#*indiscriminate yelling*

[youaremysunshine-court]

DALINAR SAVED KALADINNNN

[pinkhit-s]

.

[livwritesstuff]

i went on a deep dive of the Steve & Hopper ao3 tag yesterday and and it got me thinking about what would happen if Chief of Police Hopper ran into Steve and Eddie while he was on patrol after pseudo-adopting Steve, and it’s been long enough that Hopper is sort of a safe-person for Steve so Steve goes into full-fledged bitch mode when Hopper tries to pull cop stuff on them, and Eddie (who knew about none of this because Steve is a chronic under-sharer) is so totally baffled.

He’d spent years watching Steve sweet-talk his way out of trouble. Even before they started hooking up it used to drive Eddie goddamn insane, because if (when) Eddie pulled any of this shit Steve gets away with, he’d be totally screwed, but all Steve has to do is flash a sheepish grin and run a hand through his hair once or twice and say, all baleful, “I really didn’t mean any trouble,” and he’s home free.

It has its perks though, or so he's learned during his last few months of hanging around with Steve, so when Steve and Eddie’s make-out session is interrupted by the tell-tale red and blue lights of a cop car pulling up behind where Steve parked the Beemer a few hundred yards down a maintenance road, Eddie’s not all that worried. In fact, he’s got a pretty good amount of faith in Steve’s ability to spin up some story to keep them out of any real trouble, and as Chief Hopper ambles over to them, Eddie prepares himself for a whole show of, “Yes Chief, sorry Chief, it won’t happen again Chief.”

So imagine Eddie's complete and utter surprise when Hopper barks, “Hey, morons! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” and Steve only rolls his eyes and says, “What’s it to you?”

Eddie feels his jaw drop.

“Steve,” he mutters through gritted teeth. He tries to elbow Steve into shutting the hell up, but he misses because Steve has already taken several steps forward to meet Hopper, his face turned up in a kind of defiance Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen on him before.

“What’s it to me?” Hopper repeats, glowering at Steve, “It’s midnight. I’m on patrol. You’ve got one of the most recognizable cars in this entire damn town parked in a restricted-access zone with this idiot–” Hopper gestures at Eddie (Eddie didn’t think the pointing or the idiot were necessary, but clearly, clearly, he’s missing something here), “–who’s been dragged into my station more times than I could count.”

“The town line, Hop, is over there,” Steve says, pointing at an indiscriminate spot over Hop’s shoulder that may or may not be part of the Hawkins town line, “We’re not even in Hawkins anymore. You’re totally out of your jurisdiction.”

“You wanna know something about jurisdiction, smart-ass?” Hopper asks, “If my report says shit happened in my jurisdiction, it happened in my jurisdiction.”

“Wow,” Steve deadpans, “Way to not sound totally corrupt. Nice work, Chief.”

Hopper’s jaw twitches for a second, and he’s clearly debating if he wants to keep arguing with Steve who, to Steve’s credit, looks like he’s got debate in him for days. Ultimately though, Hopper decides against it and stalks back over to his squad car.

“If you’re not home by one there’s gonna be hell to pay. You hear me, Harrington?” Hopper yells, “One AM. Hell to pay.”

“Oh, sure,” Steve rolls his eyes, “Totally hear you. One AM. Loud and clear or whatever.”

Steve flips the cruiser both birds as it peels away, which Hopper only flashes his high beams at a couple times before he’s gone, kicking up a bunch of dirt and mulch and leaves in his wake, and Steve is wearing an exasperated expression as he turns to face Eddie again.

“God, he’s so annoying. Let’s just go to my house.”

Eddie gapes at him.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Huh?”

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie repeated, gesturing wildly towards where Hopper’s car had just been.

“Wha– you mean with Hop?”

“Uh, yeah?!?”

Steve just brushed him off, “Whatever, just ignore him. He’s basically my dad.”

“What?”

[luveline]

Jade I’ve been WAITING and HOPING for you to ask about spider verse and/or Miguel requests. He is the epitome of grumpy love interest falls for sunshine reader, would you maybe write something where he’s like in the midst of being scary and intimidating and then when reader walks in he is trying to maintain that image in front of whoever else is there but she just like totally ignores it and basically exposes how soft he is?

Obviously feel free to take or leave whatever parts of that you like I just love grumpy x sunshine

SPOILERS FOR SPIDER-MAN: ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE BELOW

thank you for your request! for you my love, grumpy (lovesick) miguel x sunshine spidergirl!reader, 1.5k

Miguel spends a lot of time arguing with Peter B. Parker, or as you've so fondly nicknamed him, Sweatpants-Man. Well, Miguel spends a lot of time yelling at him. It stopped for a while; Peter B. Parker took some time away from the Spider Society, but eventually he returned with a brand new spider. A baby girl. 

You linger at the door, startled to find him in company, but pleased when he isn't yelling as loudly as he could be. He looks desperately as though he wants to shout, and is holding back through sheer force of will, his eyes widened and his hair falling in unruly waves over his forehead, strands of it curled into his eyes. 

Miguel is a worrier. It isn't his fault. He's a great man with responsibilities beyond his control, and he may not always react how he should, but he tries his best. You don't agree with everything he does, but you like him. You adore him. For all of his goodness, his bravery, and the smile he gives you when you're alone. 

He's clearly troubled by something. 

"I don't really see the harm, I won't tell him a thing," Peter B. Parker says.

"Why do you refuse to listen to me? No. End of discussion." 

"I think we should reopen the discussion," Peter B. Parker says. 

He and Miguel are friends, you think. They would have been best buddies by now if Peter could abide by Miguel's rules. Then again, you ignore the rules often and indiscriminately, and Miguel likes you.

He's scraping his hair out of his eyes now, a fierce glare fixed on Peter's face, and you have the urge to go in there and try to persuade him to give Peter whatever it is he's asking for. You're almost certain you could do it. 

Not through your sheer mastery of the persuasive arts, though you have mastered them, but because Miguel O'Hara has a soft spot for you. He tries to hide it and you refuse to let him. You haven't tried to kiss him or anything (you secretly aren't that brave) but you run circles around him for fun, only letting him boss you around every now and then to keep things loose. You could be much meaner about the whole thing: what is so humiliating as falling for your lackadaisical subordinate? But you don't hold it against him, because he likely isn't finished falling yet, and because you really do like him. 

You pull your mask off of your face and then your gloves, shoving them into a concealed pocket on your thigh. 

"Miguel," you murmur, knowing he'll hear you no matter the volume, "what's wrong?" 

Miguel doesn't glance your way. 

Peter B. Parker's shoulders sag in relief at your appearance. "Thank god you're here," he says. 

You hadn't realised Peter knew who you were. "I'm here," you repeat mildly. 

"Tell Miguel that the risk involved with visiting Earth-1610 is super, duper small." 

"Well, it is negligible," you murmur, though Peter's quest isn't your prerogative. 

Miguel groans loud and unapologetically. 

You stand near Miguel and look up at him. He's ridiculously tall. You’d have to crane your neck if you stood at his feet. You maintain some distance and look him over from a gentler incline, cataloguing the dark circles under his eyes for the hundredth time. They don't look too bad today, but you wish he'd get more rest. 

He has a very fierce face, but you know how it softens when he laughs. It's hard to find his glaring intimidating when you've witnessed the white flash of sharp teeth as he smiles, the way his eyes light up and his eyebrows relax from their stern set when you bring him something to eat on late nights. It's almost always smothered as soon as it happens, but it does happen. 

"The risk involved is not super small," he says, still not looking at you, "the risk involved is actually incredibly big, and it isn't worth it." 

Peter puts his arms out just as Mayday drops from the rafters above. You huff a laugh at his coordination and Mayday starts to laugh, her knitted beanie drooping into her eyes. 

"Hi, baby," you say softly, reaching out to hold her hand. She squeezes your fingers. 

"It's worth the risk. Absolutely, it's worth the risk, and I would argue that me visiting would actually strengthen the state of the multiverse–" 

"In what scenario–" 

"–and, like, make your job easier." Peter stops Mayday from climbing up your shoulder. 

"If there's one thing you've never done, Peter, it's make my job easier. I can't believe you're asking me again," Miguel says, taking a big breath, like he's going to pop. 

You step away from Peter to catch Miguel's attention. When his eyes lock onto yours, you smile as fondly as you're able, the kind of smile you know he likes. Your eyes widen just a touch and your eyebrows rise, the corners of your mouth not quite dimpling. It's a smile that says all the same stuff you love to say aloud. Hi, handsome. What's got you so stressed today? 

"Don't be like that, Miguel," Peter says. 

You tilt your head to one side. "You don't look very well," you say. 

"I'm fine." There's a thread of gentleness there, almost indistinguishable from his serious tone. "Or I would be, if Peter would listen to me for once." 

"I'm listening, man, I just think you should see sense." 

Miguel's face flickers like he wants to correct him, but he keeps getting caught on you. Nothing specific, just that his gaze lands on your face or your shoulder or your arm before he looks at Peter, and all the steam rushes out of him. He’s trying not to smile at you.

"I see sense," Miguel insists. It's like he wants to be angrier than he has, gritting his teeth weakly. "It's not feasible right now." 

You smile at that. Right now. You're not sure he's ever said something that could lead to a compromise. You are sure that he hadn't meant to. Peter is understandably thrilled, hiding his own smile as he puts Mayday back into her carrier. 

"Alright. Well, I've gotta take her home. But I'll see you both again soon," Peter threatens, wiggling his eyebrows. "Thank you," he adds, nodding at you. 

You laugh as he leaves. Miguel is nowhere near as pleased. 

"You did that on purpose," Miguel says. 

"I did what on purpose?" 

"Coming in here." 

"Yeah, of course. I come to see you all the time on purpose. Did you think I was drifting in here on the breeze? That would be difficult, considering." You gesture to the entrance of his office, which is far from easily accessible. 

Miguel looks at you, unimpressed, with his hands on his hips. You wonder what it would take to make him put his hands on yours. 

"Don't even think about it," he says. 

"About what, handsome?" 

"You think I don't know what that look means?" He sounds fond rather than angry. It's a win. 

"I bet you know, but I'm in the dark, so if you'd… illuminate it for me, that would be greatly appreciated." 

He checks that no one's about to enter his office. You feel your heart jerk in your chest, and if his super senses are anything like the other Spider People, he can hear it. 

"You really can't come in here when I'm trying to set people straight," he says. 

"Why?" you ask. You could pout at him, but you think that might be too much. 

"You know why." Somewhere between words he drifts closer, soundless, his face inching down toward yours with a surprising swiftness. "You know why," he repeats.

You lift your chin as much as you dare, which isn't much, but enough that your giggly confirmation fans over his lips, "Yes, I do." 

He nudges you away, and it isn't without affection. His warm, big hand lingers on your shoulder, even as he says, "Go, go do something." 

"Miguel, I came to see you." 

"I know, and I have a meeting with Jess in a minute, so you can't be here. It'll undermine my authority." 

"What will?" you ask, smiling, because you already know. His fondness for you. 

"Go away. Come and see me later," he says. 

You sigh and spin away from him. "I will, but not because you told me to!" you call, leaving the office with an awful sense of victory. 

Miguel scrubs his face with his hands as you go. He's really not sure what he's going to do with you. His plan to hold you at arm’s length isn’t working anymore, and honestly? He doesn’t think he could stand it a minute longer. Thank whoever’s watching over him that you actually do as he asks for once and leave. 

Miguel was one sweet smile away from kissing you up against the wall.

[bearwithegg]

Fight Like a Girl || B.Blackwood || Part 3

Oh man this part nearly fucking killed any mental capacity i had over the last week (you should see the other guy) probably final part goobers

PART 1 HERE || PART 2 HERE ||

Kieran!Benjicot x f!Reader

Words: 5.2k

Warnings: Blood, Injury, Gore, graphic descriptions of injuries

SPECIAL THANK YOU TO @spider-stark @venomnyx @karlachs-soldier for putting up with my insane ramblings while i took 500000 points of psychic damage trying to write this part difhlrdh

Tags: @nixtape-foryou @roseheart5

***

A swing from behind is all it took to bring you down. Amongst the bleating chaos it was hard to keep one's mind in focus, you were at no fault for that. A yell rips from your throat, but not due to the pain - that came much later - merely from surprise. Body and mind barely register the gash as you plummet into the mud stamped ground, another fallen to join the field of death littered with decimated bodies at the hands of the Green’s Army.

The swordsman, clad in the treacherous sigil of the false King goads you, a reminder of why you even waged this futile plight in the first place. Despite being prone and the bog beneath you seeping into the wound on your back, you do not let up because how could you not go out without a fight.

Distant shouts confirm this, you were on your own, no one was nearby to help you now. Garrus. You think. Where was he? He was only here a moment ago. But you couldn’t think straight. How long had this senseless battle gone on for? Mere moments like the striking of lightning or hours, like a storm brewing? Thank the Gods there were no Dragons to meet, only their cowardly foot soldiers, yet you look into the sky one last moment. No Dragons — only gloomy overcast.

Chest heaving as the pain slowly begins to spread from the wound outward, sharp and hot like the sun had touched you itself.

It would be easier to keep your eyes closed, accept death like one would a beloved and it was difficult to remain awake. Especially hearing the distant call of your brother's voice, you cannot will yourself to go; not yet.

A shaky war cry wrenches from a deep place of emotion, the swordsman while above you to prepare his final blow did not expect such a wordless decree. You will not win. A swift and firm stomp into the knee, buckling it the wrong way knocks him off course with a yelp of surprise. Certain you heard his bones snap or was it the remnants of battle in the distance? Regardless, you rise up and with a dagger unyielding in a firm grip and swipe left, across the neck exposed above his leathers.

Blood soaks you, like a torrential downpour from one of his compromised arteries. His body falls like a tree in the woods, indiscriminate of what it falls on because his body topples right onto yours. The gurgling sounds of him choking on his own blood and clawing at you distract from his limp weight and pressure of being buried beneath bodies.

It’ll haunt you for life, you think, the dying breaths of a man you killed echoing like a deranged symphony.

The pain came in waves, some more intense than others as you lay beneath a corpse, unable to move it off your body. The way your shoulder screams at the slightest movement, there is no room for doubt that the cut is deep, perhaps it was even to the bone.

You stopped calling for help, only until your voice shriveled up. It must have been hours, certainly, the distant sounds of metal clashing had long since ceased, and the only shouting was a mixture of victory and loss. Or was that your brother's voice? Beckoning from beyond the veil? Were you dead? Did mother await you in the whims of the afterlife also?

“Gods be good.” A voice aghast, pulls you from a delirious haze. “Another one!”

It was difficult to open your eyes, despite the dreary grey skies it burned to look up, the boy kneeling over you was smiling with relief, a reassuring hand on your face.

Another voice, further along the field you assumed, drew nearer.

“Send word for more men lad, the wounded will need to be taken back and treated.” That deep punctuating voice, familiar and warm.

“Help me with him first - he's stuck,” the boy grabs the corpse's arm and starts to drag it, the movement only serving to push you deeper into a blanket of mud, sinking you further into the ground and causing you to grit and whine.

“Mordin, leave the boy with me — go.” The command was firm and sharp. Scattering footsteps sloshing in mud indicated his swift departure. Silence followed. Thinking you must have imagined the brief exchange had it not been for a sudden weightlessness. The body that obstructed your movements and inhibited breathing now was moved off you, and you took your first full breath in what felt like hours.

