#but steve should have moments where he can relax

[navybrat817]

Hold You Tight: Part 9

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 8 | Series Masterlist | Part 10

Chapter Summary: Bucky takes you home, but will he keep his hands to himself?

Chapter Word Count: Over 3.7k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, tension, dirty talk, unease, possessiveness, inner turmoil, slight feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight and thank you for your patience! Hope you lovelies continue to enjoy. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You thought you heard the men wish you well once more when Bucky led you out of the office. You weren’t completely sure since you tried to block everything out, but attempting to disassociate wouldn’t exactly do you any good. The night wasn’t over yet and you had to stay sharp. You didn’t know what Bucky had planned for when he got you home. Were you prepared at all?

Not in the least.

You half expected to walk back through the front of the club to leave, but Ray directed you to a door near the back once he gave Bucky a nod. The car was waiting in the alley and you took a moment to glance up at the sky. You could only make out one star and you wished in that moment you could grow wings and fly away. But when did wishing upon a star do you any good?

“Let’s get you back to your place,” Bucky said, helping you into the car.

You had to give him credit for trying to keep up his end of the bargain by getting you home on time. Your body refused to relax though once he sat beside you and took your hand. Was he trying to get you accustomed to his touch? Make you crave him? It bothered you that in spite of your determination he drew you in to a certain degree. But you wouldn’t let him take you to bed tonight. You weren’t ready to cross that inevitable line.

Maybe, just maybe, if your performance in bed disappointed him, he’d get bored and walk away. The thought almost made you laugh. That wasn’t happening. If anything, he’d probably love teaching you how to be his perfect lover.

“I think tonight went well,” Bucky smiled.

“Which part exactly?” You mumbled, pulling your hand away. The part where he forced you to go, how his men all but admitted they knew Bucky stalked you, or how they beat the hell out of a man?

“Just the night in general. I knew everyone would love you, but I really think Thor wants to be your big brother now,” Bucky replied. You wanted it so badly to be endearing, but Thor was dangerous. He mentioned a father-in-law. How exactly did he find his wife? And bringing up the flower donations to the hospital. Bucky seemed upset. Why? “Which he’ll have to fight Steve for.”

“Fighting. You guys seem to excel in that arena,” you said, remembering how they all took turns beating up John. “But I guess Steve does have a bit of that ‘big brother’ vibe, helping you take total control of my life and whatnot.”

“Not total control. I’m still letting you work, but maybe I can buy the shop.” He chuckled at your thunderous expression. The light threat had you seeing red. “I probably shouldn't joke about that, should I?”

“Letting me work? Like it’s your decision? And don’t you dare buy the shop.” You pushed at him to keep from slapping him when he chuckled again. Not with enough force to get him far away from you, but you needed some sort of space in the vehicle. He also needed a good hit over the head. “You’re a bully, do you know that? So are your friends.”

His laughter died off quickly when he reached out and gently took your hand again, prying your fingers away from your palm. You didn’t notice it stung from your nails until he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You think we’re bullies?” He asked against your skin.

“Yes. Besides nearly beating that jerk to death, you do realize that you use force and threats to dominate and intimidate. That’s a form of bullying, Bucky,” you said. Was he deliberately being obtuse or was he lost in his delusion that this was all normal?

“I wouldn’t say we’re bullies. I call it protecting and keeping what’s mine,” he said. There was no shame on his end.

“Right. Because I’m a possession and not a person,” you said, your face scrunching up as you tried not to cry. You needed rest. If part of Bucky’s plan was to wear you down by overwhelming you, mission accomplished. “I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed.”

“You’re a person, not a possession, Kotyonok. And not just a person, a good person who gives so much of herself to others. And probably one of the only people who rightfully calls me out on my shit.” His response drew you up short. “Outside of my friends, no one else does that.”

“Maybe because they’re afraid of you and what you can do,” you said after a moment. Fear could make anyone say what they thought people wanted to hear. “Either that or they want your approval,” you added, which you could also understand to a point. People wanted a sense of belonging, especially with those who had influence and power.

“Maybe they are afraid,” he agreed, brushing his lips against your palm again with a sigh. “What is it about me that scares you most?”

“I’m not really sure exactly,” you admitted. There was so much about the situation that terrified you. What he was capable of. How he inserted himself into various aspects of your life and so quickly. How far he was willing to go to keep you. “But I think it’s your conviction. That you’re so sure that I’m your other half and no one can convince you otherwise, not even me.”

You could scream until your lungs gave out that you didn’t belong with him and you knew in your heart he’d argue until his last breath that you did. He was steadfast in that belief that you were soulmates. That conviction was so strong that what you really feared was that he would somehow convince you that he was right: that you belonged together.

Those steel blue eyes of his met yours and mesmerized you for a heartbeat before you looked away. “Love is scary. It’s natural to be afraid of it.” His lips brushed your ear, making you shiver. “But giving someone the most fragile parts of yourself is one of the bravest things a person can do.”

There was truth in his words, but it felt like he moved another chess piece into place. He was trying to disarm you and you couldn’t let him. “Who painted that black dahlia in your office?” You asked suddenly, feeling him move back enough that you could turn your head toward him. “And why display that flower?” You didn’t believe for a second that he chose it for aesthetic purposes.

“Beautiful, isn't it? Steve painted it,” he replied with an odd mixture of affection and bitterness. “It’s for my parents.”

“Steve is a gifted artist.” You hoped your voice stayed even enough that Bucky wouldn’t get jealous of you complimenting another man’s talent. “I don't know if the symbolism of flowers mean anything to you, but the black dahlia-”

“Betrayal. Sadness. Darkness,” he ticked off, his voice cold enough that another shiver moved through your body. “It was the last flower my dad ever got my mom and it serves as a reminder.”

You swallowed as warning bells sounded in your mind to tread carefully. “And what's that?”

He moved close, your eyes shutting as his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck. “That I'll never do to you what he did to her.”

