#steve has self esteem issues

[fandoms-in-law]

To the Past Versions

Summary: Steve gets pushed to write letters to his past by Dustin, and then Robin when he isn't nice in the first. It does eventually help him.

Authors note: I am ever confused when words fall easily. I write constantly so it happens often enough, but if I have a prompt I expect to get stuck. Today I did not, happily so.

The idea for this fic: Dear self esteem* as a Steve fic except he's really just writing to memories, wondering when he stopped feeling like he could do anything/be anything

*A sanders sides fic I wrote a while back

/\/\

Attempt 1:

Hey Steve,

So Dustin has it in his head that we all need to write to the past to get mentally healthy or something, sounds like bullshit, which is what you are, so I picked you to write to.

You’re so wrapped up in yourself, you don’t even realise how much of an asshole you are. You Don’t treat Nancy right now, and barely get better after you sleep with her. You’re a complete jackass, who I and everyone I’ve basically ever met hates and that’s without knowing you most of the time.

Literally, I meet people I thought were complete strangers, or maybe classmates I never interacted with, and get told how horrible you are. That’s how bad you are. You’re worse than complete garbage and trust me, I’ve met men like that enough to know.

Get your head out of your ass, stop bullying people for no reason and fucking learn money solves basically nothing. It just lets you pretend the problem isn’t there until you run out of it.

Thanks for nothing, And better grovel for Nancy to help you learn to be better, you useless prick.

Steve.

Attempt 2:

So, somehow Robin found out about my first letter and got mad about it? She’s telling me to right to a past me that I actually like and seems set on doing so until she thinks I’m healthier. There were threats to show it to Dustin involved and I do not want to know how he’d react. He’s already acting oddly, along with the other kids since Robs found it. I think she spoke to them too.

Sorry for the ramble, Steve, hello.

You’ll meet Robin soon so don’t worry over having no clue who she is. The kids have already inserted themselves into your lives and I still agree that you’re better for it.

I think the first time I actually liked myself was because of those kids. For once I wasn’t a Harrington, or a basketball player; I was a guy who could help them, protect them in a way Nancy never let me feel like I had done. (We both know I was the one who won against that demogorgan not her or Jonathan though)

Times are shit for you outside of the kids though, but I miss those days. Even if Billy liked to lord over me that he was king now, it was nice to be in the background at school, and stand a chance of learning in lessons instead of Tommy yanking me into parties or rubbish that I never enjoyed. Heck I even enjoyed a few of the classes that year. Who knew I could be interested in that stuff?

Life gets better though, even if it comes looking like horrid situations sometimes. And the kids will be there nagging you through it all. I love those shitheads.

Keep going.

Steve.

Attempt 3:

Hey Steve,

Erica would have gotten involved regardless. It might be horrible that you and Robin were the ones to do it when she was so young, but I think it was better for her. This last time was the worst and I’m glad she wasn’t trying to understand it all without something to get out of it. You don’t have to carry that guilt forever. At least share some of it with Robin since she was the one who came up with the idea and acted before asking me or Dustin if it was sensible to try.

I wish you had done that ceremonial burning of the scoops outfit though. You and Robs joked about it so much in the weeks after the fire but here I am, with Eddie fucking Munson begging me to wear it again just so he can see the old uniform fully assembled.

Seriously, go burn it now whenever you don’t get a letter from the future appearing

Steve

Attempt 4:

Dear Steve,

Kiddo, you know these people you think are friends aren’t. I wouldn’t call the kids I look after kiddo but somehow it works for 13yr old me. Popularity isn’t friendship, it’s people pretending to like you because they think that’ll get them something; I wish you weren’t so desperate for friendship and connection you fell into it.

This is the last year I remember trying to stop someone insulting another person. You got called a bleeding heart for months and if you even grimace at the worst bullying happening around you Tommy or one of the other people hanging onto you would turn everything onto ‘bleeding heart Harrington’. The poker face you develop because of it still hasn’t been broken when Eddie decides everyone should play cards.

Steve, you have hell coming before you, and despite the monsters and location that matches that name better to most people, for you that is high school and being forced to the top all because you wanted friends. You get through it, you find monsters and discover what real friendship is after all of that. I think someone in history class said something about if you’re going through hell keep going and that’s what you need to do, what I did.

But, kid, still keep trying to be kind when you can. I know it feels precarious, dangerous, to have everyone looking at you and see the bullying they do to anyone shown to be human. I know how scared I felt that it’d turn on me if I refused any of those people I thought were friends too much, but you try, I tried, as much as I could for as long as I could, until I got here.

You’re going to be lonely for a while, Steve, but not forever, I promise you that.

I’ll see you in my reflection when I get stunned by my friends. They’ll find you eventually.

Steve

Attempt 5:

Dear Steve,

I dug out a picture to write this. One mom took just before leaving saying she’d get it developed so she could never forget her darling boy. Two promises broken at once because I found that camera, and the film still inside it a decade later, the picture still undeveloped until I asked Jonathan if he could.

Dustin was right when he read somewhere that writing to our past could help us feel better, but he was wrong too. He suggested times I could write to for stupid things or times following what he thinks are the big traumas, but those are easy. I knew more of the world then, but you’re just a kid, younger than Erica was when I got to know her and needing far more protection than I think she’s ever done.

If Robin had brought you into the back room of Scoops that day I might’ve done the most sensible thing ever and just driven out of Hawkins, you and Dustin packed into the back seat to try and figure out how to survive. Until Mrs Henderson took Dustin back because she loves him so much.

Sometimes it hurts to witness that, because of your year, 8yrs old and absolutely sure I was a big boy who could cope with a few nights home alone because mom wanted to go with father on a short trip. You shouldn’t have been, have needed to be, and for a long time I’ve been sad about that.

Mom and father were home last week and she found the picture, said she didn’t remember getting it developed. I didn’t correct her. Because you were lonely, scared, for so long, and now I’m mad.

I know you get through it, become the best cook to start taking home economics and almost kill yourself mixing cleaning products enough times you didn’t need chemistry class to tell you what makes poisonous gases. You get to become me eventually, but you shouldn’t have. I could never imagine leaving one of the kids I look after home alone in the way you were, and that’s on our parents. They failed you, even before now, but at 8 was the first time you wondered it. You didn’t need to correct yourself then although I know you did. Mom and father failed you.

We make it, and they will realise they’ve been strangers my whole life when they come home to emptied rooms, bills unpaid and no forwarding address. I move out next week to an apartment with friends.

You will have company again.

Steve

Attempt 6:

Your majesty, King Steve,

Eddie is pretty funny and I think I need his flavour of madness right now. Last time I tried to write to you I got mad, at myself more than at you. Then Robin both got mad and started paying attention to how she and everyone talks to me or about who I’ve been. She’s still mad but at herself and others now.

You aren’t good, Steve, but you weren’t as horrible as I began to think. I mean, even at what everyone thinks is my worst I went back to save Nancy. Robin pointed that out to me, sat down and dissected things I was sure I did at my worst, before Nance and I were officially dating.

Some things surprised her and I like knowing that I was a good friend, even to people who weren’t, because you are. You are there giving Carol pudding pots when Tommy ruins hers; there checking no one on the swim or basketball teams gets too hurt by teasing; there trying to make sure everyone claiming to be your friend has what they need.

Those aren’t things a bad person would do, just someone so caught up in protecting themself from the pain of loneliness and isolation that they compromise themself for company. Okay, Robin told me that too, but it tracks.

Most importantly, when I get the chance to be better, to know real connections, I take it. That’s pretty great of you.

Thanks Steve. You take the biggest step for us.

Attempt 7:

To Myself,

It’s been a long journey and I never thought I’d write to myself half so much as I have.

I’ve been popular, lonely, both at once, heartbroken, loved and to hell only to come out fighting. Concussions are far too familiar a sensation and I could probably make do living in the woods with the ways I learnt to cook.

Life is a trip and apparently I don’t get a choice about living it. But in all the letters to our past I’ve written there’s one thing I realised I’ve wanted someone to tell me for years and that’s that it’s okay to mess up. It’s okay if I wasn’t always the nicest person, or that I’m not smart, hardly perfect and have very little will to fight for myself or against other people. I don’t need to be perfect because with the right people we can make a wonderful imperfect family.

To us, Steve. To being myself, as best I know how.

[mugloversonly]

Like so Whatever

This is for @steddiesongfics prompt "songs sang and written by women" I picked Girlfriend by Avril Levine | wc: 1233 | cw: Tommy’s really mean but they break up | rating: G Summary: Eddie's eating dinner with his friends when he overhears a conversation. AO3

Eddie took a bite of his pasta with a grim smile. The rest of the guys don't seem to notice, but the couple next to them have been fighting since they got here. If it could even be called fighting. The guy with freckles has found fault with everything his companion has done. Every word made Eddie's protective instincts wrinkle until his knuckles were white around his fork.

“Seriously, Steve? I know you're not very bright, but there is no way you think filet Mignon and fries is an okay combination. That’s not even mentioning the white wine.” Freckles sneered.

“I like white wine.” The brunette, Steve apparently, shrugged. Eddie felt a pang of sympathy as he watched the guy curl into himself.

“Then order fish.” Freckles said.

“Can we not do this right now? We're celebrating our anniversary.” Steve whispered harshly.

“You're lucky we even have an anniversary.” Freckles snapped.

Eddie wanted to interfere, but when he moved, Jeff shook his head quickly in warning.

“Eddie it's not your business.” He whispered.

“Yeah but that guy's being so mean.” Eddie replied. Jeff laid an arm along the back of Eddie's chair and squeezed his shoulder.

“I know, but going over there might make it worse not better.” Jeff said imploringly. He was right of course, but it still made Eddie’s conscience twitch.

It was then that the couple’s waiter arrived. “I’ll have the rib-eye with a baked potato.” Freckles began. Steve made a sound like he wanted to speak, but freckles talked right over him. “He'll have the salmon with asparagus.” The waiter jotted down the order as quickly as possible and power walked away.

“Tommy, I'm allergic to salmon.” Steve said angrily. “And I hate asparagus.”

The silverware in Eddie's hand bent when he heard that. He looked at Jeff, a fire in his eyes, begging to be let off the leash.

“Go with God.” The man sighed and removed his hand, shaking his head all the while. Eddie nodded in thanks then jumped to his feet. As he approached the couple, he appraised this Tommy fellow and decided if it came down to it, he could take him in a fight. The two men quieted down as Eddie got closer before falling silent as he stopped right next to them.

“Can we help you?” Tommy sneered as he sized Eddie up. Pointedly ignoring him, Eddie slid into the booth next to Steve, throwing his arm over the back of the shared seat.

“Name’s Eddie and you are?” Eddie asked, he overheard it but he didn't want to freak the guy out.

“Steve.” The other man replied confusedly.

“Stevie, can I call you Stevie? Do you like the way this guy talks to you?” He asked.

“Um…what?” Steve replied, tilting his head adorably.

“Hey, mind your own business dick.” Tommy said; Eddie ignored him.

“Because I gotta say sweetheart, unless this is some weird form of foreplay, your boyfriend here is a grade A douche bag. If you were my boyfriend I would never talk to you like that.” Eddie continued, throwing in a flirty smirk for good measure.

“He doesn't mind the way I talk to him. He's too stupid to understand when someone's condescending to him.” Freckles snorted as he looked at Steve. “Isn't that right, baby. There's nothing upstairs.” The tone Tommy used was obviously supposed to make it seem like a joke, but Steve's face fell at the cutting words. “Besides, I'm the only one who can put up with his neediness.” Tommy went on. Steve turned away from them and Eddie saw red.

“He’s not wrong.” Steve mumbled. “I'm an idiot, barely graduated high school, and I only have a job because I work for my dad. I'm clingy and every time I tried to date someone else they didn't stay. Tommy's the only one that stayed.” He said it so quietly but with so much conviction, like he really believed it.

“That settles it.” Eddie stood from the booth, the two men stared at him with different expressions; Steve resigned while Tommy was triumphant. “You need a new boyfriend, this one is useless. Come on.” He stood to the side, waiting. Steve's eyes darted between the two men, hesitantly. “You won't regret it, sweetheart I promise.”

“How do you know?” Steve whispered. With a soft smile, Eddie took Steve's hand, pulling him from the booth.

“I’ll remember you're allergic to salmon and you hate asparagus. I never understood the point of pairing your drink to your food if you don't want to, steak and potatoes is steak and potatoes regardless of the shape of either. And while you're beautiful even when you cry, you're way to gorgeous to be crying over this dickhead.” Eddie said. “I can tell that you deserve so much more, let me give it to you.”

“Okay.” Slowly, a radiant smile spread across Steve's face as he interlocked their fingers. Bringing them up to his lips, Eddie kissed the back of Steve's hand reverently.

“Yeah?” Eddie replied shyly.

“Yeah.” Steve whispered. The two walked hand in hand to the table with Eddie's friends; a nearby waiter brought them an extra chair.

“Hey!” Tommy shouted across the restaurant. “You cannot just walk away! You’ll be nothing without me!” With a shaky breath, Steve sat at Eddie's table, turning his back on his now-ex. Eddie introduced them to his friends and asked the waiter to bring Steve his filet Mignon and fries.

“Let's start dating tomorrow, Stevie. I already don't like that I had to share you with that ass hat, I don't want to share an anniversary with him.” Eddie said as they watched Tommy get escorted out of the restaurant.

“Deal. It wouldn't be the same day anyway, our anniversary was two weeks ago.” Steve replied with a sigh. “He forgot until this morning.”

“Wow dodged a bullet didn't you.” Jeff chimed in.

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

A year and a day later, they returned to the restaurant where they met. Steve ordered white wine with filet Mignon and fries, Eddie ordered pasta with a beer. They traded bites, laughs, and kisses.

When it was time for dessert, they decided to share a piece of cheesecake. As the dish arrived, the chef wrote something in chocolate sauce on the plate. Eddie's eyes widened when he saw the words and he gasped in shock.

“Steve…what the hell?” He whispered. Steve slid from his chair onto one knee and pulled out a velvet box.

“A year and a day ago, I was stuck in a relationship with a guy who made me feel like shit every day and I thought it was the best I would ever get.” Steve began, choking up a little as he spoke. “Then, in one conversation you changed me life so much for the better. You make me feel like I'm worth everything and I'm actually starting to believe it. You're everything to me and I never want to let you go. Will you marry me?” Steve asked. The sounds of the restaurant faded as Steve spoke. With watery eyes and a bright smile, Eddie nodded holding his hand out so Steve could slip the ring on his finger.

“Of course I will, Stevie.” Eddie said, pulling his fiance into a sweet kiss. “Interrupting your date was the best thing I've ever done.”

“I couldn't agree more.” Steve sighed against his lips.

permanent tag list(open):

@katyawriteswhump

[mrsbarnesblog]

I trust you

masterlist ko-fi ao3

Summary: when Bucky comes back from a mission with a knife wound there is only one person who can convince him to get help.

Words count: 3.5k

Warnings: angst and fluff, injury, wounds, low self-esteem, bucky has trust issues and needs a hug, touch starved bucky,

Author’s note: ugh just let me hold my baby and kiss his cute sad face omggg... anyways, idk why I rarely write angsty things, I really wanna do something new, so if you have any ideas let me know! 💘

It was almost eight o'clock in the evening when FRIDAY reported that the guys' quinjet should arrive at the compound within an hour.

Steve, Sam, and Bucky went on another mission to destroy HYDRA almost two weeks ago. As usual, none of you could get any news from them because they couldn't risk giving away their whereabouts.

It was foolish to assume that you weren't worried about them. Especially for one person. Bucky.

You and the former Winter Soldier met about six months ago when Steve and Sam first brought him to the tower. Steve was really worried about his old best friend, so before bringing Bucky to the tower, he talked with the team and asked all of you to give Bucky space.

Of course, you knew who he was from the day Steve found out that Bucky was alive. You have seen hundreds of reports and photographs on TV and on the Internet about The Winter Soldier, a ruthless killer who was always invisible but too damn good at his missions. He is the man who was turned into a weapon against his will.

When Steve introduced him, the whole team just nodded and shared awkward smiles, and Bucky himself kept his eyes on the ground. The whole situation was too intense, and no one, not even the funny and sarcastic Tony Stark, knew what to do or say. You actually thought that it might be rude to just stand there and look at him, as if he was a wild animal. Looking at this shy and uncomfortable-looking man before you, you knew that the smallest thing you could get him was to show that he was welcomed in this tower and that everyone was on his side. So, pushing away your own shyness and nerves, you stepped forward, holding out your right hand.

"Hi, my name is Y/N.  It's nice to meet you. I hope you’ll feel comfortable around here." You offered your warmest and most sincere smile, trying not to show nervousness.

Bucky slowly raised his head, genuinely surprised that anyone else had actually spoken to him besides Steve. It's nice to meet you. When had he heard those words for the last time?

Your eyes met, and you could have sworn all the air was out of your lungs. His eyes were even more beautiful than in those rare, high-quality photographs. He looked truly beautiful, with long hair and blue eyes, even though you could see that he was tired—physically and even more emotionally. You stood for what seemed like an eternity, looking at each other's faces, until Bucky got a little nudge from Steve on the arm.

Only then did his gaze move to your still outstretched arm. He hesitated a bit, unsure if he wanted to be touched or feel someone’s warm skin. It’s been too long since another person wanted to touch him without causing any harm. Even Steve gave him minimal physical contact. Always through the gloves or thick jacket, and Bucky didn’t know the true reason for this—whether it was because Steve cared about his feelings or he just didn't want to do that. But then Bucky looked at you again, and he already knew that you would be his death.

You were so beautiful. Probably the most attractive person he has ever seen. It was still morning, and he assumed that you planned to have a day for yourself because you had no makeup, your hair was a little bit messy, and you looked really comfy in a big sweater and a pair of black leggings. Oh, and he definitely noticed your cute, fluffy pink socks. Your eyes were full of friendliness and comfort, so it made him want to trust you. Your lips curled into a warm smile, and he had no doubt that you wanted to make him feel comfortable on the team.

Bucky lifted the corners of his lips slightly, meeting your eyes again, and held out his right hand to you, still feeling awkward. Especially when the whole team around you watches your interaction too closely.

 "Hi."

When the Quinjet landed on the territory, you couldn't calm your pounding heart. Natasha, who was standing a couple of steps away from you, of course, noticed your condition but didn’t say anything and just sent you a reassuring smile. She knew you'd calm down when Bucky was by your side.

Sam got out first. He looked tired, had a couple of scratches and bruises, but was generally fine.

"Sam!  God, I'm glad you're okay." You said, running closer to him. "How is Bucky? And Steve? Are they okay?" Your worried eyes ran across his face, trying to find answers, but he only pursed his lips and lowered his eyes to the ground.

"Steve’s fine, and Bucky, um... I think you should see it yourself. And I think you need to have a serious talk with this idiot because he doesn't listen to us." Your brows furrowed, but before you could ask anything else, footsteps and stifled moans were heard behind Sam.

It felt like your heart stopped as soon as you saw him. Blood flowed from his temple and lip, and an already darkening bruise adorned his right cheekbone. Your eyes rushed down, trying to find all the damage, and then you saw it. Bucky kept his right hand on his left side. His entire palm was scarlet red as the blood passed through his thick suit and soaked through his fingers. Your mouth opened involuntarily, and your eyes instantly filled with tears.

Of course, this was not his first mission, but he always returned almost without any injuries or with something that quickly healed because of his supersoldier serum. It has never been so bad.

Before you knew it, you were already standing next to him. Tears flowed freely down your face, and you raised your hands up, wanting to touch him, but they froze in the air.

 "Bucky…" You sobbed, looking straight into his eyes.

 "Hello, doll" He smiled reassuringly at you, but you saw how he pressed his teeth together to ease the pain. He didn’t want to scare you.

"Bucky, God, wh-what happened? You need to go to the hospital wing. You’re losing a lot of blood!" You gently took his metal hand, but before you could lead him away, he removed it and moved away a little.

"It's all right, doll.  Nothing that I can't handle on my own. Trust me, I’ve experienced worse."

"Buck, Y/N is right." You notice Steve for the first time because all your attention has been focused on Bucky since he appeared. "That punk cut you pretty deep; it needs to be stitched up."

"You know, I never go to the hospital wing." He purses his lips awkwardly, looking down.

Of course. Of course you knew it. Everyone in the tower knew that the Winter Soldier didn't like being touched or visiting doctors, and he had never asked for any kind of help. He always limited himself to a short handshake or a pat on the back from his best friend.

But you also knew that Bucky couldn't take off his clothes in front of anyone. Too many scars from bullets, knives, and other things that HYDRA used to torture him He confessed this to you one evening when you were sitting in the dark in the common room after his nightmare.

In those six months, you got close enough to him that he trusted you to sit with him in the stillness of the night and share his fears. But he still avoided touching and, of course, did not want to show his body to anyone. Even you. Especially to you.

You were one of the few good things in his life. Someone who genuinely wanted to spend time with him, who wasn’t afraid of him, and who was always kind and supportive. Bucky didn't want to lose you. And he knew that if you ever saw him with those ugly marks all over his body, you would run away without looking back. Because who would like it?

The hand that took hundreds of lives. The hand that was forever connected to his body left a big reminder that he was, in fact, just an experiment that went too well. He often looked at his shoulder in the mirror with anger and despair, wanting to get rid of this mixture of scars and torn skin. Obviously, when HYDRA put that prosthetic on him, they didn't care much about looks or pain, so they just hooked it on the way they did.

"Bucky, please listen to me." You sobbed, moving closer to him again. "I know you're afraid to go there, but please, you have to do it, otherwise, you'll lose too much blood or just get an infection." You hugged yourself with your hands as your body began to tremble with concern for the person in front of you. "It can leave a big scar." You whispered and saw that Bucky’s jaw clenched again. You didn’t want him to think that there was something wrong with having scars, but you knew that it was emotionally too hard for him to deal with them.

"I'm sorry, doll, but I can't," he pursed his lips, shaking his head, "you know I can't do it."

"Bucky…" you whispered as more tears started flooding your face. You were so focused on Bucky that you didn't even pay attention to your friends, who stood aside and pretended not to eavesdrop on your conversation.

"Don't cry because of me, doll, please, you don't have to cry." Bucky's voice lowered to a whisper as he worked up the courage to use his thumb to wipe a tear from your right cheek with a metal finger.

You took advantage of the opportunity, grabbing his metal wrist and pressing his hand closer against your cheek.

 "Please, Bucky. Then let's go to your room. I can help you if you don't want to undress there.

"I don't think it's a good idea either, doll.  You don't need to see it."

"James," you focused on his eyes, rubbing small circles with your thumb into his wrist, "it'll be alright, I promise. I'm not afraid of you. I won’t leave. I'll take care of you. Please do it for me."

You were hurt by his gaze. You've seen a thousand thoughts go through that head. Doubt, fear, uncertainty, and pain. He couldn't lose you. Couldn't lose what you had. Even if he wanted so much more, he was content just being around you. He couldn't lose you to a damn ugly piece of metal attached to him.

But you looked at him like your life depended on it. Tears were still running down your cheeks. You were hurt because of him. But you refused to give up and let his self-doubt win this fight. You continued to gently massage his metal wrist as you placed a light kiss on it. And he could no longer resist you.

"Fine."

"It's better if we do this in the bathroom," you said as you closed the door to Bucky's room behind you. You quickly walked past him, going into the bathroom and pulling out the first aid kit you knew was in the bottom drawer. You felt comfortable being a little bit bossy here, and Bucky didn’t mind it.

He quietly followed you, watching you with an unsure face. His blood was still soaking through his arm, but that didn't bother him as much as the fact that he'd have to undress in front of you and that at some point you would touch him.

Once all the necessary things were ready, you turned to face Bucky, already preparing to help him out. But as soon as your hands went up to help him unbuckle his suit, he staggered back, and you froze with your hands in the air. For a few seconds, you silently looked into each other's eyes, then you moved, trying to understand his reaction, and what you saw made your heart ache.

His brows were slightly furrowed, and the corners of his lips were turned down. His eyes always told you everything that he tried to hide, and right now they told you how scared and insecure Bucky actually was.

"I don't think I can do it." Bucky whispered softly, casting his eyes down in shame.

"Hey James, look at me," you said, taking his face in your hands. "I'm your friend, you know? I won't hurt you. I won’t judge you. I won't do anything against your will. But I need to help you because I can see how much pain you're in," you sighed, running your fingers over his cheekbones. "I know it's hard. And I know you're scared or shy, but I'm here for you. None of this scares me, and I'll be as gentle with you as I can, okay? You can tell me if it becomes too much, and I'll stop. I promise."  You could see the tears forming in his eyes, and you couldn't help feeling the pain that this beautiful man in front of you had been without care and affection for so long.

Bucky nodded slightly, giving you permission to continue.

"I’ll clean up your wound on the ribs, and then we can take care of your face." You carefully removed your hands from his, now placing them on the clasps of his suit. You opened them one by one, and when you finally got to the last one, you helped Bucky carefully remove that piece of clothing. Next on the way was a stretchy long-sleeve shirt, and by glancing at the wound, you could see that all the tissue around it was completely covered in blood.

"So, now I'm going to carefully lift up the shirt so you can take it off and not bother your wound too much, okay?" you asked, running your eyes over Bucky's face to understand his emotions. He took a deep breath, as if preparing for the worst, but nodded anyway.

You started to slowly lift up his shirt, helping Bucky pull his hands out one by one, and then tossed that no longer needed rag into the bathtub.

"Oh god," you muttered softly, looking at the wound that seemed to be even bigger now.

Bucky thought that you said it about his appearance in general, so he lifted his head up to the ceiling to stop angry tears from falling.

Come on, Buck, we need to sew this up so it doesn't leave a scar. Do you think you can sit on the counter next to the sink?" You looked at Bucky, but you couldn't meet his eyes. You knew that he was at the edge, his body trembled a little bit, but he still listened to you and silently jumped up on the free space near the sink.

"Bucky," you said quietly, trying to be as gentle as you could. "I see you right now, and I’m not going anywhere, you hear me?" You put your hand back on his face, making him meet your eyes. Before you could think, you placed your right hand on his chest, causing his eyes to instantly widen in surprise. His skin was very warm and silky, even though there were a lot of scars from different conditions. You gently moved your hand, showing Bucky that you’re not afraid, that you’re not a threat, and that he can trust you. "You're doing well, it’s okay," you said as you started rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder.

You backed off a little, finally picking up all the necessary things, and began to sanitize and then stitch up the wound. Every time you needed to put your hand on your skin, you felt Bucky instantly tense under your touch, but you tried to send him quiet words of encouragement and praise. Bucky was very quiet, not making a sound even when the needle pierced his skin. His face wasn’t in bad condition, and Super Soldier serum almost healed them, so you decided to only sanitize and clean his skin.

"Well, you did a great job, James. I'm proud of you." About twenty minutes later, you finally tied the bandage and began to put everything back in the drawer, but then felt a touch on your arm.

You looked back at Bucky, only to meet tear-filled eyes.

"No one has ever taken care of me in a long time, Y/N." You stepped closer to Bucky again, unconsciously placing your hands on his shoulders. "I feel ashamed of my body. Of that arm. I didn't want you to see those ugly scars. God, this is so pathetic—"

"Don't say that," you interrupted him. "That's not pathetic. I understand how you feel. That you have so many negative thoughts about yourself. But Bucky… God, I don't know how to properly say it." You paused for a moment, considering the words. "You're one of the most amazing people I know. And even if many people in the tower are scared or intimidated by you, for me, you are the sweetest, most caring, and most generous person. You remember every little thing I say, make me coffee and food when I'm too busy, pretend to like those shitty movies that I make you watch with me. I'm so sorry that so many bad things happened to such a good person that you feel unworthy of good things."

Suddenly, strong arms surrounded you, and you realized that Bucky was hugging you with arms wrapping around your waist. He nuzzled up to your neck, and you could feel light sobs. Gently, you entangled your fingers in his hair, massaging the scalp with calming movements.

"I don't deserve you, doll." Bucky pulled back a little, still keeping his hands on your waist. "I wish I could be normal for you. Be who I was back in the 40s. I would’ve asked you out and given you everything that you deserved. But that person is not here any more, and I'm not worthy of you."

He wanted to ask you out on a date?  Your heart stopped as soon as the words left his mouth, and you stared at Bucky in surprise. "Bucky—"

"I know…fuck—I shouldn't have said that. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm sorry, doll. I didn't mean to mess anything up between us, I promise. I know you don't feel the same— it's okay, really. Just forget about—"

You didn't let Bucky finish by leaning forward and brushing your lips against his. His flesh automatically tangled in the hair at the back of your neck as the metal one tightened his grip on your waist. For the first few seconds, Bucky was in shock, not kissing you back, but just as you wanted to pull away, his lips began to move, taking over you immediately.

It was the best kiss you ever had. He was gentle yet so passionate. There were a lot of unsaid feelings that Bucky kept to himself for too long. All thoughts seemed to have left your head as the feeling of him filled your whole body.

When there was not enough air, you moved away from each other, touching your foreheads with your eyes closed.

"Fuck" was the first thing he said.

"Yeah," you laughed, finally meeting Bucky's eyes. He looked at you with such adoration that you felt butterflies in your stomach. You just noticed how much skin-to-skin contact you had. "Are you okay with that? Doesn't that make you uncomfortable?" You tilted your head as your hands squeezed his shoulders.

