#steve has very very bad parents

[blushweddinggowns]

Eddie was biting at his nails as he paced around the apartment. 

Steve still wasn't back.

He still wasn’t back and it was an hour past when he said he would be. 

He checked out the front window every few minutes, praying that he would show soon. He wouldn't be able to take this all night, he was only ten minutes away from finding him himself, parents be damned. He was probably overreacting, Steve had insisted he was overreacting, but nothing about this felt right. 

Two years they had been together, two years and Steve hadn’t seen them once. They had been at their vacation home in Jersey when things went to shit, and decided to stay there for the foreseeable future, son be damned.  There were a few calls here and there, maybe once every two months, calls that Steve was always expected to initiate, calls that he would walk away from downcast and depressed, always crawling into Eddie’s lap with a short, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Eddie’s not exactly proud, but he had eavesdropped once on the other line, morbid curiosity and worry taking full control. It was his dad who picked up, who completely ignored Steve’s small, “Can I talk to mom?” to berate him over still living at home, and how he was lucky that the housing market in Hawkins was at its worst or he’d be homeless, and how it was about time he started to pay some rent. 

“If you can actually learn to be responsible down there, we might let you live with us when the house is sold, whenever that may be. But we'll be damned if we let a free-loader stay in our home. Do you understand Steven?”

He hadn’t even said goodbye when he was done, just a short, “Your mothers sleeping, I’ll tell her you called,” and the click of the phone. 

Steve hadn’t set foot in his old house for nearly a month before that call, it was more of a glorified storage unit if anything. Steve had basically moved in with him and Wayne when they were still dancing around each other, and he could probably count the times they’d slept apart in the past two years on one hand. 

And he was already paying rent, in his own way. Even when Wayne had absolutely refused to take a dime from Steve the first time he’d tried it.

“Just keep my Eddie out of trouble and smiling, and you can stay here as long as you want, free of charge,” The embarrassing, wonderful old fuck. 

It helped that Steve was slowly becoming Wayne’s new favorite, because his uncle had fantastic taste, and Steve was probably the sole reason they had stopped eating cut up hot dogs and canned green beans every other day. 

So Steve bought groceries, gas, even snuck in a few twenties into Wayne’s wallet every month, the little weirdo. He cooked and cleaned, forcing Wayne and Eddie to do the same, out of the sheer guilt of watching someone so sweet do all of their dirty work. 

It’s not that Eddie and Wayne couldn’t take care of themselves, they could, but it had been just the two of them for so long, and Wayne had been a mill working bachelor living in a trailer park before Eddie came along, he hadn’t been brimming with knowledge on how to keep a clean house, just a moderately decent one that CPS wouldn’t raise a brow to. 

But Steve…Steve was a cleaner. 

“You learn a thing or two when you gotta get rid of all traces of a house party,” he had laughed, when Eddie had caught him cleaning under the couch, a concept neither Wayne or he had ever grasped. Though that explanation hadn’t explained how he was so good at cooking. 

It had been almost shocking the first time Steve had cooked for him. He loved Steve, he really did, respected him too, but back then the guy basically subsisted on granola bars and pop tarts, and it was Robin or Eddie who usually had to shove real food down his throat, even if it was from a shitty fast food place half the time. 

He couldn’t really be blamed for the expectation that Steve couldn’t cook for shit. So imagine his surprise when Steve blew him away with something he hadn’t even heard of before, beef bourg-something, which ended up being about the best thing Eddie had ever tasted. 

“You can’t be gorgeous, sweet, and a good cook Stevie, you gotta pick a lane here.” He had been worried for a split second that he’d gone too far with the gorgeous and sweet bit, but Steve had just laughed, so obviously pleased that Eddie liked what he made. Which, in hindsight, Eddie should have taken as a massive green flag, it could have saved him weeks of pining. 

It became a regular occurrence after that, and Steve would always glow from the approval he would get from Wayne and Eddie, like they were doing him a favor by eating delicious food. 

“My mom used to like it, when I cooked,” Steve had admitted, much later one night, “Dad hated it, said that it was a short fall to being a fag, but my mom…she always said thank you. Always smiled. She’d ask me about my day sometimes, if I made something she really liked.”

“I like doing it,” he confessed, “But I haven’t had anyone to cook for in a long time."

"Steve…"

“But now I do.” Steve interrupted with a grin, so sincere as he grasped Eddie’s hand, “For someone who deserves it."

Eddie had kissed him silly that night. 

He still wasn’t sure if he actually deserved it, but he could agree that the Harringtons certainly did not. He didn’t even know what the fuckers looked liked. Their house was always shockingly impersonal, no family photos ever in sight, just expensive meaningless art that went with the furniture.

So why were they calling now? And how did they know to call Eddie’s house?

It had been Wayne who picked up the phone, just on his way out, eyebrows raising to his hairline as he passed it to Steve. It had been a short call, and then Steve was getting dressed, trying and failing to reassure Eddie that everything was fine. 

“It happens sometimes, when they get back, it’s like a checklist item, to see me.” Steve had said, shrugging on Eddie’s jacket. He was failing to reassure him, not when he could see his hands shaking as he tied his shoes, “I’ll be fine. It will be one awakward dinner, and then I’ll be back before you know it.”

Eddie watched him, trying to process the whiplash of Steve being calmly cuddled up to his side to getting ready to rush out the door.  

“If it’s not gonna take long then I can just wait in the car baby, it’s not that big a deal-”

“Eddie, no,” He was firm and unyielding, but was refusing to look Eddie in the eye,“I’ll be fine, trust me okay?”

He kissed his cheek on the way out the door, “Nine at the latest, I swear.”

Eddie didn’t trust him, not with this. Steve didn’t talk about his parents much, but the small things he had been able to coax out of him were never good. Selfish, neglectful, mean, but he wouldn’t elaborate, never going further than small stories and tidbits. Eddie never pushed him, never asked explicitly, but he had a pretty strong suspicion it didn’t end there. 

Steve had scars, some he would talk about and others he wouldn’t. He could perfectly recite the story of the mark on his chin, even though he was messed up on truth serum with a russian induced concussion, but when asked about the thin, silvery lines that adorned his body, he suddenly couldn’t remember a thing. 

And Eddie wasn’t the only one suspicious, the rumor mill of Hawkins was strong. Daniel Harrington was known for his temper, and was borderline psychotic in highschool according to Wayne, always trying to pick fights, and always buying his way out of the consequences. 

Back in highschool, there were a few whispers in the hallways, small shit about hearing screaming from the Harrington household, rumors about hand shaped bruises seen in the locker room, questions about why Steve startled so hard at loud noises. 

Eddie had dismissed it, something he still hasn’t quite forgiven himself for, and most of the school did with him. Afterall, kids who had their dads beat the shit out of them weren’t popular, they weren’t captains of the swim team, they didn’t walk around in designer clothes or drive new cars. They were supposed to be damaged losers, easy to pick from the crowd. Someone like Eddie, never someone like King Steve. When in reality, even without his parents, Steve had been dealing with shit that would have sent normal people spiraling for years. 

Even Wayne was on edge, obviously disturebed by the Harrington's sudden arrival. He eventually called from his girlfriend’s place, checking in on how it went, grunting unhappily when Eddie told him he still hadn’t gotten back yet, “If he’s not home in a few hours call Hopper.”

“Agreed.”

Eddie gave up on pacing and peeking, deciding to just sit his ass down on the front stoop and stare at the street. He was seconds away from giving in entirely, already trying to remember where he put his keys when he saw it. Familiar headlights were making their way up his street, parking crookedly on the curb.

Oh thank god. Eddie finally let himself breathe for the first time in hours. He should have just trusted Steve like he said-

His brain short-circuited as he watched the car door open and Steve tumble out of the driver's side, falling to the curb. Eddie was flying off of the stoop, at Steve's side in a moment as he struggled to stand. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, his baby was bleeding. His baby was bleeding and blurry eyed as he pathetically tried to stand up. Eddie didn’t hesitate, scoping him up in his arms to bring him inside.

“What the hell happened Steve?” Eddie asked, panicked as he laid him out on the couch. He looked awful, so bad that Eddie wanted to cry. His right eye was swollen and already purpling, his lip was split, sending dark, red tracks down his chin. Eddie took his jacket off for him, eyes widening to see the blood running down his arms, embedded bits of glass sparkling in the light.

"I'm sorry I’m late," Steve slurred, trying and failing to help Eddie remove the jacket, “It didn’t go so good.”

That was the understatement of the fucking century. Eddie’s mind was a cluster fuck, filled with worry, confusion, rage, despair at seeing Steve so hurt, for no fucking good reason. But he needed to focus, freaking out wasn’t helping Steve, who was still fucking bleeding. Stopping that took precedent. 

Steve looked down at himself, frowning as he seemimly took in the damage for the first time, before stupidly trying to sit up, “I’ll get blood on the couch,” 

That stupid statement was enough to get Eddie out of his shock.

“I don’t give a shit about the couch Steve.” Eddie hissed out, fighting not to yell. He was feeling too much all at once, but he refused to let himself be mad at Steve for being so idiotically self neglinat, not when he needed him. He rubbed a hand over his face, steeling himself to get his shit together before standing. 

“Wait here sweetheart, and keep your eyes open, okay? I’ll be right back,” Eddie had to gently push Steve back down when he tried to sit up, “Just let me take care of you.”

Steve nodded, seemingly accepting the fact that yes, his literal life took precedence over cheap furniture. Eddie made it to the bathroom in record time, for once surreally grateful he had experienced the Upside Down, because it had forced him to have multiple first aid kits on hand. 

He was back in less than a minute, horrified to see Steve standing on unsteady feet, spreading a blanket on the couch, like ruining the upholstery with this blood was really the priority here. He had the good grace to look guilty when he saw Eddie, sitting back down with a heavy sound, unprompted. 

Calm down, calm down, calm down, Eddie thought to himself, before kneeling in front of Steve. His hands were shaking as he opened the first aid kit, but he made them work. He pressed up against the cut on his lips with cotton rounds, placing Steve’s hand against it to keep the pressure. His arms were worse, and his shaking wasn’t helping him tweeze the glass out, beer bottle by the looks of it, but he managed. 

Steve was still acting woozy, barely acknowledging the sting of the alcohol as Eddie bandaged and cleaned all of his cuts, “What hurts the most baby? I need you to tell me.”

“Head,” Steve mumbled, “feels like it’s burning.”

Fuck, Eddie didn’t know what to do with that. Surface level shit he could handle, but it sounded like he had a concussion, “Steve, I think we need to take you to a hospital-”

“No.” It was automatic, so quick from Steve’s mouth that Eddie did a double take. 

“Why the hell not?”

"I don’t…" he sighed, "I don't want everyone to know, okay? Not yet. I just want you."

"But-"

“Eddie, please?” He was begging, pleading in a way Eddie didn’t know how to say no too.

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to be patient, “Okay, okay. Just stay right here, and keep your eyes open, got it? I’ll be right back.”

Eddie kissed him on the forehead, ignoring his soft comments about being sweaty and gross. He went straight to the phone, calling the only number he could think of. 

Wayne picked up on the third ring, obviously expecting the call. He told him everything, desperate for advice, “He doesn’t want to go to the hospital, but he looks bad, Wayne. I-I don’t know what to do,”

“Jesus christ, wait a second.” 

Eddie kept peeking his head out into the hall, like Steve was going to spontaneously combust if he let him out of his site for too long. He repeated everything to Mindy, relieved that there was someone who knew what to do.

“Oh honey…Keep him awake okay? If he can’t stay conscious, call 911, don’t wait for us. And don't move him too much, we’ll be right there."

Thank god for Mindy, the saint. He had already adored the woman the first time they’d met, just from the way she made his uncle smile, but this was going to have her in his good books for the end of time. 

Steve was still awake when he got back, thankfully. Eddie sat on the floor next to him, taking his hand, “Wayne and Mindy are coming over in a bit, okay? Someone has to check on you.”

Steve started to protest, but one look at Eddie’s unamused face shut him up. He looked away, “I forgot she was a nurse.”

“If she says you need to go to the hospital, you’re going.”

“Okay.”

Eddie waited for Steve to start telling him what the fuck had happened, so he knew who he had to murder. But he didn’t say anything, he just kept occasionally playing with the rings on Eddie’s hands, proving that he was still awake. 

Eddie broke the silence first, he just couldn’t take not saying anything,“You’re not going back there. Ever. I'm never letting you out of my sight again.”

Steve laughed, wincing when it made his lip bleed a bit more. That was almost enough to have Eddie crying all over again. 

“I, um, can’t go back there, actually.” He didn’t even look sad, just resigned, “They said it was you or them. I chose you and,” he chuckled, humorless, “And they did not take it well.”

“They know?” Eddie asked, the answer obvious, but the how wasn’t. They were hundreds of miles away, never giving a single shit about their son’s life.

He nodded, “They told me on the phone, said they knew what I was up to, that I owed them an explanation.”

“How?”

“Tommy, I guess. He called them, sat down with them or something,” he shrugged and even that small movement looked painful, “Worried about my life choices or some shit.”

Another one to the list of people Eddie was going to have to choke out. 

Eddie should have never let him go over there alone, or at all. He knew something was up, he fucking knew it, but he was here sitting on his hands while Steve was getting the shit beat out of him. 

Eddie wanted him to look at him, needed him to look at him. He cradled Steve’s face, carefully moving him to meet his eyes, "Stevie…baby, why did you go?”

He looked so broken down, tears starting to gather in the corner of his eyes. Steve went to bite his lip, flinching when he realized what a mistake that was, “If I didn’t go he would have shown up here. A-and I didn’t want you to get hurt. I thought I could talk them down or something, or just lie my way through it but…I couldn’t.” 

Eddie resisted the urge to argue with him, to say that Steve mattered more, that he couldn’t put himself in harm’s way for his sake, that he would have gladly been the one to take the beating if it meant he would be okay. He was tracing the outline of his jaw, half for comfort and half to check for more injuries, biting down all of his indignation. 

“How many times have they done this before?”

“They haven’t-”

“Sweetheart, please don’t lie to me,” Eddie wiped the tears from his good eye, patient.

Steve took a deep breath, closing his eyes, admitting the truth out loud for the first time in his life, “I’ve lost count.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

"I didn't want to scare you away,"

Eddie frowned, immediately confused, “What does that mean?”

The tears were really starting to fall now, Steve wincing at the sting of them in his cuts, “I-I know I’m already a lot okay? I’m clingy and annoying a-and I fucking scream and shit in the middle of the night and I just didn’t want to add another thing for you to have to deal with.”

Blaming himself for the terrible things other people did to him, classic fucking Steve. Eddie wanted to shake him, to yell at him that he was the most important person in his world, how could anything ever scare him away?  But he held it all back.

"There is nothing that would ever make me not want you," Eddie swallowed, his own eyes starting to sting, "I'll always love you, don't you know that?"

"I-I do, really, I just...I don't know. I should have told you," Steve managed to look ashamed through his tears, and it just made Eddie's heart hurt more. He wanted to hug him, to hold him tight, and never let go. But he couldn't, not without hurting him. Steve's favorite thing in the world was getting held, and they managed to take that away. Eddie didn't know why that fact was standing out so much, but he'd never forgive them for it. 

He could hear the sound of Wayne’s truck pulling into the driveway, footsteps not far behind. Eddie kissed the side of his mouth, as lightly as he could before standing to let them inside. 

Mindy made quick work of tending to him, revealing more injuries under his clothes that Eddie hadn't even realized were there. His heart almost stopped at the sight of Steve shirtless, mottled yellow bruising strewn across his sides.

He and Wayne stood on the sidelines, both anxious as they waited for the news. Wayne was furious in a way that he hadn’t seen since he was a kid, back when it was Eddie being patched up from his own shit dad.

"You can stay home tonight," she finally declared to Steve, gesturing Eddie over, "You just need lots and lots of rest. Give those ribs a chance to heal a good while before you do anything strenuous. Now let's help get you to bed.”

"Thank you," Steve mumbled as Eddie scooped him up. Now that he had gotten the go-ahead to sleep, Steve was already letting his eyes fall closed, clearly exhausted. He set him down on the bed carefully, helping him change into clean clothes, ignoring the weak protests that he could do it himself. 

“Please don’t go after him,” Steve mumbled when Eddie got him under the covers, "Promise me?"

Eddie hesitated, "But-"

"It's not about them," Steve rushed out, shaking his head, "Getting arrested isn't worth it. Losing you isn't worth it. Swear?”

He was right, Eddie knew Steve was right. His father wasn't just anybody, he'd press charges against almost any offense against him. And he had the lawyers to back it up. Steve was still looking at him, struggling to keep his eyes open as he waited. Eddie relented, begrudgingly giving into stupid things like logic, “I swear.”

"Thank you," Steve whispered, finally letting himself fall asleep, "I love you."

Eddie kissed his forehead, staying by his side until he was fully out of it, losing himself in his own thoughts. He wouldn’t lie to Steve, he couldn’t lie to Steve, even if he wanted to. 

He wouldn't lay a hand on his father. But that didn't mean he couldn't get his shit back. Preferably before it was thrown out or damaged by his psychotic family. He left Wayne with a sleeping Steve, after a few dozen promises, that no, he was not going to go commit a violent felony.

Just a few misdemeanors. 

“If they haven't already skipped town, then you come right back. You hear me?” Wayne insisted, watching him tie up his boots with narrowed eyes. 

“I hear you. It'll be two hours, tops.”

He parked a block away, slinking along the sidewalk. Lucky enough for him, there were no cars in the driveway of the Harrington house, and all the lights were off. The whole neighborhood was quiet. It sure looked like they booked it, maybe too afraid of an assault charge actually sticking to stay in town.

Breaking into Steve’s room was easy, first floor with an unlocked window? Child’s play. His room looked untouched, thankfully. Whatever had happened, hadn’t happened here. He didn't waste time, immediately starting to throw the few things left in his bag. There really wasn’t much to grab, a few mixtapes, some drawings from Will, the last of his clothes. Eddie was searching under the bed when he heard it, the sound of the knob turning. 

He froze, hearing a sharp intake of breath behind him. He expected whoever it was to start yelling, but instead there was only the click of the door closing shut behind them. He turned slowly, surprised to see who was standing there.  

He had never seen her before, but he recognized her immediately. Steve looked just like her. The same big eyes and pouty mouth, the same gravity defying hair. They stared at each other, but she didn’t scream. She kept her eyes on him as she walked forward, primly sitting at Steve’s pristine desk. 

Eddie was trying to calculate how much time it would take to book it back down the window and to his car, when she opened her mouth, “You can keep packing, don’t worry. Daniel’s gone for now.”

She was shuffling around in Steve’s old desk as she spoke, "You're Eddie, I presume.”

It was a statement, not a question, despite the phrasing, but Eddie answered anyway, “That’s me.”

She found what she was looking for, plain paper and a pen and started scribbling as she spoke, “Is he okay?”

That broke him out of his stunned little trance. Eddie stared at her, baffled and annoyed that she would even ask, “He’s alive.”

“Did he go to the hospital?”

“Why do you care?” He was pushing it. He should just pack Steve’s shit and go, but he was stuck, seething at the woman who allowed Steve to live with that monster, too angry to keep his mouth shut.

She shrugged, “If my husband is about to be arrested for disciplining our son, I’d like to know about it.”

There it was. Eddie was pretty sure this was the first time he had ever wanted to hit a woman before. He scoffed, “Un-fucking-believable. I’m not even going to answer that.”

He made his way into the closet, grabbing the few things that were still left on hangers. She was still scribbling at Steve’s desk, when he came out, flipping the page over to start on the back. 

She didn’t look up at him, “He’s…” she shook her head, eyes on the paper, “It’s never been that bad before.”

Eddie ignored her, hurriedly going through Steve’s drawers, desperate to just get away from this bitch, this house, and get back to his Steve.  

She was folding the paper up, letter style, before finally looking back up at Eddie. She was biting her lip, the exact same way Steve did, “Will you take care of him? If he stays?”

“Better than you.” Eddie snapped, mind jumping on the if. 

She stood giving him a head to toe look, obviously displeased with what she saw. She held the letter out, “Give him this. He deserves to know he has options, and everything he’s giving up, because of you.” She said it matter of factly, like Eddie was just a temporary bump in the road, “We can give him a new start, and he’ll need a new start somewhere anyway, his father is spreading the news of your affair as we speak.”

Eddie stared down at the letter, making no moves to take it, "Your husband nearly kills him, and you think he’s going to be open to giving him a new start?" He scoffed, “Are you insane? Steve’s never going near that psycho again.”

“I could convince him,” she insisted, “When he calms down and realizes Steve needs help, he’ll be willing to give it to him.”

She shook the letter at him, her forced calm finally starting to crack, “Just give it to him. Consider it a trade for me not having you arrested for trespassing.”

Eddie snatched the letter from her hands, stuffing it into his back pocket, "Fine."

“Good. You can go back out through the window,” she said, turning to leave, “No reason for the neighbors to see more than they already have tonight."

“He won’t come back,” Eddie said, staring at her back,“He has a new family now, a real family, and I’ll never let either of you hurt him again.”

She scoffed, “We’ll just see about that,” Eddie could feel the venom behind her words, a peek into the real person behind the pretty mask. She slammed the door on the way out, like the petty child she was. 

Eddie hated her, hated how she was so sure of herself, so confident with someone she didn’t even fucking know. 

He hated how she thought she loved Steve.

Eddie was still fuming by the time he got home. He dumped the duffle bag into the entryway, the letter still burning a hole in his pocket. Steve wasn't going to leave him because of some scribbled words from his mom, on some level he knew that.

But even on the off chance he had suffered some serious brain damage and wanted to go back he wouldn't let him anyway. He'd kill Daniel Harrington himself before letting his Steve be around the piece of shit. He stepped from the hall into the living room, freezing when he saw Steve curled up on the couch, wide awake. He looked relieved to see him, before letting a frown take over his bruised face.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Eddie asked, shrinking a little at Steve’s glare. He ignored the question. 

“What did you do?” Eddie flinched, but he couldn’t really blame him for expecting the worst. His track record wasn’t exactly…stellar in the physical protection department. 

