#i told everyone i have a migraine and it feels like i do but not in my head but like...emotionally? like an emotional migraine idk

[downsteepy]

i am very grateful that im not someone that has to deal with daily seizures but it is evil when it takes like a week and a half's worth of business days to recover from a seizure

[pepprs]

ok i survived yom kippur. but it took every single scrap of strength in my body and i’m not completely better yet

[lesbiansanemi]

Me: maybe 8 days off will fix me, maybe going back to work won’t be so bad. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s alright

Also me: *is at work for less than two hours and already Wants to Die* Ah. Great.

[thebibliosphere]

Every time someone well-meaning suggests I see a chiropractor for my migraines, I have this little moment of "ah, you're new here. You weren't here prior to 2018 when a chiropractor very gently adjusted my neck for my migraines, and I ended up having to get an emergency MRI because the ensuing symptoms were indicative of a brain bleed."

It wasn't a brain bleed. The muscles on the entire right side of my neck "just" tore (Spoiler there is nothing "just" about that kind of traumatic injury. I am still in physical rehab for it), and I couldn't hold my head up, see straight, walk or do any of the things I'd previously taken for granted until several weeks later when the area finally started to heal.

This was before I knew I had Ehlers Danlos, btw. But this is true even for people who don't have a connective tissue disorder: Don't let chiropractors touch your neck.

There are a lot of vital nerves and blood vessels there, and even gentle adjustments of the area can have life-threatening consequences.

I know chiropractic care can be pain relieving--I still get it for my lower back and hips because I work with a chiropractor who knows about Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, and sometimes my hips need to be popped back in at short notice, and it's easier to hop walk in and see her than wait for physical therapy--but it is a short-term relief that doesn't actually correct why something is happening.

If you can afford it, physical therapy will likely help more in the long term. I know not everyone can afford it, and that's why chiropractors have such a booming trade in the US, but please, I'm begging you, don't get your neck adjusted.

The spinal cord specialist I saw after my injury told me the number one reason he used to see people for traumatic brain injuries was car wrecks, followed by other major roadside injuries. He said those numbers were still the highest, but after that, the majority of his patients were survivors of chiropractic injury.

Do Not Get Your Neck Adjusted.

It's been over 5 years, and I still can't move my neck properly on my right side. I still struggle to eat and drink because my muscles will randomly seize up. It feels like my skull no longer fits on top of my spine because of the scar tissue. Please. I just want people to be safe.

And if you are a chiropractor reading this and thinking, "Well, I've never injured anyone, skill issue." No. You Have Gotten Lucky. Rethink how you apply your trade. Please, you can still help people while recommending safer options for specific body parts. Learn to do pressure point release and acupressure. Teach patients how to stretch and relax the area safely. Just fucking stop cracking people's necks like pop rock candy.

[desideriumwriter]

Metamorphosis | F.W. x Reader

Summary: Fred has been acting differently since he got hurt during the War. You're not sure how many more of his outbursts you can handle.

CW: established relationship, mentions of a head injury, TBIs, migraines, blood, being cut from broken glass, yelling, arguing, crying, not proofread

WC: 4.3k

A/N: now this one is a rollercoaster

based off this request! | f.w. masterlist | navi

Things had been difficult since May.

Voldemort was dead and the war was over. But everyone was dealing with the aftermath.

Things were quiet for a while, people were quiet. Distant but united at the same time. It took a few months for everyone to try and go back to normal.

Now it was November, and Fred was still dealing with the aftermath.

Of course, a head injury from being hit with a spell and a literal stone wall falling on him would have its long-term effects. You’d already read the list over who knows how many times.

Memory loss, light sensitivity, aggression, problems with multitasking, communication issues, irritability, mood swings, forgetfulness, etc. The list went on and on, you hated how long it was. 

You did research on it, listening to his doctors and picking up as many books you could find on head injuries or TBIs.

You even got your hands on some textbooks that muggle medical students used.

George and you took care of Fred after he came back to your shared space above the shop. He spent his first week after being discharged from the hospital at his mums, due to Mollys demands.

Things slowly went back to normal after a few months. Most things.

Shops reopened all along Diagon Alley, including the twins, people felt safe to go out and chat with each other again. 

Life went back to how it was before the war began.

The cold weather was getting harsher and so was Fred. 

You knew that the irritability and mood swings would come along with the injury. You just weren’t expecting it to be so constant.

Fred had his bad days and he had his better days. Today was one of those bad days.

You could tell he was really struggling remembering what was in stock and what needed to be made more of. You sat with him at the counter as he wrote down on a notepad what was needed. Taking notes was one of the things that helped him nowadays.

You saw him look up, the cogs attempting to turn in his head.

“Peruvian Darkness Powder.” You said softly, it was the next thing that needed to be restocked.

“Right. That. Thanks.” He muttered out, crouching over to write it down, his hand shaky and handwriting a bit wobbled.

Frustrated with his shaky hands, he threw the pen down, putting his head in his hands, rubbing his face.

“I just don’t get why it’s so hard. I feel like I can’t properly do anything.” He groaned, the annoyance clear in his voice.

“Fred, it's what the symptoms of a-”

“I know it’s a fucking brain injury. I’ve heard it enough goddamn times. You don’t need to spell it out for me.” Fred spat out, ripping his hand from yours and walking past you. That was the fourth time he snapped at you today.

After closing that night, you sat on the bench right outside the shop. Elbows resting on your knees with your head in your hands.

You were really trying here. Trying your best not to get mad at him, to yell and spit at him as he did you.

He was still your Fred that you loved. He was just a bit different now, and that was okay, he was still your Fred.

The door to the shop opened, the silly tune of the charmed bell playing as a tall figure stepped out. Fred stood to the side of you now, his frame blocked out the light shining on you from the street lamps. The only light now being from the inside of the shop, illuminating his and your face once you looked up.

You breathed in deep, closing your eyes for a second, trying to keep any tears from falling. The cold wind wasn’t helping.

“Hi.” He gave you a shamefaced smile.

George had definitely scolded him and told him to apologize once you went outside. It’s not the first time he’s made him do it in recent times.

“Hi.” You sighed.

“I’m- I didn’t mean to snap at you when you were trying to help me with what needed to be restocked, or when you offered to sort the mail.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling small. The feeling had become constant for him now.

“And before both of those, when you snapped at me in your office. Then in front of one of the cashiers.”

“I did?” He said softly, genuinely shocked. You nodded, brows knit together.

“Oh, I didn’t even realize. I don’t even remember that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so harsh.” Fred looked down, having the same expression as a kicked puppy.

“It’s okay, Fred. I know you don’t mean to.” You slowly nodded.

“I’m trying to not be so rude. I’m trying to be better, I promise.”

“I know, Fred. I know.” You sniffled.

The doctors said practicing patterns would help with cognitive ability. Patterning. So stocking the purple and orange mystery boxes in a pattern would be Fred’s practice.

He began to practice different patterns:

Purple. Orange. Purple. Orange. Repeat.

Then moved onto a bit more strange ones:

Purple. Purple. Orange. Orange. Purple. Orange. Repeat. 

He was struggling a bit more than usual today, you watched as he did, and it broke your heart.

You sighed as you put your notepad away, pausing writing down the grocery list for now and making your way over to Fred.

You reached out, putting the next correctly colored box on the shelf for him. He grumbled out a ‘thanks’.

“I can do the rest for you. Go give your brain a break.” You breathed out a laugh, trying to be lighthearted as you picked up the large box filled with the remaining mystery boxes to be put away.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.”  Fred mumbled out, paying you barely any mind.

“Fred, I can tell your stressed enough just let me-“

“Will you piss off? I said I've got it!” Fred didn’t mean to yell, especially in the middle of a busy store, he was just frustrated. 

Your cheeks heated up in embarrassment and anger due to all the staring eyes of confused customers looking at the both of you.

“Fine, fucking do it yourself then.” You shoved the box into his hands. Walking off, pissed off as you threw off your hat onto the counter.

George murmured your name as you walked by, trying to put a hand on your shoulder, you shoved out his grasp.

You hid away in the back stockroom. George followed, entering a tiny bit after you.

You sat on a wooden box, leaned over with your head in your hands. 

“You know he doesn’t mean it. He got blasted pretty hard, it’s just one of the side effects.” George sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You were so tired of those two words. Side effects. Yes, of course you knew what the side effects and symptoms were, that they wouldn’t be pretty or easy. But you were just so sick of hearing it.

You shrugged, lifting your head up.

“He's frustrated. With himself.” George sat down next to you, intertwining his hands into a ball. “He always feels bad after he gets angry.”

“I know, and I’m trying my best to help him out but it’s like he never fucking wants it. He refuses.”

“He’s never liked help, always wanting to be so damn independent and stubborn.” George let out a weak chuckle and shook his head. “It took him five minutes to accept the money Harry gave us. Even after that he tried to tell Harry he’d give it back if he changed his mind.”

“I remember, I was there.” You smiled a bit to yourself at the memory, Fred was so adamant about Harry keeping the money, or at least most of it.

“Chocolate?” He pulled a small bar off one of the shelves, you shook your head. “It’ll make you feel better.” You persuaded, you let out an amused sigh and took it.

“You stole that line from Lupin.” Unwrapping it and biting off a small chunk.

“Yeah, but it works doesn’t it?” You let out a defeated nod and smile in response, taking another bite.

“He’s not gonna be like this forever. You know that. He’s gotten a lot better since May. Just, his moodiness will stick around for a little bit.”

“I know. I’m just so worried about him. I can’t help it.”

George was at Angelinas for the night. It took him ten minutes to stop worrying and finally go, constantly reminding you if you needed his help with Fred, if Fred starts getting mean, to send him an owl and he’d come back immediately. You shooed him off and assured him Fred and you would be fine, that he should go have a worry-free night with Angelina.

It was going well, you watched a short movie and shared some snacks and cuddles on the couch. It was all going so nicely until you both decided to get changed and go to bed.

You slipped on a night shirt talking to Fred about the movie as he opened the top drawer on the wooden dresser. The one that creaked and occasionally jammed from time to time. 

Tonight was one of those times.

He pulled out a pair of pajama pants from the drawer, his eyebrows knitting together when he pushed the drawer and it barely moved. You looked over and frowned disappointedly.

“It’s stuck again.” You sighed, thinking out loud. 

“I know.” Fred muttered out under his breath, you didn’t catch it.

You watched as he repeatedly tried to push it, it wouldn’t budge.

“It’s just old, maybe tomorrow we could go window shopping for a new one?” You suggested sweetly as he didn’t respond, he just clenched his jaw as he continued trying to close it.

He used a terrifying amount of force as he slammed the drawer shut with one last push, causing the whole thing to ratter. The sudden movement and sound made you jump. You took a step back, Fred noticed. His expression faltered for a moment as his eyes scanned your body language.

“What, are you scared of me or something now?” He muttered, an attitude in his voice.

“No, I never said I was scared of you. You just…”

 “What? I’ve just what?” 

You were so sick of his attitude. You took in a deep breath before speaking.

“You’ve been acting up, you’ve been slamming doors, throwing things down when you’re frustrated, you yell more. At George and I especially. You’re unpredictable.” You let out quickly.

“Unpredictable? I have not been that bad. You’re dramatic.” Fred shot back, he was a bit hurt by your words, yet deep down he knew you were right. His actions had become surprising. But he was too damn stubborn and he was in the middle of a beginning argument, so he wouldn’t admit to it now.

“I’m not, you’re proving your point with how you’re being now. You’re being stubborn and defensive. You get angry and you yell at me. When I’m just trying to help! The doctors said-”

“I don’t give a shit what the fucking doctors told you! Or those stupid books you’ve been wasting your time on!” All this yelling hurt his head. But the words were spilling out his mouth like a waterfall of poison. 

“Have you considered your not being any help? If you really wanted to help you’d let me do shit myself instead of acting like I’m fucking stupid! You wouldn’t be walking on eggshells around me! You’d let me be instead of being a pounding in my head!” His chest heaved, his face slowly being filled with regret as he saw you. Taking a step back with the most painful stare at him, astonishment and hurt written all over your face.

He watched as you brought your arms up around you, holding yourself as if it was a way of shielding yourself from his words.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Your voice went soft. A small crack in your delivery of words as you rubbed your upper arm.

“No! Absolutely not! I just- I’m-” Here comes the sputtered out apologies, the regret filling him up immediately, you just shook your head.

“Forget it, I’m done with this conversation.” You barged out the room. That look never leaving your face, it will haunt him forever.

“Where are you going? I thought you were going to bed?” He called out as you went down the hallway.

“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.” You shouted back, more of a loud mutter really. Fred said your name disappointedly, leaning against the bedroom door frame. You didn’t respond, you didn’t turn around, you made your way to the couch.

He didn’t run after and stop you. Knowing you’d give him the silent treatment and refuse to get in the same bed as him. For tonight only. Hopefully.

Though you tried to muffle and hide your sobs behind your hands, Fred could still hear it all the way from the bedroom. Those pained sharp breaths in that turned into wheezes, the little hiccups and whimpers of sadness you made when you breathed out were far too loud to be hidden.