If you simply had not heard him before seeing him, you'd have hardly recognised Benji. Covered head to toe in blood, a stark impression of his notorious namesake witnessed in person. And while this was further proof of how dangerous he was capable of being — his eyes were somber looking down at you.

“Benji,” you wheezed gratefully, with all the strength you could muster to reach out to him, you could barely move an inch.

His eyes widen, recognition flashing across his face and he drops to his knees beside you. It was a safe assumption that he didn't realize it was you under all the gore and viscera. “You were supposed to be in the back lines, what the hells are you doing all the way out here?” He reprimands, eyes flitting over you to inspect your wounds.

“Ambush,” you pant softly, “from the west.” breathing was beginning to get increasingly difficult through the pain. It was deep. His face contorts halfway into panic and guilt, you barely get out an airy laugh, “at least I held onto my sword this time.”

Following his gaze down by your side, your fingers gripped the hilt of the sword with such vigor, it felt like your hand cramped into the position.

His head drops and a bittersweet laugh falls from his lips, “you jest in a time like this? Foolish girl.” Though he did not say the words, the twinkle in his eyes was enough to know that regardless of the outcome he was proud of you.

“It hurts,” you manage to whisper through shaky lips, the silence that followed was louder than the wind that swept across the battlefield. His eyes never leave yours, they search for something, for what, you aren’t sure of but he hardens his resolve and looks up briefly, bottom lip tightly trapped between his teeth.

With a gentle tug, he pulls the dagger from your fingers, they too felt rigid and locked into their grip. Repeating the same motion for your sword and looping them both into his belt. You watch him with care because if you aren’t distracted then the pain will rear its ugly head, which is something you wished to avoid. He unbuckles one of his bracers, yanking hard at the straps before holding it close to you, “bite down on this, I must move you to the others.”

You suck in a breath, eyes partially wide at the thought of being found out due to a measly back wound. Adrenaline or panic, it wasn’t certain but you found enough strength to hold onto his wrist with a vice-like grip, voice shaky through uneven breaths, “find Garrus, he can stitch me up.” With that, your hand relaxes and slips from his wrist, falling slack against your chest.

“Where else would I take you? You dolt,” he smiles, lightheartedly and shakes his brace at you again, a silent push to do as he says.

You relent without further question, trust these days was as valuable as it was rare but you trust Benji — for better or worse. He had kept your secret, trained you personally and now was saving your life. The list of debt you owe the man increased tenfold by the week it seemed. Getting upright was half the battle, though try as he might to conceal his troubled expression upon seeing the wound on your back, he did a poor job of it. It must have been bad.

The pain had soared to such a high intensity, you could hardly remember the journey from battlefield to the safety of your tent… no this wasn’t your tent. Consciousness fleeting as the trees move and the scenery changes; was that the river you could smell? Or was it the lingering scent of death that wafted through the air? Familiar colours of House Blackwood embroidered the interior of the canvas in your surroundings — were you in Benji’s tent?

It held a surprising amount of warmth than you expected, a welcoming embrace disguised as an affirmation that mortal peril was not as close when you were guided by the hands of allies. You awoke on your stomach, needling and sharp pain coursing through the already tender skin of the ugly laceration parted onto you.

“Be still, Little Clover… Just a few more,” Garrus murmurs, his fingers featherlight against the skin of your back. The pressure you felt, merely the piercing of needle and cord, stitching your broken body back together. While painful, the journey ahead for recovery was no doubt going to be longer and harder. Recalling the books and their bountiful knowledge you used to read in the safety of Stylguard, first person accounts of severe wounds rarely acknowledge that pain is often a good sign. You hadn’t lost feeling in either shoulders nor arms, though this was not something you celebrated until much later on in recovery.

“Put me out of my misery,” you grit, a groan expelling from your throat, eyes clamped shut and slightly watering.

His amused chuckles blend together with another, someone else was in the tent – you need not ask yourself who either, “I fear it would make me a dishonourable man to execute another while they are unarmed.” Miscreant, you think, yet smile at Benji’s jab until inevitably wincing as the cord threads through marred flesh. There is a beat of silence but an air of mirth, “you may yet still fight like shit but your aversion to pain is admirable as well as your ferocity. I cannot say the same for the others with less severe injuries.”

You forget yourself, the company around you, because it was easy when Benji was near and scoff lightly, “pain is no stranger for me. None of these men have felt the pain of having a monthly blood, and they would cower at the pain it brings.” Another pause, the amusement in the air ripped from the drop of your words – taboo to speak freely about such delicate and ‘disgusting’ things especially in the presence of men, you clear your throat, “apologies.” But you weren’t sorry and felt as though you shouldn’t have to be. You had heard far worse from the mouths of men during dinner.

Garrus had thankfully finished not soon after, urging you to rest before departing to retrieve food for the three of you. Though your hands and the rest of you reeked of mud and rust from the dried blood, you needed to be clean of today even if the internal wounds will never heal, you could still wash away the stench of a dead man. Rising slowly, you are nearly startled back onto the bed by Benji rushing to aid you.

“I thought you left,” You reprimand, brows scrunched in response to the discomfort and pain. The undershirt you wore back to front for modesty sake, threatened to slip down your shoulders and expose more than what decency desired. The lone tie that kept the fabric together enough to stop it from completely falling threatened to undo every movement you made.

“I thought you were told to rest,” he counters, lips pressed into a frown, eyes looking away. “This is also my tent,” his indignance would have prompted laughter if the situation was different. You weren’t a complete imbecile, understanding that coming to his tent was the best chance at keeping your secret.

You give him a withering look, “and how does one rest covered in entrails and dirt?” Easy for him to enforce Garrus’ words, he had already cleaned the dirt and blood off his face and hands. He pulls a face, conceding at your words and makes no further comment, though flushed in his cheeks. “Thank you,” in your eyes a glint of amusement twinkles, “no need to sulk Benji — it’s merely a bath, not another battle.”

His jaw sets while his hands rest on his hips, eyes narrowed slightly at your jeer, “that is not the point nor the principle — do you intend walking all the way to your tent to wash yourself then?” Now his finger is out, wagging alongside his words as if he was admonishing a child for a minor wrongdoing.

“And you care about principles, now?” Your brow quirks, you have half a mind to mirror his stance if it weren’t for the fact you had been quite literally sewn together not even ten minutes prior. So you don’t. But the thought was enough to elicit a smirk. “If it will cease your pedantic worrying, I will bathe here,” your eye twitches with the jolt of pain shooting up your arm from the lazy gesture across the tent.

His cheeks begin to redden, as do yours at such an improper suggestion, “What is a man without honour and principle?” He huffs slightly.

“Your flair for the dramatic is ill suited for a man of such vicious notoriety.” You hardly suppress a smile, tongue poking into your cheek. Silence follows, either he is grossly offended by your words or has recognised that you are just jesting. Nevertheless, you slowly cross the tent, each step an agonizing shock through the back and shoulders.

You feel his gaze follow you before sighing, a soft chortle slipping in at the end of his exhale, “if you were as well-skilled with a sword as you are with that sharp tongue of yours, I’d fear for our enemy.”

Slowly turning at his words you regard him with a deadpan expression only muddied with a knowing look of your eyes, “stop being bitter and get me some hot water to put in the tub.”

Benji has often looked at you with curiosity, amusement, pride and a varying array of affection but he has never once looked at you with the dumbfounded expression laden on his face like he has just now. Even in times like this, you often forget that situation aside, the two of you were highborn and at this instance you weren’t speaking to a Lord with a matter of reverence but rather speaking to him like a servant.

”Apologies,” you clear your throat, “Lord Blackwood stop being bitter and get me some hot water to put in the tub, please.”

You could almost hear him thinking, the dead air in the tent was more than palpable but the thickness of something else continued to weigh heavy, as it so often did when the two of you were alone.

“You tempt the Gods with that inane behaviour and crass mouth, you are in good tiding with fate for me to not take that tongue of yours,” an empty threat really, he’s told you that before but even if that hadn’t been the case it was clear he wasn’t being serious. Even his jab is futile the second he concedes and goes to the hearth without any more complaints.

“Tongue or not, I would still find a way to torment you all the same.” You laugh and then promptly wince, he thankfully had not seen.

The quiet moments filled with lighthearted ribs back and forth seemed to be a sliver of the heavens placed inbetween unyielding moments of hardship, pain and suffering. A light one might see at the end of a cavernous abyss. Small moments, often menial, were filled with such delight that it reminded you that this is what life was. Yet these intermissions sprinkled throughout a world wrought with its own dark and poisonous acts of undeniable misery also served to remind you of what you were robbed of. A nice life. A happy life.

“Clover.”

An uncharacteristically gentle prod beckons you from thoughts of what could’ve been in a different lifetime. You blink, grounding yourself in reality — Benji, he stands before you, head tilted to the side as it often did, part of the many idiosyncrasies that made him, him. A hand hovering in your space, as if he was conflicted about reaching all the way out or perhaps it was to steady you.

“I am well,” you reassure, offering a smile and slowly make your way to the tub. Though, you supposed it was less a tub and more a misshapen barrel but it served the same purpose. “I assure you I will fare better once I rid myself of this filth.” You grip the sides of the tub, disgusted by your own reflection sullied with blood, dirt and sweat.

The water was not nearly warm enough but you cared more for cleanliness than comfort in this instance. The eyes that looked back up through the rippling water were not the same as the ones that looked in the mirror at Stylguard while hacking at once lengthy locks. That seemed so distant, the memory already thinly covered in a milky haze.

A sigh slips through parted lips, now came the difficult part.

Undressing — that is. Notoriously difficult to do with impaired range of motion in both shoulders. Which is how you ended up in this current situation.

Through burning cheeks, feeling as if you were suffocating from how thick the air seemed to get — if it weren’t for waning patience you’d have an amused smile at the farce the two of you found yourself in. Headstrong and ever the eminent gentleman (despite your often teasing sleights), Benji stared forward, unyielding and pointed to juxtapose the position of his body. The only body part of his remotely positioned toward you was the arm he outstretched behind him, which can’t have been very comfortable and added to the absurdity of the situation.

His fingers quite skillfully disrobing you without the advantage of sight at least meant that the two of you would be rid of such embarrassment sooner rather than later. Though it was ever the difficult feat, you could only raise both arms so high before the tender flesh pulled against the cord that kept you together.

“Oh for goodness sake,” you sigh frustratedly, feeling his hand suddenly stop, fingers barely hovering over exposed skin. The irritation was running deep, seeping through your skin now like an unchecked itch begging to be scratched but it was all over your body, “you would not feel the need to engage in such foolish hoop jumping if I was one of your men, just turn around and do it properly.”

“I would never compromise a Lady’s honour, even by looking,” his answer was immediate.

You’d have strangled him if you were capable of doing so. On the contrary there was part of you, old you, who buckled at the knees at such a sweet admission from a handsome man.

“At this current juncture, this Lady is asking you to,” you huff exasperatedly, patience wearing thin the longer it takes to do such a menial task; not even when you were a babe did it take this long to fret over mere bathing. In an instant the atmosphere has shifted almost entirely, the lighthearted mood sucked out into a vacuum and in its place something else.

The two of you were running circles around each other, a common occurrence that had first reared its head mere days ago. Two fronts whirling like the crucial hours before a violent tempest ravages the skies during a storm, unwilling to acknowledge what brewed in the centre of it all.

He clears his throat, you hear the rustling of his leathers as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, “you have put me in an impossible position by asking this of me – are you certain?”

“I have trust in no one else,” you affirm, quietly.

“Very well,” his footsteps are slow, careful – as though he ought not to startle you. Fearsome as Benji was, he could never frighten you. There was an innate warmth to his presence, so comforting and homely that it was hard to believe that he was capable of such ruthless and vicious acts of violence.

His hands were equally gentle, sliding the undershirt off each shoulder with such delicate handling, it made you feel like an heirloom almost. Almost. The rough fabric grazes over the fresh wound, pulling you back into the whims of reality, a sharp hiss pushed through gritted teeth.

“Apologies,” he murmurs, breath faintly fanning the back of your neck and in tandem sending a jolt down your spine. Not pain. Hackles raised though not engaging your fight or flight, nor spurring on fear. The feeling that had been simmering as a third party in the background of each encounter of late, an unspoken presence sifted between two finally uncovers itself – desire.

Gods, was it not the time for this, you think.

You unlace the trousers as loose as possible, making it easier for him to slip them past your hips. Part of the fabric felt solid, dried mud turned clay with a mixture of blood made it quite the task to peel off your legs.

Behind, you feel him move away, the warmth that radiated from him gone in an instant. The clinking of his belt buckle made your ears prick, but instead of querying, you remained silent, fearful that your voice would not be so steady – you step into the tub. Gooseflesh instantly rippled across your skin from the fact the water was far from warm, though it mattered naught as the dirt and blood slowly disseminated throughout the water.

With both legs in you start to visibly relax, no longer feeling as though you wished to chisel your skin off. By the time Benji has returned by the tub side, your body is submerged. The sleeves of his undershirt are rolled up, no longer wearing his belts or swords, answering the silent question you had mere moments prior.

When you finally look at his face, his eyes are already on yours, golden flecks sprinkled throughout. As if he couldn’t be any more impossibly handsome. His gaze is unmoving, even as he slowly reaches into the water and pulls your arm up by your wrist, thumb and forefinger coiled around it firmly. But not painfully.

“I can wash my own hands,” you find your voice as he begins to knead softly into your hand with the soaked cloth. Blood no longer coating your hands, dirt rubbed from the space between your fingers.

“I do not doubt it,” the outer corners of his lips twitch upward, suggesting a smile. When he was not intently looking at your face, his eyes drifted upward or past you but never down. And despite the frustration it caused in the lead up to this, you were grateful to a certain degree but also incredibly heartwarmed by him keeping his word.

Despite the cold water lapping at your collar bones and encasing your body, every meticulous adjustment of his grip on you or every tentative touch made you heat up. A permanent flush warming your cheeks as he quietly scrubs your forearm, upper arm and carefully washes your shoulders.

Slowly but surely, with every pass of the cloth accompanied by a steady and tender hand, you felt cleaner not just visibly but also internally. The blood that once stained skin, stood as a mark from the gods, a forever blight that threatened your soul for damnation, now had been washed away.

“Does it get easier?” You whisper, staring off into the tent.

He stops, the cloth remaining pressed into the crook of your neck as he exhales in thought. You barely shift, turning almost imperceptibly as your eyes meet his and there’s a flicker of concern? Surprise? Undoubtedly in response to the haunted look all over your face, “killing people,” you clarify before returning to stare back into nothing.

There was a brief stillness in the air, disrupted only by him clearing his throat. As gentle as a breeze, his fingers caress and cup your chin, seemingly holding your head in place as he begins to softly scrub at the dried muck on your face, “no.” His voice was deep yet soft, unwavering as if he’s thought of this question before. “It never gets easier, you simply learn to live with it.”

Live with it.

A macabre way to look at it, you think, but it seems to be a healthier way to deal with such a gruesome act, even if it was honourable to die in battle. You wonder if the Usurper and his family of parasites felt this moral conundrum when they murdered your brother.

You are doubtful.

“How does one live with such blood on their hands?” You ask, perhaps he was the best suited to answer such question, many slain under his own hand but even of your own observation Benji hardly fit the parameters of a well-adjusted Lord in Westeros. No one called ‘Bloody Ben’ could ever be well-adjusted, but it was hard to discern if years of bloodshed fractured him or if it had been there since birth.