He raised his hands, placating, “Nothing, I promise! You won’t be seeing my name plastered on any headlines. I just got your stuff.”

Steve stared at him, looking for any tells. Eddie didn’t know how he did it, but the guy would just know when he was lying. Eventually he seemed satisfied with whatever he saw, relenting.

“Come here then,” he made grabby hands, adorable even when he was pissy and all bruised up. 

Eddie went to him, hugging him with careful hands, “How are you feeling baby?”

“Horrible,” Steve admitted, cuddling into his side “But not worse.” 

Eddie nodded, taking him in. He still looked awful, but he was way more coherent than a few hours ago, a sign in the right direction. He thought of the letter burning a hole in his pocket, wondering if it would really be so terrible to just throw it away, Steve none the wiser. What could she possibly say to make up for this?

But on the other hand…it wasn’t his choice to make.

“I uh, “ he rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, “Kinda ran into your mom, while I was there.”

Steve went rigid in his arms, staring up at him with wide-eyes. 

"But nothing happened!" Eddie rushed out, flinching at the sight of Steve’s panicked face, "We just talked."

“Why would she want to talk to you?”

Eddie sighed, digging into his back pocket. Now or never he guessed, “She wanted me to give this to you.”

Steve stared at the envelope, taking it in shaky hands, “She gave it to you?”

"Wrote it out in front of me. She said, uh, that you deserved to know everything you were giving up.”

Because of me. 

He left that part unsaid.

Steve frowned at the paper in his hand, shaking his head, "Help me up," 

“You’re not supposed to be moving-”

“Just to the kitchen,” Steve insisted, “I’ll lay down right after,”

Eddie gave in, helping Steve to his feet, fully intending to drag him back to bed the second he was done with whatever this was. Steve steadied himself, shooing Eddie away to weakly walk towards the kitchen.

Eddie followed him, confused as he dug around in the drawers, finding whatever he was looking for before going to the sink. Eddie watched, wide eyed as he lit a match, promptly setting the paper on fire.

"Steve-"

“It doesn't matter what it says," Steve cut in, letting it drop into the sink, "I made my choice."

He turned away from the sink, stepping back into Eddie’s arms, “All I want is you.”

Eddie held him, forcing himself to be gentle when all he wanted to do was bury himself into the other man, "You won't regret it.” Eddie choked up, teary-eyed, “I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you don't."

"It sounds like you're proposing," Steve said with a wet laugh. Eddie started kissing his face, helpless to not touch him. 

"Maybe I am,”He managed to gasp out in between pecks, “But only if you'd say yes." 

Fuck being young. Fuck every doubt that other people would have. There was no future that existed where Eddie wouldn't want Steve. This was it, the only person he would ever want, ever need. Steve stopped him at his mouth, careful of his cut as he kissed him, so light it was barely there.

He whispered into the small space between their lips, like a secret just for them, "I would."

[reineydraws]

i have a soft spot for fics where billy sort of ends up adopting el and will alongside max. like, these are the kids that get dibs for rides in the camaro haha.

also im unfortunately not participating bc prev commitments but #harringrove for turkey is happening right now if yall want to donate to the earthquake relief funds for turkey & syria and get some art/fic back from harringrove fans! :) check out the tag if you're interested!!

[scoopstomyahoy]

thinking about a no upside down au steddie fic where steve and eddie run into each other years after moving away from hawkins, and eddie remembers steve and his fall from grace as king, and is kind of intrigued to see what kind of person he is now

and steve doesn’t remember him at all at first, because, look, eddie changed his hair again, and steve’s had a few head injuries (no upside down but i imagine he still went thru some shit with the party and with robin), and he didn’t really think about eddie in high school anyway, and he’s trying to forget about hawkins as much as possible (besides the kiddos, but they’re all moved out for college now, anyway) (obviously he lives with robin)

but steve is different now, happier, more open, flirts with guys, flirts with EDDIE, and eddie….. well, he wants to know more! and he tells steve he knows him from hawkins, and steve’s sunny little smile flickers a little, but he just apologizes for not remembering him and mentions he has some memory problems

and they get to know each other, and eventually as eddie tells him more (and maybe with the help of some yearbooks) steve remembers eddie. and. well. they like getting to know each other. and they like each other. and then they get together

eventually they’ve been together for a while, and eddie thinks he wants to maybe introduce steve to wayne, and he mentions he’s going to go back to hawkins for a long weekend (as he’s done a couple times) and this time he’d like steve to join him

and again steve’s sunny smile flickers a bit, but he says he’d love to meet eddie’s uncle, and… they go to hawkins. and it goes well— meeting wayne, at least, but steve seems a little on edge the whole time they’re there, tense when they drive in, fidgety when they go to the grocery store, et cetera. eddie thinks maybe steve is nervous about staying with the man who raised eddie, which is ridiculous, because wayne LOVES steve.

it’s not til they leave the town altogether that steve relaxes, and eddie realizes it wasn’t “meeting the parents” but rather going back to hawkins. and speaking of meeting the parents, steve didn’t ever bring his own up, even though eddie knew they still lived in hawkins. and the way steve glanced around whenever they went in public, like he was scared of getting recognized

and he asks about it, and steve doesn’t really want to talk about it, but he gives eddie snippets of it. people he wanted to leave behind in hawkins, memories that resurfaced, things he wants to forget

eddie goes back to see wayne sometimes, and the first time he doesn’t know whether to ask steve to come, so he just mentions he’s thinking about going to hawkins for some weekend and steve immediately starts making plans with him as if the invite is implicit. they go back to hawkins several more times, steve still tense and pent up the whole time they’re there

over time steve reveals more and more to eddie. everything that made hawkins hell for him, from the things he himself did in high school to the things people did to him. stuff tommy and carol and billy said to him. some of it is just typical high school bullshit (and oh, the nancy thing.) some of it is the tragedies steve went through, the horrors he had to protect his kids from. the injuries he sustained. more generally the homophobia that permeated the whole town, keeping steve from being himself. the lack of support in the indiana public school system for a high school senior who’s had two concussions and gone through incredible trauma.

his parents. the reason why steve’s mail is addressed to ‘steve buckley’ now, not ‘steve harrington’.

(that doesn’t come out until much, much later, and eddie is kicking himself for ever suggesting steve come back to hawkins.)

eddie, who hardly had an easy time of it in hawkins, is absolutely blown away by what steve had gone through in the same town, right under his nose. the entire persona that steve was trying to leave behind — the cool as a cucumber, unaffected, douchey mask he wore to hide all that he had endured. the head injuries. the emotional tragedies he had gone through. the way he had to be the rock for the kids even as he went through the same things as them.

he tries to tell steve they never have to go back to hawkins again, and steve is having none of it. he tells steve wayne can come visit them in their new city, and steve thinks that’s completely unfair to the man who had raised eddie, seriously, you’re going to make him come all the way up here?

and well i don’t know exactly what the ending is but steve is so stubborn about trying to love hawkins because it was eddie’s home and he wants to be able to go see wayne because wayne deserves to see his kid and eddie deserves to see his uncle and steve doesn’t want to be the problem :(

[marvel-ous-m]

Summer Child

W/C: 2,670

A/N: This is my birthday gift to myself! I was in the mood to write some steddie hurt/comfort and getting together. I hope you enjoy! Title from Conan Gray song (I listened to my moody playlist as I wrote this morning and it just kinda fit).

It’s not like Steve to cancel plans.

It’s completely out of character for him to forgo an event unannounced.

Eddie’s honestly not sure that’s even what’s going on. It’s more likely that one of the kids forgot to spread the news that Steve had a conflict, that the kids would have to find a different way home from their movie night.

A movie night which everyone in the party was invited to. A movie night hosted in the Wheeler’s basement that everyone showed up to- everyone but Steve.

When the time came to take the brats kids home, Eddie volunteered. Not only because he had the van- yeah, that was a pretty big motivator- but so he had an excuse to check-in on Steve afterwards.

Yeah, his house was out of the way, but if Eddie was already out and about, it only made sense.

That was the story he was telling himself, at least.

Eddie dropped the kids off one by one, ignoring their excited shouting and loud conversations. After a night of candy and soda, they were… a lot. Eddie made a mental note to make sure there were more healthy options next time, then groaned. He wasn’t their mothers, for Christ’s sake.

Eddie arrived at Steve’s house and practically jumped out of the car to make for the front door. Steve was probably fine- but in the off chance... it made sense to rush.

Eddie knocked three times, then rang the doorbell. When nothing happened, Eddie lifted the potted plant on the front stoop and grabbed the spare key underneath it.

Rich people were so predictable.

The door clicked open and revealed a dark house, save for the dim glow of the television in the family room. (Not the living room- that was a plastic-covered-furniture nightmare. The family room, which had a couch meant for sitting and actually contained life every once in a while.)

Eddie walked towards the light, which was soon joined by high-pitched voices and a slightly-annoying laugh track. Eddie turned the corner into the room, eyebrows raising at the sight that greeted him.

Steve was very much alive. He sat curled up on the center cushion of the couch, sock-clad feet barely visible. He wore an oversized sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his head, and was wearing what looked to be flannel pajama pants. He was covered in two blankets and stared blankly at the television screen, eyes glazed over in a way that would otherwise be concerning if it weren’t for his steady breathing and sluggish blinking.

He was watching... The Muppets?

Steve lifted a shaking hand to wipe at his eyes, then sniffed softly, his breath hitching.

Steve was crying to The Muppets. Which was probably the strangest sentence Eddie had ever thought in his life.

Eddie had only seen Steve cry twice. The first time was when Max woke up, the second was after a particularly bad nightmare that caused Steve to drive all the way to Eddie's house and ask to stay the night. Suffice to say, Steve didn't cry at just anything, and The Muppets was a weird thing to cry about. Eddie was fairly certain there was something else going on.

Eddie rapped his knuckles on the side of the doorway twice, keeping his posture relaxed in an effort to not scare Steve. He was intruding on a delicate situation, it was the least he could do.

Steve turned his head, surprise painting his face briefly. It was quickly replaced by a neutral, schooled expression. "Eddie?"

Eddie smiled softly, waving his fingers in a way that he knew usually made Steve break into a ridiculous smile. His expression didn't budge. Yikes. "Hey, Stevie. I just swung by to make sure you were okay. We had movie night tonight and you didn't show-"

"Fuck." Steve's face crumpled. He hastily covered his eyes with his hands, his thumbs rubbing small circles into his temples. "Shit. Fuck. I'm sorry, Eddie. Did the kids get home okay?"

Eddie took a few steps towards Steve, stopping when he was hovering awkwardly at the edge of the couch. "Yeah, everyone's fine. I took 'em home on my way here." Steve's breath hitched as he visibly grew more upset. Fuck. Change the subject, Munson. "What's got you so upset, sweetheart?" Steve let out a soft sob in response, and Eddie cringed to himself. WRONG CHANGE OF SUBJECT. ABORT. ABORT.

"It's- um, just... a bad day." Steve's whispered reply only increased Eddie's confusion.

"Like, today as in Friday is a bad day, or today as in... uh, August 22nd?"

Steve gave another choked sob, and Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. Shit, he was fucking this up royally.

"S-sorry. Ugh, this is so stupid." Steve rubbed his eyes roughly, then ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

Eddie frowned, and, in a decision that he didn't take time to think through, he circled the couch and sat on the cushion next to Steve. Eddie then placed a hand on Steve's shoulder, squeezing once, twice. "Your emotions aren't stupid, baby. You're not stupid. What's going on? What can I do to help?" He thought he saw Steve's cheeks start to flush, but his hands moved to cover his entire face, so Eddie couldn't be sure what that was about.

The two sat quietly for a few minutes, the only sound in the room the low-volume crooning on Elton John surrounded by Muppet crocodiles. This show was a fucking fever dream. "Um- well, my parents called this morning, and I thought it was going to be to wish me Happy Birthday, that for once they'd remembered, but they were calling about wanting to sell the house, again, and it's just- fuck, it's just a lot. I've kinda just... been here since. Watching old reruns all day."

Eddie blinked, feeling a bit like he was drowning from that tidal wave of information. Still, one thing stuck out. "Stevie... today's your birthday?"

Steve chuckled humorlessly. "Yup. Officially 20."

"Oh... sweetheart, I'm sorry. If I'd known- if... wait, does anyone know?" Eddie didn't think as he moved his hand to brush a stray strand of hair away from Steve's face. Steve's cheeks flushed pink again, and seriously, what was that about?

Steve ducked his head, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Um... I think Nancy is the only one who knows. She snuck a look at my ID back when..." Steve trailed off. He took a steadying breath, then resumed. "She knows I don't like to make it a thing. I think tonight was her way of trying to celebrate, but I just... I forgot, and it's not that I like being alone more, it's just... easier?"

Eddie hummed in understanding. "I'm sorry you had to miss your own birthday party, darling. I'm sorry none of us knew- knew that it was today, knew what you were going through." Eddie placed his hand on Steve's knee, mentally working through how to fix the day.

"Thanks, Eds." Steve's hand moved to Eddie's, and he began fiddling with the rings on Eddie's fingers. If Steve could take a break from being cute, maybe Eddie could think better.

He'd been here all day, right? Did that mean... "Did you eat today, Stevie?"

"Hm?" Steve gave a distracted hum, then furrowed his brow in thought. "Nah. Just... been here. Haven't been hungry." Steve's stomach gave a betraying growl, and Eddie smirked.

"Not hungry my ass. What sounds good, honey? What do you have here?"

Steve shrugged, his expression growing guarded. "I-I don't know. Sorry. You don't have to- you can go, Eddie. I'll be fine here."

Eddie's heart broke a little. "I'm not leaving, Steve. Not on your birthday. Not like this. Why don't I go look in the kitchen and see what I can scrounge up, hm? Maybe you could find something to watch instead of..." Eddie turned towards the television, eyebrow raising at Kermit, now wearing a replica of Elton John's outfit. The Muppets writers room must have access to really, really good weed.

Steve followed Eddie's gaze, snorting out a laugh. "Not a Muppet fan, Eddie?" Steve didn't wait for Eddie to confirm or deny the allegation. Instead, he just gave Eddie's hand a squeeze. "I'll come up with something else. I've got some stuff I grabbed from Family Video's sale bin."

Eddie moved to stand from the couch, but Steve quickly wrapped his hand around Eddie's. "Um... thank you, Eddie. You don't have to do any of this- but you are and... I really..." Steve's eyes grew wet and he ducked his head down. "Thanks."

Eddie smiled. "Of course. I'll be right back, Steve." Eddie found the kitchen easily and began rummaging around, his thoughts wandering as he did. It was Steve's birthday. His parents called and didn't wish him Happy Birthday. They're trying to sell the house- does Steve have anywhere to go? How soon is this selling thing going to happen? Does anyone know? Why hasn't Steve said anything? He mentioned it wasn't the first time his parent's had asked about it...

Eddie let his thoughts consume him as he boiled some noodles and began heating canned tomato sauce. Spaghetti was really all Steve had ingredients for, and also seemed like the easiest thing for Steve to eat right now. He'd... never seen Steve like this before. He was always so brave. Hell, he was still being brave. Eddie probably wouldn't be able to cope if he got told that he and Wayne had to vacate their new home. It was hard enough getting kicked out of the trailer after the sudo-apocalypse.

Well... huh. That was a thought. Eddie's house. They did have more than enough room now. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. The third bedroom was mostly storage, it would take less than an hour to clear out.

Eddie drained the noodles then stirred them into the sauce. He put two plates together, then returned to the Family Room. Steve was sitting quietly, watching the opening titles of Star Wars: A New Hope.

"Hey! Good choice, Stevie. An absolute classic. I found stuff for spaghetti, if that sounds good?" Eddie held out a plate, and Steve eagerly took it, a smile taking over his features. Eddie loved that smile. He would kiss that smile.

Wait, what?

"Thanks, Eds. Spaghetti is great. Perfect, actually. I really... I can't thank you enough. You've made the day so much better, and-" Steve glanced over at Eddie, and apparently saw something that made him pause. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Like what? Eddie could've said. Like I want to kiss you? Because that's a revelation I just had, and seeing as that's currently making me feel like I have a hoard of butterflies throwing a rave in my stomach, it's apparently a thought that I'm receptive to.

Instead, Eddie said: "Do you want to move in with me?"

Steve choked on his first bite of spaghetti, sputtering. "W-what?!"

"Fuck- sorry, ugh, I'm the worst at this- I just... I was thinking while I was cooking, and I realized- you said it was your birthday, but you also said that your parents called to talk about selling the house, and that it wasn't the first time they had said something about it, and I realized- um, maybe... maybe it was happening soon, whether you wanted it to or not. Maybe you were keeping it from all of us, because- you're brave, Steve. You're so brave. It makes sense- that you would think that you shouldn't- couldn't- burden us with something like this.

"But it's not a burden, Steve. You're not a burden. I-I can't imagine that finding a place to move has been very successful, what with Hawkins still rebuilding, and... well, Wayne and I ended up with the government-hush-money house, and they gave us way too much space. We have an entire empty bedroom right now. Which... why keep it empty if you need a place to live, y'know?

"You deserve good things, Steve. You've done so much for us... for me. You carried me out of hell, for fuck's sake. You saved my life. I- I care about you, and if I can do this small thing for you... fuck, man. It's no question. So... if you need a place still... um, move in with me?" Eddie punctuated his rant by taking a bite of spaghetti and ducking his head. Way to ramble on, Eds. Spot-on. Steve would definitely want to live with you after that absolute fuck-up of a request. Eddie swallowed his food, sparing a glance up at Steve as he did.

Steve was staring at him, face blank. Suddenly, Steve reached a hand towards Eddie's face, and for a split-second, he thought Steve was going to slap him or something.

Instead, Steve cradled his cheek, leaned forward, and-

Oh.

They were kissing. Steve's lips against his, the pad of Steve's thumb soft against Eddie's stubbled cheek.

Steve broke the kiss as quickly as he had initiated it, making a move like he was going to run off, but Eddie reacted before he could, lifting his hand to lay over Steve's on his own cheek, his other hand moving to cradle Steve's cheek. He smiled against Steve's lips, and Steve melted into his hold.

"I- I should've asked to kiss you, I'm sorry. I just... I've never- no one has ever said so many good things about me, and you've done so much, and... I've been waiting to do that for months, and I didn't really think, it just-" Steve was rambling now, and Eddie cut him off with another kiss.

"It's okay, baby. I... I think I only just came to my senses and realized that I've been crushing on you for a while, too. That's not why I asked you to move in, but... well, I guess there's even more reason to have you live with us, now." Eddie chuckled, giving Steve another chaste kiss.

Steve blushed, which suddenly explained every other flush of the cheeks that Steve had exhibited that evening. "I really appreciate it, Eddie. I would love to move in with you. My parents are coming in two days to make sure all my stuff is out so they can just sell the place, furniture and all, and I- I haven't been able to process it, so I just..." A tear slipped down Steve's cheek, which Eddie quickly wiped away.

"Oh baby. I'm so sorry." Steve's breath hitched again, and Eddie moved to pull his boy into a hug. Steve burrowed his face in Eddie's shoulder, and Eddie's hand found a home carding through Steve's hair. "Let's just relax tonight, hm? Have dinner, finish Star Wars, we can have a sleepover out here. Then in the morning we can tackle the packing situation. How does that sound, sweetheart?"

Steve nodded against Eddie's shoulder. "Sounds like a plan then, Stevie." They sat curled together for a few more minutes, until Steve's stomach gave another loud growl, forcing them apart so Steve could finish his dinner. Their legs stayed tangled together, and they continued to sneak glances at each other, a knowing smile traded between the two of them whenever their eyes met.

Long after their food was finished and the TV had gone to static, Steve and Eddie laid out on the couch, curled together. Steve was on top of Eddie, his face next to Eddie's ear, as Eddie carded his hand through Steve's hair- his new favorite pastime.

"Thanks for the birthday gift, Eds." Steve's tired whisper pulled Eddie from the sleepy haze he had slipped into, making him blink his eyes open.

Eddie smiled. "Happy birthday, baby." He pressed a kiss to the side of Steve's head and let his eyes close again.

Eddie knew this was the honeymoon phase, but he had a feeling that, with Steve, their relationship would always feel this way. He couldn't wait to have that feeling confirmed as they ventured into their futures together.

[helloitisiafellowgay]

another part of my Steve gets Vecna’d AU, where i provide very little context lmaoo sorry

i’ve been working on this for OVER A YEAR and still have a few scenes to finish 😭 my draft rn is almost 19k so I’ll hopefully get it out before like November at this rate :)

vague context: this is the night before The Big Fight TM and people like JUST found out that steves possessed and eddie is cleaning steve’s demobat wounds

other post

——————

“Do you—“ the drug dealer looks conflicted, debating whether to poke at a neglected bruise. “Why didn’t anyone notice?”

There’s a knot in his throat, a tightening of his larynx. “What do you mean?”

”That you were hallucinating? Having nightmares?” Before, Eddie wouldn’t meet his gaze. Now, he won’t let Steve look away, slowly regaining his certainty, his intensity. “Why was I the only one to even consider anything was wrong? You’re not that great of an actor— you aren’t, don’t look at me like that— and they’ve known you so much longer than I have.”

And isn’t that the question he’d been shoving out of his own mind since the beginning of this whole mess? That small seed of doubt, pushing forward and flourishing now that someone else had stopped to water it.

He knows, he knows— they don’t care about him as much as he cares about them. Sees it in the way the kids dismiss him as soon as they arrive at their destination, only call on him when they want something; the way he gives it every single time regardless.

Each girl in his bed, driving him like a crash-test car; the excuse to leave, the cold sheets in the morning. A freezing bathroom at a party, the echo of bullshit refracting off the cold tile.

The crack of ceramic against his skull, the fist in his sternum, the stifling ash in his lungs in a buried tunnel. Interrogation tactics, missing fingernails, drugged out of his mind; flesh monster, the loss of the one male adult he could actually depend on.

And before it all, the steel door, the silhouette, the—

No.

No, Steve knows that he is, at his core, what he has always been: unloveable.

After the reactivity, the intentional cruelty of his youth, he expects nothing other than a warning label.