You cried for two hours until you finally got a grip of yourself. Getting up and going down the hallway, not to get back in bed, but to see if Fred was.

You peeked your head in just enough to see his side of the bed, he was laying on his back peacefully, his eyes puffy. Had he been crying also?

He was relaxed now though, resting. At least he was getting some sleep. You quietly sneaked back to the living room. Lying back down on the couch and using a throw pillow for your head. 

You couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t keep your eyes shut, couldn’t stop thinking, you couldn’t sleep. You missed him, you really just wanted to be next to him.

By the time the clock ticked to 2AM, you got up, tiptoeing back into the bedroom. Sneaking to your side of the bed, so carefully pulling back the sheets. You moved so carefully, so lightly, so gently as if everything was made of fine china. 

You debated if you should snuggle up to Fred, not wanting to wake him. What if he got annoyed again? You really didn’t want to deal with another conflict.

You carefully scooted over to him anyways, testing your luck. You slowly wrapped your arm around his torso, ever so lightly laying your head on his chest. He began to move and your body immediately tensed up.

His arm hooked around you, circling your waist, the other arm reaching over, his hand softly placed on the side of your head. Your body went limp in happiness. You could start crying again from all the joy you felt in this moment.

This is how you knew Fred hadn’t become a whole other person than the one you knew before the accident. His hands on you, holding onto you so sweetly, just like he used to. There were still those little remnants of his true self hanging around. He was still Fred. He was still your Fred.

You woke up to an empty bed. The sunlight shining down on Freds side of the mattress.

You changed into more presentable clothes, hearing the chatter from downstairs and knowing the shop was open. 

Going downstairs, Fred was nowhere to be seen while George was moving around helping customers and constantly casting spells to organize things.

Owning a joke shop was absolutely not a one man job.

“Where’s Fred?” You asked, looking around as you approached the counter. George was stacking cards. 

“In his office. Another migraine.” He tucked in his lips, seemingly annoyed.

“Oh. Well, I’m gonna go out, probably window shop. Do you need anything?”

“Could you get some cabbage? And a few more quills and ink? We’re running low.” He said, swiveling his way out from behind the counter.

You may have stayed out longer than you meant to.

Thinking you’d be back before five, you got home at nearly eight instead.

You did some looking around in local furniture shops, and you picked up what George asked for. You mostly just walked around the quieter streets, needing to get away from all the noise.

By the time you got back it was a bit dark outside and there was a closed sign on the shop door. You unlocked and locked it quickly, moving upstairs tiredly.

The living room light was turned off, the moonlight from outside being the only thing that made the room somewhat visible. Fred was sitting on the couch.

“Hey.” You spoke softly. 

“Hi.”

“Where’d George go?”

“He stopped by Angelina’s for dinner.” He said blankly. Everything felt so awkward.

“Oh. Have you eaten?” You asked as you set down the bags of supplies.

“Yeah, I had some leftovers.”

“Okay, well, what’re you doing in the dark? Get some light in here.” You giggled as you flipped up the light switch, overhead light brightening up the room.

Fred quickly scrunched his eyes closed with a pained expression, he put a hand up to shadow his face.

Fuck. Light sensitivity. He was already dealing with a migraine, that’s why he was in the dark, and you turning on the light made it much more intense.

“Shit. Sorry, sorry, sorry.” You blurted out as you hit the switch down, the room going darker again.

“Here, I’ll- I’ll get you a glass of water.” You sputtered out, running over to the kitchen sink and grabbing a glass, filling it up with cold water from the tap.

“No, you don’t have to.” Fred muttered out.

“Please, it’ll help. Just let me help.” You pleaded as you ran back over to the couch, sitting down and holding the glass towards him. He denied it again.

“Fred, just drink-“

“I told you! No!” He shouted, pushing your hand away.

The glass slipped out of your grasp. Hitting the floor and cracked into pieces, somewhere in the impact a small shard hit your lower leg. Nothing serious, it could be quickly closed up with a spell, but it was bleeding heavily already.

Fred realized what had happened once you felt the stung and winced, holding a hand over your small injury, crimson staining your hand and dripping onto your sock.

“Oh Merlin, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He panicked as he straightened up, patting his sides for his wand, he had left it in his office. He saw yours on the coffee table.

“Here, let me fix-” He reached one hand towards your wand, the other laying on your shoulder.

“Don’t. It’s fine, I’ve got it.” You said as you reached across, grabbing your wand and leaned your shoulder away from his touch.

His stomach twisted, the guilt was eating him up. He fidgeted with his fingers, not knowing what to do with his hands now that you refused his touch and his help.

You said a quick spell, the cut swiftly closing, skin looking unharmed and the only evidence of what happened being the remnants of drying blood on your leg and hand.

“I’m gonna go wash off my hands.” You said so quietly, almost a whisper. Fred stayed silent as he watched you get up and walk away, he wanted to cry.

You returned to the living room with a packed suitcase, quickly walking past Fred on the couch and to the chimney. His eyes stayed glued on you the entire time. You didn’t look at him.

“You’re leaving?” Freds brows knit together in a sad way, he sat up straight from his spot on the couch.

“Yeah. Not for long. I’ll be back.” You spoke, back facing him as you put down your small suitcase.

“Where?”

“A friends place. For a few days.” You didn’t tell him who, he would most likely send letters apologizing.

George was the one who suggested it surprisingly. Once he came home as you were washing off the blood, he told you to go take a few days to yourself.

“No offense to you, you’ve been doing great. But I’ve lived with him for nearly twenty-six years. I know how to deal with him when he’s mad.” He held your shoulders.

“I know how to deal with him too, you know.” 

“Of course I do. But I know you’re worn out as well. You need to take some care of yourself. Focus on you for a few days.” You really didn’t want to agree with George on that, it felt rude to do it. There was really no good way of saying he was wearing you down.

“I’m sorry.” Fred spoke out.

“I know, Fred.” You let out a heavy breath. “I’m not mad at you. I think we should take a break from each other.” You tried not to let your voice wobble.

“You don’t mean a break up, right?” He stood up from the couch.

“No. Of course not.” You finally turned around, looking at his gloomy face. “We just need to spend some time apart, just for a day or so. Okay?” You kept your voice soft and nurturing, hoping it would hide the way your own words were breaking your heart.

"Can I just get a hug before you leave? Please?" Fred took a few steps closer, his steps cautious. You closed your eyes and nodded.

You didn’t want to look at him for too long, both of your faces were threatening to deteriorate into tears, and you couldn’t stand to see it.

He pulled you into him nicely, hands slowly and carefully wrapping around you like you would crack if he moved the wrong way.

“I’m sorry I’m like this. I love you.” He said softly, sounding like it was a plea for you to stay.

“I know.” You mumbled into his chest.

Fred’s injury didn’t bother you. The forgetfulness of struggles with certain things didn’t bother you, you didn’t care if he struggled to keep track with things. 

It was just his anger. His outbursts. His shouting. That’s what bothered you, it was nothing like him. Sure, he’s definitely gotten moody or stubborn or annoyed before like during Quidditch matches back at Hogwarts or when a much needed shipment arrived late at the shop.

But you’ve rarely seen him truly mad, yell like he does now, the only time you can remember him like that is when he had to be held back from helping George and Harry beat up Malfoy after a match in his seventh year.

“I still love him, of fucking course I do. But he’s changed so much. it’s like,” You stopped, clenching your jaw and trying your best trying to keep tears from returning. “It’s like sometimes I look at him, and he’s a ghost, he’s a completely different man I fell in love with all those years ago.”

“You’ve changed too.” Alicia commented, “You’re not as much of a hermit as you used to be.” She joked, poking you.

“Oh piss off.” You let out a breathy chuckle, face falling soon after. “I’m scared. What if he stays like this forever?” You whispered out, a small crack in your voice.

“He won’t. You told me already, there’s still that cheeky little Fred that you’ve always know still in him. He’s getting better day by day.” She tilted her head. “And fuck it. Even if he doesn’t, even if it takes a while, you gotta grow with him.” You looked at her, puzzled expression on your face.

“If you don’t grow with him, if you aren’t willing to go through that, then what in the hell are you doing?” She shrugged, laying back in her chair. “You’ve gone through these shitty times with him before, right? And you both made it through. What makes you worried you won’t be able to do it again?” 

Alicia was right. You’ve gone through rough patches with him and made it out just fine. Casual disagreements, arguments and fights, yet you always made up. Leaving those arguments in the past and loving each other in the present.

“You staying another night?” Alicia asked you, taking a sip from her glass.

“No, I think I’ll go back. I’ll send an owl and tell them before I go.”

Once the green flames subsided and you stepped out of the chimney, dusting off your clothes. Fred came running into the room, a bouquet of all the flowers in his hand.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Feeling alright today?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

God, you hated the awkward tension in the air. It felt like this every time you had a conversation.

“That’s good. Uh, these are for you.” He stuck out the bouquet nervously, hand trembling. You put down your suitcase and stepped closer. A small noise of adoration left as you looked at the flowers, it was all your favorites.

“I may not be able to remember much. But I remembered these were always your favorite.” He let out an awkward laugh.

The last time you told him what flowers you liked was in year five. You took the bouquet from him with hesitant hands, surprised by the gift. Fred swallowed his anxiety before he began to speak again.

“I didn’t mean to be so rude. I just get so frustrated with myself, I don’t want to act like that anymore. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t take it out on you, you didn’t deserve it.” He moved to cup his hands around your face, bringing your teary eyes to meet his.

“I promise you I’m going to be better. I swear on everything. I will be better.” He gave you a sweet kiss on your forehead, then pulled you into a hug. 

You held on tightly to his torso, turning the flowers away to keep them from being crushed.

“I love you.” You said into his sweater, tears beginning to fall.

“I love you too. So much.”

tell me what you thought! <3

[audhdnight]

Just thinking about the common experience of late diagnosed disabled people of “the normal amount of pain is none” and how we’re just supposed to know that despite *some* level of pain being OUR normal for our entire lives, even if it’s usually not super bad it’s just always there.

Thinking about how, when I told my mother this, she asked me “So what’s hurt?” Which is very different than “what hurts?”

I looked at her, confused. “Nothing is hurt. I just hurt.”

And she says “But where do you hurt?”

“Well, right now it’s my stomach and my ankles-“

She cuts me off. “So you twisted your ankle?”

“No,” I say. “My ankles just hurt. I’ve been walking today.”

Now it’s her turn to look confused. “Just walking doesn’t make your ankles hurt. You must have sprained them or something.”

But I shake my head. “Nope. This just happens on days when I walk more than a little bit. My ankles hurt first, then my knees by lunch time. And if I don’t take a nap and stay on my feet all day, my hips will be hurting too.”

“Oh.”

Joint pain is my normal. Sometimes, if I barely walk all day, the ache in my ankles is barely noticeable and doesn’t affect my functioning because I’m used to it. If I do what most able-bodied people would consider to be a “normal” amount of walking, almost all of my joints will hurt by supper. If I have to wash dishes or run any errands, I’ll hurt so bad I can’t walk for the rest of the day.

Then there’s the chronic migraine attacks. I used to have them multiple times a week as a child, and no matter how I explained myself, nobody ever understood that they weren’t just headaches. I experienced those too, and frequently, but they were not the same. Thankfully, at the age of eleven, I found an article explaining migraine triggers. I was able to identify a few of my own triggers, and the frequency of my migraine attacks reduced to maybe a couple a month. For a few years I was basically on cloud nine, I’d never experienced such a lack of pain before and it was so freeing. Unfortunately, migraine is a progressive condition, so the attacks have gotten more frequent over the years.

And then there’s the “random” pains. Some mornings I wake up and my stomach hurts. Or my chest. Or my back. These are just things I have to live with, because my body’s connective tissue is… well, for lack of a better word, faulty. And I never knew that other people didn’t experience this, because how could I? We never talked about it. Sometimes I’d hear people complain about back aches and just assume they were like mine. Of course, I knew that injuring yourself could cause muscle aches, obviously. But I just assumed that *most* of the time, other peoples bodies hurt like mine did. I didn’t realize that humans aren’t supposed to “just hurt” without a connected incident.

And when I try to explain this to able bodied people, their response is always the same. “Well, everyone’s back hurts sometimes.” “Everybody gets headaches sometimes.” “You’re not special just because you’re too lazy to walk. I still go to work when I don’t feel good.” And no matter how many times I try to say that No, you don’t get it, I *always* hurt, they still brush me off and dismiss me.

[solarmorrigan]

I have a lot of thoughts about Steve who craves physical affection, who thinks of his worth in terms of what he can do for other people, and who got very drunk at high school parties. This is one of them

CW for heavily implied past dubcon (not between Eddie and Steve). Please take care

-

Eddie has never seen Steve drunk.

At least – not up close. There had been a few high school parties back in the day where Eddie had passed by the “Keg Stand King,” but since he’s come to know Steve personally (intimately), Steve has barely touched alcohol.

He’s told Eddie the story of being drugged against his will and how he doesn’t want to repeat the feeling of losing control, and how he doesn’t like not being able to drive if he needs to, and how the hangover would probably just trigger a migraine anyway – and, really, he just doesn’t drink much anymore.