"That's... that's weird. I'm not used to that kind of contact," Bucky said, studying your face. "But I trust you, doll. You are the only person I trust completely." You felt him begin to gently run his hand along your back. "I'd like to ask you out on a date. I mean, if you want to. If not, I totally understand—"

You interrupted him again, leaving a quick kiss on his lips. "I'd like to go on a date with you, James. You know, you’re so cute when you’re shy?"

You've never seen his face so lit up with happiness, with a little bit of pink on his cheeks. Butterflies began to beat in your stomach again, and you realized that it was you who made him feel that way.

"Do you want to go to bed, put on some shitty comedy, and grab some food? I still have to watch over your injury."

"Sounds like a perfect plan, doll." Bucky kissed you on the forehead, interlacing his fingers with you, and led you to his room.

Even if it still required a lot of work, cuddling with Bucky, you knew it was the best place you could be.

[steviewashere]

What is a Heart Worth if It's Just Left All Alone?

Rating: General CWs: None! Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, POV Outsider, Switching POV, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Breakup (Brief), Getting Back Together, Love Confessions, Dialogue Heavy, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Dustin Henderson Being a Voice of Reason, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson Have a Brotherly Friendship, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues Wrote this all on Tumblr this morning literally in an hour. Hope it's good! Title from "Questions" by Jack Johnson

💕—————💕 Steve and Eddie are seen always sitting next to each other. At first, when they were just friends, it was nothing more than just an Oh, hey, this seat is empty, mind if I sit down? Now that they're several months deep into dating, it's as if they'll evaporate without the other right by their side.

Movie nights? Cuddling together. BBQ at the Byers-Hopper house? Thigh to thigh, eating off the same plate. All the seats full? A lap is now a seat.

They hold hands; Steve sometimes spinning Eddie's rings, Eddie popping Steve's tense knuckles. Arms slung over shoulders. Ankles looped around each other. Again, food shared between plates, forks, and fingers. Petting hair, twirling strands, braiding chunks. Murmured compliments and whispered questions and smiley answers. Commentary about the show or the movie or the commercial. Naps intertwined, snuffling under the only throw blanket, craning their necks to watch over each other.

It's sick.

It's sweet.

Nobody's seen them as happy as they are than when they're with each other. If they don't spend at least five of seven days in a week together, then they pout and groan and those arbitrary questions come popping back up—"Is he okay? Did I go too far with something? Why isn't he seeing me right now?" Long gaps between dates means reunions as if the world is still ending; long winded hugs and smiles too big for their faces and hushed words nobody knows how to pick up. Sometimes a kiss...or two...or three.

And then, out of nowhere, Steve and Eddie stop.

Stop hanging out. Stop talking to each other. Stop being in the same room, on the same couch, in the same conversation.

It's weird.

"We broke up," Steve says in this quiet, dismissive way. Utterly void and somehow completely flimsy. He shrugs at Dustin's confused, questioning look. "I'm fine. Eddie's fine. It was...it was mutual. Don't worry."

Don't worry?

That's all Dustin's doing now!

In what world do Steve and Eddie—or better yet, SteveandEddie—just up and leave one another's lives? Sure, the affection they put out sometimes interrupted everything else going on around it. And yeah, if he had to see basically his two older brothers mack it one more time, Dustin was going to ralph—and not in that homophobic, Billy Hargrove/Jason Carver/Troy Walsh way. But because it was always so graphic and noisy and full of pure love that Dustin had nothing else to do but look away. He had to for his own sanity!

But now it's just...gone? All of it?

The gentle, teasing remarks. The warm, sleepy, early morning laughter that followed an all group sleepover. Arcade visits where the two were fighting over the same cabinet. No more bickering over the radio station, swapping sunglasses, turning down the volume if Steve had those early telltale signs of a migraine. Goodbye coffee runs and BBQ plate sharing and grabbing the other's favorite at a convenience store—just because.

"What do you mean you guys broke up?" Dustin squawks. "What the—How in the—Just like that?! What the hell even happened? You guys were perfect for each other!"

Because, yeah, as much as he'd been cheering for the whole SteveandRobin of it all...he has eyes. He's got eyes all over his head, blinking, gazing right into the sun that is Steve and Eddie's megawatt, shiny, beautiful relationship. They're an endgame telenova couple, and Dustin just sat down with his bowl of popcorn! No way is he letting these kernels go stale.

Steve shrugs dismissively—again. He's gripping his steering wheel tight, though. And his sunglasses are sitting low enough on his nose to unsheathe his shiny, sad eyes. Dustin's a fool, but he's not a moron. These are the telltale signs of heartbreak—and yikes does Steve wear it all well...too well.

"I don't know what to tell you, Dusty. Some things just don't work out. No matter how good they were going." He flicks his turn signal to flash left, right towards Forest Hill. Right towards doom, it seems like. "We were just...we were too different, dude."

"Oh, no fucking way!" Dustin roars.

Steve brings his right hand to his ear, tweaking it. "Lang"—

"Are you intentionally being stupid or something?" he asks rhetorically. Slamming out his hands when Steve begins to answer. "Don't—Just...where the hell did you get an idea like that, man? So you don't enjoy playing some D&D like Eddie does—who actually cares? I get it now, dude, not your thing. Not your ala mode, whatever. And you listen to more radio hit, poppy songs than he does. And maybe you don't read as many novels as he does"—

"Y'know, you're kinda proving the point"—

"Ah! No! Shut up, will you? Just fuckin' slam the breaks for a minute, 'cause I'm not done." Dustin tosses his hands back to his lap, slapping them down with firm smacks. He guffaws, stuttering over the same incomprehensible, unintelligible noises of disbelief. "You guys just got each other in a way that I haven't seen out of anybody in my entire life. It's like you guys have met before, but like...like lifetimes ago. Like you've lived somewhere in the universe simultaneously in alternate timelines over and over and over again. Some real sort of Twilight Zone kind of shit.

"Who cares if you guys have different tastes? We have different tastes, don't we? You like raucous comedy videos and I'm a big sci-fi fantasy nerd in ways you don't get—and that's fine! That's completely fine!

"If you were just like Eddie—or, to take it back to me—if you were just like me, you'd be so insanely boring. No offense, but you would be. God, our conversations would just run dry.

"Some of my favorite things I'd see between you and Eddie were these just purely, like, inquisitive conversations, y'know? Where Eddie'd be complaining about some far away Lord of the Rings lore bullshit and you'd be asking all the questions. Like...like that one time you asked why Bilbo and all the other dudes didn't just take the giant eagles to Mordor! What an entertaining conversation that was. But if you knew the answer already, then why would you ever want to have a conversation about something you already know? Why would you ever want to talk to Eddie about anything fantasy wise? You'd just bore each other out!

"Or...or the whole music taste thing, right? Metal stuff gives you migraines"—

"I mean...it doesn't always give me migraines...it just gets too loud and then"—

"Okay, so it's a trigger," Dustin says flippantly, tossing up his hand. "Got it. Yeah. But the thing is, Steve, that became an obvious thing of importance to Eddie. He played his music, but he played it quieter when you were around. And...and, yeah, okay, he didn't always enjoy the pop songs—the exact same way you didn't enjoy the way Iron Maiden sounded...again, that's okay!

"The fact that you guys were willing to indulge each other, though, that's pretty big. Eddie listened to what you had to say about your favorite Madonna song. He loves hearing you talk about your music, the same way your face visibly lights up when Eddie talks about his. He wants to know you.

"Eddie wants you to be different from him. He wants to know your perspective on things, don't you get it? He wants to have somebody that'll bounce right off of him and give him something to deeply think about. He needs a person who's going to shoot him down on his stupidest shit, but he needs a person who's also going to respect him.

"Just like you do," Dustin murmurs carefully. "You used to tell me that the key to getting a girl to like you is to act like you don't care. Or to be flippant. Or to just...just go along with it. Which, yeah, pretty stupid advice, if I'm being honest.

"Something, like, visibly shines from inside you when you find yourself caring. And I think what you've been looking for all these years is a person who is not you. Or, better yet, somebody who shows up for you—in ways, maybe, a person hasn't before.

"Eddie cares about you, Steve, in ways I've never seen him care about anybody. Especially somebody who aligns with all his Munson doctrine horseshit that he's been carrying around like a fucking cement block. You align with it, maybe, but the way you show up for him is important, too. You disprove everything he's previously believed about people like you. He needed that wake up call.

"And now that he's awake, man, I don't think he's gonna want to go back to sleep." The sign at the entrance of Forest Hills is a few feet ahead, right inside his peripheral. For some reason, Steve is slowing down instead of speeding up. And Dustin feels like he's giving a debate team speech—Jesus. "I don't think you should let go of this, Steve. This relationship is right. For him...for you.

"What's the real reason you guys broke up? And don't give me the bullshit of him being too different from you. That's not true and you know it."

They could just speed right into Forest Hills. He could be dropped off. The BMW could sputter dust right in his face and leave a trail as Steve speeds back down the road, away from the trailers and the chain fence and the orange couch on the Munson porch. Instead, though, he pulls off to the side of the road.

Steve parks. Rips his sunglasses right off his face. And—for the first time ever—Dustin sees tears pour right down Steve's cheeks. He doesn't even wipe them away, just rubs the snotty tip of his nose against his Members Only jacket, and sighs.

"When'd you start giving relationship advice?" Steve crackles like he's trying for a joke. He even huffs a senseless chuckle. Eyes still wet. Cheeks ruddy pink and white. "You're gonna hate me," he mutters.

Firmly, "No, I'm not, Steve. Just be honest with me."

"I was the one who broke up with Eddie, okay?"

Dustin blinks, cowed. "What? Why?"

Steve shrugs, this time helplessly. Aimlessly. Scared. "Thought that, um...um, that he'd see that I'm not the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with. Not that—I mean, we're barely in our twenties, y'know?

"And I know, okay, I know that I'm not everybody's favorite person. No matter how much of my ego tries to blow smoke up my own ass. He's just...Eddie's brilliant in ways I've never faced before—out of partners, at least. He's, uh, intelligent and so...so fucking funny and just overall a very beautiful person. Looks and smarts and whatever other shit spreads between all that.

"I'm just..."—Steve stops to take a heaving, stuttering deep breath—"...just sorta the placeholder, I guess? I feel like, one day, Eddie's going to see me for the person he didn't expect and he's going to realize how little of me he actually loves and cares for. And I just...I don't know, man. I don't know where I'm going with this! I know that I'm basically talking myself into and endless fucking spiral and that I broke up with him for a very, very stupid reason, but I...

"I'm scared he's going to stop loving me, Dustin." Steve looks him dead on now. Swollen eyes and puffy cheeks and quivering bottom lip. Broken and splintering all at the same time. "I thought"—another stuttering, nasally breath; it chokes out at the end, teetering on a sob—"I thought that if I broke things off, then he wouldn't have to waste his time with loving me, but also...also to stop loving me. Does that even make sense? I know I'm being fucking irrational. And—What I did was pointless and cruel and stupid of me, okay? It's stupid!

"Eddie's probably way worse off compared to me. And here I fucking am, sobbing in my car to some fifteen year old kid as if I'm not the literal monster in the scenario." Steve scoffs to himself, rolls his eyes, faces towards the windshield again. "And now Eddie probably actually fucking hates my guts. He's probably...probably grateful that I ended things and showed my true clashing colors. Proved him and his dumb fuckin' doctrine right. I'm an asshole. That's all I'll ever be. King fucking Steve, a walking, talking, gaping asshole." He sniffs, rubs his wet nose against his jacket again, and scoffs at himself once more in utter disgust. "I mean, like, who does this shit, right? Who looks at the person they love the most in the world and decides—oh, look at me and my big, stupid self imposed hate. Better break up with my doting, loving, patient partner to make things not as bad. Look at me, Mr. Righteous doing the selfless thing! Who am I kidding, though?

"I'm so fucking selfish. And the only person who's actually hurt is Eddie. And I didn't even get to tell him that I do love him. I do, I really, really love Eddie.

"Didn't even give our relationship enough time for us to say that to each other." He scrubs his hands over his face, squishing his eyeballs with audible, wet squelches. Steve sighs around a humorless laugh. "I have to apologize," he decides aloud—said so low, Dustin's not even sure if he was supposed to hear it. "But if I apologize and Eddie asks for the reason, then what? I gotta be honest, right? But then, what, make myself look like a victim? I broke my own stupid heart. Squished it under my shoe and everything." He shakes his head. Clicks his tongue. Chuckles dry again. "But Eddie likes honesty, I guess. So...so I guess I have to be. He's gonna be so mad at me, isn't he?"

Dustin blinks again. Takes a deep breath. Flounders for a beat, then two. "That's...I don't know, Steve," he speaks carefully, "I mean...dude, that was a lot to process? I think you should apologize, for sure. If Eddie asks for honesty, though...If Eddie asks for honesty, I think he deserves to hear the truth.

"He'll probably be a lot upset, I can't tell you that he won't be. But I think...I think if you consider the fact that this is Eddie we're talking about, then there's always going to be room for compassion, maybe even some forgiveness. Eddie can be an asshole, but he's not cruel. And he can be mad, but he's not going to stomp you our for having insecurities." Dustin swallows, it clicks against the back of his throat. Then, "That's what that whole thing was, by the way. A lot of insecurities that, I gotta be honest, Steve, that need to be mended, man. You're walking around with a lot of heavy baggage and I think it's time to let some of it go."

Steve nods, slowly wiping the tear tracks away from his face. "I know," he croaks. "I know, I just..."—again, helplessly, Steve shrugs—"...I didn't think I was this bad."

"You're not bad," Dustin remarks quietly. "You're not cruel and you're not an asshole. Steve, you just...you're a good person who happens to have been seriously hurt before. Of course you're going to be scared of being hurt again.

"Sometimes heart talks over logic. And that's what happened. You got scared, so you backed away the only way your heart told you to. The whole...the whole messy aftermath is logic finally catching up.

"It doesn't feel good, I bet. But it doesn't make you a bad person for realizing you've made a mistake."

"Pretty fucking explosive mistake, isn't it?"

Dustin sighs. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, pretty explosive. But that's okay, Steve. You realize that, right? It's okay that you said some things and now you're learning from them?

"It's just like when you made that joke to me about punching out my teeth, dude. And then you caught what you said. And you walked it back. And you apologized.

"You put your foot, like, pretty firmly in your mouth, sure. Doesn't mean you can't dislodge it or something, right? Everybody does something that they aren't proud of. And that something comes with consequences.

"You're going to be okay, dude. No matter what happens. Eddie may not immediately forgive you. And you guys probably won't go back to being as all over each other as you were before. But that's okay. Time heals all wounds or whatever bullshit that saying is." Steve laughs at that, finally humorous and loud. "Also, gotta say, it's kind of fucking crazy that I'm the voice of reason right now. You realize that, right? I'm fifteen and obnoxious and somehow, I'm giving you the best advice in the whole universe."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Alright, alright. Don't go blowing smoke up your own ass, you butthead. But, uh...you're reasonable right now. So I guess I should listen to you."

"You guess? Just take the advice, you asshat! When we get to Eddie's, I want you to apologize to him and see what happens." When he doesn't get a response, Dustin sighs. "Seriously," he says, no longer teasing, "I'm going to go inside Eddie's and send him right out to you. You don't have to give, like, a perfect apology. But just be honest with him, alright? You'll be fine. And so will he. At least try to get some words out, okay?"

They finally turn down the Forest Hills drive. Park right outside of Eddie's. Steve turns to him. "Send him out," he says, "I'm sorry, in advance, if this takes a while."

"If you guys take the rest of the day, I won't be mad. You, uh, you guys are actually perfect for each other. I was being honest about that." Before anything else can be said, Dustin runs right up to Eddie's door, enters without a knock, and prepares himself to sit on the couch for a little while.

——— Steve's still drying off his face and rubbing the visible sheen from his eyes when Eddie approaches him. The two of them standing a couple feet apart at the BMW's front bumper.

"Dustin said we had to talk," Eddie says flatly instead of greeting. "Is it as important as he made it sound?"

"Um"—Steve nods, shakes his head, nods again—"I wanted...to...apologize. For breaking things off the way I did."

Eddie loudly scoffs and huffs. "Oh, so you're sorry for breaking my heart? Gee, thanks, Harrington. Like that's going to make it all better."

The drying his cheeks was a dumb thing to do in hindsight. Tears come back to his eyes tenfold. He can't bring himself to look up at Eddie, even though the heartbreak is clear in his voice.

"I don't know...I don't know what to say," Steve admits. "Guess I should just start with, um, the fact that I didn't actually want to break up with you?"

"God, you are terrible at apologies, you know that? Is that supposed to make me want you back or something? That you didn't want to break my heart, just testing the waters? See how far you could stretch my care for you until being able to just burn it up?"

Steve shakes his head. "No, I—I ran away, okay? That was me running. We...we were getting really deep into everything. And I scared, like, stupidly scared. Because you care about me now, sure, but what about a couple years from now when I'm too much again or maybe, like, too shallow or I'm full of shit or"—he sighs and slouches against the hood of his car, face pointed down at the dirt under his shoes—"Fuck if I know if we'd even survive a few years, y'know? Who says we would? It's not like my other relationships lasted that long."

Eddie audibly shifts, but Steve still doesn't look up. "So...so breaking up with me was the only option? What happened to talking to me when you get in your own head, Steve? One of the main things in a relationship is communication. I can't help you if I don't know what I'm supposed to help with."

"That's the thing!" Steve huffs out. "Okay? I don't know how to talk about it without sounding like a complete fucking baby or something, I don't know!

"You know how many other people have looked at me and decided that I'm just not worth the time? That my interests and my hobbies and my affection—all of it, just none of it mattered! And I—Eddie, oh my god, Eddie I'm so stupidly in love with you, you have to believe me. But it's...it's just a matter of time, right?

"It's a matter of time until you look at me for who I am. Like, really, really look at me for who I am and you realize that I'm not who you actually want. I'm not interesting enough. I'm not caring enough. I'm not doting enough. That I'm just not enough or something, I don't know.

"And like...like I'm so in it with you. I could picture myself just years down the road, you right by my side at the dinner table. With...with our tape collection mixed up and toppling over, the fridge stocked with our favorite drinks, mugs stained with each other's coffee mess. I could see myself dedicating all of my time to you. Bending my life in all sorts of ways to accommodate you in it, to make sure there's always somewhere for you to breathe, for you to just exist, for you to just...just be there in it with me.

"I wanted a whole life with you. I still want that whole life with you. And I...I'm so stupid about all this because it's so obvious that you care about me and that you want me, but for some reason I just led myself to believe that at some point, it would all go away. That, for some reason, you would just stop.

"And I didn't want you to stop wanting me. Because I don't want to stop wanting you. Because my bed is better with you. And my arms are meant for you and my whole—Everything! Everything I have is meant to be shared with you, just you, Eds.

"But you...you have so much ahead of you and I don't know...maybe I'm just not supposed to be in it? I feel like I'm picturing too much. Or maybe I'm just getting too ahead of myself. We were only eight months into it, but if I had the money, Eds, I'd get all the moments right to put myself on one knee. And that...that scares me, too. How much I want you." Steve tries for a deep breath, but this time—this time—it sputters out of him as a sob. A wet, scratchy, painful sob. "I'm sorry that I hurt you, Eds. I'm so sorry that I couldn't see past myself. I'm so fucking sorry that I tanked everything because I can't seem to get over everything else. I'm sorry, Eds, I'm so"—

"Stop," Eddie chokes out. He sniffles. Steve finally looks up, blurred vision and all, to try and clue out what emotion is flickering over Eddie's face. No dice. "I need you to stop, Steve. Just...just give me a second."

So he does. He sits on the hood of his car, looking down at the dirt again, trying to reign himself back in. It doesn't work. But he does quiet down. Enough to hear the stuttering of Eddie's own breath, which he seems to be trying to get under control, too.

Finally, Eddie croaks, "I'm hurt."

"I'm"—

"No, Steve, stop. My turn to talk, okay?" He just nods at Eddie. Collecting himself again, Eddie takes a deep, steady breath. Softly, "I'm...I'm hurt that you think of me like that. Or that you led yourself to think that. Because it's just not true, Steve. Not at all. Y'know how bad it's been to not have you around me?

"It's been awful, Steve. I think about calling you at least twenty times a day. To tell you about the stupid mundane things I did. Like what I ate for breakfast or what show I caught late last night or the best pop song I heard in the day. Because I love talking to you.

"I love your warmth, how you press right up next to me. I love your snoring when we're napping. I love the way you ask so many questions, the way you make me stop and think, the way you want to know more, or even when you want to know less. I love the way you guide your fork to my lips when you want me to try something from the absolute mountain of food we're sharing. I love your hand in mine. I love just...

"Steve, I love you." He catches himself whimpering around a sob, but it goes unnoticed right now by Eddie. Who steps closer. So close, the toes of their shoes clunking against each other. Eddie reaches out his hands and holds Steve's head up, palms on either cheek. The both of them crying. "And you tried to tell me that we should see other people. Because we're different, but then also we're too young, but then also this and that—It hurt so bad, to watch you visibly shrink away, disappear right out of the room.

"And baby, oh, baby—I'm obtuse sometimes, but I'm not stupid and neither are you. You aren't. But everything you said carried itself as these big, flashing neon signs of I'm not okay, something's wrong. You tried to trick me against it, but I could tell you were talking yourself into dumb, dumb circles.

"Do you not trust me?" Eddie asks carefully, "is that what happened? Did I do something to make you think that I was going to stop loving you?"

Steve shakes his head however much he can. Tries to swallow his tears, but to no avail. His words come out half-garbled. "No, I'm sorry."

Eddie tsks. "Stop apologizing," he whispers, "I want you to be honest with me, okay? Is there something I did?"

"No," he murmurs, "I just got too caught up."

"Too caught up in love?"

Steve shrugs. "In myself. Like...like maybe I was too many steps ahead. It felt like, sometimes, that maybe—But that's not fair to you because I just am hopeless, y'know. That's not on you. I don't know why I got so in my head."

"What's not fair to me, Steve? Please just tell me," Eddie presses.

Bursting, "It just felt like maybe you weren't on the same level or step as me, okay? Like I was letting myself get too ahead, too involved, too head first. And that's when I get to be too much. And that's when my partner usually pulls away. And I act like I'm blindsided, but it happens every time, Eddie!" Steve huffs, tries to shrug away, but Eddie only holds on tighter. "I just...I just didn't know, okay? I didn't know that you actually loved me. Which is stupid of me to think because, like, it was always so clear, now that I'm thinking about it. You care for me in ways nobody has. And even Dustin fucking saw it!

"I don't even know what I'm trying to say! That's how dumb this whole breakup thing was on my end. I don't have a real reason, okay? I just got too ahead of myself, I guess. And at the same time, I guess I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because it does. It drops at some point."

Eddie tenderly wipes at Steve's cheeks. Drying his tears. Steve feels bad about it, that he hasn't even tried to reach out and do the same. But, selfish as it is, he soaks it all up anyway.

It may be the last time he gets it.

"Steve," Eddie whispers—even his voice is tender—"I have to be honest, it makes me sad to hear that you think of yourself...of our relationship like that. But I promise you that the other shoe was never going to drop."

"Eds, how am I supposed to believe that? Be real with me."

Eddie firmly grabs Steve's face. Holds them steady. "Look at me." He does. "I am so deeply, incredibly, and passionately in love with you. And I was a fool to not tell you before, but that's not your fault. We're both young and scared and want a lot, we both let that get in the way of things. And we didn't talk like this. But. Keep looking at me." Steve sniffs, but, again, he does what he's told. "I love you, Steve."

Steve sniffles again, tries to blink the tears out of his eyes—and he's crying all over again. "I love you, too, Eds," he mutters, nearly inaudible.

"Hey, Steve?"

"Hm?"

Whispering again, "I love you a crazy lot. I love you, I love you, I love you." Eddie gives him a small smile. "We were missing that, huh? You just needed to hear that."

"Eds," he sighs. Shakes his head to try and dislodge the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I am."

"Hey," Eddie murmurs, "I know, sweetheart. And...and I forgive you, even if maybe I'm jumping the gun on that. But I know I'm going to forgive you eventually. I love you too much to let you go."

"You should take your time"—

"I am in love with you. And I accept all ten trillion of your apologies that you're trying to queue up, okay? We are both damaged goods, in a lot—and I mean a lot—of ways. It doesn't feel right to me to put us in a place where we're walking on eggshells, waiting.

"I forgive you. And I love you. So endlessly." Eddie swipes his hands over either side of Steve's head, brushing hair behind his ears. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry that I didn't make it clear how deep in this I am with you. In case it's still not clear, if you propose to me tomorrow, I'm going to say yes."

Steve chuckles. "That's ridiculous."

"The right kind of ridiculous for us, though." Brushing through Steve's hair again, Eddie sighs. "I wish you would've told me how you were feeling, though," he whispers, "that way we could've avoided any sort of mess."

"I'll get better at talking," Steve swears. "I'm bad at it. I don't want to be bad at it. Not with you."

"We'll both get better at it, how about that?" Eddie smiles small again, tenderly caressing Steve's head. He leans it, slow and careful, and plants a gentle kiss against Steve's lips. "You're too important to just let go. I love you from here to our neighboring galaxy and back."

"I love you, too, Eds. God, I love you so much. That feels incredible to say."

Eddie pecks him again. Murmuring against Steve's lips, "Do you wanna come in and watch a movie with Dustin and I? I want your questions and commentary."

"That's gonna be annoying, though."

"Come inside and be annoying, then. I've got your Pringles in the snack cupboard and your root beer on standby. Some cuddles and kisses in there, too."

Steve smiles, can feel the way it crinkles the tip of his nose. As if he can't resist, Eddie smacks another kiss, yet to Steve's nose this time. "I'll give you all the makeup cuddles in the world, Eds. Hold my hand the entire time, though?"

"And let 'em get all sweaty and gross? Hell yeah, baby. All the hand holding for you."

They've got a little ways to go, more potholes to pave, but it feels better to do it side by side, thigh warm against thigh, every question answered, and both hands held.

💕—————💕

[spideyson-stuff]

Peter has a huge guilt complex, this probably affects his self-esteem drastically, so he can't really believe when someone compliments him, and usually thinks it's a joke or an insult

1° Flash and Peter studying in an empty room because they were practicing for the Decathlon with the team but everyone had to leave for some reason and Peter stayed to help Flash with the last question

Peter: Flash, you're doing this all wrong, how can you not know the answer to this question?

Flash: IDK?, YOU'RE the genius here Parker, not me

Flash turns to Peter to see him with a disgusted look on his face, then he gets really confused.

Peter: HA! HA! HA!, very funny Flash

Peter says solving the problem and throwing the pencil on Flash's desk angrily and leaves the room, Flash is really confused, it was a sincere compliment

2° Tony and Peter doing an experiment in the lab

Tony: Oww Underoos, you really think fast, don't you? If it wasn't for you, this battery would have exploded haha

Peter just looks a little sad and looks away, Tony finds this strange, normally people are happy in receive compliments

3° Training with Steve and Sam

Steve: Hoho, kid, you're really good at this, aren't you? you learn fast!

Sam: Yeah haha, knocked me out quick as an arrow, I'm impressed

Peter: Uhrum...

Peter leaves the training room muttering an excuse to leave and Steve and Sam are very confused with the reaction

4° Ned and Peter building Legos

Ned, who was listening to Peter's stories about being Spider-Man: DUUUUUUDE! you're amazing! you know the Avengers and you're Spider-Man, you're like the coolest guy ever!

Peter: hehe, good joke Ned, very good, I'll get us some snacks ok?

Ned is confused by his reaction but decides to ignore it

5° May and Peter are at home, Peter is helping her with the house and now Peter is doing the dinner (May REALLY doesn't know how to cook)

May: You really are a golden boy aren't you Pete? What would I do without you?

Peter: You would live very well May haha

Peter continues making dinner and May is confused by his answer.

No one realizes it for a long time, one day they noticed and since then everyone has been telling Peter how amazing he is, Peter blushes whenever they do this, but it's actually helping with his self-esteem issues

[thevillainswhore]

Deserving

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: Bucky has internal scars too deeply imbedded that cause him to hide away from the world on the dark days. But he always knows, no matter how long he takes, you’ll forever be waiting for him on the other side — the light to bring him home.

Warnings: Established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, mental health, themes of depression, nudity (non sexual), depreciation/self esteem issues, Bucky is seriously sad, fluff.

Author’s Note: Proofread by @buck-star. Divider by @saradika-graphics. This is a little bit of a heavy one folks ❤️‍🩹 not usually my thing, but after a difficult couple of months I needed to get this out. My inboxes are always open for those who are struggling with their mental health, thank you for reading x

“How long has he been locked in there?” Steve’s concerned voice interrupts the silence of the compound late at night while you sit at the kitchen table, aimlessly stirring your now cold tea. 

You clear your throat and look up, the anxiety visibly courses through your features just as it does your friend. “Just over a week now, I think.” 

Steve sighs. “It’s gotten bad again.” 

You hum, unable to muster up anything else. It had been seven days of constant worry since the moment you had woken up on that first day to find the warm heap of muscle that usually tangled its limbs with yours wasn’t next to you in bed, but rather instead locked away in the bathroom. 

Bucky insists it’s what’s best for him; to shut himself from the world when his thoughts become dark and his nightmares come back from the dead to haunt him. But it was difficult to let him wallow in depression by himself, knowing his self destructive tendencies enjoy the hacking to his self esteem. 

Steve shuffles his weight between his feet, looking unsure of himself. “Shouldn’t we intervene by now?” He steps further into the kitchen and sits on the chair opposite you. “Surely we can’t let him continue like this.” 

