull back, eyes shining with unshed tears, you whisper, "I love you too, Tim." It's the first time you've said it, and the words feel like a key unlocking a door you didn't even know was there.

He smiles, the first genuine smile you've seen from him in what feels like forever. It's a smile that reaches his eyes, a smile that says he's found something precious, something worth fighting for. "Good," he murmurs, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Because I'm not letting you go."

[savemydarlings]

The Rookie

Home For Good - Tim Bradford

Give Me A Reason To Hold On - Tim Bradford

[savemydarlings]

Home For Good

The usual cacophony of Mid-Wilshire station churned around Officer Tim Bradford. The smell of stale coffee and disinfectant hung in the air, punctuated by the relentless chatter of dispatchers and the occasional bark of Sergeant Grey. Tim, ever the stoic, was drilling his rookies—Chen, Nolan, and even West, who was still finding his footing from the academy. Harper, now a Training Officer herself, observed with a wry smirk as Tim meticulously pointed out every flaw in their patrol logs.

"Chen, what is this smudge? Is this a fingerprint? Did you eat a donut while writing this report?" Tim's voice, a low rumble of disapproval, echoed slightly. Lucy Chen winced. Nolan cleared his throat.

Just then, a figure appeared in the doorway of the bullpen. She was dressed in comfortable civilian clothes – jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and a well-travelled canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair, previously bound tightly in service, now fell softly around her face, framing a smile that could disarm a bomb. In her arms, she carried a large, foil-covered tray.

All heads turned. Tim’s gaze, usually sharp and assessing, landed on her. His brow furrowed in confusion, then the faintest flicker of recognition, followed by absolute, unadulterated disbelief. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

The rookies exchanged bewildered glances. Who was this woman? And why was Tim Bradford, the unyielding, unsmiling Tim Bradford, suddenly looking like he'd seen a ghost… or a puppy?

The woman’s smile widened, her eyes sparkling. "Well, hello there, Officer Bradford," she said, her voice warm and melodious, with just a hint of military crispness underlying its sweetness. "Miss me?"

Tim took two, slow, deliberate steps forward, as if he was afraid she’d vanish. "Y/N?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, a stark contrast to his usual booming commands. "What… what are you doing here?"

You chuckled, walking closer until you were just a foot away. "Surprise, honey. I’m home. For good."

The words hit Tim like a physical blow. His usually rigid posture softened, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. His eyes, usually ice-cold, were wide with a mix of shock and overwhelming emotion. He reached out a hand, almost tentatively, brushing his fingers against your cheek. "For good?" he repeated, a tremor in his voice.

"For good," you confirmed, your own eyes glistening.

Then, Tim did something that made the rookies' jaws drop. He pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face in your hair. It wasn't just a hug; it was the embrace of a man who thought he might never hold you again, raw and desperate. He held you so tightly you could barely breathe, but you didn't mind. You hugged him back just as fiercely.

Lucy Chen nudged Nolan, whispering, "He… he hugs?" Nolan, equally stunned, just shook his head. "I didn't even know he smiled." West looked like he was witnessing a mythical creature. "Is that… his wife?"

Tim finally pulled back, his eyes red-rimmed, a small, genuine smile gracing his usually stern lips. He looked at you as if you were the only person in the universe. "You're here. You're actually here."

You presented the foil-covered tray. "And I brought cookies! Enough for the whole team. I figured you'd be starving, and it's been a long flight, so I thought a sweet treat…"

Tim cut you off, pulling you back into another, slightly less desperate, hug. "To hell with the cookies, Y/N," he growled, but there was no anger in his voice, only profound relief and joy. "You're back. You think the surprise is cookies?" He pulled away again, cupping your face in his hands. "You're back. My wife is back."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The word "wife" hung in the air, shattering any lingering doubts the rookies might have had. Tim Bradford, the legend, the myth, the hardass, was married. And to this beautiful, kind-faced woman who had just made him melt like butter in a microwave.

"Hey, Y/N!" A familiar, booming voice cut through the stunned silence. Sergeant Grey emerged from his office, a wide smile breaking across his usually serious face. "Well, look who it is! I thought I heard a rumour you were touching down soon." He strode over, shaking your free hand warmly. "It's damn good to see you, kid. Welcome home."

"Sarge!" You beamed, genuinely happy. "It's good to be home. And even better to see you again."

Grey clapped Tim on the shoulder, a knowing look passing between them. "I was beginning to think you'd never get her back, Bradford. You better hold onto her this time."

"Trust me, Sarge," Tim muttered, his eyes never leaving yours, "I'm not letting her out of my sight."

The rookies exchanged another round of incredulous looks. Grey knew her? He'd been at their wedding, probably. This was a whole different side of Tim.

You turned your attention to the bewildered rookies, your smile soft and inviting. "Hi, everyone. I'm Y/N Bradford. It's really nice to finally meet you all. I've heard a lot about you." You gestured to the cookies. "Please, help yourselves. They're chocolate chip with extra double fudge, Tim's favorite."

Lucy, still processing, managed a shy "Nice to meet you too, Y/N." Nolan, always the quick one, recovered rapidly. "Extra double fudge! You really know his weaknesses, ma'am." West, still a little star-struck, just nodded enthusiastically.

Tim, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with the need to sweep you away, but duty called. Or rather, you called.

"So," you said, turning back to him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Are you done with your shift yet, or do I need to wait for you to finish your patrol? Because I'm guessing you'll want to finish that before we get home."

Tim's face contorted into something akin to a pout. "Y/N, I just got you back! I'm not leaving you for another minute."

You put a firm hand on his arm, the commander in you subtly resurfacing. "Timothy Bradford, you have responsibilities. You finish your shift. I'll be right here, getting to know your new team. Don't think for a second that just because I'm home, you get to slack off."

Tim groaned, a sound the rookies had never heard from him before. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Immensely," you confirmed, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "Now go. I'll be waiting."

With a final, lingering look at you, Tim, grumbling under his breath about "tyrannical wives" and "cruel and unusual punishment," turned and barked at his visibly amused rookies, "Alright, you heard her! Let’s go, we're wasting daylight!" He shot you one last look that promised a very thorough reunion later.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Tim and the rookies departed, the station returned to its usual hum, but with a new, lighter energy. You set the cookies down on a table, pulling off the foil. The rich scent of chocolate filled the air, and officers, drawn by the smell and the sight of a new, friendly face, began to gather.

"These look amazing, Y/N," Nyla said, reaching for one. "So, you were in the army too?"

