#(>v<)💕< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[nutmargaret]

hello everynyan

[avadoore]

[atompalace-official]

[concretejunglefm]

So, it's me again with another thot or request if you want to...🥹

I'm on my period which means I'm either sad or horny. That also means I want Noah to fuck me so hard that he has to stop and ask 'Hey are you here with me?' and then give me the sweetest aftercare ever🥹

here he is for you bb! 💕 he's like a shark in the water during that time of the month, I swear 🤭

CW: includes mentions of unprotected sex (p in v), multiple orgasms, fingering (f receiving), oral (f + m receiving), period sex with mentions of blood, dirty talk, slight dom!noah vibes, brat!reader vibes, heavy on the aftercare and fluff (noah puts readers tampon in).

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

It’s no surprise that Noah always knows when you’re on your period. Part of it is his control-freak nature—he tracks your cycle with meticulous attention—but more than that, it’s the way he’s so deeply in tune with you. It’s like he’s wired into your body, hyper-aware of even the subtlest shifts, especially during this time of the month.

What gives it away most is your mouth. If you’re not weepy from the hormonal roller coaster, you’re insatiably horny—and completely without a filter. The things you let slip between those plush lips could ruin him, especially because you never seem to say them in private. You say them in public, in company, in moments that make him clench his jaw and fight to keep control. They tumble out like you don’t even realize the effect they have, but he knows better—you do.

“This fucking mouth,” Noah murmurs, his thumb gliding along the soft pink hue of your lipstick before pressing just enough to smear it. You’d had plans to go out tonight—until your tongue got a little too bold, a little too filthy. Now, his hand is wrapped around your chin, holding you in place, the heat in his gaze leaving no room for doubt about what’s coming next.

“Are you going to keep staring at it or fuck it?” you shoot back, your voice dripping with challenge. The sound he makes in response is low and guttural, his thumb swiping over your lips again. You part them, slow and deliberate, letting your teeth graze the pad of his thumb before your tongue flicks against it—suggestive and teasing.

There’s no mistaking what’s on your mind. Even now—when most would consider you ‘off-limits’—Noah sees you differently. To him, your heightened need, your sensitivity, your craving for him are an invitation. An opportunity to give you exactly what your body aches for: release.

Sad, horny, cramping—it doesn’t matter. His solution is always the same. Make you cum. Again and again, until your mind is blissfully empty and your body hums with pleasure. He knows how much more malleable you become like this, how willingly you melt under his touch, surrendering to the worship he gives you so thoroughly.

When he finally sinks into your mouth, it’s everything he imagined—warm, wet, eager. Your moan vibrates around him, hungry and greedy, and he has to steel himself not to lose it right then. Your lashes flutter as you look up at him from beneath them, playing the perfect picture of innocence—even though it was your bratty mouth that got you here in the first place, lips stretched around the very thing you dared him to use.

His hand finds a firm grip at the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair as he guides your movements. His hips roll forward to meet your mouth, and his head tilts back, lips parting with a low, drawn-out moan. “Fuck… getting it nice and wet for me to fuck you?” he grunts, voice thick with desire.

Not that he needs you to. You can already feel the slick heat between your thighs—your arousal mingling with the slow, steady flow of blood, making you impossibly wet. It’s something Noah adores, the way he can slide into you so easily, your blood acting as its own kind of lubricant, but more than that, he loves your sensitivity—how every touch, every brush of his skin against yours, leaves you trembling, desperate, and so utterly responsive beneath him.

Once your clothes are gone and you’re laid back on the bed, a towel placed beneath you, Noah parts your thighs with a reverence that borders on hunger. He licks his lips, eyes fixed between your legs like he’s about to indulge in his favorite meal—and in a way, he is. There’s no place he’d rather be than buried between your thighs, his mouth pressed to your pussy, whether he’s drinking in everything you offer or lazily teasing your clit with soft, deliberate kisses that send flutters through your belly.

But right now, nothing excites him more than the faint trail of blood glistening down your folds. His gaze darkens, and then he’s leaning in, tongue flattened as he gives a slow, purposeful lick—ending with a flick against your already oversensitive clit. You gasp, hips bucking, moaning aloud as the contact sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

He loves how your body reacts—how you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging him closer, silently begging for more. The moment his tongue touches you again, the tension begins to build. He circles your clit once, twice, a third time, and your moans quickly turn to needy whines, soft pleas tumbling from your lips. You need more, you need him, and Noah knows exactly how to give it to you.

He hasn’t even slipped more than a single finger inside you, yet you’re already unraveling—sensitive and strung out, your body responding to his touch like it’s second nature. He knows exactly what you need when you’re like this: the slow build of multiple orgasms that leave you trembling, pleasure flooding your system and momentarily easing the ache—but never the craving.

“Do you need more, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, though it’s not really a question. Not when he’s curling his fingers just right, coaxing a whimper from your lips. And before you can respond, his mouth finds your clit again, tongue flattening to press and flick against it, firm and purposeful. Your hips move on instinct, grinding against his face, chasing more of the sensation he so generously offers.

“Noah, baby, please, fuck me. I need you to fuck me.” The bratty tone you’d had earlier is gone now, dissolved into desperation, leaving you at his mercy—soft, needy, pleading for the only kind of relief that ever truly satisfies you.

Noah doesn’t hesitate. The moment his cock slides inside you, so effortlessly, he feels you tighten around him, your pussy more sensitive than ever, pulling him deeper as though it’s an instinctive need. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, bottoming out, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix with every deep thrust.

His hand moves between your legs, his thumb circling your clit before pressing down firmly, adding another layer of stimulation. His mouth latches onto your nipple, teasing the peak between his teeth in a manner that makes your back arch, a high-pitched moan slipping from your lips as another orgasm crashes through you, your body trembling with pleasure.

“Fuck, I can feel you pulsing around me,” Noah groans, his hands gripping your thighs, keeping them spread wide as his thrusts slow, savoring the feeling of your walls tightening around him, of how deeply he’s buried in you. He relishes in the sensation of your body reacting to him, every inch of you still buzzing from the multiple orgasms he’s drawn from you already.

“Can you feel that, baby? Does it feel better?” Noah asks, his hand slipping up to press gently on your stomach, just where your cramps had been earlier. The pressure only intensifies the deep, rolling thrusts he gives, feeling the bulge of his cock press against you.

But you don’t respond.

“Baby?” His voice softens with concern, looking down at you, his eyes searching your face. Your eyes are rolled back, a look of pure bliss on your features as your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. “Hey, are you with me?” You can’t catch your breath fast enough to reassure him, and the lust-drunk smile that lingers on your lips only deepens his worry.

When he pulls out of you, he’s immediately all over you, trying to ground you, his fingers gently combing through your hair as he whispers soft, comforting words. Your whole body still trembles, floating in a blissful haze, too far gone to fully register Noah’s concern until you slowly begin to return to yourself.

“Baby,” he murmurs against the side of your head.

You turn to look up at him, your eyes slowly focusing back on him, and you let out a breathless laugh. “That was…” Your words trail off, but Noah silences you with a kiss to the crown of your head, gently shushing you as he holds you close through your come-down.

“I think that’s enough for now.”

You want to protest, to whine about how he never got to cum, maybe make a dirty joke about the creampie he could’ve cleaned up, knowing he’d have done it no matter how messy things got, but the words never make it past your lips—your mind clouded, thoughts slipping away as the haze deepens.

“Let’s get you in a bath,” Noah suggests softly.

When Noah scoops you up from the bed, you instinctively cling to him, your arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you across the hall to the bathroom.

He sets a towel on the edge of the tub before gently sitting you down on it. The simple gesture feels thoughtful against the cool plastic, and for a brief moment, you refuse to let go of him. Your head buries against his neck with a soft hum, inhaling his scent—the mixture of sweat and sex that clings to him, somehow making him smell even more intoxicating.

When you finally release him, he steps away briefly, moving toward the sink to retrieve a glass of water and returns with it, offering it to you along with a few vitamins in the palm of his hand.

“Drink. Swallow.” He instructs, his voice calm but firm. You meet his gaze briefly, the brattiness still lingering in you despite the haze of pleasure, but it only makes the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

You follow his instructions, and he turns his attention to the tub, running the taps after slipping the plug in place. Once the water begins to fill, he’s back by your side, his arm wrapping around you to guide you gently against his chest, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back in an effort to ground you.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his gaze soft with concern. You understand why. It’s one of the rare times he’s taken you to the edge of your wits, with barely a coherent thought left in your head. The only time you’ve been this far gone was when he made you pass out from overstimulation—but that was different. This was a deep, dizzying pleasure.

“Mm, really good,” you murmur dreamily, your body still humming with the aftershocks of the pleasure he gave you.

“Yeah?” His fingers comb through your hair, the tenderness in his touch making you feel even more cared for. He reaches past you to grab a bottle of bath soak, adding a small amount to the water for a gentle lather of bubbles. He dips his hand in to test the water, stirring it until the bubbles form, then turns off the tap.

With his arm still around you, he keeps you steady, his attention back on you. “Can you join me?” you ask, gazing up at him, your eyes soft as if he’s the most ethereal thing you’ve ever seen. Even without the post-orgasm glow, you’d still feel this way about him.

You sense him about to argue, to remind you that this moment is for you, but before he can speak, his expression softens. He nods, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Of course, baby.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, and once again, those butterflies stir in your stomach. You love these moments, how gentle and loving he is with you, especially now. You want to soak in it, to bask in the warmth of his care.

As he helps you into the bath and joins you moments later, settling behind you so you can rest between his thighs, you know this is all you need. This, right here and now with him, is all you ever need.

“Thank you,” you murmur softly, pressing gentle kisses to his arms as they loosely wrap around you, your fingers going on to trace the intricate tattoos that adorn his skin.

