#made mostly for the trauma prompt so...

[whyficat]

Sam + Lucifer Trauma

I'm scared, Sam. All the time. I've seen it, too. What he really looks like, behind whatever vessel. It still keeps me up at night. How do you deal with it?

[flamingpudding]

Little Snippets #8

A/N: Recently reread an older prompt thread of Danny reincarnating as Tim and remembering his previous life at nine... that inspired this...

Something was different about Tim. They all noticed as they watched the third Robin as he went through the cave like a whirlwind on fire. Collecting small gadgets and trinkets, his laptop and other things before hurrying off with some kind of excuse again. Dick arched an eyebrow and glanced at Bruce. The first Robin felt tempted to as Bruce for help to figure out if something had happened during their last mission.

While near death situation weren't uncommon in their line of work, they never before had affected the young teen the way they have right now. Dick had first thought, the kid had suffered some kind of head trauma considering how disoriented he had been when he first woke up. But this, was ridiculous, it wasn't like Tim was acting all to different from his usual self but.... Dick shock his head. Maybe he was just imaging it. The kid was still the same, tinkering with gadgets and drinking coffee or energy drink in amounts the kid was still way to young to consume the way he does. Maybe the boy hit puberty finally.

In his room Tim dropped everything he had collected from the Batcave into a pile, before quickly grabbing a notepad and scratching out bullet points as well as adding new points. The kid then proceeded to start pacing his room, counting something down with the help of his fingers as he muttered to himself.

"Okay Tim, think... I should have everything I need... I just need to remember the blueprint and then build it. It's not like I never build gadgets of my own. It something I have always done once I got into it... so it will be easy to make it and then..." His muttered continued before he plopped onto the ground, not before grabbing his little multi-tool box. His hand grabbing his notebook once again as he opened it and began scribbling down.

"If I use the parts of the stun gun.... and then the chip set from the bat mini computer.... then use the metal from one of the many batarangs..." Tim mumbled to himself, before coursing as he dropped his pen. His hand going intangible for a brief moment. His eye twitches for a second before he took a deep breath calming down, then picked up his pen again. He really needed to get started on building that Fenton bracelet.

"They just had to knock me hard enough into the head that I would remember my past life...." Tim mutters quietly, annoyed with the goons he had fought during their last mission. He took another deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Memories that belonged to Danny Fenton flitting across his mind. When Tim had woken up the first time he hand't remembered for a hot second that he was Tim Drake, son of Janet and Jack Drake, ward of Bruce Wayne and third Robin to Batman.

He literally thought he was Danny Fenton waking up in a strange dimension. After his initial panic calmed down Danny, or rather Tim had anaylized his situation and figured out, he was remembering his past life. It made the most sense. At first that was easy to deal with, until Tim one day fell through the floor. Thankfully neither Bruce, Alfred or Dick had noticed that incident. But to Tim, that meant he unlocked his abilities from his past life.

Which how was he going to explain that? 'Oh hey Bruce, I woke up and I don't have a meta gene but I remember my past life and now I have ghost abilities.' Yeah... that would go really well with the paranoid old man. Someone Tim was currently babysitting until that man recovered from his grief.

That brought Tim to his next dilemma. Because he remembered Danny Fenton read comics, while he mostly read comics centered around Martian Manhunter his past self thankfully had a friend that was into Batman and had discussed the comics with him. That was lucky for Tim. Because Tim wasn't stupid, he had seen other kids at school read these kind of books before. So he was aware that he was currently experiencing and living through the plot of one of these reincarnations book.

A part of him was partially sure that he could blame that on some of his ghostly friends from his past life.

Eitherway, thanks to his past life's friend. Tim had knowledge of the future, even if he didn't remember everything. Bad point, he had by now figured out in which timeline he was. Or at least Tim believed he had, which meant he was to late to prevent the fall of the second Robin, but if he calculated right either Damian was going to appear soon or he would be joining the Teen Titans which meant one step closer to going to get attacked by an enraged second Robin coming back. There were targets painted on his back. At least he wasn't at the point at time where he had another insane fruitloop obsessed with him.

Tim groaned. "I swear if this life were a novel it would be called, 'how to survive your siblings rage after awakening to your past life'."

There was a pause in the moment where Tim just let his mind wander. Before sitting straighter and getting to work onto the things he needed to suppress his ghost powers for the moment as well as making plans for the inevitable appearance of his future siblings. He just hoped he remembered the order of events correctly let alone that they were from the timeline he was in, otherwise he would be screwed.

"And that is, if I really only remembered my past life and did not taking over another kids life.... And Ancients... please don't let this be a Joker Jr. timeline...."

[7-deadly-cats]

♡ buried down below ♡

// P A R T O N E

♡ G E N R E ♡ character portrait, angst but happy ending, hurt/comfort, this is for anyone whose favorite characters always happen to be poor little souls who crave comfort the most

M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M | P A R T T W O (soon)

♡ P A I R I N G ♡ s1!rafe cameron x gentle!reader (f)

♡ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ♡ LOTS of rafe angst, strong/suggestive language, substance abuse, coke addiction, rafe having intrusive/violent thoughts, childhood trauma/parental loss, mention of ward neglecting and abusing him (mostly emotionally but mention of mild violence), rafe experiencing a panic attack, unresolved grief and suppressed identity, symbolic depiction of inner death/ buried inner child, honestly just very angsty but bittersweet bc of gentle!reader, read at own caution

♡ S U M M A R Y ♡ beneath the heat, noise and mess of being rafe cameron, a boy is buried. he's been rotting down there for years, right next to the memories of his dead mother. neglected by his father, overwhelmed by grief, and eaten alive by how unfair the world feels, his anger turned outward into spite, recklessness, self-destruction, and a toxic idea of what affection is supposed to be like. but when he meets you at a party—the new girl in town—it hits him like a punch to the gut. something about you brings back the way his mother made him feel. loved. and for the first time in years, rafe is given a choice: leave the boy buried underground, or finally let him breathe again.

♡ W O R D C O U N T ♡ 8.7k+

♡ A / N ♡ this is my personal love letter to rafe cameron as a (comfort) character. an attempt to understand him. this is why this may feel somehow different from how and what i usually write. i'm genuinely sorry to anyone who just wanted the prompt they voted for. either part 2 or part 3 will include it, so you can skip to that part as soon as i've written them. those who still decide to give this one a shot, hope you enjoy and it would mean a lot if you decided to leave a comment <3

Rafe Cameron was not an easy person. That much became clear to anyone who's ever had the slightest interaction with him.

The impulsiveness, the bluntness, the recklessness, the aggression issues that flared up more or less depending on the day, his self-destructive tendencies—even the drug addiction—all of it was deeply ingrained in him.

These weren’t just traits, they were a heavy, embedded anchor that couldn't simply be ripped out.

And even if he ever managed to shed that unbearable weight, it was so deeply rooted, so firmly and wildly intertwined with who he was, that it would leave painful marks behind.

Ugly memories, emotions, and scars.

But to even begin moving that massive anchor—even by just a single inch—there had to be a willingness to change in the first place.

Because the anchor wasn’t just a part of Rafe. It was him.

The worst part? He had tried. He had wanted to change. He wanted to be the son Ward Cameron could be proud of. He wanted to make his dad happy. Fuck, he'd even wanted to protect him.

Rafe had gone so far in trying to reclaim his place in the family that he'd become a murderer.

Sheriff Peterkin—just shot. No second thoughts, no hesitation. Of course not, this was about his dad. He’d done it for him, right?

Taking the life of a stranger to save his father's... it had felt like the right choice. A simple one, even. For the family.

And for Rafe himself.

Because how the fuck was he supposed to go through losing someone else again? Someone he believed he was close to?

First his mom... and then his dad? Fuck no. No way.

Just thinking about his mother—his gentle, loving momma—made the hole in his chest feel even deeper. And honestly, he’d pushed those thoughts so far down, locked them away in some mental drawer, that if it weren’t for the pictures hanging on the big photo wall by the staircase, he could barely remember what her face even looked like.

It had been hard at first.

Seven-year-old Rafe, sitting on the couch with little Sarah one night as their dad knelt in front of them, taking their small hands in his, and telling them that their mom wouldn’t be tucking them in tonight.

Not tonight, not the night after that, never again.

She was gone. Dead.

An accident. Or some bullshit like that. Shit, Rafe didn’t even remember anymore. What did it matter anyway? What difference did the cause make?

His mom was dead.

And from that moment on, something in Rafe shifted. The routine in his life disappeared, that gentle, comforting presence that had always made him feel safe—eradicated.

And that kind of loss? That was worse than any kind of withdrawal could ever be.

At first, little Rafe had just been confused, overwhelmed, lost without the constant love and safety his mom had provided.

He couldn’t understand the why. He needed answers.

Naturally, he turned to the next person a kid his age would expect love and comfort from: his dad.

But Ward Cameron was drowning in his own grief—haunted by guilt, rage, and a sorrow only he truly understood. For reasons he never spoke aloud, he seemed to carry a deep sense of blame for her death.

And every time he looked into Rafe’s eyes, he saw her. The same soft eyes that would grow cold in the years to come. The same smile, barely visible these days. That same curiosity about the world—a light Ward snuffed out before it could grow.

So Ward Cameron pulled away. Not from both his kids—no, just from his son.

While Rafe, desperate for love and a father’s attention, was left in the cold, Ward turned toward Sarah.

Fucking bitch Sarah—Daddy’s little favorite. Independent, headstrong, always standing up for herself. And while their mom had endless love to give to both her children, in Ward’s eyes, it had always just been his perfect daughter, Sarah.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.

That imbalance—or rather, that lack of love in Rafe’s life—quickly created a deep crack in the foundation of the whole family.

By the time he was eight, Rafe had developed a fragile sense of self-worth and, with it, an insatiable hunger for acceptance, understanding—a place to belong.

Even though his dad neglected him, treated him in ways no boy ever deserved, Rafe still chased after him. Craving his approval. Desperate for praise and love he never received.

And watching Sarah receive that care, that warmth, that affection he longed for, without even having to ask for it—it planted something in Rafe. A seed of rage, jealousy, and hatred so intense it cracked the bond with the one person he’d once truly been close to after his mother: his sister.

But it didn’t stop there.

That gnawing guilt, the haunting question of whether he was the problem—if he had done something wrong, if Rafe was the reason Sarah received more attention, if he was somehow responsible for his mom’s death—it started eating him alive.

And soon, all that pain started turning outward. It became this violent tug-of-war between retreat and explosion.

Locking himself in his room after Ward yelled at him, and beating the crap out of kids at school just to let the anger out. Running away from home when the memories and pictures of his mom became too much—and stealing a bottle of whiskey from some careless Pogue’s backroom stash just to drown it all out. Pushing away any closeness when little Sarah knocked on his door at night—just as scared, just as grieving—unable to bring himself up to open the door. Couldn’t trust himself not to hurt her.

That was the worst part of it all—the intrusive thoughts. Dark, sudden, terrifying. They scared the hell out of this little boy.

But the thing that really sent it all over the edge?

A stranger his dad brought home, not even three years after his mom had died.

Rose.

A pathetic, laughable replacement. Someone who was supposed to take his mom’s place.

But this stranger—this intruder in their house, in his family—was nothing like her. Rose wasn’t as kind. She wasn’t as soft. Not as understanding. She wasn’t her.

Shit, she wasn’t even a poor imitation—she was a clear sign of betrayal. His dad’s attempt to replace what could never be replaced.

You couldn't trade beautiful peonies with dirty weeds.

And ten-year-old Rafe wasn’t fooled by her fake kindness. He refused her food. Didn’t want her bedtime stories. Pushed her disgusting hands away when she reached out.

That’s how the bright, once-disciplined boy became a bitter wreck, full of deep, tangled complexes.

The fear of never being enough clashed violently with this growing sense of superiority, creating a fracture so sharp it split Rafe right down the middle.

And to cope with that ongoing inner war, he created a new kind of constant.

First, it was the wine and whiskey he’d sneak out of his dad’s cellar. Then came weed—something he first tried from his new friend Kelce during his early high school days.

But weed wasn’t enough. It numbed things, sure—but Rafe didn’t want to be numb. Fuck no. He wanted to feel the high. He wanted euphoria. A way to fill the hole inside of him with something.

So at just fifteen, he spiraled deeper.

It happened at some shitty bonfire party—one of those nights where Kooks and Pogues mixed, and even a few annoying Tourons showed up. There was some greasy guy there selling the stuff.

“Makes you feel good,” the guy had said.

And fuck, that was exactly what Rafe needed.

For forty bucks, he bought a line. Snorted it right off the toilet lid in the beach bathroom.

And that—holy shit, that was the first time in years Rafe felt something real. Pure bliss. Energy. Confidence. Fucking power.

It was sick and hilarious at the same time. That one little line of white powder replaced everything he’d ever been missing.

So Rafe wasn’t a victim anymore. No—he was in control now. He decided when and how good he felt. If his dad started comparing him to Sarah again, throwing insults and pushing him away—no big deal. Rafe would snort a line or two, and suddenly, everything was fine again.

Better than fine. In that state, he felt like the only clear-headed one in a world full of hypocrites.

But it became obvious real quick: the high came fast and so did the crash, hitting even harder.

Rafe’s impulsiveness, irritability, and aggression only got worse. There was even a moment—just one tiny stupid moment—where he dared to raise a hand at his dad in a brutal argument. Just once. And never again.

The beating, followed by a tight embrace, was something he’d never forget.

That’s how Ward handled their relationship: he’d push Rafe away, tell him to get his shit together, to be more like fucking Saint Sarah, to finally pull himself together—and then, on other days, when he looked into Rafe’s eyes and saw his wife’s memory shining through, softened by nostalgia, his behavior changed.

Suddenly there were apologies. Praise. A pat on the shoulder. A smile. A hug.

It was a sick, toxic cycle—and it became Rafe’s understanding of love.

And if the universe had decided that this poor boy had endured enough, everything changed the night you came into his life. At Kelce’s first high school party of their senior year, to be exact.

Kelce had invited you because you’d just moved in next door and, well, he thought you were cute. Said you probably needed someone to “properly introduce you to island life, right?”.

You were a new face on Figure 8. Your parents owned a major fashion brand that had recently opened a branch in the Outer Banks. But what set them apart from the rest of the Kooks was the fact that they were pouring a chunk of their profit into a side project called OuterLabs—focused on research and preservation of the local flora and fauna.

Most Kooks saw this as a clever marketing strategy—to make them seem grounded and “caring.” But it was real. Their love for nature, and for people, was honest. And it showed—especially in their daughter.

Rafe noticed right away. That you were different, at least.

The first time he saw you was when Kelce introduced you to him and Topper at his party. “Y/N Y/L/N,” Kelce said. “Moved in last week—figured I’d bring her around.”

You gave a soft laugh, sweet and warm, and it stirred something in Rafe. Something familiar his mind couldn’t quite place, making his chest clench painfully.

And then you looked at him—with such warmth and kindness, the kind barely anyone in Figure 8 carried. You smiled, genuinely curious, and said something like, “Rafe? A sweet name. Is it short for Rafael?”

Kelce and Topper chuckled, clearly amused. That should’ve pissed Rafe off—but your voice, that name… it awakened something deep in him. Something that had been buried for years.

Because not Ward, not Sarah, not Wheezie, and definitely not that witch Rose—none of them ever called him by that name. They avoided it like it was cursed like it dragged up something painful that needed to stay buried.

And honestly? It did.

Because there was only ever one person who made that name sound like it meant something.

His mom.

To hear it again, after all those years, in such a gentle, warm tone—bittersweet didn’t even begin to cover it.

That setting, that party, three beers and a line deep, Topper and Kelce cracking jokes at his expense—and then you.

Smiling like that. So honest. So warm.

So intoxicating.

So fucking wrong.

Rafe’s brows furrowed. He shot his idiot friends a deadly look that shut them up instantly, shoved past Kelce’s shoulder, said something like "Fuck this", and stormed off toward the bathroom.

There were a few girls inside, comforting a crying friend. He threw them out. Slammed the door shut, not caring to lock it. And with shaky hands, he started prepping his second line of the night on the bathroom sink.

Because, fuck, what the FUCK was that just now? That pull in his chest, the bitter taste on his tongue, those memories?

So caught up in the noise in his head and the music outside, he didn’t even hear the knock on the door. Or the second one. Didn’t notice that you’d quietly slipped in behind him.

It was your concerned voice that pulled him out of his focused trance as he tried to shape a halfway decent line with his credit card.

"You okay?"

Rafe let out a startled breath, brows furrowing in pure annoyance as the precious powder scattered off the sink.

"Fuck." He straightened up, already opening his mouth to call you a dumb bitch, when you quickly moved toward him with a soft, "Oh no, I’m really sorry."

You dropped to your knees and—no fucking way—actually tried to scoop the coke up with your hands.

The sight was almost pathetic enough to amuse Rafe, and he found himself smirking, the anger slowly dissolving. "That’s fucked. It's a lost cause."

You shook your head, still focused on the floor. "It’s money."

"Not even a fucking Pogue would stoop down for that," Rafe muttered, amused at your stupid little comment.

Eventually, you stood back up, hands cupped together holding a sad little pile of white powder. "Here." Carefully, you let it fall back onto the sink, brushing the rest off your palm with your fingers.

Then your eyes met his again—warm, sincere, with that sweet little smile. "Earlier... did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to upset you."

Rafe's expression shifted instinctively. You looked genuinely concerned but why the hell would some chick be nice to him without a hidden motive? Your family probably wanted to stay in Ward’s good graces. Or you just wanted to tell your new friends how you managed to suck Rafe Cameron’s cock on your very first party here.

Classic playbook.

He just shook his head, brushing you aside with a hand so he could check if anything from that powder-floor disaster was still salvageable. "Shit, don’t you have anything better to do? Go back to Kelce, I’m sure he’d love the attention."

You let out a soft chuckle and sat down on the toilet lid, hands folded in your lap. "Yeah, he seems like a very social guy. Full of energy." You watched him quietly as he started forming a new line. Then, calmer, "He also advised me not to go after you. But I think I said something I shouldn't have. I’m sorry about that."