Yet tonight had been a special occasion: Robin’s birthday. She herself isn’t much for alcohol (for at least some reasons that match up with Steve’s), but drinking, she said, feels like a part of the birthday experience. She’d somehow gotten Steve to match her beer for beer, for “emotional support,” and it hadn’t taken long for the both of them to become entirely inebriated.

Time has apparently greatly eroded Steve’s tolerance.

Eddie had distantly expected him to be kind of a bitchy drunk—and he had become a bit cattier, for sure—but mostly he���d just become affectionate. There had been hugs for nearly everyone, and he’d spent the latter half of the party slowly migrating into Eddie’s lap, plying him with constant kisses on the cheek and giggling ridiculously at nearly everything Eddie had said.

It had been sort of adorable (not that Eddie will tell him that; no, he’s going to sit on that information until it benefits him).

It’s a little less fun now that he’s trying to cart Steve up to his room and into bed. Steve is a bit wobbly, and a lot heavy, and is much more interested in trying to cling to Eddie like a koala and bury his face in Eddie’s neck than he is in actually walking anywhere.

“Y’know, we could cuddle to your heart’s content if you’d just let me get you to bed,” Eddie points out when he and Steve have stalled out partway down the hall, leaning against the closed door to the bathroom.

Steve hums vaguely, tightening the grip he has on Eddie’s t-shirt. “But you’re out here,” he mumbles, nuzzling into the crook of Eddie’s neck.

A shiver travels down Eddie’s spine at the feeling of Steve’s warm breath ghosting across his throat, but it doesn’t go much further than a gentle, dying flutter in his gut. As affectionate as Steve has been, as hungry for contact as he’s acted all night, there’s been nothing sexual about it. It’s been all hugs and sweet kisses, not heated embraces and sloppy make outs.

Besides– Steve’s drunk. Eddie’s not going to take advantage.

He wedges a hand between himself and Steve and gently pushes Steve back.

“I’m coming to bed with you, you colossal dork,” Eddie says.

Steve blinks at Eddie, slightly unfocused. “Oh.” He finally heaves up and away from the wall, grabbing Eddie’s hand to tug him along as he weaves unsteadily down the hall. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, all affection. “Where else would I be going?”

Steve stops when they get to his room, apparently pondering the answer.

“Away?” he finally volunteers, half-questioning, as if he’s hoping he’s wrong.

“No, baby,” Eddie assures him immediately, leaning in to give him a quick kiss. “I’m staying. Gotta make sure you don’t choke on your tongue after you pass out, anyway.”

“’m not that drunk,” Steve says; he rolls his eyes and then immediately seems to regret it, reaching out for Eddie’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Uh huh,” Eddie drawls. “Okay, time for bed, big boy.”

Grumbling, Steve releases Eddie to shuffle over to the bed, where he flops down on his back with a sigh, jeans and all.

“Alright, not exactly what I meant, but I can work with this,” Eddie says, kneeling on the bed by Steve’s hip.

They’d managed to ditch their shoes in the entryway, but they’re otherwise fully dressed, and Steve is going to be uncomfortable if he tries to spend the whole night in his belt and jeans.

Steve squirms a bit when Eddie reaches for his belt buckle, as if he’s not quite sure whether to move away or not.

“Eddie…” he groans – an exasperated sort of groan, rather than the usual way he groans Eddie’s name when he’s squirming on the bed.

“Just hold still,” Eddie shushes him with a quick pat to the hip.

He gets as far as pulling the tongue of the belt through the buckle before Steve’s hands shoot out and grab Eddie by the wrists. His grip is surprisingly strong, considering how uncoordinated he’d been tonight, and Eddie stills immediately.

“Steve?” Eddie looks up to see Steve staring down at him, wide-eyed and apprehensive; hell, if Eddie didn’t know any better, he might say Steve looks… sort of frightened.

“Not– not tonight,” Steve says, enunciating carefully, and Eddie’s confusion only increases.

He doesn’t want his belt off tonight? Is that what he’s worked up about?

In the wake of Eddie’s baffled lack of response, Steve only grows more insistent, tugging Eddie’s hands away from his waist.

“Not while I’m–” Steve breaks off, licking his lips nervously. He shakes his head and adds quietly, “Please.”

Brows furrowed, Eddie stares at Steve a second longer. “Not while you’re…?” Then the penny drops, and Eddie jerks away from Steve so quickly that Steve barely has time to let go. “Oh shit, no. That’s not– no, I’m not– Steve, fuck, no, that’s not what I’m doing.”

Steve stares up at Eddie, the anxiety he’s a little too drunk to mask still lingering in his eyes.

“I promise, I was only trying to get your belt and pants off so you’d be more comfortable. For sleeping!” Eddie says quickly. “But you can keep them on if you want. Hell, put on more layers. Do you want a jacket?”

Distantly, Eddie realizes he’s rambling and tries to stop; it doesn’t seem to be helping.

“I– I know I was kissing you,” Steve says, then glances away with a grimace, seeming a bit more sober now. “Practically throwing myself at you. ’m sorry, I just–”

“Don’t be sorry. Don’t be,” Eddie says firmly. “Even if you were throwing yourself at me—even though you weren’t; like, I can tell the difference between cuddly you and horny you, okay?—but even if you had been, you can still say no. You can always say no. But I swear, Steve, I was only trying to get you comfy, that’s all.”

For a moment, Steve just breathes, processing Eddie’s words as carefully as his sloshed brain will allow.

“Are you still going to stay?” he finally asks. “Even though I don’t want to have sex?”

“Of course,” Eddie blurts, some dizzying combination of baffled, anxious, and incensed. “I’m only gonna leave if you tell me to.”

And even then, he’d only go as far as the couch downstairs (just in case).

Slowly, Steve nods, then reaches for his belt to pull it off in a series of determined, clumsy movements. He drops it on the floor when he’s done but makes no move to remove his jeans.

Eddie, following suit, resigns himself to an uncomfortable night. He strips off his jewelry and his own belt but leaves his pants on.

All the lights go out, save for a small, dim lamp on Steve’s desk, and then Eddie crawls on top of the covers with Steve, pulling the blanket from the end of the bed—a gift from Claudia—up over both of them.

A little of the churning, anxious mess in Eddie’s chest eases when Steve immediately plasters himself to his side, resting his head on Eddie’s chest (and Eddie just knows there’s going to be drool there come morning, but he can’t bear to move him). All the same, even as he hears Steve’s breathing even out into sleep, Eddie can’t get his mind to rest.

What has he done to give Steve the impression that he’d try to fuck him when he’s too drunk to really say yes? What has he done to make him think he’d leave if Steve doesn’t put out?

Nothing.

Genuinely and truly, Eddie can’t think of anything. There have been plenty of times they’ve hung out, even shared a bed, and they haven’t had sex. Sure, they’re active, but they do actually do other things together.

There have been other nights where sex has seemed like a sure thing, only to be halted by an apologetic look from Steve and the start of a migraine. There have been times Eddie’s called it off because his anxiety has reared up and bit him in the ass. There’s never been anger over it.

That leaves two options: it’s either an imagined scenario stirred up by anxiety and insecurity and alcohol, or… it’s based on a different experience, in a different time and place.

All things considered, Eddie has a terrible, sinking feeling that he knows which one it is.

[beautyinsage]

wants and needs

you got married because it was convenient — why not enjoy the benefits that come with it?

gojo x reader.

cw: arranged marriage au, you don't particularly like each other but the sex is good, (yes you've had sex before), (no this is not an enemies to lovers type beat), (more like just good sex between two people who happen to be married!), banter, sexual tension, lowk public-sex public-flirtation, unprotected sex, maaajor exhibition kink

"what the hell are you doing here?”

“last time i checked, sweetheart, the invitation was addressed to mr. and mrs. gojo satoru.”

"that wasn't the question."

"and yet, that's my answer."

you tsk your tongue in annoyance. “i told you that i would take care of this one.” that's what always happens. you and your husband aren't particularly fond of these soirees—him more so than you—and you often switch off on being the representative. never before have the two of you attended the same event. that is, until now.

satoru raised an eyebrow in amusement at your attitude. “yeah? well if you hadn't rushed out of the house this morning, you would know that i was coming and i could’ve picked you up on the way. shame.” you roll your eyes and start to move away, but he snakes an arm around your waist, shifting so he can lower his mouth to your ear. “though, the delay did have its perks—the dress compliments you beautifully.”

you cheeks warm, but you stare straight ahead, your voice far more nonchalant than you felt, “really? that’s good. you paid for it.”

he pulls back, and he meets your smirk with an amused grin, “oh? get yourself a few more then.” his hand then shifts upward, and you feel his thumb swipe over your breast lightly: subtle to a viewer, but as subtle as a gun to your nerves. despite your shock at his boldness, you have to resist the overwhelming urge to press into him.

part of you wanted to be furious. you were in public. at a high-class function. with everyone you could possibly know all in one room. he was insane.

but… on the other hand—

his thumb swipes over your breast again, this time pressing the slightest bit harder.

—it was all so incredibly hot. 

“satoru—“ you whisper, every inch of your skin burning as you wanted to be closercloser—

“did you know that you only call me by my name when you’re pissed off or you want me to fuck you? in this moment, it actually seems like it’s both,” he snickers menacingly, and you open your mouth, ready to snap at him, when one of the elders approaches him.

“gojo-san! you show up twenty minutes late to an event we specifically told you not to be late for—“

satoru laughs easily, completely pretending as if he hadn't just promised you the most sinful things. he slips his hand back down to your lower waist before effortlessly engaging with the man’s griping. 

gulping lightly, you refocus, blurring out the impossible want flowing through your veins, and paste on the realest fake smile you can muster. you just need to get through the night.

-

you did actually get through the night. most of it anyways.

the whole event went smoothly. the heat was practically palpable between you and satoru, but both of you kept your cool until it was over.

but now, skip ahead, when you're driving home: the two of you were in a car, in the back seat, sitting on opposite sides, both looking straight ahead.

hence the "most of it" part.

now, all that felt palpable was the awkwardness. the haze of lust and want demanded attention, and any attempt of deflection would not be tolerated. and yet, you were stuck, in a car, with satoru — well, satoru and your driver.

you bounced your knee as you impatiently checked for the millionth time to see if you were any closer to home. 

(you weren’t.)

these were the moments that you wished you could just warp home with him—damn the awful migraines that result from it—but you knew satoru would never allow it without good reason (unfortunately, sex is not a good enough reason for him).

desperate to fill the silence and pass the time, you look over to the person driving you home.

“different driver today?” you ask satoru, tense as you squeeze your legs together, pressing as close to the side door as possible.

“ah, yeah, gave ijichi the day off today.”

“oh,” you murmur, your tone almost introspective as you glance at him for a second, “interesting.”

there’s a terse pause, where satoru looks at you intensely as you fix your gaze straight. his eyes don’t leave the side of your face as he says to the driver, “haru? roll up the partition please, thank you.”

the divider goes up and silence engulfs the two of you. satoru shamelessly breaks it, calling your name knowingly. you refuse to take his bait and continue to stare straight ahead. 

he says it once more, dragging out the last syllable as he leans closer. 

you huff, turning your head, but your indignant response falls short under his gaze. 

you knew that look. 

it was the look that you thought about on the more lonely nights, in your bedroom with your fingers between your thighs. it was the look that made you melt, made you always crawl back for more. it was the look that meant that he wanted to fuck you—now. 

(you also knew, with that look? it was only a matter of time before you said yes.)

unable to form any words, you simply nod your head, and then he is on you. he grips the side of your face and brings his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. 

his hand moves to grope roughly at your breast, squeezing slightly. you break away to choke out a moan, and he presses his lips down your neck. moving quickly, he pulls down the strap of your dress to expose your very thin bra. impatient as ever, his mouth is on your nipple through the fabric, and you whimper and press closer to him. 

your eyes fall shut as you bask in the lust. it was always him. only he could reduce you to this. 

grabbing your opposite leg, satoru shifts you onto his lap, a hand gently guiding your head so you wouldn’t bump it as you adjusted. your dress’ skirt pooled around the two of you, and with both hands, he grinds you down onto him. your barely clothed clit makes contact with his cock straining against his trousers. 

you fly forward, muffling your moans against satoru’s neck as he rocks you against him. he snickers lightly, shifting you down for a second so he could unbutton his pants and pull down his briefs slightly. his cock was ready for you, practically pulsing in his hand. “you know baby, the partition is soundproof. you can be as loud as you want.” he strokes himself a few times before pressing his tip against your clit, teasing lightly. “unless, of course, you wish that it wasn’t?” 

you want to protest, to tell him to shut up and go to hell, but all that escapes a surprised moan as he lifts you, swipes your panties to one side, and presses you back down to his cock. 

you both moan at the feeling, the tension haunting you the entire night making it so that all he had to do was simply slip into you. god, it felt like you could feel every inch of him — and you couldn’t get enough. “satoru—“ you whine, thrusting shallowly, trying to get more friction.