You smile ruefully and push your mug to the side. “Steve, honey,” you begin carefully. “I know you’re concerned because he’s your best friend. Trust me, it’s hard for me to sit here and wait it out too. But you can’t force someone out of the recesses of their mind when they get like this.” Sliding your arms across the table, you gather Steve’s hands in yours. “Especially not Bucky.” 

The look on his face breaks your heart. “I know, I know. I just hate seeing him like this”, he sighs sadly. “I hate the feeling of doing nothing while he’s struggling.”

“Me too, sweetie.” You squeeze his hands before leaning back in your chair. “All we can do is give gentle encouragement. Let him know we’re here whenever he’s ready.” 

Although the worry was all the same in these situations, you were well seasoned with how to maintain your distance for Bucky’s well being, while also showing your love from afar by now. For example, the meals you had left him every single day without fail outside of your shared room; his favourite comfort food with a sweet treat baked specifically by you to give him some energy. 

Or the blankets you love so much slipped into the room without breaking the promise of seeing Bucky before he was ready. Without looking, you would open the door and place the fluffy material by the floor. You also took the time to spray it with your daily perfume as a familiar comfort Bucky could relish in without your physical form. 

It broke your heart to be away from him for so long, even if you were in the same vicinity as each other — always only a distance away that you could run to within sixty seconds should he need you. However, you knew this was what he needed. After the first time this happened within your relationship and you had no idea what he needed from you during that time, the two of you had sat down and discussed how you could support him better going forward. 

“Don’t worry,” you reassure gently before moving away from the table and placing your mug into the sink. “He’ll come to, he always does. Just gotta give him some time.” 

“Will you—,” Steve swallows his words harshly before trying again. “Could you let me know if he’s okay when you hear something?” Almost silently, he adds, “Please?”

You realise then that this is Bucky’s best friend, the man who defied every order and rule book to save him — multiple times. There’s a vulnerability in his ocean blue eyes and your heart is happy that the love of your life has other people that adore him just as much as you do. You wish Bucky could see the extent as easily. 

Softening your eyes, you don’t divert your attention for a second as you sincerely swear, “Of course, Stevie. I’ll make sure FRIDAY gets a message to you.” 

Steve blows out a heavy breath, seemingly lighter than he was when he first came in. “Thank you.” 

You share a delicate smile, an understanding between teammates, friends and two people who love Bucky so immensely. You’re about to bid him good night, ready to retreat to your old room just down the hall from your shared one with Bucky when a set of footsteps, timid and apprehensive creep towards you. Steve turns his head at the same time as you to find the very man on both your minds. 

“Bucky.” The relief in your voice is loud and the tension that you hadn’t even realised was so tightly weaved into your limbs instantly relaxes at the sight of him. It takes everything in you to not run into his arms, not wanting to spook him, so you tamper your emotions and stay rooted in your place while your eyes greedily take him in for the first time in a week. “Hi, baby.” 

Your boyfriend, head down with his long, matted hair hiding his face, lifts his head slightly until a peek of storm grey meets your gaze. You clock the dark, heavy bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin, the chapped lips that have been bitten restlessly. The clothes, stained with sweat marks, lay unusually baggy on his form. Normally, his shirts sit snug on the muscles of his biceps and his toned stomach and his sweatpants fit defined around his thick thighs. However in the week separated from him, Bucky has lost a fair amount of weight you conclude from lack of training and eating. 

Though his stature is hunched and he’s so desperately trying to hide away in plain sight, Bucky is here, visible and alive. He’s in front of you because he wants to be, you know that from past experience. He’s ready to let you in and take care of him even when the nasty voice in his head is telling him he doesn’t deserve it. You try so hard to swallow the lump in your throat and will the tears not to gather in your waterline. 

As Bucky clenches his fingers tightly, the whirring of his vibranium arm filling the silence of the kitchen, you know what he needs right now is for you to take charge. He’s not verbal yet, present but unable to speak and so you step forward slowly until you’re closer to him but not yet crowding his space. 

“How about we run you a bath, hm?” you offer softly, a suggestion rather than an order. While you’re trying to lead, you want him to set the pace — everything on his terms. “The warm water will feel nice on your muscles.” 

With a barely there nod of his head, Bucky accepts and you breathe a little easier knowing he’s still there, just a little lost. But it’s the subtle flex of his fingers, reaching out towards you that threatens to crack you. 

Carefully, you thread your fingers through his. You don’t miss the shudder that violently tracks down his back or the small gasp he lets loose. Your heart is becoming whole once again. 

Before leaving the kitchen, you glance at Steve still standing staring at his best friend. It’s then you stop and tentatively rub your thumb against Bucky’s hand. “Stevie wanted to ask you if you’d be up for a drive sometime soon. Doesn’t that sound good, honey? Taking your bike out for a spin?” 

Steve holds his breath as Bucky lifts his head slightly. “Mhm.” His voice is rough around the edges, the syllables straining against his dry throat. 

It's all he can offer right now. But from the looks of it, Steve’s eyes light up like he’s won the lottery. “Can’t wait, pal. I’m ready whenever you are, just let me know.” 

Your friend then looks to you, mouthing a silent thank you. You smile before ushering Bucky to your room. 

Bucky stands in the corner of the bathroom, looking smaller than you’ve ever seen him. He still hasn’t said anything, instead choosing to remain quiet for now. That was more than okay with you. You would rather slowly pluck away at the wall he’s built around himself and allow him to come forth smoothly. 

Meanwhile, you had rolled your sleeves up, running the water to fill the bathtub. You pick up two options of bubble bath and read them aloud to your boyfriend. “Okay. So we’ve got Lavender or Eucalyptus. Both are great for relaxation. You think you’d prefer one, baby?” 

Bucky doesn’t respond, his owlish eyes blinking at you. Though his actions threaten the well of emotions in your throat, you remain calm and soothing. “That’s alright, honey. We can just put a little of each in. Best of both worlds, huh?” 

Again, there’s no response. But you expect nothing more. You hold no expectations of him, only wanting to gently encourage him out of his shell, just like you’d told Steve earlier. 

You pour each liquid under the running faucet and instantly soapy bubbles begin to form on the surface of the water. Happy with the result, you turn each tap off and smile towards your boyfriend. “All done, Buck.” 

He stands there motionless, eyes darting between you and the bathtub, still making no move towards you. 

“Would you like some help, love?” You move slowly, each step intentionally attentive. “It’s difficult sometimes, to get your body moving, isn’t it?” 

Bucky nods. It's not much, but it's something and you can work with that. 

“Right. We all need help sometimes. No shame in that, Bucky.” You’re in front of him now, a hair's breadth away from each other and you’re thankful to be let into his space. “Would you like me to undress you?” 

The air is stilted as you wait for any kind of indication from Bucky. It’s to your surprise that a gentle whisper slips from his lips. “Please.” 

You hone down the tears bullying their way to the surface. Instead, you smile shakily. “Of course, baby. Anything you need.” 

Raising your hands cautiously, you bring them to Bucky’s eyeline, allowing him to follow each motion you make. You bring them slowly towards the hem of his shirt, lifting the material over his torso and with a small struggle over his shoulders to the top of his head. 

“All okay, Buck? Can I keep going?” You check in, wary of any stipulations to his emotions. Reading his eyes, you know you’re good to reach for his pants. And so you do, taking careful measures to not let your skin connect with his prematurely and without permission. 

With only Bucky’s underwear left, you take one last chance to gain consent. “Am I good to help you take those off? We can keep them on or I can turn around while you do it yourself if you’re not comfortable.” 

But Bucky needs no time before he whispers his fingers against yours. A sign of his authorisation for you to take the reins. 

“Sure thing, honey.” Just like before you send him a reassuring smile before inching the last piece of material down his thighs and finally away from his feet. He stands naked before you and you make sure to look nowhere else other than his eyes. “Thank you for allowing me to do that, Buck. Can I walk you to the bath now?” 

There’s a slight moment of hesitance before Bucky places one foot in front of the other, searching for your hold. Immediately, you place one arm around his back, the other wrapping around his hand. 

You step together in sync, slow for Bucky’s sake. “Great job, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” Once you reach the tub, you give some directions. “Okay, you’re gonna step in now and I’m going to be right here with you.” 

Bucky grasps your hand tighter. You know he’s scared you’re going to leave. Gently, you swipe his tangled hair behind his ear and cup his stubbled cheek. “I promise I’m not leaving. I’ll be right by your side, okay love?” 

You see him swallow the lump in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing until he slackens his grip. Not before taking a deep breath, Bucky shakily lifts himself into the bathtub with your assistance and lowers himself into the water until his full body is submerged. 

“There we go.” Your pride for him is certain and absolute. You try your best to show him that. “Hard parts over with now, Buck. Now I can take care of you.” 

His pained groan echoes around the tiles of the bathroom. He’s hiding himself away from you but you’re eventually crumbling his defences down. 

“Let’s get this hair sorted out, huh? I’ll even let you use my shampoo you always steal.” The familiarity of your usual banter is a band aid to the wound so raw and open. Bucky was a fiend for thieving your most expensive toiletries — an excuse already lined up that no men’s products, no matter how costly, could match up to yours. 

Normally you would scold him, jumping into a shower after a prolonged mission only to find your shampoo empty with the bottle still placed on the rack. 

However, you would take those moments a thousand times over if it brought him even a slither of the happiness he supplied to you. 

It's then you run through your next steps with trained precision. You manage to run water over Bucky’s hair without getting any over his face, worried it may trigger him. You ignore the water in the bathtub, once transparent now a ruddy brown. And you silently open the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a generous amount onto your hands. 

“I’m about to climb in. Breathe for me, love.” You’re glad you wore shorts as you dip your foot into the water behind Bucky, swinging your leg over to sit on the ledge with your boyfriend between your thighs. A perfect position to stay close to him and provide him with the utmost care. 

Testing a tender touch upon his head and satisfied that Bucky is comfortable, you begin to lather the shampoo into his scalp. You relish in the grunts fighting their way through, the whimpers that climb up his throat, because this is the only way you know Bucky to finally cave in. Allow himself to be free from the shackles his mind clamps around him. Allow him to breach the prison he’s placed himself in. To come home to you. 

“That’s it, baby,” you murmur, purposely softening your voice to a gentle tone. “Let it out, I’ve got you. I’ll catch you.” 

As your nails scratch against his head, the first sob is released. You feel Bucky’s arms wrap around your thigh and his head lays itself upon you as his body begins to shake. You let him. The days worth of degradation and horror he’s allowed himself to relive escaping in this moment. 

“It's okay. Everything’s okay, Bucky.” It's a feat upon itself not to cry with him. A tear tracks down your cheek that you quickly wipe away with your shoulder because it’s your turn to be strong for him. To be the impenetrable wall he can lean on with the knowledge that he won’t fall. 

“I’m so sorry,” he weeps. You’re not sure whether he’s directing his words to you or someone else you’re not privy to. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” 

“Shh.” Your desire to make everything okay for him burns bright. “None of that now, okay? You’re here. With me. I’ve got you.” 

There’s a hole in his heart that’s never ending. Deep and wide and burrowed too far for anyone to try and stitch back together. You’ve tried. Though this kind of damage was irreparable. 

The good days always outweighed the bad. Bucky had come so far along in his healing journey for that to be untrue. But when the demons came out to play, there was no room for anyone else to hold a hand for him to grab on to. Bucky was dragged down into the dungeons of hell, locked away until the monsters had gotten their fix. 

Rinsing the soap out of his hair, Bucky’s wails begin to calm, the tidal wave having hit its peak and descending back down. You keep him close to you, no mind in how wet your clothes are, and quietly hum a tune. 

Your lullaby is eventually the only sound in the room, each note having the desired effect of soothing Bucky into a sense of peace. His limbs have loosened, his shoulders no longer stiff. And you wait ever so patiently for him to break the ice. 

That moment comes when you reach for the bottle of conditioner, beginning to apply it to the ends of Bucky’s hair. “Y-You’re so good to me.” While more stable, his voice still trembles. “Why are you so good to—to me?” 

You thin your lips, willing the cracks in your heart not to spread further than they already have. Grabbing the comb, you start to gently tease your way through the knots matting the strands of his chocolate locks. “That’s because you deserve it, baby,” you say confidently. “You deserve to be taken care of.” 

Bucky sighs, a heavy weight behind it. His next declaration falls from him quietly yet deafening. “Sometimes I don’t think I do.” 

“I know.” With a gentle push of your fingers underneath his chin, Bucky looks up at you, eyes sorrowful and still so beautiful. You lean down to kiss his forehead, then his nose and at last his lips. Against them, you seal your truth. “But believe me when I say it’s easy to love you. Like nothing else I’ve ever done before, no matter what goes on up here.” You tap by the side of his temple twice. “I’m in love with you on your bad days just as much as your good days. There’s no running away from that, Bucky. And I’ll prove that to you every single time, for as long as you need me to.”

His voice is hopeful when he strains out a choked, “Yeah?”” 

You hope your eyes display your conviction. “Every damn time, baby. I’ll bring you back to me.” 

Bucky’s eyes close at the sensation of your loving touch and promises. “I’d like that.” 

Kissing his lips one last time, you lean back up, setting aside the comb and grabbing the washcloth. Bucky stays unmoving, nuzzled into your thigh and so you begin to massage the muscle of his shoulders, humming your song once again. 

“Me too, Bucky.” 

You can’t fix him, you know that. Bucky is a man, tortured by memories and a past that stripped him of basic human rights. But you’re devoted to picking up the pieces he leaves behind, handing them over for him to glue back together. And if you found yourself slowly healing the cracks with your care and utter adoration for him for the rest of your life, you wouldn’t be mad about it. 

Because no matter what Bucky thought of himself, there was no doubt in your mind that he deserved your love. 

[imnotjustreadingg]

between lines

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Novelist!Fem!Reader (y/n) Genre: Established relationship - Jealousy (not toxic) - Fluff - Little of low self esteem Word count: 3681 Summary: Bucky and Y/N are dating. She a novelist and she's getting the news she's waiting since forever. Bucky is always an amazing supportive boyfriend, but even the most amazing and supportive boyfriend can have some issues. a/n: That's a fic where either the Avengers and the actors whom plays them exist in the same universe and can interact between each other

Present time – Y/N and Bucky’s apartment

The clatter of the phone made Y/N jolting from her cozy writing nook.

It was an early morning call, but not unwelcome. Eric’s name, her publisher’s, appeared on the screen. Cheerful voice buzzed with excitement on the other end.

“Y/N, I’ve got fantastic news! A major production company just optioned the film rights for your latest novel. They want to adapt it for the big screen!”

“UNMASKED HEARTS? MY NOVEL?” you shouted, nearly rolling over the chair. She put the speaker on since her hand where trembling. Laid the phone on the desk, she began to twirl her finger, shower noise in the background.

“Yes, Unmasked Heart.” Eric replied, “You did it, Y/N.”

Her breath stopped for a second. Her superhero romance novel took inspiration by the real-life Avengers. Hearing Eric’s approval, Y/N thought back when he began part of the Stark Industries.

Flashback

“You did it, miss Y/N” Tony said on her first day in the Stark Industries.

Y/N started her career as a journalist. During a conference, her witty and precise questions and the way she replied to another journalist who abruptly interrupted her, made Tony Stark in person offering her a job in the communication department of the Stark Industries.

That’s how she ended up in the Tower. And that’s how she met him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Y/N swore she had never seen a man more handsome than Bucky Barnes, in her whole life. Not on a screen, not even in the pages of the novels she used to write late at night, imagining what it would feel like to be an author, her big dream.

Slowly, she met the others too. Steve introduced himself with polite smiles and thoughtful questions. Sam followed not long after, bright and easy-going always teasing but never unkind. And then there was Nat. Sharp and unreadable at first until, over late-night coffee runs and quiet conversations in the training room hallway, they became something more. Good friends. Real ones. The kind who noticed when you weren’t okay, even when you said you were. It surprised her, how quickly Natasha let her in. But maybe the spy recognized something in her. The way they both watched more than they spoke, the way silence didn’t always mean nothing was being said.

Soon, the team wasn’t just a job. It was her circle, her people.

Months has passed, and her relationship with Nat got stronger. She hadn’t planned to say anything. Not really. She and Natasha were just sitting on the tower’s rooftop garden, nursing bottles of beer and watching the city lights flicker in the distance. It was the kind of time when secrets slip out before you can stop them.

“I think I have a crush on Bucky,” she said in one fell swoop.

Nat didn’t even blink. “You think?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Y/N groaned. “Okay, fine. I do. I really do. And it’s awful.”

Nat tilted her head, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. “Awful?

“Have you seen him? I can’t even form full sentences around him anymore.”

“And yet you’re handling the Stark’s pr department.”

“Believe me, it’s better handling them then talking to Bucky without stuttering.”

Nat sipped her tea. “Then ask him out imagining he’s one of the pr department.”

“What?” Y/N blinked.

“Ask him out. You’ve already faced Tony Stark’s ego and lived to tell the tale. What’s scarier than that?”

“Getting rejected by a man who looks like he walked out of one of my secrets novels?”

Nat smirked. “He is.” Y/N groaned again. Nat was the only one who knew about your writing.

But later that week, Nat’s words echoing in her head, so she did it. It was after a mission debrief, nothing big.

 “Hey,” she started, breath catching. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” He nodded.

“Everything okay?”

No. Yes. Kind of.

“I was wondering if you’d want to… maybe grab a coffee sometime? Like…just us.”

There. It was out. Her heart thudded in her ears. Bucky froze. His blue eyes widened, just a little. His mouth parted like he was about to say something but didn’t.

The silence stretched. And stretched. And stretched.

She panicked.

“You know what, never mind. That was stupid. I just thought… It’s fine if… I mean, I’ll just…” “No! Wait,” he said quickly, stepping toward her, voice rough. “You just… surprised me.”

She blinked. “Surprised you?”

“I didn’t think you’d…” He exhaled, then smiled softly. “I’d love to go out with you, Y/N.” Her eyes widened. “Wait, really?” Bucky chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been working up the nerve to ask you for weeks. You just beat me to it.”

Their first date was supposed to be simple, just coffee at a quiet little place Bucky liked, tucked away from the city’s noise.

But something happened between the clink of mugs and the way his eyes never strayed from hers. He made her laugh, really laugh, and she made him smile in that rare, unguarded way that felt like a secret he only shared with her. By the end of the night, neither of them wanted it to end. So, it didn’t.

 One night, curled up on the couch in her apartment, with his arm draped over her and the city lights glowing behind them, she admitted it.

“When I’m not writing reports or dodging Tony’s emails, I write… stories. Novels, actually.” It was the first person, after Nat, to know about the novels now. “Can I… give you something to read?” He looked down at her surprised and warm, sensing her shift in energy. “Of course.” Y/N stood up and crossed the room, placing the printed pages in his lap.

Her fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary. “It’s not finished,” she said quietly. “Not even edited. I don’t usually let anyone read my first drafts. But this one… I wrote it for me. And maybe for you, too.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to the title page. It was untitled. Raw. Real. He didn’t say anything. He just started to read. When he finally looked up, his eyes were glassy.

“You wrote about me,” he whispered. “That’s me.”

“I know,” she said, voice barely steady. “I wanted you to see yourself the way I do.”

Bucky stared at her like he’d never seen her before, and maybe he hadn’t, not completely. Not until now. He leaned in slowly, reverently, and kissed her like it was the only way to thank her. Like she’d just handed him something he never thought he’d get: a future.

Bucky convinced you to publish your works, and he was absolutely right.

 Tony, of course, never let her live it down, but when she mentioned stepping away from Stark Industries to write full-time, Tony just snorted.

“You know,” she said casually, “most bosses don’t get emotionally offended when someone tries to resign.” Tony didn’t look up.

“Most bosses don’t have to deal with someone who makes the PR department function like a well-oiled machine and writes bestselling books about people suspiciously similar to their coworkers or based the broody love interest on Barnes.” he teased, sipping his espresso.

“So, you do read my stuff,” she said, smiling. “I skim,” he muttered.

They both knew it wasn’t the truth. Y/N and the other Avengers had found many times Tony reading on of your novel.

“Look,” he said, voice a touch lower, serious. “I get it. You’ve got talent, a lot of real talent. But we need you here. Not just for PR. For us.”

“Tony…” She frowned. “I’m not being sentimental,” he said quickly. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m allergic to feelings. But you…” he hesitated, then gestured vaguely toward the air. “You stabilize things. You get people. You’re the reason Barnes stopped lurking like a haunted house extra and started talking like a functional human being.” Y/N raised a brow. 

“So, this is about Bucky.”

“It’s about all of us,” Tony said, then pointed at her. “But yeah. Especially him.” She softened. 

“I’m not saying don’t write. Hell, I’ll even build you a private writing office with a cappuccino bar and soundproof walls. Just… don’t go, please.”

She pondered his offer, after accepting it already in her mind. “Let’s say I’ll stay, I want a day a week completely free for my novels” she said. 

“Let’s make it a two completely free day deal.”

So, she stayed. With the Avengers. With her words. With him. And life, for once, felt like a story she didn’t have to write to believe in.

End of flashback Present time again

Eric still talking through the speaker. She swallowed, stunned. A younger version of herself, the one who wrote in secret, who never thought she was good enough, who hid her feelings for a certain super soldier, wouldn’t believe this moment.

“Oh wow. That’s incredible,” she breathed.

“Exactly! Now comes the fun part. You get to help find the perfect lead actor for your protagonist.”

She hung up then, clutching the phone, her mind already swirling with possibilities. Bucky, now out of the shower, with sweatpants no shirt and wet hair, watch her proudly.

“Looks like the novel’s going Hollywood.”

Y/N nodded, her eyes sparkling. “Yeah. They want to cast someone to play the hero... you.”

Bucky chuckled softly, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, I have zero problem being the protagonist. In fact, I’d say I’m perfectly fine for the role.” He said, striking a pose.

Y/N laughed. “Don’t get too cocky. It’s not like you’ll be doing the stunts.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I could handle that part too.”

A week later 

Y/N found herself in a sleek studio with Eric, waiting to meet the actor considered for her story’s lead role. When he walked in, tall and confident with a familiar smirk, her breath hitched. Sebastian Stan, practically Bucky’s doppelganger in Hollywood, shook her hand warmly.

“Y/N, right? Big fan of your work.” She smiled, trying not to gawk. They were basically mirror images, except Sebastian had the polished aura of a movie star.

They spent hours talking about the nuances of her characters, the emotional core of the story and the complicated heroism of Bucky’s alter ego. Sebastian was smart, funny, and clearly passionate about bringing the story to life. Not to mention handsome.

That evening, she returned home buzzing. Bucky was cooking dinner, his jaw tightening the moment he heard Sebastian’s name.

“So, you met him,” he said quietly, voice low.

“Yeah. He’s great. Really gets the character.”

Bucky’s fingers clenched the spatula. “He’s… good looking?”

 “Dreamy.” Y/N teased, arching a brow. “He looks just like you.”

He crossed his arms, pouting. “I don’t see it. Sebastian’s got that Hollywood charm. It sounds fake to me.”

“Please,” Y/N smirked, stepping close sensing his jealousy. “You’re the original. The guy the stories are based on. Sebastian Stan is just the actor.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened with mock jealousy. “So, you think I’m handsome enough?”

She giggled, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I think you’re the most handsome man in the universe. Besides, you don’t need to act like you’re in a movie. You are the movie.”

His lips twitched, a rare, soft smile spreading. “Then I guess I better start practicing my lines.” Y/N wrapped her arms around him. “Lines or no lines, you’re my hero. And no actor, no matter how good looking, can ever replace you.”

First day of set 

Y/N and the Avengers (the real ones) were invited to visit the set before anyone else, and as they stepped onto the bustling lot, they spotted familiars faces mingling; the actors brought in to portray the Avengers on screen.

Steve Rogers, ever the gentleman, was shaking hands with Chris Evans, the man cast to play Captain America. “Good to meet you, Chris,” Steve said with a warm smile. “I guess you’ve got some big shoes to fill.” Chris chuckled, “Only trying to live up to the legend.”

Nearby, Tony Stark gave Robert Downey Jr. a wink. “I hope you’ve got the right amount of sarcasm lined up.” Robert smirked. “Don’t worry, I’ve studied the role thoroughly.”

Sam Wilson greeted Anthony Mackie with a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Falcon, huh? I’ll hold you to those aerial stunts.” Anthony grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve got wings.”

Scarlett Johansson and Natasha Romanoff exchanged knowing glances and a small smile. “So,” Natasha said, “you ready to be me?” Scarlett laughed softly. “I’ll try not to mess it up.”

Y/N watched the interactions with amusement, jotting notes in her notebook. The blend of real and reel worlds was surreal, but knowing the real heroes was just as inspiring.

Bucky politely shook his hand with Sebastian.

The movie set buzzed with activity, lights and cameras and crew members hustling about. Y/N stood just off to the side, notebook in hand, watching Sebastian rehearse a scene. She couldn’t help but study him closely, analysing every expression, every movement, the way he embodied the character she’d created.

Bucky, leaning casually against a nearby wall, caught the way her eyes lingered a little longer than usual on Sebastian. A slow, teasing smile crept across his lips.

“You’re staring,” he said softly, stepping beside her.

She laughed, nudging his arm. “No way. I’m just making sure he gets it right.”

“You know,” he said, voice low, “if you spent as much time looking at me as you do Sebastian Stan, you might finish your next book faster.” Bucky’s smile deepened. “You’re watching him a little too much. You planning to write a sequel starring him?”

Y/N grinned, teasing back without missing a beat. “Honey, I’ll write an entire saga about that man.”

But when she saw Bucky’s smile falter, the teasing gave way to gentle reassurance. She reached out, taking his hand in hers.

“Hey,” she said softly, “I’m joking.” After Y/N reassured him, Bucky looked up at her with a softer expression, the playful edge gone for a moment.

“Would you write a saga about me?” he asked quietly, his voice low but earnest.

Y/N smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Maybe I’m already doing it.”

He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. She leaned into him, voice low and teasing. “You’re the only one I want.”

The sun dipped low over the set lot as Y/N and Sebastian chatted beside a cluster of equipment. Sebastian animatedly explained a scene, his hands moving expressively, while Y/N listened intently, occasionally nodding and smiling.

Bucky stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes narrowing just a bit talking with Steve who was leaning casually against a railing nearby.

“Looks like she’s really taken with him,” Bucky muttered.

Steve followed Bucky’s gaze and smiled knowingly. “They’re just discussing the character. She’s making sure he gets it right.”

Bucky scoffed lightly. “Right. He’s got the charm, but can he pull off the grit? I’m the one who’s actually lived it.”

Steve chuckled. “No one’s replacing that.”

 Once Y/N and Sebastian stopped chatting, they reached for Bucky and Steve. As Bucky and Y/N exchanged their quiet, tender moment, Sebastian said, “You guys are so cute. Remind me of Annabelle and I.”

Bucky glanced at Y/N, eyebrows raised in silent question.

Once he left, Y/N grinned nudging him lightly. “Oh yeah forgot to mention. He wasn’t flirting. Annabelle is the stunning woman he’s actually dating.”

Bucky smirked, folding his arms. “Good. Because if he was flirting, I might have to challenge him.” Y/N laughed softly. “See?” she whispered, sliding an arm around his waist. “No competition.”

 At night, Bucky couldn’t quite shake the niggling feeling of envy. He sat on the couch, arms crossed watching Y/N scroll through pictures on her phone from the set.

“Look at this one,” she said, holding up a snap of Sebastian, mid-laugh, hair perfectly tousled. Bucky grunted. “Yeah, he’s got that whole ‘Hollywood model’ thing down.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Sure, but can he do this?” Then struck a silly heroic pose. Bucky laughed, but his eyes narrowed playfully. “I’m pretty sure I look better doing that.”

“Oh really?” She dropped her phone and leaned in close, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. 

He flexed his arm, proudly showing the faint metal glint under his skin. “I have battle scars on my body, doll. They’re sexy.”

God, Bucky didn’t know how true it was

Y/N grinned, poking the metal fingers gently. “Definitely makes you unique.”

Bucky smirked, rising to stand behind her and wrapping an arm around her waist. “See? The real deal.” She tilted her head, looking up at him with a sly smile. “The real deal comes with bonus perks. Like a personal bodyguard, a war hero, and a handsome guy who doesn’t need any acting lessons.”

Bucky’s lips curled. “Careful, or I’ll start charging for those perks.”

Y/N laughed softly. “Don’t get too confident, I might start writing a sequel called How to Leave the Jealous Boyfriend.” He tightened his grip, a playful glint in his eyes. “Only if you cast me as the lead. I’m sure I could make you change your mind.”

Again, Bucky didn’t know how that was true too.

“Of course,” she whispered, kissing the side of his neck. “Because no one else could ever play you better.”

Six months later

One evening after shooting one of Sebastian’s last scenes, Y/N padded through the apartment barefoot, a steaming mug of tea in one hand and her phone in her other hand, speaker on. Bucky still outside, grabbing dinner.

Natasha’s voice crackled through, calm and sharp as ever.

“So,” Nat said, drawing the word out, “how’s Sebastian?”

“He’s really talented, and he brings a lot to the role. But honestly, there’s no one like Bucky.”

You were quite sure Natasha’s smirking. “I’ve noticed he’s been a bit protective lately. Jealous, maybe?”

Y/N laughed softly. “Yeah, he’s not shy about showing it. But it’s sweet in its own way.”

Nat was silent for a second. “You’re gone for him.”