God, how could someone be this fucking annoying?

Rafe didn’t even look up when he said, "Seriously, unless you’re gonna suck my dick, get the fuck out."

Then he bent down and snorted the line in one go. Straightening up, he felt that familiar kick hit him—energy, euphoria, that brief moment of clarity.

Fuck, he felt good. Alive. Clear.

"May I ask why you’re doing this?" you asked softly. You still hadn’t moved an inch.

Rafe turned to you, pissed, pupils blown wide, eyes still red from the first line half an hour ago.

And then—there, under the harsh bathroom light—he actually saw you. Not just your soft eyes and pretty face. Your whole presence.

So calm and kind, with this sweet undertone of innocence. But not the naive or stupid kind he’d seen in almost every party girl desperate to feel something by sucking some random guy's dick and getting wasted.

No—there was something real behind your eyes. A curiosity. A warmth. Something human. Something that sparked a memory hidden so deep inside him it made his chest ache again.

And the worst? You looked at him like you saw him. Like you were trying to coax out the little boy he’d buried at seven years old and never looked back on.

But like always, when Rafe didn’t understand something, it made his head hurt—and that made him angry.

"Okay, what the fuck is this?" He tilted his head with an irritated smirk. "You playing fucking babysitter at this shitshow of a party? Or looking for some sad little girl talk moment or whatever? There’s plenty of bitches out there who'd love to listen."

And fuck, the way you didn’t react how he expected made his blood boil. That same annoyingly sweet smile still on your face.

"I don’t think you need a babysitter," you said, voice calm, almost playfully gentle. "And I could talk about a lot of things, for sure. The people here are pretty mixed. A little reserved around newbies, I’d say, but still very welcoming."

This bullshit? It made zero fucking sense to Rafe. Maybe you were just some naive little girl, clueless about what really went on in places like this.

He scoffed condescendingly, tapping his temples with both hands. “Jesus, did you pop something before coming here? These people are all fucking fake—posers.” He gestured toward the door. “You really think any of them give a shit about anything besides your fucking last name? Of course, they’re welcoming. That’s how this works. ‘Your daddy does business with my daddy, so let me kiss your ass until it bleeds.’”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. “And that crap earlier?” He let out a bitter laugh. “Like—what the fuck even was that? If some bitch had seen you kneeling like that in front of me, your daddy would've had to hear all about his little whore of a daughter the next morning.” He lifted his hands in mock innocence. “But hey, if you’re into that shit—since we’re already here.”

Kelce had told you a lot about Rafe Cameron when he'd invited you to sit on his porch your very first day.

Big, bad Cameron who either tolerated your existence or made sure you knew how much he despised it. Rafe, who showed up at every party, every event, only to end up talking to Kelce or Topper, and maybe some girl that drove him crazy in all the right ways. Ward’s son, known by everyone as the black sheep—but no one dared say it to his face.

Rafe Cameron—someone even his closest friends couldn’t quite describe because he was too unpredictable, too impulsive. The kind of guy you approached carefully… or not at all.

But in his words, gestures, the fury in his eyes—in everything about him—you saw something else. Someone whose light once shined too bright and was burned by it in return.

A lone wolf, cast out by the pack or chose to walk away on his own, unable to track the scent that'd lead him back.

And it filled you with this aching kind of sadness, a quiet understanding. Not pity. Something deeper, almost instinctive. You just wanted to hold him, brush his hair back. To let him feel your presence and know it was safe.

Even though you didn’t know what pain he carried, even though you didn’t know his story, his reasons, or what kept him angry and guarded—it didn’t scare you.

You didn’t need to know his trauma to feel something real. A bond, raw and honest, only human to human could feel.

And it wasn’t some ‘I want to fix him’ fantasy. He wasn’t broken. No, people weren’t glass to be shattered and glued back together. That’s not how it worked.

No. This boy—this soul—wasn’t broken. He was misunderstood. Shaken. Confused. Carrying something heavy. And somewhere along the way, he’d learned to armor up so hard that everything tender in him had to come out as rage.

Like an animal that bared its teeth when it was scared.

And with an animal like that, you didn’t force your hand. You didn’t try to pet it. You didn’t reach out and hope to be the one it trusted.

You’d get scratched if you were lucky. Bitten if not.

But someone like Rafe—someone high, already teetering on that edge of a crashout—you knew one wrong move could end badly.

So all you gave him was a soft smile. A warm look. A small nod.

“You’re probably right. A lot of people here aren’t looking for anything real. That’s fine, though. Not everyone has to like you, right?" You tilted your head, keeping your gaze locked with his. “Still… I think it’s sad. That most people here are so scared of being seen, they pretend to be someone else. Maybe it’s all they know.”

Rafe scoffed harshly, clearly disgusted by your worldview—or maybe by the way your words hit something inside him he didn’t want to acknowledge. “Shit, if you actually believe that, you’re fucking naive. Is that your game or something? You think that fake-ass sympathy and hippie bullshit is how you bag a guy? Go try that shit on Topper. He eats up that empathy crap.”

And even though your curiosity burned hotter now, even though your mind wanted to dig deeper, to understand the beautiful chaos that was Rafe Cameron, you also knew not to corner a wolf when it was already baring its teeth.

So you stood up slowly, your eyes still soft as they studied him. You glanced down briefly at the sink, just where the line had been.

“You want to know what I believe?” You smiled gently. “You don't need this. I mean… doesn’t it just amplify what’s already there?”

Rafe’s jaw clenched hard. He wanted to tell you to shut the fuck up. To get the fuck out of here. That you didn’t know shit. That you were just another new bitch on Figure 8 trying to feel important.

But that warmth in your eyes… That fucking look...

Something inside him twisted again. Bitter and sweet, like a memory he’d locked up and tried to forget. Something that breathed light into the darkest drawer in his soul, the one he’d stuffed full of everything about his mother he couldn’t bear to feel.

You don’t need this.

Her voice. Soft and kind. A sound he thought he’d forgotten.

Hadn’t she said something just like that once?

When he’d fought back tears in grade school after studying for nights, trying so hard to make his dad proud.

And failing anyway.

Wasn’t it the same gentle look on her face, the one she’d had when she wrapped her arms around him when he’d broken down crying?

And who the fuck did you think you were, showing up to this shitty party, calling him by that cursed name, looking at him with those damn understanding eyes, feeding him those sweet little lies?

It felt like Rose all over again. Like someone trying to force their way into his life. Only, this time, there was no outer force. Just that pressure building in his chest and throat.

But Rafe knew: if he gave into it, if he let you in, as much as every part of him ached to—you’d be the one to push him away, to laugh it off, tell some bitch at the party all about it.

Fuck that.

But before he could open his mouth, you were already moving, stepping around him toward the door, still wearing that addicting smile. “Again, I’m sorry if I said something wrong or pissed you off. I’m not trying to be nosy or anything. I just... I can’t help it, being drawn to people, you know?”

Your smile widened, and your eyes lit up with that same warmth. “See you around.”

With a soft sound, the door clicked shut behind you.

Rafe just stood there. Staring at the spot where you’d just been, a bitter emptiness washing over him. That warm little spot he hadn’t even realized had been there, not until the clouds came rolling back in, bringing a cold wind with them.

There was so much churning in him. So much fucking chaos.

He didn’t understand the thoughts or emotions you’d stirred up in him. The memories you’d unearthed of a time he thought he’d buried for good. And as much as it pissed him off, as much as it confused and infuriated him, he wanted to chase after you.

Not to open up, fuck no. Just to be seen by that gentle kindness in your eyes again.

Because for one moment, he’d seen his mother in you. For the briefest second, you’d awakened something in the little boy deep inside him. The one who’d always longed for that soft warmth and love from a gentle woman.

But as his own thoughts echoed off the bathroom walls, and his pulse hammered in his ears, Rafe shoved that stupid little boy back into the dark hole where he belonged.

He stepped up to the sink, met his own blown-out pupils in the mirror, and saw only rage. Turning the faucet all the way to cold, he splashed water on his face—once, twice, four, five times. Washing off the sweat and thoughts. Washing you away.

Fuck, who even were you to shake him like that?

He grabbed a towel, dried his face, and tossed it onto the sink. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his nose and clung to the high from the line.

Yeah. Better.

Rafe ran a hand through his hair one last time, then left the bathroom—back to this shitty party, the shitty music, and all these shitty people.

Two guys from the country club tried to pull him into a convo. Absentmindedly, he dapped them up but quickly waved them off afterward.

His eyes scanned the room without thinking.

For you, he realized irritated. For your warmth, that soft gaze. But you were either in another room or somewhere outside.

“Yo, bro, there you are!”

Rafe turned. His heart pounding louder than the bass.

Kelce grinned, all shiny white teeth, that cocky smirk in place. He slapped Rafe on the shoulder, a drink in his other hand reeking of Jäger and Red Bull. “Where’d you run off to, dude, huh? You’re not usually this shy when I introduce you to a chick.”

Oh, Rafe wanted to deck him for that. But the thought that you might see it? What the fuck?

Rafe just scoffed, irritated, slapped Kelce’s hand away, and shrugged. “Needed a line to survive your shitty party.”

“Ayo, without me?”

“Am I your fucking boyfriend or some shit that I gotta take you everywhere?”

Kelce chuckled, amused. “Man, you’re the last person with boyfriend material.” He took a sip from his mix, eyebrows raised all innocent. “Saw Y/N chasing after you. Pussymagnet without even trying. Damn.”

For some reason, that pissed Rafe off even more.

“Don’t fuck with me, Kelce.”

The idiot raised his hands like a saint. “Yo, why so salty? Mad she refused you head? Should’ve told you, man, I mean—”

“Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up already,” Rafe cut him off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Go annoy Topper with your bullshit.”

“He’s busy railing your sister.”

Oh, fuck that.

The image of Topper all over Sarah triggered this sick, crawling feeling in Rafe’s chest like he suddenly needed to find them—but for what exactly? The fuck was he gonna do?

Let her hook up with every guy in school. He didn’t give a shit. Maybe then his dad would finally get it: his precious little angel wasn’t all that perfect.

Rafe dragged a hand through his hair. Everything—the bass, the shrieking giggles of drunk-ass girls, the smell of sweat, alcohol, perfume, and all kinds of cologne mixing into this disgusting cocktail—it had his nerves buzzing so hard he felt like puking.

But go home? Fuck no. That’d mean facing his dad and gold digger Rose. Poor Wheezie was the only one stuck with them tonight.

She was the only good thing Rose ever brought into their lives. Baby Wheezie made him used to think they were raising another Sarah over at Tannyhill.

Yeah, she could be a pain in the ass but she was the only person in his life who actually had some fucking sense. The only one Rafe ever made space for willingly.

Shit, if he'd felt like being responsible, he might’ve brought her here tonight. But playing babysitter? Nah.

So the only reasonable option?

“Let’s dip to your dad’s office,” Rafe said. “I’m done with this fucking place.”

Kelce grinned wider. “Damn, bro, you just had your second.”

Rafe’s fingertips tingled. If Kelce wasn’t such a suck-up with the loyalty of a stupid fucking golden retriever, Rafe would’ve smacked the shit outta him a dozen times by now. But he never did. Because Kelce was the one person who didn’t make a big deal out of shit. And Rafe respected that, at least.

So he just raised a brow. “You coming or what?”

“Damn, no need to ask twice.”

And that’s how Rafe spent the next two hours: chilling with the dumbest bastard alive on the stupidly comfy office couch, snorting three, four—fuck, maybe six lines (who was counting), ranting about bitch Sarah, witch Rose, and all the fucked up people at that party.

He bounced from one topic to the next, letting Kelce throw in his dumbass commentary, laughing whenever Kelce dropped an especially embarrassing story of his own. Rafe got up, paced the office, ranting about shit even he stopped registering—just trying to drown out the fucking rush in his head.

Those thoughts. Those images of you. That smile. Your eyes. Everything.

Why Kelce stuck around and listened to his rambling instead of trying to hook up with some chick, Rafe had no clue. But honestly, what greater honor was there than being friends with Ward Cameron’s son and doing lines with him in private?

Sometime around the sixth or seventh line, Rafe’s heart was pounding so hard it felt like his skull was shaking. His mouth was dry as fuck, jaw clenched, back slick with sweat. And his hands? Jesus, he couldn’t keep them still.

He was either playing with a lighter, gesturing like a maniac, or scratching at his chin, nose, neck—fuck.

Rafe needed to do something. Anything. He didn’t know what, just knew he had this deep, itching urge in his chest. He needed to act.

He snapped his fingers, brain jumping from thought to thought, nodding at whatever dumbass story Kelce was telling—and that’s when his eyes landed on a gleaming blade mounted on the office wall. He’d never noticed it before but now it looked like a damn spotlight was shining right on it.

“Ayo, yo, yo, dude, wait, what the fuck are you doing?” Kelce stood up, cutting off his whatever-the-fuck story. “That belongs to my dad.”

But Rafe already held the katana in his hand. He let out a low, amused laugh, brushing his fingers along the surface of the blade. “Shiiit, imagine doing a line off this thing.”

The thought—fuck—it lit something in Rafe. Shit, and honestly? It kinda turned him on.

“Do whatever, bro, but I ain’t paying for your second nose,” Kelce muttered. Rafe didn’t miss the nervous edge in his voice—and yeah, that just made it all the more fun.

Grip tight, he gave the blade a little swing through the air, soaking up the way Kelce laughed nervously.

Stupid idiot, always been a kissass.

Rafe's gaze landed on the little bead of sweat on Kelce's throat. If he wanted, one clean swing would be enough to—

What the fuck.

Holy shit, what the fuck.

Rafe took a step back, deeply irritated by his mind.

Cold horror spread through his already suffocating chest.

Had he overdone it? Taken one line too many? Fuck, fuckfuckfuck, or—worse—was the high starting to fade and he was—

“Yo, dude, your nose is bleeding.”

And right on cue, a deeply unsettling feeling started creeping through Rafe’s body.

And Kelce was here. He saw him like this. Fuck, this wasn’t an overdose, right? This wasn’t an overdose? fuckfuckfuck

He had to get out. Now.

The horror started eating away at his nerves.

He dropped the katana onto the desk, ignoring Kelce’s pissed-off yelling behind him, and bolted out of the room, clumsily wiping the blood off his nose on the way out.

Out into the hallway. Music. Loud. The bass. Fuck.

Rafe winced as the vibrations tore through his skull.

He looked for the upstairs bathroom door but a bunch of girls were giggling inside.

Annoyed, he rattled the handle but the giggling just got louder.

No other choice.

Unsteady, he gripped the railing tight and made his way downstairs.

But everything down there got worse. Louder. Overwhelming. From one of the side rooms, he heard Sarah’s stupid fucking laugh, and the sound shot pure adrenaline into his bloodstream.

Fuck, if that bitch saw him like this, she’d snitch to Dad and then—fuck. Fucking hell no.

Rafe moved on instinct, pushing past some guys and annoying chicks, making it to the bathroom door and—

Fucking hell.

Locked.

His heart pounded against his skull, head foggy and somehow way too clear at the same time. Shitshitshitshit.

He started banging on the door, twisting the handle, something awful churning in his gut.

“Fuck, come on, open up!” Rafe could swear he heard his own voice echoing. He almost said please, almost begged, but bit down on his tongue instead.

The taste of blood filled his mouth.

The horror surged like cold floodwater rising.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Holy shit. If he didn’t—

You.

Two gentle eyes met his as the bathroom door opened.

“Oh dear, are you okay? You don't look so well.” Your soft, concerned voice cut right through the chaos in his head, silencing the spiraling storm all at once.

For a second, he got lost in your gaze, your eyes, the scent of your perfume—something he hadn’t even noticed the first time you met. Sweet like an unspoken promise, floral in a way that was warm and full and—

A hammer slammed into his skull. A blade through his chest. A kick to the gut.

The boy inside him—he screamed, clawed at the coffin where Rafe had buried him. Right next to his mom, beneath the peonies.

That bittersweet scent triggered something awful in his stomach, every sense overflooded and raw.

Rafe’s brain didn’t even register how his body shoved the door the rest of the way open, pushed past you, dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, hands trembling on the rim—and puked it all out.

Once. Twice. Fuck, it felt like a thousand times. All the dirt, all the pressure, spilled out of him like poison.

Somewhere far away, he heard a voice—your voice—maybe the door opened or closed or maybe both, fuck, he couldn’t tell. At some point—seconds or minutes, he had no idea—he felt a presence beside him.

He thought he felt the warmth of a hand hovering just above his sweat-soaked back. Not touching, just there. Hesitant. And without even looking, Rafe knew it was you.

It should’ve pissed him off, made him snap, made him yell at you to leave, but the only thing racing through his mind, the only thing that truly panicked him was the thought of someone else coming in. If Sarah—

“The door,” he croaked out, wiping spit from his mouth with a shaky hand.

“It’s locked. Don’t worry.”

And just hearing that in your caring voice let a small breath of calm settle somewhere deep inside him.

Then you moved away from his side, and something tugged hard in his chest. The sound of running water next to him. A second later, you were back, and that ache disappeared.

“Here,” you said, handing him a damp towel.

Rafe didn’t dare meet your eyes. Swallowing his pride, he reached out and took it, wiping first his forehead, then his mouth.

Fuck, only now did he register that sour, disgusting taste on his tongue. His throat felt like the fucking Sahara.

Face twisted in a grimace, he tried to spit the bitterness out. Water. He needed—

“Wait. Rinse with this.”

This time, Rafe looked up, saw the red cup in your hand.

This was so ridiculous. So pathetic. Him, kneeling there in front of you—a sweating, fucked-up wreck, the stench of his own vomit still hanging in the air. And the fact that you’d caught him doing a line just a few hours ago.

He had to look like a fucking junkie to you. A disaster with no control over his life. And for some reason, that was so fucking humiliating it made him want to throw up all over again.

Still, he dared to meet your eyes. He had to. He needed to see it—that warmth. Right now, he was starving for it.

And all he saw in there was pure warmth and concern. No judgment. No amusement. No disgusting pity.

And that pissed him off. Because he didn’t fucking understand it.