As Noah pulls you closer, you feel the warm press of his mouth on your shoulder, causing you to sigh. Your eyes flutter closed as he places a delicate series of kisses along the back of your neck. “Do you still hurt?” he asks, his voice quiet and concerned. You know he means your cramps and one hand slips beneath the water, resting on your stomach, offering himself as a human heating pad.

“A little,” you reply. Your cramps have been somewhat alleviated, but you can already feel them slowly returning. There’s only so much you can do to keep them at bay.

“Would a massage help?” Noah offers and before you can respond, you feel the gentle pressure of his fingers pressing against your stomach, moving with purpose as he searches for the most painful spot.

When you make a soft sound, he knows he’s found it and as his focus remains there, he leans forward, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Anything you need, baby.” His words are a quiet reaffirmation, and you know he means them. Noah has always been the kind to put your needs first, always wanting to make you feel good, no matter what it takes.

As he begins to wash you, he’s slow and meticulous, taking his time with each movement of the washcloth against your skin, leaving soft kisses where the soap has already been washed away, his touch tender, like he’s worshipping you with every delicate gesture.

“You’re so beautiful, every inch of you. You know that, right?” It’s not the first time he’s said it, but you blush as though it is, feeling a warmth spread through you. You try to pull away, but you’re trapped between his thighs, unable to escape as he continues to appreciate every part of you. And no part of you goes unnoticed. Noah wants nothing more than to stake his claim on you, even on the softer areas—behind your ear, the back of your neck, the crease of your arm.

If he could, he’d leave a soft reminder of himself everywhere he touches.

Even when his hand slips between your thighs, Noah remains gentle. There’s nothing overtly sexual in his touch—just a quiet, sensual care as his fingers part you under the water. You gasp, and he pauses, but then his fingers move again, spreading you tenderly as if to help cleanse you more thoroughly, but when his fingertip begins to circle your clit, your body melts against his.

The sensation is too much and not enough all at once, and the words spill from your lips before you can stop them. “Noah, please…” you whisper, tilting your head back, your mouth catching his jaw between your teeth in a soft, playful bite as his fingers continue—slow, practiced, and devastatingly good.

“One more,” he breathes, the words sounding more like a promise to himself than to you, as if he’s trying to convince himself this will be the last, though you both know it never is. You’re just as insatiable for each other.

He doesn’t rush. He draws it out deliberately, teasing you with slow, purposeful circles over your most sensitive spot. His free hand cradles your body against his chest as he kisses you—slow and deep, sensual and unhurried. Everything about this moment is for you—your pleasure, your comfort, the way he carefully unravels you like he’s memorizing everything about you.

You ride the wave he builds with infinite patience, your body trembling in his arms. His kisses trail from your lips to your jawline, down the column of your throat, his fingers slipping inside you and curling just right—pressing against the spot that sends you soaring.

You cling to him, whimpering softly, your body shivering as your climax begins to fade. He holds you steady, whispering grounding words while you melt into his chest, letting yourself be supported, loved, and cared for. And when the high has passed, when your breathing steadies, Noah resumes what he started—cleaning you off with the same quiet tenderness, never rushing, never letting go.

Noah is the first to step out of the tub, leaving you sitting in the slowly draining water, your eyes following him as he moves. The sound of his soft humming fills the bathroom—he’s always humming something. Whether it’s one of his own songs, a track that’s been stuck in his head all day, or even an anime theme, it’s a sound that soothes you. It’s a quiet reminder that he’s there, that you’re not alone.

“Come on, let’s get you dry,” he murmurs, holding a towel out for you.

You glance over at him, biting your lower lip as you take in the sight of him—water glistening on his bare, tattooed chest, the towel hanging low on his hips. He looks like something out of a painting, a Greek god in the flesh, and it feels almost unfair to be witnessing it. His muscles flex subtly as he waits for you, holding the towel open, an offering for you.

Rising from the now-lukewarm water, you step into his arms and into the waiting towel, his embrace wrapping around you along with the soft fabric. You can’t help but tease, giggling softly as you look up at him. “Are you going to dress me next?”

He looks down at you with that familiar lovesick gaze, eyes warm and shining. “If I have to.”

You already know the truth—Noah would do anything for you, and he never makes you feel like it’s a chore.

“Well, I appreciate that. But you don’t have to,” you reply gently, though you know it won’t stop him. He’s already moving the towel over your skin, drying you off with slow, deliberate strokes. When he drops to his knees to reach lower, he continues murmuring soft words of love against your skin, kissing your hip, your thigh, like it’s second nature.

“Let me help you put your tampon in,” he says quietly, eyes trained on you.

The words catch you off guard. You grow shy, instinctively stepping back, but his hands slide to your hips, grounding you, holding you in place—not with force, but with tenderness.

“Baby, please?”  he asks, so softly, so sweetly. There’s no pressure in his voice—just that familiar, earnest desire to care for you in any way you’ll let him and when you reach for the drawer, he stops you with a soft touch. “Let me,” he says again, voice soft.

There’s no teasing in his voice—only quiet devotion.

You hesitate for a breath, watching him, and then slowly nod. His touch is careful as he kneels in front of you, his hands steady and respectful. He takes the tampon with the same calm he’s shown all evening, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. “Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he murmurs.

His fingers guide with gentle precision, the moment surprisingly intimate in a way that leaves your chest aching—in a good way. Not because it’s sexual, but because it’s him, because he sees all of you, even like this, and never flinches. When it’s done, he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then rises to meet you again, towel still in hand, like nothing about this moment ever needs to be hidden.

Once you’re finished in the bathroom, Noah gently guides you back into the bedroom. He quickly finds a pair of sleep shorts and one of his shirts for you to wear, helping you slip them on just as he promised. When you’re dressed, he climbs into bed with you, arms immediately reaching out to pull you into his chest, wrapping you up securely in his embrace.

You settle against him, your body melting into the warmth of his, and he presses a soft, tender kiss to your forehead. A quiet, contented sigh escapes you, and just before sleep can pull you under, you hear him murmur, “I love you,” against your skin.

And you melt, completely, into him and his love.

[sainz100]

moments from the Enchanté NYC pop-up ❤️

[kiivg]

.thers a blight happening or smth idk.

[herewegobebe]

SHINee : The Consummate Professionals & Total Dorks ✨🥰💞

[chelseypprimrose]

“I get that in the ring, you are a general, but on the streets, I’m a king.” 👑

IKTR 💅🏽 🤌🏼🤌🏼

[hitlikehammers]

forgive me if I jump✨

steddie post-s4 established relationship ♥️

~ for @pearynice 💕🎂

He shoots up at the sound of the flatline; the screaming follows him as he wakes. By the time Steve’s hand shoots out to the other side of the bed, his pulse is already in his throat—it doesn’t get any calmer for finding it empty, sheets cold under his clammy palm but at the same time: it doesn’t get any worse. ~~~ OR: nightmares. trauma. fear. and LOVE being bigger than all of it. 💕♥️💕

🎶 title and concept inspired by this context-less post from Noah Kahan

(which ultimately became this, for reference, which is not so much aligned in terms of inspiration 🫠)

He shoots up at the sound of the flatline; the screaming follows him as he wakes.

By the time Steve’s hand shoots out to the other side of the bed, his pulse is already in his throat—it doesn’t get any calmer for finding it empty, sheets cold under his clammy palm but at the same time: it doesn’t get any worse.

Because it’s gotten less common with time. But to call it uncommon would be wishful thinking. Dishonest.

And there are so many things Steve’s learned in this relationship—not least how nothing that came before it could ever compare, really; or maybe couldn’t really have been called a relationship at all, more than varyingly convenient ways not to be alone—but one of those many things Steve’s learned?

Honesty.

Just…painful, terrifying, vulnerable fucking truthful, ripped out from the center of his fucking chest honesty. Nothing less. And sure, it’s usually messy.

But every single time, it’s more than worth it.

So: finding the other side of the bed empty and cold isn’t as routine anymore, which is progress. But it isn’t unheard of.

So Steve doesn’t wait for his pulse to settle before he swings himself out of bed to go find the warmth that’s missing at his side.

He hangs onto the railing on his way down the stairs, still shaking off the daze of the particular horror that’d visited his dream tonight, and uses the dig of his nails around the grip to coax himself to waking, to shaking the stupor off a little quicker; to focusing on the mission he needs to complete for the sake of his own heart in more ways than one: to find his boyfriend, the better, far-more-precious half of every part of him, and try to fix what he can of what drove Eddie from their bed, and comfort what can’t be fixed straight-out.

But in the same turn: Steve needs to find his boyfriend so that his own heart can stall how it’s trying to tear out of his skin for the way it’s still slamming against his ribs, through his veins. Steve needs to find him, and soak in every form of proof that he’s there, he’s safe, he’s breathing, he’s not dea—

Yeah. Steve needs to find his boyfriend.

And whether or not said boyfriend has escaped to his now-typical refuge: Steve’ll be better served to meet him wherever he is, the more awake that he is when he gets there.

He stuffs bare feet into the first shoes he finds—they don’t fit quite right, meaning they’re Eddie’s, but they’re close enough. They’ll do.

He grabs his keys from the table, plus his jacket because it’s the middle of the fucking night—doesn’t even have to consciously check in the dark to know Eddie’s is next to his own, because of course Eddie didn’t get his fucking coat, so he grabs that too and takes the garage-side door over the front, slings Eddie’s coat over his shoulder, and it’s autopilot that gets him in his car, just to back out and swing it at an angle, front wheels on the grass so the headlights will help him out—maybe he’ll have to jump the battery from Eddie’s van in the morning but that’s so fucking secondary; almost doesn’t register at all.

It does register just a little that his parents would kill him, to know he’d driven on the grass but, like: that only registers a sense of twisted satisfaction, and whole-bodied resolve: fuck his parents, he’d do, and has done, things far more drastic for the sake of the man he loves.