"Yep," you replied, taking a cookie yourself and offering a warm smile. "That's how Tim and I met, actually. In Afghanistan. He was my CO."

The rookies, now back in the bullpen and trying to look busy, discreetly listened in. The hardass Tim Bradford, falling for his subordinate in a war zone? The stories were practically writing themselves.

You spent the next few hours laughing and chatting easily with everyone, regaling them with a few carefully curated, non-classified anecdotes about your time in service, and about a younger, slightly less grizzled Tim Bradford. You learned about rookie mistakes, precinct drama, and promised to bake more often. By the time Tim finally returned, a few hours later, the station felt like a second home, and you had a new set of friends eagerly awaiting your next visit.

He walked back into the bullpen, his gaze immediately finding you, laughing with Harper and Chen over something. The tension that had been etched into his shoulders for years seemed to have melted away, replaced by a quiet contentment, a profound sense of rightness.

His wife was home. And for the first time in a very long time, Tim Bradford truly felt like he was home too.

[savemydarlings]

Marvel

No Surprises Please - Steve Rogers

[savemydarlings]

No Surprises Please

The hum of the Avengers Tower was a constant, comforting lullaby in your life. As an assistant, your days involved everything from wrangling Fury’s schedule to ordering enough pizza for Thor, but in truth, you were more than just an employee. You were a fixture, a friend, a confidante to the eclectic group of heroes who called this gleaming skyscraper home. And, for the past glorious year, you’d been something more to Steve Rogers and James Bucky Barnes.

It had started subtly. Lingering glances, a hand on your arm to stop you, the shared amusement over some ridiculous team antic. Then, the careful progression to shared meals, movie nights where you’d inevitably fall asleep between them on the sofa, Bucky’s metal arm a familiar weight, Steve’s warmth a steady anchor. They’d learned your coffee order, remembered your favorite snacks, and anticipated your needs before you voiced them. They’d carved out a space for you in their shared life, a comfortable, tender space that felt like home.

They treated you like their girlfriend. Full stop. They’d kiss your forehead good morning, hold your hand during tense meetings, pull you close when you were tired, or lonely, or just there. Bucky would tease you mercilessly, then soften completely if you looked even a little hurt. Steve would listen, truly listen, to your worries, offering quiet reassurance that always managed to soothe. You were theirs, in every unspoken way that mattered.

Your heart, a silly, hopeful thing, believed it. You’d never been this happy, this safe, this utterly cherished. You hadn’t said anything, mostly out of a deep-seated fear of ruining the fragile, perfect bubble you’d found yourself in. And they hadn’t either, which you’d always rationalized as them taking their time, or simply enjoying the unspoken understanding as much as you did.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Then the whispers started. "Looking at places." "A bit more private." You heard them talking about it casually, almost an afterthought, over breakfast one morning. A small, cold knot began to form in your stomach. You dismissed it. Surely, they meant a new training facility, or a safe house. Not… a home. Not their home.

But the whispers grew louder. They started going out more, sometimes not returning until late, their explanations vague. "Just running some errands." "Had a look at a few places." The knot in your stomach tightened into a painful clench.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day came, sudden and brutal, like a punch to the gut. Steve had clapped you on the shoulder, a familiar, easy gesture that now felt like a goodbye. "Well, Bucky and I got the keys to the brownstone. We'll be moving our stuff out tomorrow."

Bucky had offered a small, awkward smile. "Yeah, gonna be good to have our own space, you know?"

Your smile felt like a mask, brittle and ready to crack. "Oh! That's… that's wonderful! Congratulations." You were proud of the steadiness in your voice. Inside, a hundred tiny hopes shattered simultaneously.

Our own space. They’d said it so casually, so naturally. Our, meaning Steve and Bucky. Not Steve, Bucky and you. Their own space. Not yours too.

The next day was a blur of boxes and frantic goodbyes. You helped them pack, your heart aching with every item you carefully placed in a crate. Every framed photo you packed felt like a memory you were supposed to be sharing, but now just a souvenir of a love that was never truly yours. They thanked you profusely, hugged you tight, promised to visit, promised to call.

And then they were gone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Tower, once a bustling hub, suddenly felt cavernous. Your small apartment, always a cozy refuge, now felt like a gilded cage. Every corner, every shared space, echoed with their absence. The coffee maker felt lonely. The sofa seemed to sag where they used to sit.

You were stupid. Utterly, ridiculously stupid. How could you have misinterpreted so much? The touches, the gazes, the late-night talks – they must have just been friendly gestures, a kind of paternal affection for the lonely assistant. You were just the girl who worked in the Tower. You weren't a girlfriend. You certainly weren't their girlfriend. The thought made a hot wave of shame wash over you, followed by a cold, aching misery.

You avoided the common areas, hid in your office, buried yourself in work. When you did see them, their brief visits felt like salt in the wound. They looked happy, well-rested, like they were thriving in their new, private space. And you? You felt like a fool, carrying a broken heart and a heavy shroud of embarrassment.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

One afternoon, a week after they left, you were curled up on the sofa in the now-silent common room. You’d been trying to read a book, but your eyes kept blurring with unshed tears. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the lively chaos that had once filled this space. The ache in your chest was a physical thing, a constant pressure beneath your ribs. You felt utterly, irrevocably alone.

You didn't hear them come in until Steve cleared his throat softly.

Your head shot up, eyes wide and glistening. Steve and Bucky stood there, concern etched on their faces. Bucky's brow was furrowed, his gaze piercing. Steve’s lips were pressed into a thin line. You quickly swiped at your eyes, forcing a shaky smile.

"Hey guys! What a surprise! Just… enjoying the peace and quiet." Your voice cracked a little at the end, betraying you completely.

Bucky took a step closer. "Peace and quiet, huh? Looks more like… whatever that is." He gestured vaguely at your tear-streaked face.

"I… I just had something in my eye," you mumbled, hating the lie.

Steve moved to sit beside you, his presence instantly radiating warmth. "We've been calling you. You haven't answered any of our texts." He paused, his blue eyes searching yours. "Is everything okay? You've been… avoiding us."

The dam burst. The shame, the hurt, the utter humiliation all combined, and you couldn't hold it in anymore. Tears streamed down your face, hot and embarrassing.

"Avoiding you?" you choked out, pressing your hands to your face. "What did you expect? For me to just… happily wave you off until you decided to come back and grace me with your presence?"