Rafe took the cup anyway and forced himself to look away. Rinsed his mouth once, then drank the rest of the water.

You flushed the toilet. The sound thunderous in his head but he endured it.

“Why the fuck are you doing this?” he asked, letting the cup fall beside him, still leaning over the toilet.

You bent down and filled another cup. “Being here?” There was a sweet, honest amusement in your voice.

Rafe wanted to puke again but his stomach was empty. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

Any other girl would've left him here, disgusted. Left the door open on her way out.

Why didn’t you?

You sat down on the edge of the bathtub to his left and placed the cup next to him. “Nothing, I'm here to help.”

God, and the way you said it—so honest, so genuine.

Like his dad, after shoving him into a wall and pulling him into a hug right after.

You were probably gonna blackmail him later. Threaten to tell people. Shit, maybe you were filming him right now—had your phone set up somewhere he couldn’t see.

Rafe scoffed bitterly. Drank the second cup in one go, then somehow found the strength to turn and lean back against the toilet, knees up, shaky hands hidden in his lap.

Then he looked up at you. “Don’t bullshit me. What do you want? Some shitty-ass story to tell some girls about?”

Oh, and then your face did something weird. A tiny crease formed between your brows, just enough to bring a touch of sharpness to that otherwise soft face.

“Nothing. Why do you think I’d use you for this?” you replied—and fuck, there it was again. That honesty.

A part of Rafe wanted to believe you.

“I swear to god if you go out and tell anybody about this—”

“I won’t.” That crease between your brows vanished and a small smile appeared. “I promise. I just wanted to help. Do you feel any better?”

No, Rafe wanted to say.

He could feel that terrifying emptiness creeping in after the high—whatever the fuck he had just experienced. He could feel it now. The sharp claws around his throat, the cold breath on his neck.

And your question, it triggered something awful inside him. Like a tiny stone inside him dropped that really shouldn’t have.

His brows knit together, feeling that pull in his chest, that tightness in his throat, that sting in his eyes.

He was cold. Weak. And you? You were giving him this feeling of warmth and safety, and he didn’t even fucking know you. He’d met you today, and fuck, that confused the hell out of him. This whole thing—your honesty, you, whoever you were, Kelce with his dumbass party and having invited you, Topper probably taking Sarah's virginity right now somewhere, and Rafe being here, like this, exposed, seen—and then he thought of his mom again, and that’s when it all broke loose.

“FUCK.”

Rafe shook his head, fists clenched from still-trembling hands, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

His head was full of shit and he had no idea what the fuck to do, everything was just so—

“This pisses me off,” Rafe got out, his eyes still hidden behind his fists, not even sure what he meant or why he said it. “All of this fucking bullshit.”

“I can leave if you want,” you said softly, and Rafe's head snapped up in panic when he heard you shift to get up.

“No!”

And before he could stop himself, it was already out.

Fuck.

Rafe clenched his jaw, felt like a goddamn deer in headlights. Fuckfuckfuckufkc.

Why the hell had he said that?

But you just sat back down on the edge of the tub, that understanding smile on your face, and said, “Okay. I’ll stay.”

And just like that, some of the tension in his chest loosened. Unfortunately, it also knocked loose other shit that wasn’t supposed to move.

He shook his head again, eyes fixed on some dead spot in front of him. “I'm not like this, okay? This... I’m not some fucking junkie or whatever.”

That lie to you felt worse than lying to himself, and the shame clawed at his chest. He didn’t even want to look in the mirror—he had to look like fucking hell.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said, and even without looking, Rafe knew you had that soft, warm smile on your face.

He let his hands drop onto his bent knees, still shaking just a bit. “Do you actually mean all that shit you say? All that... talk?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. What makes you think otherwise?”

And when Rafe met your eyes—feeling that warmth—he let it in. Too tired to fight back.

His face twisted a little and he shrugged, voice low and bitter. “I don’t know, it’s just—fuck, I don’t know, it’s like...” Weakly, he tapped his fingers against his temples. “Something’s not right.” Then he scoffed, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. “My head... it’s like there’s all this noise. Not voices or schizophrenic shit or whatever, just...”

“Too much.”

Rafe nodded. “Like a ton of shitty music playing all at once, all at different speeds and volumes.”

“Maybe the problem isn't your head but the DJ's taste in music at this party", you replied softly.

God. That smile of yours was way too sweet, and that stupid little joke you made about Kelce came out of you so damn sweet and gentle.

It made Rafe let out something close to a laugh. “Why’d you even agree to his invite?”

It didn’t make sense. You were soft. Warm. You had this calm vibe to you. And Kelce... he was fucking Kelce. Loud. Annoying. A dumbass. You two weren’t even in the same fucking solar system.

And the thought that maybe you did like the guy, that maybe that’s why you showed up tonight... Yeah. That pissed Rafe off for reasons he couldn't quite place.

You tilted your head. “He was really welcoming on my first day. His parents too. He had so much to tell. About himself, your school, the people here, you and Topper,” you chuckled softly, “I thought he’d never shut up. But I didn’t mind. Kinda sweet, isn’t it? Having that much good stuff to say. He’s always in a good mood, has a lot of positive energy. I like that.”

Rafe’s stomach twisted.

Now he really didn’t get why you were here. With him.

“Yeah, nah. I think he’s just trying to suck up to you,” Rafe said, not even trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. “Probably thinks a few nice moves will get you into bed.”

But to his surprise, you laughed again. Honest. Genuine. And Rafe couldn’t fucking place that tingling feeling in his stomach.

“Maybe,” you said, “but to me, it seems like he just enjoys meeting new people. He seems like someone who’s got a lot to give—and enjoys doing so."

Rafe frowned. “Yeah, well, maybe ‘cause he’s afraid of ending up like some lonely-ass loser.”

“There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to be alone.”

Jesus Christ.

Rafe was starting to think you had his mom’s soul tucked inside you or something. Because this? You? Everything about you reminded him of her, in the best and most cruel way possible.

Even though every part of him wanted to get up, leave, maybe snort the seventh or eighth line of the night and forget all of this, he was too fucking tired. Too pissed off with everyone out there.

And somehow, your calmness—no matter how bitter it tasted in his mouth—somehow it brought peace to him the same way only his mom ever could.

“I don’t fucking get you,” Rafe said, tapping his finger to his temple. “Are you like... some voodoo hippie eco crystal chick who’s all about good vibes and shit, or are you just fucking oblivious to the world?”

You gave him that honey-sweet smile again, and Rafe couldn’t help but wonder how soft your lips might feel.

“It’s true,” you said. “I try to see things—people especially—in the best light. Maybe that does make me blind to some stuff.” This time, your smile was almost sad, and something in Rafe tugged, hard. “People often tell me I’ve got a savior complex. That I shouldn’t try to be so caring. It'll eat me alive someday.”

Then, for the first time that night, your voice took on a serious tone. “But I’m not stupid. I’m not blinded by what I believe. I know there’s a lot of bad out there—in the world, and in people. And yeah, I know a lot of people still think I’m naive. But I can’t change that, and that’s okay. I’m not here to change anyone. All I can do is try to broaden someone’s horizon, maybe offer a different perspective. And if just one person ends up holding the door open for another because of that, maybe that inspires the next. And if not... that’s okay too.”

Your words did something weird to Rafe.

He could practically feel that little boy inside him clawing his way up from some deep, buried grave, pushing through thick layers of rotting dirt just to catch the smallest glimmer of light, just to feel one single sunbeam of your warmth on his skin.

Fuck. That pathetic little boy—he was starving for kindness, for a gentle smile, a warm hug, compassion. Love. For someone who made him feel like he was enough.

And from this point on, Rafe had two choices:

Push that naive little asshole back down, cement the grave shut and make damn sure he never even thought about gasping for air again.

Or let him.

Let him keep digging, let him breathe in that supposed fresh air. Let him come up—just once—after all these years.

But if he did, he’d be handing you the key to a drawer that was never meant to be opened. Its wood so dry and dusty and dark, a single spark could set the whole damn room ablaze.

But hadn’t Rafe always been the kind of guy to play with fire?

“You’re not stupid,” he finally said, shaking his head with a bitter little smile, more at himself than anything else. “Shit, and anyone who says otherwise is a fucking asshole.” Myself included. He let out a dry scoff and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, disgusted with himself. “I don’t know where you lived before, doesn’t fucking matter. But this place? These people? That’s a whole different breed.”

Rafe braced himself on the edge of the bathtub and sat beside you, leaving a respectful distance. “They’re fucking sharks, okay? Just waiting for someone like you to get tossed in as bait. Fake-ass girls acting like they’re your bestie one minute and turning you into fucking gossip the next, or I don't know—some piece of shit guy who sees your kindness as an open invite to get you laid.”

You simply listened, brows slightly raised, your face calm. Then, for the first time, you looked away—something uncertain stirring beneath your composed exterior.

“This strong two-class thing here... you guys call it Kooks and Pogues, right? I noticed something was different here. I’ll admit it confuses me,” you said, your gaze finally finding him again. “But maybe I just need some time to understand it. The rivalry.”

A soft little chuckle left your lips. “It's kinda funny. Earlier, I was talking to a guy from one of your country clubs. We talked about this whole thing and I just said a Pogue isn’t really that different from a Kook, like—at the end of the day, we’re all just people, right? And the way he looked at me... I believe I’ve never been stared down like that in my life.”

And even though you said it so genuinely amused and lightheartedly, that sweet chuckle escaping your lips—

FUCK.

Something snapped in Rafe. Like he wanted to punch every single person who'd ever dared to look at you sideways.

And that fucking guy…

Rafe wouldn’t even eat at the same table as a Pogue himself, but fuck if he didn’t want to hunt this bastard down right now.

“But that’s okay,” you said, before Rafe could ask who this motherfucker was. “Some people just can’t be reached. That’s how it is.”

How could you carry that much understanding, that much warmth in you?

If Rafe didn’t know better, he’d think you were some kind of angel. A hallucination. Fuck, maybe he was still passed out on Kelce’s office floor with an overdose and this was some pre-death type shit.

But a knock on the door yanked him back into… fuck, he didn’t even know. He hadn’t realized he’d completely tuned out the party.

“Ayo, Rafe? You in there? You dead?”

Kelce.

This fucking idiot always had to stick his nose up shit. Especially Rafe's.

“What do you want?” Rafe called back, voice sharp.

Silence. Then: “You takin’ a shit?”

Rafe pulled a face, while you just let out a soft little chuckle beside him.

“Me and Markus still need two beer pong players, and you’re the only one who can land a damn shot,” Kelce continued. “Or you found someone to give you head in there?”

FUCK. What was happening? Rafe felt fucking heat in his cheeks.

“I’d love to join you,” you said quietly beside him. “If you also want to.”

And when Rafe looked at you, that sweet, innocent little smile almost tricked him into thinking you were just some clueless girl after all, looking for a good time. He nearly said, 'Down for what? Blowjob or beer pong?'—but holy fucking shit, he'd rather bite his damn tongue off than think of you like that one more time, even for a second.

And in just a few hours you'd proven him wrong. Shit, he even could’ve stayed right here with you forever. Drink in your warmth, gaze at your beautiful eyes and lips. But if you wanted to leave this room, then fuck, he was walking out with you.

Also, no way he’d let shitface Kelce catch him in here like some crying little loser.

So the only thing he shouted back was: “Five minutes.”

Whatever nasty, godless comment Kelce threw back, Rafe didn’t hear a word of it. Because all he could think about was the way you just chuckled, soft and sweet like you hadn't just been the target of some filthy joke made by the most annoying bastard on this planet.

And in that moment, Rafe realized, you were the only person at this fucking party whose presence he actually wanted by his side tonight.

And even though you lived barely ten meters away from Kelce, Rafe would damn well make sure you got home safe. He wouldn't be leaving until your front door had clicked shut behind you.

Then, he’d head back to the party and find that fucking country club motherfucker who'd dared to give you mean glances earlier because of the Kook vs Pogue topic.

If Rafe was in a good mood, he wouldn’t hit him that hard.

And tonight, thanks to you, he was.

So that asshole better fall to his fucking knees and say one hell of a thank you. Because you just might be the reason, he’d still have a jaw left to do it.

♡ A / N ♡

if you made it to to this point, thank you sm for taking the time and reading this. somehow i feel more self-conscious about this than the smut i wrote but i hope you enjoyed this (not so) little writing. and i'd LOVE to know what you think about it <3

M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M | P A R T T W O (soon)

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[writingfics-passingtime]

Can you write a prompt where Bucky finds out you're ticklish and won't stop because he loves your laugh?

At Ease

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader (romantic)

wc: ~2300

cw: MINORS DNI, swearing, mentions of ptsd + combat trauma, some tickling

note: just a wee tender & emotional fluff bomb. thank you anon!

You don't remember the Compound ever feeling like home.

Not when you first got there - stiff-backed and scarred, still tasting blood and ash from whatever had dragged you through the last hellhole.

Not when you opened your duffel and dropped it beside your bed, too used to living out of it to bother with the closet, or feel like the dresser was necessary.

Not even when the others started to treat you like part of the... whole thing... the family - Steve with his quiet nod, Tony with his casual conversational inclusion, Sam with his grin and kind words, Natasha with a knowing glance that said: I see what you’ve been through, and you’re still here. Good.

But, no. It didn’t feel like home.

But it felt like something now.

And so did Bucky Barnes.

The first time you were partnered with him, you clocked the tension in his shoulders before he said a word. Caught the storm-blue eyes that scanned exits before they scanned your face. The way he stood too still. The way he didn’t speak unless he had to - and even then, it was with the low, measured weight of someone who didn’t trust his voice to stay steady.

You didn’t treat him like glass. You weren't built like that. Not... made for that kind of tenderness.

Instead, you gave him space without giving him silence. You cracked a few dry jokes during recon, handed him coffee in the mornings without asking how he slept. You didn’t flinch when he drew his weapon beside you. You watched his six and, by action alone, let him know when he could drop his shoulders.

Eventually, he started to.

You didn’t know what to call what was growing between you two. It was too quiet to be flirting. Too charged to be nothing. You kept your distance, mostly out of respect - but also because you knew Bucky was still trying to stitch together who he was when no one was looking; he didn't need your fingers in the seams just yet.

You weren’t going to be another thing he had to figure out.

But you watched him.

And you saw the way certain noises made his jaw tick. How a sharp clap or someone dropping a plate too hard would shudder through his body like a muscle memory he hated. Never a full-blown panic, not a scene - just the careful freeze of someone pulled halfway into a memory, one foot in the past.

Especially at the Compound, where he was supposed to feel safe.

That was the worst part - the guilt in his eyes after. Like he’d failed some kind of test.

You never brought it up. Never told him you noticed.

You just watched.

And then one night, Sam cracked some dumbass joke in the common room and it hit you just right. You lost it. Full-body laughing, falling to your side on the couch, tears in your eyes. The others were laughing too, but you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop.

When you finally wiped your eyes and sat up, trying to apologise through hiccupped breath, you caught Bucky looking at you.

He wasn’t smiling. Not really.

But he was soft. Muted. Like something uncurled inside him just from the sound of you.

He muttered, playful, "He’s not that funny. You’re gonna give him a complex."

And your breath caught for a whole different reason.

Because he was still looking at you.

Like he remembered something. Or someone. Or a feeling.

After that, you watched for it.

Every time you laughed, he relaxed. A little looser in the jaw. A little less rigid in his stance. He wouldn’t always smile - he’s not built like that - but he'd watch. And you could feel the way his body eased just from hearing you lose control for a second. Like your laugh gave him permission to stop scanning the room. Like, if you were laughing, things had to be safe. Had to be okay.

Like he trusted your instincts more than his own.

Then, one day, you were standing in front of a drawer in the kitchen, spaced out thinking about some briefing Sam had led earlier. Your hand hovered over the handle, not moving. You didn’t even hear the footsteps.

Then a finger gently poked your ribs.

You twitched, let out a small, involuntary sniffle of a giggle.

"Hey," Bucky’s voice was low and innocent, but when you looked at him, his brows were lifted, his mouth twitching.

He poked again, just a little, testing. You sniffled again, lips quirking, and shifted away.

And there it was.

That look again. Like softness cracking through stone. And a glint. Something mischievous, as he opened the drawer you'd been blocking.

You coughed, cleared your throat. "Still thinking about that tactical brief," you explained, a little flustered, grabbing an apple and walking out too quickly before he could see your eyes glaze in warmth.

But after that, it became a pattern.

Small moments - barely-there touches. Little pokes when he passed behind you. Brushing fingers when you both reached for a mug. One time, you were curled up reading on the couch and he sat behind you, arm draped casually - and his thumb pressed right into your side, just once, just enough to make you squirm. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that you knew.

And every time, you let him.

Because you knew.

He didn’t need much. Just a reason. Just a moment. Just softness he could give, not just endure.

The night he took it further was after a days-long mission that left most of you battered and bruised.

It was late at night.

The Compound was quiet in the way it only is when everyone was too tired to keep performing for the day. No buzz of banter. No kitchen squabbles. Just low lights and sore bodies.

You were sunk deep into the couch, muscles humming, wearing sweatpants and a tank top that still smelled a little like gunpowder. Sam and Nat had already vanished. Steve said something about paperwork.

It was just you and Bucky now. The couch. The dark.

You were tucked into one corner, legs stretched out across the cushions, muscles half-seizing from exertion. Bucky was sprawled near you, one arm draped along the back of your shared couch, the other resting on his stomach. His head was tilted back, eyes half-lidded, mouth twitching at some nonsense on the screen. His knuckles grazed your shin now and then when you shifted.

There was a pulse between you. Familiar. Worn in.

You said something. Maybe about the mission. Maybe about the way Sam yelled mid-air like he forgot you could hear him through the comms.

Bucky grunted. "He’s always yelling. So dramatic."

"Says the guy who rolled off a shipping container like it was a stage cue," you muttered, grinning.

"That was a necessary."

"It was theatrical."

There was a beat of silence. "You making fun of me?"

Before you could respond, something wrapped around your ankle.

A flash of cool metal.