There was suppressed rage within him. Sorrow. It rolled off him in waves strong enough that they could drown you. He said earlier that his dad got what he deserved. What had he done to his mom?

“You’re in pain,” you whispered. He was hurting and you logically shouldn’t care. So why did you want to know the cause of that hurt? “You have to tell me why.”

It wasn’t for you to use to your advantage. You weren’t sure if you could manipulate someone else. If you knew what happened though, it would at least give you more answers to who Bucky was and why he was the way he was. It could help you gain some sort of understanding.

“I’m not in pain when I’m with you,” he whispered, bringing your hand on his chest. Was he relying on you to chase away whatever haunted him? “Later. I’ve overwhelmed you enough for one evening.”

You let out a breath. You swore he was doing this on purpose, giving you just enough information that you’d wait around until he gave you more. “I can’t argue with you there,” you said, his heart racing under your touch. “Just answer one thing for me, please.”

“What’s that?”

“Marc from the bookstore,” you began, the man’s kind face shimmering in your mind. “Did anything happen to him?”

“I’d question another man being on your mind, but I know you’re just concerned about his well-being.” An easy smile crossed Bucky’s face as you bit your tongue. You could think about anyone you wanted to. “I can’t speak for him right this second, but he was perfectly fine when you and I left. He was just having a chat with one of my associates.”

You exhaled, thankful Marc wasn't hurt. “What kind of chat?” You asked. He was a nice guy, though he did seem to know a bit about Bucky. What exactly was he involved in?

“He just got a warning to be careful about what he does or doesn’t say to his customers.” You tensed before he kissed your forehead. Did he know about the conversation you two had? “And I don’t think the two of you should be alone with each other in the bookstore going forward.”

Just when Bucky had you feeling some sort of sympathy for him moments ago he shocked you right out of it. “Another decision that isn’t yours to make,” you stated, the car coming to a stop. “And you really don’t have to walk me up. I think we’ve had enough of each other’s company tonight.”

“I said I’m tucking you into bed and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” The smile he gave you was nothing short of cocky when he added, “And you owe me a photo. I’m going to get it.”

He was a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t let that go. “Why don’t you just take a photo of me giving you the finger?” You suggested as he helped you out of the car.

“Only if you do it with a smile. I’ll even set it as the background on my phone,” he winked. Your reluctance and defiance of him didn’t phase him in the slightest. “And if you give me the finger, I’ll take it as an invitation that you want to fuck me.”

“Let’s go, please.”

You said nothing else as you went into the building, your anxiety mounting by the second. The slow rise of the elevator didn’t help, Bucky’s hip pressed against yours like he couldn’t stand to have space between you. You figure he’d shove you against the wall and claim your mouth, but he didn’t make a move. It impressed you that he behaved until you got to your floor. It didn’t stop your hand from shaking when you got your keys out.

“Still don’t want to say good night now?”

“I don’t want to say good night at all,” he answered, following you into the apartment and turning on the light. The welcoming feeling you expected when you got home wasn't there. There was a chill in the usual warmth.

“Well, you’ll have to sooner or later,” you said, swallowing when you faced Bucky. He shut the door and watched intently as you set your keys and bag down. You were quiet as you stared back, tension thick as you tried to predict what he was going to do. Once again, he managed to hold all the power in your home.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are?” He asked, heat and hunger in his stare as he slowly advanced.

Your throat went dry as you stepped back. “You have.”

“So beautiful and so good.” You made another move to retreat when he stepped forward, his manner confident and compelling as he reached out and prevented you from moving back further. “It’s driving me crazy not having you yet.”

“Please, you don’t…” you trailed off when he sank to his knees, unexpected heat flowing from your core. He guided one of your hands to his shoulder to brace yourself, his eyes soft as he helped remove one of your shoes. You found it difficult to breathe as he removed the other, his hand brushing your ankle with infinite tenderness. Like it was an honor to touch and be on his knees for you.

“I know the first time I taste you I’ll never want to stop. I’ll have to wake up every day between your thighs. Fall asleep that way, too.” His hand slid up your calf and his eyes darkened when your other hand found its way to his thick locks. Wetness gathered between your legs when his touch moved to your thigh. “Your pussy is hungry for me, isn’t it? My fingers, my tongue, my cock. I’ll feed her well.”

His voice was like velvet. Seductive. Aching. “Bucky…” Your breath rushed out swiftly when he kissed your mound through your clothes, tormenting you with arousal you didn’t ask for. It frightened you.

“I can smell you,” he murmured, nosing along where his lips had been before he sat back. “Smell so fucking good.”

Moving your shoes out of the way, he rose to his full height again as you willed your legs not to shake. You weren’t used to anyone looking at you, let alone speak to you, the way he did. Stark desire. Possessiveness. His form of love. Your heart pounded and you refused to answer him or glance down. If you looked at the front of his pants…

He took your hand and pulled you in the direction of the bedroom. Your heart pounded with mounting speed, your heels digging into the floor. “You still haven't kissed me,” you blurted out, hoping it would prevent him from taking you to bed. Or would he take that as an invitation to kiss your lips?

“No, I haven't.” You tried to keep some distance between you as he went to your bed, his hand moving along the blanket. You couldn't breathe. “It scares you how much your body wants mine, doesn’t it?”

“Is that what you think?” You asked, forcing air back into your lungs. It did scare you. It also scared you that you didn’t push him away or scream when he dropped to his knees to remove your shoes. Where was your fighting instinct?

“It is what I think.” The ease in which he moved away from the bed to your dresser to find your pajamas frightened you, too. Like he belonged in your room. You thought back to the night he broke in and left your gift on your bed. How much time did he take to look around? “Like love, giving your body to someone can be scary. You have to trust that you won't get hurt when you’re physically vulnerable.”

“You swore you wouldn't hurt me,” you reminded him.

“And I won't. But you know what else I think?” His magnetic gaze stayed on you as he brought a nightgown over. “That no guy has ever really taken care of you and you’re apprehensive to let me try.”