“what?” he says satirically, caressing his fingers up and down the length of your back.

you glare, and although you’re sure your pout and blushing cheeks take away from the intimidation factor you were going for, his gaze softens.

“oh sweetheart, i’m being too mean. let me fix that.”

nothing in this world could have prepared you for what was next, because next thing you knew, the man was fucking up into you perfectly, stroking you just right, grinding you down onto him flawlessly. your hiccups of pleasure were leaving you before you could stop them, and you gripped a hand into his hair as the other dug into his expensive suit jacket desperately—with the way your nails latched on, you wouldn't be surprised if a bill was waiting for you in the morning (it's okay—you both knew you would never pay it).

“god, you’re so fucking sexy baby,” he mumbles, sounding practically drunk as he speaks, “make me wanna fuck you in front of everyone today—make me wanna show everyone how good you are for me. how good you always are. you’d like that, wouldn't you?”

embarrassment was apparently thrown out the window three blocks ago because you sob out a wanton yes and squeeze him tightly. you feel yourself climb exponentially higher.

“ohh, baby, you like that, don’t you? you want me to show them who you belong to? or do you want to show everyone who i belong to hmm?”

he laughs breathily as you conveniently decline to answer, focusing more on the rapidly approaching peak, “that’s okay sweetheart, i’m yours. and you’re mine. my little wife, understood? now be good and take my cum.”

it was over before you could stop it. you stutter out a brief “satoru— c-cumming!” before you shatter, mouth falling open as you breathe in little gasps. clenching tightly, your hips start to jerk as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you.

the sudden tightness makes satoru curse as his thrusts get impossibly harder, head tilting back as he chases his high. “fuck—fuck, gonna cum, gonna fucking cum—ah, ah—fuck i’m cumming—“

his lips immediately latch onto yours as he climaxes, groaning as he paints your walls with his cum, and you both work each other down from your respective highs. 

the car feels suddenly quiet as both your gentle pants fill the air. your eyes meet, and you're suddenly reminded that this man is your husband. what he offers you isn't a want — it's a need.

you need your husband. there's no one else who can do this—no one else who can make you feel this alive.

suddenly, satoru's eyes widen and a pained groan escapes him. “fuck, i’m going to have to fire this guy.”

you raise an eyebrow at him, confused at first, but then you realize. panic mixed with embarrassment mixed with an inexplicable aftershock of pleasure begins to bloom inside your chest.

“yeah,” he admits, scratching his head almost innocently, “i lied. the divider isn’t soundproof.” 

[disneyprincemuke]

the thanksgiving incident * ls2

it's never fun feeling like an outsider, so you'd sworn that nobody would ever feel the way you did all those years ago

pairings: logan sargeant x platonic fem!driver

notes: my deepest apologies for not posting today, a migraine had me down bad and wishing i was dead but it's okay i'm bad baBY LETS FUCKING GO

| "wanna hang out?" | driver's parade | american burgers | american football | the thanksgiving incident | another williams adoptee | beating the heat | you’re embarrassing me | santa baby | the favourite driver | the situationship |it's nice to have a friend |

come up to my hotel room

you stare at your message in the blue bubble, trying to assess the lack of response from the younger driver. you press your fingertips into your lips and turn around. "do you think he now thinks i'm trying to hit on him?"

george, with a balloon in his mouth, stops blowing into it briefly and stares at you. he pinches the opening of the latex decoration and tilts his head at you. "what did you text him?"

"hopefully not," alex speaks, walking past you from his previous spot at the entryway. in his hands is a medium-sized bowl of mashed potatoes. "that would be weird."

"i just texted him to come up here," you say, catching your bottom lip between your teeth.

"you didn't say anything else?" george asks.

you shake your head.

"that's kinda misleading," alex mutters. "has he read it yet?"

"he left me on read," you mutter, pursing your lips. "seriously, guys! what if he thinks i'm hitting on him?"

alex shakes his head. "everyone on the grid knows you're on and off with shawn. it's impossible that logan thinks you're making a pass on him."

you raise your eyebrows. "did logan tell you that?"

there's a knock on the door, cutting george's wish to reply short. he looks at you before he resumes blowing into the balloon in his hands. you look at alex, who simply shrugs and turns away to untie the plastic on the small table of your hotel room.

you sigh and push yourself off the bed, walking over to the door slowly. "who is it?"

"it's logan!"

you huff and wipe your palms into the material of your sweats. you pull the door open and the greeting at the tip of your tongue immediately disappears when there is a singular sunflower in logan's hand.

"what is that?" you ask with a hand on the door handle.

"it's a," logan clears his throat and follows your gaze at the sunflower in his hand, "a sunflower."

"i know what a sunflower looks like," you answer softly, "but why is it in your hand and why are you holding it up?"

"well, you texted me without context, by the way," logan starts, taking a step away from you to throw himself back into the hallway, "and i didn't know what to make out of it. so i... i don't know. i got you a sunflower."

he extends his hand to offer you the flower once more.

"i told you!" you screech, turning around to call for george and alex. "i fucking told you!"

logan, out in the hallway, grows confused. he tilts his head. "what?"

"i- the text," you cut yourself off as the severity of the situation gets to you. you turn around to face logan. it's only then you realise that he made the effort to look presentable, sporting a nice pair of shorts and a polo tee. "i asked you to come up here because we prepared you a thanksgiving dinner."

you press your lips together, fighting back tears when a blush creeps up logan's cheeks. you watch as realisation slowly hits him and his jaw drops. "oh."

"yeah," you breathe out. you look down at the flower and take it into your hands. "this is very thoughtful. thank you."

"yellow flowers are a sign of friendship."

"are you rejecting me?"

"are you fucking around with me? is this a prank?"

"no, i'm just offended that the first thing you thought of was a subtle way to let me down."

"i didn't know what to say to you. you're very pretty," logan readjusts his shirt and clears his throat, "but like- you know?"

"i guess," you shrug. "would you like to come in?"

"wait, you prepared me a thanksgiving dinner?" logan asks softly, hesitantly following you inside. he slips off his shoes right by the door and lets the door shut. "me?"

"of course! i figured you'd want to celebrate it. it's nothing like home or what your family could give you," you hum, stepping aside as he gawks at the decoration that george poorly put up. "but i thought you might like to at least spend the night with people instead of being all by yourself in your hotel room."

"i- i don't know what to say," he whispers, a smile slowly growing on his face as he looks around. there's a picture of a turkey stuck on the wall, a couple of balloons taped above the tv and an entire meal prepared on the table. "thank you. this is the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

"we couldn't find a turkey on such short notice so," alex mutters, patting his rookie on the back. he points at the far corner of the table, where there is a stuffed animal of a turkey resting on a plate. "the genius decided to opt with a toy."

"a toy that he gets to keep!" you shriek, a hand on your chest. you turn to logan. "i'm sorry i texted you to come up without context."

"tell shawn i'm sorry i thought you wanted to hook up with me."

"we're on a break."

logan pulls a chair out from under the table and grabs a plate for himself. "then tell him i'm sorry he's stupid for breaking up with you." he takes another and offers it to you. "dinner?"

[luxthestrange]

Beastars Incorrect Quotes#45 Human Kink

Once again the Herbivores and Carnivores were having a fight, and you being the human mediator were trying to calm things down...and so to have you on their side the bill said Els ate your favorite snack...and everyone in the herbivore knew and didn't tell you

Ellen: Bill said he thinks about you sometimes when he’s making love to himself!?

Y/n*Double take from being mad at Els for eating their snack to Bill*...What?

Bill: One time-

Y/n:  What?!

Bill: I thought about bangs and your face just appeared beneath them!- Okay, by the way, like I’m the only one in this club!?, Aoba told me it happened to him, like, like, a bunch of times

Aoba*Feathers puff up in a fluster seeing your shocked face directed onto him, panics* tem, you told me the first week you returned from winter break, you had a sex dream about them, and they had raccoon hands!

Tem: Dreams do not count!

Y/n*Closing eyes and feeling a migraine looking at the beastfolk* You’ve all thought about me while self-completing?!

Juno: Look Y/n it’s not that big deal*Sensing their anger….also since she little guilty of self-completing to them too*

Drama club *All looking embarrassed and not being able to look you straight* It’s a sincere form of flattery ...

Y/n*Takes a deep breath and shakes head*-We’re going back to keeping secrets…when I walk through the door …this never happens *Walked out of the drama club room* -OH MY STARS!?!

Louis & Legoshi*Who were outside the club room and heard...everything*...

... It's like reverse monster kink...everyone in the club thought things of their human club member-

[starkidmunson]

glitter & crimson

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Time passes in ways Eddie doesn’t fully understand, in the aftermath of Steve’s injury.

A few days are spent lounging around the hotel room with Steve drifting in and out of sleep, for the most part. Then they graduate to small day trips. Squeeze in some touristy shit; museums and landmarks not too far from the hotel, in case Steve gets a migraine or starts feeling nauseous. 

Day 6 features a follow-up at the hospital, where Steve is told the bandage is no longer necessary to cover the worst of the injury, surgery won’t be necessary, and he’s clear to fly home or wherever else he wants to go. Which means Eddie is also free to leave LA, but he’s already stuck it out this long, so he decides to continue to follow Steve’s lead and spend another day.

He gets a call from Steve before he leaves his hotel room on Day 7, informing him that Max is leading a trip to the beach before they leave California again. Steve insists it’s the least he can do since Lucas flew out to spend the last few days with her, so she could stick around until Steve was clear to travel again.

And that’s how Eddie finds himself wearing lavender board shorts from the surf shop that looked the least like a tourist trap, dousing himself with an entire bottle of the highest SPF he can find before stepping out of the store. His black ripped jeans and the Judas Priest shirt he’d worn, not anticipating a trip to the beach, are folded into the bottom of a large tote Robin is carrying with ease, as she picks out towels for everyone to lounge on. She catches sight of him and raises an eyebrow, but he holds his hand up to stop any commentary.

“Black is just going to make me burn even more than I’m already going to burn, and the blue pair I liked were the wrong size, so lavender it is.” He defends, but she just shrugs at him, keeps smiling and walks over to pay for the towels and her bathing suit.

Behind Eddie, Lucas clears his throat. He spins to find Steve, blushing and glaring at Lucas, who’s grinning. 

“What? Don’t tell me I need to defend the trunks to you guys, too. I thought you’d be on my side.” He whines.

“Oh, I don’t think Steve has any issue with your shorts. Or lack of a top.” Lucas teases, then laughs as Steve swings a soft punch into his shoulder.

“I just…” Steve trails off, turning his attention back to Eddie and Eddie can see the heat rise from Steve’s cheeks up to the tips of his ears, coloring him a soft shade of pink. “I didn’t realize how many tattoos you actually have, I guess.” He eventually settles on, before immediately occupying himself with finding sunscreen.

Eddie lets it slide, and they all pay for what they need, before crossing the street and trekking toward the water. Max is the first to toss her shorts and sandals into a pile, running toward the ocean and diving into the first wave she encounters. Lucas is just a step behind her, and he’s quick to catch her waist and throw the two of them back into the water just as she’s resurfacing.

Robin shoves a rented umbrella into the sand and Eddie helps expand it, as Steve lays out his towel so his face is covered by the umbrella’s shade, but his torso down is exposed to the sun. Eddie, on the other hand, huddles up so most of his body is concealed by the umbrella.

“Oh shit, dude, I didn’t even think to ask. Are you worried about getting seen out here or something?” Steve asks, and Eddie frowns. It takes a moment before he realizes it probably seems like he’s hiding from any potential paparazzi.

“I get bothered so little by media that I hadn’t even thought about that if I’m being honest.” Eddie shakes his head but smiles at how thoughtful Steve is. “I’m just a little too pasty to trust the sun on a cloudy day, so direct exposure like this always makes me nervous. But I like laying in the sand and I’m happy you wanted me to tag along. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he assures Steve, who smiles at him until Robin mocks a gagging noise and makes them both blush and look away from one another.

The salt air and crescendo of waves and bellowing laughter kick up a surprising amount of inspiration for Eddie, and he fishes his phone out of Robin’s bag, typing away while she and Steve sunbathe. 

He’s so caught up in the piece he’s working out that he doesn’t realize anyone has spoken to him until Steve’s pressing a hand to his knee, looking a little concerned. 

“What? Sorry, I got an idea and I had to get it out before I forgot about it.” He mumbles, typing out his final thoughts before giving Steve his full attention.

“We’re going to return the umbrella and grab food before heading back to the hotel to pack up, if you’re hungry?” Steve asks, smiling at Eddie. He looks back at his phone to realize their hour with the rented umbrella is nearly up, so he nods and helps clean up the space they’d taken over, before they find a beachfront restaurant that doesn’t mind that none of the guys are wearing shirts, or that Max’s hair is still dripping wet, leaving a trail behind her as they move to their seats.

Once they’ve eaten, they go back to the hotel. Eddie asks if he can shower to get the sand out of his hair before he changes back into the clothes he’d had on pre-trip to the beach. When he re-enters the room, almost everything is packed up and Robin is on the balcony, talking on the phone.