He climbs out again in seconds, ties Eddie’s coat around his waist in hopes it’ll hold more securely on the way up, and makes damn sure the ladder he heaves from where it’s propped along the wall inside the garage sits even and stands locked on the surface of the driveway before he climbs to the edge of fucking annoying-ass slant of the roof where it hangs closest to the ground, so he can climb up and around to the peak, lift up to the top, and swing into the tiny little hideaway Eddie’s made of the overhang outside their bedroom.

Climbing up here to find Eddie has definitely given Steve a whole new set of reasons to hate this fucking house, and its goddamn torture maze of a layout; he cannot wait until they save enough for their own place. They both agreed not to touch Steve’s trust from his grandad if they could help it outside an emergency, not yet, but…Steve’s beginning to think they should revisit that decision. They were gonna save and stay until Erica was graduated and gone, the last of them safe and out, but.

Maybe somewhere new, somewhere far enough—

He gets close enough for Eddie to startle—fuck, he must be out of it, stuck in his head so far to have missed Steve’s anything-but-silent ascent, especially across the shingles—and oh.

Oh, his Eddie.

Steve doesn’t know if distance, more time, or anything in this world at all they haven’t tried as yet can help—but meeting Eddie’s frantic gaze, catching the way his chest’s still heaving but nearly silent, too quiet for Steve to have caught before; that split second where Eddie is raw and hurting, eyes sunken and lips gnawed bright: Steve’ll plan later.

For now he closes the distance as quickly as Eddie does in kind, once he unfreezes, blinks back to the moment, what’s real: arms reaching, needing while Steve pulls him close and covers every trembling inch of Eddie he can reach with touch, with warmth, stroking his hair, breathing deep and even, murmuring low as he presses Eddie tight to his chest because he’s learned that Eddie’s nightmares come in a lot of varieties, but the ones that drive him up here? Away from their bed?

They’re the ones where he loses Steve, one way or another, and staying next to Steve feels unreal, still, for the way they claw and take gold that hard—they’re working on that, though.

But while it’s never been said out loud: in the wake of living that loss, even if only in his mind, Eddie gravitates toward proof of life, tangible ways to drive out the lies his sleeping mind concocts; it unlocks the tension in him with somewhere safe to fall apart—Steve’s arms.

Somewhere safe to unravel into: the rise-and-fall of Steve’s chest.

“Another one?” Steve eventually mouths at the shell of the ear he’s curled down to press lips along, gentle, rhythmic: real.

Eddie nods, as if he needs to, and presses tighter into Steve’s chest in the way that makes Steve aware keenly of his own pulse, the pressure on his lungs: by rights it shouldn’t be so steadying, so comforting, in the way that it is.

But it is, and he feels Eddie loosen, melt into him, and take what feels like a genuine breath in for the first time in far too long, straight between Steve’s collarbones before he stills.

Usually that’s how it goes. He stills, and he soaks in all the little proof points of Steve’s living, working, real body there against him, until he can let go of whatever haunted his dreams.

Or else: let go enough.

But then he’s tensing, and Steve frowns, already concerned, already preparing to catch and to soothe as Eddie tips his head up and pins red-rimmed eyes so wide on Steve, his cheeks the slightest bit shiny for tears Steve’s shirt must by soaked in, but he hadn’t noticed. That was the least important thing to pay attention to.

“You too?” Eddie asks, hoarse and devastated and Steve doesn’t get it at first, just then Eddie’s hand replaces his cheek on Steve’s chest, the pressure making a point of what’s racing underneath still, giving him away and—

Oh. Well.

Yeah.

This isn’t about Steve though, so he just strokes the pale-pink line at the corner of Eddie’s lips—he doesn’t mean to go all the way down to cup a hand around the side of his neck.

He often forgets that sometimes muscle memory doesn’t just leave when it’s not necessarily needed anymore—sometimes it lingers.

Sometimes it makes a hand on his boyfriend’s neck in affection land so that fingertips can count his pulse, because there was a time, there was a time and it—

“The hospital,” Eddie gasps, knows that’s one of the worst—knows wherever it starts it always ends with when Eleven told them the only way to get Henry’s hold out of Eddie for good, make sure that Eddie didn’t go down with the rest of it, was to let him crash then bring him back—and it’d killed Steve, it’d broken him in ways that weren’t just still tender, but that still hadn’t fully closed and maybe never would but Eddie knows that—

Which is how they end up sitting up, leaning back, Eddie’s hands now framing Steve’s face and drawing in for a slow, soft, but incalculably deepkiss that does help calm Steve’s heart: it’s not aimed to go anywhere, and lead to anything. It’s pure affection and care, and it doesn’t soften his pulse, or even slow it really, but it’s not…it’s more.

Like that love and care are flowing in when the valves open and working to convince him down to his cells that the things he fears—and did fear, in person, lived through and fell apart for—aren’t true, here. Didn’t end in the way that would have killed him, too.

“Fuck, Stevie, and I wasn’t there, I’m sorry,” and Steve’s drawn upward in the process of being pulled to lie on top of Eddie, roles reversing as he gets wrapped tight in Eddie’s arms and tucked beneath his chin where Steve’s pretty sure it’s on purpose that he’s crushed against to that wild pulse at its berth, and yeah.

Yeah, Steve breathes a little easier for it. Just…knowing this way. He always does, after that specific memory fuels his nightmares.

He thinks it says a great deal, that neither of them has to speak the need for this kind of comfort, this kind of reassurance. Steve knows it’s sings in his own veins like he’s never felt before, with anyone else, to not only be seen, but to be known for the whole of it. The whole of him.

He lets himself have a few more seconds, more than a few more heartbeats under his ear because Eddie’s still reeling for whatever drove him up here—but Steve lets the sounds of Eddie’s lungs filling up ground him before he wraps his arms around Eddie’s middle now and sits up, pulls Eddie with him.

“Don’t ever be sorry,” Steve kisses the crest of his cheekbone before he asks, so careful, so gentle, and only because the more he knows the better he can help, they’ve learned this.

But the honesty—as he knows just as well by now—sometimes has to hurt in the process.

“Which one drove you up here?”

Eddie shakes his head—not ready yet, and that’s fine, that’s so okay—and he moves to lean, to burrow in Steve’s neck and that’s okay, too, but his eyes catch on the dim headlight-glow against the tarp over the pool and Steve doesn’t even have to be this close to catch the flinch that follows so he asks soft, and only as he guides Eddie into his chest at the same time:

“The car?”

There’ve been more than a couple rough nights caused by contortions involving Steve’s car; Steve can’t know for sure which got center stage tonight, or if it was a new horror show altogether: just knows his chest burns for how Eddie trembles against him—still.

Eddie nods against his neck, though, doesn’t try to fight or deny at all and Steve leans to press his lips to the top of his head when Eddie speaks only—unwaveringly—against the place where Steve pulse beats at the line of his throat:

“Leaving.”

And Steve knows how he means it, and if anything could kill him more than knowing there’s space in Eddie’s head for the absurdity of such a thing—that Steve ever could, ever would even think about leaving him, what they have, what they are working together so hard to make for keeps in a forever kind of way—

The only thing that might have the capacity to kill him more is how that space in Eddie’s head doesn’t fade as quick as a dream, and follows him here. To this.

“But then, you were gone but then there was a,” Eddie hiccups a little—Steve can’t feel if there are tears but it doesn’t matter; there’s clearly heartbreak and that’s bad enough; “an accident, a bad accident, you…”

“Are right here, babe,” Steve takes hold of him and leans back like Eddie did before for him, tucks Eddie tighter up against his own heartbeat which is still heavy but calmer, now, so he whispers fierce as he buries his face in Eddie’s hair:

“I’m right here.”

And Steve holds him there; only moves to pull his unzipped coat up and around them both, to make a cocoon of what it means to live and breathe and feel this much, still, after being been hurt enough to easily have snuffed it all to ash.

It’s Eddie’s turn to need that proof of life: undeniable.

“We didn’t even fight,” Eddie mouths more than anything to Steve’s skin where his chin’s dragged down the collar of his shirt; “you just,” his voice breaks again, and Steve’s arms tighten further by default; “couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t handle…”

He breathes shaky, and shakes his head kinda nonsensically against Steve’s chest, only slightly, never sacrificing where his cheek lies and his ear holds to hear, to listen, and Steve cradles the back of Eddie’s head closer to him, breathes steady and slow as best he can just to try and give Eddie somewhere to grasp at, a foothold to stand on. Anything.

Everything.

“I’m so scared, Steve,” Eddie finally halfway-sobs, so lost and desperate, and clinging so hard onto Steve that it’s tight in Steve’s throat, in Steve’s chest, too. “Yeah, it’s gotten better, but I’m still so fucking scared.”

And Steve gets it. Steve understands. Steve’s not immune to it himself in the slightest.

He still hates it exponentially more for how it hurts Eddie.

“It’s bad enough that that, that place still haunts me, haunts us both when its fucking burned to dust, when there’s nothing, we couldn’t even getthere, fuck, fuck, for all intents it doesn’t even existanymore,” and Eddie sounds bitter for it, which Steve understands well enough; he hates that they gave so much, and ultimately won the war, but that the war didn’t end with the victory. That it claws at them like this. That it hurts Eddie so much, for how soft and big his heart truly is—Steve would have him no other way.

But Steve would give anything to take that hurt from under those ribs and into himself, just to spare him.

“Jesus,” Eddie’s inhale catches, and he shakes more than he was—Steve pulls the coat around them closer, though he’s not sure he actually can, but fuck if he’s not gonna try, just in case any part of it’s something he can help fight back.

“But then I have to dream, still, of losing you to the simplest bullshit, these, these normal fucking tragedies anyway, after everything we survived,” Eddie’s voice pitches louder, but stretches thin to breaking; “or straight up losing you because of mybullshit—”

And that, that’s also not new, so neither of them can possibly claim it’s a surprise how Steve hauls Eddie up and stops the words, the simple suggestion with the press of his mouth because: no.