Bucky knelt in front of you, his expression shifting from concern to something akin to confusion, then growing horror. "Grace you with our presence? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you two, moving out, finding your own space," you spat, the words laced with a bitterness you didn't know you possessed. "After… after everything! After you treated me like… like I was a part of your life! Like I mattered! And then you just leave, without a word, without even a thought for me!"

Steve’s hand went to your back, rubbing gentle circles, but his face was now a mask of pure shock. "Leave? (Y/N), what are you saying? We didn't leave you. We –"

"Don't!" You pulled away from his touch, your voice rising. "Don't pretend! Don't make me feel even worse than I already do! I get it, okay? I was stupid! I was delusional for thinking that you two, the Captain America and the Winter Soldier, would ever actually… actually want me like that! I'm just the assistant! I'm just… a friend!" Your final words dissolved into a sob.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Steve and Bucky exchanged a look – a wordless conversation that seemed to accelerate from confusion to dawning, gut-wrenching realization.

Bucky was the first to speak, his voice soft, disbelieving. "You… you thought we left you?"

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, his gaze filled with anguish. "Oh, honey. No. Nononono." He pulled you gently into his arms, holding you close as you continued to weep. Bucky, still kneeling, reached out and took your hand, squeezing it tightly.

"We bought the brownstone," Bucky explained, his voice rough with emotion. "We wanted to make it a home for us. For all three of us. We wanted to surprise you."

Your head shot up from Steve's shoulder, your tear-lashed eyes darting between their horrified faces. "Surprise me?"

"Yeah, surprise you," Steve affirmed, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining with unshed tears of his own. "We wanted to get the furniture in, make sure your office was set up, that your favorite tea was in the cupboard. We wanted to come back here and formally ask you to move in with us. To make it our home, together."

Bucky nodded vehemently. "We spent the last week painting your room the color you mentioned you liked. Steve even learned how to put together that ridiculous bookshelf you always wanted." He looked utterly devastated. "We were so excited. We thought… we thought a surprise would be romantic."

The words hit you like a wave – not of sorrow, but of absolute, overwhelming relief. And then, a fresh surge of embarrassment, hot and painful. You had been so wrong, so completely misguided in your misery.

"Oh god," you whispered, burying your face in your hands again, but this time, a shaky laugh escaped you. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I thought… I thought I'd just imagined everything. That I'd made it all up in my head."

Steve pulled your hands away from your face, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears. "Never. Never, sweetheart. We love you. We have since… since we realized we couldn't imagine a life without you in it."

Bucky leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "You're our girl, (Y/N). Always have been. Always will be. And our home isn't complete without you in it." He looked at Steve, then back at you, a hopeful plea in his eyes. "So, when we came to ask you earlier, before we realized… will you move into the brownstone with us? Will you make our house a home?"

You looked at their earnest, loving faces, at the genuine remorse and boundless affection in their eyes. The ache in your chest was gone, replaced by a soaring lightness. The fear, the shame, it all dissipated. All that was left was overwhelming, joyous certainty.

A watery smile broke across your face. "Yes," you breathed, a tear of pure happiness tracing a path down your cheek. "Yes, a thousand times yes."

Steve let out a relieved laugh, pulling you into a crushing hug, Bucky joining in, his metal arm carefully wrapping around you. You were sandwiched between them, right where you belonged, their warmth and love a tangible, undeniable force.

"We are so, so sorry," Steve murmured into your hair.

"It was a terrible plan," Bucky added, nuzzling your temple. "Next time, we'll just talk to you."

You laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that echoed in the quiet common room. "Next time, absolutely. But for now," you pulled back just enough to look at them, "can we go see our home?"

Their smiles were blinding, a promise of a future filled with love, laughter, and finally, no more unspoken misunderstandings. You had found your home, not just in a brownstone, but in the hearts of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[savemydarlings]

A Lifetime, Not A Moment

The familiar scent of stale pizza, cheap beer, and Eddie’s eternally unwashed denim jacket clung to the air in his trailer, a comforting, almost sacred perfume that had steeped into your very being over the years. You were sprawled across his worn sofa, a D-20 dice clutched loosely in your hand, while Eddie, perched on the edge of the coffee table, animatedly described the harrowing encounter his party had just faced with a particularly nasty displacer beast.

You’d known him since you were fourteen and he was fifteen. You, a gangly, introverted freshman, and him, the enigmatic, wild-haired sophomore who somehow managed to be both terrifying and incredibly kind. He’d found you crying alone behind the bleachers after a particularly brutal social studies class, and instead of walking away, he’d sat down and offered you his last cigarette (which you politely declined, of course). From that day on, you were inextricably linked. Best friends. Confidantes. The unlikeliest duo in Hawkins, Indiana.

He was in his third round of senior year, a fact he often joked about, claiming he was simply too dedicated to leaving you behind. You, on the other hand, were a first-timer, navigating the bewildering halls of your final year, a year that felt both endless and terrifyingly finite. Especially terrifying because it meant Eddie would, inevitably, graduate. And you? You had been hopelessly, irrevocably, agonizingly in love with him since that very first year.

Every shared laugh, every late-night conversation about bands no one else understood, every conspiratorial glance exchanged across the cafeteria – they were all tiny, exquisite tortures. Your love was a secret, a fragile, trembling thing you kept locked away, convinced that acknowledging it would shatter the delicate ecosystem of your friendship. You were terrified of losing him, even if it meant never truly having him.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“And then,” Eddie’s voice snapped you back, his eyes wide with mock horror, “just when we thought we had it cornered, the damn thing teleported behind Gareth, nearly ripped his head clean off!” He leaned back, a triumphant grin spreading across his face, his dark eyes sparkling.

You laughed, a genuine, unforced sound. “You always know how to make D&D sound like a real-life horror movie.”

He shrugged, picking up his guitar and strumming a few distorted chords. “It is real-life horror, my friend. The imagination is a powerful beast. Speaking of beasts…” His gaze, which had been playful, suddenly softened, lingering on you. The air in the trailer, usually thick with the comfortable hum of shared space, grew heavy, charged with something new.

You felt your cheeks warm under his intense stare. This wasn't the usual friendly Eddie look. This was... different. Your heart, always a loyal conspirator in your crush, started to hammer against your ribs.

He lowered the guitar, placing it carefully on the floor beside him. He shifted closer on the coffee table, his knees almost touching yours. Your breath hitched. “You know,” he began, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual theatricality, “you’re really somethin’, you know that?”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you talking about, Munson?” you managed, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too breathy.