Your laugh jumped from your throat a second too late - he pulled, not hard, just firm, just enough to unbalance you, to catch you mid-shift and make you gasp as your body skidded across the couch cushions.

He was behind you before you could stop it, wrapping around you, that steel forearm pressed against your stomach as you twisted and squirmed and tried to claw away - but it was already too late.

His hands slipped under your shirt.

Not far - just high enough to find the bare skin at your waist, fingers splayed, searching. One warm and rough, one cool and precise.

And then he started to tickle.

You dissolved.

A breathy giggle burst out of you before you could stop it. Your hips squirmed. Your knees lifted reflexively. You curled in on yourself, gasping, laughing, helpless in a way you’ve never allowed yourself to be around anyone.

But you let him.

You let him have this.

You could've fought. You could've twisted and shoved and thrown your elbow into his ribs. You could've turned those years of survival into teeth and fury, use the scars of your life to make him back off. You knew exactly how to wound someone who touched you without permission.

But you didn't.

Because it wasn't like that.

You’d never let anyone make you soft like this. Not because you couldn’t - but because you hadn't trusted you'd be okay after softening yourself in someone's hands. Never had faith you wouldn't be crushed.

But Bucky’s hands were gentle. Purposefully gentle. Like he was terrified of misjudging the line between fun and fear. And there was something beautiful about that.

Something devastating, too:

He was careful because he knew what it was like to be mishandled.

Your ribs were sensitive from the mission, from training, from always - and he was relentless in the most careful way. His fingers danced over your sides, pressing just enough to tease, never enough to hurt. He was always mindful. Always pulling his strength back like he was afraid of breaking the world.

And while you weren't going to stop him, you couldn't help but react.

You folded inward, arms clamped tight over his forearms, body trembling with giggles, and Bucky’s breath was at your ear - low, amused, and fond.

"Thought you said you were tough."

You choked on a laugh. "I am!"

"Oh yeah?" His voice dropped. "You’re squirmin' like a punk."

"Sh-Shut up-"

You couldn't finish. His fingers dug gently into the sweet spot just above your hips and you crumpled, laughing so hard you couldn't open your eyes. It was helpless. Embarrassing. Real.

You felt your face and neck flush as he laughed quietly behind you - really laughed. The sound brushed warm against your spine.

You hoped he knew. That he'd figured it out.

That you’d been letting him do this. Not just enduring it, but giving it to him. Giving him something he never asked for out loud. Softness. Trust. A reason to smile that had nothing to do with survival.

That you let yourself laugh. For him. Loud, messy, full-body laughter that shook you to your core. Because you knew your laugh was something he drunk in like oxygen.

You’d never laughed like this before. Not in front of someone. Not without checking the exits. Not without feeling like it was going to cost you.

But with him, like this, you felt…

Safe.

And that was the kicker.

You felt safe because of him.

And he could let his guard down because you felt safe.

You were each other’s litmus test. Somehow, against all odds, in all the jagged mess of your lives, you had become the proof that the other could still be human. That you didn't have to stay sharp all the time. That softness didn't mean weakness.

That maybe you wouldn't break each other.

And that should've scared the shit out of you.

But it didn't. Not with him.

Because he wasn't breaking through your defences; he was walking in through an open door you never thought you’d leave unlocked.

His hand skimmed lower, brushing over the curve of your stomach, and your laugh twisted higher, sharper. You writhed against him, caught between the urge to run and the instinct to stay exactly where you are.

You were laughing so hard now it almost hurt, euphoric endorphins spiralled around your spine, down to the base of your toes. You curled even tighter, hand smacking against his forearm, feet twitching, squealing through a breathless grin.

And then his thumb pressed into the juncture of your hip and thigh - your spot, and-

You snorted. Loud. Unfiltered. Stupid.

You slapped a hand over your mouth instantly, eyes wide, the laugh caught somewhere between horror and surrender.

Bucky froze.

Just for a beat.

And then he lost it.

Not a quiet huff or a fond exhale - he actually fucking laughed. His head dropped to your shoulder, face half-hidden, the sound was low and rough and surprised, like it had cracked out of him without warning. His nose brushed your neck, his jaw grazing skin.

He'd stopped tickling but you were giggling helplessly through the gaps in your fingers. "Fuck," you whined. "That was so unfair."

He was still laughing.

You turned your head enough to catch the look on his face - eyes crinkled, cheeks soft, lips parted in genuine delight - and it hit you so hard in the chest you forgot how to breathe.

The sight and sound of him laughing like that... it felt like something came right in the world. Like a small justice had been done.

You dropped your hand from your mouth, breath stuttering, and you both laid there on the couch, tangled and warm, laughing quietly to yourselves in the flickering light of the television. His scruff grazed your jaw again. His hand splayed gently across your stomach, not tickling anymore - just holding. Anchoring.

He exhaled against your shoulder. You felt it - warm and slow and shaky.

"Fuck," he murmured, voice lower now, heat curled around the word. "I love the way you laugh."

Your breath caught. Your toes curled into the couch cushion, body still trembling a little from the aftershocks. There was something in his voice - something dark and golden and wanting.

It didn't need a name.

It didn't need a label.

It could just be what it was.

And tonight, it felt like everything that had been aching to break through the cracks; a small, precious thing, held gently between two people too bruised to ask for more.

Your body was still buzzing from the aftershocks of the tickling when his breath brushed your neck. And that was when you felt it:

Him. Relaxing behind you. Shoulders settling. Chest rising slow. A deep, steadying breath like he was finally safe. At ease.

Because you were laughing.

So your guard was down.

And if your guard was done, it must all be okay.

.

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE ODYSSEY OF REMEMBERING.

AUTHOR NOTE! As to not offend anyone ( mostly cause I feel like the context of Sinners and writing x Reader stuff is kinda a heated topic to touch - no shame to others who do.. )  I will write an OC with the face claim from the films, but you can read it as Remmick x Reader if you want to. Plus, it really helps cause I’m gonna use him for a fanfic of mine.. <3 pairing: Vampire! OC ( Thomas 'Tommy' Aberdeen ) x Reader or Remmick x Reader if you want to. prompt : Reader is slowly starting to remember the night she was turned, and it's not such a good thing for Tommy after all. word count: 1, 000+ words

You didn't remember the night you were turned, your mind had blocked out the night. Something about trauma and psychology and all that crap kept it hidden away. Though, you did have enough blurry details to make a vague idea. You were in a church, there was music playing⎯jazz, you liked jazz. Then, there was pain. It wasn't the pain of a bite, no, someone had cut your throat. After that, black.

You wanted to keep it that way. You didn’t want to remember. The pain. The emotions of it all. It was better that way, plus Tommy agreed. He always said that the trauma of being turned, it changed a person, haunted them, put a bitterness in immortality. It was better to forget, even if there was a scratching sensation in the back of your brain. Like a rat clawing its way into a wooden coffin, wanting to know, wanting to remember.

It was a funny thing, remembering. Remember what? Who were you before you were turned? She was dead and gone, had been for years now. Of what happened that night? The same blood and pain you see each time you feed. Nah, there was no use. No use in it. You were a changed woman, a better one, and you had Tommy. He was enough, he had to be enough because you knew nothing but him for the longest of times. It was always, you and him. Him and you.

Crossing your leg as you sit back in the seat, Daniel looked over the notes he had written down, brows furrowed together. It had to be the tenth session between the two of you. Or maybe, it was more? Hard to remember when you spoke so much. A lot being of past life that you could remember, growing up in your small town.

A little bit on the mortal lovers you had over the years, men, women, anyone to fill the void of immortality. But, there was still gaps between it all. Ones that was making Daniel more and more angry with each session. And the accusations of 'forgetting conveniently' was making you more and more angry. You weren't. You didn't. It was just blank.

"Tell me, ( Y/ N ), do you have alzheimer's? Is that a thing that you vampires can get?" Daniel asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No."

"No? Then, tell me why you said, 'I don't remember the night I was turned'. But, back in the seventies, you said you did." He argues, making your jaw clench.

"I must of made a mistake, then." You shake your head, a ringing beginning to form in your ears.

"No, no, you didn't." He argues, shaking his head.

"I did." You argue, not wanting to believe it.

"No, you did not."

You did. You did. You did. You fucking did. Tommy told you that. Tommy had said that was what you told him years ago. Why would he lie? He wouldn't. Hell, you could trust him more than you could of Daniel. You knew Tommy. You didn't know Daniel, not well enough to take his word for it. Not to mention, he was some stupid human journalist, wanting to make a quick buck off your story. Opening your mouth to argue, the words die instantly as he plays the tape back, your face crumbling at the crackle before a throat clearing.

"It is June, year...Um, 1973, I am talking to a Miss ( L / N )." Daniel mumbles, "Now, ( Y / N ), tell me of the night."

"It was Summer of 32', I remember the heat it was the worst back then. No ice, or fans that worked that well, you know? I used to pour a bucket over my head before bed just to keep cool." You joke, voice light-hearted.

"And how did it happen?" He asks, "Was it sudden? Was it something that you wanted?"

"No, no.."

No escape, there was no fucking escape from them⎯from him. They were everywhere. They were fucking everywhere. No matter where you looked, from whichever window or room. They were there, the hairs on your arm raising told you that. Worst of all, they weren’t doing anything. They weren’t talking, or moving, laughing, or even breathing. They were just lurking in the shadows of the treeline, red eyes glowing as they watched. 

If they were doing something, then maybe you wouldn’t be so scared⎯so paranoid. But, there was something far more terrifying in them just not doing anything. It made you twitch, cry, tremble, spiral into the worst of the worst thoughts. It didn’t help that everyone else in the church was always equally spiraling. Running fingers through your hair, you pace between the church pews, heart pounding in your chest painful. You felt like you were going to pass out. 

“We should talk to them.” Oscar argues, shaking his head.

“Talk? Are you fuckin’ stupid?” Todd scoffs harshly, “They don’t wanna talk, Oscar. They wanna kill us!”

“For what? What did we do to em’, Todd? For fuck sake, we’re in church! We ain’t do nothing wrong to em’!” Lottie argues, shaking her head with tears in her eyes.

“It doesn't matter. Just..” Todd looks around the church unsure, “Add salt to the window stills and doorway. Do not talk to em’, do not let them in.”

Letting out a scoff, you shake your head, tugging at strands of your hair. Stupid. It was fucking stupid, just putting salt around the church and not talking to them. You should be doing something more, like killing them. Or planning how to get rid of them. The sun wouldn’t come up for hours, but even then. Was it truly safe to go out? They could follow them back home, like those old folk tales used to say. It was better to kill them when you had the chance. 

“You got somethin’ to say, ( Y / N )?” Todd questions, shooting you a glare. 

“Yes, maybe we should find out why they are here. Isn’t there old folk tales of em’ omens of death? What if they’re just omens, just the dead comin’ to talk.” You argue, “We ain’t gotta go outside, just talk to them from the church steps or somethin’.” 

“That’s stupid.”

“Maybe, but we can’t just sit here and wait for the sunrise. What if they follow us home? We should try to get em’ off our trails, Todd. See if we can send em’ on their merry way.” You argue, getting in his face.

He glares, stress clear in his expression. He was right, about doing what you could to ward them off. But, that would only work for so long. There were still others in town that didn’t know what was going on. You had to warn them, or do something. Anything but wait and wait while they could be plotting something.

Looking around at the others, there was a silence that filled the air, as the creeping realization of your words sunk in with them. Father Peter was dead somewhere outside. The church parking lot and woods around it were filled with those things. What was there for you to do left?

“She’s right, Todd. I got babies at home, I can’t have em’ following me.” Lottie argues, “They’ll hurt my babies.”

“I..Uh, I don’t..” He pauses, before relenting. “If we talk to em’, we do no agree to nothin’. No deal, no letting em’ in. You hear me?”

“I ain’t.” You nod.

“Like shit I will, ain’t got a death wish.” Oscar scoffs, shaking his head. 

A sickening sound fills the air, a knock, as if those things had overheard you all. The air in your lungs gets knocked out, a cold terror going down your spine. Taking a step backwards instinctively, Todd shrugs his shoulders, straightening out his back as if preparing for a fight. Bumping into the corner of a church pew, Todd opens the front door, not enough for whoever or whatever was outside to see in. Just a crack, enough for only his face to peek out. 

“Evening, sir.” An unfamiliar voice pipes up, “My name is Thomas, Thomas Aberdeen, I was just passin’ through town and couldn’t help but stop here at ya’ church.”

“Mm-hm, evening. How can I help ya’, Thomas?”

“Now, now, I don’t mean ya’ no harm. No need to hold the door so tightly. See, I don’t mean none of y'all harm, really.” Tommy shakes his head, “I just want the girl, Miss ( Y/n ). I know she’s in there, can smell that perfume of her’s from here.”

“For what?”

“Ain’t really any of ya’ damn business.” He shrugs, “But, I can assure you, I ain’t gonna do her any harm. So why don’t y'all just cut her loose, yeah? Yeah.”

Yeah, no. Not a fucking chance. You’d rather get mauled by the gators in the marshes than go outside to talk to him. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you cower back from the front door, praying that Todd doesn’t open it for this fellow. Feeling a hand on your back, you let out a yelp of fear at the sudden touch, jolting backwards. The pile of bibles on the church pew tumble to the ground, spewing open to a few pages. Finding a sheepish Oscar there, you turn back to Todd, finding the door opened more as he faces the pair of you. Your heart stops in your chest.

The man at the bottom of the church steps. You had seen him before, playing a fiddle in town square for a few coins. You’d given him a quarter or two. He stares at you, the dim light from inside the church making his features more noticeable. If he wasn’t so god damn terrifying, you’d find him handsome. Those dark eyes that lured you in, the light scruff on his jawline that fit him, those brown curls that stuck to his forehead from the heat. 

“Oh, yeah? Then, why can't you just come in and take her with you?” Oscar pipes up, his voice cracking at the end from fear. 

“Would be awfully rude to⎯” 

“You can’t, can ya’, boy? Cause you dead and ain’t welcome here.” Todd argues, shaking his head. 

“No, maybe not right now.” Tommy nods in mock agreement, “But, sunrise is still a few hours away, still got plenty of time to head over to town. I can go to that diner for a bite, or I can go into ya’ children’s bedroom. Quite stupid of ya’ to leave em’ windows open, might let something in one of these days.”

“I ain’t coming.” You pipe in, not wanting to linger too long on his threat.

“Then, I’ll just wait for ya’.” Tommy nods with a sly smile, “I got all the time in the world to wait for ya’, darlin’.”

---

Enjoy this a goofy little meme of my upcoming vampire fic ( OUT OF TIME. ) relationship dynamic! ( bottom sketch is from @somnolenthour )

[2demondogs]

Hey there, I loved your touch starved Arthur headcanons, may I request the same prompt for Kieran Duffy?

Thank you! Admittedly never got into Kieran so I hope you like my characterization :) Drew a lot from my own experience so this is probably autism coded.

Kieran assumes at first, and still, that you're playing some kind of long-con. He still has the street-urchin distrust from his youth fully intact and constantly re-affirmed by the men around him. You may gotten past his final barriers to letting you in, but it's a no-man's land between that and actual belief.

He's distrusting, but he wants it. He really would like to believe you're sweet on him, he would. It takes weeks to prove to him, mostly, that you aren't going to whip out a knife.

Once you work past that, it takes months for a hypersensitive Kieran to unlink your touch from hurt. It's usually a trauma reaction that makes him recoil in pain. Still, he's dumbly hopeful, and you've worked hard to make yourself safe. He grins and bares the discomfort silently to not drive you away.

By the time you've made yourself a safe space, he's smitten enough to want to fight the ingrained aversion. You can still see the flicker of fear on his face if your hands near his vitalities, throat or groin; the paths you take around triggering that soften him further. Kieran won't outright realize it, but he'll internalize the respect and care.

Anything gentle will break him in half. If his eyes sting around you, he's going to start bawling. And they will sting if your fingers comb through his hair; your nails scratch lightly over the veins in his hands and arms, idly or just while studying his features (he can barely breathe); if you make yourself known before you hug him from behind, just to not scare him. He struggles every time to choke down that you're touching him to make him feel something nice, or even harder to believe: for no reason at all, for a whim.

Once, you took the time to mend Kieran's clothes because his own hands shake too much anymore. When you run your hand over the freshly patched spot at the side seam, it feels warm and sturdy on his side, doesn't feel like it scrapes - he, for once, initiates an interaction, kissing at your knuckles as if kissing a ring.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiebingo.

Fool Me Twice, I'll Bring You Down

12 Days of Christmas Prompt: Snow | Word Count: 2398 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Mentions of Upside Down Trauma | POV: Eddie | Tags: Future Fic, Post Break-Up, Self-Sabotaging Eddie Munson, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Reconnecting, Olive Branches, Second Chances, Always the Right Guy, Finally the Right Time, Hopeful Ending

Eddie toes at the dirty snow under the sole of his boot. Nudging out a shallow hole in the mostly frozen dirt, and then filling it back in with his heel. Stamping it down, and starting the process all over again. Once he's done dragging his foot through the slush, he swings the axe one more time, splitting another log for firewood.

His arms, his shoulders, his back, are all aching. But he needs to get this done before the winter storm rolls in. They're looking at more snow, and a lot of it.

It's busy work. He doesn't have anywhere to be, or anyone to be with, and that's been a hard truth to accept. He's chilled to the bone, and this has been a long, never-ending winter of his own making.

Steve left without a sound, didn't linger, and there was nothing Eddie could do that would have made him stay. What once worked, now didn't, and Eddie's been left alone pining for what once was. It's his own fault, and he knows that. He could have tried harder, could have been easier to live with.

But he wasn't, so he hasn't heard from Steve since the day he packed up and drove away. He gave up first, and Steve gave up last, after they both fought so hard to make it work. To pull Eddie out of the hole he was hellbent on digging for himself, until the moment it wasn't worth it any longer.

Hopeless.

Eddie doesn't blame him for going, for throwing in the towel on a lost cause. It had a been a valiant effort. Steve Harrington always tried so fucking hard to save everyone, and Eddie just didn't want to be saved.