Steve will spend the rest of his life proving it—he’s not immune himself, knows he needs it too, sometimes—but if kissing the nonsense quiet, smothering the sheer pain that the very thought lances through him, twists in his ribs with how much Steve feels the very opposite?

So fucking be it.

“I’m afraid that there’s still stuff you don’t know, even now, not yet,” Eddie whispers between them finally, a little wet on the last syllable in a way that wrings Steve’s heart, and once upon a time Steve would have said that in itself was just so very not-Eddie.

But Steve knows better, now. Knows Eddie better, now, and knows this part of him that’s rarely been trusted to the world at all and while Steve hates with everything in him that it has to exist at all, he’s so goddamn grateful, fucking honored to be trusted; to have proven himself good enough to merit it: to hold the privilege in the palm of his hands to try and keep it safe, and make it better where he can, always.

His Eddie: through and through.

“And then when you find out you’ll know, you’ll realize it was all a fucking waste, on me—“

And that: that’s more nonsense. So Steve’s mouth knows automatically where to go.

Because Steve’s in this forever. Steve’s in this for always. He’s thought himself a romantic from the first suggestion of the idea and yet he had no goddamn clue until he bumped shoulders with a pretty fucking nerd in a hellscape and felt butterflies; until he hauled a body everyone else screamed at him to leave, they couldn’t risk slowing down but they couldn’t understand what Steve already knew:

If the body weren’t a person, living and breathing and already winding tight through Steve’s heart, Steve would be dead, too. He knew that without a fucking doubt, even then.

And so now it’s only grown—the feeling and the certainty and the impossibility of ever letting go—and Steve’s learned well these past months how to say that, maybe best, in the way he kisses deeper than he used to know how, to feel it deeper than he knew anyone could—more likely than not only possible, really, because it’s Eddie.

And what he has with Eddie is something he never knew to think of seeing in the world at all, let alone something he’d even get to touch for himself—and then, to keep?

Steve Harrington’s not going fucking anywhere, not for anything.

He keeps his lips locked to Eddie’s until just past the point where they’re breathless and it could be terrifying—but Eddie chases it even as Steve eases them away, panting and gripping at each other as their chests knock, eyes blown in the dark to see everything.

And so he sees Eddie trembling—which yeah, he has been since Steve found him, Steve’s felt in it holding the man in his arms, and they’re both still levelling for the sake of needing air—but it’s not just the kiss. It’s not just a tightness Steve put there for pushing the way their tongues were trying to coax each other’s soul out whole.

So Steve leans to suck at the visible beat under Eddie’s jaw for a second before he tucks Eddie back in against him and lets him blanket across Steve’s chest, stretches so he can better nestle the base of Steve’s throat.

“Never,” Steve speaks it low, not least so that Eddie feels it rumble where he rests his head, like it could shake straight into that rapid fire brain of his; “I would never. I could never,” he hums; Eddie’s breath catches just short of a whine:

“It’s not possible.”

Doesn’t matter how long they’ve been this, together: Steve cannot imagine his life without Eddie. It’s not even just that he doesn’t want to; it’s that he can’t remember why it would be worth it, now that he knows what his life was built for: this.

Them.

Finally, after beat-after-beat-after-beat of just their gasping coming down, his breath so so fast, and voice so so fragile, Eddie tries to be, what’s the word Rob’s always throwing at him?

Contrary.

(He thinks that’s it.)

“But you—”

This time Steve doesn’t still Eddie’s lips with his own, not for lack of wanting, but definitely for the recognition that there are things that need saying, much as Steve used to chafe at too many words in a row: he’s learned that too, with Eddie. And he’s so fucking grateful for it; the life they’ve had to live, as much as the life they’re lucky enough to live now—all of it kinda needs the words.

“I’m not some defenseless maiden in one of your campaigns,” Steve tells him in the simplest, surest terms he knows; “I know you, you let me know you,” and he kisses the bow of Eddie’s lips at the top before he noses against the line of his jaw:

“And whatever bits and pieces that maybe haven’t seen the light yet,” he kisses the point of that jaw and goes further, mirrors Eddie again to kiss a ring around the blood beating still so fucking fast at his neck:

“I’m so ready to know them, and hold them close when they’re the scared parts, and square up when they’re the demons and fight them with you, and just,” and Steve finally just kisses that beating heart, when it pounds into the purse of his waiting lips like a gift all its own before he straightens enough to meet Eddie’s eyes:

“I signed on for all of you,” Steve brushes Eddie’s hair behind one ear, delicate and adoring as he’s flooded with how true the words are in his own chest: “because all of you, is what I fell for.”

“You can’t fall for what you don’t know is there—“ Eddie tries to protest, though it’s weak.

The fact that it’s there at all, though, isn’t something Steve was ever going to allow to stand.

“When did you know you loved D&D?”

Eddie blinks; frowns.

“What?”

Steve tilts his head, raises a brow: waits.

Eddie lets out a slow breath and answers, kinda hesitant—uncomprehending, but honest:

“First time I read more than a page of The Player’s Handbook at a flea market.”

Steve can picture it, the innocence; the wonder—how little has really changed, not at the heart of him.

“So you didn’t know everything yet, right?” Steve presses on. “But you still knew?”

And it’s in the inflection, the way he says that last word that Eddie gets it—it’s what Steve has wanted to get picked up and seen—and Eddie tries to sigh, to shake his head:

“Steve—“

“And you still feel the same, maybe more, now?”

“Steve, that’s just a fucking game. You, you’re,” and Steve would like to dwell on Eddie calling it just a game, not least to preen a little that it’s done to elevate his own significance in Eddie’s affections, but it’s not the time, and the tone of Eddie’s voice is too fucking bleak:

“I’m so fucked up, Stevie,” and he sounds just…so forlorn, so resigned; “I’m still so fucked up,” and there Eddie shifts, moves just enough to reach Steve’s face, to stroke his cheek like he’s precious beyond measure, his eyes glowing in the wan light that the car’s still giving, glinting with a welling up of tears that pull at the linings of vital things inside Steve’s chest.

“You’re everything there is, Steve. You’re what makes breathing still feel worthwhile, after everything,” and it’s hard, because seeing Eddie this way is killing Steve by a thousand fucking strikes but then, he can’t complain for being loved like this, would never; not least when he feels the exact same to the fucking letter.

“I’m damaged fucking goods, just a goddamn losing bet,” Eddie’s shaking his head and Steve can’t pretend he’s never felt the same but he likewise can’t pretend he’ll stand for Eddie seeing himself in a way that just so…

Wrong.

So he darts a hand and laces his grasp with Eddie’s in that way that’s become innate as he leads Eddie palm to his own chest and presses hard, to the point of pain, and it feels so fucking right as he near-hisses, pledges like a vow:

“You’re my heart.”

Eddie stills, barely seems to blink, stares at their joined hands. Presses close to feel, even harder.

Only more right.

“Simple as that, man,” Steve’s words land like a shrug, a given. “You’re kinda…the beat that keeps me breathing.”

Steve doesn’t know if that’s corny, or weird to say: but he doesn’t really fucking care, because it’s the unvarnished truth and he stands by it. And he thinks he’s more than qualified to say it and mean it, have it mean something real, because, like—

“And I mean, you know what it’s like, at least a little,” Steve lifts Eddie’s hand, gets a tiny whimper for moving it but makes up for it by kissing his knuckles; he knows that Eddie knows what it feels like, with his parents, with this fucking town; what Steve’s about to say isn’t wholly lost on Eddie, just a different…flavor:

“But I’ve had that heart ripped out and stepped on,” Steve takes a breath—remembering doesn’t hurt like it used to, especially not with Eddie in his arms, but that’s doesn’t mean the sting’s all gone: “spat on for what I tried to give along with it.”

And this time Eddie’s the one whose hand twitches: fierce, held tight, almost protective.

It’s a reaction Steve’s never been on the receiving end of before, not like this. As if he’s worth it, and unquestionably so. He’s definitely gotten used to it, a little at least, but is still always a little surprised how warm it lands, spreading through him molten like gold.

“Hurt like fucking hell, y’know, and I think that was when I stopped believing I’d ever find someone who could put up with me,” Steve admits, not as if he’s tried at all to hide it, but more in that he doesn’t think he’s said it quite so plain, right out loud; “like, who’d want me even if you erased all the Upside Down fuckery,” and the molten feeling gets a little extra kick for the sound that escapes Eddie at that, close-on to a growl.

“But then the fuckery grew, and then there were Russians and it was like I was made up more of just how it fucked my head up, wrapped in a bunch of gnarly scar tissue, more that than anything else, and my love was still too much, so I mostly tried to hide it,” he lands on, and somewhere while he was speaking Eddie’s curled down to replace his hand with his head over Steve’s chest again, still protective. More so, maybe.

“So I was scared, too,” Steve admits, not ashamed now but actually kinda proud, maybe a little, because here he is, actually putting it in words:

“I was scared at the beginning. With you.”

Eddie finally looks up, then, meets Steve’s eyes with lips parted, hanging on each word but visibly working through a struggle to make it all sink in, add up the way Steve means it to.

That’s okay. Sometimes it is hard; doesn’t mean it’s bad, or wrong, or anything less than the best thing he knows; the only life he even wants, anymore.

“I hid,” Steve nods, swallows a little rough; “in my own way, I hid, too.” From embracing how his eye was caught more indiscriminately than most; from accepting that his heart was always going to swell quick and ready first, and it wasn’t a fucking crime, it just more often than not was gonna hurt; that Eddie Munson had been a puzzle he couldn’t understand at the peripherals of his world for a while already before they were thrust into the apocalypse.

That’d all probably been a good bulk of the reason for his little nugget speech in the RV, which still gives Eddie a good laugh now and again, so no matter how mortifying, he can’t even fully regret what the hiding made him do.