If you were apprehensive, it was because he was a walking red flag. “What makes you…” Your words stopped when he grasped the bottom of your shirt and pulled it up. Your arms instinctively went up before you realized what you were doing. Removing your shirt, you didn’t get a chance to cover your breasts before he slipped the nightgown on you.

“Your past boyfriends never did anything for you. Emotionally, physically,” he stated, sliding his hands under the nightgown to your hips. Grasping the hem of your pants, he pushed them down as far as he could. “I’ll bet they didn’t even buy you flowers and used the excuse that they didn’t because you’re a florist.”

The words were tiny cuts on old wounds, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “And you will?”

“I will. I’ll give you the life and love you deserve, making you forget any other man out there existed before me.” His eyes raked over you as you stepped out of your pants, your panties still soaked. “But I’m not gonna fuck you.”

Exhaling slowly, relief flooded you. Though you couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t trying to take what he wanted. “You won’t?”

“Not tonight.” He shook his head even as his fingers moved along your waist. “Like I said, I’ve overwhelmed you enough. Sleeping with you might really put you over the edge.”

“Thanks.” He desired you, but continued to hold it at bay for your sake. How long would that last? “I appreciate that.”

“And we both know the moment I take you to bed, you’ll be begging for more.” His voice dropped as he toyed with the soft fabric. “And as much as I want to stay in bed with you all night and morning and give us what we both crave, I still need to get things in place at the penthouse and you need rest. You understand.”

You tried not to smile and failed. He acted as if he was doing you a favor. Cocky bastard. “I guess we’ll just have to suffer until then.” Sarcasm continued to be a good way to deflect.

He exhaled at your light teasing, his body still a bit tense. Being close to you and not having you was probably driving him mad. “Maybe we'll have to have another private call and finish what we started. Give us both some relief.” He turned you toward the door and gave you a light swat on your ass. “Go wash your face and brush your teeth before I change my mind.”

You made it to the bathroom in record time, not having to be told twice. You didn’t want to risk staying there in case he lost his resolve. Looking in the mirror as you went through the rest of your nighttime routine, you expected to look more exhausted from the whirlwind of the day. You somehow looked wide awake. Was the experience giving you thicker skin? Or did his desire for you somehow give you a bit of a twisted spark? You’d still be billing him for your future therapy bills either way.

A couple of deep breaths and you made your way back to your bedroom. You paused when you saw Bucky holding a framed photo of you and your friends, longing in his eyes when he lifted his gaze. “You look so happy,” he murmured, carefully setting the frame down on the nightstand before he pulled the blankets back for you. “Can you do me one favor and I’ll go?”

“I was happy. It was a fun day.” You slipped into bed when he gave you space to do so, but his body was still close to yours. Firm. Hard. He really could pin you down and do what he wanted if he wished. “What’s the favor?”

He tucked the blanket around you, his hair falling into his face. You almost reached up to brush it back, but refrained. Who knew what your touch would do? “Look at me like you love me. Please.”

You stiffened as you stared up at his face, your heart simultaneously racing and breaking for him. Love was something that provided a sense of connection, fulfillment. It was a way to show you that you weren’t alone in the world. You wanted to believe you were worthy of love, that you could build a life with someone. Bucky believed he was that someone.

Why?

You weren’t sure if it was his yearning gaze or if you were ready for the night to end, but your expression softened as you imagined meeting him in another life. Going on fun dates, talking about books, making each other laugh as you cooked together, snuggling under a blanket as you talked about your future. You found yourself smiling at the images that went through your mind. What could’ve been. What could be if he lessened his hold a bit on you.

He audibly exhaled when he snapped a photo on his phone, making you blink. “Thank you. Now I can look at this whenever I’m not near you and need to feel your love.”

Words escaped you, the invisible collar around your throat getting tighter. You could only nod and wonder how you kept throwing fuel on the fire of his want for you. Which one of you would burn first?

“Get some sleep. Dream sweet dreams.” You felt featherlight kisses on each eyelid when you shut them. “You know, I’ll sleep a lot easier once you’re in my bed.”

“If you get me into your bed,” you mumbled, refusing to look at him.

“Stubborn kitten.” He chuckled and gave each eyelid one more kiss. Why were his lips so soft? “Maybe I’ll stop by the shop tomorrow so I can take you to lunch. You can tell Addison all about it.”

“Maybe.” You yawned and snuggled more into your pillows. “Good night, Bucky.”

A finger moved along your cheek before it stopped abruptly. “Good night, Kotyonok.”

Bucky still hadn't kissed your mouth.

You didn’t open your eyes as he left, but you didn’t fall asleep right away either. Your body was too wound up. Too many questions went through your mind. Like what happened with his parents and how exactly he’d move you out of your place.

The man was a step ahead in everything. You’d be in his penthouse before the month was over. He’d get his way, but maybe it didn't have to be his way completely. He could give you an area in the place for you and you alone. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. After all, he did say he’d make it up to you by dragging you out tonight.

And if he cared the way he said he did, he could give you that one small thing.

Is our poor Kotyonok starting to accept the inevitable? Will Bucky stop by the shop? And how much longer until he really takes you to bed?Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[rogueddie]

thinking about how steve is more lean muscle, making him look more thin than his actual strength ""should"" be, and how eddies leather jackets and battle vest always make him look even bulkier than he is. they're even in strength, but sometimes steve likes to pretend that they aren't, that he can finally relax and feel safe because eddie is there, and eddie would never let anything happen to them.

[jewishrat420]

No one has ever flirted with Steve the way Eddie flirts with Steve.

And it's not like no one flirts with Steve. God, no, it's not like no one flirts with Steve. Steve can't walk into the grocery store without at least three sets of heads turning and focusing all their attention on him.

And he's not even trying to be cocky about it. That's just the reality he was gifted when he came out of his mother's womb looking like the world's freshest Adonis. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if they changed the colloquialism to "Steve."

Regardless. For as many people like to flirt with him, make themselves known, filtering in and out of his orbit like willing planets, no one knows quite how to get him going like Eddie. Maybe it's that they're not as confident as he is, maybe they're scared of the rejection Eddie was born facing and will die knowing.