“Nancy called,” Steve explains from the sofa, as Eddie flops beside him, towel-drying his hair gently. He hadn’t bothered to put his shirt on yet, not wanting his hair to make it all wet while it air dries. “Did they hurt?”

“Hm?” Eddie’s confused instantly, looking at Steve before realizing he’s eyeing the tattoos across his chest. “Some of ‘em more than others, yeah. But it’s a good kind of hurt.”  Eddie explains, and Steve frowns, but that’s okay because Eddie knows not everyone gets what he means whenever he explains the tattooing experience like that. “It’s… kinda like if you have itchy sunburn and you accidentally scratch it? It feels good to have scratched it, but it also hurts.” When Steve still looks confused, it’s Eddie’s turn to frown. He looks over Steve’s exposed arms and takes in the soft golden color they’ve turned and his eyes narrow. “Do not tell me you’re one of those genetic anomalies that doesn’t sunburn and always has a perfect tan, Stevie.”

Now Steve is grinning, throwing a shrug in Eddie’s direction. “Blame it on the 8 years of swim club during the summer off-season.” Steve laughs as an explanation, and Eddie instantly wants to know more about everything Steve has ever done in his life, but doesn’t know where to draw the line at how much is too much to ask to know, so he ultimately doesn’t ask for any further information. Which is fine, because Steve is leaning closer and taking hold of his left forearm, twisting it and tracing a finger along a snake that wraps around his skin. “Do they have meanings?”

“Some of them, yeah. Some of them I just got because I liked how they look.” Eddie admits, watching Steve’s fingers trace along the delicate lines of the snake. “That one’s got its mouth open like it’s hissing and about to bite.” Eddie considers what comes next, and decides to just lay it all out on the table. Steve had been open and honest with him, Eddie could return the favor. “Snakes are supposed to be a symbol of inner strength and perseverance, and they look sick. I got it after my first stint in rehab.”

Steve doesn’t falter, doesn’t even blink, and if Eddie didn’t know better, he would think Steve had already known about his trips to rehab before he’d said anything. Instead, he moves on to trace a blackout band around Eddie’s bicep. “Do any of them have stories you want to share? You don’t have to if it’s too personal.”

He’s stunned to silence for a moment, something that doesn’t often happen to Eddie. But he’s so used to everyone pressing to hear more about rehab and addiction and recovery that his brain physically needs a moment to catch up to Steve. “Oh. Uh. I mean, the one you’re touching doesn’t have a meaning or story, I just liked how it looks.” Eddie thinks for a moment, then, before he holds out the inside of his right forearm. “This one is a puppet master. Master of Puppets is my favorite Metallica song, and when I learned to play it is when I realized that music could actually be a career path for me.” They run through a few other tattoos; the Wyvern, the spider, the “you bow to no one” in elvish down his spine. While still working up the courage to tell Steve more, he switches his approach. “Do you have any tattoos? Or have you ever wanted any?”

“I’ve never thought about it in a serious way, because I’m not sure I’d like having something on me permanently like that.” Steve shrugs, flipping his arm over to point at his right wrist. “The few times I’ve thought about it, it’s been like. A robin, here. The Roman numerals for 94 somewhere. That kind of stuff.”

Eddie smiles softly, nods. “It’s adorable that you’d want one for Robin.” He teases and lets the moment breathe for a moment before he circles back to the tattoo of the snake. “I’m not ashamed of my story, or my history, but we hadn’t really talked about, you know. That aspect of things, yet. But, I mean. I made terrible choices when I was younger, and I got in over my head with drugs harder than I realized. And it’s happened more than once. And I’m not naive enough to think I’m magically cured because drugs haven’t raised an issue for me over the last few years. But I’ve been mostly sober for almost 4 years.”

“Mostly?” Steve asks, concern clear in how softly he speaks, and Eddie can’t help but grin and shrug a little.

“Still some weed sometimes. Still drink beer sometimes. Both in moderation, not anything out of control. It, uh, probably sounds weird but those weren’t substances I had issues with, so I don’t… I don’t really think about drinking or smoking as cheating, but I know some programs would call it that way.” He shrugs, and Steve nods, processing the information.

“Well, thanks for sharing that with me. I know it’s probably not easy to talk about, but. I learned a few new things about you today.” He offers with a little smile, and Eddie nods back. They slip back into silence, until Robin slips back into the room, looking between the two of them expectantly.

“Did you ask him?” She asks, and when Eddie turns his attention to Steve, he flushes.

“No, I uh…” He trails off, picking at a fingernail before looking up at Eddie, then back down at his hands. “We’re flying back to Chicago tomorrow, and we were wondering if you had your plans set for heading back to Nashville?”

“Oh, yeah. When you guys initially said you’d be leaving tomorrow, I booked a flight home for tomorrow afternoon.” He says and watches Steve’s lack of reaction. Wonders if he should have asked about joining them in Chicago until Steve gives an awkward smile. 

“Right, that makes sense.” He nods. “Well, we can all head to the airport together, at least?”