Danger: do not interact. Prone to violence.

Steve is his father’s son, after all. They share the same ruthless ferocity, the same scarred knuckles.

He has spent so long convincing the world that anything can be turned into a weapon, and he started with his hands; if he squints long enough, blood pools itself into the crevices of his palms, fingernails curving into sharp edges and the remnants of whiskey bottles.

A product of his environment, no doubt; the weight of his family name, absent parents, superficial friends.

King Steve with a hollow crown, sat in his pristine castle with everything a teen could ask for except anyone to make him feel worth following. Like something other than a cheap toy, a pretty face, a chore to be put off until a more convenient time.

It’s fact of his life, something he felt no reason to doubt when people keep proving it to him, over and over and over.

He’s useful— for rides to the arcade, for a place to hangout when everywhere else has been vetoed, to wield a baseball bat studded with nails, the last line of defense, the one who can be counted on to take the hit— but not their friend. Not wanted, not valuable, and certainly not lovable.

So how can he possibly justify this unwavering loyalty, his propensity to follow them around like a stray dog waiting on table scraps? Why he keeps coming back, offering every part of himself when none of them would do the same for him?

Steve shrugs. “They all have their own shit going on, they can’t help it. I didn’t want to make things complicated.”

The drug dealer frowns, already shaking his head in disagreement. “That’s not— not good enough. They’re not too busy, they just don’t…”

Care.

They just don’t care.

Steve catches the moment that the other boy sees the bundle of scars peeking just over the hem of his boxers. Tears his own focus away from those small, circular burns; old enough to be suspicious, obvious enough that even a ten-year-old could come to the correct conclusion about their origin without much effort.

A kid with cigarette burns— not common, but definitely not rare.

A rich kid with cigarette burns? That just doesn’t happen.

“Doesn’t Vecna go after people with trauma? It’s not like Steve—”

His stomach roils, a distant nausea working its way up his esophagus. The younger teen holds his breath and waits, but Eddie doesn’t ask, just furrows his brow and grazes over the puckered skin with a single, calloused thumb.

Steve shivers, bites his lip, fights the urge to dislodge the soft touch and flee the room. He doesn’t.

Eddie goes back to taping the raw edges of his wounds closed.

A sick, twisted heat takes root in his stomach; invasive and insatiable, it chokes out his heart until it has nowhere left to go except up into his throat, and flourishes in the abandoned cavity left behind.

“Do you think when he chose me… do you think he knew?” Steve’s a conglomeration of dull apathy and the underlying static of panic; he feels like he’s back under the water, suspended in time and trying desperately not to drown. “That I wouldn’t say anything? Wouldn’t want to tell them, you, about… That… that they don’t…?”

The musician pulls out a roll of gauze, presses one end to his rib cage with more care than anyone has shown him in a long time.

“I think that you hide so much from everyone, more than anyone thinks that you do. And I think that, to someone like him, it’s easy to mistake that for shame.”

Oh.

“And what if I am?” Steve clenches his jaw, flattens his lips to disguise their infernal trembling. “Ashamed… of being known? Afraid that people will hate what they find, if I were to let people in— share those parts of myself?”

The last of the sunset dissipates from the sky, leaves the world outside of the window cast in a deep indigo.

A murmur, almost subconsciously, from his healer: “Isn’t everyone?”

He is some sort of wretched thing— must be, to warrant this raw, gnawing ache in his core. The withering, the erosion at the fringes of his being, exposing the live-wire at the heart of him.

Pressure, as the dressing is applied to his wounds. The light brush of skin against skin.

“You aren’t an inconvenience, you know.” Eddie wraps the last of the bandage around his abdomen, secures it in place. “You are allowed to ask for help. And other people want to help, if you let them.”

The babysitter hums, a non-answer, omitted confirmation. Can do little else, lest he wilt under the force of this personification of a star.

“I might not know why none of the kids said anything, but...“ Off to the side, the discarded towel is depositing water on the floor. When Eddie reaches for it, there’s a damp patch on his jeans that the babysitter stares at while his hands are taken, dabbed at with damp cotton. “Robin, Nancy, and I literally followed you into hell. You’re not taking anything from us that we wouldn’t freely give.”

The older boy’s gaze is wild, reverent. From where he is crouched in front of Steve, it must look like he’s kneeling before a monarch, a King.

What a resolute act of devotion: tending to the wounds of a martyr, washing the blood from each finger as if every millimeter of exposed skin is something worth defending.

Steve doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such absolution; this exoneration from all of the sin coating his fingers and dripping from his teeth. He is nothing more than a child devouring overripe berries in another family’s garden, filling his vacant stomach with sweet crimson nectar that he will never be able to justify aching for.

He is no deity, no patron saint or messiah. He’s barely a king. ”I’m not worth—“

He has never been religious— or, at least definitely not after the monsters came into the picture. But he knew then, knows now— there is no heavenly father, no almighty God, that could give him back that purity, that holy golden ichor.

Whenever Steve had plead to this creator, prayed for help while pinned to the ground under the malicious intent of another— there was no response. Just the echo of his faith, his questions, being tossed back at him, neglected and unanswered.

”You’re worth everything, Steve Harrington.” Eddie’s intensity, his conviction, makes Steve’s heart lurch somewhere in his chest. “There is nothing you could ask from us that you haven’t deserved a hundred times over.”

The cloth, damp and abrasive against his palms, collects strawberry residue within its woven fibers.

His crown must be less hollow than he thought.

There is no god that can restore his virtue, slip the innocence back into his pockets, baptize him in the light of unconditional love— but Eddie… Eddie is just a man.

Just a man, who wiped each of his fingers clean; dressed his wounds with such gentle hands. Just a man, who kissed each bruise, each old scar, without the intent to hurt.

Just a man who held him, who pulled him back when his whole body was on the edge of a precipice.

Who answered his questions without judgement— without stripping him of his divinity, casting him down from the heavenly throne and into the sulphuric pits of eternal damnation.

Just this boy, who looks at him like he is worth more here, in this moment, than he ever would be nailed to a cross.

What god has ever done that for him?

[flowers-that-sing]

mommy's boy

844 words, just a short little fic | rated T | TWs for past child abuse, physical abuse, violence, yk. the works

Steve sat at the edge of his bed. Room a mess, hair still sleep-mussed, eyes crusted. A glance at his alarm read 9 o'clock. Later than he'd usually wake, but he'd had a nightmare, and he felt as if he hadn't slept at all.

His mother stood over him with an icy glare. 

"Why won't you fucking wake up, Steven? No wonder you didn't get into college. You think you could make it there if you can't even get out of bed?" 

"Mom, I'm sorry, I just—I slept late, and it's my day off, so—"

"Save it. I don't want to hear any silly excuses." 

She talked to him like he was a child. He was nineteen years old, and he wanted to sleep. What right did she even have to talk to him like that? It was his day off. Steve felt the drowsiness slowly seep into anger. 

"And you know what, I didn't want to go to college anyway. It's my day off, if I want to sleep in, why shouldn't I?"

"Because you're being a lazy slob, that's why!" she snapped, before seeming to notice something across the room. Her expression shifted suddenly. "Oh, is that your new girlfriend? She looks sweet."

Steve turned to see what she was looking at—a photo of him and Robin climbing a tree together, her clutching tight to him for support.

"Oh, um, that's Robin. We're best friends." What the fuck? I thought she was angry. Okay, well. Maybe I can get out of this. 

Deborah Harrington rolled her eyes. "God, Steve. You don't have time for friends." 

Steve glared. "What? Why would I not have time for friends, Mom? That makes no sense."

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't get to talk to me like that. I am your mother. I make the decisions, Steven," she left the words unspoken, but he could hear them: "I own you." 

A surge of anger flared up in Steve, and all of a sudden, he was angry, for him at seven getting screamed at for not cleaning his toys, for him at eight getting locked out of the house after a fight he couldn't even remember, him at fourteen getting between his parents and taking both their hits, him at seventeen and having not seen either of them in a year but taking their immediate anger upon their return.

"I'm an adult. I can make my own decisions." 

His mom's gaze hardened, and she stepped closer. The anger quickly began to recede, making way for a helpless terror. Ah, shit. 

No, no, I'm standing my ground. I promised to myself, next time she did this, I would. I'm not a kid anymore. If she hits, I defend myself. If she hits me, I hit back. 

She smacked him across the face, hard. His teeth slammed into the inside of his cheek. He steadied his shaking. 

"What's wrong with you, Mom?" 

She hit him again, same cheek, even harder. It must have hurt her hand, Steve thought distantly. 

The dam broke, and Steve couldn't stop shaking. He was a child again, small, he couldn't. He knew he was stronger than her, bigger than her, but he just couldn't. But still, he kept glaring, even as his lip wobbled.

I promised I'd defend myself. 

"You wanna get hit again, huh? You deserve to get hit. You're going to Hell, you know that?" she said, and she hit him, again. On the same cheek. It throbbed, it burned, it somehow stung worse than the bat bites despite only being a measly slap.

Hit her back. 

No. I… I can't. 

I can't hit my own mom. 

"I'm—I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll—I'll behave. I'll do better. I'm so sorry." 

He put his head down. 

"You fucking better. Now get dressed. Useless child. After all I've given for you, damn parasite." 

He heard the door close. He trembled, raised a hand to his cheek. He tasted blood, his ears rang, and his cheek was hot to the touch. 

Steve wanted so badly for it to bruise, for her to see what she had done, for everyone to know what she had done. But he knew it wouldn't. 

His head was pounding. 

Steve got dressed. 

I'm so pathetic. I—I said I'd do something. I said it wouldn't happen again. 

A smaller part of Steve recalled his mother apologizing, once, crying, calling herself a bad mother, while drunk on wine. Promising she wouldn't hit him again. 

It was foolish to believe her even for a second. 

Steve felt cold. 

He wanted to feel angry. But he was just tired. 

Part of him wanted to call Robin or Eddie or something. He knew they'd understand, he knew they'd help, but all he could hear was his mom. 

"If you complain about your parents to your friends, one day they’ll be smart enough to realize the problem is you. I don’t want that for you because I love you. So listen to me."

He blinked away tears, took a deep breath, and picked out his clothes for the day. 

[momotonescreaming]

Currently having sooo many feelings about Steve wanting to be a dad

How he wants a big family who loves each other unconditionally because he was a lonely, neglected kid whos parents' love was very conditional

[barely-a-person]

i have this dream that i am hitting my dad with baseball bat and he is screaming and crying for help

but maybe halfway through it has more to do with me killing him than it ever did protecting myself

feels very steve harrington coded

edit: actually no this whole song is very steve coded and you should listen to it

[solarmorrigan]

Eddie doesn’t like it when Steve is upset. He just wants that on record. He would prefer it if Steve could feel happy and safe and content all the time.

But–

A sad Steve Harrington is a cuddly Steve Harrington, and Eddie is absolutely weak for that shit.

There’s nothing quite like the days when Steve will come home from a shitty shift at work and immediately sit down with Eddie on the couch and curl into his side, never even bothering to change out of his work clothes. Or the days when Steve has to talk to his parents on the phone, and afterwards he’ll come find Eddie and pull him into a hug that may last minutes or hours while Steve presses his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck and loses himself there.

Or nights like tonight, when Steve comes to bed in an old pair of sleep shorts and a t-shirt he’s stolen form Eddie’s side of the dresser and lays down more in the middle of the bed than on his own side, his head practically on Eddie’s pillow.

He’s asking without really asking, but Eddie will never, ever deny him.

He’s quick to roll onto his side, facing Steve and prodding him until he rolls over, too, facing away and allowing himself to be scooted back across the mattress. Eddie gets an arm around his waist and pulls him close, until he’s practically molded to Eddie’s front, chest to back, hips to hips, Eddie’s knees tucked into the bend of Steve’s.

It isn’t that Steve isn’t normally a touchy sort of person; he is. He thrives on physical affection, and Eddie loves to be the one to provide him with it. But there’s something different about it when Steve gets like this, like it isn’t just a want – it’s a need.

He buries himself in Eddie’s presence, curling in close like he can hide away inside of him, like Eddie can keep the world at bay – like Eddie can protect him.

And hell if that isn’t a heady feeling. The thought that Steve, so strong and sure of himself, lets himself be soft around Eddie, will let his armor fall away and let himself be cared for; Eddie can’t say he doesn’t cherish the privilege.

Who protects the protector? Eddie does.

And he takes his responsibilities very seriously, thank you.

He presses a kiss to the back of Steve’s neck, stroking his thumb against his ribs over the soft fabric of the pilfered t-shirt. He can feel Steve’s chest rise and fall with a sigh.

“Bad day?” Eddie asks softly.

Sometimes Steve wants to talk about it. Sometimes he doesn’t. Eddie always gives him the chance, either way.

Steve shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. Nothing happened, I just feel… bad.”

He sounds defeated, and Eddie won’t have that.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to know.” He presses another soft kiss to the nape of Steve’s neck. “I’ll make it better.”

“Yeah.” Under the blankets, Steve’s hand finds Eddie’s where it’s draped over his waist and threads their fingers together, squeezing gently. “I know you will.”

[Prompt: Spooning]

[rogueddie]

There are a lot of rumors about Eddie Munson. From his sexuality, to his religion, to him being some sort of supernatural creature.

Steve doesn’t put a lot of merit in most of them. They’re usually just bullshit people make up to entertain themselves with whilst beating down on the weird kid. Steve thinks it’s boring… usually.

He’s seen enough weird things happen around Munson to know that something isn’t right. Something about him is unnatural. And Steve is staying clear out of the way of whatever the hell he is, or whatever the hell he’s messing with.

Unfortunately, his friends haven’t gotten the message.

“Do it at your own house!” Steve complains, though he makes no move to stop them. He’s sure it’s nothing, that it’ll only lead to an annoying clean-up job, but there’s a nagging sense of dread writhing in his gut. “This shit is bull anyway.”

“If it’s bull then what’s the problem?” Tommy counters.

“Because none of you dickheads are going to help clean this shit up!”

“I promise to help you clean up,” Carol says. “There. Problem solved. Right?”

"It's still stupid," Steve mutters, glaring at the janky make-shift pentagram they've made. "And a bad idea."

It's drawn on nine pieces of paper- they wanted to draw it big on the floor, but Steve had but his foot down. He lets them use some of his moms candles as a compromise.

With the lights off, sitting with the two of them in a circle, it suddenly feels too real. Even Carol looks suddenly nervous.

Tommy is the only one still smirking, though Steve is sure that it's forced. His voice shakes a little as he begins reading off the paper he'd torn out a library book. His Latin is clunky.

At first, nothing happens.

Long enough that Carol says, "did you even say it right?"

"Yes, it even has-" Tommy starts.

The candles all blow out, suddenly. The light Steve had left on in the kitchen flicks off too, plunging them into complete darkness.

After a horrible moment, where they're still and silent, Carol yelps.

"Don't grab me, Tommy, that's not funny!"

"I didn't grab you."

"Wh- Steve?"

"No," is all Steve can get out.

"I'm turning the lights on," Tommy says. "This is ridiculous."

Steve listens to his footsteps and, when he sounds like he's almost at the light switch, he yelps.

"Fuck this," he says.

"What the fuck, Tommy!" Carol yells when they both hear him running past them. She's up on her feet immediately, chasing after him.

He wants to scream after them, plead with them to come back, that they shouldn't be abandoning the circle.

But, the same gut instinct that insists he stay where he is, keeps his mouth shut. Everything in his being is telling him that if he leaves, if he speaks first, horrible things will happen to him.

Something tuts, like a parent admonishing a child.

The living room light flicks on, so bright that Steve has to blink a few times to clear away the white spots.

Eddie Munson sits in the space they left empty.

"Someone didn't read the terms and conditions," he snickers.

"What..." Steve pauses, clearing his throat. "What are the, uh... terms and conditions?"

"Oh, they're simple, really. Look," he holds up the page Tommy had read the incantations from, pointing to the little paragraph at the end. "They even translated it to English! But all you need to know, big boy, is that you are A-OK."

"And... Tommy and Carol?"

"Eh, they're fine. Lucky, really. I'm trying to relax up here. I'm only gonna pay them back with a minor curse or two. Nothing lethal."

"Fuck."

"We haven't even got to you yet!" He spins around so hes laying on his belly, resting his chin on his palm. "You didn't technically summon me so you can just tell me to leave... or."

"Or?"

"Deal with no consequence, baby. One wish, whatever you want, free of charge. Well... I'd want your silence about the whole... summoning thing. Let's consider that payment."

He doesn't need his gut or book to warn him that it's a bad idea. Munson could be lying, easily. There could be fine print. It's a bad, very bad idea.

"There's... definitely no consequences? I won't, like, go to hell for this?" Steve finally asks.

"Do some charity work for a week, you'll be fine," he says, waving his hand around. "What do you want, King Steve?"

"Could- could you make someone love me?"

"Oh, ho ho ho! Who's the unlucky lady who said no to you?"

"No, it... it's not like that. I mean, um... my mom."

Munsons smile drops. The temperature drops with it, making a chill run up Steves spine.

"Your mom," he repeats.

"They're busy like, all the time," Steve automatically defends. "And they're barely here so, uh... of course they wouldn't- I mean, it's normal, right? You can't love a stranger or... whatever. It's fine. It's just... I don't know."

"Steve..." Munson pauses.

He groans, throwing his head into his hands, dramatically. He almost immediately flings his head back up, hair flying everywhere, giving Steve wide and pleading eyes.

"I can't make people fall in love or any shit like that. I can make illusions, that's it. Love is, like... way out of my jurisdiction."

"I- I'm ok with an illusion. Like, just one day or something."

"Steve, baby, you're breaking my heart."

"Please?"

"Jesus- ok!" Grumbling, Munson shifts so he's kneeling. "And in return, you won't say shit about any of this. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Great. Ugh. This next part is... weird."

"What do you mean, weird?"

"It's weird, I don't know. Deals about, like, love are sealed with a kiss."

"You're joking."

"Nope, and that's not even the weird part. Now, come on and pucker up, let's get this over with." He gestures for Steve to shuffle closer, waiting until they're sat close enough that their knees almost bump together. "You can still change your mind. Anything at all, Steve. Anything."

"I thought you wanted to get this over with?"

"On your head..."

Munson leans forward, kissing him. It's just a peck, simple and easy. No big deal, right?

Steve feels possessed. It's like someone lit a match in his stomach, leaving him lightheaded and confused. He's not sure how he ends up in Eddie's lap, clutching onto his shoulders, desperately trying to lick into his mouth. He feels so-

He wakes up in his bed, the morning light blinding him.

"What the fuck..." he mutters to himself, grabbing at his throbbing head.

At first, he thinks he's hungover. That he'd just had a weird dream... but he's wearing the same clothes. And, sat on his stomach, is a guitar pic. It's got 'corroded coffin' written on it too- Eddie's band.

"Steve!" He hears his mom call. "Time to get up!"

He scrambles out of bed, dashing down the stairs.

She smiles when she spots him, so bright and warm. She even raises an arm, laughing when he practically throws himself into her side and hugging her tight.

"Morning, sweetheart. Good dreams?"

"Yeah. Yeah, great. But, uh... I feel sick."

"Oh no," she frowns. She puts her hand to his forehead, cooing when she brushes his hair out his face. "Is it your stomach?"

"Yeah. Just... might be better to stay home today. If that's ok?"

"Of course it is. I'm sure we can find something fun to do together, yeah? How about we get a vhs movie, hm?"

"I'd love that."

"Great. Well, if you're feeling up to it, I've made breakfast." She steps away, plating the food she's cooked up. "Oh, did I ever tell you about Paris? It was beautiful, you would have loved it. We should bring you, next time we go."

Steve can't stop smiling. He's sure that his cheeks will be aching by the end of the day.

He'll have to thank Eddie- as soon as he can even think about him without blushing. He'll need to ask if it's normal to still feel... affected, even after the deal is done.

Part of him knows it isn't the deal. Part of him is too curious about how Eddie will react.

[bucky-fricking-barnes]

The Cards We're Dealt

Title: The Cards We’re Dealt

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 15k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, alcohol, cursing, objectification of women and mild sexism, bad parents, angst, fluff, mentions of drugs

Summary: Bucky and Y/N are the children of the two most prominent mob bosses in New York. When their parents use them as part of a deal, they’re left to figure out how their lives fit together.

A/N: Wow! Another long fic because I have no self-restraint. There’s a bit of Irish in this because I couldn’t resist it when I wrote Steve. Translations are at the end, and anything incorrect can be blamed on Google Translate. As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, reblogging, and supporting me in all the ways you do. 

There is an unspoken rule amongst the mobs in New York that the more drug manufacturers a man controls, the nicer you treat his daughter. So, when Bucky’s father tells him that he’s once again been pimped out as part of a deal, Bucky knows to ask the question,

“How many does he control?”

If Bucky had his way, of course, he would treat all girls as well as he is able (which is very well). He likes girls, and he likes going out with girls. He just wishes he could choose which girls he got to take out.

“Seventy-five percent,” George Barnes says, and Bucky freezes with his glass against his lips. He has a club soda to his father’s whiskey—he’s in a good mood and was actually hoping to enjoy the day, though now he’s reconsidering it. His plan to lounge by the pool with Becca and soak up as much of the late spring sunshine as possible is quickly dissipating. 

“That’s not possible,” Bucky replies. He quickly does the math in his head. His dad owns over half the manufacturers in Brooklyn. “We own—“

“Not anymore.”

The library falls silent as Bucky tries to wrap his head around the news. Just yesterday he’d overheard his father on the phone with one of his men, explaining in great detail what he’d do if they didn’t get him a sample of their newest product by the top of the hour.

“How?” he asks. He sets his glass aside and sits straighter in his chair. “Did something happen? You didn’t tell me about a takeover.”

George takes a sip of his whiskey. “That’s because there wasn’t one.” He sets the crystal tumbler on the small bronze tray nearby. Marta will come clean it up later. “I sold them.”

“You sold them? If you’ve already struck a deal, then why am I taking out his daughter? Isn’t that normally something you have me do to butter their fathers up before you make the deal?”