“I was gone the second he looked at me,” Y/N said, eyes drifting to the window, voice softer now. “He listens. Really listens. He remembers everything, even the stupid little things I say when I’m half-asleep. And when he looks at me… I feel like the safest place in the world is his arms.”

From the hallway behind her, a quiet cough broke the moment. Y/N froze, shutting his eyes.

She turned slowly to see Bucky standing just inside the doorway, dinner in hand. He looked stunned… and just a little smug.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked. “Long enough” he said, eyes twinkling. 

“Well, I’m gonna let you two lovebirds work through that.” Nat’s voice cut through the awkward silence, amused as ever. “Meeting tomorrow Barnes, don’t forget”

“Don’t worry, Romanoff.” Y/N closed the call.

Y/N buried her face in a throw pillow. “I’m never recovering from this.”

He sat down beside her, tugging her gently into his lap. “Are you kidding?” he murmured against her ear. “You just called me your safe place. That’s not something I ever thought I’d be to anyone.”

“You are,” she whispered. “You really are.”

Last day of filming

Being the author, comes with privileges and Y/N sitting cross-legged on the couch and a bowl of popcorn resting on her lap prepare to watch the final version of the movie. Bucky settled beside her, arms crossed, already bracing for a long night. Eavesdropping her phone call with Nat relieved him, so he playfully decided to tease her criticizing Sebastian’s act. Just a little bit.

The opening scene played, Sebastian’s face filling the screen, sharp and polished.

Bucky snorted. “Look at that hair. Too perfect. No way my hair ever looked that good after a mission.” Y/N smiled, jotting down notes. “True, but his expressions are really nuanced. He gets the internal conflict.”

Sebastian launched into an intense fight scene, executing choreographed moves with sleek precision. “Too smooth,” Bucky muttered. “I don’t fight like I’m in a dance recital.”

Y/N laughed. “I think that’s more cinematic.”

“Maybe, but it’s not real,” Bucky insisted. “Where’s the grit? The struggle? I’m covered in sweat and blood, not glowing.”

As the movie progressed, Bucky’s commentary grew louder.

“That line? Totally off. I never talk like that.”

“And this scene? They made me smile. I don’t smile. I scowl.” Y/N playfully elbowed him. “You’re impossible.” Bucky smirked. “Hey, I’m just helping you make sure this adaptation stays true to the legend.” Y/N pressed a kiss to his cheek. Bucky’s smile softened as they settled in to finish the movie.

It was now late night, and the apartment was dark. Y/N sat curled up on the couch and Bucky perched nearby.

“So? What do you think?” she asked.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. A sad idea through his mind. “I don’t know, doll… if you’re so talented writing stories maybe you’ll leave me for an actor who impersonated them.”

Y/N reached over, taking his hand gently. “Hey, look at me.”

Bucky met her eyes. “I’m never going to leave you for Sebastian Stan,” she said firmly, voice soft but steady. “Not now, not ever.”

He blinked, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Bucky let out a shaky laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

Y/N grinned mischievously sensing him believing her, squeezing his hand. “Besides, if I ever did want to leave you for a Marvel guy…” She paused for dramatic effect. “Maybe Chris Evans. You know he will always be Captain America.”

Bucky chuckled, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t forget who’s the Winter Soldier.”

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah, yeah, Captain Strong-and-Handsome.”

Bucky’s smile deepened, a slow, teasing glint in his eyes. “Handsome? Oh, you really love me, doll.”

She grinned, her fingers curling around his metal arm. “More than you know.” Y/N said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And you’re mine. End of story.”

[bigfan-fanfic]

Boy Scouts (Superdad x Steve Rogers x Clark Kent)

Requested by anonymous for  I love the idea of Bruce/batdad/Bucky and Steve/superdad/Clark. Please write a headcanon about their relationship if you’re ok with it

Clark was more than a little excited to interview THE Captain America.

"I can't take it easy on him, can I? I have the chance not only to interview a living legend but to help him tell whatever he needs."

You have to say, you're only just a little bit jealous.

Not really of Clark; more of how Captain America was lucky indeed that your boyfriend had turned his inquiring eye to him.

Although Steve would blush to hear you put it that way.

In any case, Clark and Steve decided to take their interview on the road, instead of professionally conducted over the phone or something.

They played pool together (Clark is hopeless at the game, making Steve chuckle sympathetically), and Clark asked him some tough questions, which intrigued Steve, who was happy to find someone genuinely curious and who wasn't treating him with overwrought reverence or clinical interest.

It's through this interview that Steve finds some interest in Clark, and Steve waits until the article has come out to congratulate the man and call him up to ask if he'd like dinner sometime.

Steve's disappointment was palpable when Clark mentioned his spouse, but he accepted the offer that was suddenly presented to him of dinner at your apartment.

And much to Steve's sheer confusion... he likes you too.

It took a lot of these semi-flirtatious friend dates before you all kinda worked out what the source of Steve's unease was, and helped him through it.

Steve is also much smarter than people tend to give him credit for - he's a quick learner and incredibly observant, and so he figures out quite easily that Clark is Superman.

But without the secrets in the way, Steve dives in with both feet. He's not entirely sure how dating men works, let alone dating two married men - married to each other for that matter, but he's communicative.

Plus having love to deal with makes him forget so much that he's away from his own time for good because, well... love is timeless, isn't it?

Considering neither man is gonna stop with his hero work, it makes security all the more necessary. Steve has a lot of enemies and is eminently aware that SHIELD has a vested interest in holding on to him.

Meanwhile Clark has other enemies but the main issue is ensuring he has a clear line to speed away to change into his suit.

Canonically, it seems like Steve considers his fellow Avengers friends at best and colleagues at worst. But he doesn't really have a particularly great rapport with them or sense of camaraderie that would compel him to stay with them when the Justice League is right there.

Steve still does morning runs, but once he actually has someone to talk to that he trusts instead of wallowing in his feelings of discomfort and dissociation, he finds himself searching for hobbies more often.

(it's almost like socializing and being with people that care about him as a person and not a symbol or teammate is very good for his self-esteem and he doesn't focus on his time displacement or do things to "catch up" because that'll happen automatically with friends...)

And let's be honest, Clark loves a passionate person he can help learn to chill out and take time for themselves.

A lot of the early relationship will be finding Steve something he likes to do, not just with you, but genuinely enjoys. I suggest getting him into fandom and nerd culture. Tabletop RPGs provide him with a good, low-tech and tactile activity he can really get into and he'll spend hours sketching his characters, ideas, and painting lil minis.

Meanwhile, Steve's success in finding creative outlets also get him to enlist your help in getting Clark some relaxing time as well.

And then they both team up against you.

Steve and Clark both have a reputation for being goody-two shoes and have independently, by separate people, been called Boy Scouts.

But while they present that image, Steve is actually quite mischievous, almost to the point of being a brat. He's passionate, sarcastic, and quite fiery. Clark is whipcrack smart and playful. He has a sincere wit, and a great sense of humor. They're a great duo to be with.

Plus I can imagine Steve helping Clark find a workout routine instead of simply being maintained by the Sun. I can definitely see them training together and letting you watch.

[stevefromupsidedown]

FAÇADE — Pt, one : the heartbreak ● steve harrington x f!reader

synopsis: First kisses are magical, right? warnings: english's not my first language, fem!reader with she/her pronouns, deaths, blood, gore and violence, references to mental health issues and low self esteem, references to sexual themes, angst, slow burn, hurt/late comfort 18+ ONLY/DNI (overall warnings for the series, read at your own risk) This material is @takemetothelakes-poets’ property.

PT, TWO | SERIES MASTERLIST | CHAPTER PLAYLIST

Summer ‘85. Starcourt burned down and Sheriff Hopper was announced dead on the city’s televised news, smoke blowing through her vision and blurs the screen for a few seconds before it dissipates. 

She looks to where it comes from, deep brown curls fall past his shoulders, she can see his tattoos peeking through his white tight vest top. 

Eyes go from the tv to her’s, his eyebrows widen slightly as he hands her the cigarette he rolled, a look in his eyes she can’t decipher yet, she takes a puff out of it and hands it back to him, “There’s something really weird about this town,” her voice is hoarse as the smoke leaves her lips and Eddie can’t seem to stop staring at her, losing himself in all the unthinkable thoughts he’s not supposed to have about her.

He breaks out of his haze as he takes it back and finishes the cigarette, “What do you mean?” 

“Byers’ kid, Barbara, the Sheriff ?,” she leans her knees against his leg as she sits cross-legged on his sofa, “And don’t tell me it’s a coincidence, nothing ever happens and suddenly a kid goes missing, is found dead, buried then out of nowhere is found alive? Same week, Barbara goes missing, and a year later her death is explained? Eight months later, Hopper’s dead in a burning mall that’s been there for what, barely four months? That’s coincidental?” 

“Damn, Sherlock Holmes. You’re so smart.” 

“Stop mocking me, you’re so fucking high.” 

“Yeeeah, it’s starting to hit,” he started to laugh, that high pitch voice with that contagious smile of his, his head fell against her arm, his dark curls falling on her lap, she couldn’t help but join him and laugh too, and damn, did he love that sound, but he wouldn’t act on it, as he knows she wasn’t in a good place to reciprocate anything, but God, he would die a satisfied man just to be able to taste her lips once, just once, would that be so much to ask for?

Maybe so. 

A few months later, a new school year has started and Eddie’s back in highschool and with her help, he might actually get his diploma, Steve managed to get this job at Family Video, thanks to Robin, he goes to dates almost every day with the week, sometimes with the same young women, until eventually he was disappointed because it’s not quite what he expected, since Nancy broke up with him, Steve's lovelife and self confidence was basically nonexistent. 

He hadn’t realised it at first, because he hated being too introspective, but he was bored and lost, purposeless, at the dawn of his twenty-first birthday, he felt like he didn’t know who he was, who was he really under the façade he hid under from all the wrong influences in his life ? 

His father and his primal instinct to be a shark and possess and control everything in his life in the name of pride and masculinity. Being successful meant money, a good car, good house, good wife, good and successful son. Did he really want that life? 

He had wanted it once, with Nancy, but what would their life look like? Copy and paste his father’s life? No. This, he was sure, he didn’t want to hide in the conformity he was supposed to fall under, he refused to resemble the shadow of himself he once hid under with the nickname “King Steve”. 

Unsure of what his purpose could be, but, he knew he wanted, needed to make meaningful connections, something that makes him vibrate, something that lets him know for sure that he’s surrounded with the right persons. 

He’s found himself on dates, searching for those meaningful connections, excited to branch out, lost in both amusement then frustration of not feeling something and not finding someone. Sometimes it led to his bedroom in the gargantuan house he had trouble consider his home. He had nice moments, but he longed for something more than sex, he longed for someone new in his life, someone freshening up his views on people and life.

The chime in the shop’s entry wakes him up from the quick checkup of his life he was doing in his head, not that glorious he thought, before he forced himself on the task he had started, which was to register the tapes back in stock in the software and control the tapes before he could put them back.

A voice came from the back, one he knew was familiar, but struggled to put a name on until she arrived, accompanied with one voice he knew and would recognise even in the Upside Down, Dustin arrives, greets him and makes a run for the Sci-Fi section, “Don't run, Dustin, something falls you’re cleaning up, I warn you!” 

He hears him say something but he doesn’t listen, instead his eyes focus on the young woman that walked in with the teenager. 

He remembers her, not that vividly because it brought back memories of his past self and immediately he feels ashamed of himself, of who he used to be. He remembers her from highschool, the same grade as him, she was more or less friends with Nancy and Barbara, they had spoken on very little occasions. He remembered she was usually in her own little bubble, not really caring about the etiquettes of a highschooler, even if at that time, he was very attached to that. She knew she was titled as an outcast, having very few friends, being called mean names, essentially by Tommy and Carol and him of course. 

He may have been called King Steve, he was a follower, a sheep. 

He also remembers that Will and Barbara’s disappearing were the turning point in Nancy’s and her friendship, it broke everything, his ex-girlfriend’s guilt and shame being the main culprit, he saw her in the hallways and in some of his classes. She always looked passive, disinterested in any highschool activities. 

With a timid smile, he stood up, her name on his lips, “Were you looking for something?” 

She seems confused at first, because he remembers her name, so what Dustin had told him was true? Steve had changed, and he was in his highest esteem, “No, um— actually I came in with Dustin, I’m paying for the movie.” 

He didn’t have time to say anything else, or apologise, Dustin came back with the movie Alien, excited and handed the tape to Steve, who registered it to her name and their first meeting stopped there, and Steve felt disappointed he couldn’t say anything more but she had to come back to give the tape back, right? Or would that be Dustin? He felt a flash of hope that quickly went away. 

He was right, though. She came back later that week to give the tape back, he thought he would never find the courage to talk to her besides doing customer small talk, but as she was leaving, her hand on the door ready to push, and goddammit she’s about to get away!— “Wait!” 

She stops dead in her tracks, their eyes lock; it starts there. 

Platonic coffee dates turned into seeing movies at the cinema, turned into sharing a plate of fries after a screening of A Nightmare on Elm Street 2, at a diner, hiding in a booth in a corner, loud laughs and giggles coming from them. 

Steve didn't realise it immediately but there was a deep connection between them, with more and more time spent with her, and none spent with the other girls, he realised, this might be it. She might be it. 

He let himself dive into the newness of their relationship, and how fresh and good it felt. 

It’s after a few days of staring down at her lips, whenever she talked, bit her lip or wetted her lips with her tongue that he felt captured by them. 

Then her smile grew on him, it was so contagious he couldn’t help but smile whenever she did, but the worst of it all, that made him understand he was down bad, was that his imagination was betraying him, actually it was worse, both his imagination and free will were working against him as he longed for any kind of opportunity to get up close to her, it was driving him crazy. 

She was driving him crazy with her full, inviting lips that looked chapped from all the time she bit down on them out of habit from nervousness, but none of it mattered because he needed to taste them. He would die a happy man just to be able to taste her lips once.

One time, at the drive-in, he had been brave during the movie to rest his hand on her thigh, her head spun to meet his eyes, their gaze locked in, she smiled at him as she intertwined their fingers, with the lights reflecting on her face, he knew, but he didn’t act on it, yet. 

Driving her back to her house, his hand lingered on her thigh and didn’t move unless he really needed it, he parked and hand in hand they walked to the front door, she turned on the fairy lights on her porch, her back completely leaning on the front door, their hands tangled. 

The ghost of a smile appeared on her lips as she looked at their hands, her head looked up to meet his eyes and her smile widened and shined so bright he mirrored her smile.

He felt it was the right moment, but he was timid, almost as frightened as for his first ever kiss. 

One of his hands travelled to her face gently, his fingertips touching delicately her cheek, his touch glided down the left side of her jaw, he cupped her chin in his fingers, his eyes traveled her face to memorise every softness and curve, the shine and the hope in her eyes, their eyes connected and never left one another's gaze, both so into their moment, their little bubble.

“Can I—”, he started but his voice broke, his fear was sincere, she was sure of that, he was so vulnerable with her. He didn't want to misread, mess up everything they had together, a fond smile formed on her lips and she leaned closer until their noses touched, their eyes closed to the proximity.

“You can always kiss me, Steve,” she murmured against his lips then she lightly pushed her lips on his, it was hesitant on both sides, a very tender peck on the lips, they disconnected quickly, foreheads touching as they took their time to process that they were kissing and they both wanted it as bad as the other. 

His other hand left hers’ and brought her face closer to his, palms along her jaw, and their lips met a second time as they moved in sync, his lips pulled harder on hers’, he grew more confident, comfortable and greedy, he knew, right there and then, that he would never get tired of kissing her. He didn't know if it was love, he didn’t have a clue how to describe it because how the hell does one know if it’s love, but he knew for sure he felt the connection he's been yearning for. 

That night, he left her with a kiss on her lips and her forehead as he wanted nothing more than to hold her close to him. 

And, fuck, he should have seen it coming then. 

Steve started feeling the doubt coming in, it had nothing to do with trust, or the lack of it, but because of the Upside Down, and the lies he would have to make up if —or when— he would have to protect the kids again. He couldn't tell her about that place, about the nightmares he gets sometimes, about why he needs their relationship to be super slow, because if he explains about him and Nancy, he needs to explain about Barbara, Will, and El, and he can't. He fucking can’t.

He cannot invite her in that insanity, he cannot risk her life just for the sake of having her. It starts to weigh on him, shifting between enjoying the laughs, the giggles, the kisses with her and the guilt, the inevitable hurt he's going to force on them.

He feels himself slowing down even furthermore, conflicted. He feels selfish for wanting love and warmth that she provides with such ease. Kisses and caring touches that she gives away so.. easily, feeling so comfortable around him, like she might have found someone who loved her for her, and not for the prize of having seduced her.

She was okay with the slow pace, in fact she was on board with it as she needed it after the last relationship she had, or the lack of it, the result of investing herself in someone who only had the intention of getting in her pants, pain and lack of confidence were the prize she hadn’t asked for but had been delivered to because of this stupid boy.

She truly believed Steve was different, he had matured, he proved it to her every time they spent time together, always so patient, because he didn't set the pace according to her but to them, only explained he didn't want to go fast, he wanted to enjoy the little moments they could have.  Flirtatious moments transformed into make out sessions, lust and longing made it difficult to walk back from it if they were to cross the line.

What Steve didn’t know yet is that she had talked to Dustin, the day they came in together at Family Video was totally by luck —or was it fate?—, it had been raining cats and dogs and she saw the teenager waiting for it to pass with his bicycle. She had proposed to help him out, in honor of old time’s sake, being his babysitter when he was smaller, he remembers he looked up to her and was actually happy to see her. 

Dustin knew Eddie, being a member of the Hellfire’s club, it was full circle, and helping him out that day meant going to Family Video so he could rewatch Alien with Eddie in honor of the sequel arriving soon. 

In the car they had talked, mainly about Eddie, but on their way back, Dustin couldn’t stop about Steve being so much better than he was. She trusted Dustin’s judgment, so she gave him a chance, just to see what could come out. It turned out.. it was going well, right?

Steve didn't want to hurt her and was torn between stopping everything before they spent the night together and keep going because he felt so good around her, he loved being with her, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh. 

He hadn't planned to fall so hard for her, he was so distraught, he felt like he was paralysed, he knew he had to stop it all, but the lust, the longing, the feelings he had for her got him spiralling into an amazing night with her. Remorse ran deep and almost immediately.

He didn't know if he could spend a day without hearing her moan his name so slowly, in a whisper, it drove him crazy. And beyond that, even if he loved the intimacy they had together, he loved her warmth, the goosebumps when he kissed her skin, the horror he experienced with the Upside Down quickly caught up on him. Shallow breaths left his lips as he caught his heartbeat rumble vividly in his chest.

While she was in her bathroom cleaning up, he felt anxiety creep up on him like a shadow crawling on his skin, sharpened claws clawing his chest, goosebumps rising in his body in fear. He caught the shortening of breath and the tightening in his chest as it happened. Flight or fight. 

Flight?

Fight?

Fl—fuck.

He dressed up in a hurry, he grabbed his keys from her desk, messily fixing his hair with his hand when he heard the bathroom's door open, he closed his eyes, cursing himself. 

Flight.

They observed each other in silence, keys in hand, her fingers gripping so tightly the towel she had around her shoulder to provide her some warmth, her body tensed, and she felt like she had just taken an ice cold shower. The glow and the softness in her heart from the aftercare and all the delicate kisses and touches broke away like glass shattering. Her body started shaking from the cold in her house and the shock. 

"You—,” her voice broke, she cleared her throat, but it came out broken, voice coarse, in a murmur she tried again, “You're leaving?" 

The way it came out, it sounded like it destroyed her as she spoke, it’s like saying it had made it real, their chest felt heavier by the second, the tears watering her eyes.

Fuck, he hated himself.

He had trouble finding his voice again, he had to try again too, his voice holding the weight of his actions, "I remembered— I…” 

Nothing came out. He couldn’t lie, nor could he tell the truth. 

“I'm sorry." 

He could hear their heartbreaks, feeling his own sink in his ribcage, he swallowed the lump in his throat, "I can’t do this," he whispered again and held back the tears as he escaped her eyes, walking away from her, from them.

He could hear her call his name as he walked, running down the stairs after him, his long legs got him to his car in a matter of a few seconds, he started it and drove away to his house, his vision blurry with tears as he saw her in the rearview mirror of his car, the image of her, barefoot on the entryway, in the middle of a November night, in only her shorts and tank top.

He saw her tears falling, her hands cupping her face as she sobbed. 

It’s not how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to be happy, tangled bodies wrapped in her blanket, discussing until dawn.

She went back to her room, walking, she was the shadow of herself, her eyes met the mirror she had stuck to the back door of her room, she hated what she saw. 

Instinctively she put on the sweatshirt that’s been sitting on her desk, she hadn't seen it was Steve's, until she realised it smelled like him, she held a fist of material, unsure of what had happened, and how it happened. She was confused at first, dumbfounded by the situation, until she realised she had been taken advantage of, again. 

She hated herself for it, she screamed into her pillow, thankful that the house was empty, no one could hear the cries of despair and rage. She ripped apart the Polaroids she had of them together, getting rid of everything on her desk out of rage, yells coming from betrayal, she ended up sitting on the floor, sobbing, suffocating. 

She felt stupid, such an idiot to think that Steve Harrington could love her, that anyone could love her, that he could have been the one, and that people seemed to only want her for the prize of it, for the pleasure they could get out of it. Like she was some prey for the others to take.

Parked in front of his empty house, Steve couldn't leave his car, he felt so terrible for making her go through this again, even while he loved her so much, he couldn't be with her, and he hated himself so much for it. Shaky breaths left his lips, in one moment of rage the side of his hand hit the steering wheel, yelling. 

Then he started crying, feeling so much shame, so much guilt, like an idiot. The anxiety crept once more on him as he felt difficulty breathing. Another panic attack. That night they both fell asleep in exhaustion, crying themselves to sleep. 

A week after, while Steve was sorting out the gifts he had bought for the teenagers and Robin and Nancy for Christmas, when he fell upon hers’,  he decided to hide it in his dresser, knowing full well he wouldn't give it to her, because they no longer were on speaking terms. 

It had started out so good but had stopped so abruptly.

[ghost-proofbaby]

the seasons pass (but you never do) - e.m.

summary: he knew your reputation. he knew you had you way with half of hawkins. it was never going to end well - but that didn't stop him.

warnings: reader is NOT a good person (need to emphasize this), billy hargrove is involved and sort of ooc, smut, oral (fem receiving), a lot of hurt, not a 'happy' ending, reader has severe issues with self-esteem (not in the usual obvious way), very self-sabotaging reader. mentions of reader having adult relationships with multiple male characters. NOT A 'HAPPY' ENDING. minors dni - 18+

pairings: eddie munson x fem!fuckgirl!reader (with mentions of steve x reader, johnathan x reader, and billy x reader.)

wc: 8.4k+

a/n: i cannot emphasize enough - the reader in this fic is very toxic. she is not a good person. this does not end well. also, be wary, as billy is used as the easiest companion who can align with her being a bad person, so she is friends with him. this probably won't be everyone's cup of tea, but it's been a year in the works! thank you to anyone who reads. <3 also, HUGE thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for making that banner for me. i am undeserving of your talents baby.

oh, also, here's a fun playlist to go along with it.

SUMMER, 1988

It was always going to end this way. It’s how it’s supposed to go - you met him, you wanted him, you got him, you left him. There was never any illusions on your part as to what this was. He knew your reputation. He knew the ending. You knew the ending. 

It was always going to end this way. 

There was no amount of flowers he could have got you, no amount of midnight rendezvous to change this course. It never mattered how his laughter wound your chest tight or how his fingers fit a little too perfectly between yours. You didn’t do long-term relationships, and he always asked for too much from you. You could give him a summer, no more and no less. He knew that, you knew that, all your previous flings knew that. There was only one ending ever in sight for the two of you.

So why does it hurt so much when you catch sight of him around town with her? 

Chrissy Cunningham is beautiful. She’s all shades of sunrise pinks, flavors of sweetness that spur stomach aches - the epitome of enchantment and a type of softness you couldn’t compare to. And when you see her arm in arm with him, you can see that beauty of hers painted across him. Her pinks paint roses on his cheeks, her laughter etches dimples into his cheeks you’d only ever seen in the late hours of the night. She makes him happy. She makes him look lovesick. She doesn’t hide him in the darkness, she flaunts him in the light, and he looks devastatingly beautiful without the shadows. 

You should be happy for him. It shouldn’t phase you; you didn’t bat an eyelash when Steve Harrington had taken to dating every other girl in the town after your spring with him. You never winced when Johnathan Byers started dating Nancy Wheeler after a flirtatious fall with you. Billy Hargrove had been on the same page as you, ready to brave a chilling winter with you and accept when the ice melted along with the infatuation, returning your winks when you spotted each other with your newest one night stands in shared bars. 

But Eddie’s summer stuck to your skin. No amount of showers run cold, no amount of new partners who you won’t allow to spend the night, wash you clean of him. The change in the leaves only amplified the ache left in your chest when August turns to September. The flowers weren’t the only things wilting when September flashes into October. 

You miss him terribly, and it’s all your fault.

You let him stick around far longer than you should have. You let his wandering lips slot between yours and you let him sleep at your side from the very first night. When it was all said and done, you were the one that broke every single imaginary rule you had set for yourself, and the blame was yours to carry. Eddie Munson was never going to be a three month memory to wipe away with the steam of your mirror. He’d done it, he’d left his mark. He’d managed to make the streets of Hawkins feel cold and empty in his absence, to make everything dull in comparison to your life before him. 

You empty the last of your glass of wine, all bitter and tinged on your tongue, and chuckle internally as you watch Eddie’s hand’s find Chrissy’s hips from across the bar. Go figure. 

SPRING, 1987

The Hideout was busy as ever, booming with business on a Saturday night as you reentered the scene. Your ‘date’ for the night was still outside the bar, surely not even entertaining the thought of coming back inside. 

He hadn’t taken to you breaking the news that it was over kindly. 

“You never let them down easy, do you?” Billy chuckles as he leans against one of the standing tables near the bar. He had seen the look in your eyes when you dragged the nameless boy out the front door; he’d seen it plenty of times before. Starry eyed boy, ever-fleeting girl. They were fools, and they should have noticed your wandering eyes and lack of commitment from the get-go. 

“Never,” you smirk back as you approach him. The live band had just finished, the music over the speakers nothing compared to the deafening screams of the guitars that had played, “It’s not my fault the boys in this town never learn their lesson.” 

Billy only shrugs and throws back the last of his whiskey, “What did it this time? Did he drop the big L? Maybe he brought you flowers like Harrington did that one time?” 

“Oh, God,” you place a hand over your heart dramatically, “Please don’t remind me. Breaking his heart nearly broke my nonexistent one.” 

“Yeah, right,” Billy cackles, “Still can’t believe you ever gave the sap a chance. Or what about Byers, hm?” 

“Couldn’t break a heart I never had. He always had eyes for Wheeler, that’s what made it fun,” you shrug and grab at a fruity drink that had been abandoned at the table, “To answer your question, he got clingy. All jealous because I was making eyes at the lead singer,” you tip your chin towards the stage that’s now empty and take a sip of the cocktail, “Say, what happened to your date? She looked pretty.” 

“You were making eyes at Munson? Doll, I knew you were getting desperate after me, but him?” Billy cuts himself off with a low whistle. 

“Shut up,” you take another long sip of the drink. It’s sweeter than your preference, but free alcohol is free alcohol, “Tell me what happened to the blonde you were chatting up.” 

“I’m more into redheads.”

��Aw, but it looked like you two were really hitting it off.” 

“I had to have three shots before I could stomach her laughing at my jokes.” 

You reach over to pinch his cheeks, receiving sharp slaps against your wrists.

“Hot,” you coo before leaning back and ending his attack against your hands, “You know, if we both strike out tonight, we could always go home together.” 

“You struck out, the night is still young for me,” Billy grins wickedly and looks around the busy bar for emphasis. 

There’s a small commotion at one of the doors to the side of the stage, and you glance over to catch sight of the band that had been playing exiting. 

The lead singer, Munson as Billy had referred to him, was just as stunning when taken down from his stage pedestal. His hair had been pulled back into a low bun, his torso once exposed on stage now covered in a faded Judas Priest tour shirt, but his Cheshire smile on his face was just as brilliant without the stage lights. Dimples hidden by the dark bar lighting, plush lips and scruff framing his face. 

Billy catches you staring at him.

“Maybe you didn’t strike out,” he hums, “You gonna go for it, hot stuff?” 

You smile in return. Something dangerous, something evil yet inviting, “I might. I do need a new play thing for the summer, after all.” 

“Careful. I’m sure there’s a line of groupies willing to fight you for the Eddie Munson.” 

Billy had been mocking you with a shrill voice, but he had been wrong. 

There was no line of girls for you to compete with as you approached Eddie. And if there was, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. From the moment you had smiled at him, uttering your name into Eddie’s ears over the bass of the music, placing a careful hand on his shoulder and telling him how much you just adored his music, he had been hooked. You had him in your grasp from the start. 

And maybe Billy knew that as he flashed you a sly grin over a redhead’s shoulder as you dragged Eddie behind you later that night, heading for the restrooms that patrons notably didn’t use. 

It was your lipstick smeared over Eddie’s neck that night, it was your name falling from his lips as you pressed him against a stall wall, it was your hair that he tangled his hands in as you sat pretty on your knees before him, it was your nails digging into his jean-clad thighs as he fucked your mouth. No, other girls never would have stood a chance. 