Until—

“But then we almost lost you, we did for those horrible handfuls of seconds, worst of my whole fucking life, when all I could see out of nowhere was the future, and it was made of you, and it was the piece of me getting spat on except it felt like allof me,” and it had, the experience never leaving Steve, not really, that hollow fire that’d destroyed him unrelenting; “all of me just getting ground into dust because I’d lost you before I could ever have you, and all I knew was that you were all that mattered and you were gone, so what even was the fucking point—“

Steve runs out of breath, and Eddie sits up, but Steve’s takes the in to flip their hands caught between them, takes Eddie’s from where his own pulse has picked up for he memories, and the feeling and pressed his palm to Eddie’s chest: the point.

He didn’t expect to need proof of the whole fucking point as badly as he does.

“Then you were back,” Steve’s sighs out relief and gratitude the same way every single time, Eddie’s heartbeat a balm as much as a fuel, a sacred sort of fire in his veins to keep going because the words are maybe never going to be easy, never going to come natural like they do for Eddie but: for Eddie, Steve will do just about anything.

With that as the starting point: this is child’s play.

“Then you were breathing again and I knew I couldn’t let being afraid be enough. It could live here, maybe will forever,” he brings his other hand back to his chest, where the terror simmers, and Eddie sees the opportunity to touch again and slides his fingers in tight to hold there, too; Steve can’t help but smile, and relish the little extra beat that the feeling nudges through his veins.

“It could live here forever,” Steve squeezes Eddie’s hand against his ribs; “ but never at the cost of you.” Then he pulls, presses his other hand in Eddie’s on top and gathers everything to the core of him as he pledges, vows exactly that deep:

“Never more important, here, than you.”

And Eddie’s breath catches, and he tips forward into Steve’s neck again—and Steve slips one hand free to hold him, to protect him from all sides, too.

And to hold him together, in case the rest of what Steve needs to say, needs him to hear, shakes through him too strong.

“You were like,” Steve licks his lips, shakes his head, holds Eddie a little closer, this time maybe more for his own sake, as he breathes out just against Eddie’s ear:

“I think maybe we both, in our own ways, are scared fucking shitless,” he huffs, because it’s not that simple but it’s exactly that simple; “and on the surface even, we deserve to be ‘til the day we die, if that’s what it shakes out as,” and Steve does believe that, Steve’s come to terms with it and yeah, he’s still working on not judging it so harsh but he is working on it. Robin pushes him.

Eddie…inspires him.

“I hope it doesn’t,” Steve admits softly, because part of him is scared of being a little scared forever; “but it’d be more than understandable. More than justified.”

So yeah, part of him is a little scared—but more of him?

More of him—

“But I think we’re more scared, and so much deeper with it,” Steve threads his fingers through Eddie’s curls, buries his face a little in the mess of them to breathe him in:

“And in the deeper fear, that deeper place, I think it means that we,” he swallows, and is grateful that Eddie is held tight where he is just now, so that the words Steve says when words aren’t his strongest suit can be backed up by how fucking hard his heart’s beating again, because he feels this, he fucking means this:

“That we feel something so fucking big, this massive beautiful thing that could tear us apart as quick as it lifts us up and we want both, or either, or all, whatever it gives because we just,” Steve sucks in a breath, because honesty, honesty; “we need it, we—”

And Steve stops on a dime when he feels Eddie’s mouth press to the center of his chest even through their clothes, heady and potent; feels his lips move as he speaks, hoarse but not trembling, scratchy but sure:

“Loving is terrifying,” he says, and not at all like it’s a regret, more heavy like it’s a privilege with real goddamn weight as he slowly works his lips up Steve’s throat and the leans back just enough, onlyenough to meet his eyes:

“But I’ve never felt more alive than I do for every fucking bit of it, with you, because it’s you,” Eddie grabs the hand of Steve’s he’s not still holding square-on and laces their fingers, unshakable.

“Living at all hasn’t ever felt more right.”

And there’s something in those words, or maybe the way they’re said, that shakes Steve to his bones, tightens his hold on Eddie to the point of a blissful sort of pain.

“I jump when you grab your keys, when I hear them rattle,” Eddie whispers like a secret, like he’s not proud of what he’s saying but he can say it, because it’s Steve. “Sometimes even when you’re next to me, driving us both home, because home is the same for us both and most times I can latch on to that, and remind my body that we’re just going home,” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes almost glow as he locks them onto Steve’s even more unbreakable, somehow:

“That you are my home.”

Steve’s heartbeat trips again for that, overfull, and Eddie’s hand clenches in his shirt so tight, still protecting.

“But sometimes,” Eddie closes his eyes, clenches his jaw before spilling out, voice suddenly so very small:

“Sometimes I’m scared you’re just dropping me off, and stopping in while you pack.”

And god, he…that’s what he…

“That’s why you were so,” and Steve doesn’t have to say on top of everything, he doesn’t have to say building on the obvious—he doesn’t have to.

“I went to the car.”

Eddie swallows hard; nods like it’s a battle. Yet he does it.

Steve’s so proud of this man. Steve’s honestly proud of the both them.

“Yeah,” Eddie grinds out, sandpapery and a little painful even just to hear but now it’s there, now they know.

And Steve can gather him close, press him in slow and arrange just so atop him as he lays back down, remembers he brought Eddie’s coat too as the real dead of night starts to settle in, so he shimmies it off his waist and doesn’t bother convincing Eddie’s arms to give up where they’re wrapped around Steve, he just tucks it in as a blanket around them over where his own jacket’s pulled as tight as it can go to keep them both, and then he sighs, exhausted but content and maybe they’ll climb down the ladder Steve had made sure was waiting; maybe they’ll swing straight into his room, the same as Steve’s sure Eddie made his way out in the first place. Maybe they’ll wake up to the sunrise right here, just like this.

Steve’s happy regardless of whichever he gets, because all of it happens together.

“Just for the lights, babe,” he breathes into Eddie’s curls, kisses them firm and holds until the sentiment, the single statement swells to keep the whole of what Steve means for the keys, the car, the idea that he’d ever go anywhere without Eddie that he’s not coming home from, and that his home is Eddie, too: always.

Always.

“Only the lights.”

♥️♥️♥️

✨also on ao3

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here and here and here

[missmaemikaelson]

MY Top Ten Hottest Video Game Men:

1. Jason Todd (Arkham Knight)

2. Leon Kennedy (All versions)

3. Carlos Olivera (RE3)

4. Sebastian Sallow (Hogwarts Legacy)

5. Ghost (COD)

6. Luis Serra (RE4)

7. Jason Duval (GTA VI)

8. Trevor Philips (GTA V)

9. Joel Miller (TLOU)

10. Booker Duwitt (BioShock Infinite)

[tohruies]

“coco, do you mind if i hold your hand for a while?”

“h-huh?! um, yes!”

“oh… alright then, forgive me for being so forward.”

“wait, sorry, i mean— no, of course, i don’t!! um! sorry, i don’t mind! i don’t mind if we held hands at all…”

“… you’re, um, endearingly reactive.”

— THANK YOU SO MUCH NICK FREN!!! 🥺💖 for bringing yaoco ‘first date’ to life :’3 in your most beautiful cutieful art style :’’3 @scarameownya nick is so awesome to work with; he is exceptionally talented and communicative!! his eye for details is impeccable and he always strives to tell a story through his art which is so very lovely 🥺 you should absolutely consider commissioning him whenever he has open slots hehe YAY!!!!

[h3lian]

I don't know if you take requests from other fandoms, but maybe Dante from DMC5? Sibling franchise to RE lol

Peek at a wip m doing for warm up! I adore dmc so any requests for it are also welcome 🙏💕

[littlewitchvee]

soft and curvy, come have a taste🎀

slowly learning to be okay with the curves and marks on my body

[julianavalds]

DEREK LUH & LONDON THOR as JORDAN LI

GEN V (2023 - ) 1.06 | "Jumanji"

[concretejunglefm]

enchanted Noah?🤭

I can't get this man oit of my hand, we know so little about him...

But I can't get the morning scene out of my head. What if there's another morning spent together in Noah's bed, full of stolen glances, tracing fingers on each other's skin, whispers of sweet nothings and teasing kisses, that slowly turn into slow lazy morning sex

OH BB!!! THIS MAN 🫠 it's always soft sweet mornings for him, even sweeter when you steal him away to your place, because no one knows anything about you and he even finds your little apartment cute 🥰

CW: soft lazy morning sex, a little teasing food play, fluff with Noah being an absolute sweetheart and making you melt.

Maroon 5’s Never Gonna Leave This Bed comes to mind, because he’s not letting you go. The moment you even attempt to roll out and crawl from beneath the covers, his arms are wrapping around you, dragging you back against his chest as he softly mumbles something about needing more sleep—it’s long into the a.m. by now—and presses soft kisses anywhere he can reach.

Truthfully, he loves these moments: when he gets to steal time with you. No obligations, no emails or phone calls, which have interrupted many a morning with you both, but not this morning. This morning, it’s just the two of you.

You promise to bring him breakfast in bed if he lets you go. It takes a little extra bargaining, a few more kisses, before he actually lets you slip free.

“Did all that catering give you culinary skills?” he teases.

You glance back at him, a flicker of a teasing smile on your lips. “Maybe,” you shoot back, and then you’re gone. Wearing his shirt, which barely covers past your ass, you slip out of the bedroom and wander down the hall of your apartment until you reach the kitchen. It’s small, but quaint—and all yours.

Strawberries, fresh cream, and pancakes. You have less in stock than you anticipated, but enough to make something to share. Grabbing two mini cartons of orange juice, you run back to the bedroom to surprise him with your culinary delight.

“I thought we said no phones,” you scold him, setting the plate down on the nightstand as you catch him sitting up against the pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone.

“Unfortunately, I don’t turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight.”

“And I do?” you gasp, reaching for the plate and scooping up some of the cream, smearing it onto the tip of his nose in retaliation. A hum of laughter rumbles in your throat as you lick your finger clean.