Bucky watches as his own father stands and goes to watch the landscapers through the library window, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s long since been out of the army, but some habits die hard. Very rarely did the man ever relax.

“You are the deal,” George answers, his voice much too casual for Bucky’s liking.

“What the hell are you talking about?” snaps Bucky.

“Watch your tone, boy,” his father replies. He doesn’t turn around to witness the way Bucky grinds his teeth together in response. “In exchange for the majority of Theo’s territory, you and Y/N will be married within a year and a half, though the exact date is up to the two of you. I believe that Theo mentioned his daughter likes spring, so perhaps a spring wedding. June is popular, from what I’m told, though that’s cutting it a little close to the deadline.”

Bucky’s up out of his seat now. He can feel his pulse thrumming and he can’t quite catch his breath.

“So what? You threw me in to sweeten the pot? Am I just another bargaining chip to you now?”

He’s shouting. He doesn’t care.

George turns and regards him in silence, and, like always, his expression betrays nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by Bucky’s outburst.

“You’re my heir. I make my decisions based on what’s best for our family. Nothing about this decision is impulsive or frivolous, James,” he finally answers, his voice cool and even. There’s nothing familial in his tone—George Barnes is all business. 

“You can’t just decide that I’m getting married. I won’t do it. I refuse,” Bucky tells him. He balls his fists at his sides and he sets his jaw, furious. How dare his father try to control his life like this? It’s one thing to occupy the majority of Bucky’s nights and weekends with dates, meetings, dinners, and weapons runs, but it’s another to throw him into a marriage he doesn’t want.

“I can and you will. If you don’t, there will be consequences. To start, you will be immediately cut off from our family. You will have no money, no home, no resources, and no contact or communication with anyone involved in the business, including your mother and your sister.”

Heart pounding, Bucky glares at him. He’s got a migraine coming on. He knows his father isn’t kidding, but he wants more than anything for Steve to pop out and say that this is all just a joke. He’s never even met Theo’s daughter. He’s barely even met Theo. According to the rumors, his only daughter is his most prized treasure. She isn’t someone who frequents any of the bars, clubs, and restaurants that he and the other “mob children” frequent. Maybe “mob children” isn’t exactly the right term, at least not anymore. After all, Bucky’s engaged now. He’s just part of the mob, another pawn to be moved around the chessboard.

“You have the rest of the day off. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning,” says George. He picks up his glass and downs the last of the liquor. “Theo and his family are coming for breakfast, and then Y/N will be moving in with us. I want you on your best behavior.”

He pauses and Bucky continues to glare at him, not validating his words with a response. George’s eyes grow dark with a thinly veiled threat. Bucky knows that look—if he pushes his father any harder, he’ll regret it. 

“Do you understand, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky grinds out.

Turning on his heel, Bucky stalks out of the library and slams the door behind him. He immediately heads down the hall, then down the stairs and across the ground floor of the Barnes Estate to the garage. His keys are still in his pocket; he’d only just gotten back from a night out with Steve when his father had summoned him.

It doesn’t matter that he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Bucky climbs onto his bike and revs the engine, speeding off down the long driveway that winds around the house. The guards barely get the gate open in time and then he’s flying down the road, heading straight to Steve’s bar in the city. He knows his friend will be there, most likely nursing his hangover and going over the books in his back office. He won’t be hard to convince to go out again, though Bucky knows he won’t approve of the plan to drink as much as he possibly can in the next twelve hours. It doesn’t matter, though—it’s Bucky’s last night as a free man, and he’s determined to make the most of it.

You sit between your parents, staring at the empty seat across from you. They’d told you this morning that you were going to the Barnes Estate for breakfast, and while you’d expected the grandeur of the dining room and the meal, you didn’t expect the eldest Barnes child to be completely absent. You’ve never met him, but your mother has insisted that you speak to James—George Barnes’ only son and heir—as much as possible during the meal. Supposedly, he’s the same age as you.

Rebecca Barnes is a ray of sunshine and her cheery disposition is a stark contrast to the dark clouds that now hang over your fathers’ heads. Maybe it’s a deal gone wrong or maybe it’s something else, but you don’t like it. It leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Silently, you sneak a hand under the table to find your mother’s. You squeeze and your mom squeezes back, glancing over to give a reassuring smile.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Barnes starts, and you jump a little in your seat. You haven’t been verbally addressed since you’d been seated a half hour ago. The food has yet to be served. “Your parents tell us that you’re very interested in horticulture. Did you know we have a rose garden out back?”

You force a polite smile. “I don’t know about very interested. I have a few house plants that I’ve managed to keep alive, though I would love to see your garden sometime. I’m sure it’s beautiful,” you add.

“Maybe Bucky can take you,” Rebecca says, earning herself a sharp look from her mother. She simply shrugs.

Oh, to be as unbothered as Rebecca Barnes!

“Where is James?” your father asks. His voice is a low, threatening growl and you sink down in your chair, staring at the cloth napkin still folded atop your plates.

“He knows to be here,” Mr. Barnes growls back. “You’ll have to excuse his tardiness, he’s not normally like this.”

Mrs. Barnes gives Rebecca an even harsher look when she opens her mouth to speak, and this time the girl actually looks ashamed. She takes a sip of her orange juice to hide the guilty look on her face. She’s the first person to have actually touched something on the table, and it’s like whatever spell the room has been under is broken.

All at once, the dining room springs to life. A short, slightly heavy-set woman in a gray dress and white apron enters through one door. She’s holding a delicate silver coffeepot and the smell of coffee instantly fills the room. Two younger women in identical uniforms follow behind her, each of them pushing golden carts laden with food. Through the door across the room, a tall man with short, dark brown hair stumbles in. He’s wearing all black, from his rumpled button-up and jeans to his boots and sunglasses. His hair is sticking up in every direction and just like the coffee, you can smell the stench of alcohol coming from him even from your seat.

You grimace at the smell and pull your napkin into your lap as one of the women comes to place food in front of you. It’s a formal dining service and the strange new man who’s entered feels entirely out of place. From his attire to the way he shuffles across the antique rug, everything about him screams that he’d rather be anywhere else. If you acted like that, your father would be pulling you back out into the hallway to reprimand you, and you look anxiously at Mr. Barnes, who’s seated at the head of the table. 

“James,” he greets, his voice unnervingly even. A chill runs down your spine. “It’s nice of you to join us. I trust that you slept well last night?”

James collapses into the only empty chair at the table, the one across from you, and pointedly ignores his father. You risk a glance up at him as he reaches for the cup of coffee that’s already been poured.

True to form, Rebecca leans over and claps a hand on her brother’s shoulder blade. “Good morning! Aren’t you excited to have breakfast with our guests?” she shouts, and her smirk makes it much too clear that she’s fully enjoying the way her brother’s scowl deepens. Rebecca also ignores her parents, including her mother, who leans forward to look past James and give her a look of warning.

James shrugs his sister off of him and starts buttering the toast on his plate. You watch for a moment, then start picking at your own food as your mother also begins to eat. Everyone’s acting so strangely that you’re already on edge, and you’ve only managed to get down a few grapes and two bites of dry toast by the time your father speaks up again.

“So when are we signing these papers?” he asks, sipping his coffee. 

“As soon as the marriage license is signed,” answers Mr. Barnes.

You frown. Marriage license? Who’s getting married?

“And the terms are the same as when we last spoke?”

Mr. Barnes sips his own drink, something that looks suspiciously like whiskey, and sets down the glass. “Yes. I have that contract in my office. We’ll review and sign after we’re done here. Are all of your daughter’s things ready to be moved?”

Your stomach drops and you turn to stare at your father with wide eyes. He nods, not even paying attention to you as he continues his conversation with the other man. Your mother pointedly ignores you, choosing instead to stare at her plate as she eats. When you look around the room, it seems like almost everyone else is doing the same. Rebecca is the only person who actually meets your panicked gaze. She gives you a pitying look as your anxiety rises.

It feels like your mouth is filled with sandpaper, and you grab your glass of juice. You have to drink half of it before the feeling even mildly abates. As soon as you set it down, one of the women in gray appears to refill it.

“What’s going on? Why are you moving my stuff?” you finally choke out. You twist the napkin in your lap with both hands, wringing it as you look from one person’s face to the next.

Mr. Barnes stops mid-sentence and the whole room freezes. Even James, who’s pouring something into his coffee cup from a small silver flask, stops what he’s doing.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother begins, taking your hand under the table.

You want to pull away. You don’t.

“After breakfast, your father and I are going home, but you’ll be staying here with the Barneses.”

“What?” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “No, I don’t— I don’t want to stay here. You never said anything about me—“

“We’re getting married,” James interrupts. He’s chewing and you look over at him, gaping at the casual way he’s sprawled out in his chair. You can feel his gaze on you even from behind his sunglasses and it makes you feel dirty. 

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles and sits up, then leans forward in the chair. He drops the greasy strip of bacon he’d been eating onto his plate. “We’re getting married. They’re using us like bartering chips, sweetheart. You and me in exchange for all the drugs and all the territory in New York.” James gestures grandly with one hand, a too-wide grin on his face. There must be at least ten rings on each of his hands and you swallow thickly at the threatening display of black and silver metal.

You’re trembling now and you pull your hand away from your mom’s. She reaches for you again but you shake your head, shying away from her touch. Frantically, you look around the room to see if this is some kind of joke or a drunken rambling, but no one is laughing. Even Mrs. Barnes has the decency to look sympathetic on your behalf.

“No, no. You wouldn’t—“ You look back at your parents, imploring them to say that it isn’t true. You swallow thickly, trying to stave off tears, and your voice wavers as you prompt, “Mom? Dad?”

Their silence speaks volumes and a whimper escapes you as you wring your hands in your lap. The napkin slides onto the floor. It suddenly feels like you can’t breathe and when your mom reaches out for a second time and starts to tell you to calm down, you jerk away and stand. The chair falls backwards behind you, but you ignore it as you rush out of the dining room and into the hallway you’d entered from. Everything is unfamiliar. Frantically, you pick a door and yank on the handle. It doesn’t give way and you continue the process until one of them finally opens and you can rush inside. You lock it behind you and press your back against the door. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows are closed, shrouding the room in darkness. You can’t make out much of the furniture through the tears in your eyes.

Out in the hallway, you can hear your mother calling for you and your father arguing with Mr. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes is yelling at somebody too, but it’s hard enough to hear the others over your own gasps and sobs. You’re properly crying now and you sink to the floor, curling up on the carpet as you heave. It’s a good thing you weren’t able to stomach much breakfast.

A knock on the door makes you yelp and then cry harder, and you crawl into the darkness of the room to try and find a hiding spot. You’re lucky enough to find an old, heavy desk right away. It’s the perfect size for you to crawl under for shelter, and there’s no chair for you to move out of the way. The drawers on both sides create a cubby for you, so you crawl into it and curl up into a ball with your back towards the door, just in case someone manages to get in. If you’re quiet enough, it’s possible they’ll walk right past you.

The crowd in the hallway has definitely heard you by now. The doorknob is rattling as whoever’s on the other side tries to get in, but after a few minutes, they stop and the hallway goes quiet. You hold your breath after every couple of sobs, listening for any sign that they’ve found a key or that they’re picking the lock. Nothing happens, however, and after a while, you give up on listening.

You sit in the darkness and cry until you’re thoroughly exhausted. Once you’ve run out of tears, you sit and zone out with your head resting against the side of the desk drawers for a while longer, numb from the news. Your body feels light and a buzzing, tingling feeling makes moving your limbs seem impossible. You could’ve never imagined that your parents would be so capable of treating you so poorly. You’ve always felt so loved by them, and to hear that they’ve practically thrown you away at the first chance of a profit makes you want to puke. Upon that realization, you actually do throw up, and the stink of your vomit on the carpet of whatever room you’re in makes you want to cry all over again.

The door opens just as the stench is becoming too much to bear. Light floods in from the hallway and you squint, curling up in fear. After a moment, the shorter woman in the gray uniform that you’d seen at breakfast appears a few feet away from the desk, right in the path of light. You look up at her. 

“Oh dear,” she sighs, and you instantly feel ashamed at the disappointment in her voice.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. Your bottom lip is trembling again as fresh tears somehow appear in your eyes. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your wrists. “I can clean it if you—“

“You’ll do no such thing,” the woman says. Her voice is gentle and kind, so much so that you don’t feel the need to argue with her. She waves her hand dismissively and approaches you, then holds out both hands. She’s careful not to step in the mess you’ve made. “Now come on, up you go.”

You let her help you to your feet and then you straighten out your clothes, sniffling and wiping at your nose again in a desperate attempt to look more put together than you feel. Still a bit unsteady, you whimper for a second time, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, dear.” She gives you a warm smile. “My name’s Marta. I’m the head housekeeper here. It’s very nice to meet you.”

You don’t feel the same way about meeting her, given the circumstances, but you hold that comment to yourself and simply nod in agreement. Marta leads you back out into the too-bright hallway. It’s empty except for a bald man mopping the floor on the far end.

The high ceilings and glossy marble floors make it look like you’re in a castle. Even the silence feels regal. Everything seems so cold compared to your home, and you feel too small in the massive space.

“What time is it?” you quietly ask, looking back at Marta.

“It’s almost noon, Miss.”

Your stomach sinks and you press your lips together, inhaling deeply as you look around again. Three hours have passed.  “My parents…”

“They left about fifteen minutes after breakfast,” she tells you. Her words are matter-of-fact, even if she delivers the news in the softest possible way.

Somehow it hurts worse that they’ve left you than finding out they’d practically sold you to the Barneses in exchange for God knows what. Drugs or territory, whatever James had said. Not only did they treat you like nothing, but they’d deserted you after it was clear you didn’t agree with their plans. They hadn’t even tried to reassure you that they still loved you or that you’d still be able to see them. Maybe you wouldn’t be. Maybe they didn’t.

You nod numbly. There’s been nothing to prepare you for this, no precursor or warning, so you keep looking around the hall, though in reality you’re not really seeing anything. 

“Your room is ready upstairs, Miss Y/N. Would you like me to take you?” asks Marta.

You nod again. You feel like you’re underwater as you follow her up a grand staircase and then down a long, narrow hallway. It’s decorated similarly to the ground floor, though with a plush Persian rug running its length. Marta talks as she walks ahead of you, no doubt explaining what the many doors lead to, but her words simply go in one ear and out the other. It’s all so surreal that when you finally get to your own room, you don’t even open the door. Marta has to reach around you to open it, and then she gently ushers you inside when you still don't move.

Just as they had said at breakfast, your belongings have all been moved into the Barnes Estate. The furniture here is different, grander than what you’re used to, but your blankets and pillows are on the bed, and the two bookshelves are packed full of the books you’ve collected over the years. Even the strip from the photo booth at an old friend’s wedding is pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. Someone’s even thought to put your plants on their own table by the window. 

“There’s a bathroom on the left and your closet is on the right,” Marta explains, pointing to each. “If you’re hungry, dinner is at five.”

“Do I have to eat with them?” you ask.

If Marta is surprised by your question, she doesn’t show it. She simply shakes her head with a gentle smile. “No. We can bring food here if you’d like.”

You nod and stand in silence until she leaves and closes the door behind her. Then, after another minute passes, you drag yourself over to the bed, climb under the covers, and close your eyes.

If there’s any mercy left in this life, you think, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up again.

Weeks pass and you still haven’t adjusted to life at the Barnes Estate. The staff is only slightly less friendly than those you grew up with, but they’re more attentive. It helps that there are more of them. For every member of the Barnes family, yourself included, there are at least four staff members to attend to their every need. It makes you feel like royalty, but it also makes you feel guilty. You don’t need this much. You certainly didn’t ask for it.

You haven’t seen James since the ill-fated breakfast, nor have you seen your parents. They’ve gone so far as to block your number. After that discovery, you’d locked yourself in the massive ensuite bathroom and cried for an hour. Marta had been the one to coax you out. The poor maid who’d found you when coming to get you for dinner hadn’t known how to help. You’d spent that entire evening curled up on your bed while reruns of The Nanny played on the TV embedded in the wall across from the massive mattress. Marta had spent every second with you that she could, but eventually Mrs. Barnes—Winnifred, as you referred to her in your mind—had scolded her for neglecting her nighttime duties across the estate. That made you feel even worse.

“Are you okay?” Rebecca asks, and you turn to look at her from where you’re staring out the hallway windows at the gardeners. The backyard is massive, complete with a rose garden in full bloom, an outdoor swimming pool, a forested walking trail, a large green expanse for games and parties, a gazebo, a fountain, and what seems to be stables far in the distance, though you haven’t ventured far enough to be sure. A visit to the rose garden hasn’t been brought up again either, and nothing seems interesting enough to explore on your own.

Nodding, you don’t say anything before turning back to watch the men work. They talk and laugh with each other as they prune, pick, and water. You wish that you could trade places with them. 

“You don’t look okay,” she says. Rebecca props herself up on the window ledge to your right, facing you with a suspicious look on her face. “We haven’t seen you at any meals, and Valerie told me that you were crying in the bathtub three nights ago.”

You should feel ashamed, but you’re too numb to care. It feels like you’re floating through each day, detached from most things. You’ve spent your entire life thinking that you would marry for love and live happily ever after. Now, your parents have sold you to the highest bidder and your husband-to-be is a cruel, disgusting man-child that wants nothing to do with you.

Rebecca’s fingers lacing with yours jerk you back to reality and you look down at your joined hands in confusion. Her nails are bitten short and she wears a single ring with the Barnes family crest. It’s dainty and gold, a stark contrast to the many rings on her brother’s fingers.

“You’re safe here, Y/N,” she tells you, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to be alone. I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. If I had any say in it, you could be home right now with your parents, but I’m far from the top of the totem pole.”

“I hate them.” You spit the words out and jerk your hand away from hers. “I hate my parents.”

That’s the first time you’ve ever said that in your entire life and your heart skips a beat as the anger makes your lip curl. You’re baring your teeth at her but Rebecca doesn’t even flinch. She’s a mafia princess, through and through.

“They made me believe that I could have anything I wanted, that I could marry whoever I wanted whenever I was ready, and then they threw that all away and treated me like shit the first time it was convenient for them.”

She nods. “That’s true.”

“I was so foolish to have believed them,” you growl, but the fight in you is fading just as quickly as it came. You burn bright, but you burn quickly, too.

“No,” Rebecca says, shaking her head. “You’re just human.”

You look away, embarrassed by your display of emotion as your eyes begin to water with more tears. You were raised to be reserved. You knew very little about the inner workings of your parents’ business, but you’d learned as a young girl that you’d fare better if you always clung to the edges of the room, avoiding the dirt and grime and blood that surrounded your whole life. Over the years, you’ve grown very good at hiding yourself and your emotions from the people around you. From the spark in her eye, you have the feeling that Rebecca is the exact opposite. She could hold her own if it came down to it. You couldn’t.

“It’s okay to be upset,” she insists.

Shaking your head, you take a deep breath and look back out the window. You lift your chin slightly and when Rebecca tries to rope you into another conversation with her, you ignore her and focus on the men outside. They’re finished tending to the roses on the edges of the garden. Now they’re working their way inwards.

You’re finally left alone a few minutes later and as soon as she’s around the corner, you let out a heavy sigh and relax your posture. Slumping forward, you lean forward into the window ledge, curling up just a little as you continue to watch the gardeners. The silly song from Alice in Wonderland pops into your head and you hum along, eventually mumbling to yourself about painting the roses red.

You feel a little bit like Alice, you realize. You’re out of your element in a strange land where everything you’ve learned about life seems to be turned on its head. In this world, nobody marries for love and the girls are just as entrenched in the business as the men. Does Rebecca conduct business with her father and older brother? You could certainly picture it. Will the same be expected of you?

That afternoon, Marta knocks on your door with a written invitation from Winnifred. Your presence is being formally requested at their dinner table, though from the look the housekeeper is giving you, it’s more of a demand than a request. With her help, you pick out something to wear. By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re crossing the enormous hallway in a dress and heels that you’ve never seen before. It’s far too showy for your taste, but it’s clearly something someone wanted you to wear. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have put it in your closet.

George Barnes and James stand when you enter the dining room, as do several other men you don’t recognize. Your father is standing near the head of the table with George, though your mother and Rebecca are nowhere in sight. Besides Winnifred, you don’t recognize any of the other women. The only empty seat is beside James and your immediate instinct is to flee, but then he’s stepping aside to pull out the chair and all eyes are on you.

Slowly, you close the distance between the two of you and sit. He helps you scoot in, then takes his own seat on your right. The other men sit as well and then dinner resumes. You sit in silence, staring at the top edge of your plate with your hands in your lap. You’re not really listening to the conversations around you, either, but you can feel someone’s eyes on you as you try to stay as quiet and motionless as possible.

“Are you sick or something?”

You startle and look up with wide eyes. James is watching you. He’s got one hand on the table with his fingers brushing the stem of his wineglass and the other resting on his thigh. Unlike your fateful breakfast weeks ago, James is dressed in a neat, all-black suit. He has no tie, and his rings are all gone except one. It’s identical to Rebecca’s family crest, except his is silver and has a thicker band.

His eyes are full of something you can’t place and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. As quickly as you turned to him, you turn away and look back at your plate. The napkin is folded in some elaborate way on top of the plate. You’re not sure if it’s supposed to resemble anything at all, but maybe if you stare at it long enough, it will look like something.

“Y/N?” he prompts. You nod once, tightly, and then pull the heavy cloth napkin into your lap when a server appears to present the first course.

Between the second and third course, you can feel James’ eyes on you. After the third, he gets roped into conversation with a man sitting across the table, but you know that he’s glancing at you all the while. After the fourth, he bumps his arm against yours. You shirk away and feel him tense beside you.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, and you push your chair away from the table. Immediately, the conversations stop and all the men stand again. It’s too much attention on you and you hurry out of the dining room as fast as your heels and dress will allow. You’re stumbling over yourself by the time you get back to your suite on the third floor. The door slams behind you and you collapse onto the floor beside the bed, too overwhelmed to even climb atop the oversized mattress. You’re on the verge of tears when there’s a soft knock from the door, and that rips a sob from your chest that you hadn’t expected.