Until he did. And then it was too late.

Steve was already gone.

That realization was unbearable, and Eddie closed himself off from everyone else, besides Wayne, who packed up his shit from Hawkins and moved to the woods with Eddie.

Their home here would be peaceful, if peace was even remotely on the menu for him. It's not, not without Steve, but he's learned to accept that long ago. It is what it is, and all that. He has Wayne, and he has his solitude, which he's greatly come to appreciate. 

It's enough. It has to be.

It's snowing and blowing, as advertised, and Eddie stands at the window and watches it accumulate. Through the falling snow, Eddie catches sight of headlights, weaving down the road in the distance. Some poor asshole definitely took a wrong turn, and is now fighting the shitty roads out this way for no reason. If Eddie was an axe murderer, and believe him, he's considered that as a viable option at times, this would be the opening act of the horror film that awaits. Alas, he's just Eddie. A recluse. A hermit, living down a road with his uncle that nobody else should be on, especially not in this weather, venturing further and further off the beaten path.

Two confirmed bachelors, except. Well.

Eddie turns the silver band on his finger. He said he would until the end. And he's still here, so it is, too. Even if Steve isn't.

He keeps expecting the lights to turn around, to realize they've made a mistake, and backtrack.

They don't. Somebody's not only lost, they're apparently dumb, too, and they better not get stuck because he's not in the mood to go dig anyone out in this weather.

The lights turn up the last stretch of road to the dead end, shining towards the house, and Eddie heaves a sigh.

"Who the hell is that?" Wayne asks from his chair, as the headlights glide across the living room wall.

"Some lost idiot," Eddie says, and reaches for his coat. He'll get them turned around, so they can be left the fuck alone. They live out in the middle of nowhere for a goddamn reason.

The car slowly crunches up the driveway, and Eddie opens the front door and stands on the step. Shielding his eyes from the blinding lights.

Eddie waits until the car door finally opens, and a figure he can't make out due to the fucking headlights, stands up in the open door.

Asshole.

"Seven miles back to the highway!" Eddie yells, only taking his hand away from shielding his eyes for long enough to point back towards the dirt road. He's hoping they take the fucking hint. There's room enough to pop a u-ey in the driveway, and then be back on their merry way.

But there's silence, and for a fraction of a moment, Eddie worries that maybe he's the one at the beginning of a horror film, not the lost sheep in the car.

"It's me." 

Fuck.

Maybe a serial killer would be easier to face.

His voice is tentative, but it's Steve. There's no way it isn't. 

"You're blinding me," Eddie says, and then feels stupid about it. Like, that's what he really needs to tell Steve after all this time and distance? 

"Shit, sorry," Steve says, and leans back in the car, killing the lights.

Eddie still can't see him well, but he can at least make out his silhouette, and it's definitely Steve. He's not imagining things. Steve's here, standing in the snow.

"Can we talk?" Steve asks, as if there'd be any answer other than please.

"Yeah, c'mon in," Eddie says, and nods towards the house. Wayne's gonna give him shit for this, but what the fuck is he supposed to do? Run Steve off a second time?

He at least owes Steve the courtesy to hear him out, no matter what Steve might have to say.

Eddie kind of expects divorce papers. 

Steve's probably moved on, found someone else, and wants to legally sever their ties. Eddie wouldn't blame him. It's been a handful of years now. They can't stay in this limbo forever.

Eddie holds open the door, and Steve stamps his boots, shaking the snow loose, before he steps inside. Wayne's looking at them, face schooled totally neutral.

At least, that's what Eddie interpreted it as.

He was wrong, as per usual.

"Hey, kid. Long time no see," Wayne says, and Steve makes a noise that sounds wounded. Eddie thinks Steve hadn't expected Wayne, and Steve doesn't even take off his coat before he's leaning down to Wayne, pressing against his chest, hugging him tight as Wayne stays seated in his recliner. 

Eddie shifts his weight back and forth from foot to foot. What's he supposed to do now? Steve's here. And Eddie's been set adrift once again.

He's not mad at Steve, he's longed for him since the day he left, but Eddie can't blame him. Eddie knows he got harder and harder to live with over the years. Damaged, and fucking haunted. Steve tried. Steve tried so hard, and in the end, Eddie wouldn't let him try any longer.

He pushed, and pushed, until Steve left.

And Eddie stayed. 

Missing him, missing them, missing the full fucking life that he threw away. A storm cloud that took too long to lift, that only lessened once Wayne turned up to knock some sense into him.

He got better, got himself right, but by then, it was too late.

Steve was already gone.

When Steve rights himself, pulling away from Wayne, he follows Eddie through the house to the bedroom, and Eddie's not sure that's the place to do this, but it's pretty much the only option for any sort of privacy at all. 

Eddie closes the door behind them, and then just stands there. Looking at Steve, eyes raking over him, taking him in. If this is the last time, he wants a real good look. He's missed him.

It's like they've struck a deal, neither of them willing to speak, neither willing to break the silence that has engulfed them, finally snuffing out the yelling, the fighting like dogs in the summer sun. 

Steve reaches into his back pocket, and there is a folded over manilla envelope. He tries to smooth it out, then hands it over. It's paperwork, definitely. And Eddie doesn't want to open it, doesn't want this to be over. Steve was his chosen family, and he's not ready for that to be over for good. He's fucking self-saboteur, and the only one to blame here.

So, he pulls up the fastener, opening the brad holding it closed, and pulls out the stack of paper. 

It's not divorce papers. It's the deed to the house. 

Steve's signed in all the flagged places.

"You should have it," Steve finally says.

"But it's ours," Eddie blurts out.

And it is. They built it into the home that it is, together. It was their dream, not Eddie's dream. He can't just take it, not for good. He's kept care of it, though, hoping someday Steve would want to come back and see it. 

See him. 

Even if Eddie doesn't think he actually deserves Steve being here again.

The hint of a frown crosses Steve's mouth, "Is it, though?"

It is. 

"I've always thought so," Eddie says quietly, head bowed as if he's confessing something. Maybe he is, even if he assumed Steve would already know that. He feels pretty shitty that Steve doesn't, even after everything that's happened between them, but that doesn't change the facts, "It's our home."

Steve sits on the edge of the bed with a flop, the old box springs creaking under him.

"Well, what are we gonna do now, then?" Steve asks.

And isn't that just the million dollar question?

Eddie doesn't have an answer, so Steve fills the silence.

"I'm glad Wayne's here with you. I've been worried."

"About me, or him?" Eddie asks.

"Both, but him. His number was disconnected the last time I called and I got scared that something happened and you didn't tell me."

Eddie wants to say he would have, but he doesn't know if that's true. There's a good chance he wouldn't have been brave enough to reach out, even in a time he would have needed him the most. Maybe, especially not then. Steve's handled with care enough of his sadness and trauma to last a lifetime.

"He's fine. We're fine. Two old Boo Radleys."

Steve furrows his brow. He doesn't get the reference, so Eddie clarifies, "Two shut-ins."

There was a time he'd have poked at him, demanded to know how he hadn't read To Kill a Mockingbird, or at least seen the movie, but those days have long passed. He's grown up since then, learned the hard truths of the world, much like Scout did. He got to see the not-so-secret courts of men's hearts up close and personal in Hawkins.

Steve nods at that, and just looks so fucking sad that this is where Eddie ended up. Eddie's a little fucking sad about it, too.

But it is what it is, life is just that way sometimes.

Eddie sits on the bed next to him. 

"I've missed you," Eddie says, "I fucked it all up. And it wasn't fair to you. But I am sorry. For everything. If I could take it back, I would."

It's like time slows down, and then speeds back up, as Steve's hands rake through Eddie's hair, his fingers scratching against Eddie's scalp as he pulls him closer, kissing him like they haven't in a long fucking time. With passion, and fire, and a love that never died despite everything Eddie did to try and snuff it out to punish himself for things that were always out of his control.

When they finally pull away, Steve laughs, delighted as he flops back onto his back. He picks up Eddie's hand in his own, his thumb brushing against Eddie's wedding band, with soft little strokes.

"It's like you're you again. Almost. Sadder, though. But I never thought I'd see you again, if I did, you know, see you," Steve says, slinging his arm over his eyes. 

Eddie knows what he means.

He is a little more subdued now, whether with age, or just experience that the world isn't always something to waste energy being loud about. Not if you can't change it. And Eddie Munson's never been able to change anything.

But, maybe. Just maybe, he can change this. 

Eddie lays back beside him, just enjoying the warmth his body is putting off, just like he always did, in their best days.

"I've worked through some of my shit," Eddie admits, "Wayne helped."

Steve uncovers his eyes, and they are shiny, but happy, "He always helps."

Eddie nods, grinning, "That he does."

And then they just lay in the silence. There'll be a lot to discuss, a lot of decisions to be made. But Eddie is just going to enjoy this for what it is, at this exact moment. A chance. 

He has a chance. 

A chance to try to make it right, to show he'll be in it, if Steve will just let him. 

A chance to prove he loves him, still. Always.

But all that can wait. They've got nowhere to go, and might not for days. Because Steve's gonna get snowed in, but Eddie suspects Steve knew that when he headed out all this way. 

It was gonna end between them, in either a showdown where they were fit to be tied, or with this, perhaps. A quiet hopefulness that neither of them can dare trust. Not yet.

There is one order of business they better attend to first, though.

"Does Robin know you're here?" Eddie asks, because if she doesn't, Steve had better check in.

"Of course she does," Steve chuckles, "you think I do anything without her express written permission?"

Eddie laughs. He's missed her, too.

"We're gonna get a lot of snow," Eddie comments, "you might have to stay a while."

Steve turns his head, and catches Eddie's eyes, "That's the plan."

"Good," Eddie says, "that's good."

"But, fool me twice and I'll bring you down."

Eddie leans close, so close, "Deal. I'll provide the shovel."

"Shovel?" Steve teases, "I saw a perfectly good axe out there."

Eddie laughs, chin against Steve's broad shoulder, breathing in the smell of him, pressing the tip of his nose to Steve's warm neck.

He has a chance, and he's not about to fuck that up. 

Not again.

If you want to sign up for a future bingo event or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiebingo and follow along with the fun! ❄️

Notes: This was heavily influenced by the song Thistle by Breech. Haven't heard of it? You probably didn't watch Dawson's Creek as it originally aired. 🤣 (Like basically everything else, it was replaced with another song for DVD/streaming. Boo. Hiss.)

[steddieas-shegoes]

never cared much for stuff

for @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘stuff’

rated t | 483 words | cw: temporary character death, mourning | tags: love realizations, Eddie Munson lives, getting together, first kiss

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

He’s never really been the type to find a connection with stuff. He has things that have meaning, just as anyone does, but nothing that matters so much that he’d die if it went missing or got destroyed.

Until Eddie’s necklace.

He’d grabbed it before they left the Upside Down, just after Dustin screamed about bringing his body back with them until he lost his voice.

If this was all he had, if this is the only piece of Eddie he was bringing back, he’d treasure it.

And then he remembered he had Eddie’s vest on. Another thing. More stuff.

Dustin had taken a ring. When, Steve didn’t know.

Stuff started to mean more, or at least this stuff did.

He cleaned the necklace, the vest, made sure nothing was broken, no patches missing. He kept the vest in his closet, scared to even let others know he had it. He wore the necklace, but kept it hidden under his shirt if he was around others.

He cried every single night. Even the nights Robin was with him. Even when Dustin insisted on spending the night for almost a week straight. Even when he spent two nights in a row with Max in the hospital because no one else could.

He didn’t know why, didn’t quite understand why he felt a pull like this for someone he barely knew. He felt ashamed that he wasn’t able to let this go.

Steve was stronger than this. He had to be.

—

On the one year anniversary of Eddie’s death, Steve is certain of two things.

One: He is and will probably always be in love with Eddie Munson.

Two: Eddie Munson is alive and standing in his bedroom.

The first thing is a bit easier to swallow with the second thing being true.

Steve reaches for the necklace hanging against his bare chest, lets his fingers run over the carved initials that were almost worn down to nothing from his fidgeting.

“That looks good on you,” Eddie’s hoarse voice said, so low Steve was almost convinced he imagined it. “You got any more of my stuff or do I get to keep staring at you mostly naked?”

This is what Steve’s been picturing for so long. He’s pretty sure he’s not dreaming, but he pinches his arm anyway.

“How?”

“Wish I had a single clue, sweetheart.”

He looked normal. No blood. No visible injuries.

He looked like he walked out of there with them a year ago and washed the grime and trauma down the shower drain.

“I don’t understand.”

“Me either. But maybe we don’t have to understand.”

“I dunno. I think we should probably try,” Steve felt like he’d maybe finally lost it.

“Someone else can. I’d just like to kiss you.”

Steve could let someone else figure it out. He was gonna kiss the love of his life until they did.

[e-dubbc11]

Make Him Pay

Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google.

Pairing: Billy Russo x F! Reader

Warnings: Trauma, mentions of abuse, couple of swear words, some fluff

Word Count: 2.5K-ish

Summary: You are in the process of trying to heal from a past relationship with a man who was verbally abusive and somewhat violent. Billy is doing his best to help you.

A/N: So I know it’s been a minute since I’ve written for Billy. I hope you like it and a shout out to @prompts-and-circumstance I used a couple of your prompts “She flinches when I reach for her face. If I ever find out who did that to her, I won’t hold back.” And “Remember this sunrise. You won’t live to see another.”

As always, thank you for reading!  I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕

The wine glass fell in slow motion, like a snow flurry, but crashed to the floor like a turbulent avalanche and scattered across the kitchen floor. Glittering in the dim lights, the chips of glass were peppered everywhere.

Horrified, you were frozen in place and didn’t want to move on account of your bare feet but Billy put you at ease by gently draping his arm across your body and telling you not to move.

“Stay right there, baby. I’ll clean it up…don’t want you getting cut now, do we.” He said with a perfect smile.

Billy retrieved the broom and dustpan and began to sweep up the broken glass. You had hand washed them and while you were drying one, it slipped from your grip and before you knew what was happening, it was in pieces at your feet.

“Billy, I am SO sorry! It slipped…I-I’m s-sorry! I’ll replace it, I swear.” You said, nervously.

With your hands resting at your sides, you felt your hands begin to shake and your heart start to race. It was beating rapidly inside your chest, and felt like it would explode at any moment. Little beads of sweat formed on your brow as you tried to stop yourself from shaking uncontrollably.

“No need, beautiful. I’ve been meaning to buy new ones anyway. You did me a favor.” Said Billy.

Protectively, you immediately put your hand up as a reflex when he reached for your face to try and comfort you. Catching his hand in yours, you closed your other hand over his and tried to smile and distract him.

“I really am sorry, Billy.” You said, as tears stung the back of your eyes.

He knew that look well. The look of someone who’s been hurt, possibly by someone who claimed to love you, by a narcissist who blamed everyone else for their failures except themselves, and takes zero responsibility for their actions.

Oh yeah, he knew that look.

Slowly, he moved his hand toward your face and gently wiped the tear away from your cheek. He deliberately did it very slowly so as to not scare you or cause you to flinch just as you did the same for him. Billy didn’t really like you touching his face either but he was more open to the idea as your relationship progressed.

You knew it wouldn’t happen overnight and you were getting help for the emotional pain you had because of him but your fight or flight responses still happened just not as often.

And Billy was a big reason why it happened less frequently.

No one had ever made you feel safer, more loved, or understood what you have been through more than Billy did. He did not like talking about his past but if it helped you talk about yours, then he was willing to share more than he ever had before.

The only thing you hadn’t told him was your ex’s name. He didn’t need to know, but mostly, you were afraid of what he might do if he knew.

“Sweet girl, I told you, it’s ok. Now I’m gonna lift you and set you on the counter so you don’t get cut.” Billy said with a warm smile.

Before moving his hands down to your waist, Billy looked down at you with his eyes that were the color of wells of ink. You were thinking that if you looked hard enough into his endless brown eyes, they might tell you all of his deepest darkest secrets. But he distracted you by gently pressing his lips to yours, still faintly tasting like red wine and marinara sauce.

Billy finished cleaning the broken glass, went over every inch of the kitchen to make sure he didn’t miss any and even took out the vacuum to really make sure.

He was so sweet. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you and he did everything he could to prove to you that you deserved love, not ridicule.

**********

The first time Billy had reached for your face to cup your cheeks, you shied away from him and briefly shut your eyes. He thought maybe it was a one-time thing and he just caught you off guard but when it happened again, he just knew someone had hurt you.

The flared nostrils, the way his lips pulled back to expose clenched teeth, and the way his jaw tensed even before you started to speak…you knew he was beyond angry.

Billy listened intently as you told stories of your ex. His knuckles were white as he tightly gripped the glass with his bourbon in it, muscles stiffened as you told him story after story, but he was surprised to hear that your ex had never put his hands on you.

He only threatened to, acted like he was going to, and came close to doing so only to abort at the last minute and punch the wall or kick the door. He threw things though…a lot. He broke glasses, dishes, and anything small enough that he could grip in his hands and throw in your direction.

That was his favorite thing to do.

You didn’t stick around long enough for him to graduate to physical violence but it was long enough to leave you with scarring that wasn’t visible on the outside. Your heart was snow flaked with tiny cuts, each one a little deeper than the last, from every time he lost his temper.

In the softly filtered glow of the fire light, Billy spoke in a wicked hissing whisper and his face darkened with rage.

“Do you swear to me, he never hit you?” Growled Billy.

You swallowed hard before you replied, “I promise you, he never laid a finger on me, Billy. He didn’t have to. His threats and violent behavior scared me enough. And with the violence and the threats, came the empty apologies afterwards.”

Billy replied, “I should make him pay for what he did to you.”

As you placed your hand against his chest, you leaned forward to delicately place a kiss against his lips and said, “He will pay…sooner or later. He will, baby.”

Your words seemed to soothe him a little and calm the anger that coursed through his veins. You felt his body relax under your touch as he slowly snaked his arms around you and pulled you into a tender embrace.

Every little cut on your heart was a reminder that you had every right to get revenge. He should pay for every time he broke the glass in a picture frame, put a hole in the wall with his fist, or kicked the door in if you were taking too long in the bathroom.