He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, prickling your skin with an awareness you usually suppressed. His gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, and a jolt, like static electricity, shot through you.

“Just… you,” he whispered, his eyes still fixed on your mouth. “Always so damn smart. Always seeing through my bullshit. Always there.”

The unspoken words hung in the air, a palpable tension stretching between you. Your mind raced, a chaotic whirlwind of hope and despair. Was this it? Was he finally seeing you? Or was this just a late-night, emotionally charged moment of friendship?

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you couldn’t. Your body was screaming, yes, please, yes. Your eyes fluttered closed as his breath ghosted over your lips, warm and sweet, smelling faintly of stale beer and mint.

Then, his lips were on yours.

It was soft at first, a hesitant question, a tentative exploration. But you answered with every ounce of pent-up longing you possessed. You kissed him back with an urgency that surprised even yourself, your hands flying up to cup his face, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened instantly, his mouth opening, molding against yours, a fervent declaration in itself.

A wave of euphoria washed over you, so potent it made your head spin. This was real. This wasn't a dream. Eddie Munson was kissing you, and you were kissing him back, and it was everything you had ever wanted.

His hands moved from your face, one tracing the line of your jaw, the other slipping around your waist, pulling you off the sofa and onto his lap. You gasped into the kiss, wrapping your legs around him, your fingers tangling in his long, soft hair. The world outside the trailer faded away, leaving only the two of you, the fervent press of lips, the rising heat, the frantic beat of your mingled hearts.

The kiss grew more fervent, more demanding. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a fiery path in their wake. Your head fell back, a soft moan escaping your throat as his hand slid under your shirt, his fingers brushing against your skin. You arched into his touch, lost in the intoxicating haze of pure sensation. This was it. This was happening. After all these years, it was finally happening, and it was glorious.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes half-lidded, dark and intense as they met yours. A guttural growl vibrated in his chest as his hand moved lower, pushing up your shirt, his thumb brushing the lace of your bra. His gaze was hungry, primal, and for a moment, a flicker of something close to fear, or maybe just overwhelming awe, went through you. But it was quickly drowned out by the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of his touch, the intoxicating thrill of desire.

"God, you’re so beautiful," he breathed, his voice rough with passion. His hand slipped further beneath your shirt, exploring the curve of your side, moving towards the clasp of your bra. He leaned in, pressing a hot kiss to your neck again, just beneath your ear. And then, his voice low and gravelly, he whispered, "You're just good for this, aren't you? A real slut."

The words hit you like a physical blow.

"A slut."

The world, which had just moments ago been spinning with intoxicating promise, slammed to a screeching halt. The heat in your veins turned to ice. His touch, which had been electrifying, suddenly felt invasive, predatory. The intoxicating haze evaporated, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.

Just good for this.

The phrase echoed in your mind, a cruel, mocking refrain. All the years of unspoken longing, the quiet devotion, the fervent dream of something real, something deep, something more than this, shattered into a million sharp pieces. He didn’t see you as the girl who loved him, the girl who understood his deepest fears and wildest dreams. He saw you as… a slut. Someone cheap, easy, just for a moment of passion.

Your body tensed. Every muscle locked. The elation drained out of you, replaced by a wave of crushing humiliation and a terrifying, bone-deep fear. This wasn’t just sex for you. It had never been just sex. It was everything. It was him. And he had just reduced you to a conquest, a body.

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"I... I can't," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper, thick with sudden tears.

Eddie pulled back instantly, his eyes losing their passion-hazed look, replaced by confusion. "What? What is it? What's wrong?" He looked genuinely bewildered, his hand still lingering on your bare skin.

You flinched away from his touch as if burned, scrambling off his lap. The movement was clumsy, desperate. You fumbled for your shirt, pulling it down with trembling hands, your fingers shaking as you tried to button it. Your vision blurred with unshed tears, but you pushed them back fiercely. You wouldn't cry here. Not in front of him.

"I said, I can't," you repeated, your voice a little stronger, though it still wobbled precariously. You were pulling your jeans back on, your movements jerky and uncoordinated.

He was sitting up now, concern etched on his face, his brows furrowed. "Hey, hey, wait. What happened? Talk to me." He reached for you, but you recoiled, taking another step back.

"No," you said, shaking your head, your eyes fixed on a point just past his shoulder, unable to meet his gaze. The words were tumbling out now, raw and painful, fueled by the humiliation and heartbreak. "This isn't… this isn't what I want." You pulled your shirt straight, tucking it in, forcing yourself to look composed, even as your insides screamed.

"What do you mean, 'not what you want'?" Eddie's voice was softer now, tinged with a genuine confusion that only twisted the knife deeper. "I thought… I thought we were…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

You finally looked at him, your eyes brimming. "I don't want to be a slut, Eddie." The word felt like acid on your tongue. "I don't want this to be just sex for you. Because it's not just sex for me." Your voice cracked. "It never would be with you."

His eyes widened, and he seemed to deflate slightly, a shadow passing over his face.

"I want to be your girlfriend," you blurted out, the dam finally breaking. "I want… I want you to want me like that. To want me. Not just... this." Your voice was barely above a whisper now. The final, most terrifying confession escaped your lips, a desperate plea. "I love you, Eddie."

The words hung in the air, heavy and fragile, like a glass ornament about to shatter.

Eddie froze. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. His eyes, usually so expressive, were wide, unblinking, fixed on you. He looked utterly stunned. Shocked.

You watched his face, searching for any flicker of understanding, any hint of recognition of the depth of your feelings. But you saw nothing but that blank, stunned expression. And in that moment, in the crushing silence, you saw it as rejection. As horror. As confirmation that you had just laid bare your soul and been utterly, completely, foolishly rejected.

The last flicker of hope died.

"Right," you whispered, forcing a hollow laugh. Your hands were still shaking, but you managed to grab your purse from the floor. "I… I should go."

Still, he said nothing. He just sat there, frozen, watching you.

You turned, fumbling with the doorknob, your heart a raw, bleeding wound in your chest. The sound of the latch clicking shut behind you was the only sound in the trailer as you stepped out into the cool night air. You walked quickly, almost running, across the gravel drive to your car, desperate to escape, to breathe, to simply get away from the wreckage of your heart.

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You scrambled into the driver's seat, shoving the key into the ignition with a frantic hand. Your vision was blurring, finally giving way to the tears you’d been fighting so hard. You jammed the key, trying to start the engine, but your hands were slick with sweat and tears, and you couldn't quite manage it. You threw your head back against the headrest, letting out a choked sob, trying to wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, a futile effort to clear your vision so you could just drive.