Immediately, the door opens and James is standing in the open space, a dark look on his face. You sob again and scramble backwards until the edge of the bed frame is digging painfully into your spine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You swallow hard and take several gasping breaths, trying to control yourself. Your mind is spinning with insults, calling you weak and pathetic, and you believe every one.

“It’s just too much,” you answer through your tears. “I don’t want this!”

James huffs. His angry expression has faded, now replaced with something more akin to irritation. “And you think I do?”

You shake your head. “Of course not.”

“These are the cards we’ve been dealt, doll. You’re gonna have to get over it. Let’s just get married and then we can live happily ever after in a big house where we never have to see each other. I’ll do what I want and you can do what you want. Sound like a plan?”

You look down at your hands. A big part of you wants to say that no, it doesn’t sound like a plan. You don’t want that life. You don’t want a house so big that you practically need a golf cart to get from one side to the other. You don’t want a husband who ignores you in favor of his blood money or his side chick or the next shiny toy off the black market. You don’t want James.

Though every part of you is screaming the opposite, you nod. He crosses the room and you inhale sharply to steady yourself as he approaches you with no care. His black dress shoes are tracking dirt across the rug. James holds out a hand to help you up and you take it. The heirloom ring on his right hand digs into yours until you’re standing, and then he drops your hand like it’s on fire.

“We need to go back,” he tells you, and you nod again. “Our parents are pissed.”

“Of course they are,” you mumble. 

James pauses, staring at you critically. You’ve been staring at the baseboards since he helped you up, but when he doesn’t move or speak, you glance upwards at him. He’s got one eyebrow raised. His expression is thoroughly unreadable otherwise and an unsettling feeling blooms in your stomach.

“What?” you ask. You step back a little, but there’s no place to go except up against the bed again.

He shakes his head at you. “Nothing. Come on, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You scrunch your nose. “Anything but that.”

“Sugar?” he offers, and when you shake your head, he sighs. “Well, what do you want me to call you, since you’re suddenly the one calling the shots?”

His words cut deep and you look back down, hating the way shame immediately pools in your belly. How could he seem angry and irritated with you, then borderline kind, and then completely disinterested in your feelings the next? It’s disorienting, and you don’t need that on top of everything else.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

Grabbing your arm in a grip just bordering on painful, James pulls you out of your bedroom and back down the hall. He holds on as you stumble behind him in your heels. When you reach the ground floor hallway again, he drops his hand and offers you his arm. You’re hesitant to take it, but he sighs a little and you decide that it’s easier to give in than to put up a fight.

The two of you walk back into the dining room and the conversations immediately hush. James leads you to your waiting seats, pulls out the chair for you, and then helps you scoot towards the table again once you’re seated. As he takes his spot beside you, your father speaks up.

“Have you and James discussed when you’ll be getting married?” he asks.

You pick up your fork and stare at the strange food on your plate, ignoring him. Though your stomach is churning, you force yourself to take a bite. He can’t expect you to answer while you’re chewing—it would be bad manners.

“Next spring,” James answers. “In the rose garden.”

You want to spit on the roses. You swallow your food instead.

“Good choice,” Mr. Barnes agrees. He turns his attention back to your father. “Your daughter is quite the well-behaved woman. She’ll do well with our James.”

Beside you, James tenses again, his grip tightening slightly on his fork. You glance at him, holding your breath, and wait until he relaxes again to take another bite of your food. 

The rest of the dinner passes with mundane, meaningless conversations. Nobody addresses you for the remainder of the meal, not even your parents, and finally the men begin to make their way out of the dining room to an adjoining room. You hadn’t even realized there was a room connected; the door is hidden amongst the paneling and crown molding on the walls.

“You can’t go in there.” James grabs your wrist as you stand to follow the group of men into the new room. His voice isn’t malicious and his grip isn’t tight, but you flinch away from him anyway. It’s only then that you realize the few women that had been in the room are leaving through the door to the hall with their wineglasses in hand.

“Because I’m a woman?” you counter.

“Because you don’t want to hear the things that they’re going to discuss,” he answers. He tosses his napkin on the table and stands, towering over you. After a long second of eye contact, he steps away from you and heads towards the men.

You watch him go and silently weigh your options. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have even thought about following the men into the second room. You would have simply taken the same path as the other woman, though your wine would have continued to remain untouched. Now, however, with your wine in hand, you stood at a crossroads. You could go into the room and potentially face the wrath of your father, James, and George Barnes, or you could live forever curious as to what was actually being discussed. 

With your mind made up, you down your wine, step around James, and head through the open door into the room. It’s a study with dark wood paneling on the walls, leather couches, and stale cigar smoke in the air. As soon as you enter, the laughter and conversation stop and all eyes land on you.

“Y/N, you should be with Winnie and your mother,” Mr. Barnes says, stepping towards you. James is behind you now and though you’re hedged in, you simply lift your chin at the older man.

“Why? Am I not allowed to know what family I’m marrying into?”

His face darkens. “Girl, I’m warning you—”

“Don’t speak to my wife like that.” James’ voice from over your shoulder startles you and you quickly turn your head, looking back at him with shock. 

Why is he suddenly standing up for me?

“Hold your tongue, James,” his father snaps. “You aren’t married yet, and Y/N needs to learn her place. One would think her father would have taught her better, considering the problems his wife caused.”

Though you hate your parents for what they’ve done to you, your blood boils at the insult. Your anger rears its ugly head even more when you realize that your father doesn’t look intent on standing up for you or your mom, either.

“That’s enough!”

You swear the room rattles around you when James shouts and you grit your teeth, furious at Mr. Barnes. How dare he insult your father? How dare he talk to you and his son that way?

James grabbing your hand shocks you back into reality. Once again, his grip is almost painfully tight, but you force your face to reveal nothing.

“Y/N and I are going out. If I so much as hear that you’ve said a single thing about her in my absence, you will regret ever giving me any kind of power in this business,” he growls. “The next time you see her, I expect that you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.” 

The men stare at you and James in disbelief, and then you find yourself being practically dragged out of the room. You’re too stunned to fight back, so you let him pull you across the ground floor of the estate to a door only two down from the dark room where you’d hit the morning your parents had left you behind.

“We’ll have to take the car, unless you’re okay riding the bike in that dress,” James says, pushing open the door. He doesn’t look back at you as he speaks, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a response.

“Car,” you answer after a few seconds. “Please.”

The room James has led you to is a massive garage, stretching farther than you ever realized a similar room could. Three of the walls are made of light gray cement, as are the floor and ceiling, and the fourth wall is made up of windowed garage doors, each one big enough for several cars to drive through simultaneously. Running down the center of the rectangular garage, there is a row of seven parked cars, with enough space to fit at least another car between each one, and beyond that, you can see a row of several motorcycles parked in a similar manner. The cars are in varying shades of gray and black, with the exception of one red sports car at the far end of the group. You can’t see the bikes well enough from the door, but you catch glimpses of blue, silver, gray, and black.

Four enormous, black and silver tool chests are lined up against the wall facing the hoods of the cars, but there isn’t a spot of oil or dirt in sight. You don’t even see any loose tools or equipment. Looking around, you wonder if the tool chests are just there for decoration, or if someone on the estate actually works on the cars and motorcycles.

Maybe James works on them?

“Are all of these yours?” you ask, unable to help yourself. He seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy driving around for fun, and he’s just mentioned something about a bike. You stare at the side of James’ face as he plucks a set of keys off a black pegboard on the wall. There’s a button embedded in the wall beside the board. James pushes it with one thumb and the keys in his hand bump against the wall.

One of the garage doors near the last few cars starts to roll upwards onto the ceiling, revealing the outside of the estate. The sun has completely disappeared from the sky, and the moonlight is blocked by the clouds you’d seen rolling in earlier in the afternoon. The leaves of the large shade trees that surround the estate and form a protective shield from the outside world rustle in the wind. Crickets and cicadas chirp, reminding you of the cool spring nights you’d spent on your family estate as a little girl. You’d run around in the grass near the garden while your mom or your nanny watched you. Sometimes your father’s men would watch from the perimeter of the property, and when you’d wave, they’d wave back, asking what you’d done that day. You always answered them, even if you knew it would get you in trouble. They never stopped asking either, even if it got them in trouble, too.

You stop walking and close your eyes, then breathe in deeply as the night air rushes into the garage. It’s the first time you’ve been even close to the outdoors since arriving at the Barnes Estate. Your skin is still warm from the stifling dining room and the anger you’d felt in the men’s study. The breeze is a blessed relief, even if you do shiver after only a moment. Goosebumps form on your exposed skin—the dress Marta had picked out for you did little to keep you safe from the elements. 

James keeps walking down the aisle formed by the wall and the front of the cars, though you hear his footsteps pause a few moments after you stop following him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You’re a little surprised that he’s not demanding that you catch up. When you open your eyes, you immediately meet his gaze, and a weird feeling bubbles up in your stomach. The expression on his face betrays little, but his stare reminds you of the way your father’s men looked at you all those years ago—interested and almost fond, but ready to push you away at a moment’s notice. You nod and hurry to catch up with him.

Once you get closer, James presses a button on the key fob in his hand. One of the cars in front of the open garage door rumbles to life. The sound it makes is a low purr, almost seductive, and you raise an eyebrow as James approaches, then runs his fingers over the hood. Even if the others aren’t, this car has to be his. It’s a sleek black, with dark tinted windows and a gleaming silver grill in the front. The BMW logo shines proudly in the center. It looks like a car your own father would own. Though you know he’s never owned a BMW, if this car is anything like the ones in your father’s fleet, you know that the inside will be as much a picture of luxury as the outside.

You slide into the passenger seat when James opens the door for you, and in the time it takes him to cross around the front of the car to the driver’s side, you take inventory of the interior. It’s a manual transmission—something your father once said was obsolete, except for car collectors and enthusiasts—which means that you wouldn’t be able to drive it, even if you tried. The car is pristine, so much so that you’re afraid to move. Two water bottles are in the cupholders, and it still smells brand new inside. There isn’t a speck of dirt or dust on the dashboard, nor on the floor mats. The leather seat is soft and there’s a control for seat warming and cooling on the control panel.

James climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. He buckles up and you follow his lead, and then you sit back as he reverses the car out of the garage and onto a winding driveway that leads you around the front of the estate, then along the other side to a large gate with a guard house. You’d forgotten about the extensive security since the last time you’d been outside the Barnes Estate. Your father had handed over your driver’s license, along with his and your mother’s, before breakfast all those weeks ago, and there’d been a strange code word of some kind. It dawns on you as the guard opens the gate for you and James that you’d never gotten your license back.

“Where are we going?” you ask as James pulls onto the main road. It leads away from the estate and into the city. 

“To get some real food,” he replies. His tone is gruff, and it feels like he’s on the verge of an angry outburst, so you slump back in your seat as he shifts gears and the car accelerates. The tension in the car is thick. You don’t want to be the one to deal with it, especially since he’s the one creating it.

After several minutes of watching the enormous mansions and the forests surrounding them pass by, you look over at James again. His expression, just like in the garage, reveals nothing, but you can tell that he’s more put-together than the last time you’d interacted, and it’s not just the tailored suit. His hair has been trimmed and styled, and he has an even dusting of stubble that frames his jawline nicely.

In the time since you’d learned you were engaged, James hasn’t said anything to you. You’ve heard him talking in the hallways as you wandered, but you haven’t wanted to be near him. This is the closest you’ve ever been. Your brief conversations so far tonight make up the majority of the words you’ve spoken to each other. His words from the bedroom echo in your head, until finally, you can’t help but blurt out your thoughts.

“Do you really not want to marry me?” you ask. Your voice sounds small and pathetic, and you hate it, but it’s too late now. 

He glances over at you with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. “What do you mean?”

You sit up a little in the seat, though you keep your hands in your lap and you try not to move your feet, just in case there’s dirt on your shoes.

“I mean,” you say, watching him carefully for his reaction, “that when you came to get me upstairs, you said you didn’t want to marry me. Is that really true?”

“I never said that.” He shifts gears again as you near a stoplight, and the car slows. 

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” he shifts again, his teeth now clenched, “I didn’t. I asked if it looked like I wanted to marry you, and you said it didn’t. But I never said I didn’t want to.”

Now you’re confused, and you frown at him, ignoring the obvious irritation in his voice. The car rolls to a stop behind a Ferrari blasting music out the open windows. 

“So you do want to marry me?” you ask. 

He sighs and drops his hand from the gear shift, then looks over at you. “Y/N, I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do, so if this is you testing to see how I’ll treat you, then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not a monster.”

“It’s not. I just…” You stop, unsure of how to phrase what you’re feeling. It’s strange to be upset over a marriage you don’t even want, but for some reason, you are. 

“What?”

“If you don’t want to marry me and I don’t want to marry you, then why are we going along with this?” you finally ask, settling for the bigger question than the one that’s truly nagging at you.

“Because we know that if we don’t, life will be hell,” he answers.

It’s the truth. You know it is, and you know it deep down. If the two of you refuse this marriage, your life will be worse than you could possibly imagine, and you’re fairly certain that your fathers will find a way to make it happen anyhow. They’re well-connected in every sphere of life, not just when it comes to drugs and weapons. Your father probably has a priest on his payroll.

The light turns green and James moves the car forward again, merging into the right lane almost immediately. He slows as you approach a valet stand outside an upscale bar you’ve never heard of. It’s not one of your father’s, which means it probably belongs to George Barnes.

Then again, you think as a uniformed man opens your door, maybe it belongs to James.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Barnes,” a valet on the other side of the car greets.

James hands him the keys. “You too, Tommy. Listen, don’t park it too far off. We’re not staying too long.”

The man nods and climbs into the driver’s seat as your own valet leads you away from the curb. James meets you next to the valet stand and offers you his arm, then heads towards the doors.

“What is this place?” you ask as he holds open the door for you.

“My friend’s bar,” James says.

Your stomach twists itself in knots as heavy club music starts to get louder. The bass rumbles in your chest and you dig your nails into his arm as you near a set of glossy black double doors. You haven’t been to a club in a long time. The last time you’d gone, you’d been dragged by a childhood acquaintance, but you’d spent most of the night alone after she’d ditched you for someone she met on the dance floor. You’re not particularly eager to relive that experience tonight, especially with the man you’re being forced to marry. Who’s to say he won’t ditch you for someone else right in front of you, just to rub it in your face? After all, he’d said it himself in the bedroom—you’ll do what you want and he’ll do what he wants. It’s the cards you’ve been dealt.

If these are the cards, then I’ve got a sucky hand.

“James—”

“Bucky.”

You stop and squint at him in the low light of the entrance hallway. The two bouncers in all-black suits stop with their hands on the door handles, ready to open them for you once you start walking again. The music pounds in your ears, so much so that you can feel your eardrums vibrating.

“What?” you ask, not sure you’d heard him correctly.

“Bucky,” repeats James, a little louder this time. “You should call me Bucky, if we’re going to be married.”

“Is that… a nickname?” 

Even in the darkness, you can see him laugh, and a bashful, boyish smile spreads across his face. “My middle name is Buchanan. Steve used to tease me about it when we were kids, and he started calling me Bucky as a joke. It caught on.” He shrugs it off, but there’s a fondness in his voice when he speaks of his childhood friend, and it makes you smile just a little.

You loosen your grip on his arm. “Okay then. Bucky,” you add.

When Bucky steps forward again, the doors are pulled open, revealing a much more casual bar than you could’ve anticipated. Though it’s clean, it looks a little run down, and the heavy music fades into jazz piano as you step through the open doorway and into the large, open space. With almost cathedral-height ceilings, walnut floors and support pillars, and well-worn wooden booths and tables, the bar feels more homier than you’d expected. It’s clearly been well-hidden from the busy crowds of New York. Only a few patrons are scattered around the room, sitting in the booths or at two-top tables, but Bucky leads you to the wood, u-shaped bar that juts out into the room from the back wall. A single man stands behind it, drying glasses with a white bar towel. He smiles when he looks up and sees you approaching.

“Bucky,” he greets, and he reaches over the bar to pull Bucky in for a hug. It’s the first time you see Bucky smile—a real, full, genuine smile—and you watch in silence as he hugs his friend.

“Steve,” Bucky replies. Instantly, your brain starts connecting the dots. This is his childhood friend, the one who gave him his nickname.

“Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil.” Steve turns his attention to you, and you quickly look away from Bucky and at him. Your brain whirs as you try to place the language he’s just spoken. It’s not one you’ve heard before, which means none of your father’s men speak it, and neither do any of the Barneses.

“You must be Y/N.”

You nod and offer Steve a small, polite smile. You’re not sure how to act around Bucky’s friends. If they’re also part of the mob, it’s possible they’ll treat you even worse than George Barnes had after dinner, but a new, surprising voice in your head argues that Bucky would never be friends with someone like that.

“It’s okay,” reassures Bucky. He reaches out and touches your arm, gentler than he has all evening. “Steve’s a nice guy, and he knows about our family businesses. You can trust him.”

Steve looks between the two of you before picking up a glass and setting it right-side-up in front of you. “What’ll it be, Y/N?”

You glance at him, then at the wall of liquor behind him. After a moment, you list off a drink that’s not your favorite, but that you know you’ll be able to stomach no matter the circumstances. Steve nods in response before starting to make it.

Silently, Bucky takes one of the chairs at the bar, and you do the same. He sits with his arms folded on the counter. He’s still wearing his suit from dinner. You feel a little out of place in your fancy clothes, and you wonder if he feels the same.

Your drink is placed in front of you a moment later, and after Steve’s silent prompting, you take a sip. It’s delicious, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“Aha, I’ve still got it!” Steve cheers, and you laugh. He grins at you, a charming type of smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You feel a little sheepish at the intensity of his joy, and you fidget in your seat, then with your hair.

Beside you, Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a round paper coaster at his friend. “Knock it off, Rogers,” he huffs. “Stop flirting with my girl. You’ve already got one of your own.”

You glance over when he calls you that, but you don’t say anything. There’s another weird feeling in your gut now. This one, unlike the one you’d had in the car or the fluttering feeling Steve had given you, you recognize immediately—pride. It feels good to have Bucky call you “his girl”, even if you barely know him. It’s strange, and the thought makes you squirm in your seat again. You drop your hand down to the bartop and take another sip of your drink, trying to quell the strange feelings inside of you. 

What is going on with me? Why can’t I just feel normal about all of this? Is there even a normal way to feel about this?

“You hungry?” asks Bucky, and you nod when you realize he’s talking to you again.

“I make a mean twice-baked potato,” Steve says. He plants his hands on the bar to look between the two of you. “Whaddaya say, Y/N? You up for it?”

“Only if you put the jalapeños on the side this time, punk,” Bucky tells him before you can reply. He seems to remember himself a second later, however, because he looks over at you. “Unless, of course, you want them on top.”

You shrug, not wanting to upset anyone, and Steve groans.

“Come on, Y/N,” he says, and he smiles wide as he gestures around the almost-empty bar. “I’ve got all the time in the world to make your food exactly the way you want it. Don’t make me guess.”

“He’s bad at guessing,” Bucky chimes in.

“Terrible,” Steve adds, nodding earnestly.

Tentatively, you list off what you want, and Steve makes a note of everything on a notepad that seems to appear out of nowhere. Once he’s got your order down, he disappears through a door in the back wall. Before it closes, you catch a glimpse of a shining kitchen filled with stainless steel, and you wonder how many patrons come through the bar if Steve has what looks to be a full-sized kitchen in the back.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured I’d bring you someplace that actually has good food,” Bucky says. He reaches across the bar to grab a bottle of beer Steve has left out, and he uses one hand to pry the top off. 

You gape at him, too distracted by the blatant show of strength to properly process the very thoughtful thing he’s just said to you. “What?”

“I said that you didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured—”

“You just pulled the top off like it was nothing. How did you do that?” You look around on Steve’s side of the bar for another bottle, hoping to try your luck. Maybe it’s some new kind of bottle that he’s trying out before it hits the market, or maybe Steve has bootleg beer with a different kind of cap.

Bucky is staring at you, seemingly just as confused as you. “With my arm.”

“With your arm?” you repeat. You’re certain that he’d used his hand to pry it off.

He stares at you for a second longer before the confusion disappears and is replaced with a glint of mischief in his eyes. It makes the shadows on his face melt away a little, and his blue irises seem bright and youthful again, entirely unlike a man who’s seen too much.

“My arm,” he reiterates, and then he pulls off the black glove you’d assumed to be part of his personal style. It’s not just for show, however, because he pulls it off to reveal a black metal hand with dull gold knuckles. Bucky continues, standing and shrugging off his jacket, then rolling up the sleeve of his button-down shirt. As he reveals more and more, you realize that the black metal continues, making up what would be his left arm.

No wonder it hurt when he grabbed me.

“It’s metal,” you dumbly say, and he snorts.

“Observant.”

You shake your head and look from his arm to meet his eyes. “You have a metal arm. How didn’t I know that?”

Bucky shrugs and drapes his jacket over the back of the chair. He leaves the glove on the bar where he’d first set it down. Once he’s seated again, he rolls up his other sleeve to match.

“Beats me. I figured everyone knew. My dad wasn’t subtle when he was bragging about the arm he had made for me when it first happened,” replies Bucky. He takes a sip of his beer, then sighs and sets it back down.

You don’t want to pity him, so you try your best to school your expression by taking a sip of your own drink.

“Was it an accident?” you ask after a minute has passed. He doesn’t reply right away, and you scramble to save the conversation. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen,” he says, and his voice is quieter than before.

You look back down at the drink in front of you. Twisting the glass around and around, you ask, “And it was an accident?”

Bucky takes another swig of his beer. “I was with my dad, working a job. I didn’t even realize I’d been injured until I woke up in the hospital, two weeks later, missing an arm. Apparently, falling shipping containers are heavy.”

You can’t help but curse. What he’s describing sounds horrible, but Bucky only laughs.

“That sounds about right, yeah. I’m lucky I had Steve around to keep me sane,” he tells you. “My friend Sam was a big help too, but he moved down to Louisiana a few years ago.”

“Steve seems like a good friend,” you agree. “They both do.”

You can feel Bucky staring at you now, and you take a sip of your drink while you wait for him to look away again. When he doesn’t, you glance in his direction.