Your head is turned, ever so slightly by his guiding forefinger and thumb still perched under your chin, his eyes bore into you but shows no ire or annoyance, “I honour the fallen. At night before I fall asleep, each name is passed to the Gods and if their name dies with them then faces suffice.” He cleans a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood on your forehead.

It was surprisingly pious of him — Blackwoods never quite took to the Faith of the Seven, much like northerners they remained loyal to the old gods yet Benji had never expressed piety like this.

“Even the slain Brackens?” The guileless smile on your face was an attempt to move on from the grim conversation you accidentally started.

The cloth hovers over your upper lip as he drops his head ever so slightly and chuckles, “even Brackens need honour in death. Gods know they lack it in life.” He presses the cloth onto the dried blood over your lip.

Once he’s rubbed it away, as if moving of its own free will, your hand comes up to grip his wrist, albeit weakly. Gaze sticking to your own, exhaling through parted lips as you attempt to get the words unlodged from your throat.

“I must thank you,” You breathe out. For what, you weren’t sure but it was the only way to express gratitude for the endless list of things he has done for you. You would have to thank him for a lifetime alone for what he had done.

The hand beneath your jaw shifts, his thumb runs across your lower lip to your jaw, just the mere action feels like dragging the tip of a hot needle across your skin in the best way possible, “that is not necessary,” he murmurs.

Possessed or merely a complete lapse in sanity, you will never know, but his soft gaze compelled you — no, bewitched you to lean forward and press your lips to his. Searing hot, your body ignited with a warmth that was unfounded until now, as though the barely lukewarm bath was filled with steamy water.

It was short, chaste and quite unexpected for both parties.

You pull away, aware of how hot your cheeks felt, your grip on his wrist loosens. Actions finally sinking in both your own mind and his. Like silt that had been kicked up in the shallow divots of a creek, finally settling into clarity.

Cheeks beet red and an unreadable expression apparent, the hand caressing your face had dropped.

Perhaps you miscalculated. The hammering of your heart was so loud there was no way in hells he couldn’t hear it. It was as booming as rolling thunder in your ears.

The two of you stare at one another, a silent conversation, a silent question hanging in the air between the two of you. Your mouth opens first, the beginning syllables of an apology croaking out before they are abruptly cut off by his own lips. This had been less of a shock than the first, it felt more needy and messy.

His hands came up to hold your head, thumbs grazing softly over your cheeks. He held you firmly as if you were going to disappear in a puff of smoke and you felt as though you might do just that from how light you felt. His tender caress accelerated the beating of your heart and jumbled any important thought crossing your mind, the only thoughts barraging your mind were of him, his hands, his lips, his voice; Him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, if you had any strength you would have pulled him toward you with a fierce urgency. It’s almost painful that you can’t. The air around you two is static, tempestuous and intense all at once, like two stormfronts finally converging before an explosive storm.

“I’m afraid I could only part with —“

The two of you rip apart at a speed that sends Benji careening backward, toppling onto the ground and you sloshing a large wave of water over the tubs edge. Oops.

“— the…duck stew…” Garrus’ words slowly die in his throat as he stands dumbfounded by the entrance of the tent, two measly plates of stew held in each hand and still steaming. Eyes looking to Benji and then back over to you several times, mouth open and eyebrows raised.

The pause seemed to have gone for a century. And neither you nor Benji would be the first to break it.

“I forgot the bread,” Garrus finally says, putting the plates down on the nearest surface and turning back out of the tent without another word or look.

You shyly looked over at Benji who remained firmly planted on the ground, his cheeks looked as red and hot as yours felt. The thundering of your heart steadily continued partly from the after effects of the kiss and being caught red-handed by the man who was essentially a father to you.

Benji is the first to break, a deep laugh shakes through him before audibly falling past his lips, this in turn makes you suppress a laugh by biting on your lip. Though, ultimately you are unsuccessful and join his symphony of laughs with your own. Not even the pain that pulsed from each laugh was enough to stop you.

The two of you may have plenty to answer for later, but perhaps that wasn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things. A more gruesome fate awaited outside the safety of this moment — of the camp — it would be unwise to not take pleasure in the small mundane moments.

For once it was a kind reminder that maybe, after the conflict ceases, there is room for you to enjoy the life you wished for.

[theflashjaygarrick]

It's a missed opportunity that despite Roy Harper and Jason Todd hanging out now there's been never any tension between about them or exploration of their differing approaches and perspectives on the drug crisis. Particularly because for both of them it is deeply personal.

Roy Harper.

Roy became addicted to drugs in the 1971 comic Snowbirds Don't Fly which was Neil Adam’s and Dennis O'neill's attempt to tackle the "youth's greatest problem!" drug use and addiction. I feel like all most people know is that Speedy took drugs and Ollie took it badly, but that honestly ignores the whole point of the story. The story challenged contextual stigma around addiction and drug use as a personal failing or something that only happened to weak people. It explored how it could happen to anyone, even a hero like Speedy. It focused on the social factors such as racism and poverty and how they push people into substance abuse as a way to cope. It even turns the trope of the evil foreign drug cartel on its head by making the guy behind the drug supply a wealthy white American man in who runs a Pharmaceutical company, doesn't do drugs, and actively mocks the people he profits off the suffering of.

The point therefore is twofold. Firstly, drug users are people just like you and me and it is vital to be compassionate to people struggling with addiction. Ollie who yells at and hits Roy and leaves him due to anger and fear is clearly in the wrong. Hal and Dinah who look after Roy and stand beside him at his friend's funeral and as he confronts Ollie are clearly in the right. Secondly, the solution is not to focus on the drugs but instead to deal with the systemic problems of inequality, oppression, trauma and disenfranchised youth.

Despite parts of it ageing bad (the use of slurs was to demonstrate the damage of racism, but I feel uncomfortable having slurs uncensored in a comic book written by white authors) it is a surprisingly progressive take on addiction for a mainstream 70s DC comic. It also clearly demonstrates Roy's opinion on the drug problem and how to deal with it. He sees anger and going after dealers/manufacturers (like Ollie did) to not be enough. Instead the real change comes from helping the people in that situation by improving their lives and compassionately helping them at their worst.

Enter Jason Todd.

For context Jason Todd has had almost his entire life shaped by trauma of substance abuse. His (adoptive) mother Catherine struggled with addiction and overdosed just months before he met Batman, effectively orphaning him. Soon after he was found by Batman who essentially drafted him into his crusade on crime, not considering that being a vigilante may be potentially damaging for an already traumatised child.

But when he came back in UTRH he decided he could best help Gotham if he killed (largely non-costumed) criminals and controlled the city's criminal underworld himself. After violently assuming control of the drug trade, Jason imposed his own rules for dealers, most famously that he would kill anyone who sold drugs to children or near schools. Later while incarcerated Jason Todd killed 82 Blackgate inmates (and harmed over a hundred) by poisoning the prison food. This mass murder was intrinsically indiscriminate and due to the US prison system it is reasonable to assume people charged with drug offences were included in the death count.

Jason does have deep childhood trauma associated with addiction and drug use and wants to help prevent suffering. That being said, his approach treats drugs as a criminal problem to be eradicated or controlled, not just a symptom of deeper social issues. He kills people who sell drugs to kids, rather than helping building a support system so kids aren't pushed into abusing substances to cope and people don't have to deal to survive.

What does this mean?

Scott Lobdell got details of Roy's addiction wrong and distorted him into a reckless idiot who has been ostracised from the community. But if it was done right their interaction and opposing perspectives/experiences could be really interesting. Both hate drugs and the drug trade, but the way they conceptualise this hatred differs significantly.

Roy focuses on helping the individual and addressing deeper social problems, seeing drugs as a devastating but ultimately symptomatic. Jason sees drug use as first and foremost a criminal issue, with true benefits being achieved through controlling the criminal underworld.

Roy's priority is therefore supporting people struggling with addiction and showing compassion for their situation. Jason doesn't really focus on ways to help the individuals suffering from addiction, as much as mitigating the overall harm and fitting the drug trade into parameters he views as acceptable.

I think it would add needed complexity to their relationship (and to Jason's redemption if we're going that route) as well as dealing with the more 'war-on-drug' elements of UTRH. Also it would help Roy stand on his own as a strong, articulate leader with a dark past rather than being (at least for a while) reduced to essentially Jason's sidekick.

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 19, Unfriended - Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, yelling, mentions of violence against women.

Word Count: 1.9k

Previously On...: You showed Nat and Wanda the texts. They were as bad as you thought.

A/N: You guys sure know how to make me give you whatever you want with all your flattery! I am WEAK. Keep it coming ;) Also, this scene is the very first one that came into my head during the creation of this fic, one of the first I wrote for it. It had to be redone a lot as the story changed, but I like to think I kept the beats and emotions the same as I first intended to be.

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when I update, please enable notifications from my Blog page!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

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Once inside the conference room, your friends made sure to sit you between the two of them, so that Bucky couldn't park himself next to you. Unfortunately, there wasn't much they could do to keep him from taking the seat across from you.

"Hey," he said as he sat down, "I've been trying to call you; thought we could go get some lunch before returning to our previously scheduled activities. Where've you been?" You acted as though you hadn't heard him, pretending you were extremely interested in something on your phone. It didn't escape your notice, however, when Jade entered the room and sat down in the seat next to him, Bucky instinctively shifted his seat away from her slightly. She glanced between the two of you, a smug smile playing across her lips.

"Bucky," she greeted. "How's things?"

"Carthage," he huffed in response. You made the mistake of catching his eye for a brief second, and he offered you a tentative smile before you immediately hardened your expression and turned away.

Nat jotted down a sentence in her notebook and slid the paper over to you. Your puppy looks like you just kicked him in the face and he can't figure out why.

You suppressed a snicker and wrote back I can't reward a mongrel for indiscriminately humping bitches, can I? You quickly worked to scribble over your words as Natasha positively cackled at you, drawing everyone's attention.

"You alright there, Nat?" Tony asked as he entered the room, moving toward the front of the space and getting ready to begin the meeting. Nat coughed and took a sip from her water bottle.

"Just peachy, Tony," she answered, stifling a smile. "Just peachy."

"Okay, good. Let's get this started, then." He opened up his tablet and flicked a projection over the table. It was a series of photographs of about two dozen or so young women, all looking to be in their late teens to early thirties. "These women," Tony began, "have all been reported missing from the vicinity of Atlantic City over the last eighteen months. They've all got a history of either drugs, prostitution, or both, so the local police aren't interested in wasting valuable resources tracking them down. Fortunately for them, my resources are endless." He gave a sad smile, then with another flick of his wrist, brought up a three-dimensional schematic of a squat building. "This is called the Wiggle Room. It's a Russian-owned club where at least half of the missing girls were dancers at some point in the last three years."

"You're thinking trafficking," you spoke up. It wasn't a question. You knew the signs too well, after all. Tony nodded.

"That's horrible," said Jade "but, I mean, we're the Avengers. Isn't trafficking kind of... I dunno, below our paygrade?"

If looks could kill, you and Natasha would have murdered her on the spot. Bucky rolled his eyes before leaning over and murmuring something to Jade that you couldn't quite hear, but you had a pretty good idea what it was when her face turned red and she looked at the two of you and muttered "Oh, sorry-- I didn't know."

Your next murder-by-death stare went to Bucky. How fucking dare he divulge your secrets to her, especially when you told him he was only one of three people on this entire fucking planet who knew them? You told him that in confidence. He had absolutely no right. He just shrugged at you apologetically. Fucking shrugged. You were going to throw up. How many times was he going to betray you?

"As I was saying," Tony continued, as though Jade hadn't interrupted him, and you were grateful for it, "we want to put a couple of people on the inside, work there for a few months, see what they can find out."

"Oooh!" said Jade, bouncing in her seat and raising her hand like she was in grade school. "I volunteer!" She turned to stage whisper to Bucky. "Wouldn't I make an absolutely adorable stripper? It would be so much fun!"

Bucky had the good sense, for once in his life, to roll his eyes at Jade as Tony spoke up: “You’re benched, Carthage,” he said matter of factly. “Which reminds me; we need to have a discussion about how you managed to sneak your ass onto the Russia mission.

You felt a sick sense of satisfaction when you saw the look of chastisement cross Jade’s face, and were overcome with a renewed curiosity over just how she happened to get herself on that Quinjet in the first place. Not that it mattered, not anymore.

"So, do you think you'd be up for it, Pocket?" Tony turned to you. "Willing to dust off those pasties and jump back on the pole one last time?"

You smirked, having suspected that the ask was coming as soon as he mentioned a strip club. "What can I say, Boss? It'll be like riding a bike."

"Good, because maintenance is putting a practice pole in your room as we speak. Don't want you looking rusty undercover."

"As if I could ever!” You pretended to be affronted.

"Hold up," said Steve, and suddenly, you could feel all eyes on you. Oops. You’d forgotten that part of your history was also not common knowledge. You glanced around and everyone was staring; Sam's mouth was even hanging open. "Are you saying Pocket used to be a stripper?" Steve whispered the last word, as though it was naughty and he'd get in trouble for using it.

"Hey," you said nonchalantly, shrugging your shoulders, "MIT ain't cheap."

"I'll have you know, Cap, that exotic dancing is a craft, and our Pocket here is an artist." You beamed at Tony's words, pride flushing through you. Your past as a dancer wasn't something that you necessarily led conversations with, but you weren't ashamed of it. The money had been excellent, and you'd been good at it. Damned good.

"You've seen her?" Sam asked, mouth still hanging open.

"How do you think we met?" Tony asked him, as if it was the stupidest question in the world.

"No," said Bucky, out of nowhere, his voice hard and angry. He stood up, fists planted on the table, glaring at you.

"It was definitely while she was working at a strip club" Tony said, deliberately mistaking Bucky's meaning. "It's not everyday you get a comparative analysis of the weaknesses of your company's firewalls at the same time you get a lap dance; tends to leave a lasting impression."

"No, I mean Pocket's not going undercover. She's just a civilian and it's too dangerous. Send Natasha or Jade in, instead," Bucky bit out through gritted teeth.

"Excuse me?" You stood up, as well, mirroring his stance and matching his glare from across the table. "You do not get to determine what missions are too dangerous for me, James. You're not my father."

"But I'm your boyfriend," he said, and the fact that you had called him 'James,' and not 'Bucky' or 'Barnes' wasn't lost on him. "And I care about whether or not you get hurt."

You laughed, cold and mirthless. "Since when?" you spat, letting every ounce of pain you felt at his betrayal into your voice. He looked back at you, hurt and abject confusion clouding his features.

"If you're so worried about her, then you can go, too," Tony said. "Go as her boyfriend, get a job at the club as a bouncer. We need multiple sets of eyes."

Bucky seemed almost mollified by this suggestion, but you were not going to allow it. "Absolutely not," you said, the conviction ringing in your voice. "Sam'll come with me."

"What?" both Sam and the super soldier asked at the same time.

"Barnes is way too identifiable with that metal arm," you offered by way of explanation. "No way in hell I'll keep my cover if I walk in with the fucking Winter Soldier by my side."

"She's got a point," Steve said, scratching his chin. "But Pocket, language, please." You stole a glance at Bucky, and his eyes were full of pain. You'd called him the Winter Soldier. Out loud. You'd never done that; you knew how hard he worked to differentiate himself from the monster Hydra had turned him into. It was a low blow on your part, but you couldn't find it in you to give a shit.