Then, a frantic rapping on your window.

You gasped, startled, your head snapping up. Eddie. He was standing outside your car, winded, his hair a wild mess, shirt half-buttoned, jeans just thrown on. He looked like he’d just sprinted out of the trailer, which he undoubtedly had.

You stared at him through the blurry glass, your heart still in fragments.

He rapped again, more urgently. You slowly rolled down the window.

"Don't you dare drive, you hear me?" he panted, his voice hoarse, his chest heaving. "Not like this. Not crying. Not after what I… what I said."

You averted your gaze, sniffing, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I just want to go home, Eddie."

He reached through the open window, his hand immediately finding yours, his grip firm. "No. You are not going anywhere until we talk." His thumb stroked your knuckles, a familiar, comforting gesture that, paradoxically, only made the tears well up faster. "You think I don't want you as my girlfriend?" he asked, his voice cracking with disbelief and a desperate kind of pleading. "Are you insane? I've been half in love with you since you walked into my life with that stupid D&D rulebook in your hand."

Your head snapped up, your eyes wide with shock. "What?"

"I said," he repeated, his voice gaining strength, his gaze unwavering, "I’ve been in love with you for years." He shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and self-loathing on his face. "That... what I said in there… that was just… sex talk. Stupid, idiotic, wrong sex talk. I wasn’t thinking. I never meant it like that. Not with you. Not ever. God, I know I'm a mess. I should have talked to you. I should have asked. If you were even okay with that kind of... language. I just got carried away. I was just so lost in… in you."

He squeezed your hand, his eyes burning into yours with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "I want you to be my girlfriend. More than anything. I want to take you on dates. I want to hold your hand in public. I want to tell everyone you’re mine. I want to wake up next to you and cook you burnt toast. I want everything with you. I want you. All of you."

You stared at him, your mind reeling. The words were a balm to your shattered heart, slowly, painstakingly beginning to knit it back together. He wasn't disgusted. He wasn't rejecting you. He was… confessing. Reciprocating.

A shaky breath escaped your lips. The tears were still there, but now they felt different – tears of overwhelming relief, of a hope so profound it took your breath away.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice thick.

Eddie blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “Okay?” he repeated, a hint of confusion in his voice. "Just 'okay'?"

You let out a watery laugh, a genuine, joyful sound that felt like sunshine breaking through a storm. You unbuckled your seatbelt, leaning across the console, pulling him closer through the window. "No," you corrected, your eyes shining, your voice soft but firm with absolute certainty. "I love you, Eddie Munson."

His face transformed. The worry lines smoothed out, replaced by a radiant, almost disbelieving smile. He leaned in, his own eyes brimming, and kissed you through the car window, a kiss that was clumsy and desperate and utterly, perfectly real. It tasted of tears and relief and a future finally, gloriously, unfolding.

[savemydarlings]

Fade Into The Background

The rumble of Eddie Munson’s beat-up van was as familiar to you as the beating of your own heart. It was the soundtrack to your mornings, the promise of your evenings. You were a senior at Hawkins High, finally, but Eddie, bless his leather-clad, metal-loving soul, was on his third go-around. He called it "optimizing the senior experience," a joke he always delivered with that lopsided grin and a wink that still made your stomach flutter after all this time. You loved him for his irreverence, his boundless energy, his passionate defense of everything misunderstood, especially you.

Your relationship wasn't a secret, not in Hawkins. You were the quiet, observant one, the steady anchor to his chaotic genius. He adored you, you knew it. He’d write you terrible, wonderful poems on napkin scraps, dedicate Iron Maiden riffs to your "killer smile," and slip you the last bite of his pizza even when he was starving. You felt safe, cherished, seen. And as the new school year rolled in, you felt nothing but contentment.

Then Chrissy Cunningham entered the orbit.

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It started subtly. You were used to the way people treated Eddie – a mix of fear, derision, and awkward avoidance. He was the freak, the leader of the Hellfire Club, the guy who dressed like he was perpetually auditioning for a hair metal band. Chrissy, however, was Chrissy Cunningham. Head cheerleader, quintessential all-American girl, sweetheart of Hawkins High. She didn't treat him with fear or derision. She treated him with… kindness.

You first noticed it in the hallway, a casual, almost accidental bump. Chrissy dropped her books. Before you could even move, Eddie was there, kneeling, gathering them with surprising gentleness. Chrissy straightened up, her bright blonde hair falling over her shoulder, and she smiled at him. A genuine, soft smile. “Oh, thank you, Eddie,” she said, her voice like wind chimes. And Eddie – your Eddie – actually fidgeted, a flush creeping up his neck. He stammered something about it being no problem, then practically tripped over his own feet getting away. You simply watched, a faint, unfamiliar prickle of unease tickling your spine.

It continued. In the cafeteria, she’d nod at him. In the library, if they were both there, she’d offer a small, polite greeting. And Eddie, the king of dramatic declarations and over-the-top gestures, would become strangely subdued, almost shy around her. He’d straighten his shirt, run a hand through his perpetually wild hair, and choose his words with unusual care. You saw him watching her, a new glint in his eye, a fascination you hadn't seen before, at least not directed at anyone else since he’d first looked at you that way.

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You tried to ignore it. You told yourself it was just novelty. Chrissy Cunningham was being nice to him. It was probably disarming for him, a pleasant surprise. But the pleasant surprise lingered. It grew. He started to gravitate towards spaces where she might be. He’d linger after class, ostensibly to talk to his Dungeon Master friends, but his gaze would drift if Chrissy passed by. He’d laugh a little louder if she was within earshot, make an extra effort to seem cool, or witty, or just… more.

You felt a shift in his attention. It wasn't overt neglect at first, but a subtle thinning, like a connection stretching taut. His hand would still find yours in the hallway, his arm would still wrap around your waist, but the warmth felt… fractionally less intense. His eyes, when they met yours, sometimes seemed a little distant, preoccupied.

You swallowed the bitter taste of jealousy. You hated it. You hated yourself for feeling it. Chrissy was sweet. She wasn't doing anything wrong. She was kind to everyone, and yes, that included Eddie. And she was kind to you too. She’d compliment your sweater, ask about your weekend, always with that genuine, effervescent charm. How could you be angry at her? It wasn't her fault Eddie was getting his head turned.