“Never,” he beams, hands sliding to your hips, gripping the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and dragging you closer, back towards the bed.

You push the covers aside and climb on top of him, straddling his lap. Reaching over, you begin cutting a piece of the pancakes with the side of your fork. “Well, lucky for you, Cinderella here can cook too,” you tease, bringing a forkful of pancake, strawberry, and cream to his lips, watching him closely as he happily accepts it, soft satisfied moans escaping him.

“Delicious,” he mumbles, and you lean in, stealing a kiss—wiping away the smudge of cream coating his lips in the process.

“The strawberries are especially sweet.” You reach over, setting the fork down, this time using your fingers to pick up a piece. Lifting it high, you feed it to Noah, his eyes eagerly fixed on you as his mouth closes around your fingers, his tongue swiping at the remaining juice.

This time, he can’t resist another kiss, pulling you in, one hand cradling the nape of your neck as his mouth meets yours. It’s soft, sweet, and sets off an eruption of butterflies in your stomach.

You get to wake up to this—to him—every single morning so far. He’s refused to leave, your side, your bed, you. It’s been beyond perfect, the two of you creating a bubble you never want to escape from.

“My turn,” he declares proudly, reaching for a piece of strawberry and scooping up some cream in the process, but instead of offering it to you right away, he trails it down his bare tatted chest, letting it rest just above his navel.

Shuffling back, you happily dip down, leaving a trail of kisses as you follow the path he created. When you reach the strawberry, your tongue rolls over the spot, slow and deliberate, and you hear his breath hitch beneath you with every teasing movement.

You let out a squeal the moment his arms wrap around you, pulling you down against him as he rolls you both over. His head dips to capture your mouth in a kiss, sharing the sweet mixture still lingering on your tongue. It’s slow and sensual, his mouth soft against yours, each of you savoring the moment, just like you have ever since you locked yourselves away together in your little apartment.

“I love being here with you,” he whispers, his mouth soft against your skin as he trails light kisses down your throat, tucking into the crook of your neck. His hands edge beneath the shirt—his shirt—you’re wearing, large palms brushing against the soft skin of your back. The heat of him makes you tremble. He’s always had that effect on you, from the very first moment you met—his touch subtle enough to set you on edge and set your body ablaze, all at once.

“Would you stay here forever?” you ask. It’s cliché, but he indulges you.

He nods, whispering a soft "In a heartbeat" against your pulse before pressing a kiss there, feeling the way it thrums beneath your skin.

You can’t think of anything more idyllic than hiding away in your apartment together, shutting out the world—a world so incessant in its curiosity about him: where he is, who he’s with. Enough time should’ve passed for the “mystery woman” to be forgotten—she was, to you, and yet somehow, the rumors pull him into new assumptions, linking him to another artist, with whispers of secret proposals and declarations of an engagement.

None of it’s true—except maybe his desperate attempts to get you to come with him to every show, and his constant pleading for a trip to Paris.

“You’re still on that?” you tease, just as he lifts his head and brushes his teeth lightly against your chin in a playful bite.

“It’s romantic,” he insists. And it is—beyond romantic. Almost too romantic for two people who’ve only just met, who are still in the early stages of something so new, something not yet defined, but Noah is falling, hard, harder than he ever has, and the soft look in his eyes when he finally pulls back to gaze down at you tells you everything.

“You’re crazy,” you whisper, shaking your head as your fingers rake gently through his hair.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “About you,” no cheek, no cockiness, just pure adoration, like no truer words have ever been spoken.

“What would we even do out there?” you ask.

As usual, that question transforms him into his walking tour guide self, listing off everywhere you could go—his voice low and easy—while his mouth charts its own path along your jawline and neck, leaving soft, lingering marks behind.

“There’s a hotel that overlooks the Louvre,” he murmurs, “and at night, it shimmers so beautifully.” His body presses closer against yours, and your head grows cloudy at the thought. He talks about the view, about the city, about the hotel room and all the possibilities it holds for you both.

Breakfast on the balcony. Dinner while watching the Louvre light up at night. All of his sweet words slowly dissolving into soft filth as he whispers them against your skin. “And I can watch the city lights reflect in your eyes as I fuck you over the balcony.”

You think a soft ‘yes’ slips from your lips between quiet moans and the frantic effort to shed the only article of clothing between you—his shirt, and when he sinks into you, it’s full and deep, a feeling that spreads through every inch of your body, like he’s sinking home, as though this is exactly how you belong—together, completely entwined.

Every morning has followed the same pattern on the days you refuse to leave the bed, falling into slow, lazy morning sex. The kind that feels like the perfect start to the day simply because it begins with him inside you.

It’s the slow drag of him between your walls that you love—the way he stretches you, the way pleasure ripples through every inch of your body, the way he stays pressed close, like all he wants is to remain right here, wrapped around you.

Your mouths move together in slow, teasing kisses. A flick of your tongues, playful at first, until he grows greedy and presses his tongue into your mouth, seeking out the taste of you. There’s a faint trace of strawberries and cream on your tongue—just enough sweetness to deepen the kiss, to make him crave more.

Your hands roam his body—his biceps, his back, his hair. You comb your fingers through the strands and tug gently, arching your hips to meet the slow, deliberate rhythm of his own.

He draws out the pleasure for you both. You feel the way he twitches and pulses inside you, the tremble in his stomach as he leans into you, holding steady, refusing to give in too soon. Even when he does, he doesn’t stop. Half-hard and sensitive, he keeps moving—thrusting into you with slow, determined strokes until you feel him hardening again, like your body is the answer to everything for him.

There’s no clear edge where he ends and you begin. Your bodies feel made for one another—perfectly in sync—and he whispers as much against your skin, each word soft and reverent as he kisses along your body.

“It’s like you were made for me.” It’s a quiet murmur, but it makes your stomach ripple with butterflies, a slow build of pleasure trailing behind it, because it feels exactly like that. Like you were made for each other—soul to soul, body to body.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers, and the words have an instant, heated effect. You clench around him, your body responding without thought.

“All yours,” you echo, breathless, affirming what you both already know. You are his—in a way you’ve never belonged to anyone before.

“Just like I’m all yours.”

That’s what sends you over the edge. The words, the truth of them, hit with unexpected force—your climax erupting slowly but deeply, spreading heat through every nerve. You tremble beneath him as he cradles you close, moans spilling into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

He’s all yours. He belongs to you—just as you belong to him. There’s never been any doubt. From the moment you met, he made it abundantly clear: there’s no one else for him, only you.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens  @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood @kenjipepsi1 @birdie-in-arcadia @blackcherrywhiskey @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconic-taurus @flowery-mess @jesuisunchaton @bloody-spades @bluestdai @saythatuwill

[devondespresso]

This Comfort

T | 4.5k words | ao3 | Stobissy (Platonic stobin x Chrissy) | canon divergent season 4 rewrite, pre-relationship, hurt/comfort, happy ending, weird-as-shit stobin | cws: referenced eating disorder, implied depression, implied suicidal ideation, referenced drugs

happy holidays @stellarspecter !!! hows it feel to be THE reason i like this rarepair so much that i had to hold myself back from trying to do a whole chrissy lives s4 rewrite? I tried to be subtle but i also just HAD to reread your stuff while brainstorming this, hope you like it!!! 💕💕💕

<< betaed by @kikidoesfanfic im so sorry idk how i forgot to credit your help but god you helped so much thank you dhmxhmxngdng

also dividers by @/saradika-graphics >>

Chrissy kind of wants to cry. 

Her body always seems to want to do that at the first hint of peace she can find. In a bathroom stall, at the rotting picnic table behind the school, and now in the basement at Nancy Wheeler’s house, surrounded by still, sleeping bodies. She can’t help but find their presence soothing, even if their warmth doesn’t reach the cold vinyl of her sleeping bag, even if the gentle rhythm of their breathing can’t be heard over the sound of Olivia Newton-John’s voice clogging her ears.

Would the song even work if she got sick of hearing it so much? Can any song keep her safe if she keeps associating music with life-or-death?

Chrissy’s supposed to be sleeping, or supposed to be trying, at least. But she can’t hear the huffs, can’t feel any warmth, can’t even smell over the stench of highschool boy’s body spray— so Chrissy doesn’t try to sleep, even if she has a comparatively easy song to fall asleep to. She just watches, still as if she were out like they are, watching those tiny movements in the bodies around her.

Chests rise and fall slowly, languid unlike any other moment from the day. Some people twitch or stir—just barely—as their bodies dream, hopefully of something far removed from everything that’s happening now. It’s only half the room in her line of sight, but something about watching even just a part of the life around her makes it easier to feel the rest of it there.

It’s nice. Really nice, compared to the past twenty-four hours. And for some twisted reason, that makes tears prick at Chrissy’s eyes.

Her song starts again, a rhythmic melody that had made her sway in her seat the first dozen times she listened to it today. A melody that somehow—even after literal hours of hearing it over and over and over and over and over—still takes her to a time unblemished enough to keep her from letting Vecna end it all.

The beginning instruments all cut off so Olivia can start singing, new instruments coming in to replace them, but they’re not the same. Chrissy swallows, but a tear still falls, tickling her skin down towards her ear before it stops, falling and soaking into the flattened pillow that smells like the same musty body spray as the rest of this cruddy basement.

“Chrissy,” a voice whispers from behind her, said like it isn’t the first time they’ve called, barely audible over her music. Chrissy pushes up slightly, just enough to look behind her, to find Steve sitting up and keeping watch on the couch, leaning towards Chrissy as much as he can with Robin sleeping on his lap. His eyes stay focused on her through the dark, looking maybe for rolled back eyes or waiting for her to start muttering in tongues, but Chrissy only looks back and waits.

“You okay?” he whispers through the dark, again just barely loud enough. Chrissy nods to him, and turns down her music a notch or two.