By the end of that night, you hadn’t even cum, but you thought nothing of it, still smug that you’d found yourself a new supposed victim. You’d never considered which one of you truly held the match, which one of you might bleed gasoline rather than crimson blood. 

All that you considered was the fact that you’d wanted Eddie, and you’d got him, just as it always went. 

That was only the first night. 

SUMMER, 1987

You fall for him in the summer. You convince yourself you’re in control still, but it’s fruitless - you’d lost control the moment you’d tasted him on that dizzy spring night rather than waiting for the arrival of summer’s heat. 

“Come over.” 

Two simple words, yet the moment you’d spoken them over the line, Eddie had wasted no time to speed his way across town for your apartment. He was officially at your beck and call. You said the word, and he was at your dispense. 

It was the fastest he’d ever arrived at your doorstep, rapping his knuckles against familiar rosewood and listening to the familiar weight of your footsteps approaching the door. 

“Hey, you,” you sigh softly once you catch sight of him in your porchlight. The creatures of summer buzz as background noise as you drink him in. Same wild curls, same deviant smirk. There looks to be new rips in his black jeans, and his shirt is wrinkled, but none of that shatters the dreamy image of him to you. 

You still want him just as badly as you had the first night. 

“Sorry I took so long,” he teases, leaning into the doorframe you rest your hip against, “Traffic, you know.”

“Oh, of course. It’s just terrible this time of year,” you play along. You both know he’d made the fifteen minute drive in under ten minutes. But there’s something in the warm air, something electric and fluttering and addictive and palpable. You’re sure if you were to rest your hand flirtatiously against his chest as you normally did with your rotation of partners, that he’d burn you. 

Something new. You tell yourself it’s just the excitement of a fresh Summer plaything, and you ignore the voice that whispers with the reminder that this started in the Spring. 

“You gonna let me in?” he nods in the direction of your apartment behind you, bathed in a soft yellow from the dusk and the lamp on the table beside your couch. 

You bring a hand to your chin and tap a finger mockingly, “Hm, I don’t know. Should I?”

“You should,” he leans even closer.

“I might need convincing.” 

His breath washes over your cheek, so gentle you could have mistaken it for the summer breeze. You can smell the spice of his cologne, the stubborn smoke from his last cigarette. It makes your head spin.

“Convincing, you say?” he murmurs as his lips graze your earlobe, “I’ve been known to be convincing.” 

This was something you enjoyed about him. He wasn’t like other boys - he didn’t fall to your feet and praise the ground you stood on, not directly. He didn’t follow you like a lost puppy. He took the time to dance with you, to entertain you with banter and to enrapture you with the chase. Maybe that’s why Spring and Summer felt the same when it came to him. 

“I call bullshit,” you laugh breathlessly as his lips connect with your neck, making a trail of pecks until he reaches the bare skin of your shoulder. “You still haven’t convinced me to listen to Metallica.”

“We’ll get there, baby,” he whispers against your skin as his fingers sneak beneath the strap of your tank top, “Just be patient.”

The pet name strikes a kink in your armor, and in an instant, your hands are on his shoulders and dragging him into the living room, barely remembering to slam the door shut behind him. 

You never let them call you nicknames normally. Billy had been the only exception. 

But when he calls you baby, something blooms in your chest. And it’s vines and thorns alike twist and prick your gut, deflating your better judgment as the two of you are a mess of clumsy limbs that can’t seem to navigate your hallway fast enough. You can’t seem to get him to your bed fast enough. 

“Off,” he demands against your lips when you finally have him sitting on your comforter, thighs straddling his as his hands tug at the tank top’s hem. 

“What happened to patience?” you tease, but you’re already complying, shucking off the fabric and exposing yourself to him. You’d foregone a bra - it was too hot in Hawkins this time of year. 

He doesn’t offer you an answer, hardly taking the time to suck in a deep breath before his mouth wraps around one of your peaked nipples and his large hand spans across your back to press you as close to him as he can get you. You’re already moaning too loudly, sure to receive noise complaints from the neighbors tomorrow. But you’re not thinking about the neighbors or tomorrow, you can only focus on his tongue and lips, working soft magic over your body as he twists the two of you so that he’s hovering over you. 

“Fuck,” you blissfully breathe out, fingertips raking through the roots of his curls. His mouth has moved on to your other breast, leaving blooming petals of bruises in its wake. 

Another thing you’d never allow to happen with any of the other boys. 

No marks. A simple rule. A forgotten rule when it came to Eddie. 

“You like that?” he chuckles as he places a final chaste kiss to your chest, lifting his head and staring up at you with his bambi eyes. He had the kind of eyes you could get lost in, wander and wade through for hours if given the chance. Shadows of brown and honey intertwining, beckoning to you with a promise of the adoration you seeked out. 

You do like that. As a matter of fact, you love it. 

“I like it better when your mouth is busy, rockstar,” you say as if you wouldn’t listen to him talk for hours, as if you hadn’t listened to him speak about nonsense as the time passed the two of you by. 

He takes his cue, and he does as you ask. He traces roadmaps down your stomach, across your thighs and hips, not uttering a single word until he’s pulled away your cotton shorts and lace underwear. 

When he’s face to face with your heat, he finally speaks again. 

“Beautiful.”

It’s just a word. If any of your previous flings had spoken it, you’d smack them away and declare the moment over. In fact, you’d done just that with your autumn boy from last year. You weren’t here to be called beautiful, to be held carefully or to be praised as you let them take you however they pleased. You were here to get one thing and one thing only - your own pleasure. 

Your back still arches when he says the word, your vines still crack your ribs just as they had reacted to the utterance of baby. 

The thorns prickle beneath your skin when he makes you cum with his tongue once, twice, thrice too many times. When he pulls your body to his, when you allow him to forego the protection of a condom and you let him sigh contentedly into your mouth when he slides in, it all pierces you the same. 

And when your voice has grown hoarse from chanting his name and your lips have gone chapped from kissing him desperately, you break your final damning rule.

“Stay with me?” 

The plea comes out soft and heavy as your head rests against his chest. Even with your window open, the night breeze drifting in, the heat is stifling. It’s too warm to stay pressed so closely together, but it doesn’t stop you from clinging your body to his. 

He doesn’t hesitate in his reply, “Of course.” 

The two of you sink further into your sheets and each other. It wasn’t the first time Eddie Munson spent the night in your bed, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. 

AUTUMN, 1987

“You like him more than you liked the others.”

It’s not a question - it’s a fact secured in concrete that falls from Billy’s lips as the two of you lean against the brick exterior of the Hideout. A cigarette is half-gone and held limply between his lips, yours freshly lit and clung to tightly between white knuckles.

“I don’t like him,” you scoff, “He’s a good fuck.” 

You weren’t here on your normal business, scoping for another warm body to join you in your bed for the night. Eddie’s band, Corroded Coffin, was performing one of their weekly shows. 

“Right. A good enough fuck to live to see the fall,” Billy presses, raising his eyebrows at you as he takes another drag and let’s the whisps of white smoke carry off into the cool night. 

You’d just been striking out. That’s what you had told yourself. It was bound to happen eventually; you’d hit a dry streak, and you’d have to eventually find a repeat offender. Eddie was just that for you. Someone easy to fall back on. It didn’t hurt that you also enjoyed his company, especially when he’d swing you around in your kitchen while the two of you made dinner in your apartment or when he’d let you cuddle into his neck during the scary movie marathons you’d began to take part in with Halloween now looming around the corner. 

“I haven’t seen you getting lucky,” you snap, a sudden defensiveness taking over. A lie, of course. You hadn’t frequented the bar enough lately to even know the last time your former fling had gotten laid. 

Billy throws up his hands as he discards the butt of his cigarette, “Hey now, don’t get so feisty, doll. It’s okay to admit you’re going soft.” 

Soft. Soft like Eddie’s hands when he pulled your hips against his night after night. Soft like Eddie’s eyes when he watched you in the shower during the mornings after, quick to swipe away any shampoo that drips down your forehead and dangerously close to your own eyes as you wash your hair. Soft like your voice every time you asked him to stay, over and over, never learning your lesson. 

“I’m not going soft,” is all you say as you put out the cigarette, not even half-finished, and move to go back inside. 

You’re not having this conversation. There’s nothing more to dissect. You weren’t going soft and you couldn’t like Eddie, it wasn’t in your nature. 

It’s a mantra you repeat to yourself as you take in the sight of him still setting up the stage. You catch his eye and he grins at you, and you remind yourself you’re not soft. No, whatever this feeling is, it’s not soft. It is angry and loud, it is demanding and sharp. It is copper on your tongue and it is raging storm clouds in your mind. It is the opposite of everything he has been to you; it is every contrast possible to the way he treats you. 

He treats you like a human being. You’re not a prize, you’re not an idol – you’re just a person, and sometimes, he treats you as if that’s the greatest thing you could possibly be. 

When the show is over and rounds have been bought for the band, he comes home with you. He staggers on his feet and you know he’s had too much whiskey for his own good. Normally, any guy this drunk would be told to piss off.

He’s not any guy. He’s Eddie. 

And so you take his drunken state in strides. You let his body lean into you as you guide him up the steps to your front door, you only smile when he gets handsy, you offer weak laughter at his terrible jokes. 

“You only want me for my body,” he teases you between kisses when you hook your fingers into his jean’s belt loops to keep him close and upright, “Don’t you?” 

This is the part where you tell him yes. You’re supposed to tell him he’s nothing more than a cure for the looming loneliness. 

You shake your head. 

“I’m not, but I can’t ride your personality, can I?” your fingers retract from the loops, and trace their way up his chest, memorizing the muscles beneath the t-shirt. It’s too faded to see the band logo once advertised. 

“You could try,” he sways, and your wandering fingers curl into fists into the cotton material, “P-Probably be pretty hard, though. Just like me.” 

He takes one of your hands and places it over the bulge in his jeans. 

If he were any other guy, you’d play into it, because if he were any other guy, you’d be expecting to get something out of this night for your own selfish needs. 

“Not so fast, rockstar,” you bring your hand back up to his chest as he hiccups, brows furrowed at your subtle rejection, “Let’s get you inside, yeah?” 

It’s an uphill battle of gangly limbs and stumbling steps. He falls against your hallway walls more times than you can count as you guide him to your bedroom and allow him to splay out on the mattress. The laces of his combat boots are impossibly knotted, but you win the war in the end and tug them off of him. He wiggles his toes within his socks, and watches you with half-lidded eyes.

“This is the part where you try to ride my personality, right?” he tempts you, the wiggling in his toes flowing up to his eyebrows, eyes alight with mischief. 

Your hand is gentle as you grab his ankle, exposed from jeans that had ridden up into scrunched material around the bottom of his calf. “Right. Let me get you some water first.” 

You leave him to rush to the kitchen, gathering the glass of water you’d promised along with a bottle of painkillers from your medicine cabinet. For a moment, you take in the silence and lean your palms onto the cold kitchen counter. 

Five months. Two months too long, technically, if you were comparing it all to your track record. He’d seen the eggshell white walls of your apartment more than your own mother, more than your closest friends. At this point, even on your most lonesome nights, you found yourself leaving an Eddie-sized space on the sheets beside you. One of your pillows now permanently smelt like him. There was a mug in your cabinet reserved for him and his ridiculously sweet coffee preference. You’d bought his favorite brand of cigarettes just last week, far stronger than your preferred menthols, and you’d found one of his socks discarded in your dirty laundry. 

No, this wasn’t soft. It couldn’t be.

When you finally return to your room, he’s already asleep. You still leave the water and the pills on the bedside table for the next morning, when he’d need them. You try not to think too hard about the way that even in his drunken slumber, he’s left a perfectly you-sized space beside him, arm thrown out perfectly so that you can curl into him once you’ve brushed your teeth and dressed down into pajamas. 

The last thing you remember before you fall asleep against him is the way your soft hand grazes over his stomach in soothing circles, and the way your brain softly whispers in the hope of his hangover not being too cruel to him come morning light. 

WINTER, 1987

“Eddie! Stop it!” you squeal when he nearly takes you down with him as his back connects with the polished ice beneath the two of you. 

Ice skating wasn’t the best idea for two people who were notoriously uncoordinated. But he’d asked you to come with him, and you’d put up little resistance. 

“Ow, fuck,” he groans, still laying flat on his back with his eyes squeeze shut, legs spread wide as you wobble on your skates, “That fucking hurts.” 

“I bet it does,” you nearly giggle, childish with your rosey cheeks and pink-tipped nose. Your smile is infectious once he opens his eyes and catches sight of you fighting back your laughter.

It was the first time the two of you had ever gone out before dark with each other. Although, you were sure by the time you two had finished your goofing off inside the indoor ice rink, it’d be night. 

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, struggling to lift himself onto his elbows, “Laugh it up, chuckles. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your first fifty falls.”

“Fifty?” you squeak, forcing faux offense, “I only fell twice, thank you very much.”

It takes a bit for him to finally find his footing once more, plenty of hesitant and awkward movements to simply stand up right before you. Once you’re nearly face to face again, he’s pouting. “Kiss it better?” 

Your feet shuffle beneath you, struggling to keep your balance. Your hands fly out and grab onto one of his forearms for balance, “Where’s it hurt?” 

“Right here,” his free hand lifts to point to his lips, accentuating his pout further. 

“Funny,” you muse, “I don’t recall you falling on your face - this time.” 

He huffs as you begin to lose your balance again, one of your hands slipping down his wrist until your fingers are intertwined to the best of your abilities given the angle. His hand is freezing from the ice. Even despite his teasing, he’s quick to work with you, keeping the two of you standing straight with ever-shuffling feet. 

“Residual pains or whatever they call them,” he waves off, tapping his lips again to make a point. You roll your eyes, but you’re still quick to lean forward and peck him. 

“That’s all?” he whines, already moving in for another kiss. 

Any onlooker would assume it’s a date. But it couldn’t be - you didn’t do dates. It was two friends, two acquaintances really, hanging out for the sake of fun. Just as you fell back on Eddie when your nights grew forlorn, he had seeked you out for comfort on his isolating days. It was just another perk of your arrangement. 

An arrangement that had dragged on for eight long months. 

“You’re greedy,” you mumble against his lips as he tries to deepen the kiss and you deny him. 

“Of course I’m greedy,” he replies, nipping at your bottom lip playfully, “Can you blame a guy when it comes to you?” 

You couldn’t, you really couldn’t. You’d had your fair share of possessive types in the past, the kind that felt the need to always claim you as your own. And you would have found it hot, too, if it didn’t feel like they reduced you down to nothing more than some trophy to parade around town. 

Eddie didn’t do that. He was still greedy, he had still gotten daring with marking you as his own as of late, but he never reduced you. He never forced you to shrivel in size, never tried to compact you into the box he needed you in. He took you as you were. 

You were enough for him. For the first time in a very long time, you were enough.

If you thought about it too long, you would have become dizzy out there on the ice with Eddie. So you don’t think about it. You indulge yourself in banter and echoing laughter, in the scolding looks from nearby parents when one of you makes a crude joke loud enough for their children to hear. You claim your indulging him with the incessant kisses, but you know deep down they’re also for you. To feel his lips on yours. To feel his hands on your hips. To feel his fingers between yours. 

To feel like enough. 

You’re both still giddy when you approach the counter after several hours have passed, dropping your rented skates on the counter as you glance to the arcade filled with patrons. Glowing lights and trilling noises emit from the area, tangling with giggling that you can’t quite place as coming from there or the ice. It’s loud enough that Eddie has to lean in closer to the teenager working the cash register. 

He insisted on paying. You’d tried to fight him on it, but he insisted it was his treat. 

It’s during this momentary separation, in which your worlds’ briefly stop revolving around each other, that you spot him. He must have been here for as long as you and Eddie had been, and you must have just been too wrapped up in enough to have noticed him sooner. 

Just as you see him, he sees you. Just as you prepare to turn on heel, to return to hiding into Eddie’s enough, he’s calling your name. 

It’s loud. It mingles with the sounds already coming from the atmosphere. Eddie doesn’t hear him, but you do. 

“Steve,” you try to greet him with a friendly tone through your clenched teeth, taking a few steps further away from Eddie, away from enough and blissful delusion, “I haven’t seen you in forever.” 

“Yeah,” he looks as if he’s seen a ghost as he approaches you, “Yeah, not since, uh- well, you know.” 

Not since the night you’d officially cut all ties with him, somewhere between Jonathan and Billy. You’d broken his heart. You’d nearly broken your own. 

Your lips are pressed into a tight lip smile as you try to redirect the conversation, “How’ve you been?” 

“Good! I’ve- uh, yeah, good. You?” 

I’ve been on a downward spiral of breaking every single rule that I have spent my entire life curating for my dating life, and I know you’re aware of this by the way you just looked at Eddie over my shoulder, and the way your brow is furrowing, and I get it. I get it. I fucked up. 

“I’ve been alright,” you force your jaw to relax, you force a kind and shy smile. It’s almost akin to the ones you’d originally flash him to get him in your grasp, “How’s Nancy?” 

Nancy Wheeler. After you left Steve the first time, letting whatever situationship that had begun just fizzle out, he’d ran into her arms. From the get go with Jonathan, you’d always known you were a placeholder for her. Even Billy had made a damn pass at her once you guys gave up at spring’s dawn; he’d claimed it might as well be a tradition now, only laughing as Nancy shot him down as expected. 

Nancy Wheeler was everything you weren’t. She could promise these men security, stability, commitment, a future. She didn’t hide them. They weren’t dirty secrets forced to only wander into her arms late at night, they weren’t kicked out at the end of each night once she’d had their way with them. 

Nancy probably never had her way with men, you realized, more likely letting them have their way with her.  

“We broke up,” Again. He forgets to add the again. 

They’d gotten together after that first time, been together while you had fun with Jonathan, broken up the moment you were finished with Jonathan and he could go to where he belonged – with Nancy. 

Of course, when Jonathan chose a different university to go to, somewhere far away from Nancy, those two had broken up. Steve had swooped in again. It was a never ending headache of small town gossip you had grown tired of hearing about. 

“I’m sorry,” you aren’t really, “That’s… forget I’m asked,” you’d feel worse if you hadn’t seen the girl waiting to the side for Steve. His date, no doubt. 

“No worries, it’s been a while since it happened anyways,” he shrugs it off, but you can still see the hurt in his eyes. 

He’d once called you drunkenly, going off on how he was going on all these dates trying to find you or Nancy again, how none of them were you or Nancy. Which, at the time, just irritated you because Steve, why do you still have my number? But now? Now, you almost get it. You almost understand the pain of searching for a familiar face in the eyes of strangers because any time you had gone to your usual haunts these last seven months, you found yourself searching crowds for wild, messy curls and warm brown eyes. For shades of honey and the scent of tobacco drowned out by cheap cologne.

You hadn’t been striking out anymore, the realization hits clear as day. It’s not even that you were being as picky as you normally were – none of the guys were Eddie. None of them had freckles below their right eyes that made your breath catch, none of them had the same calluses along their fingers from years of guitar practice. None of them had the same boyish grin that shone through the dark of your room at two in the morning, leaving you with no choice but to let him stay. They weren’t Eddie.

“You like him more than you liked the others,” Billy’s voice reverberates from the back of your mind. 

The truth seeps into your bones like ash and flames, a fever burning you from the inside out. 

Steve only fans the flames when he nods over your shoulder at Eddie, “So, are you and Munson a thing now?” 

Flames. Hot coals in the back of your throat, lively embers trailing down your spine. You’re watching the entirety of who you had worked so hard to become over the years bursting into flames. 

“What?” you whisper, not realizing Eddie had finished paying behind you, “No. No, we- no. We aren’t anything. We’re just… we’re just friends.” 

Even the word friends whispers away into smoke, choking you up. 

“Friends? Looks like you two were on a date, like he’s your boyfriend or something.” 

“Well, we’re not. He’s not.” 

Steve hardly buys it, but when Eddie joins your side once more, you don’t even offer him a glimmer of a farewell. You grab the wrist of your friend, your not boyfriend, and you high tail out of there. Still choked up, still running, still reeling. 

It’s still light when you leave the building and your hand drops from Eddie’s. You’ll both pretend the cold is from the weather, and not the distance you put between him and yourself. 

And if he heard your conversation with Steve, he doesn’t bring it up. Not that night, at least. 

SPRING, 1988

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You got him in the spring – it makes sense that you lose him in the spring. 

“What do you mean?” you play dumb, painfully coy as you continue to rinse the dishes. Plural. Dishes that the two of you had just dirtied through a painfully tense dinner together. In your apartment, at the counter of your tiny kitchen, knees not even so much as brushing. 

“This,” something has broken inside of him. Snapped, shattered, splintered. “It’s been a year, and I keep telling myself that you’ll come around, but-”

“Come around?” you cut him off with a laugh, one that stabs not only through his chest but your own. A double-edged dagger that has been sharpening itself for a year now, “Come around to what, Eddie?” 

He hadn’t expected the way you lash out, the cold storm that you had been consumed by since the winter night where Steve had looked at you like something had changed in you. As if you had finally gotten better, as if you had had something sour in you all along and Eddie had managed to magically drain you of it.

He couldn’t. He never was going to be able to. 

“Me?” he’s not sure of himself, voice wavering and eyes sparkling as they widen with tears of frustration, “Us? Fuck, I don’t know, but I can’t keep-”

“You thought I would come around to the idea of us?” your voice is cool and collected, nothing like his, as you finally turn around, “What, like we’re dating?” 

You were. A year of this back and forth, and you were too stubborn to just accept it. It was your downfall. It was the bleeding wound for not only yourself, but for Eddie – for this, as he had called it. 

You like him more than you liked the others.

So, are you and Munson a thing now?

A good enough fuck to live to see the fall.

You were never going to be enough for him. In your lifetime, you’d always known what you were good for, and it wasn’t for boys like Eddie Munson. 

“What else do you call this?” he motions vaguely to the dishes, to the fridge that holds his takeout, to the hallway he had tumbled down more times than you could count, “We’re more than just good friends, sweetheart.”

“We both knew what we were getting into.”

“Did we?”

Come over.

I might need convincing.

Stay with me?

You should have been smarter. You should have been more careful. 

It’s a brutal fight, and it’s the everything you had been waiting for. The illusion of softness finally breaks. Whispered words of care have become sharp insults, all the small moments where you had made mistake after mistake with him are now weapons. If the dated walls of your kitchen could speak, the tiles would murmur of all the blood being spelt as brutal defenses are sent back and forth from both sides. 

“I need more.”

“I can’t give you more.”

“You could, you just don’t want to.” 

“What’s the difference, Eddie?”

You were never going to be enough. You should have seen that, clear as daylight from the beginning. You were something rotten from the moment he met you, and he had just been too stupid to recognize all the decay. 

Of course I’m greedy. Can you blame a guy when it comes to you?

Why couldn’t he just accept what you were willing to give? Why did he have to push, to persist, to insist upon you laying more of yourself out for him? You had already dissected yourself beyond repair, made the cuts that would never heal and bared your innards in a way that you never should have to begin with. 

Stay with me?

You wish you were still just lazing in between your sheets with him. A you-shaped space at his side, a pillow on his side of your bed. You wish he had never picked a fight he had every right to rage. You wish, you wish, you wish.

Stay with me?

And then you lose, you lose, you lose. 

“You were just some idiot who thought you could change me,” you seethe at some point, aiming damning arrows for every exposed bone he’d ever given you a glimpse of, “What made you think that? Hm? Was it when I paraded you around the town, calling you my boyfriend? Or was it every time I told you just how much I loved you? Was it when I fell to my knees and kissed the ground you walked on, Eddie? Go ahead. Tell me.”

You were just rubbing salt in the wound at that point. Saying everything he had wished for over the last year, that you never gave him. 

You never called him your boyfriend. You never told him you loved him. You never did, and you never would. 

When it’s all said and done, it’s everything you had expected. A screaming match that the neighbors will complain about the same as they’d complained about every late-night rendezvous between the two of you. An effective cutting of ties that you’d been anticipating for a long twelve months. If it were the movies, maybe the fight would have been more effective. Something that would delve into the lead up of love confessions, an ending where you wind up in his arms and he’s whispering every which way that he still cares for you, even with your teeth bared and your sharpest knives poised. 

It’s not a movie. It’s everything you expected. 

But you hadn’t been prepared for the ache. When your own vicious words left a taste of ash on the tongue, when his eyes flashing with something harsher and less caring for you left a hollow ache that rang in your ears longer than his voice did. You didn’t think that you’d feel the cutting of ties. Every nerve ending in your body feels that jagged edge that saws through all that you two had tried to build over the last year, but it’s far too little and far too late. The foundation was cracked – you were damaged. 

You lose him. The world doesn’t end; the night carries on even as he grabs his leather jacket and leaves behind the sock in your dirty laundry. And when he exits out your front door, hiding away any tears that might have slipped free, just as you were, you feel that unexpected whisper inside of you. 

Stay with me?

You sleep alone that night. For once, the smell of tobacco and his shampoo makes you throw the pillow that was once his across the room. 

SUMMER, 1988

She deserves him.

Chrissy Cunningham deserved Eddie Munson far more than you ever had. She was enough. 

Summer can stain, but it can’t erase. Even in the months of aftermath, even for every tear shed in private and wave of yearning that would drown you in the dead of night, you never changed. It had hardly taken weeks after Eddie had walked out of your life for you to return to your old ways, going back to the bars and seeking out the latest warm blood to lose yourself in that night.

It didn’t matter that you compared each and every single smile to Eddie’s. It didn’t matter that you’d have to grip your sheets until your knuckles turned bloody to avoid touching the strangers hovering over you, hoping to feel familiar skin and a comfort long lost instead of whatever poor soul you’d dragged home with you. 

He deserves a love full of life. A love that breathes him in and doesn’t drain him. One that could let him feel the sun on his skin rather than hiding him away in the night.

A love that doesn’t tick away each passing season, because it’s a love that doesn’t have a ticking time bomb attached to it. 

“Never thought I’d see the day Cunningham got her claws in Munson,” Billy mumbles around a cigarette at your side. 

He didn’t tease about Eddie those first few months. One look at you, and he had known. 

“She didn’t get her claws in him,” you say, monotonous as you reach for your drink once more, “I’m happy for him. They look happy.”

They do. They really, really do. A love that burns like summer, and has never been touched by a dying autumn or cruel winter. The type of happiness Eddie would have never been able to find from you, try as he had. 

Billy taps some of his ash into the tray at the center of your shared table. Surely, he had better things to do, but he stays. It was probably entertaining, watching you pine and regret for once in your life, “Looks can be deceiving.”

“Their’s don’t. I bet you that there’s a ring on her finger before next summer.”

You don’t want to imagine the pain that would ignite in you. That’s the type of emotion that would far surpass any regret you currently feel. But you seem to enjoy torturing yourself, eyes still zeroing in on her left hand, as if you already see the glint of whatever diamond Eddie would seek out for his worthy lover. 

“And I bet if that happens, you skip town within twenty four hours of finding out.” 

He’s right. Nothing was truly tying you to this sleepy town, and the reminder of your worst mistake, your most terrible slip up of all time, would easily send you running with your tail between your legs. 

“Probably,” you sigh, no longer putting up a front. You hadn’t even tried batting your lashes at a single man since Eddie and Chrissy had arrived at the bar. You were striking out tonight, on your own volition, “Maybe I’d move to California. I hear the men there are easy enough.” 

“They are,” Billy laughs, throwing his head back. It’s enough to garner attention across the bar, numerous girls being enticed as if he might be a siren beckoning to them, “Take it from one. The girls on the west coast are prettier, though, so you can’t blame ‘em.”

The girls on the west coast probably resemble Chrissy. Golden skin, golden auras, golden light. Honeyed words and the sweetest of blushes across coy cheeks. They probably embody every sunset and sunrise simultaneously, and you can only stand there green with envy.

“You are awfully easy,” is all you can offer in reply. The banter has started to fall flat since Eddie. You’re no fun – hardly taking any bait that Billy will hand over so generously. 

Maybe, if you had tried a little harder, you could have been one of those girls. Clear blue skies, not a sight of the storm clouds that you still let consume you. 

Maybe Eddie would have stayed if you had tried a little harder. 

There’s no real hope for it now. You’re left to being nothing more than a conglomeration of pathetic pity parties and the taste of cheap beer these days, hardly worth the chase once the boys get close enough to see the rot. You’ve stopped trying so hard to cover it up; you’d ripped yourself open for Eddie, and had never found a way to properly suture yourself back together so that anyone new might not get a glimpse of all the bad. They could spot it from a mile away these days. 

It doesn’t help that you no longer try to cover it all up with overly sweet perfumes or sickly sweet pickup lines.

Billy’s laughter didn’t just draw the attention of the girls around the bars. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see a pair of whiskey eyes find the two of you, locking on you far too easily to have not known. 

You notice, because of course you notice him. But when Billy notices, it catches you a bit more off guard. 

“Like I said,” he drawls, and you nearly panic when he grabs his drink off to leave you behind, “Looks can be deceiving, hot stuff.”

Your eyes find Eddie’s quickly, not listening to a word that Billy is saying. Chrissy is saying something, something surely important, but her boy isn’t listening. Her boy, her conduit for all her sunshine, is staring right at you and has no plans on looking away any time soon. 

He’s seen the rot up close and personal. He’s the one who’d handed the treacherous scalpel over to your shaking hands, encouraging you to open up in all the ways you never wished to. 

You shouldn’t do it. You’ll regret it. You really shouldn’t do this.

“They never learn their lesson, do they?” 

You don’t know who Billy is talking about.

Eddie, who almost seems to be under your spell, taking a slow slip of his neat whiskey, staring you down as if he’s brimming with bad ideas that he hopes you can hear from across the room. 