Revenge would definitely be freeing but actually carrying it out would be immoral which you knew Billy didn’t care about that. He had done a lot of immoral things and smiled like a Cheshire cat while he did it.

Billy knew it wouldn’t fix everything but it would make him feel better, not powerless which he hated more than anything especially when it came to you.

But he could try and all he needed was a name.

**********

You strived to just feel normal again so that’s why you liked going to get drinks with Frank Castle and his wife, Maria. It was a standing weekly date and you really enjoyed unwinding from the week and their company.

As you sat and chatted with Maria, Billy and Frank went up to the bar to get more drinks where they had a conversation of their own.

“…And how is that going? She still a little, uh, jumpy?” Frank asked.

Billy took a sip of his beer and replied, “She flinches when I reach for her face, Frankie. If I ever find out who did that to her, I won’t hold back.”

“She won’t tell ya, huh?” Said Frank.

Billy said, “She said it’s not important because he’s not in her life anymore and she just wants to concentrate on feeling ‘normal’ again.”

Frank took a sip of his beer.

“But you can’t let it go, can ya Bill.” Frank said.

“Would you be able to?” Asked Billy. “If someone hurt the person you love most, would you?”

Frank pressed his lips together in a straight line, shook his head, picked up Maria’s drink as Billy picked up yours and headed back to the table.

He knew the answer to that, he just didn’t want to say it out loud.

While enjoying another round, you suddenly heard a laugh you hadn’t heard in a long time. It was menacing, almost evil sounding which caused your body to seize and stiffen like a statue and you felt all of the color drain from your face.

You knew who that laugh belonged to.

Thankfully, he was across the bar and with the dim lighting, you didn’t think he could see you but you’d rather not take that chance.

Billy felt you tense up immediately.

“What is it, sweet girl? What’s wrong?” Asked Billy.

You leaned over and replied into his ear, “Can we go, please?”

Billy looked across the bar and somehow knew which one he was. Your ex was a large brick wall of a man, strong, and arrogant.

You pleaded with Billy to leave the bar, to not even make eye contact with him, and try and slip out, unnoticed. There was no explanation needed as both Frank and Maria knew what had happened to you.

Before leaving the bar, Billy whispered something in Frank’s ear. Frank nodded, the two of you escaped the bar undetected, and headed home.

“What did you say to Frank?” You asked.

Billy replied, “I just told him I’d pay him for the drinks after we get home. That’s all, sweet girl.”

Now that Billy has actually seen your ex’s face, you may have a harder time keeping his identity a secret. Maybe he didn’t get a good look at him, the bar lights were in his way, or he didn’t know which one you were looking at. But if you knew anything about Billy, it was he didn’t give up, always remained determined, and always got what he wanted.

And he wanted nothing more than for you to feel safe again.

**********

A Few Weeks Later: Billy’s POV

The frigid winter air stung the exposed skin on your face as the cold infiltrated your entire body. It was going to take some time before you could get warm again.

You hated lying to her, told her last night that you had to work late and so you would just see her later tomorrow morning but it was easier to set up on the rooftop at night while the city was mostly asleep.

During the very early morning hours, the city sounds were elevated, very clear, and unmistakable. Car alarms, police sirens, people stumbling over glass bottles on the sidewalk underneath you…they all sounded like they were right next to you as you waited patiently for any movement in the apartment across the street.

Your mind drifted to y/n, to the paper that Frankie brought you after he found out who he was and his laundry list of crimes he’s committed. His name is Arthur Lennon and by his name alone, you knew why she didn’t want you to know it.

Fired from a couple of jobs because of his anger, Arthur Lennon added court ordered anger management and assault and battery to his resume. He nearly beat a man to death that had accidentally spilled beer on his boots in a bar and then decided to take a couple of swings at the arresting officer before being tased a few times.

But when you found out he had seen her that night while out with you and then followed her home from work a couple of days later, your blind rage could not be contained. Arthur said he missed her and could easily get rid of you so they could be together again. That was when your mind was made up and you were going to kill him.

You had told Frankie, “I won’t be threatened…ever again, Frankie. And I’ll die before I let anyone threaten her either. The world would be a better place without him in it.”

Frank replied, “Leave your phone with me and lemme know if you need anything else.”

Frank was a good friend.

The sun would be coming up soon.

You’ve had Arthur followed for the past two weeks, someone watching his every movement, where he goes and at what times…exact times like what time he gets up in the morning. And how he drinks his coffee in front of the window as the sun starts to rise.

“He won’t even feel it, be dead before he hits the floor. And good fuckin’ riddance.” You thought to yourself.

The sky was just starting to brighten; the fluffy clouds above were lined with a lavender hue as the morning winter sky began to turn pink with the sun breaking the horizon.

Camouflaged, your rifle rested on the ledge of the building directly across from his. The rooftop was comfortable compared to some of the surfaces you were forced to sleep on overseas and you had learned to sleep anywhere whenever you needed to.

This was child’s play.

Covered in black from head to toe, you focused your weapon on the window, and waited for him to appear. It should be soon.

You could feel the sun warming your backside as it started to appear on the opposite side of the building. Laser focused, you needed him to show his face soon before the glare would become too much.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl. He’ll never bother you again.” You whispered.

You wondered if y/n was awake yet; she was very much a morning person, loved to get up early and make coffee for the two of you but she would have to enjoy her coffee alone this morning.

You had a mission to accomplish.

A large figure with tousled hair and sleepy eyes slowly moved into your line of sight, a cup of coffee in his hand, and almost a smug look on his face like he was trying to figure out how he was going to ruin someone’s day today.

Your blood boiled just seeing his face again but this will be the last time you’d have to lay eyes on him. Carefully, Arthur brought his hot coffee up to his lips, and took the last sip of coffee he’ll ever have.

Through gritted teeth, you growled, “Remember this sunrise, Arthur. You won’t live to see another.”

As Arthur swallowed his coffee, you watched his throat move up and down, almost like it was in slow motion, felt the corners of your mouth curl up into a sinister smile, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

Your target was dead and y/n was finally free. No more run-ins and no more looking over her shoulder; maybe she can really start to heal now.

You’ll be home in time to enjoy coffee with her after all.

Tag List: @wheresthesunshinesblog @idaoftheburningmind @rafaelakelley @snowkestrel @music-indie-tv @kayhi808 @munsonownsmyass @gijos @fictional-hooman @k-marzolf @nutmeg17 @vaguekayla @danzer8705 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @aoi-targaryen @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @rachlovesactors @qu1etwolf @sweetserendipity65

Others that might enjoy: @itwasthereaminuteago @fluffyprettykitty @jvanilly @ittybxttykxttytxtty @imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend @mrsbillyrusso @colereads @jediwizardelf @thejanecampaign @folkloreofyennefer @milea @mysweetlittledesire @mrsalwayswrite @madelynneb

If you’d like to be added to (or removed from) my tag list for the ever so handsome Billy Russo, just let me know and thank you again for reading! 💕💕💕 If I tagged you but didn’t want to be, just let me know and I’ll never do it again

[yanderespamton78]

sometimes i feel like toby fox made spamton and the addisons especially for people to hyperfixate on. everything about them seems so perfect for people to go rabid about its insane to me

for one, spamton himself pretty much counts for 4 people, those being addispam, big shot spamton, in game spamton, and spamton neo. now sure you mostly see people going rabid about in game spamton but ive seen plenty of people who are obsessed with a version we dont get to see on screen

secondly, even the main in game spamton himself is kinda up to interpretation. loads of people characterise him differently. if i compared two aus to eachother theyd often be very different and depending on the ones i chose could be almost like 2 different people, and then if i compared those to in-game spamton, theyd still be very different. also since you dont see addispam and big shot spamton on screen you dont even know what they acted like so again basically you can make your own guy to fixate on with a few prompts as to what he was like

dont even get me started on the addisons. now im biased as fuck here seeing that ive been fixated on the addisons for like 6 months now (send help) but toby fox basically gave us 4 templates for us to have fun with. sure based off of in game dialogue you have a bit to go off of when it comes to their personality (pink being an asshole and blue being caring for example) but even then every addison in every different au is slightly different and i have never seen two addisons turn out exactly the same. ALSO you dont even know the relationship these characters have to spamton meaning you can have them be siblings, you can have them be friends, or you can ship them based off of what you enjoy. OR you could just ignore them altogether (which a lot of people do lmao)

also another thing is the fact that you dont necessarily need to have your addisons' personalities just reflect off of spamtons. I mean the main 4 addisons give you enough to go off of to make your own, and you are given cyber city, an entire fantasy world for you to put them in. cyber city again is up to interpretation, some people have it be like a normal city, some people make it a utopia, some people make it a hellscape. the choice is yours!!

and even then in game spamton is so versatile. he is perfect for angsty stuff, fluffy stuff, or jsut silly stuff, and none of it is out of character. you couldnt really make an angsty spongebob edit could you, itd be weird and out of characer and no one would take it seriously. but also you couldnt make a silly walten files video, sure people do but its out of character and wouldnt actually happen canonically. but spamton on the other hand. hes the kinda guy who you can draw holding a wallet in his mouth like a cat and generally being silly but also you could draw him sobbing at the bottom of dumpster and neither would be out of character!! AAAA

also extra thing i thought id add but his backstory is also very up to interpretation, like i dont think ive ever seen two people who think spamtons rise and downfall went exactly the same. sure everyone has the same general idea of how it went but some people believe in acid theory, some people believe in puppetification theory, some people have a mix of both, some people have their own idea of how it went down, and with that you can project different parts of your own trauma onto whatever happened to him.

ok sorry that was so long thank you for reading my very biased ramble about why spamton is perfect byeeee

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Do you have any extra prompts/perspective for shutdown trauma responses? So far I have a few related to freeze but I know they’re different in their own ways (I have some unrelated to freeze too, I just rather ask a professional in case there’s more)

disclaimer that while I have written about the topic in my own fics before, I only consider myself a fanfic writer who’s done some research, not a professional, and these are supposed to be prompts for writers to use and tweak however they see fits for their fanfics / original works for entertainment purposes. please don’t treat these following prompts as a 100% accurate psychological information that can be applied to real life situations without doing your own research and consulting with a licensed professional.

trigger warnings: PTSD, depression, implied suicide, eating disorder

whumpee not being able to feel the pain that should have been haunting them, be it physical or mental. and that is not a good thing, because they’re not processing what happened, and they can’t heal as long as they cannot process or acknowledge what happened to them.

numb, however, is all whumpee can feel. and the numbness is so much worse and more dangerous than pain.

depression, prolonged stress, anxiety and procrastination are also possibilities. if whumpee only feels numb all the time, there’re chances of them developing other mental disorders that may cause them to believe that their entire life is now without any purpose.

whumpee feeling hopeless and wanting to give up all the time. any personal interest they had prior to the traumatic incident is now gone.

loss of appetite. an eating disorder where food tastes like ashes, and panic sends them into having an episode whenever caretaker tries making them eat — because it feels like someone was forcing ashes down their throat and they could not breathe. their body would not accept the food, and their gag reflex made them feel like throwing up. it is as much physical as it is psychological.

confusion and/or hallucinations may occur — whumpee struggling to distinguish between what’s real and what’s in their head. denial may trick their mind into believing that the tragedy that’s happened to them didn’t actually happen, and denying is certainly not the read toward recovery.

whumpee stopped talking altogether. doesn’t matter if they’re safe with caretaker now. they would not talk to anybody about anything at all, not just what happened. (they physically could, but they’re so traumatized that speaking is too much for them.)

the needs to hide from everything and everyone all the time are there. doesn’t matter if it’s caretaker, whumpee simply does not wish to be seen.

they keep mostly silent and mostly to themself, in the sense that they avoid everybody and spend most of their time locked in their room where no one can see them.

they may be too afraid to make any decisions for themself, no matter how small the decision is.

appearing disengaged in any social interaction and limiting the way they express any emotion at all; in other cases where they’re not numb, they may be scared or upset in some situations, but their brain tells them to keep their guard up by not letting others see how they actually feel. whumpee believe they’re shielding and protecting themself this way, and they will always need to “play safe”, since it’s best not to let anyone know how they feel, even if it’s caretaker.

[rocknrollsalad]

rating: gen cw: Steve Harrington has bad parents, holiday celebrations, period typical homophobia, show typical trauma tags: it's the 90s y'all, older steddie, established steddie, stancy is mentioned, reclaiming holidays word count: 728

-

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt "stocking" and the @steddiemas prompt "surprise"

Christmas had never been Steve’s favorite holiday. He was more of a Thanksgiving guy. A big meal, friends and family, and a little bit of football? It was exactly how Steve would describe the perfect day.

Not to mention Thanksgiving was more relaxed than Christmas. There was a certain pressure around Christmas time that Steve swears he’d call one of his earliest memories. Life had moved on a long, long way from trying to eat the lights on the tree but the pressure to be well-behaved and happy was the same.

However, finding his own little community did help some. Not that any of them were any more Christmas people than Steve. Chrissy was the closest, she liked to entertain so any excuse. Nancy and Jonathan had a kid now so they had to celebrate but other than that, they were all fine to let the day come and go. It was an obligation best spent with friends who were suffering the same way.

This year was a little different. For the first time in Steve’s life, he had his own place to celebrate. Not an apartment he and Eddie shared with Robin and Chrissy, not his family home that he was allowed to stay in, this was his. And Eddie’s. Mostly his though.

A modest little home just outside suburbia with a lawn and a two-car garage, Steve loved the place. He’d spent the last nine months fixing all the things that needed repaired and updated which only made him love it more. This was where he was going to spend the rest of his life.

It was that ownership, that security of something for forever, that had him buying a Christmas tree a little early this year. Not out of obligation but because there was a perfect spot in the living room for it. Right in front of the window yet not in the way. It wouldn't take up the only communal space and no one would tell him how to decorate it, so why not?

They gave it a few simple decorations and a new string of lights, Steve wasn’t going crazy here. He still didn’t care about Christmas, but this symbolized so much more. Something that became more and more obvious with each new bit of seasonal decor that found it's way up. What really cinched it was the stockings, though. Something about really said "Christmas" to Steve.

One for him and one for Eddie. Their stockings hung in their home as they would be for the rest of their lives. It probably shouldn’t have made Steve as emotional as it did. He couldn’t stop looking at them. All that they’d fought to be alive, everything they went through, made this feel like a luxury. One Steve couldn’t believe he’d earned.

But he had. There were scars, nightmares, and weekly trips to the therapist to prove it. Whether he’d ever feel like they were safe or that he could fully let his guard down, time would still tell, but Steve was starting to feel worthy of more than just existing.

And there was one more thing this picture-perfect life needed.

It wasn’t exactly possible but times had changed enough that Steve and Eddie could live together and even if it raised a few eyebrows, people kept quiet. It wasn’t enough but it was something. Still, Steve knew. He knew there wasn’t anyone else on this planet for him and the only reason he wasn’t married to Eddie was because it wasn’t legal.

So with a bit of scrambling and all the romantic creativity in his body, Steve bought a ring and wrote a little speech. He sat on both for almost a week without saying anything so that he could pull off the surprise a moment like this was worth.

When Christmas morning rolled around, Steve’s stocking was overflowing with trinkets, candies, and other little goodies but Eddie’s sat looking practically empty. Steve rooted around through his and tried to not watch a very disappointed man dig down to the toe of his monogrammed stocking, chasing the only thing in it.

By the time he’d succeeded, Steve had ditched his candy and was waiting on one knee. This was the last thing he needed to make this the life he’d always dreamt of and maybe the first step in making Christmas something truly magical.

[beritybaker]

Preheating, Freezing

My first @steddiebingo fic for round 2! Prompts: Bakery AU, Trapped

Takes place post-Vecna, but in an AU where Eddie wasn't involved. Also - Weirdo Steve Harrington supremacy.

Rating: G | WC: 4,851 | Tags: Pre-Steddie, Coworkers, Crying, Codependent Robin & Steve, PTSD, Head Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort | ao3

If it weren’t for this job, Eddie doesn’t know what he would do. Get a different one, he supposes, but that would suck ass. He likes the one he has. He likes showing up at 4:00 AM after a late-night-turned-early-morning, using the quiet hour of solitude between the drunks and the go-getters to mull over last night’s gig, or the progress he made on his campaign before he had to head out for work. He likes surrounding himself with the smell of proofing sourdough and pies in the oven, and munching on yesterday’s chocolate croissants with an extra-large coffee.

What he doesn’t like is training new hires.

It’s not a common occurrence. The joint is family owned, and small—so small it doesn’t really have a name. People call it “the place by Bradley’s” when they’re talking about where to get a birthday cake, and nobody asks which one when Eddie tells them he works at the bakery. Still, it’s popular enough to get a steady stream of customers until mid-afternoon, and with Chrissy gone for school, he knows they need another part-timer to pick up the slack. He just wishes his morning peace didn’t have to be interrupted for it.

“Hey, Munson.”

“Harrington,” Eddie replies, unlocking the door. He glances up as his newest coworker approaches from the BMW parked on the curb, yawning wide. “Early enough for you?”

“Feel like I’m headed to swim practice,” Steve says through the end of the yawn.

Eddie steps through the door and holds it open for Steve to pass through behind him. “A lot less bread at swim practice, I hope.”

“Definitely.”

Locking the door behind them, Eddie beckons for him to follow to the kitchen. He punches in, grabs a clean apron from the hook by the time clock, and leans toward the rack of cards while he puts it on. When he finds Steve’s name, he mutters, “Aha,” and plucks it from the rack to hand to him. “You ever used one of these before?”

Steve nods, sticks his card into the machine, and puts it back in the rack next to Eddie’s. “Same kind we had at Scoops.”

“That’s right, you worked at the food court. So did I.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Burger King.”

“Oh, wait.” A sly smile makes its way across Steve’s face. “So you had to wear that god-awful red polyester? And I thought we had it bad with the sailor outfits.”

“At least those things looked a tiny bit breathable,” Eddie agrees. “It was honestly a relief when the mall burned down, because I didn’t have to wear that shit ever again.”