Steve keeps looking like she never responded. Maybe—hopefully—because it's too dark to see and not because he expects a different answer with enough waiting. Chrissy swallows a lump in her throat, and answers again.

“I'm okay.”

Steve hears her—he has to—but he keeps looking at her that same way. Attentive, and a little on edge.

Chrissy slides one side of her headphones off her ear so she can hear her own whispers.

“I’m fine, I promise.” She says, loud enough that he has to hear her—or believe her—yet still low enough to mask the way her throat tightens around the words.

Steve hums, a soft thing that blends with the sounds of the room, but Chrissy can make it out.

“Come up here.” He whispers, nodding over to the small sliver of couch left next to him, just big enough to fit her. Or, big enough if she were like Robin and could just half-lay on pretty people without feeling electricity seize her body from head to toe. Chrissy opens her mouth to politely decline and save both of them the awkwardness, but Steve picks that moment to look away—look down to Robin—and lift her ever so slightly, ever so gently, to scoot them over and make the space next to him more comfortable.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Chrissy whispers but finds herself getting up anyway, padding over quietly as Steve settles, Robin slumping back down onto his lap without stirring.

“It’s no big deal,” He mutters, a soft smile pulling at his lips, still looking down at Robin, “She sleeps like the dead like this.”

Chrissy hums, and Steve looks up.

“Or– like a baby, I guess is a better word for it right now.”

“It’s fine.” Chrissy insists, taking a seat next to him, settling into the corner with a respectable distance between them– a distance that the rest of her doesn’t seem to pick up on, unfortunately, but respectable at the very least.

Steve hums and watches her, trying to do it subtly out of the corner of his eye, but even just a day around the real Steve is enough for her to know what worry looks like on him.

Fortunately for her, he doesn’t push. And when Chrissy busies herself with getting comfortable in her new couch corner, Steve looks away, absently combing through Robin’s hair as he plays casual.

“Rough sleeping with music always in your ears?” Steve asks, a lightness of humor there that she wishes was the only thing tied to that question.

“Not too bad, actually.” she says, pairing it with a little smile and hoping it’ll convince them both that she’s alright. “Especially out of all the other songs from Grease. The walkman itself is probably more annoying.”

“Yeah, my ears do not envy you there.” Steve huffs, smiling a little, making Chrissy’s smile come a little easier before they both run out of things to say and the levity falls off both their faces. Chrissy’s dropping faster with no eyes on her to keep up the charade for, while Steve’s falls slowly, slips into neutral as he gets caught up in thought once again.

Chrissy gets to keep a few moments to herself before she catches Steve glancing at her again through the corner of her eye. She pretends not to notice, holds her neutrality for a few nauseating seconds before she sighs, closing her eyes and drawing her knees to her chest in a way that turns the subtle glance into full-force attention.

“Do you think…” She starts, but finds the words stopping before they can get out of her head. Does he think she’ll die? Obviously he’s not going to tell her if he does.

“Eh, sometimes.” Steve answers, shrugging lightly in a way that's playful but not flippant enough to derail the conversation.

Chrissy huffs from the tinge of amusement, then tries again.

“Have you wondered what would happen if we got tired of our songs?” 

“Not yet, to be honest. But I figure we’d try to find new ones.” He says, quick enough that it feels like a simple answer to him. But even still he considers it, even if it’s just to show her he’s taking her worries seriously. “I mean, if the whole point is picking a song that reminds you about what’s good in life, I’d figure there’s got to be at least a decent handful of them that’d work.”

Chrissy hums, resting her head onto her knees as she considers. It feels like a simple enough thing, just find songs that remind you of good things, but as she combs through the library in her head, she’s not sure she has as many of those as the others do. Or at the very least, not ones that haven't been sullied by other memories or the things she’s learned since then. Birthday parties with a Chrissy that didn’t think twice about what was in those cakes, sleepovers with girls that had a lot more to say in the halls than they did in their bedrooms. She should count herself lucky that out of all the songs she had loved, she still had one of her favorites.

Though she supposes she should also count herself lucky for even being alive right now. If circumstances were different, she might’ve genuinely felt it.

“To be honest, I’m more worried about how Max doesn’t seem bothered by listening to the same thing nonstop.” Steve chimes in again, that sweet little note of humor back, and though it still makes her smile—truly smile, at both the humor and the intent behind it—it can’t fully lift her out of the headspace she keeps crawling into.

Still Chrissy hums along with him, the sweetness she puts into her voice just as erosive as the added sugars she keeps an eye out for.

“The magic of a really good artist, I guess.”

“Maybe. Though I know I’d still get tired of it no matter who’s voice I’m blasting.” Steve replies, tone light as if he didn’t notice how fake her tone was, and just that thought grants Chrissy an ounce of real levity.

“Even Freddie Mercury.” Chrissy asks with teasing scrutiny.

“I plead the fifth.” Steve smiles mischievously, and when Chrissy raises a suspicious eyebrow at him, he lets out a small but genuine laugh that Chrissy wants to mirror desperately.

Steve hushes himself quickly enough, but Robin still stirs in his lap, groaning and tucking her face down into the denim of Steve’s jeans as if they were somehow comfortable enough to put her back to sleep. But then again, Chrissy figures they don’t have to be, as Steve’s hand finds it’s way back to her hair again, carding his fingers gently and intentionally as Robin stills and soon returns to slow, sedated breathing.

Steve sighs, not tense or aggravated, just restful, like the mood of before was so calm that any change in it counted as disturbance. And then within seconds, he’s back, glancing once over to Chrissy again before looking back at Robin as he continues.

“Rob’s probably the type to be fine listening to most of her music over and over.” He hums, “Not that she needs it. The second she even thought that music might be it she shoved all the tapes she could find into her bag—including our manager’s, actually—”

“Your manager’s?”

“Yeah, Keith’s in for a bit of a surprise soon.” Steve laughs again, “Point is, though,” Steve looks back at her with a new, almost concerning level of sincerity once again veiled as small-talk. “Robin has a pretty good stash of other music in her bag and I’ve got a handful in the glovebox, too, so if you want to pick a couple backups to keep on you…” He shrugs instead of finishing with any extra nod to the favor he’s offering, and Chrissy’s conscience appreciates the discretion.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” she mutters, figuring at the very least that it wouldn’t hurt to look, maybe pick a couple that’d sound nice, even if she doubts anything from after 79’ would spark any good memories, the thought itself is sweet enough to make her sincerely grateful. “Thank you.”

“‘Course. It’s all up to you, just know it's an option.”

Chrissy hums and nods, not really wanting to continue the conversation but also lacking anything else to start talking about next.

Really, she only gets a few seconds to think about it before Steve’s glancing her way again, eyes lingering to study her and somehow sneaking inside towards the softest parts of her, all right under her nose.

“You’re doing good, y’know?” Steve says, quiet as anything else they’ve said tonight, but Chrissy finds it deafening. “This shit sucks… so much. But your still here, still sticking together, still keeping up with the kids—which, believe me, is a feat in of itself.” He huffs to himself, before glancing back to Chrissy with raw compassion. “I know all of it’s… smothering, almost. Too big and too stressful, but you’re doing great, alright? And we’re gonna make it work out.”

He’s lying, obviously, Chrissy hasn’t done jack-shit and Steve just wants to make her feel better– so Chrissy nods—on reflex, almost—because she knows to take a compliment—to take comfort—when it's being given to her. She knows so she nods and tries to just take Steve’s words with a polite smile and a polite nod but–

Her eyes water and tears fall too fast, too many goddamned tears coming and spillingout and she tries—God, she tries— to keep them back and to smile and show him it worked, shes good now, thank you—but she’s failing, failing miserably, so she falls back on breathing– breathing normally and praying he can’t see her crying through the dark–

“Chrissy, I mean it.” Steve says, with the softness of sincerity that—regardless of whether she believes him or not—breaks through the last of her defenses, letting a small, pitiful sound choke its way out of her throat.

“Chris–”

Chrissy stands—giving up on looking okay in favor of being quiet—and wipes her face, looking around for the bathroom door that Nancy said would be down here.

“Chrissy, hey–” Steve whispers, a hand finding her arm gently—not grabbing, just touching—and while it tempts her so heavily, instinct leads her away.

“It’s fine– don’t wake Robin–” Chrissy chokes on her own words and aborts, going towards the bathroom, ignoring Steve trying to whisper-call after her, ignoring how he whispers to himself before the couch squeaks, ignoring his footsteps coming up until they’re right behind her– and Chrissy stops and flings around and–

Turning catches Steve off guard—enough to stop him a foot or so away—and makes him retract an outstretched arm.

“Chrissy, it’s okay.” Steve insists, struggling for words to say next and doing nothing to keep it from taking over his face. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Stop.” Chrissy says– tries to say, even though it comes out wet and weak and crackly– “You’re fine, I promise–”

It doesn’t sound final but it’s all Chrissy can get out—is all that she really needs to. Tears keep coming like she’s a broken faucet and Steve’s still standing there—already knows she’s crying and isn’t going to ignore it—so she just covers her face with her hands, cold fingers cooling unruly flames of embarrassment, and tries catching her breath.

“Wha’s…?” 

Chrissy doesn’t try to recognise the voice, just jolts up at the new sound and finds Robin up and walking towards them, going slow and rubbing her face like a rough morning.

“Rob, now’s not–”

“Are you crying?” Robin says as she drops her hand and gets a barely decent look at Chrissy, voice sounding suddenly wide awake, face skipping confusion and going straight to concern as she turns to check Steve next, “Are you– no, no you're– ok, good, so–” She turns back to Chrissy within another blink. “Are you okay? Or– no, stupid question.”

“No,” Chrissy says, but then Robin’s eyes flash with guilt, “No, no, I– not stupid question, I’m okay, I promise, I–”

“That’s debatable.” Steve interrupts, as kindly as he probably can.