You told yourself it was your fault. What were you lacking? Were you not exciting enough? Not pretty enough? Not… Chrissy enough? You found yourself scrutinizing your reflection in the mirror, pulling at your clothes, wishing for something more vibrant, something that would hold his gaze. You tried to be more engaging, to laugh louder at his jokes, to initiate more conversations, to be the person he fell in love with all over again. But it felt forced, a performance. And it didn't seem to work.

He was late picking you up more often. He’d forget little things you’d told him. His attention during your conversations would wander, his eyes scanning the room, as if looking for someone else. You’d catch him smiling to himself, a light, dreamy smile, and you knew, with a sickening certainty, who he was thinking about. You'd ask him about his day, and he'd launch into a detailed account of some trivial interaction with Chrissy in the hall, or how she'd asked him about a band. He'd barely mention anything else. You'd nod, feigning interest, a dull ache settling in your chest.

You wanted to scream, to lash out, to demand his full attention. But you didn’t. You couldn't. You didn’t want to be the nagging girlfriend, the jealous shrew. You didn't want to drive him further away with your insecurities. So you bottled it up. You smiled when he talked about Chrissy. You offered noncommittal hums when he seemed to forget you were there. You felt like you were shrinking, becoming invisible, fading into the background of his life while Chrissy, bright and sparkling, took center stage.

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The breaking point arrived, as these things often do, in a mundane setting: the school hallway, right outside the gym. You were waiting for Eddie, who was supposed to be meeting you after his final class. You saw him leaning against the lockers, laughing, his head thrown back. And beside him, her blonde hair shimmering under the fluorescent lights, was Chrissy. They were talking animatedly, close, their shoulders almost touching.

You felt a familiar stab of pain, but you kept your expression neutral as you approached. You were about ten feet away when a couple of Chrissy’s cheerleading friends walked past. One of them, a girl named Stacy, giggled and nudged Chrissy, a playful glint in her eye.

“Look at you two,” Stacy cooed, loud enough for you to hear. “Always together now, huh? You and your new boyfriend, Chrissy.”

The words struck you like a physical blow. You stopped dead. Boyfriend. She called him her boyfriend. Your breath hitched.

Eddie, who had been mid-laugh, froze. His head snapped towards Stacy, his eyes widening. He looked utterly bewildered, then horrified. “Whoa, wait,” he stammered, holding up his hands. “Stacy, no, that’s not—”

Chrissy, too, had stiffened. Her eyes, usually so bright, softened with a flicker of concern as they darted past Eddie to land on you. Your carefully constructed mask of composure wavered. You could feel the tremor starting in your hands, the sudden blur of your vision.

Chrissy quickly stepped forward, putting a hand on Stacy’s arm. “Stacy, no! That’s completely wrong,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. She shot a pointed look at Eddie, then back at Stacy. “Eddie is… he’s lovely, but he’s not my boyfriend. He’s with… he’s with her.” She gestured towards you, her gaze fixing on you with an unspoken apology.

Eddie’s head whipped around. His eyes locked onto yours, and in that instant, you saw everything: the slow dawning of realization, the gut-wrenching shame, the sudden, stark horror of what he had done. He saw the blankness in your eyes, the tremor in your lips, the way your shoulders slumped. He saw the quiet, profound hurt that you had so fiercely hidden, now laid bare.

His face drained of color. He looked from you to Chrissy, then back to you, as if seeing you for the first time in weeks. The laughter, the charm, the playful energy all vanished, replaced by a raw, naked guilt.

“Oh, God,” he whispered, barely audible. “Oh, God, (Y/N).”

Chrissy, seeing the profound impact of the words, gently squeezed Eddie’s arm. Her gaze was steady, unwavering. “Eddie,” she said, her voice dropping to a serious tone. “You need to fix this. Now. Before you lose her completely.” She gave him a small, encouraging push. Her eyes met yours one last time, a silent message of empathy passing between you, before she turned and walked away with her friends, leaving you and Eddie standing in the echo of Stacy’s unwitting pronouncement.

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Eddie didn't move for a moment, his gaze still fixed on you, a desperate plea in his eyes. You couldn't hold his stare. You simply turned, a silent, almost imperceptible turn, and started walking away, blindly, towards the nearest exit. You heard him call your name, a frantic, desperate sound, but you didn't stop. You just needed to get away, to breathe, to crumble in private.

He didn't follow you right then. You got into your car, your hands shaking so badly you could barely get the key in the ignition. You drove home on autopilot, tears blurring your vision, but still not truly falling, held back by some residual, stubborn pride.

You were halfway through pouring yourself a glass of water when the front door burst open. Eddie. He looked disheveled, wild, his eyes wide and frantic. His hair was even more of a mess than usual, as if he’d been running his hands through it over and over.

“(Y/N)!” he gasped, crossing the living room in two hurried strides. He stopped in front of you, his chest heaving. “Oh, God, (Y/N), I am so, so sorry.”

His voice cracked. He reached for you, his hands hovering uncertainly. You flinched, almost imperceptibly, but enough for him to notice. He dropped his hands.

“I… I didn’t… I never… Oh, God, what have I done?” He looked genuinely aghast, his eyes full of self-loathing. “That girl… calling Chrissy my girlfriend… it was like a punch to the gut. Like a bucket of ice water. Like someone slapped me awake. I saw your face, (Y/N). I saw it. And it just… God, it broke me. I swear to you, Chrissy and I are just… she’s just nice. And I was such a complete, utter, pathetic idiot that I let myself get carried away by the attention. I liked that she didn’t treat me like a freak. I liked feeling… normal for a second. But it never meant anything like that. It never meant anything more than a fleeting, stupid moment of ego.”

He took a shaky breath, his gaze pleading. “I’ve been such a goddamn fool. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself, in this… this stupid, fleeting thing, that I completely lost sight of you. Of us. Of what I have. And I have so much. I have you. And I’ve been taking you for granted. Ignoring you. Making you feel like… like you’re not enough. And that is the worst thing I could ever do to you because you are everything.”

He finally reached for you again, his hands gently cupping your face. His thumbs brushed away imaginary tears. “I love you, (Y/N),” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you more than anything. More than D&D, more than metal, more than my van, more than life itself. And I’ve been so incredibly, unforgivably stupid. Please, please tell me you can forgive me.”

The dam broke. The carefully constructed wall you had built, brick by painful brick, shattered into a million pieces. The tears you had held back for weeks, the silent hurt, the gnawing insecurity, all came flooding out in a torrent. You didn't just cry; you sobbed. Deep, ragged, gut-wrenching sobs that shook your entire body.