Tony clapped his hands. "All right, then it's settled. Pocket and Sam will go to Atlantic City. It's strictly an intel-finding mission, only. No heroics, got it you two?" You both nodded in agreement. While you were excited to go out into the field in an undercover capacity, you had no desire to see combat. Sure, you could more than handle your own if it came down to self-defense-- Nat had made sure of that, but there was a reason you were the computer girl and not an actual superhero yourself. "Pocket, get practicing. You've got about a week before we’ll be sending you and Sam out; don’t want you embarrassing me up there. Any questions? No? Good. That's it, then, class adjourned. 

"Oh, and one more thing," he said before everyone could collect themselves, "don't forget, our girl's turning 35 on Saturday. The party starts at eight. Dress to kill, because I'm going all out for this one."

You couldn't help the blush that crept up your face, despite the rollercoaster of anger and agony you’d been feeling. When Tony had approached you about throwing you a birthday party, you'd demurred, telling him you were too old for one, but he had insisted that, since you'd missed out on so many childhood experiences because of what your parents had put you through, you were going to get a party to remember.

You got up and gathered your things, purposefully avoiding Bucky as Nat and Wanda glared at him while they waited to escort you out. You were eager to get up to your new room so you could start researching the missing women and this strip club and, a part of you admitted with a smile, get practicing your old routine and come up with a couple of new ones. It was just the thing you needed to take your mind off of your current troubles.

“Pocket, Sam,” Tony called, catching your attention, “hold back a minute; I want to go over some details with you.”

Nat and Wanda looked at you, but you encouraged them to go on; Steve had made a beeline toward Bucky after the meeting had been adjourned and, despite Bucky lingering, obviously waiting to speak with you, had managed to steer him out of the room to discuss something you couldn’t give a shit about. “It’s fine, guys,” you told your friends. “He’s gone; I should be able to get back up to the room without trouble.

They exchanged a glance, then looked back at you. Nodding, they left.

“Pocket,” Tony said, once the conference room was clear and it was just the two of you and Sam remaining, “care to tell me why FRIDAY says you’ve moved rooms?”

“Not at the current moment, Boss,” you said. You didn’t want to rehash the drama you’d been thrown into against your will, let alone in front of a completely innocent bystander. Instead, you encouraged him to get on with whatever more he needed to tell you and Sam about the parameters of the mission. Hopefully, it would distract you enough to take your mind off of the sheer agony you felt inside.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[crumb]

please tell me you guys watched that video Noah Schnapp put out trying to backtrack and save his pathetic career. Please listen very carefully to the language and words he uses. He's choosing his wording VERY carefully in order to save his career and try to pacify those who support Palestine without actually denouncing genocide or zionism. "I feel my thoughts and beliefs have been so far misconstrued..." babe you were yelling from ig post to ig post about being pro israel, calling Palestinians terrorists, and being a proud zionist. How has that been misconstrued?? "I only want peace and safety and security for all innocent people affected by this conflict" He makes sure to use the qualifier 'innocent' several times in the video when referring to Palestinians, victims of a genocide not a conflict. But as we know, zionists don't see Palestinians as innocent so who is he talking about? This kind of tentative language helps him try to appear like he actually cares about Palestine while still condemning hamas without addressing the actual root of the issue—israel and the IOF. "We all hope for the same things..." Do we? You're a zionist. Zionism is settler colonialism and based in white supremacy. Please be more specific on what you hope for. "...That being, those innocent people being held hostage in Gaza be returned to their families. And equally hope for an end to the loss of innocent life in Palestine..." Zionists LOVE to go on and on about the hostages without mentioning the very real danger those hostages face from israel and the IOF bombs themselves. Israel is carpet bombing Palestine indiscriminately when they very much have the tech to make extremely detailed and targeted attacks. Did you see the way they targeted the specific apartment unit in Lebanon? In Gaza they're wiping out whole city blocks. Israel and the IOF don't actually care about the hostages. If they did they wouldn't be razing Gaza and boasting about their plans to use the land for beach condos. If israel and the IOF actually cared about israelis, why are they basically using the Hannibal Directive? Especially at the music festival on October 7th where the IOF killed a number of their own civilians. If israel cared about the hostages, why aren't they willing to release the hundreds of Palestinian hostages they have who are being jailed illegally and without charges? 'oh but they did! They released some during the pause so they could get hamas to release some israeli hostages' yeah and then the IOF rounded up and captured more Palestinians than they released that very same day. "...I think anyone with any ounce of humanity would hope for an end to the hostility on both sides. I stand against any killing of any innocent people" Once again with the manipulative qualifiers 'both sides' and 'innocent people'. How can you expect an occupied people who have been living through apartheid and genocide for 75 years to not eventually fight back? To not understand why October 7th happened you have to be either completely uneducated about even the most basic history of Palestine and/or so deeply entrenched in propaganda and denial that it doesn't even matter if you do know about the history because you truly believe you deserve an ethnostate on a piece of land that has inhabited several diverse groups over thousands of years. It was never a land of 1 singular homogeneous group. To want it to be that, is actually insane.

[tranquilitybasehotelcasino]

i always think about that part in the sing mv after party poison gets killed where kobra kid immediately goes fucking berserk just like yelling screaming shooting indiscriminately more emotion than we’ve ever seen from him and they have to shoot him like five times before he dies like even more than the clips of him reading torture fetish magazines and practicing kung fu against nobody that bit always makes me go Oh okay. So you’re just quiet and stoic like that to hide the fact that you’re, like, fucking crazy

[mc-i-r]

Disposable Heroes

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four AO3 link

A/N: okay this chapter took way longer than expected but it's done! It's here! The final chapter is Heroes is out! Thank you all so much for your incredible support through the months of writing this story. Although this is the last chapter, I do plan on doing two additional parts to this story that dive deeper into the characters. However, as of right now it's up in the air for when these will be out as college is getting busy with the end of the semester and holidays rapidly approaching. That being said, I do plan on doing them! In the meantime, enjoy this final chapter!

Tw: graphic descriptions of violence (canon typical), homophobic language (self-directed), dissociation

———

He’s been on the couch for an indiscriminate amount of time, staring at the pristine marble fireplace he desperately wants to take his nail bat to. He doesn’t remember much of how he got here, only that he was at work at some point and must have driven himself home without really thinking. Now that he puts it that way in his mind, it doesn’t sound all that safe, but he’s fine and alive and sitting on the couch.

Steve blinks back into full consciousness when he hears a knock on the front door. He blinks one, twice, three times to get rid of the fuzziness that’s taken residence on the outskirts of his vision before hauling himself off the leather sofa. He’s honestly surprised he managed to space out so long on such an uncomfortable piece of furniture, the cushions stiff from disuse over the years. It’s just begun to gain that looseness from all the kids lounging on it, but it’s still rather uncomfortable in his opinion.

Wrapping a thick blanket around his shoulders, he moves sloppily towards the door. Whoever is on the other side has grown to knocking continuously, so much so it’s beginning to give Steve a headache. No one he knows would be coming by today. It’s Sunday, meaning most of the kids are off doing their own thing with their parents or hanging out in the ever eloquent armpit that is Mike Wheeler’s basement. Whoever is on the other side isn’t someone he knows, so he begins to turn and head upstairs to sleep the rest of the fuzzy off before a voice makes him freeze in his tracks.

“Steve?” A deep, raspy voice tinged with panic filters through the mahogany doors. “Steve, I know you’re in there.”

He watches the door as he continues the path to his room, ready to avoid whatever it is Eddie wants from him.

Maybe Eddie figured out Steve’s feelings and is here to reject him. Or maybe he’ll call Steve a fag and punch him just like Steve has done to countless people back in high school. Really, he wouldn’t blame him if he did, he deserves it. Maybe Eddie’s found someone else, and is here to tell Steve it will never work out, that he’s not into guys. He thinks that one would hurt the most.

“Steve, your car is in the driveway and the lights are on,” Eddie points out, and Steve can tell he’s raising his eyebrow and giving him a look just by the tone of his voice. “We need to talk.”

Steve doesn’t want to talk. Not right now. His head is mushy and he’s not thinking straight—which he isn’t, but still—and he feels like he’s barely standing on his feet. Part of him, a bigger part than he’d like to admit, wonders if he somehow fell asleep on the couch without noticing. That’s the only way he can justify Eddie’s presence on the other side of the door and the way he was frantically knocking beforehand while worriedly yelling his name. That’s the only way any of this makes sense.

Slowly—so very slowly—he walks up to the door. He red-hued wood stares back at him mockingly, separating him from the one person he wants most. Eddie is here, just on the other side, but he can’t bring himself to reach out and turn the knob.

What if Eddie is mad at him? What if he’s here to yell and hit and hurt him beyond repair? He’s already so, so weak for him, and he knows it wouldn’t take much for him to break completely. Eddie is… he means so much more to Steve than he can properly express, and he doesn’t want to open this door and have it ripped away from him completely.

Because that’s what it boils down to, doesn’t it? If Eddie is gone, he has nothing. Sure, there’s Robin, but something about Eddie is different in a good way. A way that makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside even in the dead of winter. A way that makes him blush and swoon and pine from afar because that’s all he knows how to do. A way that makes him want with his whole being. A way that he knows could tear him apart because it’s just too good to be true.

He knows he should open the door. He can reach out and grasp the knob in his hand and turn it, can swing it open and reveal the man his heart is in pieces for. He can invite him in, sit down and talk about whatever he wants to. He can have Eddie back in his life if he just. Opens. The. Door.

But Steve is a coward, and all the bravery Dustin swears he has flies right out the window as soon as no one’s life is in danger, as soon as it’s only his life in question. He takes a step back, then another, until he’s safely away from the door and next to the steps. He swallows, the sound loud in the stilted silence of his empty house, and waits.

There’s a sigh on the other side of the door before muffled shuffling and murmured curses. Steve first thinks Eddie is leaving, that he finally realized Steve wasn’t going to open the door for him and had enough, but then he hears a tiny ‘aha!’. Seconds later, the sound of a key entering the lock echo through the foyer and Steve instinctively tugs the blanket closer around him.

The door swings open to reveal Eddie in a rumpled t-shirt, sweatpants, and messy hair that looks almost as wild as his eyes. His breathing is fast and he’s disheveled to the point that Steve has the fleeting thought he just woke up and panic-ran there—which, judging by the haphazard way his van is parked in the driveway, his assumption isn’t too far of a stretch.

Even now, with his hair a wild mess and presence like a whirlwind, he's beautiful. He’s missing his signature rings, making his fingers seem longer and more delicate. The faded Black Sabbath shirt hangs from his frame, the thin fabric allowing his collarbones to show through as well as the healing scars on his chest. His hair is in a messy bun with thick strands hanging around his face he must have missed when putting it up, and Steve desperately wants to twist them around his fingers and pull.

If he lets himself think about it for too long, Steve would imagine this is what he looks like when he wakes up. Eddie would crawl out of bed no earlier than ten o’clock, drag himself to the coffee machine and sip it black and grimace—he knows he doesn’t like it black, but he still tries it every morning anyway—before adding ungodly amounts of cream and sugar before leaning against the counter as he wakes up. Steve would be making breakfast, probably something boring like eggs and bacon, and smile when Eddie wraps his arms around his waist from behind and kisses his shoulder. He’d have a low morning voice, something husky and rough from years of smoking, and Eddie would perch his head on Steve’s shoulder to watch him cook. They’d sneak kisses the whole time, and Eddie would try to steal bacon off the plate even though it’s still hot and he would burn his tongue and complain about it for the rest of the day. Steve would suggest he kiss it to make it better, and they would end up making out in the kitchen while their food grows cold.

He’s pulled out of his daydream by the sound of metal scraping against metal. Eddie is focused on getting the key back out of the lock, and Steve knows he should tell him that the spare has a habit of sticking since it’s rarely used but no words escape him. He shuffles on his feet instead, willing his heavy limbs to move forwards. The movement catches Eddie’s attention, and he immediately stops fiddling with the lock to look at him. His eyes are wide, and a little glassy, and he instantly takes his hands off the knob to drop them at his sides.

Now that those doe eyes are looking right at him, Steve finds a whole avalanche of words threatening to tumble out; ‘You’re pretty’, ‘hey, Eds', and ‘I really like you’ being the top contenders. Instead, he lets out a meek “hi”.

Eddie grins, just a little nervous thing, and Steve wonders what he was even worried about.

“Hiya, Stevie,” he greets. He looks over at the door and winces. “I used the spare key, hope you don’t mind.”

Steve shakes his head. “That’s what it’s for. Sorry I didn’t let you in.”

“Don’t worry about it, Stevie,” Eddie assures. He finally pulls the key out of the lock and shuts the door behind him, leaning against it as he looks at Steve. “As nice as it is in your fancy foyer, I think we’d both rather talk somewhere a little more comfortable, don'tcha think?”

His words kick Steve back into gear and he gestures with his head to the living room. Eddie brushes against him as he goes to sit on the couch and Steve tries desperately not to flinch at the sudden contact and rush of heat he feels at the slight touch. Eddie sits on the couch with a huff and Steve stands to the side awkwardly, looking down at his feet and the ornate carpet instead of those big doe eyes he constantly gets lost in.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” Steve offers, still not looking up. “I made some cookies yesterday if you want some— at least, I think it was yesterday—“

“Steve,” Eddie says softly, cutting him off and sealing his lips closed. He wordlessly pats the empty seat beside him on the sofa, raising an eyebrow in silent command. Steve looks at Eddie, then at the seat, and back again. It’s hard to tell the expression on his face and what exactly the other man is feeling, caught somewhere between concern and this gentleness he’s rarely seen.

Steve sits next to him with a quiet huff, subconsciously tugging the blanket around his shoulders until it’s just under his chin. He stares at the pristine brick underneath the fireplace, eggshell white and void of ash smudges or scratches. Steve has never seen an actual fire in that fireplace, only the styrofoam logs his mother had shipped to the house to look realistic without making a mess. He counts the rows, then each brick within the rows and the frame around them until he concludes that there's fifty-six bricks in the fireplace. It’s an odd number to end on but surprisingly even. He briefly wonders if his parents intentionally ended the brick count on an even number or if it just happened that way.

Eddie clears his throat next to him and Steve startles a little, breaking out of his brick-focused revere to glance at the man beside him. He looks nervous, hands twisting together and fingers tracing the empty space where his rings usually sit. Steve thinks that if Eddie had remembered them, he’d be twisting the heavy rings in their silence.

“We need to talk, Steve,” Eddie repeats. “This… this thing has gone on for way too long and we need to set the record straight.”

Steve holds back a snort at the word ‘straight’, feeling at this moment anything but. He can feel Eddie’s body heat even from the other side of the couch and part of him is screaming at his hands to reach out and touch. But, Eddie is here to talk, not touch, so he keeps his hands to himself and stiffly nods.

At least he has the decency not to say what Steve did wrong to his face. That small bit of mercy warms something within him even though he knows the following conversation will rip it apart. Eddie is going to tell him that it’s not worth it, that Steve isn’t worth it, and that he should stop trying to make amends because it’s never going to work. Eddie will never like him, that's a given fact proven time and time again by the cut-off comments and sideways glances and aborted touches.

He tears his eyes away from where they’ve focused back on the fireplace, choosing instead to look down at his lap. It’s better to rip the band-aid off early, just get straight to the point instead of beating around the proverbial bush. Steve takes a breath then releases it slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment while gathering his words.