“What?” you ask.

“What?”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” you laugh, and you look at him fully this time. Bucky’s grinning, and you ball up a cocktail napkin and toss it at him.

“Okay, I was staring,” he admits, still smiling. “But I can’t help it. You’re pretty, and you’re nice, and you seem smart.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm at the compliment, and you look away. “You don’t have to say that. We’re already engaged.”

“I’m not saying it because we’re engaged. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

You don’t have a chance to reply before Steve comes out with two hot plates. He places them in front of you, joking briefly about giving you the wrong order, and it’s distraction enough that you sit up tall and smile wide. You push Bucky’s compliment out of your head as you chow down, groaning and moaning about the potatoes. They’re exactly what you need after the stressful dinner. Bucky was right—you hadn’t eaten much, and Steve’s cooking is delicious.

Once you’re full, you push your plate away and lean back in your chair. Steve grins at you before he goes back to counting the cash drawer. The other patrons have left already, leaving you, Steve, and Bucky alone in the bar.

“That was amazing,” you tell him for the hundredth time, and Steve chuckles.

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell mo bhean chéile—my wife—you said that, considering she still believes potatoes aren’t a meal.”

You notice the wedding band on his left hand as soon as he says it. Above it, also in silver, is a familiar ring. If you weren’t able to see the family crest, you would’ve thought it was the same as Bucky’s, but this ring has an eagle and a star engraved on it, rather than the wolf you’ve seen on Rebecca and Bucky’s rings.

“Potatoes are a meal!” you argue. You can tell that Steve has clocked you looking at his rings because he shifts his hand, instinctively blocking your view as he looks for your own ring. You’d taken your parent’s ring off the day you’d cried in the bathtub and you haven’t worn it since, but no one in Bucky’s family has replaced it with their own. It’s the first time since middle school that you haven’t worn a family ring, and you’d be lying if you said it was a weight off your shoulders. You’d thought it might be, but instead it just makes you feel naked.

Steve laughs and his posture relaxes. He stops hiding his rings from you when he realizes your hands are bare. “Well, whenever you meet her, you can have that argument with her, because I’ve already had it at least a dozen times.” He closes the drawer and fixes his eyes on Bucky, who’s just finishing his food. “Speaking of, when are you two coming over? I promised Peg I’d wait until Y/N had settled in to ask, and you seem settled enough to me.” He glances at you for the last part, and you look down at your empty plate.

“It’s not up to me,” answers Bucky. “We’ll come over whenever Y/N is ready. This is the first time we’ve been together since my dad dropped the bomb on us.”

Steve pauses, his hands on the tablet he’d set down before starting to count the night’s profits. “Wait. Really?”

You nod when he looks at you, suddenly self-conscious again, and you pull your hands into your lap. “I haven’t been the best house guest…”

“You’re not a guest, Y/N. It’s your home now, too,” Bucky interjects.

Reaching over the counter, Steve smacks the side of Bucky’s head. His accent is thick when he huffs, “Íosa Críost, you thick! You didn’t think to go talk to her? To see if she wanted to watch a movie? To see if she needed anything?”

Bucky stammers over in his seat, and you keep your head ducked to hide your smile. Clearly, Steve knows more about being married than Bucky does—most likely from experience, since he’s already mentioned his wife—and he isn’t afraid to tell his friend off for not looking out for your well-being.

“I’m sorry!” exclaims Bucky, ducking another hit. “I wasn’t thinking!”

“Like ifreann you weren’t!” Steve retreats and picks up the tablet with a huff, then looks at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with him. He’s actually a nice guy when he’s not being stupid.”

“Stupid?” Bucky protests beside you.

“I wouldn’t have talked to him even if he’d tried,” you admit, finally looking up, “but it wouldn’t have hurt if he had.”

Steve nods, satisfied with your response. He leaves you a minute later when his phone rings. The wide smile on his face is enough to tell you who’s on the other end, but then he says her name as he walks away, the phone already held to his ear.

“So what’s with this place?” you ask. The quick change in subject is purposeful, and you hope that Bucky will take the bait.

Thankfully, he does. Bucky glances around before finishing off the last of his drink and setting the empty bottle closer to Steve’s side of the bar.

“Well, Steve wanted a place that we—and other people like us—could spend time without feeling like there was always a fight about to happen. We didn’t have that growing up, you know? And now that he’s in charge, he can do what he wants with his money. Everything’s filed properly, he doesn’t advertise, and all employees are paid above the table. If other people show up, then sure, they’re welcomed in, but they’re also fully vetted once Steve gets their IDs. Weapons aren’t allowed, and there’s no shop talk of any kind.”

“So it’s your little hideaway,” you say, propping your head up with one hand. The heaviness of the potatoes combined with the alcohol is starting to make you sleepy, and the emotional exhaustion from the night has started to weigh heavy on you, too.

He smiles a little. “Something like that.”

Bucky stands and rolls his sleeves back down, then pulls on his glove. He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and sets it on the bar.

“Come on, doll. We should head home,” he says.

The warm feeling you’d felt when Bucky had called you his girl comes back, and you smile a little when he holds open his suit jacket for you. A little sheepish at the gesture, you slide off your seat and let him help you into the sleeves, then take Bucky’s hand when he offers it.

“Bye Steve!” you call, waving with your free hand.

Steve looks up from the other end of the bar, where he’s wiping down a counter with one hand and holding his phone with the other. He lets go of the rag to wave back.

Silently, Bucky leads you out to the front, where the valet already has his car pulled up. You’re not sure how they knew to have it ready, but you don’t dwell on it. Stranger things have happened in your world. Bucky tips the valets with another wad of cash before opening the passenger door and helping you in.

You fall asleep on the drive home. You don’t mean to, but Bucky turns on the radio a few minutes into the drive, and he lets the first station that comes on continue to play. The music is soft, and he drives so smoothly that it lulls you to sleep before you’re even fully out of the city.

When you wake, it’s because Bucky’s stubbed his toe on something, jostling you in his arms. He’s muttering curses under his breath and hobbling down the hallway, and though the jerking motion and his tightening grip isn’t the most comfortable for you at the moment, you keep your eyes closed and force yourself to keep your smile at bay. Bucky is a much sweeter guy than you’d first thought him to be, and it seems like he’s trying now to make up for lost time. You’d misjudged him at first; just like you, he has his own ways of dealing with the life forced on him by his parents, but he really is a gentleman underneath it all.

He carries you to your bedroom and carefully lays you on top of the covers. Then, as gently as possible, you feel him lift your foot and pry off the uncomfortable shoes Marta had picked out for you. Bucky stays totally silent as he takes the shoes off and sets them on the floor at the end of the bed. He pulls a thin blanket over you, one that you’re sure is just for decoration when the bed is made, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. You have to force yourself not to smile when he whispers,

“Goodnight, sleep tight.”

The door clicks shut as he closes it slowly, and you peek open an eye after a few seconds have passed. Your room is dark and empty. Silently, you smile to yourself and crawl under the covers, your eyes heavy. It’s been a long, exhausting evening, and you’re happy to be in bed. You fall asleep to the sound of spring rain on the estate windows and with Bucky’s jacket still wrapped around you.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky slowly enters your life in both big and small ways. He smiles at you over meals in the dining room and late night snacks in the kitchen. He drives you to the city to visit Steve, Peggy, and his other friends, and when he finds out that his father still has your license, Bucky argues with him for over an hour to get it back. Marta delivers your license to your room the very next day, along with a handwritten note that the dark blue Mercedes in the garage is there for your use. Sometimes, you wake up to a bouquet of flowers with another handwritten note. Sometimes it’s a text, and sometimes it’s a gift. Bucky develops a habit of purchasing anything you mention enjoying or even vaguely liking, and you eventually have to tell him to stop because he’s bought you so much that there’s nothing left to buy for yourself.

Bucky turns out to be a closer friend than anyone you’ve ever known. He’s kind, and funny, and intelligent, and he remembers all the little things about you that nobody else does. When you’re sick or feeling lonely, he’s attentive and his presence alone reminds you of all the good things in the world. He makes your days brighter, even the worst ones. You find yourself falling in love with him, much to your surprise. You admit this to him one day. He kisses you then, and he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first trip you’d taken to Steve’s bar. 

Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas roll around. New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and Easter come and go. The Barnes’ grand celebrations for every holiday blur together as the months fly by, until eventually, it’s June and you’re standing in your room, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The wedding dress you’d picked out a few days after Christmas is just as beautiful as you remember it being. It fits you perfectly, thanks to the impeccable work of several tailors employed by Winnifred, and your hair and makeup are flawless as well. There’s no possible way you could’ve imagined how beautiful you look and feel on your wedding day. 

Through the open window, you can hear a string quartet playing outside in the rose garden, where the ceremony is set up. Steve has already come by once to check on you at Bucky’s request, but both men are back downstairs. Bucky’s no doubt at the front of the garden with the priest—the one that you now know for certain is on your father’s payroll—and Steve is waiting with the rest of the wedding party. The only people remaining in your room are Marta, your mother, and Peggy. 

You’ve grown to love Peggy more than any of your childhood friends. She didn’t grow up in the same world as you. She didn’t even grow up in the same country, and you love her all the more for it. She’s rational, cool-headed, and kind, though she’s not afraid to stand up for what’s right. On top of all that, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. It’s easy to see why Steve fell for her during his time in the military.

The quartet finishes the song and moves onto a new one, one that you recognize after only two notes. Your stomach drops and you close your eyes, gripping your bouquet tightly. It’s the song you’d been listening to the morning you’d found out about your engagement. You’d discovered it the night before, and you’d had it on repeat before going to sleep that night, then again that morning as you’d gotten ready. You’d even listened to it in the car on the drive from your parents’ estate.

Who added this to the playlist? Is this some kind of sick joke to them?

The same feeling of dread you’d felt that morning comes back, making your mouth dry and your head spin. You try to take a slow, deep breath to calm your nerves and block out the song, but it doesn’t work.

“Y/N?” Peggy asks.

You inhale sharply at the sound of her voice so close to you. She’d been texting Steve from near the window only moments before. You hadn’t thought that anyone would realize your distress, and you’d hoped to be able to collect yourself before it was noticeable. You hadn’t even sensed her coming closer.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, but your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers. You try to take another slow breath.

“What’s going on?” Marta asks. Her hand lands on your arm and you pull away, closing in yourself and pulling the bouquet tight against you.

Your mother’s scolding makes you feel like you’re a little kid again. “Careful, Y/N! You don’t want to ruin those flowers. We don’t have time to make another bouquet for you. George is already hounding your father about how soon after the ceremony you’ll be signing the certificate.”

Anger wells up in you at her thoughtless comment, and you open your eyes. She’s standing behind you in the main part of the bedroom, near the foot of your bed. Any guilt you might’ve felt over ruining the flowers is gone now, and you turn and chuck the bouquet at the carpet by her feet. It bounces once, then lays motionless in a heap of smashed petals and ribbons.

“Enough, Mother!” you shout.

Marta rushes to close the window so the guests in the garden won’t hear your outburst.

Your mother gapes at you, somewhat surprised, but she doesn’t budge. “Y/N, dear. What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you yell, stepping closer. Your dress swishes as you walk, and you normally enjoy the sound, but you’re too furious to care how pleasing it is. “What are you doing? I am your only daughter! You should be treating me like a princess and worrying about how I’m feeling and what I need, but instead you’re too busy thinking about the damn flowers! I’m sick of you thinking of me like I’m an object you can sell, steal, and trade away whenever it’s most convenient! You and Dad are so obsessed with the timeline you’ve created for yourselves that you don’t even notice how much this has affected me! You didn’t even ask if this is what I wanted!”

She scoffs at you, and any trace of motherly care and concern has disappeared from her expression. Your mother is showing her true face—the mafia wife that has almost as much blood on her own hands as her husband does, if not more.

“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” she asks. She picks up her clutch from the end of your bed and steps closer until you're standing eye to eye. Her voice is patronizing and infuriating, and she continues, “It’s your wedding day, dearest, and you can’t back out now. We’ve made sure of it. Even James has agreed to the contract.” 

Your anger wavers. “Contract?”

“Yes, the contract,” she repeats, smirking. Her cards are all on the table now, and she’s got a winning hand. You both know it.

There’s a malicious glint in her eye as she says, “It’s already in effect. It has been since we agreed on the marriage.”

“What contract? What are you talking about?” There’s a sinking feeling in your chest, like your heart has decided to drop into your stomach, then down to your feet and through the floor. Bucky hadn’t said anything to you about a contract, and you trusted him, but you certainly didn’t trust your parents anymore, nor did you trust George and Winnifred Barnes.

Your mother smiles, a sickeningly sweet smile that makes you want to puke. “That’s a conversation for another time. After all, it doesn’t even matter to you until James gets you pregnant.”

The alarm on your phone rings and you close your eyes, your hands trembling. You’d set that alarm to remind you when it was time to leave for the ceremony. Right on cue, the wedding planner knocks on the door to your bedroom.

“Y/N?” she calls, knocking again. “Are you ready?”

Slowly, you squat down and pick up the bouquet. It’s smashed on one side and the petals have fallen off of various flowers, but it’s mostly intact. It shakes as your hands tremble and tears well up in your eyes.

Marta appears in front of you, having pushed your mother out of the way, and over the ringing in your ears, you hear Peggy talking to the wedding planner. Somehow, you make it out to the ground floor of the estate, to the double doors that lead out to the rose garden. You’re dazed by your mother’s strange revelation. The sound of the alarm is still ringing in your ears. Peggy says something to you, but you can only stare straight ahead. 

Your father is next to you then, as Peggy disappears through the doors and joins the rest of the wedding party. You see her glancing back at you, and whispering to the rest of the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Most of them are Bucky’s friends who have now become your own, and all of them look worried. 

“Let’s go, princess,” your father says, and he pulls you forward by the arm.

Numbly, you follow his lead. Not even Bucky’s initially delighted expression shakes you out of your trance, but the way he rubs his thumb over your hands at the end of the aisle pulls you out of it just enough for you to lift your head and look around. You don’t remember walking to him, nor do you remember handing off your bouquet to Peggy, just like you’d practiced last night at the rehearsal.

“Y/N? Darling?” Bucky asks. He crouches and tilts his head slightly to try to catch your eyes. “You okay?”

“I—” Your mouth is still dry and you swallow, your eyes flitting from one place in the garden to another with no rhyme or reason. The world feels like it’s spinning and you clutch Bucky’s hands, unsure of what to do.

“Someone get her a chair,” Bucky orders, raising his voice enough that you flinch. He immediately starts murmuring reassurances to you, and he pulls you into his arms until he can lower you into a seat.

Someone fans you and a cool glass is pressed to your lips. You drink obediently, closing your eyes as the water helps the sandy feeling in your mouth abate just a little. When the water is gone, the glass is pulled away. 

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Bucky asks. 

Slowly, carefully, you nod your head. He sighs in relief and when you open your eyes, he’s kneeling down in front of you. His shoulders are tense and his forehead is creased with worry. You’ve never seen him this stressed over anything and it makes you want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, heat flaming in your cheeks. You feel horrible. Bucky has been looking forward to the ceremony—he’d told you last night at the rehearsal dinner.

“It’s okay,” he quickly replies. He reaches forward and takes your hands, and you glance away from him to peek at the guests, your parents included, who are still watching you from their seats.

“Are you ready for this, or do you need a break?” 

You look back at Bucky. “A break?”

“She’s fine,” your mother says, and you look over at her from your seat. She’s standing in the front row, her eyes fixated on the priest behind you. “They’re fine, Father. Y/N’s been a bit nervous all morning. Wedding day jitters, you know.”

“I—” You frown at her, still clutching Bucky’s hands. “That’s not what it is.” You look down at him and shake your head. “I’m not nervous to marry you.”

“I’m not nervous either,” he says with a small smile. 

“Then shall we continue?” the priest asks.

You turn to shake your head at him. “No. I’m sorry, Father. I need to talk to Bucky—James—in private for just a minute. Is that alright?”

He smiles gently and nods. “Of course.”

There are more agitated murmurs from the crowd, but you ignore them as Peggy, Steve, and Bucky help you up and back down the aisle. When your mother moves to follow you, she’s blocked by Sam and Clint, another one of Bucky’s friends. She calls after you once, but you ignore her as Peggy helps you onto a bench inside, then leaves, closing the double doors behind herself. She’s handed back your bouquet, and you clutch it with both hands like it’s an anchor in the storm.

“Is everything okay?” Bucky asks. He stands near the door, and you can tell from the way he rolls his shoulders that he’s stressed. His prosthetic always bothers him more when he’s agitated, and you suddenly feel even worse about stopping the ceremony.

“Yes,” you say, but then you shake your head. “No, I’m sorry. Obviously, it’s not, or I wouldn’t have stopped everything. I’m sorry, Bucky, but I have to ask you something.”

“Okay…” There’s a wariness in his eyes, one that you loathe yourself for. You put it there, and you wish with all your might that your mother hadn’t told you what she did. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to do this.

“Did you sign a contract? With our parents?”

He frowns and his whole body grows very still. “A contract?”

You nod. “Yes.” With your hands still fisted tightly around the bouquet, you inhale deeply and add, “A contract about getting me pregnant.”

“What?” Bucky’s furious response is immediate. He shakes his head, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you might be making this up. “Y/N, what are you talking about?”

“Did you sign a contract agreeing to marry me, and agreeing that my parents get something after you get me pregnant?” The words make you sick to your stomach. You haven’t eaten anything all day, which doesn’t help, but the thought of Bucky agreeing to something so vile… It’s enough to make anyone nauseous.

He’s shaking his head at you again. “Why the hell would I sign anything like that? Do you really think I would do that?”

You shrug a little and look down at the bouquet. “My mother…”

“Darling…” Bucky sighs and comes closer, and he kneels down in front of you again, just like he had outside. All the fight and anger has left his voice. “I would never do anything like that. Not in a million years, and especially not to you. I love you.”

“She said you signed it before they’d even told me we were engaged,” you said, quiet now that he’s so close. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, to see what his face might be telling you that his words aren’t.

“Can you look at me? Please?”

Reluctantly, you lift your eyes from the flowers in your lap to meet Bucky’s eyes. They’re just as blue as the ribbons wrapped around the flower stems, a choice you’d specifically made without the wedding planner’s guidance. You’d wanted him to be your “something blue”, even if it felt a little cheesy.

“Do you want to marry me?” Bucky asks.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “Yes.”

“Do you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with that contract? That I didn’t know it existed?” he questions.

You nod again, tears forming in your eyes.

“And do you trust me to help you find a way to get rid of it, once all of this is over? Do you trust me to protect you?”

You nod for the third time, and Bucky takes both of your hands in his.

“Okay. Then let’s get married, and I swear to you that as soon as our honeymoon is over, the guys and I will start doing some digging.”

“What about me?” you ask, sniffling. You pull one of your hands away to dab at your eyes before the makeup can get too damaged by your tears.

“What about you?”

“Can I dig, too?”

Bucky chuckles and kisses your knuckles on the hand that he’s holding, and then he pulls himself up off the floor to sit beside you on the bench. He pulls you into a half-hug and you cling to him, sniffling and smiling as he rubs the your back and answers,

“You can do all the digging you want, doll. I’ll even hand you the shovel.”

Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil. = It’s good to see you.

Mo bhean chéile = My wife

Íosa Críost = Jesus Christ

Thick = A stupid person

Ifreann = Hell

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

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Forever: @aya-fay

Bucky Barnes: @lipstickandvibranium @valhalla-kristin @buckymcbuckbarnes

[rainydayathogwarts]

Watch don't touch - Eddie (bf) x reader x Steve

Behold, the Eddie munson fic that will break the internet... Summary: Eddie loves to show people what they want but can't have. Steve just happens to want you, Eddie's precious girlfriend. Warnings: Semi-public sex, voyeurism, hand job, fingering. 1.7k wc

"Have you guys had sex yet?" The question comes from Steve, pointedly looking at you and Eddie cuddling on the floor, your backs leant on the outside couch in Steve's big backyard, the cool wind causing ripples in the perfectly blue pool. Robin snorts from where she sits on the couch above you, but you're all too drunk to notice that the question might be too personally invasive. "Well... mhm-" You start, not knowing how to give him a proper answer. "Technically," Eddie cuts in "No. But many orgasms have been involved in this relationship." Nancy straightens up from where she's sat facing you guys "What so you're just constantly giving each other head?"

You can almost feel Eddie grin widely, the hand resting on your hip giving it a soft squeeze. "I mean that, amongst other things. But you can't blame me, you'd be in the same position if you got a taste of this pussy." The way Eddie delivers the line almost takes away the sexual nature of his words, but you gasp in shock nonetheless, separating from him slightly to slap him on the arm. Eddie laughs at the attempt to silently scold him, instead leaning down to press his lips to yours in a kiss you immediately reciprocate. You're both too busy exchanging saliva to notice the way both Robin and Steve perk up at Eddie's words, now tempted by you.

They unashamedly stare while you kiss, ignoring the scoff Nancy gives them, with the quiet mutter of "pervs", though it seems she doesn't look away either. The first words to come out of Eddie's mouth when you break the kiss are "You should see how loud she gets when you hit the right spot. I'd let you have a taste, but no one gets to touch my girl." It's the way that Eddie holds eye contact with you even though his words are aimed at Steve that has your juices pooling in your panties and your thighs unconsciously clench, exposed by your short denim skirt just enough to attract the eyes of the onlookers. "Eddie." Your whisper comes out as more of a whine, and you feel your cheeks flush. You turn towards him, both hands coming up to clutch his arm as you dig your face into his shoulder.

One of his hands slithers down to rest in between your thighs, dangerously high to your pussy, already radiating heat from how horny you are. "She gets shy now but later... a whole different person, aren't you sweetheart?" He pecks your lips quickly and you whine louder than you should when he pulls away. "No one gets to touch your girl but it seems you're pretty intent on showing her off." Eddie hums in agreement at Steve's comment, leaning down to pepper kisses on your neck. "Love showing people what they want but can't have." His words come out muffled against your skin and tickle your neck slightly so you squirm away from him, but both of his strong arms wrap around your waist before you can get far and pull you back against his front.