Or you, who should know better. You hurt him, you broke his heart, you don’t deserve him. And yet, you’re selfish as ever, mind reeling with possibilities of how you wish the night would end.

You can hear the bad ideas. Clear as day. Especially when Eddie only breaks eye contact long enough to lean in to Chrissy and whisper something that effectively dismisses her, leaving Eddie all alone and in your gaze. 

“They don’t,” you say, throwing back the last of your drink.

You know where he’s heading. And you know where you’re heading. A moth to his flame, going only where he will allow you. You’re a ghost of the menace you once were. The other men, the other bodies that kept you warm these nights; none of them were him. You didn’t want them. You weren’t soft with them. They never stayed, because you never asked them to. There was only one man in this bar, in this entire damn bar, that would ever fill the hole left behind in you after Eddie’s summer. Eddie’s spring, Eddie’s autumn, Eddie’s winter. 

And he was walking outside the bar, almost tauntingly as he sauntered through the doors, beckoning you with each and every step. 

Perhaps this time, Eddie’s the one who needs a summer plaything. 

“This isn’t going to end well,” Billy taunts you as he takes a few steps back, knowing damn well as to what was about to happen. Bad ideas, downright terrible ideas. 

Eddie is playing the same game as you were once a master in. It dawns on you; Chrissy Cunningham wasn’t his newest love. She wasn’t his sweetest sunrise or gentle spring. She was a passing wind, just like all the boys you’d enticed before him. She’s already moved along, pretty hand resting on the shoulder of a new beau and not even paying any mind to Eddie’s absence. She may deserve him, but she doesn’t have him.

Nor do you. The roles have been switched, and you should know better. He’s leading you to an inevitable death, whether it be a little one or something of catastrophic value. He is leading you right into your own demise. Just as you used to do with every new victim you’d set your mark on before him, before your summer, before it all. 

All your old tricks, turned to weapons against you.

And you’ll let him. A moth to his flame. A dog at his window sill. 

“It never does.” 

Stay with me? 

Maybe, this time, you’ll be the one staying. If only for the night, and if only for Eddie.

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[thecreelhouse]

kintsugi

Paring: Steve Harrington x Francesca “Frankie” Amato

This is part of the accident prone AU— please be warned there are spoilers in these mini fics if you have yet to read the main series! This post-series fic and more can be found here -> accident prone - the blurb sides

Summary: Steve only sees his scars in disgust; to him, they’re just a sign of a past he didn’t deserve to survive. Frankie has an idea to hopefully show Steve he’s worth more than his scars and hopefully combat the survivor’s guilt.

WC: 6.4k+ (i know i am SO bad at keeping these actual blurb-length. whoops!)

Includes: hurt/comfort, angst, body image and self esteem issues, mention of blood, PTSD (this might be heavy for some, so pls take care before reading), soft smut (handjob & m receiving oral), language, typical Steve and Frankie banter, fluffy comforting ending.

A/N: it bothers me how ST never really mentions or shows the lasting damage anyone endures throughout the series, and I’m not holding my breath to see much of that in the final season. That being said, I really do believe Steve’s scars (esp. from s4) would be prominent for most of his post-Upside Down life, and the psychological effects would be just as heavy to carry. Ik I explored this in the main series, but this delves into that HC more. This a personal HC, and if that bothers you, or you disagree, this fic isn’t for you. For those who do choose to read, thank you <3 (also don’t @ me I’m still learning how to draw hands lol.)

Today hasn’t been kind to Steve; just one of those days where the past creeps up, locking him in a chokehold to cave in with self-destruction.

The longer he stares down his own reflection, the more flaws he begins to fixate on.

Time has helped Steve heal in more ways than one, but the physical scars from his past not only lingered, but were still prominent in a lot of spots. Some still ached without warning, others turned reddish-purple in the cold, or bright red after a hot shower (not as red as his irritated, inflamed joints, though). He’s grown to live with them, find ways to shield his body from prying eyes, and now that he’s with someone who sees him for who he really is, he’s learning how to become more comfortable in his own skin.

That lesson, though, has no time limit; he knows this to be true with Frankie’s own self acceptance journey, and realistically, he knows it should be the same for him as well.

Yet all he sees staring back at him is a failure. A shell of his past self. His story, scrawled and scraped all over his body, creating a map of his most traumatic years. 

It’s not fair to encourage Frankie to be kinder to herself if he can’t take his own advice with his own body. Looking at her, he sees her story written across her body, too, but it’s a story of survival, resilience, with her own added details of tattoos and piercings, almost reclaiming her own vessel after sickness has tried time and time again to steal it away.

Steve, though… he can’t see that in himself; he knows he doesn’t need body modifications to see the good, but he’s also convinced maybe the good was never there to begin with. After all, he spent the majority of his life shaping his shell to be someone he wasn’t. Through all the years forcing himself in sports as a kid, just to make his dad proud, sticking with certain ones because the attention gave him a rush when he’d score— all of those injuries in practices and games weren’t marks he felt proud to own. 

As he grew older, the marks turned to gifts from dates, with love bites littering skin hidden away under fabric; it’s not that he didn’t want them, but it never felt quite right. It’d fall under the decisions to make to stay relevant, popular, liked— and god, nothing else in this world mattered to Steve than the approval he yearned for from others.

He just wanted to be what someone wanted, what someone else needed.

Don’t we all?

Gripping the edge of the bathroom counter, Steve glares at the collection of skincare he’s built up over time— aloe vera gel, vitamin E cream, a variety of oils in lavender, tea tree, coconut, and rose hip. Any “miracle” fad in healing scars faster, he’s tried. Though, there’s not a great amount, considering most folks his age weren’t nearly torn and dragged to shreds by demo bats.

He reaches for the rose hip oil, remembering he tried that yesterday, and sets it back down. Last time he tried the tea tree oil, he broke out in hives; just another fine example of how fibromyalgia throws any sort of symptoms your way, whenever it pleases. His body flares up in places and ways he never even considered before his diagnosis.

Aloe vera, although soothing to the surface, does nothing for Steve’s scars. Vitamin E cream might’ve helped some of the superficial scarring; he could just be telling himself that to feel better. Maybe willing the marks away will work.

If only.

Fingers tracing the scar around his neck, his jaw tightens in disgust. His eyes tumble down his torso in the mirror, chest tightening the longer he takes in the shiny, pink-tinged marks, littering his skin.

Steve misses the days where his appearance’s worst moment could be a bad hair day. At least that could be tended to, fixed with some hairspray.

There’s no easy solution in erasing proof of the past’s carnage. With deep marks like these, there’s no doubt most of them will linger forever.

Sure, living with scars is better than not making it out of hell itself alive, but it goes beyond his self-esteem; he will carry this part of hell, embedded into his skin, wherever he goes. 

The tightened, raised skin scattered across the surface will always invite survivors’ guilt into the forefront of his mind. Here he is, depressed that his skin is marred, when there are plenty of others who deserved to be alive, would probably be grateful to sport such scars if it meant continuing to live.

Steve’s reflection meets his own gaze again, and it’s quite obvious he’s not doing well— hasn’t been, for some time. His inner turmoil manifests into dark, sagging circles under his eyes, more pale than usual; he’s simply a haggard wreck. 

The longer he glares at himself, the more his feelings threaten to spill over. It’s a race between his rage and guilt, unsure which will break the surface first; either or, it’s a given he’ll choke up. He is, and all he can see past his impending tears is a blurry shape of himself.

At least the tears serve to censor the sight of the bleak state he’s in. 

“You’ll never be happy, huh?” He mutters to himself, fists clenching at his sides. The longer he fights his emotions, the more his head begins to pound. “Always gotta be triggered over something.”

Steve wants to punch something, wishes he still had the nail bat to smash his feelings out. Acting on impulse, he rounds up the skincare products, slamming them into the sink, and bursting into tears.

“Great job, fucking idiot,” he parrots a common insult his father would throw at him; when a parent is your first bully, those words seem to stick forever. “Can’t do anything right, always gotta make a mess, fuck everything up—“

“Hey, Stevie, you in here?” 

Shit. I forgot she was coming over.

Frankie’s sweet voice breaks him from the self deprecating thoughts; she wanders into the bathroom, smile vanishing at the sight of her partner in shambles.

“Oh… sweetheart, you’re—“ she only carries grace and empathy for him; not a shred of judgment or insults barraging down upon him. Frankie’s nothing short of an angel, fixated on finding his first aid kit— it’s still the janky one from back home. She sets it on the counter, gingerly taking his hand in hers. “Will you let me clean this?”

Steve’s in a daze, headache starting to split his skull while the tears continue to flow. “Wh… what?” Glancing down at his hand, he realizes he’s bleeding. 

Great. Another fucking scar in the making.

“Can you sit? Or do you need to lay down?” Frankie asks softly, freeing up a hand to turn the faucet on, but she notices the broken jars and bottles in the sink and pauses. “C’mon, let’s go to the kitchen.”

Steve’s on autopilot, sitting at the kitchen table while Frankie wets a clean cloth, settling down next to him. She positions his hand with its palm up, knuckles on the surface of the table to get a closer look at his injury. His palm is scraped a bit, but there’s a notable gash among it all. 

“This is gonna sting,” she murmurs, glancing up at Steve, checking his expression before dabbing at the wound with the cloth. 

Though he’s always found it cute that she warns him before cleaning a wound— if it’s not flare-up related, he’s just a clumsy motherfucker these days— as if he hadn’t survived the horrors and agony of the Upside Down, this one actually does hurt.

Steve scrunches his eyes closed, hissing as the laceration is treated. He might also be in pain from the headache he’s pretty certain is actually a migraine, but it’s all blurring together.

“It hurts,” he snivels, immediately annoyed with himself for sounding so weak, so small.

The emboldened, courageous version of himself that once fought off monsters to protect those he loves endlessly doesn’t live in this body anymore.

“I know, m’sorry, Stevie.” Frankie’s touch is cautious, slowly dabbing blood away to inspect the wound again. “No glass, not that I can see. That’s good.” She grabs another clean cloth, blotting at the blood weeping out. “Think we should go to the ER?”

Steve shakes his head, stuttering, “No, I- I- I—“

“S’okay, you’re okay,” she assures him, just above a whisper. “… Do you want me to… stitch it?” She scrunches her face up in disgust at her own question; Frankie would do anything if it helped Steve, but she’s not sure she could handle giving him some DIY sutures.

“God, no.” He huffs, it’s almost a bitter laugh. “Don’t put yourself through that.”

“Okay, well… I think we can make do, but if it continues to bleed, I’m taking you to the ER.” She says, grabbing some butterfly bandages, applying them with care. “Or calling my dad.”

“Please do not call him,” Steve groans, tears slowing down. “That’s embarrassing.”

Frankie shrugs with a dramatic sigh, “Suit yourself, he’s the professional, not me.” That makes Steve actually huff out a laugh, pulling a lopsided, subtle smile on her face.

They sit in a comfortable silence as Frankie bandages Steve, a little too excessive, but she means well; his body begins to relax, despite the lingering ache across his palm. She gently lifts his hand to her lips, kissing the back of his hand, giggling softly as he quirks his brow. “Didn’t wanna kiss where it hurts.”

“Isn’t that what’s supposed to make it better?” His teasing earns a playful eye roll.

About to quip back, she doesn’t miss the way Steve clutches his head with his good hand, rushing to fill a glass with water. Sliding it over to him, she asks, “What happened?” 

That’s when Steve realizes he’s still shirtless. He gulps down the water, “I dunno if I can call it a panic attack, but m’not sure what else it’d be.”

Frankie gets up to shut the lights off, hoping to relieve some tension in his skull. “Have you eaten today?”

The thought of food alone grumbles Steve’s stomach, but nausea is taking over and— yeah, okay, yeah, it’s definitely a migraine. He shakes his head. “Don’t wanna. Can we lay down?”

She grabs a banana from the counter, pushing it towards him. “You need something in your stomach first. Have some of that, and I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”

Despite not wanting to take action other than rotting in bed, Steve’s not sure how he’s ever survived flare-ups before he met Frankie. Even when he’s grumpy about it, he’s grateful for her.

Reluctantly, he drinks some more water and eats a bit, takes some medication and crawls into bed.

When Frankie begins to walk away, Steve grabs her arm, grip weak, but needy. “M’gonna clean the sink first and I’ll be back. You get some rest, okay?”

He feels awful that she’s cleaning his mess, but before he can protest, she’s closing the bedroom door behind her, leaving Steve in the comfort of the dark. Though he fights to stay awake until Frankie returns, he’s out within minutes.

Whenever Frankie is the first thing Steve sees upon waking up, he instantly feels at ease; his muscles don’t default to tensing up, and his thoughts don’t snowball into the day’s awaiting anxieties.

He glances over at the clock on his nightstand, reading 2:49 A.M., sighing in annoyance; why couldn’t he just sleep through the night? He can’t remember when he fell asleep, but it had to be pretty early. At least his head isn’t ready to split in half; his migraine has settled into a tolerable, dull ache at best.

The soft, soothing glow of a subtle, seafoam green nightlight— one Frankie got him months ago, for the nights the dark becomes too much, brings back too many harsh memories— spills across her face, fast asleep and curled into Steve’s side. 

He cradles her cheek, counting the tiny constellations of freckles on her face as his thumb sweeps across them. She doesn’t appear so frail since finishing treatment; there’s color to her skin again, she’s gained weight back, and her hair’s growing back evenly into a pixie cut. She’s always beautiful to him, but to visibly see her body work with her, not against her, is relieving. 

It’s funny, once her flare-up finally settles, Steve falls into his own. He wonders if they’ll just constantly wax and wane like this forever.

Frankie stirs, nuzzling her face into the crook of Steve’s neck, wrapping herself around him tightly. Her lips tickle his neck as she mumbles, “You ‘kay?”

“Better than earlier.” 

“What happened?” She sounds more alert as she wakes up; Steve wonders if she fell asleep shortly after him. “How’s your hand?”

Fumbling around in the dim light, Frankie finds Steve’s injured hand, cradling it as she inspects the bandages.

“Sore, but it hasn’t bled through, so I think I’m okay,” he rasps, other arm still hooked around her form, holding her close. “Some random girl came in and pretended to be a doctor, but I think she did a good job.”

Frankie leans up to narrow her stare at Steve, but bursts into sleepy giggles. “Shut up.”

Wiggling his brows, he retorts, “Make me, Amato.”

Pecking his lips, she softly smiles, “Maybe after you tell me what’s going on.”

Steve sighs, harsh breath rumbling in his chest; he’s embarrassed, would rather forget this happened to begin with, but if he’s going to demand Frankie be honest and open about her struggles, he has to do the same. It’s only fair. 

He bites his lip, contemplating what’s acceptable to admit, but Frankie can read him easily, reminds him, “Don’t hold back, Stevie. No shame, no judgement, remember?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “I know. But I kinda feel like a hypocrite.”

“Sometimes it’s harder to give ourselves the grace we give to others.”

Steve knows it’s important to learn how to rely on yourself, but he can’t ignore the way Frankie has significantly changed his life for the better, even at his lowest points. He couldn’t be bothered to catch himself while hurtling towards rock bottom, but it’s different now, when Frankie’s waiting at the bottom, willing to uplifting him when he’s ready once more.

“I hate my scars,” he blurts out, sighing again as the truth pours out. “I hate them so much. I hate how I can’t see them the way you do, I hate that I can’t accept them as a sign of survival, I hate that I had to… to survive anything.”

Frankie shifts to lay face to face with Steve. She tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, cradling his jaw to offer some comfort, a kind he gratefully leans into every single time.

“And I feel like a hypocrite ‘cause I’m always reminding you how your scars don’t determine your worth— and that’s true, but I—“ His eyes scrunch shut, trying to barricade tears behind his lids. “I can’t see it for myself. I look in the mirror and feel sick. I just want them to go away. I don’t want to be reminded of the past, or how close I came to falling apart several times.

“I survived and I still feel so guilty for it. I know people who never made it out that deserve to be here; they’d be happy to survive if it meant living with these marks.”

Sighing, Frankie softly tells him, “Surviving still comes with some pretty heavy baggage, the kind you end up carrying for way longer than you’d like.”

Eyes opening slowly, they burn as tears meet oxygen, Steve’s voice barely breaks from a whisper, “Not sure how much longer I can carry it.”

“Then I’ll help you carry it,” Frankie states with sincerity, as if it’s the easiest task in the world. 

As if the past isn’t eating Steve alive from the inside out, burning like acid through any shred of good that may be left within him.

“I can’t fix it, but you don’t have to go it alone,” she adds, gentle touch warm and soothing while she wipes away his tears. “You just have to let me be there for you, baby.”

Every so often, the tiny, affectionate nicknames slip through; Frankie’s never been one to be so soft with any previous partners, but it comes naturally with Steve.

Loving Steve— among the good, the bad, and everything between— just comes naturally.

“You should stay over tomorrow... I got an idea, and it won’t solve everything, but it’ll help, I think.” Running her hand through his hair, she presses a kiss to his forehead with a sigh. Steve’s wrapping himself around her tightly, body melding into hers as he begins to relax. “At least give you a distraction for a bit. Sound good?”

Steve’s drifting off before he can respond, lulled back to sleep by the safety Frankie’s embrace offers.

“Will you just— Steve. Stay. Still.”

Frankie snorts as she grabs his shoulders, pressing them down to the floor.

How the hell is Steve supposed to stay still with Frankie straddling him as he lies on his stomach half naked? How the hell does he ignore that?

They’ve already slept together, plenty of times at this point, see each other with little to no clothing quite often; an innocent activity like this shouldn’t arouse him so easily.

Well… at least I’m face down.

“I’m trying to, but—“

Think of anything else. Literally anything else other than the compromising position your girlfriend unknowingly has you both in while trying to do something cute, wholesome and innocent. Don’t make it weird, she’s trying to do something nice, don’t be a perv.

The way he’s laying on the floor is uncomfortable for his lower half, but it’s getting worse with the erection he’s trying and miserably failing at willingly away. He continues to shift around, trying to find some comfort, hoping she won’t notice—

“Steve, quit fucking wiggling your hips!” Frankie bursts into her contagious giggles, except he doesn’t laugh along with her; her legs squeeze inward, pinning him in place. He has to bite back a groan, burying his face into the pillow under his head.

Aaaaaaaand, I’m hard. Great.

“If I woulda known you’d be this much of a handful, I woulda kept my feelings to myself,” Grumbling, she can’t hide the snort that slips out, too. Her hands splay onto his back, gently pressing him to the floor. The ever so slight motion of dominance— one she’s unaware of— creates some untimely, lust-dazed thoughts.

Steve’s breath hitches, earning Frankie’s concern.

“Does it hurt?”

Not in the way you think, Frankie.

“No, nope, I’m good. I’ll stay still, promise.”

Frankie picks up her paintbrush again, dabbing it into her paint palette. She down, hovering above Steve’s shoulders, and he can feel her soft breaths tickle along his ear. His skin prickles up with his peach fuzz standing on end.

“Cold?”

No.

“It’s—“ Steve coughs, but that just moves his body against the floor even more; he forces a laugh to try hiding a moan. “Paint’s chilly, but I- I’m okay.”

A thin tipped brush drags along his soft skin in smooth, slow motions; every so often, he can feel when Frankie’s hand twitches, but she laughs it off.

“Probably should’ve done this on a good tremor day.”

“I’ll love it either way.”

“You don’t even know what I’m painting yet.”

“So? You’re talented as hell, ‘Key, and honestly—“ Forgetting why he’s on the floor to begin with, he starts sitting up, but Frankie pushes him back down— as gently as possible, of course. The way she takes charge makes him blush, and he prays it’s not one of his full-bodied, splotchy, bright red blushing moments. “M- my bad.”

“Just be good,” she murmurs, leaning down to his ear, “and stay still.”

Never mind. She absolutely knows what she’s doing. Of course she knows.

“You’re evil, you know that?” Steve groans, wriggling underneath her to adjust himself, but she pins him in place again with the strength of her legs. “‘Key, c’mon, babe… don’t—“ he huffs sharply, body tensing underneath her. “Quit teasing!”

“I am actually trying to do something important here, so respectfully, tell your dick to be patient.”

He whines, “Do you know how hard this is?”

“How hard your dick is?” Dryly, she teases, “Yeah, I’ve had it in me once or twice.”

“Frankie!”

“Okay, sorry, three times at least.” Whenever she uses the fine-tipped brushes, they leave goosebumps in their wake, tickling Steve’s already sensitive skin. “If body painting makes you this horny, I should do it all the time.”

“You’re the worst, the worst, the actual worst—“ Steve cuts himself off with a groan when Frankie’s fingers tangle into his hair, tugging softly. He can’t resist lazily rutting into the floor for relieving friction. “How do you expect me to stay still when you’re doing shit like this?”

“That’s your problem, not mine,” she giggles, resuming her work in progress. “I’m almost done anyway, just a few more minutes.” As Steve grumbles, Frankie leans down, careful not to smudge any wet paint while kissing his cheek.

In those last few minutes, he manages to calm down, sinking into the soothing touch his girlfriend works on him with. 

“Okay… now, you gotta keep your eyes closed and sit up.”

“What? Why?”

“I gotta paint the front next.”

Steve sputters, “But you— I thought you said you were almost—“

“Done? With the back, yeah, but not all of it.” The smirk she gives is telling, fully aware of how this is torturing Steve. “C’mon, just a little longer. For me? Please?”

Steve can’t say no to the puppy dog eyes Frankie gives him, caving instantly.

“Okay, fine.”

Again, Frankie kisses his cheek, “Thank you. It’ll be worth it. Promise.”

Some time later, Frankie finally finishes her handiwork, rising to her feet. “C’mon, just don’t look yet,” Frankie holds her hands out to Steve, carefully helping him up. “You know what kintsugi is?”

He keeps his gaze forward, trying not to peek yet at the art on his body. His legs wobble slightly; they fell asleep at some point, so he shakes out the pins and needles feeling. He shakes his head, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Eyes closed, I got you, don’t worry.” Steve’s eyes flutter shut, and Frankie slowly leads him into her room. She takes her time guiding him while explaining, “So… it’s a Japanese art form, repairing broken pieces, usually broken pottery with gold. It highlights the flaws and cracks rather than hiding them,” she places Steve before her floor-length mirror. “Just ‘cause it’s got some imperfections, doesn’t mean it loses its worth or purpose… and that’s how I see you.”

The familiar warmth of feeling cared for and loved by Frankie blooms in Steve’s chest, radiating throughout his body.

“You’re still strong and beautiful, and though you’ve lost blood and confidence along the way, you’re still you.” With a soft kiss to his shoulder, Frankie whispers, “You can open ‘em now.”

At first glance, Steve’s breath hitches. He takes in the meticulous work, transforming his scars into something easier on the eyes; they’re painted in metallic gold, tracing what he often sees as tangible proof of failure. Now, they’re highlighted, and not to bring negative attention, but it’s subtle enough that it compliments the skin surrounding it.

There’s even spots Frankie painted to mimic florals found on pottery and fine china, but they’re depicted growing out of his scars. It doesn’t look like he’s held together by remnants of disaster—

He looks like art, something to be cherished and treated with delicate care, something to be admired.

“This is how I see you,” Frankie’s tone is certain and strong. “You’re not just art to me, you’re worth far more than what the darker thoughts try to convince you of. You’ve been to hell and back, and the proof is on your body. I know how hard it is to believe you’re supposed to be here, to keep going… maybe not to the extent you feel, but the scars don’t make it any easier to heal from the past.”

Like the day before, Steve’s eyes well up, unable to see his reflection clearly; this time, he wipes the tears away, not disgusted by his own figure, for once.

“I don’t expect this to fix how you feel, and you have every right to still grieve what you wanted your life to be, but I hope this helps you see how stunning you are to me, inside and out. You deserve to see how others see you, despite the flaws. We all got ‘em one way or another. When I say I love all of you, that means the scars, too. Physical and emotional, ‘cause they’re a part of you, and you, Steve Harrington, are one of a kind, and an incredible person.”

A trembling finger traces the scar around his neck, now filled in with an ethereal glimmer of gold.

Frankie’s self doubt trickles in, “A- and if you hate it, we can wash it off. I hope this doesn’t come off like I’m glorifying what you endured, or—“ Steve spins around to capture her lips in a kiss, earning a muffled yelp against his own.

“Thank you,” he whispers as he breaks the kiss. He rests his forehead on hers, nuzzling his nose against her own. She can feel tears drip onto her face, breaking from Steve’s lash line. “I don’t think I could ever see myself like this, but knowing you do… ah, fuck.” His emotions and brain fog dance together seamlessly, stealing away the words he hoped to thank Frankie with.

Facing the mirror again, Steve admires the designs delicately painted along his skin. Even if he can’t see what Frankie sees, it feels good to realize how loved you are. This is a kind of love he’s never experienced before; no partner has ever really gone beyond showing love in basic intimacy. 

Which, really, isn’t exactly wrong, but the love Steve and Frankie share grows beyond hugs and kisses and sex. Moments like this remind him how lucky he is in a relationship so healthy and strong— like he’d ever forget to begin with.

A short, stifled laugh floats out of Frankie. Steve meets her gaze in the reflection, brows knitting together while he rubs tears away. “What’s so funny?”

Her arms slink around his hips, palms splaying out against his stomach, teasingly sinking lower. When her fingertips begin dipping under waistband, he whimpers.

“Just funny you’re still hard, s’all.” Kissing his shoulder, her hands slip further down, relishing in the shuddered exhale he releases when she reaches his bulge. “Didn’t think pinning you to the floor to paint you would be such a turn on.”

“Well… I… you just…” Steve’s response trails off when she finally touches him, replaced by a filthy moan as his head lolls back against Frankie’s shoulder. Her fingers curl around his length, giving a teasing squeeze. “Please?”

“Please what, baby?”

Steve feels like he’s about to burst— out of his heart or his dick, he’s not sure yet— but being called baby again does something different to him. The ever slowly-growing terms of endearment and affection have wormed their way into the list of phrases and tones that make his skin tingle, reveal a smile, a real one.

That, intertwined with the desire radiating from Frankie’s touch is enough to unravel Steve at the seams with ease.

“Please…” His train of thought is off the rails again when Frankie pushes his boxers down, cock springing free with  dull slap against his body. 

“S’okay, Steve, don’t be shy,” she murmurs, kissing along the back of his shoulder, careful to avoid any painted skin. 

Steve tenses up, unsure what to do with his hands, or how to stand still; he’s barely used to someone else taking control of intimate moments, and it still feels so new with Frankie.

“‘Key… I dunno if I—“ a strangled moan catches in his throat, head lolling back as her thumb swipes along his weeping slit. Frankie gently pushes his head upright, forcing him to look at himself in the mirror. “Not sure if I c- can stand still if you keep touchin’ me like that…”

“Hm… maybe it’d help if you could hold onto me from the front,” she murmurs, and before Steve can ask what she means, Frankie’s on her knees in front of him. She grasps his shaft, gently stroking again, kissing up his thigh. 

“You’re killing me,” he gasps when her tongue swipes along the base of his cock, trailing down to his sac. Steve’s hands fly to her head, grateful her hair, still incredibly short, has grown back enough to have something to hold onto. “Fuck, ‘Key…”

She kisses his tip, gaze floating up with a soft order, “Spit for me.” 

Steve’s a little confused until she’s sticking her tongue out, allowing the head of his cock to rest on the warm muscle. He twitches as her tongue ring makes contact with his shaft; he spits, aiming down to his length, shuddering as Frankie collects it on her tongue, dripping off his cock.

“H’my god…”

Frankie takes him in swiftly, cock heavy while it nestles on her whole tongue this time, tongue ring tickling the prominent vein running down his shaft.

If her mouth wasn’t completely stuffed, she’d giggle over the way Steve’s eyes nearly cross before rolling back. She settles for a low hum instead, buzzing around him as she begins to bob her head.

Steve whines so needfully when Frankie pulls off, spit secure like a leash from her lips to the ruddy tip. She wraps her hand around, strokes softly, steadily. “Stevie?”

He doesn’t care what she’s about to ask— he’ll do it in a heartbeat when she bats her eyelashes that way, lips pouty and cock-swollen around her sweet voice.

“Mhm, yeah?” 

“Remember when you asked me to watch in the mirror when you touched me the first time?” She wraps her other hand around him, both working in sinful harmony to keep his pleasure baseline, for now.

“Y- yeah,” Steve can barely form a coherent thought as Frankie flits her tongue out to his head again, tongue ring dipping into his slit, weeping a generous amount of pre already. He attempts to regain control, but his praise comes out in a needy tone, “Shit… s- so pretty on your knees f’me…”

“Hm, bet my view of you from down here is ten times prettier,” she lovingly teases, one hand slipping away to massage his balls. Pouting as his knees shake, she asks, “You wanna take a minute to—“

“No.” Frantically, Steve shakes his head, yet stumbles a bit in place. He pants, locking eyes with Frankie, snorting when she playfully glares. “… Okay, yeah, maybe I should— yeah.”

He makes a discontent sound, reluctantly backing away from Frankie to sit at the edge of her bed. Before he can whine again, she comes closer, touch returning to tease. She rests her palms against his knees, pushing them apart while planting slow, wet kisses up his shaft. 

“You’re gonna watch yourself fall apart this time, Stevie.” Lapping at the tip once more, Steve throws his head back with a throaty groan. When Frankie takes all of him in, he grows louder. Reeling back, the sound of Frankie’s lips popping off of him softly causes him to throb with need. “Want you to see how stunning you are to me.”