“You don’t have to say it, Eds,” he murmurs and fuck, he didn’t mean for ‘Eds’ to sound so soft. He can’t help it though, not when the boy he wants is leaving him before they’ve even had a chance to be together. “I already know.”

He feels more than sees Eddie freeze beside him, stiffening up as if he was suddenly turned to stone. Wide brown eyes are turned his way and Steve can’t help but glance at them once more while he’s still allowed. They’re more shiny than usual, bouncing over Steve’s face like two rocket-powered pinballs.

As the silence stretches on, he can tell Eddie won’t be the one to fill it. That’s okay, really, because he needs to explain himself. Might as well get it out in the open before all the yelling starts and he shuts down completely.

“I know you don’t like me,” Steve starts and Eddie immediately makes a noise of protest. He glances at the other with pleading eyes and a small, sad smile. “Can I get it all out before you say anything? I just… I need to say this without any interruptions.”

Eddie immediately nods, miming zipping his lips closed, locking them, and throwing away the key. Steve can’t fight the smile that forms on his face at the action, finding the little show of childishness endearing. It’s nice to see Eddie act more like himself after everything, even though the circumstances are less than ideal.

“Thanks,” he says. Steve takes a breath, closing to look down at his hands rather than at Eddie. He squeezes them together, watching as his knuckles and the tips of his fingers turn white with pressure.

“I know I’ve been too clingy with the group lately and was pushing people to hang out with me. I…” he trails off, huffs. “It sounds bad but I usually don’t notice how I’m acting until someone points it out, and… and I realize now how I’ve been and I promise to leave them alone.”

Eddie shifts beside him, scooting closer to his hunched form on the couch. A hand enters his periphery, but Steve keeps his own firmly planted in his lap. He begins picking at the skin beside his nails, a nervous habit he can’t quite get rid of, to take his mind off the man next to him.

“I have one condition though,” Steve requests. He starts, pauses, and when the words get caught in the back of his throat he resorts to nervously rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. He needs to say them, needs Eddie to know, but the words just… won’t come out.

A slender hand moves over his and settles softly over his twitching fingers. Steve stops picking at the contact, the touch freezing him and filling him with unbearable warmth at the same time. He doesn’t look up, afraid to find the annoyance that’s most likely there at his repetitive movements, and instead lets the touch wash over him. It travels up his hands, through his arms, and bee-lines for his fragile heart. It travels up his neck, unsticking the words there and giving them new life.

“Promise me you’ll take care of the kids, Eds,” he croaks out, voice suddenly raw and fragile. “Take care of them and of yourself too, okay?”

There’s silence after his request but Steve doesn’t dare move. His eyes never travel up to look at Eddie, and he doesn’t think he has the right to. He doesn’t want to see the discontent on his face, or the satisfaction or acceptance or happiness or whatever it is at the thought of never having to see Steve and all of his bullshit anymore.

Instead, he focuses on the hand over his, his eyes tracing the divots of the knuckles and the faint freckles found there. He counts the visible veins and follows their path upwards. He watches the tendons flex as Eddie taps his hand twice, the motion so deliberate it causes Steve to look up at him on instinct.

The expression he finds there is not what he was expecting. His eyes are wide and glossy, the deep brown shining a little in the midday sunlight. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are a thin line. It’s an expression Steve’s never seen before, one that doesn’t feel right on Eddie’s face. He looks… in a word, Eddie looks scared.

That quickly changes, however, when Eddie roughly shakes his head from side to side—fluffing up his hair in the process—and looks at Steve with concern. He points at his mouth and Steve only quirks an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what that means—“

He’s cut off by Eddie shooting off the couch, looking left and right before falling to the ground on his knees with his back to Steve.

“… Eddie?”

Steve is ignored as Eddie stretches his arms out and pats the rug as if looking for something. Steve’s two seconds away from joining him on the floor when Eddie makes a triumphant noise and stands up, turning back to Steve and holding up his hand with his fingers clenched around… nothing.

There’s nothing in his hand but Eddie still brings it up to his face and just then, Steve realizes he was looking for the invisible key he threw away earlier. Eddie mimes unlocking and unzipping his lips, and Steve finds the whole action so ridiculously Eddie that he can’t help but shed a ghost of a smile.

“Stevie…” Eddie murmurs, a hand coming up to rest on Steve’s cheek so gently it makes his chest hurt. Eddie flicks his eyes between Steve’s, the deep brown reflecting some of the light from the open window. This close, Steve can see small swirls of yellow within the brown, like golden leaves passing by warm bark as they fall in autumn.

Eddie wipes under his eyes with his free hand, and Steve can feel wetness drying on his cheeks. He didn’t realize he was crying, but Eddie’s gentleness makes more sense now. He smiles at him, a sad little thing that has no right being this beautiful on his face, as he pushes some of Steve’s admittedly flat and greasy hair out of his eyes.

His hair is getting long now, falling just at his shoulders, but he has no desire to cut it. Sure, it gets in his face all the time and he has to use the little claw clips he stole from Robin to keep the shorter pieces back when he gets hot but cutting it… it just doesn’t feel right anymore.

Maybe it’s because his parents aren’t here to tell him he looks bad with long hair, and that he should cut it before people start “talking”. Maybe it’s because it’s new and Steve liked how long his hair had gotten when he worked at Scoops but had cut it when Robin did so they would match. Maybe it’s because he feels more himself when it’s long, like he’s letting go of the pretty boy jock of the past and finally being himself. Or maybe—and more likely—it’s because he stopped caring about what he looked like since no one was around to see him anyway.

“I’m sorry.”

Steve freezes. Blinks. Opens his mouth once, closes it, repeats the process.

Because in what world would Eddie Munson need to apologize to him?

Steve is the one who fucked up. Steve is the one who pushed everyone away, who was too much. Steve was the harbinger of his own self-destruction. It was always Steve, Steve, Steve—

“No, Stevie—“ Eddie begins, then cuts himself off. His hands grip Steve’s face tighter, small in pressure and forcing him to look into his eyes. “Don’t do that. I know what your head is telling you, sweetheart, but let me explain before you come to any conclusions, yeah?”

And Steve… he doesn’t know what to say. No one has ever noticed him like this before. Has never shown it even if they had.

“It’s—It’s okay, Eds, you don’t—“

“No, I do, Steve. I need to explain, okay? Will you let me?”

Eddie is asking Steve for permission. Is asking for time, for a chance, and Steve has no other choice but to grant him his wish. He nods in Eddie’s hold, shallow but meaningful all the same. Eddie smiles that sad smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and shifts so his whole body is facing Steve. Full attention is drawn to him, consuming him, and Steve only sits. Watches. Waits.

“Just… When I tell you, will you promise not to be mad?” Eddie scrunches his face like he’s waiting for a verbal assault, like he’s waiting for Steve to say ‘no’. He doesn’t know if he could ever be truly mad at Eddie, doesn’t think a bone in his body could hate the man before him.

“Eds, I could never hate you,” he murmurs. “I promise, I won’t be mad.”

Eddie huffs, something akin to a laugh and a sigh, and looks down at his lap. His face is colored with sour sadness, something that has died long ago and turned rotten.

“I don’t know if you can keep that promise, Steve. Not for this.”

“Eddie, look at me,” Steve asks, and Eddie does as he’s told. He looks right in his eyes, holding eye contact, and says, “I promise I will never, ever hate you.”

Eddie nods, takes a breath and Steve can feel the slight tremble of his hands.

“As much as I regret the truth, your soulmate is the main reason I’m here right now,” he begins, smiles to deflect and rolls his eyes. “Robin practically burst into my trailer to tell me to get my shit together and she was right because Steve… Steve, I was a mess.

“I could barely function. I’d spend all day in my room, playing songs over and over and over again until I heard them in my sleep because I couldn’t let myself give in to what I wanted most.”

He doesn’t say it, not explicitly, but Steve knows. He knows, because he feels the same thing. That unbearable need to be with someone, the near possession that sinks down to his core and forges iron bars in his bones. The weight that settles in his stomach when he’s without, when he’s alone. He knows, because he’s felt that way about the man in front of him everyday since March. Since senior year. Since goddamn high school—

“There’s this person,” Eddie confesses. “I’ve found someone that makes me really happy.”

The world stops. Time slows. Steve feels his heart pause in his chest, feels it skip a beat. His body grows cold and washes from head to toe, the iciness reverberating in his bones. Eddie’s found someone. He’s found someone that isn’t Steve.

It’s the worst case scenario. Eddie has found someone and is here to let him down easy. His visit makes more sense now. Eddie has figured out his feelings and is here to reject him. Reject him because Eddie’s with someone else—

“Oh,” he breathes out. He can feel his head start to float, can feel his mind slipping away because it doesn’t want to think anymore, doesn’t want to accept that Eddie doesn’t want him. The fuzziness returns, clouding the edges of his vision.

“Can I tell you about them?” Eddie asks, like they’re friends. Like they regularly tell each other about their crushes. Like this is just.. like it’s fun. Steve only has the strength to nod.

“They’re beautiful,” Eddie starts. “They have silky brown hair and tan skin, marked with cute little moles and an array of scars. They wear these tight little Levi’s that drive me crazy, I mean it’s downright sinful.

“More importantly, they’re sweet. They always put others before themself, always asking how everyone else is despite no one ever asking how they are. They give out rides and take people wherever they want, no matter what. They’re a little bit of a pushover, but it’s only because they love people so fully and wholly that they can’t help it.

“This person… I think they’re it for me, Stevie,” Eddie finishes. “I think I’ve found the one.”

The words hit him like an out of body experience, like he’s watching himself have this conversation without having any conscious input. It doesn’t feel real. Steve can’t feel the couch underneath him or the blanket around his shoulders, just as he can’t hear the words from Eddie’s mouth or the meaning behind them. His brain stopped working when Eddie confessed and now he’s running on autopilot alone.

“I’m happy for you, Eddie,” he pushes out with a smile, a fake plastic-like thing that feels heavy on his face. “I hope it works out for you two.”

“Me too. This person means a lot to me, you know.”

He doesn’t, and he really doesn’t want to. Honestly, Steve just wants this conversation to be over so he can crawl in his bed and decompose for the next month.

“I’m glad.” He’s not.

“The kids love them and so does Robin. They make us feel complete, and without them we’re a mess.”

Those words wake him up a little. They’ve already met the kids and Robin. They fit just as Steve didn’t. They complete the puzzle of the full family picture, one without Steve in it. They’ve replaced him. They don’t need him. They’ll never need him, he’s just—

“It’s good that they’ve found someone. They need someone like that.”

“Yeah, Stevie, they do,” Eddie says quietly. “But I did something that made them go away, and I’m trying to get them back.

“See, I thought that if I kept myself away, that my feelings would go away too. But uh…” Eddie looks down at his lap and huffs. “My feelings are still here and all I did was push away the person I wanted most.”

“I’m sure they’ll forgive you,” he assures, even though the words feel like ash on his tongue. “If they’re any good, they’ll understand.”

Eddie looks at him then, his dark brown eyes boring into his. Steve looks back, flicking his eyes across his face as if it holds the secrets to the universe. As if Eddie’s face will tell him what he’s supposed to do next.

“Well, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Understand,” Eddie supplies. There’s a small, sad smile on his face as he tilts his head. Steve furrows his brows.

“Why would I need to—“

He pauses. Rethinks Eddie’s words.

“…Brown hair and tan skin… moles… scars… rides… pushover”

No. It can’t be him, it can’t. Steve can’t listen to Eddie’s loud music for more than a few minutes before getting a migraine. He’s got no experience being with a guy and has only just recently accepted that he’d like to be with one. There’s no way Eddie could be talking about him because he isn’t special, isn’t someone Eddie would like. At least, not like that. Steve is just Steve, and Eddie is so… so Eddie.

But Eddie’s looking at him with that look, the one he gives when he’s trying to tell him something without actually saying it. His doe eyes are staring at him full force, working overtime to tell Steve something he can’t quite understand.

Eddie quirks an eyebrow and something clicks. Puzzle pieces start to fall into place.

But… It can’t be—

“Me,” Steve whispers. It’s a small, broken thing, like a butterfly with a busted wing. Beautiful but tarnished, alive but not whole. Eddie only smiles, this one less sad and more soft.

“Yeah, Stevie, you,” he whispers back, just as quiet. “Staying away from you was the hardest thing I ever did, and I will spend the rest of my goddamn life regretting it.”

It doesn’t make any sense why Eddie would stay away when they’ve both been pulled together like two dying stars in a collapsing universe. Steve thought he was alone in his wanting, in his pining, but Eddie had been right there with him and that… that is terrifying.

He wants to scream at him, to yell and ask him a million times ‘why?’. He wants to punch a fucking wall. He wants to beg and plead for an explanation. He wants to cry, and maybe throw up a little. He wants to collapse in Eddie’s arms and be held, be kept safe, and he doesn’t ever, ever, want to leave.

Pressure on his face makes his eyes drift back up, unaware they had wandered elsewhere until Eddie coaxed them back to him. He thinks that every part of him will always drift back to Eddie somehow, like he’s the beacon Steve will forever be drawn to. A hand slips off his cheek, fits right over one of Steve’s like a missing puzzle piece. Steve turns his hand and slots his fingers between Eddie’s.

“I never hated you, Steve. Never,” Eddie confesses, cheeks catching a rosy glow as he looks down at their hands, fingers entwined. “It was uh… the opposite, actually.”

There’s an implication there, a little snippet of what Eddie’s really saying. ‘I like you, Steve, I’ve always liked you. I lo—‘

Steve squeezes his hand, rubbing his thumb along his knuckles and causing a smile to form on the others’ face. It’s small, shy like Eddie doesn’t know it’s there. He looks up then, eyes deep brown and yellow, and he’s beautiful but Steve feels like he’s dying all the same. Like Eddie has the power to keep him alive or kill him in one breath. The truth is, he does.

“I’m a coward, Stevie. Always have been,” Eddie huff a humorless laugh, more of a rush of air through his nose than anything. “I did what I always do. I ran. I ran from you.

“Not because of anything you did, mind you, but because I didn’t want to admit to whatever was—is—all up in my head. I didn’t wanna show too much and make you uncomfortable because I know how you are with touch sometimes and I didn’t trust myself to keep my hands to myself.

“I mean, god, do you know how many times I had to literally sit on my hands to keep from running them through your hair or holding your hand or doing the cheesy fucking yawn-and-stretch move?” He confesses, and the absurdity of it makes a loud laugh burst out of Steve’s throat. Eddie’s got a real smile on his face this time, one that’s happy, and maybe a little teasing. “I’m serious! I’m surprised no one caught me looking at you. I mean, I was always looking, Stevie, but I knew I could never touch—“

“You could’ve,” Steve interrupts, feels it’s important. He needs Eddie to know. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“You would have minded, Steve,” he insists. “I didn’t want to give you a friendly pat on the back or clap your shoulder. I wanted—I still want—something you don’t want to give me.”

“How do you know? How do you know I don’t want you to give it, Eddie?”

“‘Cause you don’t like me like that, Steve,” he says with a sad sort of confidence, like he knows it for a fact. Like Steve doesn’t feel the same and he—

Oh.

Eddie doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know what Steve’s feeling or what he’s been going through because he doesn’t believe Steve could ever want him back. This isn’t a mutual confession, this is Eddie bearing his throat at Steve in an attempt to bring him back. This is self-sacrifice, martyrdom at its finest.

This is Eddie planning a second suicide.