“Yeah, sure.” Eddie agrees, turning to look at Robin in the hopes of finding an explanation, but she turns away to take her turn in the shower, leaving Steve and Eddie together on the sofa.

~~~

Gareth picks Eddie up from the airport once he’s touched down in Nashville, and they head back to his house. Eddie throws himself into the comfort of his sofa, huddling up to a pillow with the intention of taking a nap, but his phone buzzes in his pocket. When he fishes it out, he smiles.

Stevie: Dustin has taken over the apartment, but we’re home. Hope you got home safe, too.

“Why are you smiling?” Gareth asks as Eddie is typing out his response.

“I’m not smiling,” Eddie responds instantly, schooling his expression and shoving his phone back in his pocket.

“Oh, so Steve texted you,” Gareth says, matter-of-factly, before scrolling on his own phone. “Want to order food? I’m hungry and you don’t have anything edible.”

“Why do you assume Steve texted me?” Eddie asks, frowning and sitting up straighter.

Gareth raises his eyebrow and glances over his phone at Eddie before he sighs. “Because you were making that face you’ve been making for the last month every time you text him, and you just got home from a week with him, so obviously he’s texting you again. Your turn to answer; food?”

Eddie stares at Gareth for a moment, watches as he turns his phone around to face Eddie, showing off the Uber Eats screen, before he scoffs and takes the phone to place his order. Before he hands it back to Gareth, though, he holds it just out of his reach. “What face am I making?”

“C’mon, Eddie, don’t play dumb.” Gareth laughs, but Eddie frowns deeper. Gareth frowns back, then. “You really haven’t put it together?”

“Put what together?” Eddie asks, finally handing Gareth his phone back. Gareth takes it, but doesn’t look away from Eddie until he answers.

“Dude, you’re in love with him.” He says, like it’s obvious, before going about placing his own order.

Eddie thinks for a moment. He knows he has feelings for Steve; finds him attractive and interesting and definitely wants to see if something is there. But to know that his friends can see through him puts him on edge, makes him defensive. “I’m not in love with him, we’re just friends.”

“Eddie,” Gareth laughs before he sees the serious look on Eddie’s face and he sighs. “Look, man. I’m not trying to start a fight or make you spiral or anything. I’m just saying. You leaned into a TikTok trend for him, voluntarily learned about the sport he plays, helped nurse him back to health after he got hurt and spent an extra week in LA to be with him longer. And now you’re texting him, again, like you did after we left Chicago. There’s something there, whether you want to admit it or not. Maybe it’s not love yet, but that’s where it’s heading.”

Silence settles over them, just the sound of Gareth’s short nails tapping against the screen of his phone, for a long moment. Eddie processes what he’s said, thinks it over, before flipping back to the text messages from Steve. He reads the words over and over before he decides on an answer.

Eddie: Glad you’re home safe. Miss you already.

He doesn’t have to wait long for a response, as Steve answers no more than two minutes later.

Steve: I miss you already, too, Eds.

Eddie considers responding but decides to tuck the phone back into his pocket instead. He drums his fingers against his knee, settling into a melody before he nudges Gareth’s leg with his foot. 

“Wanna help me set up the studio downstairs while we wait for the food?”

Gareth meets his look, raising an eyebrow. “Inspiration strikes over Steve Harrington?”

“I’ve got, like, four different ideas I started fleshing out in LA without instruments,” Eddie answers instead and ignores the smug look on Gareth’s face as they stand and make their way to the basement Eddie converted into a recording studio to get it ready while their food is delivered.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

A Big Misunderstanding

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.6k

Warnings: mentions of being tortured, your partner is killed because of it, your coworkers blaming you for their death, migraines, deaf in one ear, feeling less than by hotch, fluff at the end

Request by anon: Read the request here!

Summary: You're a new transfer to the team without Hotch knowing about it You needed to escape harassment and tragedy from your other job, so Strauss places you as the new techy girl alongside Penelope. Everyone welcomes you with open arms but Hotch, and it's starting to affect your physical health.

Square Filled: guilty conscience for @badthingshappenbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

This is it. This is the first day of your new career, new life, and hopefully with a new family to call your own. The last one didn’t end up so well for you. You’re hoping to start something new with all new people and a brand-new attitude. You walk into work with your purse slung over your shoulder and enter the bullpen. There are so many people busting their asses, moving about the large area, and doing work at their computers. A black man walks past you with coffee in his hand, and you quickly stop him.

“Hi, where can I find Agent Hotchner?”

“Up the stairs. His office is right in front of it.”

“Thank you,” you smile and walk past him.

Agent Hotchner is sitting in his office looking over one of the files Spencer sent over to him when you knock on the door.

“Come in.” You knock again when you don’t hear anything. “Come in.”

This time you do. Hotch is floored by your beauty when you walk in but he remains stoic. He doesn't want to give away just how beautiful he thinks you are.

“Hi. My name is Y/N. I am here about the technical analyst position available.”

“There is no position available. I’m sorry, you must have the wrong department.”

“You’re Agent Hotchner with the BAU, correct? I was sent here to start with Penelope Garcia.”

“Who sent you?”

“I’m sorry?” you ask when you didn’t hear him speak. You move your right ear closer to him so you can hear better. “Can you repeat that?”

“Who sent you?” he asks more sternly.

“Cheif Strauss.”

Hotch doesn’t say a word and picks up his desk phone to call the Chief. She never told him she would be sending anyone over, and he never requested for a new person to join the team.

“Hello, Agent Hotchner.”

“Chief Strauss. I have Agent Y/N here saying she’s going to be working with our technical analyst. Am I hearing this correctly?”

“Yes, I sent her over there to be transferred.”

“Without talking to me about it?”

“I don’t feel like I have to tell you everything I do. She will be joining your team. I assume you’re perfectly capable of training her?”

“Yes ma’am.” Hotch hangs up and looks at you with a sigh. “The team and I are meeting right now to go over a case. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

You bite your lower lip nervously. You hate coming across as dumb but you really can’t hear what he’s saying when he speaks in a low tone or mumbles.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“I said you can join us. We’re about to be briefed.”

He gets up and walks out of his office with a hard look on his face. He hates himself for thinking you’re so beautiful when he’s going to be your boss. Dating you or even thinking about dating you is inappropriate, so he’ll try to keep this as professional as possible. You haven’t even started your first day and you’re already off to a bad start. Still, you chalk this up to a rough start and follow him into the briefing room where the rest of the team is at.

“Team, this is Agent Y/N. She will be starting today as a technical analyst that will be working side-by-side with Garica. Y/N, these are Agents Prentiss, Reid, Morgan, Rossi, Jareau, and our technical analyst Penelope Garcia.”

“What’s your name again?” you ask the blonde and sit next to her.

“Penelope Garcia. You’ll have so much fun working with me. I like to keep it cool in the office,” she smiles.

You can tell you’re gonna get along with her easily.

“Let’s begin,” Hotch says and looks at JJ.

JJ places crime scene pictures on the screen for everyone to see. Some are of a crushed vehicle and others are of victims who have been crushed by a vehicle. Penelope gasps and looks away so she can keep some decency while you look on in curiosity.

“An unsub that kills with his car? I haven’t seen that before,” Emily says.

“Neither have the police in Bend, Oregon which is why they need our help. There have been two victims in the last twelve days. The first victim is Maria Delgado, twenty-three. She was hit on a morning jog. The second victim is Shannon Makely, forty-three. She was stranded on the side of the road when her car broke down.”

“What makes the locals think that they were connected?” you ask, trying to be part of the conversation.

“For one thing, they were both backed over after the initial impact. This wasn’t an accident. Plus, they matched treads in both scenes. They were large wheels for all terrain. Their wounds also indicated a raised bumper, so they’re thinking a large SUV to a truck. When we land, I want a list of everyone who owns a vehicle for all-terrain.”

“What?” you ask and look at his lips to read what he’s saying.

He shoots you an annoyed look which makes you sink into your chair in embarrassment. 

“Garcia, get me the list.”

“Sure,” she nods and looks at you.

“Do they know the make or model?” Derek asks, moving the conversation along.

“No. The tires are made for multiple kinds of vehicles.”

“Were there any witnesses to either incident?”

“No, both victims were attacked in secluded areas.”

“Two tons of metal make a hell of a weapon,” Derek says.

“Serial killers have been known to become rather attached to their vehicles. Bittaker and Norris even gave theirs a nickname. Murder Mac,” Spencer explains.

“Bittaker and Norris were sexual sadists. There's no sign of torture here. This sounds like thrill kills for easy targets randomly selected. We need to think about if they’re not random. We need to see if there is a connection between the two victims.”

“With this type of impact, the vehicle shouldn't be hard to pick out of a lineup. There should be significant front-end damage.”

“Somehow I don't think it's gonna be that easy,” Rossi shrugs.

“Well, I think it's safe to assume our unsub is male,” Emily states. “A big car is phallic like he’s overcompensating for something. Maybe he’s impotent. If the unsub sees himself as physically defective, the car not only gives him the power and control he otherwise lacks, but it also serves as a shield.”

“Maybe a way to avoid physical contact?” Hotch asks.

“Now we’re going in a different direction. Power, control, and female victims equal up to a rape profile.”

“Rape and thrill kills are two very different profiles. What does victimology tell us?”

“Nothing, yet. Shannon Makely was a white, married, commodities trader. Maria Delgado was a Hispanic grad student and a competitive tri-athlete.”

“So far, gender's our only link. Hopefully, the crime scenes will tell us more. Garcia, Y/N, I want you with us on this one. Y/N, do you have a go-bag?”

“No.”

Hotch sighs in annoyance but Penelope saves the day.

“Come on, I’ll show you where I keep my go bag.”

You don’t mean to be a pain in the ass especially on your first day, but you’re really trying to fit in here. You used to be an active agent that was really good out in the field. You passed every test with flying colors and were up for a promotion within your field.

Until one day when you and your partner went undercover.

You two were captured by a well-known drug lord who was known for torture and gang violence. He knew one of you was FBI but didn’t know exactly which one. He tortured both of you until one of you confessed, but it’s not like you two were going to give the other one up. If only you had told him you were the FBI agent then he wouldn't have killed your partner. Your partner died because of you, and when your team busted in to try and save you two, the explosion from the blast they used shot your hearing so bad you became deaf in your left ear. If you get stressed too much then you start to get migraines and Strauss knows this.

Seeing Hotch behave this way starts a small headache you know won’t go away if he continues. You would have recovered and stayed with your original team if they didn’t harass you every day and blamed you for your partner’s death. Strauss knew it was a problem when you came into her office crying because of them.

You hope this team isn’t going to be like your last otherwise, you’ll have to find a new line of work.

“Are you sure I should come along?”

“You’ll do great,” Penelope encourages.

You and Penelope meet everyone on the plane. They discuss the case some more but you only listen this time. You want to see how each person is just by observing instead of butting in and trying to be like one of them. Plus, you’re not a profiler so you’ll leave this one to the team.

Your only focus is the computers and the technical world. When you were recovering from your accident, you taught yourself how to code and hack since you were bedridden for months. You got to the point where you impressed Strauss with your skills which is why she put you on this team. They don’t necessarily need you but this is the only team she can put you on without having to fire you altogether.

When the plane landed, you and Pen elope set up shop in the police station surrounded by laptops. One of the crime scenes happened near a security camera which is what Penelope is working on. You’re getting that list for Hotch of everyone who owns an all-terrain vehicle and cross-referencing if they still live in the state or not. This is what you like to do post-kidnapping. This gives you a different kind of comfort than being out on the field.

“Garcia, anything?” Derek asks.

“Not yet, sugar. Give me a few more minutes.”

“Y/N, I have a list of suspects PD already has in mind. Cross-reference those who are already on your list,” Hotch orders.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Hotch starts listing off names from your left side so it’s kind of hard to hear him. You don’t want to make a scene and ask him to move so you try your best to put in the right name. Hotch watches as you type in the names and sees you’re typing in the wrong names.

“No, I didn’t say Millie Bael, I said Lily Ball. Are you not listening to me?”

You’re trying really hard not to cry right now and your head hurts so much. Derek sees the look of despair and pain on your face and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Hotch, take it easy. It’s her first day.”

“Sorry, Lily Ball,” you mutter and type in the name.

After twenty minutes of almost wanting to cry, you narrow down your list to ten suspects. Penelope didn’t find good coverage on the security footage so she is looking into half of the men on the list while you get the other half.

“Look into the history of each suspect. I don’t want any stone unturned, understand?” You’re staring at Hotch’s mouth to read what he’s saying. Ever since becoming deaf, you’ve gotten good at reading lips. “Do you understand?” 

You jump at the sudden change in tone.

“Yes, sir. I will look into the history of each ma and cross-reference them with accidents they might have been in.”

“That’s not at all what I said. I don’t even know why you’re on this team. We never had an issue with having just one technical analyst.”

Tears brim the surface of your eyes but you won’t let them fall. It’s only the first day. I’ll get better. Hotch walks away with a scoff and a shake of his head, and you fall onto your chair with a sigh.

“I don’t know why he’s being so hard on you. He’s never like this,” Spencer says.

Emily, Derek, and Rossi are out right now leaving you, Spencer, Penelope, and JJ alone in the conference room.

“I don’t mean to be this way. I was never like this.” You explain your past to them--the drug lord, getting kidnapped, tortured, injured, and harassed every single day. “I needed out of that job. I was so excited to be put here but Hotch is only reminding me of my coworkers. Hopefully, he’ll ease up on me.”

He didn’t.

For the rest of the case, Hotch continued to be hard on you even when the team defended you. Every little thing you did Hotch criticized, even if what you did was completely right. He always had something to say about something, and by the end of the case, your headache is at an all-time high.

While on the plane ride home, you tried to get some sleep. The migraine plus the stress Hotch is putting on you is enough to send your mind into a nightmare. A nightmare about what you could have done differently to save your partner. Hotch sits in his chair and watches you without anyone noticing him. He knows he’s been hard on you but he hates anyone new coming in and ruining the dynamic between the teammates that are already here.

You gasp awake and scare everyone from the sudden noise, and Hotch’s eyes narrow.

“Are you okay?” JJ asks.

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Y/N. When we land, you and I need to have a conversation with Chief Strauss about your future here.”

“I’m sorry,” you say as a tear rolls down your cheek.

“Hotch,” JJ says to defend you. However, you’re already getting out of your seat and going into the bathroom to have some time alone to yourself. “Why are you being so hard on her?”

“Have you not been with her the entire time? She always asks me to repeat myself and she can’t follow instructions.”

“She was in an accident. She used to be a really good agent. I looked her up,” Spencer says.

“Her former team blamed her for the death of her partner, and she became deaf in her left ear after being tortured for information,” JJ finishes.

Now Hotch feels like shit. His face doesn’t give away how he’s feeling but deep down, he’s feeling like the worse piece of shit ever. He tries to talk to you when the plane lands but you escaped to grab your things to get the hell out of there. You’re almost at the elevator when Hotch stands in your way.

“Sir?”

“I want to apologize for how I’ve been treating you. I’ve been completely unfair to you without understanding who you are as a person and as an agent. I’ve always been reserved with new people on this team which is something I know I need to work on.”

“I don’t mean to do this on purpose. I’m assuming JJ and Spencer told you what happened to me?”

“Yes. If you’ll accept my apology, I’ll work on making you part of this team as if you started here on day one.”

“That’ll take months, I’m afraid, but apology accepted,” you smile.

Yup, you’re going to be the death of him. Your smile is too damn beautiful not to see in his office every day, and he’s gonna do everything he can to keep it there.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[krirebr]