Maybe they're scared of ruining their chances. Maybe Eddie isn't.

For whatever reason, Eddie doesn't seem like he's scared. Even though there was a long time before he knew Steve was bi, was just as into the flirting as Eddie was, even though there was a chance (not like it'd ever happen, but the unknown was there) that Steve could have beaten him up just for calling him "sweetheart," he did it anyway. He got right up into Steve's space, close enough that Steve could get high off the remnants of the joint he'd smoked earlier, and gave him a look that offered everything.

And, God, Steve wanted it. He wanted it all.

And so that began months of what Steve has so aptly referred to as torture. Apt, because he knows what it's like. He has the scars and the fear of ice cream and needles to prove it.

But this... this is a different kind of torture. Mental, emotional, spiritual, whatever you call it-- this is meant to tear him apart from the inside out, meant to make him want to rip his own bones out from his body and offer them to Eddie if it meant the other man making a fucking move.

And Steve would, is the thing. He would absolutely make the first move-- it's what he usually does, anyway, and he's got a pretty damn good success rate for it.

But, for whatever reason, this feels different. This back and forth they have, the constant teasing, the sliding in and out of each other's orbits, unable and unwilling to refute the most fundamental laws of gravity... it's something special, at least to Steve. Something sacred.

Which is why, when Eddie calls Steve "Harrington" for the first time in months, his first response is to pout.

They're about halfway through splitting a joint, the sweet smoke curling around wisps of hair and parted lips and filtering in and out of the holes in their sweaters. The air outside is getting colder, thinner, sharper, as the winter months dreg on. But inside the trailer, it's comfortable and warm. Safe.

Steve's being a bit of a hog, and he's man enough to admit that. But he had a shitty day at work and all he wants is to feel nothing other than the weightless relaxation of a good high buzzing through his bones. Sue him for taking a little more than his fair share of the good stuff, even if it is Eddie's.

"Steve," Eddie whines, reaching his hand out and curling his fingers in request. "Give it over."

"No," Steve responds, just on the edge of whiny. He brings the joint to his lips and takes a long, slow, deep drag, feeling the sweet heat of the smoke burning in his lungs, taking up the space where oxygen should be. He goes a little dizzy with it, feels his eyes lower. "Mine."

Steve can't see it, but he knows Eddie's rolling his eyes. Can sense the shift in the air, can sense every little fucking thing about Eddie at any given moment.

"C'mon, Harrington, you're being a brat."

And, normally, Steve would find another aspect of that sentence to freak out about. Would zero in on the word brat and relish in the flare of heat it sends shooting up his spine like firework sparks. Would squint his eyes at Eddie and tilt his head in the way he knows makes him look good, would give him his cutest little smirk and say, "Who, me?" and would preen in the response it gets.

This time, though, he's much too focused on the other name Eddie used for him. The one he hasn't heard come out of Eddie's mouth since before he realized that Steve was, as he put it, "actually a good dude."

He doesn't realize he's pouting until the sudden silence in the room starts to creep in, make a home in the buzzing in his ears. He didn't realize that he didn't say anything, and neither did Eddie, and now they're sitting in a mess of their own making. Of Eddie's own making, really.

His next words come out without effort, without intent.

"Don't call me that."

He chances a look over at Eddie, at the risk of appearing as vulnerable as he feels, and to his distress, he can't get a read on the man. His dark eyebrows furrow, brown eyes squinting slightly, and his lips part like he wants to speak. He licks them. Steve's eyes follow the motion unintentionally.

"Call you what?" Eddie says on an exhale. "A brat?"

Steve shakes his head. "Harrington. Don't like it when you call me that."

Eddie kind of softens, then, and Steve didn't realize he had stiffened until he isn't anymore. He sort of sinks into the couch, spreads his legs imperceptibly wider, and Steve wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the way his left knee brushes against Steve's just barely. Just enough for those heated sparks to send a couple pinpricks across his skin.

"No?" he says, looking over to meet Steve's gaze. His cheeks are flushed, whether from the weed or the heat of the room or the heat between them, and Steve's sure that his look the same. "What do you want me to call you, then?"

Steve's definitely blushing now. He looks away from Eddie, tucks his chin to his chest, lets the joint between his fingers burn away. Eddie takes it from him, gently, and brings it to his lips. Steve hears the paper crackling as he inhales.

His voice is quiet, almost meek, when he speaks. It's completely unlike Steve, completely unlike the persona he used to so proudly take on-- but then again, Eddie is completely unlike anyone that Steve has ever met. He's more real, more human, and in turn, Steve is too.

"...You know."

Eddie makes a little noise, then, something in the back of his throat that was born and died within the very same second it was released. Something soft, almost pained, like his body couldn't help the reaction it had to that sentence.

Steve watches the thin, long line of Eddie's arm reach forward and press the joint into the glass of the ashtray. He follows the motion until Eddie's hand settles into the rips over his knee, fingers intertwining with the thread. His pinkie is dangerously close to Steve's own sweatpant-covered skin, and he feels the contact as if Eddie were touching him.

Eddie's hand twitches like it wants to move, and Steve resists the urge to grab it, hold it within the warmth of his own palms.

"Do I?" Eddie says, his voice quieter than it was a moment ago. That thick silence fills the trailer once more, settling in between the soft buzzing of the lightbulb in the kitchen and the muffled humming of the crickets outside. Steve hears Eddie take a stuttering breath. "Tell me."

Steve sighs, feeling his chest burn as his heartbeat picks up. His throat pounds with the pulsing of it. He places his own hand on his right knee, pinkie finger edging closer and closer to the space where Eddie's meets his. Eddie's hand twitches again.

"Like it when you call me sweet things," he says on an exhale, as though getting it out all in one breath would make it easier. "Like how it makes me feel."

Eddie lets out another one of those noises, then, something more like a cut-off groan. His hand curls into the fabric of his jeans for no more than a second before he releases it, and Steve gets to watch as the blood blanches and then returns to his knuckles.