“By ‘that’ I mean gay, Steve. I’m… I’m gay,” Eddie confesses, but Steve is so wrapped up in his own mind that he can’t say what he wants to. He wants to smile, thank him for sharing, assure him that nothing will change between them—unless they want it to—and hug him because telling people is hard.

But no words come out, and he’s stuck in Eddie’s gentle hand on his face and big brown eyes locked onto his.

“And I really hope you’re okay with it because I can live with not having you like that, I have before and I can do it again, but not having you at all is something I can’t survive. Something I won’t survive. Hell—I barely made it through staying away for as long as I did.

“Steve, I sat in my van multiple times over the past few weeks contemplating if I should come over to your house or not just because I missed you,” he exposes, mouth forming that beautifully sad smile. “But I went back inside every time because it was pathetic, I was pathetic.”

Eddie looks down, then immediately shoots his head up with wide eyes bouncing between Steve’s.

“Shit, now that I say that out loud it sounds incredibly creepy. Fuck… I didn’t mean it like that, I swear, I mean it wasn’t that often anyway and I never—“

“Eddie.”

His mouth shuts with an audible ‘click’, and Steve winces in sympathy. His wince turns into a hesitant smile, however, as he raises a shaky hand to cover Eddie’s on his cheek. He leans into the touch—probably more than he should—and watches the way Eddie’s eyes widen a little.

“You don’t hate me?” Steve mutters, those four words loud in the silence of his empty house.

Eddie shakes his head rapidly, reminding Steve a little bit of a puppy. “Like I said, Stevie, I could never hate you.”

He can’t help but scoff and roll his eyes, remembering the various lunchtime speeches the other announced to the cafeteria in high school about social hierarchies and sticking it to The Man.

“I’m sure you hated me in high school, Eds,” he counters.

Instead of agreement, Steve is—to his surprise—met with a very flustered and red Eddie. He’s ducked his face so it’s partially hidden behind loose ringlets of hair but Steve can still see the redness high on his cheeks. He won’t look at him, won’t lift his head, but something tells him it’s not because he doesn’t want to.

“Holy—“ Steve huffs a shocked laugh. “Edward Munson, did you have a crush on me?”

“Oh god,” Eddie groans, covering his face with both hands and shaking his head. “You’re going to be so annoying about this, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies innocently, a smirk firmly lodged on his face.

“Is it really that surprising?” Eddie asks rhetorically. “I mean, how’s a queer kid in small town America not gonna have a crush on the incredibly hot co-captain of the swim team with his tight little speedos and smarmy wink that makes everyone wanna drop their panties for him?”

Steve rolls his eyes but leans in a little and drops his voice just to tease him. “Did you want to drop your panties too, Eds?”

Eddie goes scarlet as he shoves Steve’s face away half heartedly. Steve cackles, unable to help it when Eddie flops back dramatically with an arm thrown over his face like a distressed damsel.

“But seriously,” Steve asks when his laughter has died down. “Why did you have a crush on me? I was a total douchebag.”

Eddie looks up at him from his slumped position on the couch and shakes his head as he sits up. “You were different.

“I could tell you didn’t enjoy what you did in school. You didn’t like being mean to people, didn’t like being cruel, and you always had this… this sympathy for people. People like Tommy and Carol and fucking Billy Hargrove had this hunger in their eyes but you… you never did.

“You were different from them. You were better, good. Even back then,” he insists. Eddie scoots closer and rests his hands on either side of Steve’s face, cupping it gently like he did earlier. He locks their eyes.

“You’re still good, Stevie,” he whispers and tilts his head with a smile. “Think you’ll always be good.”

There’s that word again. ‘Good’. Something he strives to be but can never quite reach. It’s like waking up from a dream and forgetting the details. They’re right there, just out of reach, but no matter how hard you try they always slip away.

His eyes begin to sting and water, salty droplets resting on his lower lashes and falling down his face as he blinks. His chest feels tight, like all the air was pushed out of his lungs and he can’t quite fill them up again. No one has ever told him that before. No one has ever looked past the shell forged of bitchy attitude and sarcastic comments to see what’s underneath and liked what they’d seen.

Eddie has looked now. He’d taken a chisel and hammer and patiently chipped away until Steve cracked, until his shell opened up and Eddie was allowed to look inside.

He can feel the way his mind floats away, how he recesses back into his head but not because he wants to. His emotions are a lot on their own, but coming out all at once like this is too much for him to handle.

He vaguely registers the way Eddie’s eyes blow wide and how carefully he wipes away his fresh tears. His mouth is moving, saying words Steve can’t hear as he falls apart. He can’t help the broken sob that climbs its way out his throat, nor the way he tries to duck his head to hide his face. Eddie won’t let him, however, and instead tugs him closer. An arm drops down around his waist and pulls, moving Steve in Eddie’s lap in one fluid motion. Eddie’s other hand gently coaxes his head to land in the crook of his neck, leaving Steve feeling safe and held in a way he’s never experienced before.

Heaving sobs wrack his body, forcing shudders that go down to his bones to ripple across his skin. Weeks, months—hell, years—of pent up emotions are flooding out now, soaking Eddie’s shirt and skin. He’s being loud, hiccuping and sniffling right next to Eddie’s ear but the other just holds him. He holds him in a way that’s protective, like Eddie’s trying to shield him from all the pain and hurt in his past. Like holding him could make it all go away. Steve desperately wishes that were the case, that he could leave all of it behind like he wants to. But he also knows it’s not that simple, that his pain won’t go away with one hug or a single kiss no matter how much he hopes.

He can feel the vibration of words underneath him but his brain can’t quite comprehend them. A hand is carding through his hair, gingerly detangling it and pulling ever so slightly. The pressure on his scalp helps him focus a little, brings him back into his body where crying had taken him out. Eddie is rocking back and forth and doesn’t stop when Steve calms down.

Steve goes to pull away, sniffling and wiping at his eyes. “Sorry, I don’t… I don’t know what that was—“

“Shhh,” Eddie cuts him off, both arms around his waist now and holding him in place. “It’s okay, Stevie, you clearly needed a good cry. Just didn’t know I’d be the one to instigate it.”

A laugh escapes him, Steve rolling his eyes as he shoves at the man beneath him playfully. He doesn’t get up, however, feeling safe in the arms that hold him in place. Eddie wipes away the rest of the tears drying on his face, giving Steve that small, private smile he’s only seen a handful of times. One he knows is just for him.

Eddie’s hand doesn’t leave his face and instead settles for brushing oily strands of hair back in place. Fingers linger on his cheekbones, tracing under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. There’s a scar there on the bridge from where Jonathan had busted it, and later Billy added on by breaking it. His nose sits a little crooked now from not being properly healed, but Steve really couldn’t care less. Doesn’t think it matters much anymore, as it doesn’t seem to matter to Eddie either. Eddie’s eyes are soft, the corners of his mouth turned up just a little.

“What’s on your mind, Eds?” He whispers, voice strained from crying. The hand tracing his face pauses.

“Just thinking about you…” Eddie confesses, smile widening. “Even with your face blotchy red and puffy from crying, you’re still beautiful.”

It’s Steve’s turn to blush, face turning red as Eddie laughs.

“It’s true!”

“Is not—“

“No, I’m totally right.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve rolls his eyes before closing them for a moment, letting himself smile. The tightness in his chest has dissipated now, his lungs free to breathe. He leans back slightly, just enough to find and play with the hem of Eddie’s shirt.

Eddie’s hands squeeze his waist, making him look up. “What’s on your mind, Stevie?”

Steve huffs a laugh at the repeated phrase. “Where to start…”

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Eddie assures. Steve takes a breath.

“I can’t believe this is real, Eds. That you’re… you’re here and holding me like I’m special,” he begins, focusing on his hands playing with Eddie’s shirt hem instead of the man himself. “I didn’t think anyone would hold me like this—would even want to—much less you.”

“Why not, Steve?” His voice is gentle, coaxing. Steve hesitates to tell him, to give him the truth of what he’s been feeling the whole time. But Eddie was brave, he told Steve and now it’s time to return the favor.

“‘Cause I’ve had a crush on you for months, Eds, ever since that stupid fucking boathouse. I should’ve said something but I… I was too scared to say anything. Didn’t want to get my heart broken again.

“Then you stopped coming around and hanging out and wouldn’t talk to me or tell me what I did wrong and it… it fucking hurt, Eddie,” he confesses. He sniffles, trying to calm down before he starts crying again. He’s had enough humiliation for the day, thank you.

“It hurt because I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, not even Nancy. Hell, she’s practically no one compared to what I feel about you. There’s this… this feeling of wholeness when I’m with you, like I finally feel complete somehow despite not even knowing part of me was missing. Having a taste of that and then losing it, losing you, made me break.

“I didn’t know if you felt the same, and I still can’t really believe that you do,” Steve admits. He clenches his eyes closed, begging the tears pricking his eyes to go away. “I’ve accepted that I’m not cut out for love. Everyone I try to get close to never seems to stick around long afterwards, so I’ve just… stopped trying.

“I told myself I’d keep my distance. I mean… I know I’m too much for people sometimes, got too much going on up in my head, and I thought that was why you pulled away,” he finishes. Eddie squeezes his waist again, causing Steve to look up and find a pained expression on his face he’s sure he’s not supposed to see.

“How… how could you think that?” Eddie questions, voice quiet like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying. Eddie cups his cheek with a soft hand, brushing his thumb across his cheekbone as he looks in his eyes. “How could you think that no one could love Steve Harrington?”

It’s a question he has a million answers to, a million different reasons for why. They replay in his head constantly, ever present and never fading. Letting it all out and telling Eddie what he can barely admit to himself isn’t something he thinks he can do.

But Eddie’s looking at him now with those big brown eyes and soft lips curved slightly downwards into a subtle frown, eyebrows scrunched earnestly. It makes all of his inhibitions melt away, makes his tongue unfreeze and words bubble up his throat.

“People have always loved the idea of me, Eds,” he begins. He smiles a bitter smile that feels like acid on his lips. “King Steve with daddy’s money to keep the liquor cabinet well-stocked and absent parents gone for weeks at a time meant an empty mansion perfect for parties. People would show up before I even knew what was going on, but I learned to go with it because saying no didn’t seem like an option. I’d just grab a bottle and hope for the best, figuring I might as well have a good time–or at least pretend like it.

“A few people looked under that facade and saw who I really was beyond all that. Tommy knew I hated parties and loud noises but nine times out of ten he was the one to invite everyone over. Nancy… I don’t think she ever really understood. Nance always had this preconceived notion about how people were and how they’re supposed to be and she couldn’t accept that I was different than that, that I diverged from her point of view.

“Looking back at it now, I think that’s a major reason why we didn’t work out. When people look at me, the real me, they never tend to stick around long afterwards. Hagan quit talking to me when I admitted I didn’t want to harass people anymore and Nancy—well, you pretty much know what happened but she didn’t stay long after I changed either,” Steve admits. He closes his eyes and leans into Eddie’s hand. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

Movement makes his eyes open to see Eddie shaking his head. “That’s not who I’m talking about,” Eddie corrects as he cups Steve’s face with both hands, the empty space on his waist feeling cold in the absence of warm arms.

“The Steve I’m talking about makes soup for sick Party members and parents. He gives out little gifts he picks up just ‘cause for the kids, Robin, or me. He hates who he was in the past, and has done more than enough to make up for it—not that he needed to in the first place. The Steve I’m talking about cares so much for other people that it consumes him to the point where he forgets about himself sometimes,” Eddie pauses, and Steve takes it as an opportunity to interrupt.

“But I haven’t done any of that in weeks, Eds,” he protests. “Besides, I’ve got tons of free time to look after myself now that the kids aren’t talking to me and—“

He cuts himself off at Eddie’s wince, a harsh thing that scrunches up his eyes and makes him flinch back like he was hit. It’s enough to make him wonder if he said something wrong, something that upset Eddie that he didn’t know about. God, can he do anything right? Jesus fucking Christ he’s hopeless.

“That’s uh…” Eddie trails off, pointedly avoiding eye contact as he sucks a breath through his teeth. “That’s my fault too.”

What?

“What?” Steve asks. “Wait, how?”

“The kids,” Eddie pauses to shake his head and mumble. “Stupid ones at that, came to the very misguided conclusion that I didn’t like you and started avoiding you on my behalf. Which I know is very unfair since you’ve known them way longer than I have and have literally saved their lives countless times. Like I said, stupid kids.”

Steve blinks. Thinks, blinks again. This wasn’t his fault. He did nothing to warrant being ignored for weeks, for being talked down to or excluded from conversations or gatherings. He did nothing to the kids, to Joyce or Hop or Robin or Eddie or anyone. He. Did. Nothing.

All of his paranoia, all the sleepless nights he spent roaming the streets with a bat covered in nails and dried blood was for nothing. All the worry, all the nightmares and panic attacks over the Party dying was for nothing. All the fear that turned his veins to ice and caused his words to stop was for nothing.

“Oh.”

It was all a misunderstanding. A silly little misunderstanding that made him lose his goddamn mind for weeks and obsess over every little interaction he’d had with the Party to try and parse out what went wrong. It was all because of some stupid crush and some stupid kids who like to stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the long ends before meeting Eddie’s gaze. He looks apologetic, like he knows what Steve went through and is feeling it all second hand. There’s anguish in his eyes, like Steve’s pain is now his. In a way, it is.

“Steve, I’m sorry I caused all of this,” Eddie apologizes. “I’ve already talked to the kids and told them the truth—well, some of the truth, anyways—and they know what they did was wrong. I told them to give you some space though, so you’ve got a day or two before a bunch of teens bombard your house and start throwing apologies at you. Also, Robin was totally mean to me today but she knows—wait, why are you laughing?”

Steve can’t help the laugh that escapes his throat, or the way his eyes water as his eyes scrunch. This is all so ridiculously funny, like a sitcom episode in real life. The pining idiots have a misunderstanding and there’s despair on both sides until the truth is revealed and they confess. The ‘what if’s play through his head, but instead of worst-case scenarios it’s what he and Eddie could have been this whole time if they had gotten their heads out of their asses sooner.

“Sorry, sorry, I just—“ he cuts himself off to wipe his eyes. “I was just thinking that I should’ve kissed you when I had the chance. It would’ve prevented all of this from happening.”

It’s a delight to watch Eddie’s eyes widen and face grow red at his explanation, and Steve feels like he discovered the eighth wonder of the world when the other man lets out an honest to god squeak that has no right being as cute as it is.

“What—“ Eddie begins with a strained voice before clearing it and starting over. “What do you mean by that?”

His laughing dislodged Eddie’s hands from his face, so Steve takes the opportunity to mirror the gesture on the metalhead before him. His hands cup squishy and faintly freckled cheeks, thumbs framing his cheekbones and fingers cradling the back of his head. Warmth radiates throughout his palms and up his arms, forming a gooey smile he’s sure looks as lovesick as he feels.

Huh. Lovesick. That’s new. Wait—

Holy shit he’s in love with Eddie Munson.

The realization is not as profound as he’d thought it would be. It’s a gentle understanding, one that washes over him like warm bath water. He knew deep down that he was in love, but the label was never placed upon his feelings. But they were there, and had been for far longer than he realized.

They were there when he stumbled down the steps of the Creel house in the Upside Down, world tilting on its axis as the ground shook. There was screeching all around him, sounds of otherworldly monsters calling out in anger or fear, he didn’t know. Didn’t really care. All he cared about was getting out of that hell, getting topside with everyone still intact.