Inexplicably, Steve’s smile freezes into an unsettled grimace. “Y-Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, I guess not.”

Okay…weird. Eddie knows that look. It’s the same one Wayne gets when something reminds him of the F5 that came way too close to the trailer park in ’74, or the look his mom would get when her asshole brother came around. Eddie wants to ask why his dumb joke seemed to give Steve a fucking Vietnam flashback, but he holds his tongue. Maybe he was there when it happened, or a friend of his died in the fire. Whatever the case, Eddie’s not about to drag all that shit out of him while he’s supposed to be teaching him how to work the big oven, no matter how curious it makes him.

“Right,” Eddie says. He clears his throat and reaches for a second apron. “So, um…put this on, unless you want to look like a powdered donut. That’s step one.”

Steve obediently pulls the thing over his head.

While he’s tying it, Eddie goes on, “Step two is looking at the list for today.”

“The list?”

He leads Steve to the bulletin board by the walk-in freezer and taps the paper pinned up in the corner. “Everything we’ve got to get in and out of the oven before the morning rush. Some special orders to prep, but mostly—”

“Breakfast stuff?”

Eddie resents being interrupted, but at least it tells him Steve is on the right page. “Yep.” He pulls the list down and reads by the dim bulb above the sink.

“Do you want me to turn on the light?”

“Good god, no. I never turn it on if I can help it.”

“Oh…okay.” Steve stands there looking awkward and useless.

Eddie ignores him, turning his attention back to their morning checklist. He usually thinks aloud, and this morning is no exception. He hopes Steve is listening so he doesn’t have to repeat himself. “Croissants and scones are in the freezer; they can go right in the oven. George made the bagels last night, just have to pull those out of the pantry and put ’em in the case. Muffins: blueberry and…maple flax? Really, Pauline? We haven’t sold more than two flaxseed muffins all month.” He sighs, knowing what he’ll be having for breakfast tomorrow. “Whatever…”

“So we need to make muffins?” Steve says.

Eddie glances up. He’d almost forgotten there was someone else in the room. “Yeah. But we should take care of the scones first. Can you set the oven to four-hundred?”

“Oh,” Steve says again. “Sure.” He turns to one of the two industrial-sized ovens a few feet away, walks over, and stares at it for a moment. Then he turns back to Eddie and says, “Uh���how?”

Trying to suppress a long-suffering sigh (though admittedly not trying very hard) Eddie marches over and shows him, punching buttons with learned precision. “Got it?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Steve lets out a nervous chuckle. “You’re a braver man than me.”

“Why do you say that? You afraid of ovens or something?”

“No! God, wouldn’t that be funny, working in a bakery?” Another chuckle. “No, I just can’t turn on an oven without checking inside first. Cleaning up melted Tupperware isn’t something I want to do ever again.”

Eddie stares at him. “You left Tupperware in your oven?”

“My mom did. My family doesn’t bake much, so she stores it there. One time I wanted to make cinnamon rolls, and let’s just say the fire department wasn’t amused.”

“Well, lucky for us, the only thing that passes through this oven is stuff that’s supposed to be there. Speaking of which”—Eddie whirls and heads back to the walk-in—“let me show you where we keep the stuff that gets prepped ahead of time.” He pulls the handle on the massive door and lets it swing wide. A frigid cloud hits them, and he steps forward. Once Steve is inside too, he props the door open behind them.

“Chilly,” Steve remarks, chuckling yet again. “Would suck to get trapped in here.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge the observation. Instead he points at the shelves at eye level and says, “Right here is where you’ll always find stuff for the day ahead. By the time the afternoon shift is here, this will all be gone, and they’ll fill the shelf back up with tomorrow’s.” He picks up a baking sheet, covered in doughy triangles that are just visible through a layer of frosty plastic wrap. “These are orange-cranberry scones. There’s some blueberry-lemon and cinnamon right there. Go ahead and grab a tray, and we’ll start putting ’em in the oven as soon as it’s done preheating.”

Stepping out of the freezer, the temperature of the kitchen is a stark contrast. With the oven heating up, the whole room has started to get a little stuffy. Eddie puts his tray of scones on the counter next to the oven and goes to open the window. Usually he opens it before turning anything on. That’s what happens when something fucks with my routine. He wonders what else he’s going to forget before this shift is through. Hopefully it won’t be anything important.

The next half-hour is uneventful. Steve takes instruction surprisingly well, always rushing to do whatever Eddie suggests—though at times, he realizes just a moment later that he needs further guidance. Over the course of the morning, Eddie becomes more and more willing to give it, because goddammit, despite his misgivings, the guy’s charm is undeniable. He’s still not happy to be losing his quiet time, but at least Steve doesn’t say more than he needs to. With another set of hands there, Eddie is also more productive than usual, and by a quarter to five they’re left with very little to do.

He goes over their remaining tasks in his head. They’re all easy things: packing up Flo’s usual order for the station, feeding the sourdough starter, putting the muffins and loaves in the case once they’re out of the oven, replacing them with the pies of the day. Last thing to do is put together the cookies for the Wheelers’ party platter, but it’s a little early for that.

Time for breakfast, then, he thinks, and he calls out for Steve, who ventured into the freezer at his suggestion to pull out the unbaked pies. “Let’s take a breather. You wanna pick out a bagel? Bet we could get away with raiding the fresh ones.”

He doesn’t get an answer.

Furrowing his brow, Eddie tries again. “Harrington? Do you want some breakfast or not?”

Still nothing.

He rounds the corner to the freezer and finds the big door shut. Whirling around and around for some sign of where Steve went, he starts to panic. It’s not that he’d be upset if Steve decided bakery life wasn’t for him and skipped out on him; it’s more about the fact that Pauline will definitely blame it on Eddie for scaring him off. His snark is no secret, and he’s pretty sure it’s why she gave him the pre-open morning shift in the first place, to keep his mouth from offending any customers. The last thing he needs is for the manager to have another excuse for her weird vendetta.

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief when he spots an unfamiliar set of keys on the hook beside the bulletin board. Steve is still here, unless he decided to leave his car for some reason.

Turning back to the freezer, Eddie cocks his head in confusion. Did he shut himself in? He reaches out, turns the handle, and pulls the door open. On the other side, he does find Steve, though not remotely in a state he anticipated.

He’s huddled on the floor, with his back to a shelf of frozen butter, and though he jumps about a foot in the air at the sound of the door creaking on its hinges, the startled look on his face does nothing to hide how red and puffy his eyes are. “Munson!” He shoots to his feet, wiping his nose on the back of his hand and sniffling hard. It’s clear he’s desperate to look casual, though his voice is thick and rough when he goes on, “Sorry, man. I, uh…I got stuck.”

Eddie stares, blinking. “You got stuck,” he echoes.

“Yeah.”

Because he’s never been one to shy away from the elephant in any room, he purses his lips and says, “Is that all you were crying about? Getting stuck in the walk-in?”

Steve looks startled all over again by Eddie’s candor. He opens and closes his mouth half a dozen times before crossing his arms over his chest and grumbling, “No.”

Now Eddie is even more surprised. “Okay…then why were you crying?”

There are a few different emotions in conflict on Steve’s face. Eddie spots the ones he expects, with fear and shame taking the lion’s share. There’s also a tiny flicker of something hopeful, though, and he realizes a moment before he speaks that Steve must be debating whether or not to be honest. He huffs, then says, “I miss Robin.”

“What?”

“Robin Buckley. This is the first job I ever had without her, since she left for U of L. I mean, I guess that’s if you don’t count that summer I was a lifeguard, but that was totally different, because—”

“You mean to tell me,” Eddie interrupts, because he knows the beginning of a nervous ramble when he sees one, “that you came to the walk-in to cry because you’re used to working with your friend?” When he sees some of Steve’s fear overtaking his shaky confidence, he hurriedly adds, “Which is totally fine! I mean, we’ve all done it.”

Steve stares. “You have?” he says, with the dull monotone of disbelief.

“Yeah. I mean, not for the same reason, but if you ask around you’ll find that the walk-in is a popular spot for the occasional mental breakdown among staff.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Steve says slowly, seeming to mull over the concept. “We did the same thing at Scoops sometimes.”

“Robin worked with you there, too, right?” Eddie says, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible without sounding patronizing.

A leftover tear escapes over Steve’s lashes and drips down his cheek. He wipes it away impatiently and nods. “It’s where we met. And then she basically got me the job at the video store, because Keith hated my guts. When she left for school…I don’t know. I couldn’t stand being there without her around, so I quit.” He grimaces and shakes his head. “Not the best idea I ever had.”

“So you two went from food service straight into retail? No wonder you’re best friends. You’ve been through a lot together.”

The joke does its job. Steve laughs a bit and says, “You have no idea.”

Glad to have diffused some of the tension, Eddie taps Steve’s shoulder with his knuckles and says, “Anyway, I was looking for you. You wanna have some breakfast?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Steve sighs. He sniffs one more time, but it’s clear his tears have dried up. Before they make it out of the freezer, though, he says, “Oh! I did actually get stuck, though. Is there a way out of here when that happens?”

“Sure. Want me to show you?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Eddie smiles. “That’s what I’m here for.” He takes a step back and lets the door shut with a metallic thud. “It’s really easy. All you have to do is…oh. Wait.” He stares at the lever that opens the door from the inside.

There’s a beat of silence before Steve says, “Everything okay?”

Still with his eyes fixed on the mechanism, Eddie bites his lip. “I, uh. I forgot.”

“You forgot what?”

He turns to meet Steve’s gaze, hoping his apologetic look masks the rising alarm. “It’s broken.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “So we’re…?”

“Yeah.”

He swallows. “And Pauline—”

“Won’t be here for another half-hour,” Eddie finishes for him.

“But the muffins are supposed to come out in twenty minutes!”

It’s such a strange thing to be concerned about in their current predicament that Eddie actually laughs. In fact, he doubles over, struggling to breathe the frigid air and leaning on one of the shelves to keep himself on his feet.

“What’s so funny?” Steve demands.

“Nothing! It’s just…you’re looking down the barrel of half an hour stuck in the freezer…and you’re worried about the muffins?”

“We worked hard on them,” he says, looking wounded. Before long, though, he seems to understand how absurd it is, and the look morphs into a sheepish grin.

Eddie hates to admit it, but that expression is one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen, and the dopey giggle it’s paired with does his psyche no additional favors. “They’ll be okay with an extra ten minutes. Maybe a little charred, definitely a little dry. That just means Pauline’s vision of a flaxseed empire will crumble.” He snorts at his own pun, then adds, “It’s her own fault for not getting the repairs done as soon as the door broke last week.”

“It’s a safety issue, actually. I’ll bring it up with my mom.”

“Your mom? Why?”

“She’s friends with Pauline. It’s the only reason I got this job,” Steve says. He smirks. “I bet if I tell her about this, it’ll be fixed by tomorrow.”

“Hm. So you’ve got an in with the boss, huh? That could come in handy.” Eddie sinks to the floor, right next to where Steve sat a minute ago.

Steve lowers himself with a groan, joining him. “Don’t get too excited. She’ll only raise hell about the freezer door because it’s a hazard.”

“So that means no raise, huh?”

“I’d say probably not.”

“Damn.” Eddie shoots him a grin. “Well, forcing her to meet OSHA standards is better than nothing. It might be nice having you around.”

“That’s good to hear. I was so worried about fucking up, I hardly slept at all last night.”

“Why? You’re doing just fine.”

Steve sighs. “I guess sometimes it feels like—or, I don’t know, it felt like Robin did most of the work, at Family Video at least. I don’t know shit about movies. Even though she tried to show me some, my memory is total shit, so I didn’t ever retain much.”

“So you’re not into movies. Who cares?” Eddie shrugs. “I’m not that into baking, even though I’ve been working here since my junior year. Everything I do turns out like it’s supposed to, but it’s not like I could bake a loaf of banana bread without the recipe right in front of me. Although,” he says, smirking, “it has given me a lot of ideas for things to add a secret ingredient to, if you catch my drift.”

Steve exhales a short laugh and looks down at his lap, where his hands fidget with the hem of his apron.

“I’m just saying, you probably did a lot more for that joint than Keith’s encyclopedic knowledge of Star Trek ever did.”

He exhales again. “You know about that?”

“Oh, I’m very familiar. One time we got into it over who would win in a fight between Tolkien’s orcs and the Klingons.”

“I have no clue what that means.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Eddie says, waving a dismissive hand. “Just know that he came into that argument with more trekkie trivia than I thought even existed.”

Steve laughs. He actually laughs out loud, instead of letting out one of his nervous chuckles.

It’s a pretty sound, Eddie thinks. Too pretty. The last thing he needs is to start thinking about how cute Steve is, especially if they’re gonna be working together.

Because Steve is cute. He always has been, and Eddie isn’t about to deny it: gorgeous face, melodic laugh, a cleverly self-deprecating attitude that plays Eddie’s heartstrings like a fiddle. None of that changes the fact that Steve Harrington was a cookie-cutter jock in high school, though. He’s the type of guy who would probably kick his ass if he called him cute out loud.

Then again…he’s close enough with some hyper band geek to be weeping over her absence. More importantly, he owned up to the tears, and the potentially embarrassing reason for them. Eddie knows that’s not something his old douchebag friends would’ve ever let him live down. So maybe he’s…sensitive. In a good way.

In a cute way.

“Look, I know I’m not Buckley,” Eddie says, “but maybe I can stand in for her. At least ’til she’s home for Thanksgiving.”

Steve studies his face. It takes Eddie a moment to register that he’s looking for some kind of cruel joke, his wary eyes searching for a sign that Eddie’s putting him on for laughs. Eddie wonders how often that used to happen with his old friends. Lord knows they did it to the rest of their peers, though he hadn’t ever considered the fact that Tommy H might’ve been just as much of an asshole to Steve as he was to everyone.

“I’ll be your work buddy,” Eddie elaborates, trying to sound sincere while keeping his tone light. “You need to bitch about something, you can bitch to me.”

“Okay,” Steve finally says, a cautious smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“It goes both ways, though. You have to let me bitch about management, too.”

“Deal.”

“And I promise that it will be in no way an excuse to get you to tattle on Pauline.”

Steve laughs again. If he’s not careful with that giggle of his, Eddie’s gonna fall in love with him.

They’re quiet for a while. The cold is starting to get to Eddie, but with Steve close to him, it’s not too bad. He checks his watch, starts to comment on how it won’t be long before Pauline waltzes in and frees them, but Steve speaks up first.

“I’m sorry if I was ever a dick to you in high school,” he says, his voice quiet.

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek. “Nah, it’s all water under the bridge.” He pauses, thinking. “You know what? Actually, I don’t think you ever were.”

Steve turns to look at him. “No?”

“No,” Eddie repeats, shaking his head. He offers a soft, playful smirk. “You’d have to know I existed to be a dick to me.”

“I knew who you were,” Steve protests. “I bought drugs from you once.”

“What about the bagels?”

His eye twitches, and he frowns. “Bagels?”

“Your order at the bakery. Sesame bagel with bacon, egg, and cheese. To go.”

“You…remember that?”

“Well, you came in every day at the ass-crack of dawn and ordered the same sandwich. Kinda hard to forget.” Eddie smiles, trying to get across that he’s not offended.

“I thought you said you worked at Burger King before.”

“Only last summer, because Pauline hired her nephew and I couldn’t stand him. I was here through most of high school. Had to come crawling back after the mall burned down.” Because guilt is starting to settle into Steve’s features like it belongs there, Eddie goes on, “It makes sense you don’t remember me, though—it’s not like Pauline would ever let me get away with my signature look working front of house.”

Still frowning, Steve says, “I just can’t believe I forgot.”

“You’re the one who said your memory’s shit,” Eddie reminds him with a gentle smile.

Thankfully, it draws a small one from Steve, too. “Good point.” He tilts his head, staring at the floor in front of him. “You know, Robin remembered that sandwich, too. We were in Click’s class first period, and she was so annoyed with me getting crumbs all over the place every day. I didn’t even know she was there.” The last part is so quiet, Eddie isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it.

“And now it takes a crowbar to pry you two apart,” he emphasizes.

“Not true,” Steve says. “She’s in a whole other state now.”

“Oh, boo-hoo,” Eddie shoots back, with yet another good-natured smile. “I bet you talk on the phone every night.”

Steve blushes. Though he doesn’t answer out loud, that’s answer enough.

“And you can always get in that beemer of yours to go see her. Isn’t it just a straight shot down 65? Can’t be more than an hour’s drive.”

Steve shakes his head, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. “I don’t want to bother her. Besides, I’m okay just talking to her on the phone.”

“Sure,” Eddie says. He shoots Steve a sly grin.

It earns him one in return. “Okay, fine. I’d love to go down and spend the day with her sometime.”

“If you need company on the drive…I’ll be around.”

The tips of Steve’s ears go as pink as his cheeks. “Thanks. I’ll keep you in mind.”

It was an experimental offer; the fact that Steve seems receptive makes Eddie’s heart start hammering, and suddenly he’s desperate to change the subject before he asks him out right then and there. He pushes out all his air in a huff and says, “There’s something else that’s bugging me.”

“There is?” Steve says. He looks uncertain again, though not quite as blue as he did when Eddie mentioned his usual breakfast in high school.

“Yeah. And it might a be a little personal, if that’s alright.”

He narrows his eyes, but he says, “Okay.”

“Earlier, when I brought up the mall burning down…you looked like you wanted to ralph. What was that about?” Eddie asks.

“Oh.” Steve surprises him by smiling and shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’m trapped in a giant icebox with King Steve, who just got done crying his eyes out because he’s got some kind of weird codependency going on with Robin Buckley, of all people.” Eddie catches his eye and raises an eyebrow. “At this point I’d believe anything.”

“Trust me, man. It’s pretty out there.”

“Try me.”

Steve shakes his head again. “It’s too weird.”

“I’m weird,” Eddie points out. “I’m like, the keeper of weird shit. If there’s something strange afoot and I’m not aware of it, I’m doing a subpar job.”

Fixing him with a wary look, Steve purses his smiling lips. It makes him look like he’s begging for just one more reason to spill the beans. Eventually, he says, “It could put a target on your back if you knew.”