"Sweet things, huh?" he muses, voice only slightly strained. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd say Eddie is nervous. "Like... Stevie?"

Steve hums. "Yeah. I like that."

Eddie's pinkie moves closer. Barely. Imperceptibly, if not for the way Steve is tuned into his every movement, like a dog to the sound of their owner's keys.

"Yeah?"

Steve hums again.

"What about... sweetheart?"

Steve closes his eyes. Lets out a shaky breath, inhales a smoother one.

"Yeah."

Steve feels something brush against his pinkie. Something warm.

"Honey?"

Steve nods, biting his lip. "Mhm."

Eddie lets out a quiet little laugh. "Even big boy?"

Steve returns it helplessly, feels the edges of a smile pulling at his lips. The air feels cold on his teeth, as though he's burning up from the inside out and anything outside of his own body is a cooling salve.

"Especially big boy."

Eddie laughs a little louder, and the jostling of his body brings his pinkie even closer to Steve's. Completely pressed against his own, now.

Steve swears he can feel his heartbeat through it. Or maybe it's his own.

"What about..." Eddie takes a breath. "Love?"

Steve's own breath hitches. He opens his eyes, looks at where their skin is touching in more than one place. He feels it, feels every point of contact where the cells that make Eddie are existing with the cells that make Steve. Wonders, maybe, if they stay here long enough, if they'll merge and mold over time. Become one.

"Yeah," Steve breathes. "I like that one a lot."

Eddie hums, and the room falls back into silence for a moment. Steve's skin burns where their fingers are touching. He moves his hand to the right, just barely, just enough to let Eddie know that he feels it. Just enough to ask Eddie if he does, too.

His response is overwhelming.

Eddie moves his hand to the left, solidifies all the points of contact between them, and Steve feels like he's exploding. Feels like a bubbling pit of lava that's set to burst, to overflow, like it can't hold back anymore. Like it's tried for so long that it's hurting, now, pressurized and boiling and hot, way too fucking hot.

And then, Eddie crosses his pinkie over Steve's, and Steve thinks he's dying.

He takes in a sharp breath like it's the last one he'll ever get, and he doesn't even have it in him to be embarrassed about it. He knows Eddie is right there with him, knows he's not the only one feeling this irrefutable pull like gravity between them. Knows, hopes, it's only a matter of time before they collide.

Eddie hums again. He taps his pinkie once over the smallest of Steve's knuckles, almost like he's making a decision. He takes a long, slow breath before he speaks.

"You know which one's my favorite?"

Steve's throat clicks. "Which?"

"Look at me."

Steve turns his head to the right for no more than a second before Eddie's lips are on his.

It's hungry, it's indulgent, it's immediately addictive. It feels like breathing.

Eddie presses his whole body against Steve's, and he can feel the way his tendons flex where his hand is covering the back of Steve's. Where their pinkies meet, their fingers intertwine and cross over one another like the roots of a tree, their bodies the whole mycorrhizal network.

The next word is spoken against Steve's lips, and Steve can feel the way his mouth forms around it. Decides, from this moment on, that he never wants to hear it another way.

"Baby."

Steve's exhale is more of a moan, a dying sound that, like Eddie's before, lived for only a moment in his throat before pushing through the wall of his lips. Eddie takes it, holds it in his own mouth, swallows it down hungrily and slides his tongue against Steve's as though asking for more.

"That's--" Steve pants, getting his hands on Eddie's hips and pulling until he's seated in his lap. "Mine too."

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, his lips still pressed against Steve's. Their words are muffled against each other, but they don't need to hear them to understand. They only need to feel the outline of them, the shape of the consonants and vowels against and around each other's tongues. They only need to press their bodies together and know, intimately, the meaning in each other's hearts.

"Yeah. Want you to call me that forever."

This time, Steve feels Eddie's laughter against his lips. His chest. Feels it bubble up in the space between his ribs, feels it flow into his mouth like a river, swallows it down like the first glass of water after a run. Feels his own creep up behind his teeth in return, gives it back to Eddie like an offering, who takes it greedily. Hungrily. Gratefully.

"Think that can be arranged, baby."

[steddieas-shegoes]

Wayne is hesitant to let Steve help at first.

It’s not because he’s too proud; His pride goes out the window when his nephew is involved.

It’s because he doesn’t believe that a Harrington could actually be on their side about anything.

See, back when Wayne was freshly 18 and trying his best to take care of his widowed mama and his two younger siblings, he often found himself doing odd jobs for money.

One job in particular was driving a car to Indianapolis, picking up someone with too much money, dropping him off in Bloomington for reasons unknown, and driving the car back to Hawkins for $100.

$100 was a lot of money for a simple task, and the bills had to get paid, so he did what was asked without asking any questions.

But he probably should have asked at least one.

He got pulled over halfway to Bloomington, the guy he was driving had a warrant out for his arrest, and Wayne spent the next year trying to get charges he didn’t deserve to have dropped from his record.

Steve’s grandfather was responsible for Wayne never quite getting his record erased, and no one could hold a grudge quite like Wayne.

But Steve was always over before the sun was up, tidying up the places where Wayne hadn’t had the time to commit to, making them meals, helping change Eddie’s bandages, only leaving when he was certain they had everything they needed.

After a week of this, Wayne relaxes into it. He sees what Steve and Eddie might not yet, sees the way Steve holds onto Eddie’s hand longer than he needs to when he’s helping him walk somewhere, sees the way Eddie watches Steve make dinner with a fond smile. He notices how Steve stays later and later as the days pass, finding excuses to stick around because he thinks he needs one.

He’s still worried, but now it’s a concern that Steve will backtrack the moment things become real for him.

If there’s one thing Wayne knows, it’s that guys like Steve Harrington don’t tend to accept their not so straight feelings very easily when faced with the reality of them.

But tonight’s the second night he’s walked in to Eddie asleep on the couch, head in Steve’s lap, while Steve’s fingers play with his hair.