Your knees buckled, and Eddie instinctively caught you, pulling you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe, not that you cared. Your face was buried in his shoulder, your tears soaking his leather vest.

Through your raw, hiccuping sobs, you managed to push out the words that had haunted you, the questions that had twisted your heart into knots.

“What… what do you want me to do?” you gasped, your voice broken and thin. “What do I… what do I need to be? Do I need to be more… exciting? Prettier? More like Chrissy? Tell me, Eddie! Just tell me what to do to make me better for you! So you won’t… so you won’t look for more! So you won’t look… away.”

The moment the words left your lips, you felt Eddie stiffen. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at your face, his eyes wide with a new, profound anguish. Your question, born of your deepest insecurity, hit him harder than any accusation could have. He saw the self-blame, the crushing belief that you were the problem, that you were not enough.

His own eyes welled up, mirroring your pain. He shook his head slowly, fiercely, his hands cupping your face again, tracing the tear tracks on your cheeks.

“No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, thick with emotion. “No, no, no, (Y/N). Don’t you ever ask me that again. Don’t you ever let those thoughts into your head.”

He pulled you back against him, holding you tighter than before, as if he could physically shield you from your own doubts. He buried his face in your hair, pressing kisses to your scalp, your temple.

“You don’t have to change anything,” he murmured, his voice rumbling against your ear. “You are perfect. Absolutely, undeniably perfect just the way you are. The problem wasn’t you. It was me. I was a goddamn fool, a self-absorbed idiot. I got distracted by something shiny and new, and I let it blind me to the gold I already had. The treasure I have. And that’s you. It was never you, (Y/N). Never, ever you.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searing into yours, full of desperate conviction. “I want you. Only you. The quiet you, the thoughtful you, the ‘gets my dumb metal jokes’ you, the beautiful, incredible, steady, utterly irreplaceable you. I was stupid. So incredibly, unbelievably stupid. And I swear to you, I will spend every single day making it up to you. I will spend every day reminding you, showing you, proving to you that you are my entire world. That you are more than enough. You are everything.”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “I love you, (Y/N),” he whispered again, his voice raw with both regret and a renewed, fierce devotion. “I love you. And I am so, so sorry.”

His sincerity, his genuine remorse, slowly began to penetrate the fog of your pain. The sobs began to subside, replaced by shaky breaths. You clung to him, your hands fisted in the back of his vest, letting his unwavering presence, his desperate love, begin the slow, arduous process of mending your shattered heart. He held you, stroking your hair, whispering reassurances, never letting go. And for the first time in weeks, you felt a fragile flicker of hope, nestled amongst the lingering ache. He had seen his mistake. He had come back. And he wasn't letting go.

[savemydarlings]

Eddie Munson Masterlist:

'86 baby

Fade Into The Background

A Lifetime, Not A Moment

[savemydarlings]

'86 baby

The fluorescent lights of the Hawkins High School hallway hummed with an almost malicious cheerfulness, casting a sickly yellow glow on the worn linoleum. Another senior year. For most, it was a celebratory culmination, a countdown to freedom. For you, it was a shared journey, albeit one on a path less traveled. Your hand found Eddie’s, his calloused fingers lacing with yours, a silent anchor in the chaos of lockers and hurried footsteps. He was your chaos, your anchor, your everything.

You remembered the first time he’d confessed his greatest fear: not repeating senior year, but repeating it alone. You’d already been a star in your own right – an A-student, scholarship material, the kind of person teachers cited as an example. But then there was Eddie. His mind, vast and intricate, was simply not designed for the rigid confines of the academic system. He learned in riffs, in solos, in the dark, smoky haze of the Hellfire Club basement, not from textbooks.

When midterm results came out, you saw the tell-tale slump of his shoulders, the frustrated clench of his jaw as he crumpled the slip of paper. You didn’t need to ask. You knew. He was going to repeat. The thought of him walking that stage a year after you, alone, watching you disappear into college life while he remained tethered to Hawkins High, twisted your gut. That night, lying awake, listening to the crickets outside your window, a radical, almost terrifying thought took root. A plan so outlandish, so utterly you in its quiet, fierce devotion, that it both exhilarated and scared you.

You were going to fail with him.

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It wasn't easy. You were a creature of habit, of excellence. Your brain, trained for years to absorb, analyze, and excel, fought against the deliberate mediocrity you were now aiming for. First, it was the subtle shifts: "accidentally" forgetting to turn in homework assignments, answering just enough questions on quizzes to avoid suspicion but not enough to ace them, meticulously choosing study materials that were marginally off-topic for essays. You had to master the art of the perfect C-, the art of looking like you were trying your best but just falling short.

Your teachers, bless their hearts, were bewildered. Mr. Harrison from Chemistry pulled you aside after class, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you alright, (Y/N)? Your scores have dipped considerably. Is everything okay at home?" You’d offered a vague, practiced smile, blaming "senioritis" and the general stress of college applications. Ms. Davies, your English teacher, a kind woman who’d praised your essays for years, tried to offer extra credit, hinting at a potential scholarship nomination if you just "buckled down." You’d politely declined, claiming too many commitments, too much on your plate. It felt like a betrayal to them, to the diligent student you’d always been, but it felt like a silent, desperate act of loyalty to Eddie.

The relief, when the final grades for the semester trickled in, was immense. You’d done it. The "F" on your report card, alongside a smattering of D's and a strategic C, wasn't a mark of shame; it was a badge of honor, a secret pact. It was the quiet confirmation that your plan had worked. You were officially repeating senior year.

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The guidance counselor's office, Mrs. O’Donnell’s domain, was a sterile purgatory of beige walls and motivational posters. Every senior had their mandatory sit-down, a final check-in before the grand release. Today, however, it felt less like a stepping stone and more like a final judgment. Your turn was first.

You sat opposite Mrs. O’Donnell, her kind, tired eyes scanning the open folder on her desk. "Well, (Y/N)," she began, her tone a mix of regret and professional detachment, "this is… unexpected. Your grades this semester are a significant departure from your usual performance. We’ve reviewed your file, spoken with your teachers. It seems you haven’t quite met the requirements for graduation this year."

You nodded, a serene calm settling over you. You knew. You’d engineered it. "Yes, Mrs. O’Donnell," you said, your voice steady. "I understand." There was no tremor in your hands, no hint of the despair she likely expected. She tried to soften the blow, talking about summer school options, avenues for recovery, but you just listened, already knowing your path. You politely reiterated your understanding and exited the office, leaving her with a puzzled frown.