"What do you want Steve?" The loud sigh that comes from him has you both peering up at him curiously, only to find him staring directly at you. "What I can't have." He brings up his can of beer to take a big gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows. You feel the blood rush to your face at his shameless reply, glancing up at Eddie when he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "You like that answer sweetheart? King Steve wants you so bad." Impossibly, you feel your face flush even more, shifting to try and hide your face away in your boyfriend's chest.

There's a long pause that follows, in which Eddie and Steve exchange a very specific look. The loud doorbell of Steve's rich parents' house rings, breaking everyone out of their weird trance and Nancy scrambles up to get it, yelling out "Robin that's our ride!" Robin hesitates, taking her time to follow the other girl, and Eddie wastes no time in digging his face in the crook of your neck, immediately nibbling at the soft skin, pressing kisses in between. The sound of the door slamming shut is Eddie's go sign for his hands to start wandering. "Eds" You breathe out, legs unconsciously spreading slightly.

Steve's eyes widen as Eddie reaches for the zipper of your skirt, carefully beginning to tug the denim fabric down your legs. Lifting your hips up, you use your boyfriend's strong torso as support as you kick at your skirt to finally free your legs. Surprisingly, you don't feel at all exposed in front of Steve, rather comfortable in his presence. "Steve?" You enquire, cocking your head to the side at the look of shock on his face, his jaw completely slack. "You okay?" The second his head snaps back up to meet your gaze, he's frantically nodding for you to go on, so Eddie waste no time snaking his fingers down your bright red lace panties.

"So naughty wearing a red thong under such a short skirt. Did you want Steve to see them?" Eddie whispers in your ear, his breath hot on your neck. You moan at his quiet question, your hips involuntarily bucking when he finds your clit, beginning to tease you. "Spread your legs for me baby." He says, this time loud enough for Steve, who's intently watching, to hear the comment. Fixing your gaze on the blushing man, you can't help but stare at the obvious bulge in his pants, licking your lips slightly while obeying your boyfriend's command.

Easily, Eddie manhandles you so that you directly face Steve, allowing him a perfect view of Eddie's hand teasing you under your lace panties. "How about I get rid of this?" He mutters, and your eyes snap wide open at the sound of fabric ripping. "Eddie!" You whine, but you can't stay mad because that's the moment he decides to stop teasing you, instead using your juices as a lubricant to slip two fingers into your hole. You gasp out a moan, throwing your head back onto your boyfriend's shoulder, but it seems for a moment that you don't have his full attention anymore.

Steve looks like a deer caught in headlights when you look up, catching him palming his dick through his thick jeans. "Why don't you give yourself a little more space to breathe, yeah Stevie?" Eddie enjoys teasing him, despite knowing that having you all spread out in front of him without being able to touch you is punishment enough. "Fuck." You mutter, rolling your hips against Eddie's hand to match his slowing rhythm. "Please Stevie." Your plea is enough for Steve to hurriedly unzip his jeans, freeing his hard dick, which slaps the bottom of his abdomen angrily. You try squeezing your legs for more friction but Eddie tuts, using his free hand to pull your left leg as far to the side as he can, finally speeding up when he sees Steve finally grabbing his dick to play with himself properly.

"Can't come until Stevie does, okay sweetheart?" A whine comes out instead of an answer, your eyes shut in satisfaction. It's only when you feel a hand on your face, barely squeezing your cheeks together that you nod, murmuring an "Okay, okay Eds." Your eyes trail to where Steve's hand is quickly moving up and down his cock, then down to where Eddie's hand is vigorously going in and out of you, the palm of his hand making a loud slapping sound every time it hits your clit. You silently pray for Steve to come as fast as he can because with Eddie's pace, there's no way you're gonna hold off.

With a sudden realisation that your boyfriend is the only one not receiving some source of pleasure, you snake a hand between your back and Eddie's stomach, blindly looking for his dick, which you know for certain is painfully hard. "What you looking for sweetheart?" You hear your boyfriend ask you amidst all the pleasure. "Y'r cock." You slur, moaning as he begins rubbing circles on your clit. Steve must be close, you realise, looking back up at the other boy, who jerks himself off, eyes stuck on you and your boyfriend. "God, you're so big Stevie." You praise, grinning when he whines loudly, hips bucking up into his hand.

"Are you gonna cum for me?" You press on, noticing the effect your words have on him. "Cum for me- oh God-" Your words are cut off from your own pleasure, bucking your hips up into Eddie's hand after he sends a harsh slap to your clit with his free hand. He's warning you not to go too far. "Cum for me Stevie." The boy in front of you moans your name repeatedly, and Eddie's hand becomes more aggressive on your pussy, pushing you towards your orgasm, the tight knot in your stomach finally snapping. "Eddie! Oh Eddie, I-fuck!" Eddie's hand pushes your face in his direction, and he presses his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss full of tongue and saliva as he begins to slow his movements on your cunt, riding out your orgasm.

You pant and moan into the kiss, turning to face him completely once he removes his hand from your pussy, wrapping both your arms over his shoulders to try and deepen the kiss. His hands play with your ass, and he's trying to subtly grind you over his dick, the tent in his pants obvious. Finally, you pull away from him, turning to face Steve, who has cum covering the bottom of his shirt as well as his black boxers. He sits there watching you both, trying to catch his breath. When you pull on your skirt, having abandoned the ripped panties, you walk over to Steve, putting a hand on his shoulder for comfort, and you lean in to press a kiss on his cheek. "I think that was the most intense orgasm I've ever had." He admits, smiling when Eddie barks out a laugh.

"Look man, this was really nice, but I'm so hard I can barely move, so I think me and Y/N should go." It's you and Steve's turn to laugh, and you clamber up to your feet, slipping your feet into your sandals before speeding up to catch up with your boyfriend.

[wandanatw0rld]

+18 | men & minor denied

beefy!natasha romanoff x pillowprincess!female reader x college!au

warnings: girlxgirl; Natasha being a boxer; rough sex; anal sex; strap on use (r receving); a little bit of praise; fingersucking; brief mention of war; Alexei & Bucky being two assholes; not propfread

b: Natasha's father comes to visit her, but their meeting doesn't go very well, and (un)fortunately for you, you have to pay for her frustration.

I think that's it, have fun ;D

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"Okay, I love you too, Mom. Bye" You're sitting on Natasha's bed, notepads and books on every surface, you stop writing and look at the redhair.

"Is everything okay, Nat?" She looks at you, her jaw is clenched, her poor phone pressed against her strong hands, she sits on the edge.

"My dad's coming to visit, he wants to take a tour of Steve's gym," you crawl next to her, taking her hands off her thighs and replacing them with you.

"Is that so bad?" You hold her face, green eyes with a hint of desperation.

"Let's say my dad wanted me to be a doctor and not a boxer," Natasha didn't like to talk about her parents, especially her dad.

Her parents are both from Russia, late Soviet Union, and came to America after the war destroyed their home, the United States seemed to be a place to have a new life with more hopes. Natasha was young and didn't remember much about it, but she remembered the bombs, a whole reason why she hated New Year's Eve.

"Do you want me to be with you?" Natasha seems to consider for a few seconds.

"Are you ready to meet Alexei Romanoff?" She asks you sweetly. "One of the founders of this masterpiece?" Natasha pointed at herself in a very silly way.

"Actually, I am. But let's stop talking about your dad and talk about how much I need you to kiss me".

"I agreed," she says, standing up, you laughing as she holds you, her lips pressed to yours.

...

You were nervous to meet Natasha's father, lost count of the number of times you looked in the mirror, even though the redhead said you looked gorgeous as always. At first, Alexei Romanoff seems really scary with his bear, but he's really an idiot like his daughter. He told jokes, shared stories about Natasha wanting to be a superhero, you kissed her red cheek when the old man made fun of her blue hair.

Now the three of you are in Steve's gym, which he closed just so Natasha could show the place to her dad. But the more you listen to them, the more you're worried about Natasha's well-being.

"You're getting too big, sweetheart. And those tattoos, your mom will lose her mind if she sees you," the redhead breathes out, her patience coming to an end.

"I like my tattoos" You watch them very quietly, the way Natasha squeezes your hand and clenches her jaw makes you worry about her dad. "Dad, please. Look at the size of your belly."

"Your mom likes it".

"I bet she does". Alexei doesn't think it's funny, and you only realize that when he say it to her:

"When are you going to get a real job?" His tone is throaty, sharp as a knife, the same tone Natasha uses when she's stressed.

"This is a real job, Dad. I like working here" Her eyes glow with challenge, one more word and she'll explode.

"Yelena is doing great with me, she's really going to run the business one day".

"Yelena was always looking for your approval." You'd never met Yelena before, but Natasha always talked about the blonde with love and affection.

"Someone has to have it" The silence is heavy, you want to say something, but Natasha could kill her father with her eyes.

"Well, my class is in ten minutes, so... Let me walk you to the exit," Alexei seemed shaken, but he turned to you.

"It was really nice to meet you. When Natasha told me how beautiful you were, I didn't think it would be so much". Natasha doesn't look at either of you.

"Thank you, Mr. Romanoff".

"Please, call me Alexei. You make me feel old".

"You are old." The look in his eyes frightened you.

...

Natasha is taking you home, the fact that she hasn't said a word is worrying.

"See you tomorrow?" You ask and give her a peck on her cheek

"I don't know. I'm busy tomorrow" But she doesn't look at you.

You know what bothers her. Natasha wants her father's approval, all she ever wanted was to make him proud and not being able to do that is killing her. You don't see her the next morning or the day after, so you ask Clint if he knows anything while you both go shopping for baby stuff.

"I don't know, to be honest, she doesn't talk to me" He's looking at the dipers section in the drugstore, you've been helping him for forty minutes now, one of the professors has canceled the class. "I was going to ask her out for a drink, but she didn't answer her phone"

"I'm going to visit her at the gym today after class," you smile sweet at him. "Clint, these are adult dipers".

"God, I'm a terrible dad".

"Don't put too much pressure on yourself, Clint. These are things you can catch up over time.

"Thank you!" You gave his shoulder a good, enthusiastic squeeze.

"I gotta go. I gotta help Wanda with Billy and Tommy."

"Who are they?"

"Her clownfish, but I think one of them is female".

...

The hours seemed to pass so slowly that you didn't notice anything. You left your things in your dorm and hurried to Natasha's work. You entered, the place is quiet, there are a few people working out on headphones. You approach the reception, Bucky, another employee looks at you. You don't like him, the way he provokes Natasha and worse, his jokes towards you, they aren't funny, but it definitely amuses him.

"Hi Bucky, is Natasha here?"

"She asked Steve for a day off, she's at the arena" You turn to leave, but he calls you. "Can I ask you something?"

"Bring it on".

"Why are you with her?" See, not funny. "I mean, I know she's hot and rich, but-."

"I don't think that's any of your business, Bucky."

They march into the arena, loud rock music, The Marvels really hate somebody. Natasha hits the bag with precision, she growls with every punch, it is fucking hot. She doesn't realize you're there until you turn off the music.

"What the fuck!" You wave to her, she takes off her gloves and grabs a bottle of water.

"Hi to you too" You reache her. "I miss you"

"Me too" Her response is somewhat mechanical.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She drinks the water.

"Not really". Getting close to her, analyzing every single detail in her, sweat running down her chest, on her strong arms, the veins on her forearm drive you crazy.

"You're avoiding me, was it something I did?" Natasha keeps not looking at you and starts to get on your nerves.

"Everything's fine" She doesn't add a nickname, which means she's really mad.

There are a few details people need to pay attention to with Natasha Romanoff and you mastered them quite well.

When she's angry, she gets quiet, refuses to look at or talk to anyone, plus she listens to rock music really loud, just like it happened. When she is jealous, especially of Bucky and his aproaches towards you, her voice gets husky and scary, hands on your waist, pulling you close, and when takes you home, she makes sure of making you hers, every inch of your skin belong to her.

She was angry. In this case, angrier than she had ever been.

"Fight with me" Natasha seemed confused.

"I'm not going to fight with you" You take a few steps closer.

"Why not?" You ask, her woody perfume smells so good. "Are you afraid I'll hurt you?" You know you have no chance in a fight, you're smaller than her, in everything. Natasha Romanoff could destroy you with one blow. "Okay then. Bye, Natasha."

"Wait" She holds your wrist, her breathing at a normal pace, she looks at you. Natasha was so angry that she didn't notice that you were wearing her favorite outfit. "I'm sorry about that. Is just... Never mind, I'm fine".

"You're not fine, Nat. Something is bothering you, you can tell me," but she just avoids looking into your eyes. "Is it your dad?" The grip in your wrist had tightened.

"I don't want to talk about him" Natasha looks at your body, you're dressed only for her amusement and it's a waste not to take advantage. "Wait here," she opens the door to the arena.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"Steve will be using the arena today. I'll open it for him." After that, Natasha grabs her backpack and drags you to Steve's office, then locks you both in.

"Nat-" She presses her mouth against yours, it's rough, your legs go weak. On your tiptoes you grab her face, her lips a little salty, hands on your waist, nails scratching deep into it. You push her onto the table, paper clips, documents, everything goes down. "You have to use me, okay?"

"What?"

"About your dad." Her jaw clenches again. "You can bite me, I don't know, just do whatever you want." With worshipful eyes, Natasha turns your bodies over and places you on the table, your legs wrapped around her waist. "I am all yours".

"You are, detka." Finally, the nickname hits between your thighs. "First I'm going to eat you up and then fuck that pretty pussy of yours," you moan, grabbing her hands and putting them over your mouth, sucking her thumb. "You're so beautiful," she touches your lower lip with her wet thumb.

"Nat..." You move your hips into hers.

"No, Malyshka. You have to stay still." Natasha kissed you as she took off your underwear, lifting your skirt just a little, her fingers dipping into your wetness. "This soaked already?" your nails dipped into her neck "And I'm just getting started" You raised your arms to take off the t-shirt, the fact that you were without a bra pleases her, but then she remembered the asshole at the reception. "I wonder if Bucky knows you're not wearing a bra today.

"No, he didn't look at me today." You know that's a lie. Bucky always looks at you, especially today, he definitely noticed the lack of underwear. You bite your lip, her fingers teasing through your folds.

"I think it's just the opposite, Malyshka," she states, her tone assertive. "When he looks at you, he wants you all for himself." Natasha's lips find a place in your neck, a finger dipping gently into your pussy as her teeth in your shoulder. "He wants to fuck you, but he forgets that I'm the only one who can fuck you."

"Nat, please." Natasha firmly squeezes your neck.

"I'm going to remind him, remind everyone. I am worthy of everything, even you" Her fingers slide over your breasts. "Every inch of you is mine, Detka. Your face, your body, this fucking pretty cunt of yours. I can wait until you come in my mouth." Her teeth clamp down on your right nipple, and she sucks hard. You drop your head back, fingers scratching her neck. It hurts, but you're both enjoying it. Natasha spreads your legs wide, her thumb teasing your clit.

"Nat, easy- oh fuck" She buried her fingers deep into your pussy with no mercy.

"You want me to use you, Malyshka. I will. I'll use every hole in you".

"Mm... So good." Natasha's tongue burns your nipples as she adds a third finger.

"Can it fit one more, Malyshka?" You nod, grabbing her fist that adds the fourth one. "So hungry"

"Nat, take off your... "Mmm... please" The redhead is all smiles now, her pretty girl is so needy. Her thumb throbbs in your clit, and you're desperate. Your breasts are sensetive, but Natasha doesn't seem to be tired of them. She'll never be tired of them. "Fuck!" You pull her close with one of your legs, toes clenching inside your shoes. "Don't stop. Please don't" Natasha releases your breast with a lustful pop, her hand bumping for the last time at your soft spot, and then you melt away at her fingers. "Nat..." You hide your face on her neck.

"Thank you, Malyshka." She kisses your cheek. "I'm sorry for avoiding you these days. I've been overthinking about my dad, but I'm handling it."

"Forget about him. For now, I'm going to come into your mouth" You lick her lips slowly.

"God, you're perfect." She kisses you, hungry, her lips pressed on yours, hands on your breasts. You moan on her mouth, they're so painful. Pushing her, you take off her shirt, throwing it with your clothes. Her breasts are perfect, all sweaty, her tattoos glowing. Your hand lands on her ass, squeezing.

She gets on her knees and puts one of your legs on her shoulder. She can't get enough of your cunt.

"Nat, just fuck me" You demand, she dives into your pussy, and begins to grind her tongue on your clit. "Fuck!" You grab her hair and yank, pulling her closer. You try to close your legs, but she holds them open, her fingers digging into your inner thighs. "God... Shit" she plunges a finger into your cunt. "Mm... Don't" You're trembling, so grab her free hand and put it in your mouth. She's watching everything with adoration, loving the sensations that she causes in you. You're mumbling nonsense, sucking her thumb, and pinching your nipples. "I'm going... Don't stop, Nat. Please, don't... I'm almost" You bite your lips, hands on her head now, her red hair tangled in your fingers, holding her mouth firmly on your pussy, she rasps her teeth in your bud, that's enough to make you come, hard, body shaking, legs like jelly. "You're amazing at this"

"I'm not to blame for your choice in men" You smile, bringing her close to your mouth, tasting you on her. "But I have a surprise for you" You watch her put down the cotton shirt, your mouth getting wet. Nothing compares to the wetness between your legs. Natasha is wearing a pink strap, your favorite. "I was planning to come to your place to use as an apology for my behavior."

"I accept your apology after you fuck me hard"

"I will, Detka" she says, her voice low and seductive. She comes closer, her hands on your ribs, thumbs in both of your nipples. "I'll fuck you so hard that you'll not even walk away from here" She pinches your nipples, her eyes locked on yours. "You want that?" You nod, your lips curling into a slow, sensual smile. "You want that everyone see your trembling walk, especially Bucky."

"Yeah" you say, biting your fingertip.

"Let's arrange that for you" her husky voice commands, sending another wave of pleasure through your body. Natasha pushes her cock inside you, lying down on the desk in a mix of pain and lust, nails scratching her arms. She comes forward, hitting your soft spot, her lips seeking yours. "You're mine. I'm fucking worthy of you. Of anything. This job." She leans her forehead on yours, her growls making you moan loud. "He will see." She's not talking about Bucky. Her hands hold your waist, nails digging into your skin. You're too caught up in the pleasure to feel the pain or the blood from the slightly wound.

"Nat, too much." Her hips don't stop, it hurts, but you're too overwhelmed with lust to care. Then she stops, and you moan in tantrum. Natasha pulls out the strap, and you look at her, confused.

"Turn around".

"I don't-"

"You said I had to use you. I'm using you, Malyshka. Now turn around" You do as she says and turn around. "I've always wanted to know what it's like to fuck your tiny hole" She bends you over the desk, deep inside you regret saying she could use you, but now it doesn't matter. "Don't worry. I'll go real slow, Detka".

"Nat, I've never done this before," you said, holding her wrist and looking up.

"It's okay, we can stop if you don't feel comfortable. I'd never do anything to hurt you." The red hair planted a kiss on your bare shoulder, her hands gently caressing your waist.

"I don't want to stop, I just..." You look into her eyes and you have never trusted her as much as you do now. "I trust you.

"Thank you, Malyshka." You bring her close, kissing her lips, stroking the red hair behind her ears, you feel her positioning the strap on your entrance. You exhale into her mouth as she squeezes a tip, nails digging into her cheek. "Fuck!" She curses, it's fucking painful, no more than the pain you feel on your ass. "You're so fucking tight".

"Nat, I don't think I'm going to-" But then she pulls everything into you, and she starts moving, all you can think is why it's taking you so long to do it. "Fuck!" Your arm encircles her shoulder, she puts one of your legs on the table and spreads it. "Right there, Nat," you feel the plastic going in and out, her hands holding you still, it's fucking good, it burns, but you don't want to stop. "Don't stop, please. Don't stop."

"I'm not going to" And there's the rusky voice, Natasha leads her hand to your clit, touching it very slow, the base of the strap lightly on her clit, then rubbing real rough while she fucks your ass. "You're doing great, pretty girl".

"Mmm... Nat, fuck, please. Faster" Steve's table starts to slide on the floor, more things fall off it. "Almost" Her hips are much faster than you think is possible, you lose control of everything, you start mumbling nonsense again, you don't know what's happening, but you can definitely hear voices coming from the arena, you don't know any of these people, Natasha doesn't seem to care, she's not loud, but she's not quiet either.

"I'm almost there too, detka" You can feel her breasts on your back, her hands pulling your hair to make room for her mouth to find your neck and her teeth dip into it, fingers entering your cunt. You know it's not easy to do it, but Natasha made it seem easy. "Shh Malyska, people will start to hear you," you can't help but moan. You stuffed your mouth with your hand, the teeth go deep. She adds another finger, but then begins to lose frequency, you feel more and more close to the edge. "I'm coming, pretty girl" A few more thrusts and you almost pass out.

Breathes throughout the office, Natasha laid on your back, hands caressing your arms.

"Natasha, are you still there?" It's Bucky. "I didn't see your girlfriend leave. Is she there?"

"Yeah, we're cleaning, Steve asked me to and she's helping me, why?" You only realize what happened when you feel her cock digging into your cunt, a slow moan leaving your lips, it's too sensitive.

"Steve wants to know if you want to join in" Natasha begins to slowly push against your pussy, you want more, you need more, your hands searching for any support.

"Only when I finish cleaning" She kisses your neck, on the mark she made. "No way I'm leaving you for that." She whispers in your ear. Her hips are frenetic. "Can you get that box for me, Detka?" But you don't answer, you can't, it's too good. "You have to say something, Detka".

"T-that o-ne??" Natasha laughs in silence, her smile playful and cocky.

"Okay, I'll tell him." You don't know if Bucky believes that, but it's too good to pay attention.

"You liked that, huh?" She raises her torso, holding your waist, her movements bursting. "Don't try to deny it, Malyshka, I can't keep my cock inside you"

"I like it" She bites your sholders, her tongue burning your skin.