Steve doesn’t move or try to make an excuse for what they’re doing, doesn’t try to explain it as taking care of him.

Just smiles and whispers a hello to Wayne.

Wayne smiles and whispers a hello back.

He doesn’t need to ask. He doesn’t need to say anything.

He can see it in the way Steve’s got him.

He knows that Steve is someone he can let in, so he does.

[luveline]

I adore your 'kisses before dinner' au. Bethie has my entire heart <3!!!

Is it possible to request a fic where Bethie is in a stage of wanting to dress similarly and wear makeup like mom!reader? And Steve catches the lovely moment of them getting together for their mommy/daughter date and marvels at his pretty girls? 🥹<3

thank you for requesting!! mom!reader

“I want to wear blue.” 

“Yes,” you say, dragging out the soft ‘s’. “Your favourite colour out of all of the colours, mommy remembers.” 

Bethie smiles and looks down at your feet. “Yeah, mommy.” 

You reach for her face, cupping it in two loving hands to encourage her to look up again. Your fingers cover the side of her heads, your thumb rubbing sweet, gentle circles into her cheeks. “You know how you told dad you wanted to dress like me?” 

“Yeah,” she says, holding your wrist. She has very little hands, even for her age. 

“Well, I’ve got us dresses that are nearly the same one, and they’re blue. Should we have a look at them?” 

You and Bethie kneel by the dresser to unearth the paper bag you’ve tucked away in the bottom drawer under Steve’s socks and underwear. Bethie waits patiently, quiet and still, her hand tucked under her legs to stop from snatching. You admire her dedication to being well-behaved. “Baby, you can touch them! They’re for us!” 

Steve gets really worried about Bethie being shy, and he can’t understand it. “You aren’t shy!” he’d said to you before, “And I’m not shy, I don’t get it, I really don’t. All her favourite people are loud.” 

“We aren’t shy now, Steve. But you were a quiet kid, right? That’s what your mom said.”

“My mom would tell you the sun is blue to spite me.” But he’d conceded. Steve doesn’t mind if Bethie’s shy, he just wants what’s best for her, and being shy can be awful. 

Building her confidence was a big reason behind these mommy-daughter dates. Building her confidence, tackling Avery’s want for affection (which she deserves to have), and getting Dove out of the house —you love getting to have them one on one. You and Steve are gonna switch out after this set. He had big plans for his dates. 

You’re trying to keep it simple. You and Bethie pull on your matching dresses and dark tights while your shoes wait for you downstairs. You'd tackled her hair that morning, leaving makeup as your last port of call. “Alright,” you command, patting your lap where you sit cross-legged on the floor, “come here, sweetpea.” 

She lets out one of those happy-excited gasps that only kids seem to be able to make and hurries into your lap. You hear Steve’s footsteps on the stairs as she sits, your pretty husband edging open the door with his foot to peek inside. You smile at him, hoping it says to come inside. 

“Can I have, um, lip gloss? The pink one? That you always say gives sticky kisses?” Bethie asks.

“Yeah, for sure. I thought we’d powder your face first, how’s that?” 

She nods and closes her eyes. You pout at Steve, summoning him to sneak to the bed so he can see her tightly squeezed eyelids and her lips puckered for gloss. He puts his hand on his heart. 

He melts more and more as you go. Bethie relaxes her eyes the longer her makeup takes, though you only add little tiny dabs of everything. A dusting of powder, a short patting of crème blush on her cheeks. 

“Last but not least,” you say, gliding the pad of the lip gloss applicator  over her bottom lip. “Rub your lips together.” 

“Like this?” She rubs her lips, gloss spreading up into her cupid’s bow and under her nose. 

You wipe the smudge away with your pinky nail. “Perfect.” 

“You can say that again.” 

Steve doesn’t sound like he’s joking. He clutches the fabric of his t-shirt just below his heart, totally in love as Beth opens her eyes to smile at him shyly. “You look amazing,” he says, fingers tapping his chest in emphasis. “Beth, you look so pretty.” 

“You think so?” 

Steve sits on the end of the bed to hold her hand. He’s soft with his touches, caressing her arm with his other hand as he says, “Of course I do. How about you blow mommy off and go on a date with me tonight instead?”

She giggles. “No, daddy!” 

“You don’t wanna go out with me instead?” He ruffles his hair. “Is it the way I look?” 

“No, me and mom are gonna go to the pizza party at the bowling alley,” she says. 

“I like bowling.” 

“For time together,” she says, flopping into Steve’s arms to hug his front. “It’s okay, dad, I’m coming back.” 

“You are?” He kisses her forehead, meeting your eyes over her head, fondness in their slight squint and furrow of his brow. “That’s good. Miss you too much if you didn’t.” 

[malum-forev]

In My Head

Bucky was past the point of anger. Sam could tell by the way Bucky stared at him with tense  eyebrows. He had been for the past sixteen hours. 

“What the hell is wrong with you now?” Sam massaged his temples. They had barely escaped death days prior, he didn’t have the time or energy to deal with whatever Bucky’s problem was. 

But the Sergeant kept quiet. 

Sam huffed, leaning his head back on the wall of the plane.

Just three more hours and we’re back home. Sam thought. 

Bucky grinded his teeth, keeping his eyes set on the floor.  He felt his blood like fire, rushing through his whole body. His thoughts were racing, a thousand miles per hour. His muscles felt weak but he couldn’t fall asleep, not after what happened. 

A flashback to the moment where everything almost ended came back but Bucky shook his head, trying to erase the memory. But nothing would let him forget what he saw in those last seconds. 

Then the all-consuming rage came back again. 

Bucky had been going through this vicious cycle for the past 72 hours. 

His body tried to betray him when the plane landed, Bucky’s sore body begged for mercy. Even one hour of rest would help but he was on a mission. 

Bucky stalked off the ramp directly into the compound’s common area. 

“Buck!” Steve rose from the couch, happy to see his best friend alive and back. 

But instead of greeting his friend, Bucky kept walking. “Where is she.”

“She? Who?” 