I Could Feel at the Time

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x female Reader

Word Count: 650

Warnings: Explicit language, references to forced marriage and forced pregnancy, angst, drinking, sads

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Hello! So, with Part 6 of More Than This, we're coming to the end of what I've been thinking of as the first arc of that story. To celebrate, how about a super angsty ficlet of Ransom's POV of their first meeting???

Ransom sat in his car across the street from the restaurant. He watched you exit and get into a town car. He knew that from this distance he couldn’t actually see how upset you were. What he knew in his bones was just projection. But still. Your car drove away and he stayed where he was.

He’d spent the last week angrier than he’d ever been in his life. He’d sort of thought, as he’d kept getting older and no arrangements came to fruition, that he’d managed to avoid the whole thing. But now, at 35, his time had finally come. It was how condescending they’d been when they told him, his mom and granddad. “It’s time for you to grow up and settle down,” she’d said. “This will be so good for you, exactly what you need,” he’d said. And then they’d told him about the baby.

He should count himself lucky, he supposed, that he even knew. What kind of assholes must your parents be that they didn’t even tell you? Especially since it’d be your body doing the work. They’d left that dirty work to him.

He’d fucked it up. He knew that. But he was just so goddamn angry about the whole thing. He was mad at everyone involved for forcing the two of you into this. And he was mad at you for lying down and taking it. For being such a good girl. He chuckled to himself. Like he was any better.

He finally put his car in gear and pulled out onto the road. He drove for a mile or two before he saw a sign for some shitty chain steakhouse. Sure. Why the fuck not? He was hungry and wanted to keep feeling like shit. It was perfect.

He went in and sat himself at the bar. Everything was neon. It exacerbated the migraine that had been building all day. Fucking good.

They didn’t have any scotch and their best bourbon was some midtier piece of shit, so he just ordered the rail. A glass of shitty, watered-down sadness. Perfect. He also ordered the porterhouse, although that’s not what it was called here. It had some cutesy name that he forgot the moment the menu was taken away. And it came with too many sides. Everything was bullshit.

He’d lied when he told you he had other dinner plans. The plan had been for him to eat with you. But something had happened, sitting there with you. It was like everything was suddenly more real than it ever had been before. This arrangement. This marriage. This life. It was real. It was happening. He wouldn’t be able to get out of it. So as he looked at you, he couldn’t even bring himself to open the menu. And then you’d asked if he knew what he wanted and he’d panicked. It’d just fallen out of his mouth. A way to get himself out of there. 

But then you’d looked so hurt and he’d mocked you for it. Fuck. He was such an asshole. 

His food came. A rubbery steak and two different kinds of lukewarm potatoes. He’d left you at a five-star restaurant. He ate it silently while drinking his “bourbon”.

He had your number. He could call or text, apologize. But that wasn’t something he did. He wasn’t sure he fucking knew how. No. What would it help, anyway? Every time he thought about you, or the wedding, or the baby, there was this tightness in his chest that just wouldn’t let go. Whiskey sometimes helped. The real stuff, not this fucking swill he was currently drinking. Ignoring it helped a lot. So that was what he would do. He’d do what he told you to do, live the next three weeks like none of this was happening. What else was there?

And for now, he’d finish his fucking steak.

Tag list is open

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[vic-draws-sometimes]

Some omegaverse PriceGaz thoughts cause I'm plagued by the horny

I don't dabble much in omegaverse so ignore if there are mistakes

Kyle is an omega and Price is a beta, chaos ensues.

In which Price is oblivious to Kyle's attention. "Oh he's so pretty and strong, but he'd never choose me, an old beta. After all he's an omega, surely he wants an alpha to take care of him"

But also

"yeah I'll give him some of my clothes for his heat, he told me it makes him feel safe as his captain, and I want my soldiers to know they're safe with me :)"

And Kyle is pumping out pheromones to seduce Price but Price doesn't smell them. Everyone on base has a borderline migraine because of the scent except the betas. Kyle somehow manages to get Price to scent him but once again Price is convinced it's just a "feeling safe with his captain" thing, after all he never had an omega on his team before. Kyle purrs at some point and Price thinks it's just a very nifty quirk.

When they finally get together after a lot of misunderstandings Price does things that make Kyle think he doesn't like him, mainly he doesn't react to instinct based stuff.

The first time they sleep together Kyle asks him to knot him and they have the awkward discussion of "I would love to, I swear, but I physically can't". They remedy this by buying a silicon knot for Price to wear during Kyle's heats. Kyle wants to claim him and vice versa but the bite marks don't do much because the scents just don't match, but it's okay they just renew the bites more often than other mates.

Feel free to add more

[starlightkun]

➠ word count: 4.5k ➠ warnings: cursing, suggestive (no smut but they’re in love and horny lol) ➠ genre: fluff, established relationship, former hockey captain sungchan, chronically ill reader (chronic migraines), shortfic in the buzzer beater series (comes after saltwater smiles), some minor angst again but it’s about like growing up and being a human and finding your place and purpose as an adult, not between our couple or anything ➠ extra info: the reader in this has chronic migraines, which i have. when the reader’s migraines, experiences as a chronically ill person, and thoughts about being chronically ill are described, that is me writing directly from my own life. i am not generalizing the lives of all people with chronic migraines/chronic illnesses, but i am sending all my love to any readers out there living with a chronic illness, and here’s a reminder to go take your meds! ➠ series masterlist

“It feels like I can’t ever move on from this. From being Sungchan the hockey captain. I know you were just joking when you said it but—I don’t want to actually be that guy that peaked in college.”

“Yo, tell them about the championships against the Sharks, Sungchan!” Your colleague, Seunghan, insisted, pushing on your fiancé’s shoulder with his hand that held a drink.

Sungchan looked down at his feet for a moment, and you caught a quick flash of hesitation on his features before he looked back up at the group of enthralled people and gave a lighthearted chuckle and charismatic smile. “I’ve already told that story tonight, I’m sure everyone here doesn’t want to hear it again. Besides, don’t you all want to hear about Y/N’s paper?”

You two were at a rather ritzy gathering being thrown by your department celebrating that one of your articles had been chosen for publication in a huge literary theory journal.

“Anton wasn’t here when you told it earlier!” Seunghan shook a grad student instructor in your department. “And we’ve all read her paper like a hundred times before it got published.”

You reached up to squeeze Sungchan’s arm through his suit jacket. “It’s okay, Channie. I want to hear about it. That was championships your junior year, right? I wasn’t there, remember?”

He focused his gaze down on you for another second as if making extra sure, and you nodded and gave him a smile for good measure. He sighed, wrapped his arm around your shoulders, and began the story, much to all your colleagues’ delight.

A little later in the night found you by the drinks table with Ten. When you had moved back to your old college town to accept a position with the Literature department, you hadn’t expected to walk in on your first day and see a familiar face. Sure, you knew you’d be seeing Dr. Son, who was the department head now and had conducted your interview, and several of your old professors, but you’d been keeping up with most of your old schoolmates and as far as you knew, Ten had moved away after you two finished your two-year master’s program and remained there.

Ten swirled his cocktail around his glass before taking a sip, his eyes trained on your fiancé, who was still surrounded. “Why do I never get that treatment?”

“Maybe you should’ve been captain,” you snickered, taking another sip of your soda.

“Too much work.” Your friend wrinkled his nose. “So what is your man doing these days anyway? He get that PhD in molecular biology about fish or whatever?”

“Yep, he’s a whole doctor,” you told your coworker, looking over at your guy with pride. “Defended his thesis last spring, we did a short stint abroad for about a year for him to study some rare fish in the tropics to cure a rare blood disease. I enjoyed all the food and the sun, really. He probably got skin cancer. And now we’re back here. He’s actually doing his post-doc research here, too.”

“He’s curing blood diseases in tropical fish?”

“No, sorry, in people,” you covered your mouth as you laughed. “Somehow, the fish could help cure a human blood disease, I’m not sure about anything past that.”

“And you’ve got a fat rock on your finger,” he teased, grabbing your hand to inspect your engagement ring. “What a power couple.”

You giggled, letting him look over the ring. “Yeah, something like that. He proposed when we were abroad. God, it was the most gorgeous sunset. Just us, nice and quiet.”

“I’m invited to the wedding, right?”

“Duh. We just haven’t sent invites yet, bitch.” You pushed him with your foot, rolling your eyes. “It’s going to be a certified frat party, I’m afraid.”

“Kegger?” Ten grinned.

“I’m enlisting Taeyong and Kun to keep all you menaces in check for me.”

“Well yeah, you can’t trust your Chenle-of-Honor to do that, he’ll be the first up to do a kegstand.”

You laughed heartily at that. “A few years ago, probably. But I’m happy to report my man-shaped best friend has grown into a real adult.”

“Really? What’s the little monster doing?”

“Middle management in advertising at a designer company. He’s got his eye on a promotion soon, though. Oh, and he’s got the cutest little dog.”

“Speaking of little monsters…” Ten trailed off, eyeing your drink, then your abdomen. “No alcohol?”

“I can’t drink on my medication, remember?” You shook the ice around in your glass smugly.

“Damn!”

As you rode home with Sungchan, your hands entwined over the console, you looked out the passenger window with contentment in your chest.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he sighed, stroking a thumb over the backs of your fingers.

“For what?” You turned to look at him curiously.

His features were pensive and regretful as he focused on the road in front of him, one hand on the steering wheel. “For being a distraction all night. Everybody was asking me about hockey the whole time when all the focus should’ve been on you and your awesome article. I’m sorry, I'll completely understand if you just leave me at home next time.”

“Channie, why the hell would I do that?” You asked through incredulous chuckles, turning to hold his hand with two hands. “Celebrating my accomplishments would mean nothing if I didn’t have you there with me.”

“But I just—”

“Admittedly, I didn’t expect there to be so many puckheads in the Lang department,” you shrugged. “But I know where we work, and you are a bit of a hometown celebrity around here, baby.”

“That sounds like something you’d call somebody who peaked in high school.”

“Right, my bad. You peaked in college.”

“Rude.” He knocked your elbow with his, making you laugh.

“I’m kidding, handsome. But I am proud of you. I snagged a good guy, and I am not going to hide you away when I go to these events just because people are going to ask about your hockey career.”

“It’s not fair to you.”

“I appreciate you trying to put the focus back on me tonight, I really do.” You squeezed his hand. “But when Seunghan said everybody in the department had read my article hundreds of times, he meant it. They all helped proof and revise it dozens of times each. I was tired of reading it by the time it was accepted if I’m being honest with you. Hearing about your hockey game was a welcome reprieve from thinking about the body as a critical site for sex, gender, and political ideology in M. Butterfly.”

“Do you mean that or are you trying to make me feel less like a dick?”

“I mean it, baby boy.” You pinched his cheek.

He squirmed in his seat as he slowed to a stop at a red light. “You never call me that anymore…”

“Seems like you needed it.”

“Hey,” he said softly, turning his head to look at you. “I love you.”

“I know.” You cupped his cheek, stroking his cheekbone fondly. “I never doubted that for a second, baby.”

Sungchan leaned across the console to press his lips to yours, cradling the back of your head. You hummed delightedly into the kiss, moving your mouth against his sweetly.

When you felt the car suddenly roll forward, you jerked back, gripping his arm with a yelp. “Channie!”

He was already grabbing the steering wheel with two hands and slamming on the brakes again. “Fuck! Sorry!”

The car had moved forward less than half a meter and you were the only car at the intersection, but it was enough to get your heart racing.

“Are you okay, baby?” Sungchan checked on you with wide eyes, keeping one hand on the wheel as he reached his other hand over to grab your knee.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” You put your hand over his to reassure both of you. The light turned green then. “Let’s just uh, get home in one piece, hm?”

“Sounds like a plan.” He patted your thigh, leaving his hand there as he slowly started the car forward again.

“Channie?” You called out into the house, shrugging off your coat. You’d stayed a bit late to grade papers, and while Sungchan would’ve usually stayed to walk home with you, he had wanted to get a head start on cooking dinner.

“Pantry!” He yelled back, voice distant as he was presumably deep in the walk-in pantry.

You continued shuffling through the mail you’d grabbed on your way in as you walked further into your house, tossing the junk mail in the trash as you fished out the one packet that had caught your attention. Stopping at the doorway to the pantry, you tore open the thick packet. Skimming the letter and investigating the two lanyards inside, you informed your fiancé, “Donghyuck’s team is having a preseason scrimmage at the university, and he sent us VIP passes.”

Sungchan stuck his head back out of the pantry. “So that’s why he asked for our address the other day.”

“When did you talk to Hyuck?” You asked as he gently took the letter and lanyards from your hands.

“He called me out of the blue a couple weeks ago. I was at the gym before work and completely forgot by the time I got home, sorry, baby.” He flipped over the passes hanging from the lanyards, bright green and dark black, the colors of the professional hockey team that Donghyuck had gone on to play for after college. “I thought he was going to crash on our couch or something, not this.”

“He’s a pro hockey player making like millions a year and you thought he was going to ask to couch surf?”

“You think he wouldn’t?”

“Good point,” you chuckled. “So how was he? Sound like he was doing well?”

“You said it yourself, he’s a pro hockey player making millions a year. I’m sure he’s doing great.”

You frowned up at him. “You didn’t ask?”

“It was a quick conversation, he’s busy,” Sungchan shrugged and handed everything back to you, disappearing into the pantry again. “We barely had time to say hello.”

“We should go,” you declared, setting the lanyards down in a spot so you two wouldn’t lose them.

“Baby, it’s a Friday. That’s our date night.”

“We can miss one date night for this, Channie,” you scoffed. “Besides, I’ve never heard of Jung Sungchan not wanting to go see a hockey game. Are you sure you’re my Sungchannie? Were you replaced by an alien or something?”

Sungchan kept his back to you as he started chopping vegetables. “Never mind, you’re right. We should go.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, but didn’t push the issue further. “Alright...”

Sat back down in familiar bleachers, you hugged Sungchan’s arm tightly, buzzing with excitement. As much as you had loved watching Sungchan play hockey when you were younger, there was something special about watching it with him, having him explain plays, tell you if a player made the right call, or how he would have done it if he had been captain. Being able to see the sparkle in his eye up close as he watched one of his favorite things. You’d seen it plenty of times in the years that you stayed local while he got his PhD. Which is how you knew that something was wrong now, even as he tried to flash a smile at you every so often, ones that never reached his eyes. He didn’t join in the cheers very enthusiastically, and never engaged when the other guys around him tried to debate calls that the refs made.

You found out that the whole team from your senior year had been invited as well, though some of them couldn’t make it. So it was you, Sungchan, Mark, Ten, Jeno, and Chenle in the VIP section. Yangyang was staying abroad with his parents, while Sicheng was at a seminar for work. Chenle was of course invited as an honorary member of the team, fresh off a plane from Paris with that promotion in his pocket.

Donghyuck was Good. He had been great when he was on the Raptors, obviously, which was how he had gotten scouted to go pro, but now he was great. And this was just a preseason scrimmage, just him messing around. You were sure he was scary good when he was actually trying at their real games. He’d kept his old number from college, 66, and seemed to have his own legion of fans with posters and signs.

When the game was finally over—and Donghyuck’s team won—a representative from the team corralled everyone with the VIP lanyards and directed you towards a different area while the rest of the stands filtered out. You kept your hold on Sungchan’s hand as you waited in what you were pretty sure was the women’s locker room for your old friend.

Finally, Donghyuck ran in, and everyone immediately swarmed him, hooting and hollering, slapping him on the back, ruffling his hair, and making teasing remarks about being a big shot now.