There’s no time to protest when her fingers wrap around the base of his cock, wrapping her lips around the tip and taking in the rest. Steve can’t help bucking his hips, bumbling out a string of rushed apologies.

“M’sorry, it just— sorry, I’m—“

Frankie doesn’t complain, only sinks further down his shaft, tongue carrying the weight of him, guiding the tip to reach the back of her throat.

“Oh, god,” he groans, eyes fluttering shut as her lips and fingers make every perfect move, leading him closer to a release than he expected. “Oh, god…”

She pulls back, stroking him while smirking. “Not god, just me.”

Steve fights through a shuddered moan, “Ha-ha, very funny—“ his breath hitches when she sucks on the prominent vein running up his length. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Again, just lil’ ole’ me,” Frankie teases, enjoying how easy it is to wind Steve up. Hand still stroking him, she kisses his inner thigh, slowly working her way up his figure. Her lips reach the scars she painted, taking extra care in leaving kisses behind. 

Watching her carefully, Steve pants harder as her touch never lets up. His hips jerk toward her, earning another smirk.

“‘Key… don’t think I can last long,” he whines as she finally reaches his collarbone, traveling further north until her kisses lead to his lips. She stops just before their lips collide, breath tickling along his face.

Frankie straddles his lap, stroking a little faster, a bit harder. “Can’t finish ‘til you agree with me.”

“Agree? Huh? O- on what?” It’s so hard to focus, so hard to hold even the most basic conversation with his girlfriend effortlessly looking angelic while unraveling him at the scenes with just her hand alone. His breath hitches again, face growing red as he tries holding out.

“That you’re strong, and beautiful, and courageous—“

“M’not saying all’a’that,” he manages to get out, squirming in her grasp.

“I know, words are hard when you’re trying not to come, huh?” She carefully slides behind him, watching them both in the mirror’s reflection as she continues pleasuring him. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she kisses his neck lazily. “You’re so pretty when you’re all fucked out like this.”

“Frankie, I- I can’t, I’m—“

“I’ll make it easier for you,” she bargains, swiping her thumb at the tip of his cock, spreading pre while getting him off. “Just promise me you’ll be kinder to yourself.”

Tears prick at Steve’s eyes, staring at Frankie through the reflection; even when she’s teasing him, he feels so loved by her. And she’s right— he has to try to be kinder to himself. Maybe it will still be an uphill battle with his appearance, and the weight of tragedy the scars hold, but he can promise he’ll try.

For her sake, and his, all he can do is try.

Steve nods wildly, biting down on his lip while balancing on the edge of release.

“I- I promise, I swear,” he babbles with sincerity, nodding his head frantically. “Promise m’gonna try, I promise—“

“Let go, Stevie, I got you,” she gently commands. “Always.”

They’ve fallen into the habit of major reassurance in very few words; whether at their most intimate moments or the mundane ones, they really do have each other, no matter what.

While Steve’s high rushes through him, spilling over Frankie’s hand and onto himself, he makes those gorgeous sounds she’ll never grow tired of. Bliss eventually settles into baseline, leaving behind Steve wrapped in a warm glow.

He feels like putty, smiling dopily as her hand loosens, but never leaves him. Crawling in front of him again, she leans in for a kiss, one that’s slow and sweet, smirking against his lips every time a content sigh shudders out of him.

“I love you, Stevie.” 

Steve holds Frankie’s waist, shaking his head, “Love y’more.”

She giggles at the leftover high that still lingers within him. “You’re gonna sleep well tonight.”

“Mhm,” he grins, only to gasp when Frankie gives a gentle squeeze to his softening cock, gathering the remnants of his release onto her hand. She brings it up to her mouth, cleaning her fingers off with slow laps of her tongue, locking eyes with her partner. He groans lowly, fingers digging into her hips. “Oh, c’mon, don’t do that to me.”

“Do what?” Feigning innocence only makes Steve aroused all over again.

“Don’t play dumb and tease, Francesca,” he rolls his eyes playfully, falling back against the bed to rest. “Gonna need like… two hours ‘til we do anything else.”

Frankie shrugs, “Worth the wait.” Scanning over his body, still covered in paint, she asks, “Need help washing that off?”

“Uh-huh,” he chuckles, still catching his breath. “Y’should take a Polaroid or something, though, just ‘cause it looks cool.”

“You just want me to take your photo,” she teases lightly, kissing his cheek.

“I meant for the art, jerk.”

“You are the art, meanie.”

“Meanie? What, are we fighting on the playground or something?” 

“Shut up,” she clambers off him, retrieving her Polaroid camera. When she returns, she notices smudges, which were expected, but the concept is messed up now. “Dammit. I should’ve asked to take a picture beforehand.”

Steve doesn’t expect her to push him back into the pillows, straddling his waist to point the camera down over him. He laughs, baffled as his brows knit together. “Honey, what’re you doing?”

“Photographing art,” she states, snapping a photo. The undeveloped film falls to his chest. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”

That pulls a laugh out of Steve, one with a wide grin and crinkled eyes. His hand comes up to his face, lazily rubbing his eye, when the flash goes off again.

“Oh, god, that’s gonna look awful,” he snorts, playfully pushing the camera away.

Except it becomes Frankie’s favorite photo she’s ever taken of Steve the moment it develops. She feels so lucky to see him like this, at his most vulnerable; his most authentic self. The paint is smudged in spots and he’s laughing with genuine joy, the first time in days Frankie’s seen it from him. He looks so sleepy, but comfortable, at home in his own skin, for once. Relaxed and content when they’re together.

“Far from it,” she murmurs, admiring the moment frozen in time, captured in that little square of instant film. “So far from it.”

While she’s distracted, Steve snatches the camera, uses the last bit of energy to hook his legs around her, flipping Frankie onto her back. She squeals with laughter, caught off guard when Steve begins snapping photos of her.

“This was about you, not me!” She giggles, trying to reach for the camera. Steve holds it up, not bothering to use the viewfinder before taking another photo of her.

It’s a blurry shot, but her sunny smile shines through, contagious laugh echoing out of the photograph. She looks so happy. Steve wants to help perpetuate that happiness for as long as possible.

“Yeah, well, I needed a new one for my wallet.” He leans down, nose nudging against her own, murmuring, “Love you so much.” 

She doesn’t have a chance to respond before he kisses her. Steve lifts the camera towards them, takes a leap of faith and hopes it’s pointed at them, hitting the shutter and setting the flash off.

Frankie breaks the kiss with a scandalized gasp, but her easily amused smile gives her away. “Quit it, you’re gonna use up my film!”

Steve retaliates, taking one last snapshot of her, leaving the camera on the bed as he slides off.

“What?” He smirks, pulling her off the bed with him. “I was photographing the art.”

[stephsageek]

While working on my Thunderbolts fic, "A Confessional That Never Closes," I had the following HC's for John Walker:

So, in my story, I created a background for Walker that addresses the reason as to why John is the way that he is, which is to say, arrogant, deeply insecure, and very affected by the guilt he feels at being a poor father (which also extends to his visceral reaction to Bob's abusive father in Bob's shame room).

More under the cut:

So, my thought is that it is likely that John's father was not a “bad man,” not physically abusive in the way Bob's father was, but he was a very emotionally abusive man. He was cold, judgmental, controlling, arrogant, and difficult to please. Like in the comics, John has an older brother, Mike, who died while in the army, and perhaps he lost his mother young. These events deeply affect John's father, who projects his feelings of grief over his wife and son's deaths into anger and resentment toward John. He withholds affection from his young son and begins to compare John to his brother in everything he does. This makes John desperate for approval and love from his only parent. John tries desperately to live up to his brother's legacy, joining the football team, making varsity, and dating (and eventually marrying) the head cheerleader (Olivia), and then joining the army. But nothing ever seems to please his father. His father then dies during one of John's tours, leaving these issues unresolved. This manifests in the following ways for Walker, as well as for other people:

1. Low Self-Esteem and Insecurity:

• Constant criticism from parents can erode a child's self-esteem and sense of self-worth.

2. Need for External Validation:

• Children raised by highly critical parents often develop a strong need for validation and approval from others.

• They may constantly seek external affirmation to compensate for the lack of internal self-worth and positive regard instilled by their parents.

• This intense need for validation can manifest as arrogance, as they strive to impress others and gain admiration to boost their fragile ego.

3. Perfectionism and Fear of Failure:

• Critical parenting can lead to perfectionistic tendencies, as children strive to avoid criticism by always aiming for perfection.

• When faced with potential failure, the fear of judgment can become overwhelming.

• Arrogance might be used as a way to project an image of success and confidence, effectively shielding them from the vulnerability of making mistakes or failing.

4. Difficulty Accepting Compliments and Positive Feedback:

• Individuals who have experienced significant criticism in childhood may struggle to accept compliments or positive feedback.

• They may deflect compliments or question the sincerity of positive interactions because they are so accustomed to negative evaluations.

• This can be misinterpreted as arrogance, as they may seem dismissive of praise when in reality, they have a deep-seated difficulty internalizing positive affirmations.

We see all of these behaviors in John throughout his depictions in media. For example, we see in the film, but most overtly in TFATWS, that John is a deeply insecure man. In the show, we see that John was ordered to accept the title of Captain; unlike Sam, who was given the title by Steve Rogers, John had no real choice in it. Like any mission, he was doing as he was told. But we see in the locker scene that John was deeply unsure if he could live up to the responsibility of being the new Captain America. He is plagued by self-doubt that he will fail somehow, not just his superiors, but now the whole world. When Lemar dies, he is unable to accept that he has failed not only his closest friend, but has let the world down. He deludes himself into believing that what he did, killing Nico publicly when he was unarmed, wasn't a choice borne out of grief and emotion; however, it wasn't an order either, and brought attention to what the US government was doing (ie. it looked bad) leading to his discharge. He is only left with his title and rank, and when that is stripped, John is left vulnerable and ripe for Valentina's manipulation. She does this with Bob (who was a desperate drug addict who was emotionally fragile), Yelena (whose sister had just died when she was recruited), and Ava (who was likely still on the run). John was being scapegoated by the army for their already questionable counter-terrorism efforts after the Blip, so he was especially vulnerable. This is because the media then carried this on, focusing on his fall from grace, not the fact that he was a mere soldier who tried to become something more and lost a friend over it. This echoes his father's own constant criticisms. John focuses on this and can't pull himself together enough to be present for his own son, making him just as bad as his own father in his eyes. This results in John being in an extremely fragile state at the beginning of Thunderbolts*, where he is suicidal over his many failings (seen when he first encounters the Void/Sentry). This results in him often jumping to the conclusion that he is going to be criticized even before he has been, being haughty with Yelena and Ava, and being defensive in general. We see this in the limo scene, where Alexei says his name, and instantly we see him tense. When Alexei goes on to compliment him, he is visibly surprised. Not only have his interactions with Ava and Yelena prepared him for this expectation, but given how defensive he was even with them, we can see that he exudes a feeling of being consistently judged and not "good enough" by the media has led to the deepening of his already deep-seated insecurities. John's arrogance has likely become a defense mechanism to mask these underlying feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. We see this often in John's characterization, with him bragging about things, things he often lies about (such as still being married with a family when he is in fact divorced and alone), almost as a reflex to any time someone calls his worth or judgment into question (like Yelena and Ava tell him he is not in charge). We see this most often in the Thunderbolts film, where his ego is likely at an all-time low, but through his interactions with the others, this slowly starts to change.

5. Defensive Behavior:

• Constant criticism can lead to a defensive posture, where individuals become quick to defend themselves or anticipate attacks.

• This defensiveness can be perceived as arrogance, as they may struggle to accept feedback or admit fault

These are just how I would approach this as a writer, and I'm curious if anyone else has similar ideas about why John Walker behaves the way he does. He is an interesting character and one that I hope Marvel develops more in Doomsday (which, please, for the love of God, don't kill him off as a heroic act of sacrifice and call it character development because it isn't).

[wroteclassicaly]

A/N: I’ve missed this man. I hope you like? Next part will have some saucy little smut. Just trying this out first, also for self-indulgence.

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, language, mentions of injuries, self-esteem issues, mentions depression and body image.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Plus size!Reader

Eddie Munson loves his new band of misfit friends, an extended family that has welcomed him and Wayne in with open arms. Hell, he’s even getting along with Harrington, Wheeler is tutoring him, and everyone else just understands. And then, well… Then there is you. He’s never seen someone so in tune with the needs of others without ever considering herself. Someone who purposely pushes herself on the world’s hottest back burner to avoid opening up and letting anyone truly see what’s going on… Behind incredibly beautiful eyes, if Eddie does say so himself.

It’s been over a year since shit unfolded with Vecna. They lost, he died for a little while, the apocalypse reigned down on the town and then he wasn’t dead anymore. Memories are vague, but most things he does remember. And when he wakes up tangled in his bedsheets, scars aching with prickles of phantom pains - you are the only person that he calls. A lot of times he ends up singing you to sleep, but it’s not without you always making sure he’s calmed and okay first.

It was a bond that grew since you began caring for him when he came back with memories. He’s lost track of days spent together, lunches shared, a graduation a long time coming, complete with a party he never expected to have. He isn’t sure when it became a deeper feeling than he’s ever known, one that scared him so damn bad he avoided you for days and began physically ill because of it. If Eddie Munson has to pick one moment, it was probably that day you walked into his Uncle’s living room, (a cookout happening in his yard with Steve and Wayne at the grill outside) your beautiful curves on display, a cherry sundress hitting you in all the right places, and some strappy red sandals adorning your feet. You wore a glowing smile beneath your bright red lipstick, energy matching with Henderson’s as you entertained his enthusiasm for Hellfire’s next campaign.

You didn’t have a clue of what you were talking about, but it didn’t deter you in the slightest. You were passionate about writing, you enjoyed Sci-Fi and fantasy, which meant you had to be the one who helped Dustin create new characters. He knew the game, you had some extra creativity to lend. You’d high fived Dustin, stealing his pen to jot down your scribbled suggestions on his spiral sheet. Eddie was a goner.

And now… Here you are, at his house, on a Friday night. You didn’t have plans, you didn’t make a date - nothing. You did what you normally do and called him up, accepting his invite to hang out all evening. He’d made sure to be off work by a steady time, picking up your favorite bakery cookies at the store on the way home, lingering over flowers that he was sure he should get, but knew it would probably cross a line if he did so. Eddie doesn’t want you to feel spooked, or even anything remotely close to uncomfortable around him.

You’re sitting above him, cross-legged on his bed as he rests with bent knees at the foot, your overalls bagging out at the sides to show your crop top with little lemons and daisies printed all over it, and the most delicious, overflowing curves Edward Munson has ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. He’s got a pair of your maroon sweats tied down, extremely loose on his narrow hips, and one of your decorative character shirts with a picture of Eeyore plastered front and center, hanging across his torso. You might not be able to wear his clothes, but he can wear yours, and Eddie would be stupid to say he doesn’t notice your eyes crossing a little whenever he steps into some of your ensembles. You’ve been chattering away at the TV, giving your input on Friday the 13th part 2, whilst being blissfully unaware of sending Eddie to heaven with your pink brush running through his freshly washed curls, your neon yellow painted nails scratching at his scalp. He’s like a mother fucking purring cat in your grasp.

“So, anyways… I can’t figure out if Muffin survived or if that was her in the woods. And did Paul really make it out too, or was Jenny imagining shit?”

Eddie smirks, tilting his head back to look at the curvature of your physique, the contours of your face - upside down (no pun intended). “Haven’t you seen this movie, like, a thousand times before?”

You have a mock look of offense. “Hmph.” He doesn’t like what it brings, because you can tease, but please - for the love of all things unholy - don’t stop brushing his hair.

“Hey, hey. Why’d you quit?” He’s pouting, it’s rather cute. One tattooed arm, decorated with scars - elongates, ring clad hand seeking out your wrist. Anything to get you into motion again.

“You know that you can brush your own hair, Eddie.” You’re melting at those fluttering lashes draped over an enriching, smooth chocolate pair of irises. And his mouth… Fuck.

“But it’s so much better when you do it, sweetheart. Pleaseeeee? Forgive me for questioning your brilliant questions!?”

You make a good show of it, tossing the brush out of your hand, it landing a pile of Eddie’s clothes in an unpacked hamper. They’re clean, but he’d rather wear yours. He gasps, shifting positions so quick that you think Steve must’ve Ninja-fied him. He’s got you by your wrists, the cool of his rings tracking across your arms as they follow warm palms, and dip under your pits to gain leverage - easing you forward into a heap onto the carpeting with him. “Freak attack!” He’s gleeful, tickling your denim clad sides (well, at least where he pretends he can’t see the overspilling flesh more closely now).

He smells good, like that familiar Old Spice wash and whatever shampoo he’s lathered his curls with. He’s hovering, he’s incredibly warm, he’s safe, he’s Eddie. Someone you didn’t know you needed until he appeared and retrieved his piece of your heart, snapping it into the place where all the people you love have their own shards. Hmm, not entirely though. If you could describe it, it’s as if they make up the outside lining, keeping the inside of your heart reserved for a more… Different, private type of love, that only Eddie Munson seems to have found.

“Should spank your ass with that thing for stoppin’,” he starts, interrupting your reverie, moving to shut his mouth when he realizes he crossed a line. Maybe? It’s there, your eyes flicker over his lips, your hidden reaction dancing behind your pretty little temple - he sees, giving him a fraction of hope. He isn’t used to this…

You jolt, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind, “Like that would be a punishment,” you finish, effectively crossing that line for him.

Both of you remain silent, your sweet perfume making him lose focus. What he thinks he should do and what he wants to do, those are two very different battles raging inside.

// Eat me paragraph //

[steviewashere]

One Day I Am Gonna Grow Wings

Rating: Mature CW: Implied/Referenced Domestic Abuse, Alcoholism/Alcohol Abuse, Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Depression, Minor Suicidal Ideation, Implied/Referenced Cheating (But Not on Anybody Important; You'll See), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Vomiting Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Break-Up, Past Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Drunk Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Self Esteem Issues, Negative Self Talk, Self Hatred, Steve's Current Girlfriend Sucks, Steve Harrington Is a Mess, Steve Harrington Is Not Okay, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug (And Gets One), Defensive Steve Harrington, Worried Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Comforts Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Hopeful Ending Title is from "Let Down" by Radiohead

💔—————💔 He doesn’t know what changed—it’s the same night he goes through. Drink until he’s swaying and slurring and warm. Climb into bed with someone—anyone. And then make a run for it in the morning; raging headache, aching teeth, and all. He finds a party and crashes it and keeps crashing it until he gets his end goal—a person in bed with him—or somebody realizes he doesn’t belong there and throws him out by the scruff of his neck.

The drinks are in his system. Everything around him blurring and tilting on its side. He’s not sure who he’s looking at when he reaches for them, when they touch him and coo at him. Whoever he’s bumped into treats him with a sweet sort of care he hasn’t had since—

No, he tells himself, don’t think about him tonight.

Rescinding memories of brown eyes and freckled soft cheeks, Steve nearly upchucks on his own sneakers. But the stranger is holding his face now, surely pasty and sweaty, and leading them down a seemingly endless hallway, right into the deep darkness of somebody’s unclaimed bedroom. The mattress is soft. This stranger’s fingers are softer as they help him toe out of his sneakers, yet leave him to struggle with his jeans. Whoever they are, they’re respectful—too respectful, if you were to ask Steve; he needs to be fucked, rough and unkind and brutal until he’s choking and sobbing on emotions, until he’s smacked a little loose and left in the wake of his own sore desires; he’s supposed to be treated like dirt—at least he thinks.

Steve’s tucked under the blanket. A cool washrag draped over his sweat beading forehead. Laid on his side with a trash can placed conveniently along the side of the bed. In a bleary whirlwind, he watches this stranger set out a glass of water and some Advil. And then he’s left on his own—the party now died out beyond the bedroom door, and the stranger disappearing behind it.

He tosses and turns and chokes himself with the duvet.

Then—

Birds are chirping outside, but the curtains are drawn tight. The bedroom is partially familiar, yet completely new all at the same time. He recognizes some of the bands on the wall: Metallica, Judas Priest, and he believes Accept—though that one’s a toss-up considering how faded all these posters are. There’s laundry strewn about the space, cigarettes in a full ashtray, a leaning tower of tapes. Some amps and chords and—

Eddie. He’s in Eddie Munson’s fucking room.

Hastily, Steve darts for the nearest container he can find—the tall kitchen garbage can from last night. His throat burns, pinches, and expels the contents of whatever he found. It’s all sour, though, so it’s not like he can pinpoint what exactly he got into. Some heavy alcohol, for sure, since he doesn’t remember climbing into this bed. His nostrils flare and sting, breath choking out between harsh, wet gags. When he finally pulls back from the opening of the can, he’s unsure how long he was out of it.

The bag is…decently full and the smell is atrocious and his whole mouth tastes like bile. He heaves for breath, chest moving up and down in harsh, painful builds. His stomach cramps around nothing, phantom things as if to punish him. And when he reaches up to scratch his cheeks, he’s met with his usual rough skin wet with tears. Great, he thinks, I’m sobbing like a baby in my ex’s bedroom. Such a cool guy thing to do, Steve; really outdid yourself this time, Steve.

Somebody knocks on the bedroom door, pushing it open with a soft click of the doorknob. “You doing okay?” And that’s…

That’s Eddie’s voice. Raspy from smoking, yet still soft around the edges. He’s looking through the gap of the door. Big brown eyes, shiny in the dim light, his hair all the same wild though healthier looking around him, and his face full of honest concern.

Steve takes a deep breath and traces the ache of it in his heart and his lungs, down to his toes. “Puke,” he says, “I puked, ‘m sorry.”

The door opens further. Eddie steps inside. Tall and broad and healthy. His skin no longer pale, now tanned gently from the recent early summer sun. He still looks concerned, eyebrows wrinkled down his face, mouth pinched. Softly, “You don’t have to apologize, Steve. I put the can out just in case. You were…you were really out of it last night.”

He sniffles. “I drank, like, a lot…”—swallows the last dredges of bile still stuck like velcro to his throat—“…I think.”

“Your breath smelt like alcohol pretty strongly,” Eddie says—gentle, always so fucking gentle, “I’m not shocked you don’t remember.”

Steve shrugs. “Guess I was too wasted.” That’s been happening a lot more, he doesn’t say, sorry if that worries you. He reaches for the glass of lukewarm water on the nightstand, takes a gentle sip to test if he can stomach it, and then downs the Advil when he decides it’s safe. “I usually know my limits. Must’ve gone a beer too far.”

He watches Eddie roll words around his mouth like marbles. His tongue clearly working over his teeth. Arms pulled tighter to his chest. “I didn’t invite you last night,” Eddie states, “and you harassed a good amount of my guests.”

“I’m sor”—

“Why did you come over?”

Owlishly, Steve blinks. “I don’t…I don’t know. Think I had been walking around and saw the full house and then…and then…I—Now I’m awake in your bed, man, I don’t know.”

Eddie blows out a long, loud breath. “Steve, that’s not good. That’s pretty fucking dangerous.” He covers his mouth with his ringless left hand. Worried. “You…fuck…you look terrible, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that. You fuckin’ broke up with me, you don’t get to call me that.”

When Eddie blinks, he blinks as if ridding tears from his eyes—which he must’ve been, since his next breath in is a nasally, bubbly sniffle—and then he concedes with a nod. “Okay, fine, I won’t call you that.” He tilts his head. Analyzing Steve like he is so prone to do. “Does this happen a lot? You go to random parties and get shitfaced?”

“It doesn’t happen that often.”

Pressing, “How often, Steve?”

Agitated, he sighs. “I don’t know! Fucking…probably three or four times a week? I’m not always drinking, though, so it’s fine!” He scoots the sloshing garbage can away from himself, stomach twinging at the sound, and collapses back into Eddie’s mattress. Usually, he can leave by now, but it seems like he’s trapped. He’d rather die than be here. Prickly, “Can I go home yet or are you gonna keep pestering me about stupid shit?”

Eddie crosses the room and takes a seat at the foot of his bed. For a moment, his left hand falls away from his face, hovering above the mound that Steve’s feet are making in the blanket—and then he hesitates. And then he hangs his hands between his spread knees. Careful. “I called Robin,” he says, “and she told me you haven’t been living with her for a few months now. If you really want to go home, that’s fine, but I’d like to know where this home is just to make sure you get there safely.”

“Why do you care? It’s not like you’ll ever need to know.”

“Steve, don’t get avoidant on me. Robin also said she was worried, and since she is, now I’m worried.” Eddie clicks his tongue against his teeth. Gapes his mouth, floundering for a few beats like a suffocating goldfish. He looks away as if the sight of Steve physically pains him. Then,  “This isn’t you and I know it isn’t. Even if we aren’t together anymore and you wanna spout some shit at me about how this isthe real you or whatever, this isn’t the person Robin is friends with. What’s going on, man?”

He rolls his eyes. “Dude, just because I’m twenty pounds overweight and drink every once in a while doesn’t mean something’s wrong. I just don’t live with her anymore. It’s fine.”

“If things were fine, then nobody would be worrying over you. I know you’re not dumb, but I seriously don’t know why you’re acting like it. Can you at least tell me where you’re living so that I can give you a ride”—

“My girlfriend’s, okay? It’s my fuckin’ girlfriend’s apartment. She wasn’t home last night and I took advantage of that. It’s seriously not that big of a deal.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “You were trying to get laid at my fucking party last night! That’s more than just taking advantage of a free night, Steve. You’re actively cheating on”—

“She deserves it,” Steve snaps, “if you knew her, you’d get why I’m doing it. Guess I’m just too chicken shit to break things off.”

“What the—what do you mean she deserves”—

“Can I use your shower? I think I got barf on myself. Think it’s on my clothes, too.”

Sighing, Eddie relents. Pastes a sarcastic grin on his face. Slaps his hands together. Dramatic. “Yeah, fine, whatever. But we’re talking about this afterwards. Robin was basically on the verge of tears, man. I promised her that I’d figure out what was going on.”

With a final roll of his eyes and a steaming huff, Steve mutters, “Fucking whatever.”

——— When he’s fresh out of the shower, Steve finds that his clothes have been changed out for some of Eddie’s. A plain pair of grey sweatpants and some scrappy Metallica t-shirt, the logo’s barely hanging on, peeling on the outlines. He wears them even if something lurches inside him. And, even stupider, he brings the collar of the t-shirt up to his nose and inhales. It’s clean based off of the faint scent of lavender, but there’s still an underlying layer of musk and sweat and tobacco. Something rich and so completely Eddie, it makes him want to run wild.

He hasn’t been in Eddie’s vicinity since the break up.

It wasn’t an amicable break up. He had been holding on, fingernails deep into the skin and fat of their relationship’s body, but Eddie had been slowly giving up. Stepping back, so he had said. That he couldn’t watch Steve destroy himself; it hadn’t been the alcohol yet, it was the wallowing and the wasting, the unemployment bouts and his irritable episodes and the whole…sneaking around and smoking weed and lying to Eddie’s face about it and then getting explosive when pestered and then—

Steve was a wreck.

Is a wreck.

Before they ended things, Steve had been spiraling. Down the drain kind of spiraling. They started things where he was merely stagnant water in a rusted sink and, well, then he went down from there—which was somehow possible. He didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand, so he’s explained time and time again to the people around him: Robin, Dustin, Nancy, and most importantly Eddie. It’s just that he didn’t know how to relax anymore. And the fact that his parents had finished offloading him from their lives. And that everybody around him kept moving on to bigger and greater things.

And then there was him. Plain Steve with his minimum wage job. Which, everybody told him that it was fine. That he shouldn’t be beating himself up so hard over what kind of job he’s got. Though, these were the same people that were starting college or joining more clubs or entering internships and apprenticeships. Steve was just there, in it. After bad shifts, he leant on a lit joint; before a bad shift could even start, he was excusing himself with a joint in his pocket. He smoked in his car, he smoked on the porch, he smoked in the bathroom. Every night, it felt like, he caught himself choking on all the shit he was full of; caught himself breaking into pure hysterics, sobbing and crying and clawing. When Eddie tried to comfort him, Steve could swear that it felt like his world was closing in, and every time he’d back away from the arms and the kisses and the soft words—if he didn’t, he feared he’d tear his own skin off in an attempt to escape. And that’s what it was all about—escapism. He wanted an out, so he made his own exit. The smoking and the bickering and the crying were just force of habit.

He was miserable.

…Is miserable.

Once out of the bathroom, Steve follows his nose towards the kitchen. Eddie’s at the stove, scrambling up some eggs, over-frying the bacon. He makes himself sit at the dining table. Because he knows this is Eddie’s way of confrontation.

“So…” Eddie starts. “There’s a girlfriend.”

Steve swallows around phantom bile and chunks. “Do we have to talk about her?”

Eddie shrugs. “Feels like maybe we should, don’t you think? ‘Cause if this is a case of, like, you’ve fallen out of love with her, I can give you a few pointers on how to, y’know”—

“Oh, fuck you, man,” Steve spits. “That’s so completely uncool of”—

“Okay, okay…I’m sorry. Obviously you’re not up for jokes, I should’ve known better.” He sighs, clicks the burners off, and putters around one of the cabinets, clearly stalling. “But there’s something about this girl. And whatever it is, it’s got you cagey and on the defense immediately…and I feel like it has something to do with what you were getting up to last night.”

A plate clunks down in front of Steve. Full with cheesy eggs and crisp bacon. There’s also a steaming cup of black coffee—no creamer or sugar in sight—just as he likes it. Deep within him, a timid creature lurches again, pressing and purring up against his ribcage; he juts his fingers between his ribs in an attempt to stab it.