“She’s got you too, huh.” Bucky scoffed. “Un-fucking-believable.”

The elevator ride up to the bedrooms was too long for him. He needed to unleash the rage he’d been filtering for days, and there was only one person responsible for everything. 

You thought you were getting a relaxed Sunday. No one needed help, the world was at peace, and you were going to watch disgustingly cheesy movies all day. 

Key word- thought. 

Suddenly your door was being almost smashed by a couple of knocks.

“I know you’re in there.” Bucky’s voice boomed. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep yourself as quiet as possible. He would go away eventually, right?

“Open the damn door!” He yelled. “I can hear your breathing pattern.”

Your “relationship”, if you could even call it that, with Bucky is strained to say the least. 

He’s a veteran who should be retired, you’re a newer hire. He likes things to be done a specific way, you always try new things. He wants to lead, you want to lead. 

“I’m not on the clock right now so technically, you’re not my boss.” You yelled back, throwing a popcorn kernel in the air and catching it in your mouth. 

“Open this fucking door you witch!”

“Sorceress.” You corrected him. If he was going to try and use your powers to insult, he should do it the correct way. 

You heard a growl then a pop. As you sit up in bed, the door handle from your side of the room falls to the floor and the door flies open. 

“Guess the door was open after all.” Bucky gives you a fake smile. 

“Why are you here.” You turn away from him, partly to act disinterested and partly to stop looking at him. He wasn’t your favorite person in the world but you’re only human! You hadn’t seen him in days and the ruffled ways of his hair and unkempt beard made your breath hitch. 

“You know why I’m here.” He gripped the metal pole on your bed’s footboard, you turn only your head towards him blinking a couple of times at the sight of his rolled-up Henley exposing his forearms. When the fuck did you start being attracted to forearms, when did that even become a thing! You followed the popped-up veins traveling from his knuckles to his elbows where they disappeared completely. 

“I don’t have time for your mysterious ways, Barnes.” You turn back to your movie. “Either tell my why you’re pissed or get out.”

With two steps he’s standing next to you again. His stern blue eyes pierced through you, forcing your head up. 

“How did you do it.” Bucky says through gritted teeth. 

Your eyebrows furrow. 

“This is the last time I’ll ask politely.” You could see the anger in his eyes. “How the fuck did you do it!”

You stand up. He was still ways taller than you but no one was going to come into your room and speak to you like that.

“I have no clue as to what you’re talking about.” You crossed your arms. “So, this is the last time I’ll ask you properly. Get out.”

Bucky let out a humorless laugh. “Is this a joke to you? This job? Be careful how you talk to me because I can make everything go away in a second.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

Your breathing quickens as your anger rises. “You have no right being here when I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?!” Bucky yells coming closer to you. “You almost cost me my life that’s what you did! Now you say nothing’s wrong?”

“Your life? How the hell am I responsible for a mistake you made thousands of miles away!” You stand inches away from his face, rage hovering over both of you like a cloud. 

“You got in here!” Bucky points to his head  “I know you did some spell just for me to mess up!”

“I didn’t do anything! I wouldn’t try and get you killed!” You yell. 

“Then how the fuck did I see you when I was going down!” He yells back and your room suddenly goes quiet, only the sounds of your heavy breathing could be heard. 

“Y- you saw me when you were dying?” You whisper, looking up at his crystal blue eyes. 

Bucky sucked in a breath, his eyes going from yours to your lips. 

“You were in my head, I know you did it on purpose.” Bucky’s eyes stopped at your lips.

“I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Your mind must have been playing tricks on you because you were almost certain Bucky was coming closer to you. 

But suddenly, the heat radiating off his body was ripped away from you. He jumped towards the door and out the hallway. 

“I need to leave.” He said, coughing into his hand. Red splotches adorning his cheeks. “I’m sorry about your door handle, I’ll have someone come by and fix it.”

All you could do was nod. 

“I-my-I’m.” Bucky stuttered. 

“Have a nice rest of your Sunday, Sarge.” You said and he nodded his head, hurrying down to his bedroom. 

You fell back onto your bed. This has got to be the weirdest Sunday ever. 

[fuctacles]

<< 9 | 0 | 11 >>

Eddie doesn't believe dreams have meaning. He believes your brain simply relaxes after a day of working, letting everything it saw and thought run freely and stick into weird, meaningless shapes. 

But that morning, he woke up with a whine.

He's dreamt of Steve's puppy dog eyes looking up against his chest. He's dreamt of grocery aisles navigated with a leash in hand. He's dreamt of fur and skin and eating at the table, him from a plate, and Steve from a dog bowl. 

And it made his sad heart constrict and ache. No matter how much he's been dragging Steve around to see their friends and to prepare for their little party, he still has been off and distant. Eddie was missing something, and Steve wouldn't tell him what it was. 

The party is this weekend, and today he's helping Steve prepare the backyard. It's the last moment to coax it out of him. Gently. And preferably without him noticing. 

It's a weird thing to take note of and enjoy, but Eddie still does—carrying a barbecue out of a shed is something only humans could do, and he's elated to be able to do it with Steve. He pats his hands against his jeans, dusting them off leftover dirt and ash.

"Good job!" he says with a grin and reaches out towards Steve. It works, his friend ducking his head with a smile to accept a quick scratch against his scalp. Eddie feels proud of himself more than he ever did for passing an exam. He's tip-toeing the line between Steve's two forms, with full intent to breach it soon, and he's eating out of his hand. 

Huh.

Maybe he should try that at some point, too.

They find another barbecue, smaller than the last one, and bring it out as well, and after a short break, they start cleaning. While pulling out lawn chairs from the pool shed, Eddie finds some old toys. And among them, a tennis ball. A golden opportunity Eddie is unable to pass. He runs outside, where Steve is cleaning the pool.

"Catch!" It's all the warning he gives before throwing the ball at him.

Steve turns to him and his eyes widen joyfully when he spots the ball. He hesitates for a millisecond too long, but still manages to catch it, the net he's been using to fish out leaves falling to the ground. He throws the toy from one hand to another, almost transfixed, before looking up.