“With who?”

“The feds.”

“Well, now you have to tell me,” Eddie whines, reveling in the short laugh Steve returns to him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to just move on!”

“Okay, fine! I’ll tell you. But you can’t repeat a word of it to anyone.” Steve takes a deep breath, lets it all out, then takes another before he continues. “You remember a couple years ago, when Will Byers went missing?”

Eddie blinks, startled. “Will Byers? What does that have to do with the mall?”

“I’m getting there. You remember it?”

“Sure. Really pissed me off the way people talked about the kid when he came back. ‘Zombie Boy’…like he had a fucking say in the cops thinking that other body was him.”

“You remember the official story?”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and sighs, trying to recall what he heard on the news. “That he got picked up by some drifter, right? He got away from ’em, but he almost died in the wilderness before the Chief found him.”

Steve meets Eddie’s eye and shakes his head. “No.”

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then what did happen?”

“He got kidnapped by a monster and taken to this…other dimension, or whatever. I’m not very good at explaining it. But his brother and Nancy Wheeler lured it out—this big fucker, at least seven feet tall, huge mouth for a face—and I fought it with them. Hopper and Joyce found Will and brought him back to the real Hawkins.”

Eddie stares—not in disbelief, because that would require a modicum of understanding, and he’s having some trouble processing what Steve just said. “You…? Hold on. Another dimension?”

“Told you it was weird,” Steve says, shrugging. “Anyway, the mall got attacked by another monster. Different kind, made of melted people, and it possessed Hargrove. The fire was a cover-up.”

“And you…?”

“I was there. Me and Robin, and a bunch of our other friends.” He grins in vague reminiscence. “Weird way to celebrate the Fourth of July, but at least there were fireworks.”

What the fuck? Is he off his rocker? His voice faint, Eddie echoes, “Fireworks?”

“Oh, we threw ’em at the melted-people monster,” Steve explains, dismissive. “Not sure how many I landed, because it turned out the Russians gave me a massive concussion, but—”

Russians?! “Let me get this straight,” Eddie says, turning towards Steve. He needs to see his face, needs to study it the same way Steve studied his earlier, looking in vain for a trace of humor. “Not only are these monsters real, but they’ve attacked people in Hawkins twice?”

“Three times,” Steve corrects. “The fucked-up pumpkin patches were because of the monsters, too. Will Byers got possessed that time.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You regret begging me to tell you?”

“I’m gonna be totally honest, I’m not sure I believe you after all.”

“Fair enough. But I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“You sure you didn’t, like—”

Eddie is cut off by the clang of the door handle, signaling their rescue. As the heavy door swings open, and Pauline’s expression of apology comes into view, Steve presses a finger to his lips. He smirks once again, rises to his feet, and meets Pauline at the door, greeting her cordially.

It takes Eddie an extra few seconds to join them. He can’t move very quickly, because he’s too busy processing everything he just learned—not just Steve’s story, but the nonchalant and honest way he delivered it. Because it was clear that Steve at least thought he was telling the truth, which means one thing, regardless of whether he was right or if he’d had some vivid hallucinations.

Steve Harrington is way stranger than Eddie would’ve ever guessed.

[too-much-flynnolium]

LOTFTOBER DAY 6 CHILDHOOD

I chose Roger cause of his attitude on the island, THERE IS NO WAY THAT BOY DOESNT HAVE ISSUES, he’s just a weird little boy there’s nothing wrong with that

I don’t actually know how to draw kids so this was rushed and I literally just made Roger have bug eyes which kinda work @lotftober2024

Older lotf headcanons below!!! (Jalph)

I know todays prompt was childhood but for some reason I was feeling like drawing future Jalph, they both have trauma from the island but no deaths!! (Besides the 2 little boys) but Simon and piggy live! Ralph is just some popular author who got rich over his island plot and Jack tries to stay away from the fame as it’s not fun when you were basically a tyrant, but Ralph still runs into Jack at church and mayybeee Ralph may or may not use him as an inspiration as a love interest in his next book

HONORABLE MENTIONS

I did draw post island Roger and Simon but it’s really nothing special, mostly based off of a fic I read, the 2 live together and no one can really tell if their dating or just roomates (oh my god they were roommates) also Maurice, Sam n Eric are also there they just live their lives but with island trauma (they are still in contact with the others their asses are not healing)

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Stoic Whumpee Delirious With Fever Spills Trauma to Caretaker

Warnings: mentions of torture/branding/gutting/whipping, past trauma, scars, trauma dumping, severe fever & infection, gruff/stoic whumpee

This one is directly inspired by a prompt I found from @wisteria-whump that they are letting me use (you can find the prompt HERE) and of course, despite me having 20+ WIPs already, I dropped everything to binge-write this at 3:17a.m -- I have no self control whatsoever. When the world of writing calls, I must answer!

Whumpee was... different from the others that had been rescued from Whumper's base alongside him when it was raided. He was injured far worse than the others when he arrived at the recovery facility, but... he was somehow tougher than them. It was the thing the caretakers were quickest to notice, how Whumpee always brushed off their concern with snarky remarks or humor, powering through recovery mostly on his own -- whereas the other prisoners were badly shaken up and traumatized, terrified even of the people who had rescued them -- they were unpredictable and scared all the time.

   But Whumpee was an enigma. How could someone so severely injured be so stoic and collected all the time? If someone ignored all the wounds and scars on his body, you wouldn't be able to tell what he'd been through. He didn't act traumatized, and it had all the caretakers both baffled and curious.

   He was the easiest to deal with out of all the rescued prisoners, though, since they didn't have to waste time coaxing him out of cowering in a corner to treat his wounds like the others.

   Whenever the caretakers showed up for the daily checkup to change gauze and wound dressings, Whumpee would just... tolerate it. It was clear he didn't enjoy being poked and prodded in areas that hurt, but he was known to grit his teeth and endure it in silence. It made the caretakers' jobs easier.

   Caretaker was Whumpee's primary assigned caregiver -- the one who always brought his meals to his rooms three times a day and helped him walk around when it hurt too much for him to move from bed -- though Whumpee usually brushed her off and ended up doing it alone regardless of her insistence in helping him, and regardless of the amount of pain he was in.

   Whether his refusal to accept help was through pride or shame, Caretaker never knew.

   Whumpee's file had been the most extensive of all the rescued captives -- a detailed description of his wound assessments, signs of all Whumper had done to him in the torture room that had been busted by police.

   The caretakers at the rescue facility had frequently asked him about what he went through, prying for any valuable information, but Whumpee would always deflect the questions and never told any of them the true extent of what happened. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it, and eventually the caretakers had given up trying.

   But then... one day Whumpee fell terribly ill. One wound that got badly infected, and that Whumpee had stubbornly hid until the symptoms were too much to conceal anymore.

   Caretaker had only discovered how sick he was when she brought him dinner one day, finding him sprawled out in the bed covered in sweat and trembling, face flushed and skin burning up with fever.

   Whumpee either hadn't had the time or the energy to wipe off all the sweat to pretend everything was fine before she showed up. But now he was caught -- and Caretaker was furious. Furious that he let it get this bad without notifying her. Furious that he was too darn stoic and closed-off to admit when he was suffering and in pain.

   Caretaker took a deep breath to calm herself as she approached Whumpee’s bed, setting the plate of food down on the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed.

   Anger wasn't what Whumpee needed right now. So Caretaker forced any frustration from her voice when she spoke.

   "Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?" She asked quietly.

   At first she didn't think Whumpee was awake, but then his eyes cracked open to peer dizzily up at her, glazed and distant.

   "Didn't think... it was that bad..." Whumpee mumbled with a groan. "My side kinda hurts... reminds me of that time when Whumper stabbed me there. That hurt kinda bad too."

   The comment was so random and casual that Caretaker had to double-check to make sure she heard it right as Whumpee spilled that bit of trauma as if it were no big deal. He didn't even sound sad about it, just... matter-of-factly. A statement, not one meant to earn sympathy or pity from Caretaker -- thought Caretaker still felt bad for him anyway.

   "I wuz always his favorite to play with," Whumpee slurred, smiling deliriously. "My snarkiness got me in trouble sooooo much... Whumper hated that about me. My wittiness and defiant sarcasm. He spent the most time on me during torture sessions, more than the others. Yeah, good times..." He laughed weakly, his voice trailing off into an incoherent mumble before he could be understood again.

   "Have you ever been branded by a hot iron before, Caretaker? I wouldn't recommend it -- it sucks. I know from experience." Whumpee giggled weakly, clearly totally out of touch with reality and having no awareness about what was spilling out of his mouth.

   "Then there was that time Whumper took it too far and almost gutted me in a fit of rage after I mouthed off at a bad time -- he didn't think I'd make it after that. But he somehow kept my organs in and cauterized the wound to hold it all inside. It was nice, actually, because he left me mostly alone for a week after that to recover enough for him to be able to hurt me again without risking killing me."

   Whumpee lifted up his shirt with a lopsided grin, revealing a long, ragged gash with old scarred burn marks around the edges that stretched from his chest all the way down to his belly button -- and Caretaker shuddered, picturing him sliced wide open like a butchered deer, screaming in agony as Whumper cursed and shoved his organs back in.

   It was absolutely mortifying to even think about. How could someone do that to a person?

   "Hey, at least I got a cool scar out of it!" Whumpee laughed weakly. "Makes me look tougher than I actually am. I'm secretly a coward, you know -- just good at hiding it after my time with Whumper. Because showing fear always excited him and made the torture worse for me. I'm honestly scared to death in this new place, but I think I do a pretty good job of controlling my emotions, wouldn't you say? Whumper would be so proud. He'd call me a clever brat and then whip my back to bloody ribbons. Heh."

   He was rambling on and on, Caretaker growing more and more horrified the more trauma he spilled. She gaped at him in sheer disbelief of what he'd gone through -- and survived.

   Her curiosity was growing alongside the horror, and a nasty part of her wanted to take advantage of this brief glimpse of vulnerability to finally get some of the answers she'd wanted ever since his arrival. To get some insight into Whumpee's past and fully understand what he went through. Better understand Whumpee.

   But this wasn't right, she told herself. The curiosity was overwhelming, but she'd never forgive herself for taking advantage of Whumpee's state of feverish delirium and weakness -- it would make her no better than Whumper.

   And she was kind of freaked out to be honest, by how wrong it felt to see Whumpee so carefree and open about his past.

   She was realizing more and more just how out of it Whumpee was, not acting like his usual self -- and Caretaker knew that if she let him share now she was going to regret it later. It would betray Whumpee's shaky trust in her, destroy the slim amount of progress she’d made with him during his recovery.

   So despite her desperation for answers, she picked up the plate of food from the nightstand to use it to distract Whumpee and keep him from casually spilling more of his trauma.

   Caretaker was curious as hell about Whumpee's past... but she just knew it wouldn't be right to find out like this.

   She stacked pillows beneath Whumpee’s back to prop him up so he could eat, and gently placed the plate of food in his hands.

   "Thank you," Whumpee mumbled, and Caretaker was once more left surprised. During her entire time caring for him since his rescue, not once had he said thank you. He would always just grunt stoically in acknowledgement whenever she finished dressing his wounds, and that was usually the extent of his gratitude.

   "...Bread?" Whumpee said with a suspicious frown, eyeing the single slice of toast on the edge of his plate. "I don't like bread. Once Whumper shoved it down my throat until I choked and passed out. I learned my lesson after that -- I don't eat dry bread-like foods anymore. Ick."

   "Oh! I had no idea." Caretaker apologized profusely, struggling not to let the horror show as she swiftly snatched the toast from his plate and wrapped it in napkins so he couldn't see it anymore, setting it aside to throw away later.

   Whumpee was all smiles again when she looked back at him, face red with fever and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat as he picked up his fork to dig into the rest of the meal -- scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes. But he hesitated once the fork was in his hand, staring down at it blanky, his mind clearly wandering somewhere else.

   "Whumpee?" Caretaker said quietly, and it was enough to snap him out of it.

   "M'sorry," he slurred. "Just reminds me of the knives Whumper used to torture me. They were made of metal too."

   Whumpee eagerly dug into the food right after with not a care in the world, leaving Caretaker to grapple with all the traumatic information she'd been told.

   Whumpee had been so... casual talking about his torture. It was so out of place with the normally guarded person Caretaker was used to seeing. The young man who dodged questions like bullets. Not... not this version.

   "This is good," Whumpee mumbled around a mouthful of egg. "Whumper never let me have good food -- he rarely let me have food in the first place, actually."

   So that explained why Whumpee had been so emaciated during his rescue, Caretaker noted. She'd originally thought he'd just been in so much pain at Whumper's base that eating hurt and wasn't worth it. She didn't realize Whumper had given him no food whatsoever for days at a time. It was barbaric.

   "Whumpee... I understand," Caretaker sighed softly, diverting his attention away from the trauma once more. "But you shouldn't keep talking. Save your energy and rest -- I'll talk to the doctor about putting you on antibiotics to get rid of that infection."

   "M'kay," Whumpee hummed in agreement, eyes cloudy and lost.

   The antibiotics worked wonders in the end, and Whumpee slowly got better.

   While Caretaker worked on gaining his full trust to get answers from him -- the right way.

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @written-in-the-stars135 @neverthelass

@starz8nk @redwinesupanover @whumpisgoodwhumpislife @theforeverdyingperson

[finniestoncrane]

Hello Finnie...

Curious...how do you think the rougues would talk to someone who is facing having to move back in with their parents at age 30 due to financial/personal reasons after years of living independently and their self esteem is taking a mahoosive hit 🙃🙃🙃

(I know it's becoming increasingly common nowadays due to cost of living but still...😣)

Asking for a friend...👀

Rogues Headcanons aw anon i feel you, there's nothing like a perceived setback to knock your self-confidence HOWEVER i think you're just being a little harsh on yourself, since you know that it's super common!! but you still deserve comfort and encouragement, and i apologise for how completely sappy i was with this lol 💜 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: fluff, and sickeningly sweet sentiments i hope!!

two face

i think every rogue can say they've suffered setbacks, but none like harvey

by all accounts he was living the perfect life, doing exactly what he wanted to

and then everything kind of crumbled, and he lost it all

but he built himself back up (albeit... maybe on the wrong side of morality depending on the coin flip)

so he considers himself a figure of encouragement to you!!

and he's also gruffly reminding you that self-esteem can be rebuilt

little by little, piece by piece

whether you feel like you're moving "back" or not

you can start fresh and new

scarecrow

his suggestion is a little less than helpful

mostly because his solution to his own financial issues were to... rob people while wearing a costume

and if you want to go down that route he is MORE than happy to help

but if you want to be sensible about it, he can offer support

someone to listen to you while you talk it all out

and he promises he won't psychoanalyse you too much

or talk in his therapist voice

but if after all that you're still lost, he has extra straw and fabric

poison ivy

is your parent's home like a garden? is it nurturing and safe, with a balanced ph level? do you feel comfortable and familiar?

is your parent's home like an unattended back patio made of slabs? cracks with grass? minimal space to thrive?

either way, plants will grow and plants will live

nature pushes on!! and little flowers take pride in pushing their heads up, their stems stretched

to see everything that's good beyond the things that seem so close and current

and with a little help from her, anyone can grow and become their best self, even if they've been uprooted

mad hatter

nothing in this world is perfect, and nothing goes according to plan

trust him, he knows that. he has experience in that. plenty of it

but you have to believe that it's an integral part to your story

what good would alice in wonderland have been if there had been no conflict

if she hadn't been forced to learn about herself, to undergo traumas and difficulties

all in order to get home, which she did

and you will too! he knows you have a happy ending waiting, your own wonderland to get to as a reward

bane

he's never really known a home, so to him it's actually a nice idea

you've got a backup, a safety net

and yeah, you might never have wanted to use it

but it's never a bad thing to know there's another option

and it takes strength to ask for help, and even more to accept it

and while he's pretty sure he's strong enough physically to do most things

even he has to admire the emotional strength it takes to do what you're doing

so he's giving you a pat on the back and reminding you that things could always be worse

(and that pat on the back might cause bruising)

penguin

what do you need? you need money? you need a place to stay?

he'd be offering it all up to you immediately

what good is money if he can't throw it at his favourite people

keeps them under his thumb, yknow? if they own him one

so yeah it might be a favour he'll call you out on eventually

but rest assured he's not thinking of anything else but "how can i help" and "what do you need/want"

far before he'd make any judgements

it's hard to get where you want in life, he knows that very well

zsasz

have you thought about straight up just murdering everyone?

he's kiding, he's kidding!!

besides, that's his thing. don't steal his thing, or you'll end up as a little tally mark on his skin

HOWEVER his advice would be to find something to focus on that takes your mind off of the perceived negatives

it doesn't have to be wiping out humanity in a nihilistic rampage

it can be anything!! and saving some money on rent and having the comfort of home might be all you need to find something new to become skilled at

just as long as it's not murder!!

mr freeze

it might feel like you're losing something, but there's always something to be gained too

and you never really lose what you had, because it lives on in memories and hopes

it stays with you in your plans for the future, in your dreams of what you want when you get back on your feet

or in his case, frozen in time in a glass tube

not lost, just temporarily out of reach

but he's a vehement believer in perseverance and never losing hope!!

you'll both have what you want soon enough, whether that's something new or gaining what you had

riddler

i won't lie i think he's the most likely to turn his nose up at you

like what do you mean there were unforeseen events that you weren't prepared for?

you didn't have 1588729 backup plans, one of which was for that exact chain of events!?

foolish of you really, though he will concede that not everyone has the brain power to strategise like that

in fact, it really is only him who can... so maybe he should lay off

and offer you some comfort instead, since the thought of having to move in with his parents...

well, it literally terrifies him

harley quinn

listen, she's no stranger to "set backs" in your plans

she's had everything taken from her!!

freedom, lovers, career plans (both respectable and criminal)

but she bounces back! and not just because she's a gymnast

(and also deeply out of touch with the trauma it all caused her)

but she manages it because she believes it'll all get better

and it'll all work out

and she believes that for you too!!