“Does Robin know about her?” Eddie asks.

Steve gives a half-assed shrug. Takes a bite that overwhelms his cheeks. Not a word.

“I’m going to take that as a no.” Across the table, Eddie sits in his own chair. Hands clasped together. Leaning over the surface as if interrogating. He supposes that’s what this is. “And if Robin doesn’t know, then I’m going to assume that nobody knows. The only reason you told me is because I prodded enough. Which…that also tells me you’re…you’re isolating yourself again, aren’t you? Not talking to everybody else?”

He chews his food slower. Keeps his stare down at the plate. Grips his fork a little tighter when his hand starts to shake. “I see them,” Steve lies.

Eddie doesn’t buy it—evident in the click of his tongue, the huff of his breath. “Nobody’s seen you. You’re being secretive about this girl’s place. You don’t even fucking like her and”—he gasps, big and breathy and taking all the air out of the room with it—“are those…”—and then Eddie grabs at Steve’s left wrist, tugging at his arm until his bicep is on display—“…Steve, oh my god!”

Though he could pull back, hide what Eddie’s already clearly seen, Steve is stuck—not frozen, but stuck. He hides his face by continuing to stare down. “It’s not what it looks like, Eds…Eddie, come on”—

“Who did this? These are finger imprints, Steve. Who the fuck did this to you?”

Embarrassingly, Steve’s eyes fill with tears. He yanks at the grip, but no shot. “Ed—please, come on, just let it go”—

“Steve”—

“Stop!” And Eddie lets go with a muttered apology. Steve curls his arm against his chest. Now would be a great time for a drink and the floor to open itself. For now, though, he slumps in his seat. “You already got the answer, okay? Just drop it. It’s not important. And it’s not…I’m not…it’s not something to worry about.”

The room completely quiets.

He doesn’t pick his fork back up.

And his face isn’t cooperating the way it should. Instead, it’s hot and embarrassed. He’s crying, too, which doesn’t bode well for whatever conversation is ahead.

“Steve?” Eddie calls softly, “can you look at me?”

Fighting every instinct that tells him no, he begrudgingly looks up from his lap. Can’t make direct eye contact, but whatever glimpse Eddie gets seems to satisfy him.

Murmuring now, “Is she hurting you?” Eddie asks. “You don’t have to say anything, you can just…just give me a visual.”

Steve sniffs. Croaky, “Y-yeah. But…but it’s fine, okay? We just get into arguments sometimes and I say the wrong thing and she has to—She still…we still cuddle and have sex and stuff and she…she tells me she loves me.”

“Sweetheart”—Steve shoots Eddie a quick glare—“sorry…I know I shouldn’t—Just because she’s nice sometimes doesn’t mean you deserve any of this. You understand?” When he doesn’t give an answer, Eddie sighs. “Does your girlfriend know where Robin lives?” Steve simply nods. “Okay…okay. How about where I live?”

Subtly, Steve gives a quick shake of his head. It’s not supposed to be like this—this overwhelming sense to hide; the way Eddie knows that even Steve was too weak to fight back. You can’t think like that, he tries to tell himself, Eddie doesn’t think like that. Eddie love—“No…I don’t…we don’t talk about you. She, um, she doesn’t support that…that kind of…stuff? Last time I tried to talk about anything to do with”—he clutches his arm tighter to his chest, can trace the exact place a fracture had lasted for months—“she made sure I knew that I chose her.”

Something twisted flashes over Eddie’s face. Paling him. Sickening him. “Steve,” he says horrified, “that’s awful.” 

“But she loves me,” Steve is quick to amend, “so it’s fine that she doesn’t like that part”—

“None of this is okay,” Eddie firmly interrupts. “Not a single bit of it, do you hear me? She’s hurting you. She is isolating you from your friends. She is hiding you, Steve.” He crosses his arms again, hard against the table, enough to shake it. “I’m not taking you back there. I am not putting you in that situation again.”

Scrambling, Steve whips his head straight up. “Eds, no, c’mon…it’s…it’s fine, okay? Seriously. I…I can take care of myself, swear. And it’s not like she’s hurting me that”—

“Do not finish that sentence, Steve Harrington. I mean that. I really fucking mean that. You know, just as well as I do, that what you’re trying to tell me is horseshit. Pure shit.” Eddie bites into his bottom lip, staring off beyond Steve’s shoulder for a moment. Contemplating a million things, it seems. But then his stare goes back to normal, watery and miserable. His voice wavers. “I have a pull-out in my spare room. It’s usually the space I use to write and record, but I’ll let you use it. There’s a million blankets in my hall closet. I make a mean plate of breakfast. No rent. No chipping in on utilities.”

“I can’t just take advantage of you, Eddie.”

“You wouldn’t be. Steve, in no way, shape, or form are you a burden to me.”

Steve shakes his head and drops his stare back to his lap. “You know that’s not true,” he says quietly, “I was falling apart before her. I’m falling apart during her. I’m just gonna fall apart again after her. And I can’t…Eddie, I can’t put you through that again.” He sniffs. Rolls his lips against his teeth, tries to stop himself from crying—to no avail. “I know, okay? I know that I…I fucked us up so bad before. You had every fucking right to leave me. I was miserable. I was sick. There was nothing motivating me—not even you…not even Robin—just nothing. I was lying to you. I was stealing your weed. I was…I was terrible, Eds. I’m a”—

“Don’t you dare”—

“I’m a terrible person, Eddie. I am. I know it.” Steve shorts a sob. It sprays loose against his forearms. Chokes him at the base of his throat. “If I was good, then this kind of bullshit would stop happening to me. If I was a good person, then I’d be able to hold a job or make something of myself. If I could just get myself together, maybe my parents would love me…not more, but maybe again? And I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t be in this mess!

“I wouldn’t be like a fucking sponge that just absorbs everything around it. That’s all I do. I swear to God, that’s all I do. Everything negative just gets stuck in me and it has nowhere to go but out and so I get bitchy and mean and I argue and I do stupid shit and I—I’m a complete fuck up, okay? I’m not going to bring that into your space. I’m not gonna let you realize that again.” There’s drool and tears and snot mixing over his face. Heat in his cheeks. A tremor in his hands. Quietly, “My life is nothing but a black smudge. I don’t think I know who I am without all the…the alcohol and weed and cigarettes and mindless, dumb sex. I don’t know who I am without being awful. I shouldn’t be here like this…I shouldn’t be here. A part of me feels like I should’ve died down”—

Without saying anything, just a sharp scrape of his chair, Eddie gets up from his spot at the table.

This is it, Steve thinks, he’s gonna grab me by my neck and toss me to the curb.

He’ll slice Steve open and let him be flayed for the whole world to see—his stupid stained lungs and his gnarly liver and his constantly bloated insides; the hairline cracks along his heart and the purple bruising surrounding it; how much of him is missing, what parts remain diseased. He’s a decaying corpse, really. Molding and marbling right at Eddie’s table.

There’s heat along his left side. Not touching him, but something close.

Eddie crouches down, knees popping with the effort. Hushed, “Stevie, can you look at me?” He doesn’t know how to stop listening to this voice, but he knows how to obey. It’s a different sort of seeing when Eddie looks at him—not the bare naked kind, more so like he’s worthy, like he doesn’t have to die to be realized. “There you are,” Eddie breathes. “I want to give you a hug, is that okay?”

Instead of answering, Steve leans himself into Eddie’s chest. Right where he used to cozy up. Lets himself fall. And Eddie catches him. One hand in his hair. An arm thrown across his back. It’s the only embrace he’s felt in what seems like eons. It’s the warmest thing he’s had aside from the alcohol in his system.

He doesn’t know what else to do but sob. Cry and cry and choke and choke and choke and give in. Lean into the wailing, the exerting, the marking. Give himself over to full temptation: the art of letting go.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Eddie whispers, stroking Steve’s hair, “we’re gonna eat our breakfast and I’ll wash your clothes and we’ll divvy out the blankets for your bed. And if you need anything—anything at all”—he chokes at this part, voice warbling again, tears wetting the top of Steve’s head—“you can come find me. And I promise you, Steve, I’m not gonna be mad and I’m not gonna take anything out on you and I will just let you be.

“‘m right here. And so are you.

“And we’re gonna…shit…we’re gonna get you through this. No matter how long it takes.”

Over Eddie’s heart, where it still beats against Steve’s lips like it did under his clumsy hands, he asks, “And if it takes forever?”

“Then we’ll take forever.

“You’re gonna get to where you need to be.

“And you’re gonna be you again.” Eddie swallows. The sound vibrating through Steve’s skull. His heart, his pulse, the wheezing of his breath. His steady hold. The warmth in his palms. All of it embraces him. As if it’s factual, Eddie goes on to state, “You are a good person, Steve. You’re just gonna take some time to realize that. And that’s okay.” A promise, “You’re gonna be you.”

The end is so far away. His greatness. This conceived idea of him.

He doesn’t know what’s to come.

But he takes the first step.

Steve breathes deep, no longer tasting bile, no longer choking on words, no longer crying.

He breathes out and lets go.

💔—————💔

[ataliagold]

But My Heart Is Just A Little Boy

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Rating: Teen (swearing)

W/C: 2012

Tags: Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, hurt/comfort, Steve Harrington has dyscalculia, Steve Harrington has self esteem issues, Steve Harrington needs a hug, fluff, light angst, DnD, Mike and Dustin are a little mean here

Notes: Just slowly posting some of my AO3 stuff here as well :) Title from Rattlesnake by Jack Van Cleaf.

___

Steve joining in on Eddie’s campaign was supposed to be a nice surprise for his boyfriend.

And it was; Eddie’s face had lit up with joy when Steve had walked in and sat down with the kids around the table. Steve had taken the dice Dustin had loaned him and lined them up in front of him, from the D4 (the funny triangle one) up to the D20 (the one with heaps of sides, Steve reminded himself.)

If he kept them in that order it would help him pick the right dice quickly, he’d decided.

Because he wanted this to go to perfectly.

Eddie had been asking him to join in on a game for months, but Steve had so far refused, only coming along sometimes to watch quietly. There were parts of it that piqued his interest – namely the combat and the creatures Eddie planted into the game, because some of them were so damn cool even if Steve wouldn’t readily admit it out loud. A small part of him, a much younger part that had loved fairy tales and stories about knights and dragons and sword fights before his father had confiscated those books, deeming them too childish, watched with a quiet giddiness as the kids battled all manner of beasts.

But much of the game was so complicated - there were so many numbers, and Steve had no idea how Eddie and the kids managed to keep track of everything, how they added dice values together so damn quickly and kept track of a seemingly endless list of stats and bonuses and modifiers, whatever the hell they were.

Eddie knew about his difficulty with numbers. He’d seen the way Steve had to count with his fingers, how it took him far too fucking long to do a simple equation, how he stood in Melvald’s staring at the price of something just trying to make the numbers make sense so they wouldn’t blow their grocery budget.

And Eddie was patient, always. But D&D was Eddie’s realm, his place to shine, and Steve was so worried about holding him back and ruining the game every time he had to pause to add two fucking dice together.

Finally, he’d caved. Secretly, with Dustin’s help, he’d put a character sheet together. He’d made a paladin because Dustin had told him it suited him. Steve made him strong and lawful good, just like the knights he used to read about as a little boy. Dustin had rolled his eyes a little at that but Steve had been quite proud of what he’d put together.

Plus, Dustin had promised to help him with the math.

But here Steve was, well over an hour into the campaign, and he was struggling.

Cheeks burning, he turned to Dustin yet again.

“Wait, which one am I rolling?” he whispered.

Dustin rolled his eyes. The kid had been patient at first, but it was beginning to wear thin.

Steve was beginning to wear thin.

“The D10, Steve,” Dustin hissed.

“Right,” Steve nodded, grabbing for one of the dice.

“That’s the D8, Steve,” Mike said wearily.

Steve’s cheeks flushed even hotter, and he grabbed the other dice, rolling it quickly.

“Ahhh...seven,” Steve announced.

“You slash at the goblin, your blade cutting deep into its chest, the creature gurgling and reeling backwards…” Eddie leant over the table, giving a dramatic recount of events.

Steve smiled, unable to help it. His boyfriend was having such a good time, and even if Steve wasn’t enjoying himself so much, well, that was ok. He could do this, for Eddie.

“…but it scrabbles back to its feet, weak but alive,” Eddie finishes.

Mike groaned and slapped the table.

“It has to be almost dead,” Lucas announced.

“Yeah, but there’s still four others,” Mike pointed out.

“This one must be on two hit points or less,” Will surmised.

How did he know that? Steve frowned, let the kids talk amongst themselves. His gaze wandered over to Eddie, watching him lean back in his chair, eyes shining. He shot a wink at Steve when he caught him looking, then frowned a little, obviously noticing Steve wasn’t looking all that comfortable.

You ok? He mouthed at him.

Steve nodded quickly.

But he felt small.

Grow the fuck up, you’re fine.

“…Steve!” Mike groaned.

Steve’s attention snapped back to the kids. “What?”

“Stop staring at Eddie and tell us how many hit points you’ve got left.”

“Um…” Steve glanced down at the piece of paper in front of him. He’d scribbled some numbers down like Dustin had told him to every time his character had taken damage, but there were a lot of numbers there and he wasn’t sure they all actually related to his hit points…

“Give it here,” Dustin snatched the paper from him impatiently, peering down at it.

Steve waited while Dustin assessed his work, the feeling vaguely reminiscent of being back in school, his teachers reading over his work with a disappointed shake of their heads.

“This can’t be right, Steve,” Dustin sighed. “It says you’re on twelve hit points…is that a twelve? Your writing’s messy.”

Steve nodded. “Yours isn’t much better, pea-brain,” he mumbled, just to shoot something back at the kid.

Dustin narrowed his eyes at him. “You must have less than that because of the damage you took in the last round. You’re probably down to…eight at the most, by now.”

“Just make it eight, then,” Steve grumbled.

“Eight it is, big boy,” Eddie agreed.

“It doesn’t work like that, though,” Mike huffed. “You actually have to keep track of this stuff Steve, there’s no point playing if you just make the numbers up.”

“It doesn’t matter, really,” Will tried to intervene quietly. “It can just be eight.”

Dustin picked up his pencil, drawing some columns on Steve’s paper. “Ok, so just use this one column to keep track of damage, don’t write all over the page. There’s your total hit points at the top, and every time you take damage, write it down under there, ok? And then just take it off the total. Simple.”

Like it was that fucking easy. Maybe for them, it was. They didn’t get every number mixed up in their brain, they didn’t stare at a single digit trying to put some numeric value behind it and coming up with zilch.

Dustin was trying to help, Steve knew. But his tone of voice was so fucking condescending that it had Steve squirming in his seat, wishing he was anywhere else.

He felt Eddie’s eyes on him.

“Come sit by me, Stevie, I’ll help you keep track.” Eddie said gently.

“You’ll just go easy on him, and that’s not fair!” Mike whined.

“Can it, Wheeler,” Eddie snapped at him.

“Just because he can’t do basic math.”

“Right, you get to roll with disadvantage now, just for that,” Eddie told him smugly.

Mike was retorting with something, but Steve didn’t hear it.

His pulse was thumping in his ears, his cheeks on fire. The years were stripped from him, the sensitive child he’d tucked away inside a long time ago forced to the surface.

“Look, just carry on without me,” Steve muttered, and stood up quick enough that his chair scraped on the floor.

“Steve -” Dustin started, but Steve was finished, striding towards the stairs and blinking back tears.

He wasn’t going to cry in front of the kids, not over a fucking game, not over something his boyfriend loved so much.

But they were coming faster than he could blink them back as he headed out of Mike’s stuffy basement and out to the driveway, the cold night air caressing his flushed face.

This was supposed to have been a treat for Eddie. It was supposed to be fun, and Steve had ruined the night by being fucking stupid.

A tear tracked down his cheek , Steve losing the battle against them. He’d just drive home, he decided. Steve had come straight from work that day, so Eddie had come separately in his van, he wouldn’t be inconvenienced.

And then they could finish their game in peace, without having to treat Steve like a five-year-old.

He was getting in the driver’s seat when Eddie ran to him, both hands reaching for him.

“Stevie…” Eddie murmured softly.

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbled, dragging his sleeve across his face, smudging the tears there.

“Why? The kids were being assholes, I’ve already yelled at them.”

Steve shook his head. “I was just slowing everyone down, they were getting frustrated, I get it.”

“No, sweetheart, they were being rude,” Eddie corrected him. “Especially Wheeler.” Eddie brushed his thumbs across Steve’s cheeks, crouching down beside the open driver’s door. “I’ve told them to pull their heads in. Do you…do you want to come back inside?”

“Eds…” Steve leant into his hands a little. “I’m no good at it. I really wanted to try, for you, and I’m so sorry I ruined it, but there’s too many numbers and I can’t keep track of everything and it takes me so fucking long and it’s embarrassing because I can’t even keep up with a bunch of kids, and I just feel like I’m back at school again.”

Eddie cupped his cheeks again, tilting Steve’s head to look at him. “Hey. You haven’t ruined anything, they did. I’m so happy you came along tonight, because I know you did it for me. But look, D&D doesn’t have to be your thing -”

“But -”

“It doesn’t,” Eddie cut in. “Just like…your balls in laundry basket games aren’t mine. But I like hanging around while you and Wayne watch them, and I love how excited you get about it, and how you sit there with that fucking pretty smile…”

Steve huffed out a small laugh, and Eddie grabbed his wrist to press a kiss to the inside of it.

“But I don’t know what’s going on most of the time,” Eddie continued. “It makes you happy, and that’s enough for me. So, I don’t want you to feel like you have to play D&D just for me if it’s not something you enjoy. It’s more than enough that you listen to my ideas, that you help me write -”

“I don’t really,” Steve said quietly.

“You do! Or have you forgotten who came up with that fucking amazing twist with the elven prince?”

“I got it from a movie,” Steve argued.

“So? I didn’t think of it, and it had the little shrimps completely stumped.”

Steve managed a small smile. “I do like some of the stories,” he admitted quietly. “But I think…I just wanna go home, ok? You can carry on.”

Eddie shook his head. “I’m gonna get them to pack up in there. I’ll drop them home, then follow you back, ok?”

“Steve?” came Dustin’s voice from behind Eddie, small and hesitant.

Steve quickly straightened up in his seat, wiping a hand across his face.

“Yeah, buddy?” he replied, his voice a little hoarse.

“I’m…I’m sorry. That we weren’t more patient. It’s ok if you struggle with numbers, and we should’ve helped more.”

“It’s ok, Dusty,” Steve told him.

Eddie frowned, reached down to squeeze Steve’s hand, then turned to Dustin. “It isn’t ok,” he argued. “But it was nice of you to apologize.”

Dustin nodded. “If you want to try again sometime, I promise I’ll help more. I…I really liked having you play.”

“Thanks,” Steve managed.

“Tell Wheeler to start crafting his apology too,” Eddie said firmly, still cradling Steve’s hand in his own. “Otherwise he’s rolling with disadvantage for the whole next session.”

Dustin’s eyes widened a little before he nodded.

After packing up, the kids waited sheepishly by Eddie’s van. Eddie stayed crouched next to Steve a moment longer.

“Go home, get comfy on the couch, and pick out any movie you want to watch, ok?” Eddie murmured to him. “When I get home I’m gonna order us some pizza, and I’m gonna cuddle the shit out of you, understand?”

Steve laughed softly. “Sounds perfect.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

___

[sleepy-steve]

@steddieangstyaugust 05/08 // ‘Please Please Please, Let Me Get What I Want’ by The Smiths

wc: 2.2k // rating: M // cw: language, negative self talk // tags: YEARNING, post-s4 but vecna dies, eddie has some self-esteem issues, mild references to sexual content

divider credits @steddiecameraroll-graphics

Eddie isn’t sure when it started. When this… obsession took over his life. When he suddenly couldn’t think of anything but Steve Harrington.

It could have been when they started hanging out every day, the threat of otherworldly horrors gone and the Big Evil defeated. When they realised that while they don’t necessarily have much in common, they both care to learn about what the other likes.

It could have started before that, when Steve continually showed up to help him through his physical therapy, never wavering in his kindness despite how many times Eddie snapped in frustration or lashed out at him. Steve always took it in stride, but never patronised him. Or was it even before that? When Steve showed up everyday to his bedside in the hospital, at first appearing to just be chauffeuring Dustin, but then visiting on his own. Spending hours talking with him or letting the silence settle between them, filling the hours where Wayne couldn’t be there.

Shit, if Eddie really thought about it, it went further back than that too. Before Steve carried him out of hell and quite literally saved his life—though that alone was enough to make a guy swoon—and before the moment Eddie flirted with him in the RV (and really, what was he thinking with that?) and even before their little heart to heart in the aforementioned hell after the first bat attack.

No, if Eddie was honest with himself, it all went back to Steve’s surprise appearance in the boathouse, shoved up against the wall with a shard of glass pressed to his neck and fear in his eyes. Eddie remembers feeling Steve tremble as Eddie held tight to his jacket, watching as he swallowed, skin of his throat pressing against the glass. Eddie’s own hands shook around the broken bottle, from exertion and fear, and god help him he was not going down without a fight in that moment. Their all too literal colliding of worlds was not something he could have been prepared for, nevermind the fact that Eddie almost killed him. But it was that brief moment, so miniscule, right before Eddie let him go, that he realised Steve really wouldn’t hurt him. Despite being held up and almost having his throat slashed, Steve had dropped the oar.

It was the first hint he got that all those things Dustin had said about Steve were actually true. That all the ideas he’d previously had about Steve Harrington were undeniably false. And Eddie only continued to be proven wrong by the sheer magnitude of Steve’s kindness, his patience, his unending love for his friends. Which now, by some miracle, Eddie was a part of.

It had grown. Out of something that should have just been a trauma-bond that then dissolved once they were quote-unquote healed and realised they actually had nothing in common besides the shared experience of almost dying in an otherworldly dimension. It had grown into something much more than that, something that Eddie never really had before. He’d had friends before, sure, his little sheepies and his band mates, but nothing quite like this. It was both his fault and also not. When he arrived in middle school and was immediately bullied for daring to be a little bit different—despite the differences having more to do with his class status than anything he had truly picked at that time—the walls came up. People could get somewhat close to him, but ultimately Eddie decided just how much he would give to people, and arms length was always safest. They wouldn’t be able to hurt him at arms length.

And yet. Steve Harrington had somehow wormed himself past the walls, beyond the arms length barrier, and settled himself neatly within Eddie’s rib cage. Not only that, Steve brought along the rest of his little group, a family that knocked down Eddie’s walls and forged a space just for him. It went beyond the trauma bond. It had grown into something that almost felt like Steve cared about him. Actually, that wasn’t fair. Steve absolutely did care about Eddie. He’d shown it time and time again. Shown up and held tight and given his time and space and love, being the kind of best friend Eddie only dreamed of having.

And here he was, greedy. Desperately craving more. More of the connection, more of the love —platonic though it is—more of which he has already been given. Arguably he’s received far more than he ever thought he deserved (despite what his new friends might say). But Eddie can’t help it.

He wants. He craves.

He fucking aches for it.

It grips him in a chokehold, this desperation with which he begs to receive more. To have more. To be more. It wasn’t enough to have Steve’s friendship, Eddie wanted his whole heart. His whole soul, even. Every tiny speck of stardust that came together to create him, Eddie wanted it in his possession. Wanted it all to himself, to hoard like a dragon’s greatest treasure. To lock this man away and keep him safe and shower him with love and devotion every day for the rest of his life. He longed for it to the point of feeling more animal than man, a slave to his own desires. Helpless against his own hunger for a connection that would run bone deep between them, etched into his skull, woven into his blood. Eddie burned to fucking consume Steve Harrington and be consumed by him. To have their souls merge together in a supernova and, and, and…

And nothing. Because it would never happen. Not for Eddie, not the way that he wants it to. He reminds himself constantly that he should just be grateful to have the friendship, to cherish it for the special thing that it is. That guys like Steve Harrington didn’t want guys like Eddie Munson, at least not in that way. Not in the way Eddie wanted, because Eddie never got what he wanted.

Well, not never. But rarely. When he goes down this spiral, he struggles to remember times he has actually gotten what he wanted. In love, in romance? Never. Kisses—too fast, too hard, too scared—shared with boys who met him behind the bleachers and didn’t know what they wanted. Or rather, did know but wished they didn’t. Those that ended in the boys running away, or worse, threatening to hit him—to kill him—if Eddie dared to speak about what happened. Not that anyone would believe a jock would ever turn to Eddie The Freak Munson, even as an experiment. That’s all he ever was when he was younger, an experiment. It was all he thought he deserved, at least until he got a bit older and was able to venture out of Hawkins. Then came other stuff. Quick, filthy hookups in club bathrooms and dark alleyways in Indy. A stranger’s tongue in his mouth and their hands in each other’s pants and maybe their mouths on each other and the flash of a smile before leaving and he’d never see them again. It was fine. He got what he set out for in those moments, but nothing more. He never felt like he was owed more, never felt worthy of more, so why would anyone give him that? At least they didn’t end in threats of violence. At least he felt desired, somewhat. But, if given the chance, he’d trade all those experiences for one night of feeling like he was the prize, like he was the one worth fighting for, like someone wanted his heart.

And the craziest part was… sometimes he did feel that way. Sometimes Steve made him feel that way. Like Eddie was the most special person on the planet. Like no one else could draw his attention away. Like they were the only two people in the world. Like Steve could actually…

No. It wasn’t like that. Eddie had to remind himself endlessly. It wasn’t like that. This love wasn’t reserved just for Eddie, who watched Steve share it with all of them. When he picked up Dustin to take him wherever he wanted to go, despite the squabbling they shared. The way he and Robin seemed to read each other's minds, attached at the hip whenever possible. How he helped Max after she got out of the hospital, ready to drop everything at a second’s notice if she needed him. Spending afternoons training basketball with Lucas, giving him all of his tips and shining with pride at his skills.

Still… there was something. Something in the way Steve’s eyes lit up whenever Eddie arrived. Something in the way he was almost always too close, fingers brushing as beers were passed, arms and legs pressed against each other during movie nights, arms held tight when nightmares returned, and one glorious evening of warm cuddling and dreamless sleep after sharing a joint. Eddie lived in those moments, let them play on an endless loop in his mind, reading deep into each tiny interaction. Thinking about every smile sent his way and was it any different from the smiles anyone else got? God, he wanted to believe Steve had a special one just for him. One that was a little bit softer and sweeter and shyer.

The idea is nice, but it’s washed away by the cold reality of the fact that it would never happen. Even if, by some miracle, Steve was anything other than straight, why would he want Eddie? He could have anyone he wanted. And Eddie wouldn’t get what he wanted because that’s just how life was for him. Though he may beg and plead with invisible entities for it, though he might crave and ache to the point of feeling feral with it, though he might promise—swear on his life—to himself and anyone up there listening that he’d treat Steve so well if given the chance, Eddie knew it just wasn’t on the cards. The sooner he accepted that the better.

His resolve in place—forget about it, or at least bury it until it could be forgotten—Eddie makes his way up the driveway to the Harrington house. He wouldn’t think about it for the entirety of movie night. He absolutely would not.

“Hey, man!” Steve answers the door with a perfect smile and joy in his eyes. Eddie’s resolve wobbles. “Just in time.”

Eddie takes a moment to steel himself, firmly reminding himself of his goal, as he follows Steve into the house. And it lasts for all of two minutes before he’s pulled down onto the sofa, thigh pressed against Steve’s. Was there truly any reason for Eddie to be tortured this way? He tries to remember that Robin is on the other side of Steve, and that there’s limited room on the sofa but fucking hell… Their shoulders brush, the soft grazes through layers of fabric sending Eddie’s mind spinning, until Steve places his arm around behind Eddie on the sofa-back, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And god, this is so much worse. The desire to lean in and cuddle him, just nestle right in and have Steve’s arm around him, drives him crazy. The idea that they could… that this could be normal for them, domestic even. It went beyond the physical, Eddie wanted to take care of him. To show him the love Steve had so willingly given to him, and give it back ten-fold, hundred-fold. To create a life with him. To be proud of him and show him off and love him endlessly. To go to the ends of the earth to grant Steve his every wish, if he could just have one chance, he was begging—

Get it together! Eddie’s internal voice hisses at him, and he tries to shove all his thoughts back down into a vault, feeling a bit like trying to get water back into a broken hydrant. He does his best, managing to get it back down to a simmer, rather than a rapid boil.

Steve shifts slightly, suddenly a bit closer. It all comes rushing back. The warmth where their thighs are touching becomes burning hot and all the aching, craving, yearning, wanting that Eddie tried to shove down and out of his mind is suddenly front and centre and focused on the way Steve laughs and those glorious moles dotting down his neck. He feels insane with longing, desperate to press his lips to those moles, as if that could ever convey the depth of his feelings for the man beside him. Overcome with the need to drag his fingers through that beautiful hair and maybe even pull on it a little, just to see what kind of noise Steve makes, Eddie hears the tiny voice in his mind telling him off for staring. He just can’t seem to drag his eyes away. Steve throws his head back with a laugh, exposing his throat, and Eddie might as well perish right then and there, distraught with how much he wants to bite it. To just sink his teeth into the skin and feel Steve’s pulse beneath with his tongue. To leave bites and bruises all over his body, everywhere Eddie thinks is beautiful…

Before he can summon enough shame to look away, Steve catches his eye, and just grins, eyes lit up with that same brightness he always seems to have when looking at him.

Eddie’s a fucking goner.