"Malyshka, you're so good to me" Her nails dig into your waist, her hips bump against your butt, the strap gliding smoothly over your wet cunt. "So beautiful accepting everything from me" You feel her front on your back, her teeth biting hard into the skin of your ribs.

Natasha's fingers rub your needy bud.

"Nat... I'm going to... Fuck!" You bite your hand, the small room insanely hot, the voices of people on the other side of the door adding another layer of lust.

"It's okay, pretty girl. You can cum on my cock," the walls are tightening around Natasha's cock, she's gripping your jaw very gently, very different from what her hips are doing, she kisses you. And then you feel the nod in your stomach to undo.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Your teeth mark your hands.

Her hips slowly stop, you feel her heartbeat on your back. She pulls her cock out.

"That was hot." She says, kissing your cheek.

"I don't know if I can walk".

"That's what you wanted," you look at her, almost offended. "I'm joking, Malyshka. We'll have to stay here for a while.

"As if I'm going to leave with all these people".

You watch as Natasha goes to her backpack, grabs a towel, and wraps the strap to clean it later. She picks up your clothes, you can't move, the orgasm has melted your legs.

"Let me help you, Malyshka," Natasha pushes one of your legs through the panties, then the other. "Okay. Do you need help with your shirt?" You nod, you don't need it, but you have a soft spot for her being so sweet and helpful. You raise your hands, she helps you, then she pulls up your skirt, your shoes. "Come here, let's get you somewhere more comfortable" You hold her like a koala while she leads you to a sofa. "I'm going to put my clothes on and then put everything back. You need to rest.

"I want to help you" You try to get up, but your legs are still wobbly.

"It's okay, I can do it myself." She strokes your hair behind your ears.

"Nat, I don't care what your dad thinks. I'm really proud of you and I'm happy to be your girlfriend" The way she smiles at you makes your heart warm and race.

"Thank you, Malyshka. I'm lucky to have you as my girlfriend," you kissed her, your hands pulling her closer, legs around her waist. "Detka, you have to let me go, otherwise we'll have to stay here forever.

"I'll stay." You wanted to tell her that you loved her, but you were too afraid of being rejected or of her not feeling the same, so you backed off, you didn't want to ruin this.

You just didn't know that the redhead felt the same way.

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[inezthefish]

My Outsiders Headcanons

Warnings: None, maybe some cursing, mention of Dally being a manwhore

Ponyboy Curtis

- He 100% has a gluten allergy or is lactose intolerant

-Trips up the stairs

-He puts ranch on everything

Sodapop Curtis

-Rip Soda you would have loved Takis 😞

-He can’t add anything past 7+4 without using his hands.

-He hates spiders and screams like a little girl if he sees one.

Darry Curtis

-Makes one of those huge, itemized shopping lists.

-Will put soap in your mouth if you say a bad word

-Type of guy to be on a date with a girl and be having a nice conversation and then it’ll just be like

Girl- “So what’s your family like?”

Darry- “Well, my parents died so now I have to raise two teens on my own, and one of them ran away when his best friend killed someone last year.”

Johnny Cade

-When Soda grows out of some clothes, Darry very discreetly washes it and gives it to Johnny.

-Hates socks that go past your ankles, like he will tweak if they are past his ankles

-Loves plants, when he grows up and gets his own house he’s gonna be one of those people with hundreds of succulents and plants in their home.

Dallas Winston

-Let’s be honest, Dallas Winston probably has a couple unknown kids because bro ejaculates and evacuates.

-Cat person. 100% had tried to bring a cat into Bucks and Buck was like “Nah dude”

-He has this one pair of boots he stole from a store that he gave to Johnny when Johnny’s tennis shoes stopped fitting him

Two-Bit Mathews

-Let’s his little sister (i headcanon her to be 5 or 6) paint his nails, the gang makes fun of him for it

-Actually fire at math but just doesn’t try

-Hates only the green apples, loves all the other ones

Steve Randle

-Has said “You can’t handle the randle” unironically.

-The amount of cavities this man has from chocolate cake and not brushing his teeth

-He definitely loves white girl music, this man can sing the whole 1989 (Taylor’s Version) set list and will do so.

[bookshelf-dust]

kiss it better

steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 3,176

warnings: swearing, sick fic (sorta), steve not taking care of himself, anxiety, stress, mental breakdown?, best friends to lovers deal (let me know if i missed something)

a/n: hi! it’s been awhile. i’m sorry about that. this has been a very slow process for me. my mental health is shit, and that’s probably obvious. i hope it hasn’t seeped into this too much, but it probably will with the next few things i write. i apologize for taking so long to post, for disappearing, for not really making this the blog it once was. but i’m not the same person i was then. so we’ll see where this goes. i hope you enjoy this one a little. i love you.

————

The shrill sound of a phone ringing scares you awake, eyes flying open, heart pounding so aggressively you fear for a split second that it might burst. 

You sit up quickly, enough so that you make yourself dizzy trying to get your bearings. You roll onto your side, and reach blindly across the edge of your nightstand, grabbing for the green plastic that’s shaking with the force of which it’s ringing. 

You almost fall out of bed, just managing to catch yourself as you bring the phone to your ear. 

“Hello?”

Your voice comes out weak, thick with sleep and the longing for more rest. It startles you and makes you clear your throat. 

“Hey, it’s me.”

The voice on the other line is even weaker than your own. It’s quiet.

“Steve?”

Your eyes find the alarm clock on your dresser, bright red letters telling you it’s just after one in the morning. You might be half-asleep, but you’re conscious enough that your heart rate picks up, registering that this isn’t when your best friend normally calls. 

You hear him breathe, along with some shuffling. He’s nodding his head, but realizes you can’t see. 

“Yeah. Listen,” he drags a shaking hand down his face. “I’m sorry to call so late.”

“Hey, it’s okay. What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

He goes quiet for a moment, but you wait patiently for him to continue. He must be trying to get something out, and you don’t want to pressure him, or cause him stress in any way. 

Steve huffs, frustrated with himself. 

“I-I’ve got an insane headache, and we’re out of goddamn medicine. My parents were here, and my mom was hungover and I guess she must’ve emptied us out, but it hurts too bad to drive, and…” He trails off, breathing heavily. 

His pause lends you a moment to process, and you decide to speak up. If his head is killing him, you know finding the energy to speak to you, let alone call, has to be draining. You wouldn’t want him to suffer anymore than he already is. 

“Stevie?” you start, happy to hear a small hum that encourages you to go on. He registers what you’ve called him, something you don’t call him often, and his chest aches. “I’ve got some I can bring you. I think all the drugstores nearby are closed.” 

You swing your legs out from under the covers, pushing yourself off the mattress. Pressing the phone between your cheek and shoulder, you pull on the pair of sweats slung over the end of your bed, trying not to bust your ass as you hop into them. 

“Is anything else hurting you?” you ask, gently as can be. 

“Honestly?” he responds. “I think I’m sick. I can’t be sick, can I?”

You stand upright once again, taking the phone firmly in your hand. 

“I think even King Steve can get sick from time to time. I’ll be there soon, okay?”

————

Steve’s not sure you understand him. He can’t be sick. He’s got shit to do. He has a shift tomorrow, and he’s pretty sure Dustin needs a ride one day this week because Claudia is on a “girls trip.” He has to keep working on his college essay, because he’d told you he was almost done, but really he isn’t. 

Steve doesn’t have the time to be sick. And he can’t have you ruining your own schedule to come and babysit him. He’s supposed to be the babysitter. Not the charge. 

He should be able to take care of himself, but of course, the one time his parents come home they clean out his mediocre supply of medicine. Something he’s always stocked up on, given his tendency to get the shit beat out of him, or the nasty string of tension headaches that just won’t quit. 

And his head is killing him. He has his palms pressed to his temples, trying (and failing) to dull the ache. There aren’t any lights on in the kitchen, where he’s sitting on the floor, back pressed to the cabinets. 

He’s trying not to move too much either, because he’s dizzy. This probably has to do with the fact that he skipped dinner, feeling too nauseous to eat. Now that Steve is hungry, he fears he won’t be able to get up and fix anything. 

Maybe you’ll be able to help, he thinks. But that voice is quick with a counter argument. No. I need to do it. 

He perks up at the sound of the front door opening. “Steve?” you call out, careful not to slam the door or yell too loud. It’s also why you hadn’t rung the doorbell. 

Steve raps his knuckles softly against the countertop, hoping it’ll be enough to clue you in. He can’t bring himself to shout right now. You follow the sound, taking the few steps toward the kitchen. 

When your eyes lock on his figure, see the way the heels of his hands press into his eyes, you realize how young he looks. He almost looks small, legs pulled up to his chest, big, lanky body compacted as much as possible. He looks vulnerable. You’re sure he hates that. 

“Hi, Steve,” you say, keeping your voice low. 

He looks up at you, and his face splits into a sweet grin. He’s happy that you’re here, even if that voice is screaming at him, wanting to punish him for asking for help. 

“Hey, honey.” You smile back at him, and his heart rate picks up. Sometimes he forgets how beautiful you are, and then you’re standing in front of him, snatching every last breath from his lungs. 

You set your bag down beside him and reach out, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He feels a little warm, but not feverishly so. 

You move away from him, grabbing a cup from the drying rack. You fill it up with water and crouch at his side. Steve takes the glass from you, head resting against the cabinet to watch as you grab him some medicine. You hand him a few pills, and he takes them quickly. If he doesn’t get this headache calmed down soon, he thinks he might just die. 

Steve keeps drinking the water you gave him, and you push his hair back again, watching the way it curls around his ears. 

He drinks about half of the water before he pauses, taking a deep breath. He looks at you then. It’s mostly dark in the kitchen, but the lamp on the table by the front door is on, so you’re a little backlit from it. Not to mention the moonlight seeping in from the window above the sink.

You look gorgeous. And you came over to take care of him. You got up, at one in the morning, and drove to his house, just because he asked you to. Hell, he hadn’t even asked. He hadn’t gotten the words out. But you’d known. You’d known exactly what he was trying to ask, and you’d offered your help with no qualms. 

Steve’s nose starts to sting, and that pressure from behind his eyes—it starts to release. Before he knows it, his vision is getting cloudy, and he’s crying. He can’t be crying, can he? 

You carefully remove the glass from his hand and move in between his spread knees. 

“Steve, it’s okay. I’m here, and I’m gonna take top notch care of you.” 

“I know you are,” he says, voice breaking. “But I should be able to do it myself. I always do it myself.” He presses his hands against his face, but you catch his wrists and gently pull them away. 

You hold your arms out, and Steve practically falls into you. He buries his face in your neck. He can feel the warmth of your skin, the cotton of your sleep shirt. You smell like soap, that fancy conditioner you use. 

One of your hands finds the base of his neck, nails scratching gently over his scalp, thumb dragging over the top of his spine. Your other rubs soothingly up and down his back. 

“But the thing is, Stevie, you don’t have to.” 

He’s not a loud crier. But he is sort of panicky, breaths coming quick and short, chest heaving against your own. “I know you’ve always had to do a lot by yourself, but you can ask for help, and you don’t have to punish yourself for it, either.”

You feel him nod against your collarbone. His hands are fisting the back of your shirt. Eventually, he pulls away, but keeps his eyes closed. He tries to keep his head turned from your gaze. 

“Hey. Look at me.”

He does, albeit reluctantly. Steve’s cheeks are flushed, lashes clumped together and lips parted where he tries to suck in a good deep breath. 

You reach up, fingers gently sweeping away the remainder of the tears on his face. He leans into your touch, and you let him. You lean forward and press a sweet kiss to his forehead. You’ve never done that before.

Steve recognizes that you’ve never done it before, even if it’s sort of fuzzy. Sure, he’s kissed the back of your hand and you’ve reciprocated, but he’s usually the one to initiate physical affection. You’re too shy most often, even if you ache to do it. 

Fuck, he wishes he were a little more coherent right now. 

“Can you stand for me? It’s late, and I think you need to rest.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sure.” Now that he’s thinking about it, getting in bed sounds so nice. 

You stand first, and watch as Steve pushes off the floor, gripping the countertop on the way up to steady himself. 

“Come on. The stairs are gonna be a pain.”

He reaches out for you, and you let him take your arm. He pads out to the staircase, and you watch each precarious step he takes, hoping he won’t get too woozy and trip. 

By the time he finally makes it up there, he’s wrapped both arms around your waist and buried his face between your shoulder blades. You soften beneath his hold. 

You walk slowly towards his bedroom, and he waddles behind you. You push the door open. “M’kay, Steve. Wanna change clothes and hop into bed?” 

He pulls off of you and grabs hold of his dresser. “I’m not givin’ you a free show.”

You snort. “I’ll go get some more water and be right back.”

His grin fades. “Please be fast.” He doesn’t want you to go. He doesn’t want you to leave him. 

“Steve, I’m practically The Flash.”

He laughs, pulling a pair of sweats and a t-shirt out of the drawer. Usually he’d sleep in less, but with you here he feels he should keep his modesty.

When you return, he takes the water from you, drinking it faster than he probably should. Steve feels like he’s had the shit beat out of him, and for once—he hasn’t. 

You’d sat down on the edge of the bed, not noticing the way he’s staring at you. You look up when he sets the glass down. He drags both hands down his face. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He exhales. “I want you to stay here with me, but I don’t want you to get sick. The idea of you being on the couch, which is like, miles away, is driving me insane.”

“Steve?”

“Huh?”

“Can’t I just sleep on the futon?”

His eyes move towards the other side of his room where said piece of furniture is pressed against the wall. He’d bought it when group sleepovers became a thing after all they’d dealt with. Jesus, his brain really isn’t working. 

“Oh. Yeah, honey. Just don’t want you to go far.” 

You lean forward and push his hair back from his forehead. You’ll need to remember to take his temperature come morning.

“I’m not going anywhere, Steve. I promise. Not until you’re all better.”

————

When Steve wakes up, you’re not there. He starts to panic, thinking maybe he’d been too much, maybe he’d shown you a side of himself he shouldn’t have, that maybe you left. 

But you return to his room just as he’s about to start looking for you. There’s a thermometer in your hand. 

“Morning, sleepy boy. Are you coherent enough for me to check your temperature? Or no?”

He yanks the covers off of himself, and his shirt has ridden up. You catch a sliver of tummy before he sits up fully, and you miss it the second it’s gone. 

“Hit me, I can take it.”

You roll your eyes but stick the thermometer under his tongue when he opens his mouth. When you pull it away, you’re happy to see he hasn’t got a fever. He was warm last night when you kissed his forehead, but you’re thinking it was from stress or just overheating. 

“No fever. What’s buggin’ you today, Stevie?”

He flops onto his back, and his shirt rides up again. You mentally slap yourself for being so enamored by it. All your brain can compute is tummy. Steve’s tummy. “My head still, and my stomach. I feel like I haven’t slept in four years.”

His words snap you out of your reverie. “Four years? That’s incredible. When’s the last time you ate something?”

Steve stares at you for a moment, though it looks as if there isn’t a single thought behind his eyes. “Yesterday…morning. I think. Yeah, I had a banana.”

You stare back, rather appalled at his statement. “Steve.”

“Hm?”

“All you’ve had to eat in the past twenty four hours is a banana?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus christ. Get your ass up and come with me.”

Steve doesn’t move. Rather he watches you move, right out the door and towards the top of the stairs. You pause and turn around, crossing your arms. 

He huffs. And then he slides down the side of the bed like a child before crawling up and following you to the kitchen. 

Over the course of the next few hours, you manage to get Steve to eat, shower, and go for a short walk, weather permitting and all. He’s looking astronomically better than he did last night. 

Steve sits opposite you on the couch, his socked feet in your lap. “What do you think my deal is?”

You rub your hand over his calf. “I think you just had a little bug. Or maybe you let yourself get too stressed out and your body couldn’t take it.”

He blinks. “Is that…that's not a thing? Is it?”

“When’s the last time you gave yourself a fuckin’ break, Steve? When you just took a day for yourself rather than worrying about who needs to go where, or if you’ll have to cover a shift? You have to take care of yourself, or this is the kind of shit that happens.”

“Being overwhelmed about your parents, not eating, worrying about that application, all of that is fucking with you. That headache was probably a stress headache. They’re killer. I want you to be healthy and comfortable, Steve.”

You exhale, and close your eyes. When you open them, Steve has sat up, scooting towards you on your end of the couch. 

He might still be tired, but he can’t believe this. He can’t believe you. No one has ever worried for him in this way. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. 

He barely even registers your words, too busy memorizing every line on your face. You look so fucking beautiful. It almost makes him angry. 

“I’m thinkin’ about how bad I want to kiss you.”

Your face starts to burn. You shove his shoulder. He looks at the place where you’d pushed, quirking a brow, but grinning nonetheless.

“What?”

“Steve, you can’t say shit like that.”

“How come?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“Best friends.”

“Well yeah, but best friends don’t say that to one another.”

His grin widens. He looks more awake than he has this entire time. 

“Oh, but you haven’t said it.”

You blink. “Huh?”

Steve gets his voice up that little bit higher, doing a cheap imitation of you. “‘Best friends don’t say that to one another.’ Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but that implies you want a kiss too, doesn’t it?”

You drag your hands down your face and flop back against the arm of the couch. 

“So you gonna say it, or what?” He’s shifted, and you can feel him hovering over you, but you refuse to move your hands. 

“Of course I’m thinking about kissing you, Steve.” You suck in a breath and open your eyes, locking with his own. “But you’ve got cooties.”

Steve rolls his eyes before he backs up and yanks on your ankle so that you’re flat against the couch. 

“You did not just lecture me about self-care just to tell me I have cooties. I didn’t even have a fever.” 

“I didn’t even have a fever,” you mock, lowering your voice in what is quite possibly the worst impression of him you could do.

He’s quick about it. Almost stealthy, not that you’d ever boost his ego by telling him so. But his fingers are reaching for your sides, the tips dancing over your shirt, that tiny sliver of hip showing where it’s ridden up. 

Steve is practically drunk off of your laugh. It’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard, and when he goes for your neck, when you tilt your head and trap his fingers between your cheek and shoulder, he thinks he could die. 

You and your laugh. The fact that you drove over at one in the fucking morning, without even thinking about it, just because you care. That you stayed the night, listened to his pitiful thoughts, took care of him…it’s too much. 

Never in his life did he think he’d find someone like you. Someone who makes him feel like he matters. You’d made him realize how smart he is, how capable. That he could do things for himself and not just to please his dickhead father. 

You have made him whole. 

He lets up when you start breathing extra heavily, only to tickle the underside of your foot before he quits, just to piss you off. You kick him in the side. 

“I think a kiss from my very favorite person might be the best form of self-care there is, honey.”

You sit up. “Wow. King Steve really never died.” He raises his hands like he might tickle you again, but you catch them before he can do any damage. “Okay, sorry!” 

Before he can register it, you’ve leaned in and pressed your lips to his. When he does realize, he lets out a surprised hum, and you can feel that smartass smirk forming on his face. 

When you pull away, he whines. 

“All better?”

Steve falls back against the couch, pulling you with him just to get that laugh out of you again. 

“I’m healed.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

[rottenaero]

What if Steve got kicked out of his parent’s house after season 2?

He was already on thin ice after s1, with the beers and his fight with Jonathan, but after he got into ANOTHER fight with Billy they’re just kinda like, ‘pack your shit and leave’

And after a few weeks of living out of his car in the school parking lot, Eddie notices him after Hellfire and just kinda like, offers his house as a place to stay.

Of course Steve is like, ‘nah, ill be fine’ because he doesn’t want to freeload, but Eddie is absolutely not having it and convinces him that he wouldn’t be, and that he can pay him and do chores and shit if he really feels that bad about it.

Then Steve just starts living with him, of course there are rules, don’t invite people over, don’t talk about Eddie’s business, and don’t talk about the shit in his room.

The rest is the standard criteria, don’t bring animals in, don’t burn the house down, blah blah blah.

Course Wayne is a bit mad about this random guy with the last name Harrington at first, but the guy makes him coffee before he leaves for work, and is willing to put on a goddamn sailor costume to pay help pay the rent, so eventually they become acquaintances.

Eventually turning into the two watching sports on the tv and laughing at Eddies antics.

Thing is, during this whole thing, no one knows they live together. Dustin and the party don’t get much more than i moved out with a friend after the first time they ask to hang out at his house, and Hellfire just knows he has a roommate, not that its Steve, because all his shit is in the living room and hes always working when they’re over.

One day, mid-lunch, they decide to hang out at Eddie’s after school and he's all cool with it but is like ‘wait, my roommates off, let me go ask them if its okay’ and they're like ‘sure, okay, I wonder who it is?’

Then he waltzes straight up to Steve Harrington, who’s sitting by Nancy and Jonathan, and asks.

“Hellfires coming over afterschool, you good with that?”

“Yeah sure, do whatever, its your damn house, I can get out your hair if you want?”

“Nah nah, its all good, want you to meet ‘em anyway. Hey hey, wanna sit with us today?”

“Sure.”

Then Eddie heads back to the now silent Hellfire table (actually the whole cafeteria is a little silent) and sits down in his seat, Steve sitting in the empty one next to him.

Hellfire is absolutely confused, not just because Steve lives with him, but because of the very talked upon rumors about Eddie being gay, and how very true they were, and the fact that as a former-king, Steve should know that.

Steve however, seems very unconcerned with those rumors because for as close as Eddie keeps getting to him, even holding his bicep at some point, he acts very chill and relaxed, even leaning into him at some points.

Hellfire eventually calm down, and go to his house after school, and around 10 they decide to just stay the night. Eddie gives them a thumbs up, and turns to Steve.

“You’re bunking with me tonight.”

“Cool.”

Gareth starts panicking because there is a very obvious pride flag above one of his posters and he may not have seen it before and Eddie is so getting beaten up.

Except none of that happens. They wake up early that morning and Steve starts getting ready for work, and is about to leave when he turns to Eddie with a smirk.

“What, no goodbye kiss? Too dorky to do in-front of you friends?” And Eddie strolls right past the flabbergasted Hellfire and plants one on his temple.

“Goodbye o-great-king-of-assholery!”

Gareth quite literally chokes.

(What makes this even better? They’re not even dating, thats just Steve-being-Steve)

Part 2

Ao3