Then he heard the screaming. The crying. The call for help.

He didn’t wait for Robin or Nancy to follow him, taking off as fast as he could to where Eddie and Dustin were. He didn’t know what to expect, didn’t want to think about the endless things he could find once he entered the trailer park. Didn’t want to think about Dustin or Eddie hurt, about them bleeding out or dy—

No. No, they were fine. They were fine. They had to be.

…Right?

He stumbled up to Eddie’s trailer but there was no sign of them. He looked around, confused and panicked, to find two bodies amongst a mass of withering wings. Time felt like it slowed, like the world had been put on pause. He doesn’t remember the walk over to them, only that he was repeating the mantra of ‘don’t let it be Dustin’ over and over again. But it wasn’t Dustin. It was Eddie.

It was Eddie with the same bites he himself had, except deeper and torn. It was Eddie covered in blood and the ripped remnants of his shirt with tears rolling down his cheeks. It was Eddie lying there motionless, entirely still save for the faint jostling as Dustin sobbed over him. It was Eddie dead. It was—

Eddie’s dead. He’s dead. He—

No. No, no, no, he can’t be dead. He can’t.

There’s too many things he wants—no, needs—to say. He needs to tell him that his crooked smile makes his knees weak. He needs to tell him that he wants to run his fingers through his wild, unruly hair. He needs to tell him that he wants to kiss those soft lips. He needs to tell him he’s felt this way for far too long already. He needs, he needs, he needs.

Afterwards was a blur of desperation, like his body knew it had to do anything it could to save the man before him. He remembers doing CPR, remembers the sickening crunch of bone as ribs snapped that made him want to puke. He remembers leaning over Eddie, watching as his figure distorted with unshed tears, and praying to a god he doesn’t believe in. He remembers watching his tears fall on Eddie’s face and roll down his cheek, leaving clean streaks through the blood splattered there. He remembers leaning down and pressing an ear to his chest.

He remembers the overwhelming amount of pure relief he felt when Eddie started breathing again. He remembers the pained groan Eddie let out as Steve picked him up and carried him out. He remembers that Eddie’s alive.

His feelings were there as he sat in the hospital waiting room bouncing his knee and staring at the doors Eddie disappeared behind. Dustin had been taken back a few minutes earlier to get his leg looked at but all Steve could think about was Eddie.

Was he still alive? Had they managed to stop the bleeding? Were his wounds infected? Did they have to intubate or was he strong enough to breath on his own? Was he awake? Was he in pain? Will he—

“Mr. Harrington, will you come with me please?” A short nurse called from the double doors that led into the hallway. His head snapped up to her, eyes wide like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He looked over at Robin, taking in the way she was chewing on her fingernails and nervously glancing around. He patted her knee before he stood up, wincing when the movement pulled at his wounds. He hadn’t had them looked at yet, deciding to let everyone else go first. His wounds weren’t that bad anyway, he got lucky.

He doesn’t feel like he did, really.

As he walked up to her, he could feel her eyes on him. Could feel her scanning him. Assessing him. It made him nervous. But then she smiled that polite nurse smile and it eased just a little bit.

“Mr. Harrington, are you here for Mr. Munson?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am,” he answered, even though he’s sure she knew who he was here for. When he busted through the emergency room doors with Eddie’s body in his arms, they refused to see him. Said they didn’t want to treat a murderer. Admittedly, what Steve did wasn’t inherently right but having the Harrington name pays off sometimes. Especially when your family is one of the main funders for the hospital.

“I can’t tell you much since you’re not legally related, but I will say that he is currently stable. Unfortunately, that’s the extent of the information I’m allowed to give you,” she informed, a sad look in her eyes. “Is there anyone we can contact who is related to Mr. Munson?”

“His uh… his uncle, Wayne Munson,” Steve supplied. “He works at the local plant if that’s any help.”

He really wished it would.

“Thank you, we’ll start trying to locate him,” she responded. “Meanwhile, I think you should have that looked at.”

Steve followed her gaze to where his wounds were, noticing that they had started bleeding again. The makeshift bandage Nancy had fastened was loose from hauling Eddie, and he’s surprised no one told him to see to it sooner.

He grimaces as he looks at her, the pain flooding back to the surface once he realized it had yet to be taken care of, and nods. “Yeah, I think uh… I think you’re right.”

As soon as he walked back out to the waiting room after he was patched up, the emergency doors burst open to reveal a middle-aged man. He was gray-headed and slightly balding, wearing an old flannel and dirty jeans as he bee-lined for the reception desk. There was no doubt that this was Wayne Munson; he had Eddie’s eyes.

The nurse at the desk was talking to him, and every word seemed to suck more of the life from Wayne’s eyes. She pointed to Steve, and he felt frozen as Wayne looked over at him. He managed a smile and a small wave, but then Wayne was walking over to him and his stomach dropped.

“The lady said you brought my boy in?” Wayne asked, but his question was more of a statement than anything. It made Steve nervous to have the man look at him expectantly, like he had answers. Like he had something to do with Eddie being where he is now. In a way, he does.

“Yes, sir, I did. We were together when the… when the earthquake hit,” he supplies, forgetting what the cover story was halfway through. He gestured to the rest of the Party sitting in the room, half of them asleep and slumped over while the rest were wound tight and pacing. “The doctors didn’t wanna see him when we got here.”

“She said you were a Harrington,” Wayne stated. His eyes were cold and hard, face giving away nothing. It made Steve’s blood freeze. His name carries a lot of weight, yes, but it’s not the good kind. People hear his name and sneer. They think of all the rich, posh assholes he’s still neighbors with. They think of his parents with their vacations and mansions and money they throw at problems to make them go away, including Steve. No one thinks the Harringtons are good people, and Wayne seems to feel the same.

“By birth, yes, but respectfully, the Harringtons can go fuck themselves.”

It brings a surprised huff out of the older man, some warmth flooding back into his eyes at Steve’s blunt remark. He puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it slightly in a way that makes Steve think Wayne almost wants to hug him.

“Thank you for saving my boy…?” Wayne trailed off, raising an eyebrow and waiting. It took an embarrassingly long moment for him to realize what he wanted.

“Uh, Steve, sir. It’s Steve.”

“Steve,” Wayne finished. He gave what Steve thinks was an approximation of a smile, squeezing his shoulder once more before removing his hand. “You’re a good kid, Steve. Think you could do my boy some good if ya stick around.”

The sentiment made Steve smile a little. “If he’ll let me, I’ll stay as long as he’d like.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any problem with that, Steve,” Wayne answered mysteriously before he disappeared behind the double doors leading to the hallway, presumedly to find Eddie. Steve watched him go, watched the doors close behind his retreating back. He sighed before sitting down beside Robin, leaning his head on her shoulder and waited.

Now, he’s tired of waiting.

“It means, Eds, that I should’ve kissed you sooner,” Steve confesses, relishing in the second squeak Eddie lets out. “I should’ve kissed you in the woods in the Upside Down after you helped fight off the demobats, and again in the RV after you called me ‘big boy’—which I did like, by the way.

“I should’ve kissed you when you said to make Vecna pay, and again when you were bleeding out in my arms, and again when you woke up in the hospital because, Eds, I was so goddamn happy you were alive.

“I should’ve kissed you when I picked up the kids from their first Hellfire meeting after spring break from Hell, after they all bounded out of the trailer like puppies high on adrenaline and talking a mile a minute. You had come out with a huge smile on your face as you watched them from the front porch, arms crossed and leaning against the railing. I remember they wanted to tell me about the new villain you had come up with and you had told them to ‘give your mother some space, she’s had a long day’. Ever since then I’ve been ‘mom’, thanks to you,” Steve recalls, smiling at the memory rolling his eyes at both Eddie’s and the kid’s antics.

“I should’ve kissed you all those times you came into Family Video. Should’ve dragged you in the break room and kissed you senseless until Robin banged on the door,” Steve finishes. During his rant, a grin steadily grew on Eddie’s face, fully displaying his dimples. Steve finally gives into temptation and traces them with his thumb, easily finding the subtle divot and grazing over it gently.

“Sounds like we have a lot of time to make up for,” Eddie all but whispers, voice raspy and petal-soft. His eyes are fixated on Steve’s lips, and he can’t help but dart his tongue out to wet them to watch the way Eddie tracks the movement. Steve smiles and leans in a little.

“We do,” he agrees before using his grip to pull Eddie into a kiss. Their mouths slot together like they were always meant to, lips meeting in the middle and eyes softly closing.

Kissing Eddie Munson is like nothing he’d ever imagined. Eddie is a whirlwind, loud and brash with an attitude and sass for days. Steve thought he would kiss like he acts, thought it would be rough and all-consuming but this… this kiss is sweet. Just like how Eddie really is underneath everything else.

It’s slow and deliberate, like Eddie is trying to savor it as much as he can. Steve can’t deny that he is too, that he’s committing every second of this to memory and filing it away in the open box with Eddie’s name on it in his mind.

There’s a thrum under his skin, a growing electricity that bubbles and pops beneath his lips. It’s been years since he felt it, that intensity of a good kiss with the right person. He wants to chase it, wants it to consume him wholly until all he can feel is the zing of Eddie’s skin touching his.

Steve pulls him closer with the grip on his hair, opening his mouth slightly wider and delighting in the way Eddie’s tongue sneaks in to trace the line of his teeth. He smiles into the kiss, and Eddie does too, until they’re less than kissing and more like breathing each other in. Eddie giggles against his lips and Steve soon follows, their laughter growing until tears spring in their eyes.

Steve is the first to compose himself, dropping his arms to rest around the others shoulders and taking a breath before resting his forehead against Eddie’s. He can’t wipe the smile off his face and could never find reason enough to want to. He’s finally here, sitting in Eddie’s lap and being held like he matters.

“We’re idiots,” he murmurs, going cross-eyed as he tries to look in Eddie’s eyes. He smiles when Eddie tries to look back, going cross-eyed as well. He feels Eddie nod against him in agreement. “Total morons.”

Steve giggles at the blunt statement, closing his eyes and relishing in the fact that he has this now. This beautiful person who he can kiss and laugh and cry with and feel safe in a way he hasn’t felt in years. Robin is a saint, yes, but she—

He cuts his thoughts off with a groan as a realization washes over him, dropping his head to Eddie’s shoulder. He feels more than hears Eddie chuckle underneath him and smiles when he feels arms come up to wrap around his waist.

“What’s wrong, Stevie?” Eddie asks softly. Steve groans again for good measure, making sure to up the dramatics as much as possible.

“Robin’s gonna be so pissed at me,” he supplies.

Eddie hums underneath him. “Why’s that?”

Steve lifts his head to look at him, a cheeky smile on his face. “‘Cause I got a boyfriend first.”

It’s a half-truth, Steve deciding to play it safe in case Eddie doesn’t know. No relationship is worth outing a platonic soulmate, that much he does know.

Whether he knows or not, Eddie doesn’t show. Instead, a grin overtakes his face as a blush settles high on his cheeks. Eddie pulls back a little to get a good look at his face, eyes searching for something. “Do you mean it?”

“I’d want it more than anything in the world, Eds,” he murmurs, fingers lacing behind his neck and thumb brushing the tiny curly hairs found there.

Eddie takes a breath under him, shoulders rising with the action. Before Steve knows it, he’s being thrown off his very warm and very comfortable lap to flop against the stiff couch cushions. He’s about to protest, to ask what the hell that was for, but the sight before him makes the words die in his throat.

Eddie’s honest to god dancing around his living room, wagging his tight little ass around while fist-pumping the air. His hair bounces around and falls in his face, but nothing can obscure the blinding smile there. His dimples are on full display once again, and Steve finds that he could get used to seeing them everyday.

Steve laughs at his antics, which now include miming an incredibly complicated air guitar solo and head banging to imaginary music. This. This is the total dork of a man he managed to fall for. The thought makes him smile and watch his boy.

His boy. He likes the sound of that.

Next thing he knows, Eddie’s tackling him into the couch. Knees land on either side of his thighs and hands push his shoulders into the cushions before resting just above them. His hair tie has fallen out, causing a curtain of hair to block off anything other than Eddie’s face and making it seem like it’s only the two of them in the whole world.

Kisses are pressed to his face; both of his cheeks, the middle of his forehead, the tip of his nose, and all too briefly, his mouth. Eddie pulls back just so, the tips of their noses brushing.

“I would love to be your boyfriend,” he says through a smile.

Steve huffs a laugh, smiling at the man above him. “I kinda got that from the whole dance routine, Eds. Been practicing much?”

“Shut up,” Eddie groans while blushing, dropping his head so the curtain of hair hides him.

Steve tucks a chunk of hair behind Eddie’s ear. “Make me.”

Eddie looks up at him through his lashes, giving him a wolfish grin that briefly makes his stomach drop and tingles spread out over his skin. The other man leans down, flickering his eyes between Steve’s and his lips before kissing him.

This one is filled with warmth, so much so it reminds him of Joyce’s kitchen at the barbecue yet far more intense. It fills him with something akin to a warm summer morning, where dewdrops still grace the blades of grass and the sun makes them twinkle in the growing light.

It takes a second for him to realize that the feeling is happiness, that kissing Eddie makes him happy. It’s enough to make him almost start tearing up again, as he had resigned himself to never feeling this way again. He only hopes Eddie doesn’t—

Eddie notices. Of course he does, he notices almost everything—almost being a big word here. He pulls away, leaning on one elbow in order to prop himself up while the other hand finds its way to Steve’s cheek. His brows are furrowed, forming that little worry line between them as he looks down at him.

“Stevie, what’s wrong?” Eddie questions but Steve just shakes his head.

“Nothing’s wrong, Eds, promise.”

Those words grant him a look, one that says the other doesn’t believe him, and Steve rolls his eyes because really, he’s fine. The affronted look on Eddie’s face causes him to laugh wetly, making him realize he must be closer to crying than he initially thought.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just…” he pauses to sniffle. “I just realized something.”

“What is it?” Eddie asks before wiping a tear away from the corner of Steve’s eye with his thumb. The action makes him smile, a juxtaposition to his crying.

“I’m happy,” he confesses. “I’m genuinely fucking happy for the first time in ages and this,” he pauses and grabs Eddie’s face gently, barely cradling his jaw in his hands. “You make me happy.”

He watches Eddie go soft, his tense posture from worrying going slack. His big brown eyes fill with pure love as he leans in again, kissing Steve. That’s what the third kiss feels like; love.

It feels like coming home after a long day and cuddling on the couch, sharing lazy kisses while watching trashy TV and eating shitty fast food. It feels like dancing in the kitchen to a song on the radio, singing the lyrics to one another without a care in the world if it sounds bad. It feels like holding each other in the night, soothing away nightmares with gentle touches and soft kisses and kind words.

Steve sighs into the kiss, opening up and deepening it just a little before dragging Eddie down on top of him. Eddie squawks and flops on him, his body weight grounding Steve and making him feel present, real. He huffs, the air tickling Steve’s throat where his head landed, causing Steve to roll his eyes at his antics while pulling the blanket on the back of the couch over the both of them.

“If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve just said so,” Eddie mumbles, voice muffled from both the blanket and his position over Steve. Steve only smiles, a hand finding Eddie’s hair to idly play with it.

“What’s the fun in that?” He counters. He feels Eddie shrug before shuffling around to get more comfortable, ending up curled on his chest with an arm wrapped tight around his waist.