Eddie was slumped in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside, his knees practically touching his chin, his metal-laden fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on his thigh. He looked up as you emerged, his eyes, usually so vibrant, clouded with a familiar anxiety. He offered a weak, questioning smile. You offered a slight, knowing nod, a silent message passing between you. 

Then it was his turn. You watched him push himself up, his denim jacket creaking, and disappear into the beige-walled purgatory. The door clicked shut, leaving you alone in the hallway, the fluorescent hum suddenly deafening. Your heart hammered a frantic drum solo against your ribs. This was it. The moment of truth. You knew his outcome, but not his reaction.

Minutes stretched into an eternity. You paced a small square of linoleum, the weight of your secret heavy on your tongue. What would he say? Would he be angry? Hurt? Relieved? You knew him, knew his fierce independence, his desperate need to not be a burden.

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Finally, the door opened. Eddie emerged, his shoulders slumped even further than before, his head bowed. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, a deep sigh escaping his lips. He looked utterly deflated, defeated. He walked towards you slowly, each step heavy with the news he carried.

"Hey," he mumbled, stopping a few feet away, unable to meet your gaze. His voice was rough, laced with a familiar self-loathing. "So, uh… yeah. You know." He finally looked up, his eyes a swirling mix of frustration and shame. "I… I didn’t make it. Again. I’m stuck here another year." The words came out in a rush, a bitter confession. He braced himself for your disappointment, for the inevitable widening gap between your futures.

You reached out, gently taking his hand, your fingers curling around his. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the cold dread that had gripped him. "I know, Eddie," you said softly, your thumb tracing patterns on his knuckles. You saw his eyes widen, a flicker of confusion. "Because I didn't make it either."

His head snapped up, a mixture of disbelief and dawning horror contorting his features. "What?" he practically barked, pulling his hand away as if burned. "What in the hell are you talking about, (Y/N)? You’re the A-star student! You’re the one with the perfect GPA, the scholarships, the big plans! You can’t just… what do you mean you didn’t make it?"

His voice rose with each word, growing louder, angrier. He started pacing, a whirlwind of frustrated energy. "Did I – did I tell you my grades were bad? Did I somehow infect you with my academic ineptitude? Is this some kind of sick joke, (Y/N)? You think you’re being funny? You failed?" He spun to face you, his eyes blazing, the anger a shield against vulnerability. "Oh my god. You did this… for me?! Didn’t you?!" His voice cracked with a terrible accusation. "You threw it all away! You let me drag you down into my own personal hell! I knew it! I knew I was going to ruin everything for you! I told you, didn’t I? I’m a freak, a loser, a dead weight! I told you I’d just pull you down with me, and you didn't listen! You went and did it anyway! You absolute idiot!"

He was furious, not at you, but at himself, at the situation, at the perceived damage he’d inflicted. He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots, his chest heaving.

You stood your ground, letting his tempest rage, waiting for the worst of it to pass. When he finally paused, breathless, eyes wild, you stepped closer. "Eddie," you said, your voice calm and unwavering, cutting through his self-recrimination like a knife. "Stop it. Just stop. You didn't drag me down. You didn't ruin anything. This was my choice. Mine. I didn’t do it because you asked me to. Or because I felt sorry for you. I did it because I was watching you, and I knew what was happening, and the thought of leaving you alone here… it was unbearable."

You reached out again, taking his hands, holding them firm when he tried to pull away. "I’m an A-student, yeah. So, what? Is that my entire identity? A piece of paper with a good grade on it? Is that more important than you? Is that more important than us?" You looked him straight in the eye, willing him to see the sincerity in your gaze. "No. I started thinking. Why should I leave you to face this alone? Why should I walk that stage a year before you, knowing you’re still stuck in this godforsaken building? So, I did what I had to do. And next year, you and I are going to walk that stage together. And we’re going to be so obnoxious about it, the entire faculty is going to regret ever letting us graduate."

A new wave of emotion washed over his face. The anger began to recede, replaced by a deep, aching sadness, and a glimmer of something else – guilty relief, perhaps. "But… your grades," he mumbled, shaking his head, still fixated on your sacrifice. "Your future. You threw it all away for some… some romantic notion. You could have gone anywhere."

"My grades don’t matter," you insisted, stepping closer, your hands moving to cup his face. His skin was warm beneath your palms. "Not in the long run. My future… my future is with you, Eddie Munson. I love you. I want you for life. And frankly, a year isn't going to make a damn bit of difference in the grand scheme of things. I didn’t need to do it, no. But I wanted to. I didn’t want you to be alone. Not now. Not ever."

The last remnants of his anger dissolved, leaving him raw and exposed. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears, reflecting the fluorescent lights in shimmering streaks. He was still upset, deeply, profoundly upset that you had done this, that he was the cause of such a monumental shift in your life. But beneath that upset, there was a vast ocean of relief, a profound gratitude that he couldn't vocalize.

You didn’t give him a chance to. You leaned in, wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a fierce, desperate hug. He stiffened for a moment, then his arms came up, crushing you against his chest, his face burying in the crook of your neck. You felt the wetness of his tears against your skin, heard the hitch in his breath.

"It’s okay," you whispered, stroking his hair. "We’re okay. We’re going to do this. Together."

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but shining with a new, terrifying light. Then, with a sudden, dramatic flourish, he dipped you, one arm supporting your back, the other cradling your head, his eyes burning into yours. You gasped, half-laughing, half-shocked.

"You are… incredible, (Y/N)," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion, trembling. A tear escaped and traced a path down his cheek. "You are absolutely insane. And I… I don't deserve you. Not one bit." He paused, taking a ragged breath, the determination hardening his gaze. "But I am going to do it. For you. You hear me? I’m going to pass. Next year. We are walking that stage. And then, darling, we are getting the hell out of Hawkins. '86 baby, right? "

He pulled you back up, crushing your lips to his, a kiss that tasted of salt and hope and a future forged in shared defiance. He was crying, still heartbroken by what you’d "given up" for him, the weight of your sacrifice heavy on his soul. But his grip on you was firm, his resolve steely. He was determined to make every missed assignment, every feigned struggle, every single moment of your shared, deliberate failure, worth it. For you. For him. For your wildly, magnificently unconventional love story.

[savemydarlings]

Masterlist:

Marvel

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Steve Harrington

Eddie Munson

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The Rookie