“Mark!” Donghyuck threw his arms around his old Big’s neck, nearly knocking his friend over.

“Christ, dude,” Mark wheezed, stumbling back a couple steps. “Are you still wearing your gear or something?”

“Did you not keep up with our lifting regiment?” Donghyuck shamelessly felt up Mark’s arms, then gasped dramatically. “Am I the Big now?”

Mark swatted his hands away. “If you want to pay for all my beer and drive me around in your Lamborghini or whatever, sure.”

“Deal!” The pro player grinned, then turned to the next person, who happened to be you. “Y/N!”

“Hyuck!” You beamed, opening your arms wide for him to throw himself at you as well, only staying up since Sungchan was right behind you to catch you. “Hey, there! God, I can’t believe it! You killed it out there!”

“Thanks!” He let go of you with one arm to wrap it around Sungchan’s neck, pulling him into the hug with both of you. “Oh, it makes me so happy that you two are still together! Are you engaged? Married? Kids? I didn’t have time to ask Sungchan when I called the other week, I was heading into an interview.”

You leaned back as much as he would let you, just enough to show off your ring. “He proposed last year. We’re— eugh!”

You were cut off by Donghyuck tugging you two against him into a tight embrace again. You gave him a pat on the back as you continued, slightly choked with your throat pressed against his shoulder. “We’re looking at a spring wedding…”

“I love you guys so much…” Donghyuck sighed. “All of you. I hope you know that hasn’t changed.”

“We know that, Hyuck.” You coughed, rubbing his back. “Make sure we have your address so we can send you an invite, okay?”

“What did I tell you, Y/N? In undergrad?”

“You told me a lot.” You laughed as he finally let you and Sungchan go. “Some stuff you probably don’t want me to repeat right now.”

“I said you guys were soulmates. I knew you were gonna get married. I knew it.”

“Oh yeah, you did.” You squeezed his hand that he still had a grip on. “Hey, when you retire from pro hockey, you can be a fortune teller.”

“Don’t joke about that, I’m the star player, haven’t you heard?” Donghyuck was practically puffing out his chest. “I’m years off from retirement!”

Sungchan grabbed him by the scruff then, teasingly mussing up his hair. “What did we always tell you about bragging?”

Ten, Jeno, and Mark eagerly joined in on giving him a killer noogie, the four of them managing to keep him in place despite Hyuck being the only one who had remained a professional athlete.

“Ack!” Donghyuck complained as he was surrounded. “Y/N! Chenle! Somebody, help!”

“Promise you’ll buy us dinner with your star player money,” Chenle crossed his arms over his chest as he watched on, “and maybe Y/N and I will convince them to leave you alone.”

“Yeah!” Jeno agreed. “Dinner and drinks and we’ll consider!”

“This is extortion!” Donghyuck yelped.

“Glad to see some things don’t change…” You sighed, shaking your head. “You guys still pick on him.”

“He needs an ego check,” Jeno snorted, his arm now around Donghyuck’s neck.

“I was going to take you all out to dinner anyway!” Donghyuck pleaded. “Didn’t you people read the letters?”

“It was in the letter, guys,” you confirmed loudly.

The guys all looked at each other, slowly releasing their holds on the youngest. With sweet, proud smiles, they fixed his hair and straightened his branded hoodie back up, smacking his shoulder and patting his cheek between compliments of how well he played and specific moves he did, giving feedback on certain things he could improve on still. Donghyuck rolled his eyes at the constructive criticism, but you could see him struggling to suppress the fond curl of his lip at being surrounded by his old teammates again.

When you finally got home that night, you felt about ready to collapse into bed. You had a tired, happy smile on your face from seeing all your old friends again, and haphazardly tossed your go bag to the side before stepping out of your shoes. Sungchan didn’t follow you into the bedroom, as you had expected. You heard him detour to the kitchen, and your ears perked up with interest as you changed into your pajamas.

Sungchan didn’t just get a glass of water, though. You heard him rooting around in the snacks, and that’s when you got concerned. You had just eaten dinner and had drinks, and he had plenty of bar snacks as you all hung around and caught up after finishing dinner. He shouldn’t be scrounging for a midnight snack already.

After tossing your dirty clothes in the hamper, you ventured out to the kitchen determinedly. Sungchan hadn’t yet found something to eat, a frustrated pout on his face as he pulled out box after box, but didn’t open any.

“Hungry?” You asked curiously, leaning against the fridge.

“No,” he sighed, setting the container of crackers down loudly then rubbing his face harshly.

You held your hand out towards him, and he took it immediately. You led him back through your house by the hand, into your bathroom and let go there. Walking back out through the house, you grabbed his desk chair from your joint home office, and pulled it into the bathroom. He was standing exactly where you left him, and let you wordlessly push him down by the shoulders to sit in the chair. Washing and drying your hands, you then readjusted the chair, making sure he was exactly where you needed him. Then you climbed onto his lap facing him, the two of you perpendicular to your bathroom vanity. You grabbed a fuzzy character headband from one of your drawers and put it on him, pushing his hair back from his face.

“I—”

“Shh.” You stopped him as soon as he opened his mouth, putting your own headband on.

Next, you grabbed your cleanser.

“What—”

“Shh,” you repeated with more emphasis, holding his eye contact firmly, until he gave up and closed his mouth, letting his head fall back against the head rest.

You meticulously went through your whole extended skincare routine, doing each step first on Sungchan, then on yourself. He finally gave up on trying to talk, then finally relaxed, then really relaxed, his eyes fluttering shut and a pleased hum rising in the back of his throat.

“All done, handsome,” you announced at the end, giving his cheeks a final squish between your hands, then pulling off his headband and fluffing up his hair.

Sungchan slowly opened his eyes, reaching up to take your headband off as well.

You smiled down at him. “How are you feeling, Channie?”

“Better, thank you, baby,” he replied quietly.

“You want to talk about it?”

He couldn’t look you in the eye. “About what?”

“Whatever’s been getting you bummed lately. You weren’t all there tonight, I could tell. And the day we got the passes, you didn’t even want to come in the first place. That’s not like you.” You put both your headbands aside on the counter, then stood up off him. “You get changed into your pajamas, I’ll tidy up in here. We’ll talk in a few minutes, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” He nodded, getting up and grabbing the chair to drag back with him.

You wiped down the bathroom counter and tidied up all your bottles and containers, listening to the sounds of Sungchan getting ready in the next room over. When you walked back into your bedroom, you were thrown for a loop as you couldn’t see your fiancé for a moment. You found him in your living room, sitting on your couch and holding a picture frame that usually lived on one of the end tables.

Sitting down beside him, you looked at the picture with him. It was of you two at his last collegiate hockey game, him still in his uniform as he picked you up and spun you around, bright smiles on both your faces. His face now was brooding, jaw clenched and eyes hard as he continued staring at it.

“You got me that for our first anniversary,” you commented softly. “I love that picture.”

“I do too,” he sighed, though his tone was much more bitter than his words.

“Talk to me, Channie,” you murmured. “What’s going on?”

“It feels like I can’t ever move on from this.” He shook the frame. “From being Sungchan the hockey captain. I know you were just joking when you said it but—I don’t want to actually be that guy that peaked in college.”

“Oh, Channie...” you breathed out, draping an arm across his back and leaning your cheek against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize...”

“It’s not you, baby,” he assured you, squeezing your knee. “It’s everything else. Like I try to do anything else, be anything else, but I’m just dragged back into that stupid jock box again.”

“Well, what do you want to be?” You asked as you sat back up, rubbing up and down the center of his chest soothingly. “Not what you think other people want you to be, or what you think you should be. What do you actually like? What do you want to do? Do you still like hockey? Outside of everybody’s opinions about you liking hockey? It’s okay either way, for you to still like it or not. It was the biggest thing in your life for like twenty years, baby. It’d be ridiculous to expect you to just suddenly not like it as soon as you graduated.”

“Do you really want a husband that just talks about sports all the time while you’re talking about smart stuff?” He sighed, letting his eyes close as he leaned all of his weight against you, his hands dropping to rest the frame in his lap.

“I want a husband that’s you. That’s why I accepted your proposal and not like, Dr. Yoon’s or something.”

“I’m going to assume you’re being hyperbolic to make a point and that my research head didn’t actually propose to you. Because if not, then I’m going to stop pouting and write my letter of resignation right now.”

“I’m trying to make a point here.”

“Which is?”

“You’re really underselling yourself, Channie.” You encouraged him to lay his head in the crook of your neck, not letting up your movements on his sternum. “You’re plenty smart. We’ve been together for almost seven years and I still couldn’t keep track of a hockey game if a gun was to my head. Meanwhile you were a whole captain. You had to make decisions on your feet—or, your skates. Not to mention, hm, oh yeah, you have a PhD in molecular biology. Did you forget about that? Doctor Jung?”

“Oh yeah,” he mumbled into your collarbone.

“Oh yeah,” you mimicked him lovingly. “I nearly flunked my bio for non-majors course my freshman year, you know.”

“What?” He squinted up at you. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“You knew I was a Bio major, you should’ve asked me for help.”

“I kick myself every day for it,” you replied melodramatically, and finally saw a smile tug at the corner of his lips. “So? Do you think you still like hockey or not?”

He let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, I do. I really do.”

“Good. I’m glad.” You kissed the top of his head. “I want you to do stuff that makes you happy.”

“Coach came and found me at the lab last week... the day we got the VIP passes from Donghyuck. He’s looking for a part-time assistant coach, said I was his first pick,” Sungchan admitted quietly.

“That’s why you were so... off that day, huh?”

“Yeah. It felt like I was handed a pamphlet for a retirement home.”

You chuckled as he reached forward to set the picture down on the coffee table, then grabbed your hand that was on his chest. He looked up at you with heartachingly familiar, big, round doe eyes, ones that hadn’t changed in the ten years since you’d first met.

“I told him no but... I’m thinking maybe I should ask if he’s found someone else yet?”

“I think that’s a great idea, baby.” You pecked his forehead. “Coach Jung… I think I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?” He grinned, a much different look in his eye as he sat up to his full height, towering over you.

“I don’t know, let me try it again.”

“Go ahead.”

“Coach Jung.” You reached for the back of his neck as he laid you down on your couch, hovering over you. “Yeah, it’s got a nice ring to it, huh? Powerful, sexy. I love a man with a whistle.”

“You’re so dorky,” he snickered, letting you pull his lips down to yours. “I love you so much.”

“I love you more, my Sungchannie.” You cradled his face with both of your hands.

“Lies.” He kissed your lips. “Impossible.” He kissed your neck.

“Says who?”

“Who has the whistle here?”

“You don’t have one yet,” you teased, holding your arms up for him to pull your shirt off. “Assistant Coach Jung.”

Sungchan kissed a trail down your front, stopping above your waistband. “You’re forgetting something, baby.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m a scientist, with a degree and everything, and I say it’s scientifically impossible for anybody to love anybody more than I love my girl.”

You made grabby hands at him, and he rose up from where he had settled between your legs, entirely blocking out the lights above you. You connected your mouths together again, wrapping your arms and legs around him so tightly he had no choice but to lay his entire weight on top of you.

“No fair,” you complained into his mouth. “I just told you I almost flunked Gen Ed bio.”

“You should’ve let me be your sexy tutor, then.” He didn’t sound sympathetic at all.

“Yeah, freshman you all sweaty and nervous in your hockey team hoodie.” You broke apart to giggle. “Real hot stuff, Channie. Literally.”

“You’re lucky you’re the love of my life, or I’d be really hurt at some of the stuff you say to me, you know.”

“You’re right.” You gave him a peck. “I am lucky that I’m the love of your life.”

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[steddio]

Steve is used to pushing through pain. Sure, the adrenaline of a life or death moment is one thing but when that fades and all that’s left is stinging cuts and tender swelling and a full-body bone-deep ache there’s no excuse for letting weakness show. Or letting others see the lingering migraines, achey joints, and night terrors that continue to wound his body and psyche even once everything is “back to normal.” Ingrained in him since an unforgiving childhood, Steve’s grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it philosophy has served him perfectly well and he sees nothing wrong with it, thank you very much.

Until he meets Eddie. Eddie who curses, shouts, screams and cries his pain, broadcasting it to those around him with his typical dramatic flair. Eddie whose eyes betray every feeling and emotion, amplified tenfold by the flailing of too-long limbs and gesturing of ring-bedecked fingers. Eddie who sees right through Steve’s facade to the core of his pain.

It starts with Eddie giving Steve an obvious once-over each time he sees him, checking for visible injury, the lasting echo of shared trauma. Steve knows how to navigate this, having faked his way through countless minor sports injuries in order to stay off the bench and in the game. What Steve doesn’t know how to navigate is what comes after. Unlike Steve’s coaches, who accepted his apparent well-being without question, Eddie has an unnerving tendency to locate the exact source of Steve’s discomfort.

“Harrington, are you limping? Cut the shit and sit down over there, I told you not to overwork your bad knee.”

“Ok big boy, pull over. I’m driving and that’s final. Don’t argue with me, you can’t even see straight. Driving with a migraine is definitely worse than my driving, dude.”

“You look like shit, go home, I’ll help Robin close. Yes, yes, I got it, how hard can it be?”

Eventually, and even worse, Eddie moves beyond snarky well-meaning comments to saying nothing but doing everything. Like shooing the younger kids out of Steve’s house when he’s starting to squint against the bright lights and loud conversation. Or grabbing heavy bags from Steve’s hands before he’s even halfway from the car to the door. Or wordlessly turning up the stereo when Steve needs something, anything to drown out the ringing and echoing screaming in his ears.

At first, being seen hurts more than the actual pain. Stripped raw by the casual tenderness, the sheer humanity zinging at newly exposed nerves. Steve doesn’t know how to handle this breakdown of his primary defense mechanism. He tries to keep shrugging Eddie’s concern away, but Eddie is relentless. Eddie “willing to repeat senior year three times rather than drop out” Munson is entirely undeterred by Steve’s patented nonchalance. Despite it all, he keeps caring. And Steve has no choice but to accept the tidal wave that is Eddie’s concern.

It takes a while, for Steve to recalibrate his self-perception. So used to shoving it aside, he has to learn again how to really feel pain. How to acknowledge it, respond to it. How to attend to his own discomfort the way he attends to Robin’s, or Dustin’s, or Max’s.

The first time he cancels plans with the gang because of a migraine he’s overcome by guilt. He’s five seconds away from calling back to say just kidding he is totally fine and would love to drive everyone to the movies when he hears a knock at the door. Before he can even fully open the door, Eddie barges in.

“Harrington! Where are your towels, I brought you drugs, the legal ones don’t worry, go lay down, what are you doing standing there gawking, here swallow this and put this over your head.”

Before he can fully process what’s happening, Steve is manhandled onto his own couch, a cool damp towel over his eyes and forehead, and Eddie is back out the front door shouting that he’ll check in on Steve after the movie ends.

The second time he cancels plans, his bad knee too achey to make the trek out to Dustin’s radio to celebrate his and Suzie’s anniversary, Steve is still guilty, but almost unsurprised when Eddie turns up at his door, rented movie in hand, shouting at Steve to ice and elevate his damn knee already.

After a while, the guilt goes away, replaced by a bone deep security that’s brand new to Steve, a quiet reassurance that it’s okay to put himself first, it doesn’t make him selfish or bad or pathetic or weak or any of the things his dad used to shout at him before he learned to mask himself. Replaced by an overwhelming fondness for Eddie and his exuberant care, the way he wears his feelings like his tattoos, on his bare skin.

After a while, Steve realizes that not all of Eddie’s once overs are checking for pain, sometimes they’re simply for checking him out. And this, this he knows how to handle.

The tenth time Steve cancels plans, he’s waiting at the door for Eddie to arrive. Eddie is all blurred motion and Bambi-eyed concern, looking for Steve’s source of pain. Steve points to his cheek.

“One too many direct hits and my whole face gets achey when the weather changes.”

Eddie turns, no doubt intending to rummage through Steve’s kitchen until he can find ibuprofen, or ice, or anything. Before he can get far, Steve catches his arm and turns Eddie to face him.

“Maybe you can kiss it better?”