“I am.” Chrissy says before heaving a massive breath and pushing her hands across her face again, all to get herself in any way capable of explaining, “It’s not your fault– or yours, or anyones! I’m not mad or sad or upset or anything– I’m just crying!” Chrissy pauses for another breath, then finishes—with more control than before— “Just crying. And crying in front of people is embarrassing, so…”

Steve and Robin both stay silent, gears turning trying to figure out what to say or do next, and while Chrissy does feel a little bad, a small part of her says they were asking for it.

“I cry a lot.” Robin says, in what seems like a reflex at first, but she keeps going even after she seems to realize what she’s saying, “I cry all the time, like, constantly– or not actually really that frequently but when I do it’s like an absolute behemoth amount of crying, and I love crying– or well, maybe not– no actually I do, if I need to cry then I love to cry, just get it all out, y’know? And this whole thing—the end-of-the-world monster crisis thing—is like a really good reason to need to cry, the most understandable reason to cry—even Steve's cried about it!” 

“Yes!” Steve confirms immediately, like he either somehow forgot or the detail didn't occur to him.

“And last time– okay I didn't really cry during it much last time because it felt like there was so much going on like all the time but the second we got Steve a hospital room and I could sit down next to him, I started bawling, like really ugly snotty sobbing, and I cried for, like, three hours straight and one of the nurses kept bringing me water so I wouldn't dehydrate and die because I actually could not stop crying and I didn’t even feel that sad, y’know? I had been way more upset in the middle of the whole thing but I didn’t cry once—”

“Just peed your pants a little.” Steve mutters, catching Chrissy off-guard and making Robin fling immediately over to wack his arm.

“You–” Robin says, pointing at him and scrambling for words, “And you shit your pants twenty minutes in!”

“I what?” Steve whisper-laughs, bordering on a dangerous volume again.

“Yeah, you shit yourself and you smelled so bad–” Robin starts breaking into giggles and struggling to keep her volume down, so Steve somehow decides that covering her mouth with his hand would help. It does, kinda, in that it muffles her laughs until she gets them under control and starts swatting him away.

They collect themselves together, clearly trying to keep attuned to Chrissy without directing the full force of attention on her, but as they both try to manage each other’s clumsiness Chrissy feels the pressure of conversation ease and is just left with Robin’s words and the care that both of them were trying to show. Chrissy wipes her face even though new tears still fall, and steels herself with another breath that finally comes easier than the last.

“Robin.” Chrissy says.

Robin stops, and before Chrissy can chicken out she dives forward and takes Robin into a hug.

Robin’s clearly caught off guard but recovers quickly and wraps her arms around Chrissy tight, leaning in with a cheek pressed into her hair, holding her immediately. Chrissy sobs a little for no good reason but Robin doesn’t let go, doesn’t ask again, just keeps holding on.

Instead of waiting ages for her tears to stop, Chrissy just lets go when her crying quiets down and she no longer feels the need to hide from the people holding her. Chrissy loosens her grip and Robin lets go right after, leaning back to check on her, breaking into a sweet, lopsided grin.

Another hand falls carefully onto her back, and when Chrissy turns around and finds Steve still there quietly trying to check in too, Chrissy lunges forward a second time. Steve holds her tight like Robin did– possibly even tighter as his shoulders curl around her frame, like she’s being tucked inside his chest, safe away from harm.

Chrissy kind of hates pulling away, but by the way both Steve and Robin stay close after letting go, Chrissy gets the feeling that it won’t be hard to get more of that affection from them.

“You ready to go back to the couch?” Robin asks.

Chrissy nods.

“Awesome,” Robin says, taking her hand and leading the way back eagerly, “Cause, like, I don’t know about you but I would love to be sleeping right now– and I don’t regret waking up, obviously, totally a good reason to wake up, I just also love getting a full night’s sleep–”

“Aw, poor Robin, not being asleep right now.” Steve teases, getting quieter as they get to the couch but still being loud enough to annoy Robin.

“Aw, poor Stevie, was already awake when things started happening and only had to wake up once in the middle of the night.” Robin whines back, taking a spot in the corner of the couch and pulling Chrissy down to sit with her.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so funny, Robbie.” Steve smiles, not making a move to sit down with them. “Where’d you put your bag?”

“Why?”

“Wanna look at the tapes you have.”

“Steve, you don’t have to.” Chrissy 

“‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, I just want to listen to– uh… Bowie. Obviously.”

Chrissy huffs, torn between the guilt of a favor and a rush of amusement, but couldn’t help but play along.

“And not your manager’s stellar music taste?”

“Steve!” Robin hissed, “You told her?”

“Yeah, what’s she gonna do? Keith’s gonna know.”

“We don’t know for sure!”

“Yeah we do, his walkman’s basically glued to him.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Not with you cause he likes you, but on a Tuesday close with me and I’d be lucky if he heard me dying.”

“Oh, I think he hears you just fine.” Robin laughs.

Steve sighs with a quick eye-roll before gesturing back to the room.

“Bag. Where?”

“Behind the trunk under the staircase.” 

Steve looks at her incredulously but goes to find it, repeating her interesting choice of hiding place under his breath as he goes.

“Did something happen to your other tape?” Robin asks, turning and hitting her with the full force of her concern—and while Chrissy appreciates it, a lot, she needs to look away to relieve some of the pressure and calm some of the heat that hits her cheeks.

“No, no, it’s working fine, I just, uh… was worried I was going to get sick of listening to it all the time.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Robin nods and the intensity of her worry lessens considerably, replaced instead by an almost frantic kind of ramble, “Good as in, like, y’know, that it’s not broken and you’re just being extra cautious, I mean–”

“Yeah, it’s good.” Chrissy smiles, cherishing the way Robin smiles with relief as she realizes she’s being understood.

Robin’s eyes flick slightly to something behind Chrissy so she turns around, catching Steve as he gives a note to a recently awoken Nancy Wheeler and starts finding his way back to the couch around the minefield of sleeping teenagers on the floor. He stops right in front of the couch—in front of Chrissy—and kneels down to open the bag between them for her to see.

“Let Nance know about the new plan.” He mutters, probably softer than he has to, “If by some chance something does happen, she’ll know to try your old tape first.”

Chrissy looks up at his eyes for a moment before turning them down into the bag, impressively full of cassettes, some loose, some in their cases, but almost all of them well-loved. Chrissy reaches in and starts looking through the ones on top, some obviously Steve’s, some obviously Robin’s, some probably Keith’s, and a good many that have to be for both of them. She searches through them blankly for a few minutes before Steve and Robin try helping with suggestions.

“I think some of The Go-Go’s are in there.”

“Steve had ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’.”

“There’s definitely some Cyndi Lauper.”

“What was your old song again?” Robin asks.

“‘Hopelessly Devoted To You’. From Grease.”

Robin hums and stares into the bag. After a second, she starts picking handfuls of them out, picking each one intentionally but still grabbing more than enough for Chrissy to choose from until one catches her eye.

“Wait, wait, wait–”

Robin freezes, looking back to Chrissy with her arms still shoved in her bag, unmoving. Chrissy reaches over and picks up a tape that had already made it to Robin’s lap: a standard-looking cassette without its case and a couple of attempts at hearts drawn on it. It wasn’t the only cassette to have cute drawings—far from it—but it was the first one she saw with wonky hearts scribbled out then copied right next to it, like someone tried, failed, and then was told to bring their failure back instead of hiding it away.

She checks the other side. “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper.

“Steve gave that to me ages ago.” Robin hums, and Chrissy smiles, looking over at the other cassettes with little drawings on them.

“Was it the first one?”

“Second, technically, didn’t draw on Total Eclipse of the Heart until later.”

Chrissy nods, then looks up to Robin again.

“Would you mind…?”

“Oh, yeah, totally. I mean go for it. Worst case scenario: I’m still in touch with my dealer.” Robin jokes, making Steve snort as he stands and drops the bag over by the end of the couch.

Robin gets comfortable as Chrissy goes ahead and switches the tapes in her walkman, going to set her old one on a table nearby. When she turns back around, Robin is laying down on the couch, making grabby hands up towards Steve until he finishes his headcount and turns back around.

“What?” He laughs.

“Get over here, it’s my turn to be big.”

“Hm, if I have to.” Steve laughs and goes to settle with her before pausing and looking back over to Chrissy.

“You want on the couch, too?”

Chrissy goes over towards them and Steve smiles, taking that as her answer.

“We can leave you a spot if you want, or…”

Chrissy flushes but pointedly doesn’t take the offer for the separate spot on the couch, and luckily, Steve and Robin both figure out the answer without her having to say it.

Robin lays on her back half-propped up while Steve basically lays on top of her, spooning but with the little spoon on the verge of crushing the big spoon, but they seem more than content with it, Robin hugging Steve almost like a teddy bear. Steve gives Chrissy the go-ahead, so with her walkman in hand, she carefully takes the spot between him and the back of the couch. She brings the headphones up to her ears just as an arm comes around her back, the new melody fitting the new warmth she’s feeling deep down perfectly.

Chrissy lets one of her hands find Robin’s above her across the polo shirt pillow connecting them. Both the bodies laying with her relax, shifting slightly to get comfortable in their strange arrangement on the cramped couch, but the one thing that stays perfectly consistent is the slow rise and fall beneath her, the feather-light puffs tickling her hair, and the warmth of life enveloping her.

Chrissy knows it’s not perfect. The next few days will be far, far from kind to them. She knows that even when she wakes from this nightmare, she’ll just be stuck right back where she was before, working her ass off at cheer practice during the day and then begging their drug dealer for ketamine at night. The thought will probably never leave her mind.

But right now, Chrissy enjoys the new music playing in her ears, the familiar song with a man and a woman’s voices that feel uniquely alive right now, warm and safe and real.

If you’re lost,

You can look

And you will find me,

Time after time.

If you fall, 

I will catch you.

I’ll be waiting,

Time after time.

Chrissy falls asleep. No dreams, no Vecna, just sleep.