Steve kisses the top of Eddie’s head before settling down himself, closing his eyes and listening to the steady breathing of the other man paired with the thu-thump of his heart. As he does so, he thinks that maybe he’s not as alone as he’d thought. That maybe, just maybe, he really is cut out for love.

———

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[gutterfuuck]

since i am currently having to basically rewrite the other half of my “my boy” fic ft sinister mark, i have decided to also preview it! there is no smut in this preview, however that does not take away my warnings!

as always mdni, tags are below to conceal them! if you are not comfortable with dark content, please do not read! block if uncomfortable!

“” mark grayson, invincible.

you had known him for as long as you could remember, he definitely wasn't like the other kids your age. as much as you watched him, you never dared approach him until he approached you.

"i wanna play with that now" he'd said to you, pointing to the plush omni-man doll you had been running around with, imagining that he was flying. you wanted to yell no, stick out your tongue and run away from the other child, that was your toy. you had bought it from home. if it had been anyone else, you would've freaked out. you offered your doll up to him, he took it. "thank you!" mark beamed, dropping to his knees in the sandbox right next to you, you had expected him to run away with it.

he was sweet, gentle. careful with the way he dragged your plush through the sandcastles you had made previously for this reason, to knock down the sand-baddies that you both imagined. your omni-man was returned to you, albeit a little sandy. at least he hadn't been taken and thrown into the mud, or a puddle, like he had been before by some older kids. y/n and mark became inseparable, as thick as thieves.

-

mark grayson developed his powers early on. mark grayson took over the world with his father. mark grayson had known you for as long as he could remember, at least, he thought he did. you were always nervous to talk to him, he thought that you were scared of him.

he held no compassion for humans, indiscriminate with his destruction. he didn't care, he'd level a city before he was told 'no. he hated humans, plural. not his human, singular. you were different. he hated it, truly. you were nothing but a passing thought in the grand scheme of things, a pet, just like how his mother had been for his father. that's what mark told himself, made himself believe. mark was feared, a force to be reckoned with... and you were his wite, his sweet, innocent, weak, soft little wife. he kept you, housed you, clothed you.

but he was almost never home.

you chose to ignore the state of your planet, chose to be blind to his brutality. you told yourself that this was to ensure your survival, eventually you'd leave and make your escape. yeah right, eventually. the truth was, you loved him. you really did love him, truly. how couldn't you? his face was gorgeous, his eyes perfect pools of dark murky brown. when he was home, you'd sometimes secretly stay awake to observe how peaceful he looked; chest rising and falling, breathing quiet with his eyelids closed. you could only look at him, you craved to touch his face, you refused to be confronted by him asking why you were wide awake when you should have been asleep.

a black and yellow blur wizzed straight past you, almost knocking you to your feet in the kitchen. he was home. you steadied yourself, your attention snapping back to the omelette you were in the process of making. he must've been angry, he had gone straight past you without a single word from his lips. he dashed his suit at your feet, it made a splatting noise against the white tiled floor and left a red splatter on the snowy white kitchen floor. tainted.

"wash it." “”

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Victor Davis Hanson

Scan news accounts of anti-Israel campus and street protestors. Read their demands and manifestos. Collate the confusion after October 7 from the Biden administration.

“Progressive Hamas”: Gay and transgendered student protestors in America would be in mortal danger in Gaza under a fascistic Hamas that has banned homosexual acts and lifestyles. Anyone protesting publicly against Hamas or its allies would be arrested and severely punished.

Women are segregated in most Hamas-run educational institutions. Under the Hamas charter, women are valued mostly as child-bearers. By design, there are almost no women in high positions in business or in government under Hamas.

“Colonists and Settlers”: Students scream that Israelis are “settlers” and “colonists” and sometimes yell at Jewish students to “go back to Poland.”

But the Jewish presence in present-day Israel is deeply rooted in ancient tradition. Dating back at least three millennia, the concept of “Israel” as a distinct Jewish state, situated roughly in its current location, is ingrained in history.

By contrast, the much later Arab invasions of the Byzantine-controlled Levant and their arrival in Palestine occurred about 1800 years after the establishment of a Jewish Israel.

“Two-state Solution”: When student protestors scream “from the river to the sea,” that is not advocacy for a two-state solution. It is a call to eliminate the state of Israel—lying in between the Jordan River and Mediterranean Sea—and its 10 million Jewish and Arab citizens. The Hamas charter is a one-state/no-Israel agenda, which we saw attempted on October 7.

“Occupied Gaza”: Gaza was autonomous. The Israeli border is closed, but so is the Egyptian border. There have not been any Jews in Gaza for nearly two decades.

So on October 7, Gaza was not occupied by Israel. It was under the control of Hamas, designated by the U.S. government as a terrorist organization. After being elected to power in 2006, Hamas cancelled all subsequent elections and ruled as a dictatorship. Gaza forbids Jews from entering Gaza and has driven out most Christians. Israel hosts two million Arabs, both as Israeli citizens and residents.

“Netanyahu is the Problem”: The U.S. and Europe claim that the conservative government of Benjamin Netanyahu is alone behind the Israeli tough response in Gaza. Thus, both the EU and the U.S. are doing their best to undermine or even overthrow the elected Netanyahu administration.

Yet, most Israelis support Netanyahu’s coalition government’s agenda of destroying Hamas in Gaza. There is no evidence that any other alternative Israeli government would do anything differently from the present policies toward Hamas.

“Targeting Civilians”: After murdering nearly 1,200 Israelis on October 7, Hamas scurried back to Gaza and hid in tunnels and bases beneath hospitals, schools, and mosques. Its preplanned strategy was to survive by ensuring Gaza civilians would be killed. Hamas has indiscriminately launched more than 7,000 rockets at Israel, all designed to kill Jewish civilians.

Outside assessors have concluded that Israel has not inadvertently killed a greater ratio of civilians to terrorists compared to most other urban fighting conflicts elsewhere, and perhaps even fewer than American engagements in Mosul and Fallujah.

“Protestors Are Pro-Palestine”: Increasingly, protestors make no distinction between supporting “Palestine” and Hamas. Their chants often echo the original Hamas eliminationist charter and recent genocidal ravings of its leadership. Some protestors wear Hamas logos and wave its flag. Many cheered the Hamas massacre of October 7.

“Anti-Israel Is Not Anti-Semitic”: When protestors scream to Jewish students to “go back to Poland” or call for the “Final Solution,” or assault them or bar them from campus facilities, they do not ask whether they are pro-Israeli. For protestors, anyone identifiable as Jewish becomes a target of their anti-Semitic invective and violence.

“Genocide”: Israel has not tried to wipe out the Palestinian people in the fashion of Hamas’s one-state solution plan for Jews. Before October 7, some 20,000 Gazans a day requested to work in Israel—on the correct expectation of much higher wages and humane treatment.

If Hamas had come out of its tunnels, separated from its impressed civilian shields, released its surviving Israeli hostages, and either openly fought the Israeli Defense Forces or surrendered the organizers of the October 7 massacre, no Gaza civilians would have died.

According to Hamas’s questionable “genocide” figures, roughly 4 percent of the Gazan population died during the Israeli response to October 7. At least a third to almost half of those deaths, according to various international observers, were Hamas terrorists.

“Disproportionate Response”: Iran tried to send 320 missiles and rockets into Israel. Israel replied with three. Hamas launched 7,000 rockets into Israel and slaughtered 1,200 Israelis before the IDF responded in Gaza, often dropping leaflets and sending texts to forewarn citizens.

Israel has been disproportionate only in the effectiveness of its response. Hamas and its Iranian benefactor intended disproportionately to hurt Israel but utterly failed.

So Israel proved to be competent, and Hamas incompetent in their similar efforts to use disproportionate force.

[ftmtftm]

Good morning - I'm sorry folks but I'm having an autism "feeling like I'm yelling in a glass room where everyone can see me and hear I'm making noise but refuses to truly to understand what I'm saying" moment because I've constantly been saying:

"This is bait AND sexual harassment and it's all bad because that's intentional by the very nature of this kind of bait. Can we please talk about the elephant in the room of why someone might be doing this indiscriminately on anon, en mass to people that aren't even attached to the spaces it's trying to divide, to try and cause the exact argument that is happening right now" and.

That feels so lost on the anons I'm currently getting and the posts I'm still seeing in a way that I know isn't good for me to engage with. As such - there is very little else I'm going to say on this all unless someone actually wants to engage in that conversation.

Truly a piss on the poor website moment. Some of you truly think posting is activism and it's exhausting.

[morbidology]

On the 28th of September, 2016, 14-year-old Jesse Osborne retrieved his father’s gun from a drawer beside his bed. He then shot his father, Jeffrey Osborne, three times before taking his truck and driving it to Townville Elementary School, Townville, South Carolina. Osborne had been a student at the elementary school where he was known to be sociable and intelligent. However, at the time of the shooting, he was being homeschooled after being expelled from his middle school for bringing a hatchet to class.

After arriving at the elementary school, Osborne started to shoot indiscriminately with the .40-caliber pistol he had stolen from his father. During the shooting, he kept shouting: “I hate my life!” After 12 seconds of shooting, the gun jammed and he was apprehended by a volunteer firefighter. One student was shot in the foot, another suffered a superficial wound and a teacher was shot in the shoulder.

Another student, 6-year-old Jacob Hall, suffered a gunshot wound to the leg. The wound led to massive blood loss and then cardiac arrest. Jacob Hall died at hospital several days later.

Following his arrest, Osborne said to officers: “And then it (the gun) jammed. And then I shot again. And it jammed again every time. And I thank god for that. Please say no one died. Did anyone die?” Osborne explained that he was part of an “Instagram group” with other teenagers who “said they were all going to shoot up their schools too.” He explained that he hoped he was going to kill at least 50 or 60 people at the school and that “the kids in the group chat… they were all cheering me on.” He said that following the shooting, he yelled “I’m sorry” and threw his gun on the floor.

Osbourne was tried as an adult and in November of 2019, he was sentenced to life in prison without parole for the murder of Jacob and 30 years for the attempted murder charges. He appealed his sentence and in 2023, and his sentences were changed to two 75 year sentences.

[luna-rainbow]

So I was thinking about the super-soldier serum and the corrupting influence in relation to Bucky. The narrative of TFaTWS (is that the right abbreviation?) wants us to think Steve was the only person who was never corrupted by the serum.

It really annoys me because to me, its obvious that Bucky was never corrupted either and I think a large reason for that was because he never asked for it anyway. I mean yeah its theoretically possible for unasked for power to go to someone's head and for them to abuse it, but everything that happened to Bucky happened because other people were exploiting and using him for their own ends

I kept wanting to kind of yell every time someone rubbed the fact Bucky was a super-soldier in his face, John Walker, Zemo, even Sam at times because they all acted like he loved it or always wanted it or something.

If he had a choice, I dunno I think he just wanted to survive the war and go back home to live a normal life. If anything the serum was like a curse instead of a blessing for him and not something he derived a net benefit from overall.

What do you think?

I'll have no hope of finding my old post on this but yeah, lots of Bucky fans were pretty annoyed with that particular part of the storyline. It wasn't just Zemo saying "there's never been another Steve Rogers", it started with Walker saying "super soldiers don't exactly have a great track record no offence" along with Zemo talking about the Flagsmashers being supremacists (??) It's one of many examples where what is spoken doesn't match how they act, because a "one world one people" slogan is certainly not about any form of supremacy.

Erskine: The serum amplifies what is inside. Good becomes great. Bad becomes worse.

There were two ways of interpreting this: physical, and metaphorical. If the serum enhances everything physical, including the brain and its emotional centers, then yeah maybe it makes someone who is reckless more impulsive, someone who is prone to anger more aggressive, someone who is brave more fearless. I personally don't like this explanation because it seems...rather eugenics or essentialist to me, and the creation of Steve Rogers as Captain America was supposed to be a middle finger to the eugenics movement driven by the Nazis in the 1930s. It's like saying that what determines your actions and your personality is already embedded into your biology, so when your biology is enhanced, so are the good and bad traits in your personality. It doesn't seem to allow scope for personal choice as the main driver of people's actions.

The second option is a more metaphorical interpretation. The serum enhances physical strength and power (and presumably attractiveness), which tends to move people up the social ladder (regardless of whether this is the intention). And it falls back on the same motto that drives Peter Parker -- with great power comes great responsibility. When power falls into the hands of someone unscrupulous, it will tend to bring out their worst traits because the extra strength lowers their inhibitions. When power falls into the hands of someone idealistic and kind, one hopes they will take it upon themselves to use it responsibly and use it for good deeds.

So I agree, I think at some level, the intention behind becoming a super soldier does matter, because we've seen it impact on how people behave after they get their extra strength. The five Siberian super soldiers - their goal was to become better fighters and better spies, and they did, but they were so vicious they couldn't be contained. The Flagsmashers - I mean I'm not happy with their overall consistency, but you could argue their immaturity added a sense of vengefulness and anger to their purpose, which pushed them slowly onto the path of killing indiscriminately.

And Bucky? We have no indication he wanted to be any part of it. He didn't show jealousy at Steve's new bod, for one thing, just a concerned, "Did it hurt?" When Walker said, "This must be so easy for you, with all that serum in your veins." It was hard not to dislike him, because Bucky didn't choose to have the serum, and his protectiveness (in this case of Sam) predates the serum.

It wasn't the serum that turned Bucky into the Winter Soldier, as the series seem to imply at turns, although it seems to recognise at other times that it was the mind-control (and it never for a second even showed the torture Bucky went through). And aside from the Winter Soldier era, Bucky really doesn't have anything else to answer for...so yeah, I agree, I've always had issue with the way the series seem to emphasise that Steve was the only "good" super soldier.

If Bucky was "bad" simply through the serum, they wouldn't have needed to torture him to turn him into the Winter Soldier.

[factorydefaultlu]

Hi hello ❤ saw the one you wrote from me and I loved it 🥰🥰 so this is my request. Head canon/reaction ( whichever fits the best ❤❤)Alicent, helena, daemon and jace. What about how they would feel it they accidentally mortally hurt or even killed their loved one?? (Like in self defense/ battle and didn't notice that the one behind is not an enemy??)

I love your writing and keep it up ❤❤

Alicent dropped the knife from her hand. Blood dripped to the floor as her lover choked on the crimson. She opened her mouth and went to scream, yell for help, but no sound left her throat. Alicent hadn't meant to, she was on edge, frightened. Her lover snuck up on her and she panicked. She will never forgive herself if her lover dies because of her paranoia.

Helaena doesn't know how to react. She's frozen in fear as her lover falls to their knees. Their throat pouring blood, and their eyes going dim. Helaena would drop to the floor with them, attempting to put pressure over the wound. It was futile however, and Helaena doesn't think she'll be able to live with herself if her lover died.

Daemon retracted his sword from his lovers stomach. His face went from anger to anguish, and his heart shattered. In midst of battle he lost sight of who was friend and foe, slashing indiscriminately. His lover collapsed to ground, and he followed. Holding their head in his hands, tears fell from his eyes. He had fucked up worse than he ever has before.

Jace let out a cry as the flames died down. Vermax rumbled and crouched down, knowing that he had made a mistake. His lover had followed him to Winterfell unbeknownst to him, and had surprised him in the woods. He panicked, not realizing it was his beloved, Vermax reacted to his riders fear. Jace reached out to touch his lovers burnt body, his heart was in his stomach and he knew he couldn't undo what he'd done.