"Since when do you like throwing balls around?" he asks, cocking his head. 

"Since I have a dog to play with." Eddie grins at him. "Wanna play fetch?"

Steve's arms fall and Eddie thinks he might have overstepped this time. That's it, their tentative friendship is gone. Who's going to hug Steve now?

"You're joking."

"Try me." Eddie lifts his chin, digging his grave deeper. 

Steve shuffles his weight from one leg to another, the ball in his hand moving hypnotizingly. 

"Are you going to make fun of me?" he asks, looking up all blasé like it wouldn't hurt him. For now, it's only hurting Eddie that he could think of him like that.

"Of course not," he protests. "I just thought it could be fun. I'm sorry if it's like, overstepping or something." He raises his shoulders in a defensive shrug. Steve considers him for a moment. 

"It could be fun," he admits eventually, before throwing the ball straight at Eddie's chest. He scrambles to catch it, so he completely misses the moment Steve shifts. When he looks up, he sees the dog already shaking out from the polo Steve has just been wearing. 

Relieved, Eddie raises his hand, Steve's muscles tensing in anticipation, and when he throws, it's like a spring let loose, flying after the ball. He grins, and he can see the same delight in Steve's eyes when he proudly brings the toy back. 

"Good boy," Eddie praises him after he gets the slightly damp ball back in his hand. But he can feel Steve tensing under his hand when he scratches his head. He frowns. "You don't like that?"

He shakes his head, and Eddie presses his lips together.

"No, you don't, or no, you do like it?"

Despite the dog's limited expression, he can sense the exasperation as they stare at each other. 

"Okay, uh, do you want to be called a good boy?" he clears up his question. 

Steve hesitates but nods. 

"Okay, you got it." Eddie smiles, giving him another scratch before throwing the ball again. He watches Steve dive between the untamed bushes that surround the backyard. As the dog struts back, he forms his next question but waits till the ball is back in his grasp before he asks it. 

"Do you want to be called a good boy when you shift back?"

Steve stares at him.

Eddie stares back.

It's a tiny thing, easy to miss, but Steve nods. Eddie smiles at him. 

"You got it, Stevie," he says, reaching to give him more scratches. "So good, telling me what you need. All you gotta do is ask, okay? Don't be shy, man. We're friends. "

Impulsively, he leans in to plant a kiss on the slope of his furry snout. He throws the ball again.

So Steve needs some praise and reassurances? He can do that. 

Tags: @noodle-shenaniganery @jaytriesstrangerthings @imaginary-maggie-waggie @samsoble @croatoan-like-its-hot

@dragonmama76 @storyranger @scoops-aboy86 @ollyxar

[sidekick-hero]

First Love, Second Chance

(steddie | teen (for this part) | tags: exes to lovers, canon divergence (Eddie lives), future fic (set 2001) | Part 1)

Steve stood at the entrance, his hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the winter chill still clinging to his skin. The woman at the front desk greeted him with a smile so bright it could've doubled as a flashlight. "Mr. Harrington, what a pleasure to have you. You can leave your coat with me, and Joanne over here will lead you to your table. We’ll be starting in ten minutes, but feel free to get settled and order any drink you’d like — it’s included in the entrance fee."

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer enthusiasm in her voice. That’s a well-practiced customer service smile, Steve thought, as he shrugged off his heavy coat. He’d bet the contents of his one-bedroom apartment downtown that she was already dreaming of the moment she could get out of here, change into something comfortable, pour a big glass of wine, and let her face relax into something more human.

Steve knew all about jobs that drained you down to the marrow. He was a kindergarten teacher, after all. The difference was, at least his work came with the occasional hug and finger painting masterpiece. Besides, he’d spent enough time hiding behind his exhaustion to know that it wasn’t just the job. Robin had been right — he was hiding. And here he was, exposed under the bright lights of some cheesy blind date event, about to sit across from a stranger and try to pretend he was open and available.

He handed his coat to the smiling woman and turned toward Joanne, who had been pointed out to him. "Hi, I’m Steve Harrington," he introduced himself, offering a smile that he hoped didn’t look as forced as he felt. "I was told you’d show me to my table."

Her eyes flicked over him, not too obvious, but not quite subtle either. It had been a while since anyone had looked at him like that. Most days, his life was a blur of finger paints, snot stains, and explaining why sharing was important. Flattering, he thought. Strange, but flattering.

Joanne’s lips curled into a friendly smile. "Of course, Mr. Harrington. Let me check my list real quick to see where we’ve put you." Her finger, perfectly manicured, scanned down a clipboard. She paused, then grinned. "Ah-ha! Found you. Follow me, and I'll take you right to your seat."

Steve followed her, his steps feeling heavier than they should. He could almost hear Robin’s voice in his head, teasing him: Just go, have fun, stop being so damn serious, Steve!

Right, Robin, he thought. Fun. As he moved through the room, he tried to shake off the creeping dread. He was here, wasn’t he? That had to count for something.

The room was a maze of small tables for two, clustered together in narrow aisles, each one its own little island in a sea of forced intimacy. Steve found his table, the one they’d assigned to him, and sank into the chair with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest. Okay, step one, taken. He glanced around, noting that his blind date hadn’t arrived yet. He wondered who they’d paired him with, what kind of person would be willing to spend hours - potentially very awkward hours - with a virtual stranger.

Robin had practically shoved the registration form in his face, a little too gleeful about the whole thing. He remembered the questions — his past relationships, his hopes and dreams, what he was looking for in a partner. The usual stuff, he supposed. But then there was the unexpected question: was he looking for a man or a woman? It had caught him off guard for a moment. Progressive, he’d thought. Robin assured him the agency was very queer friendly, so he’d ticked both boxes, “men” and “women.” Why not? Life was complicated, and so was he.

He flagged down a waiter and ordered a beer, then let his eyes wander around the room as he waited. He watched the faces of the people around him, wondering if they felt as lonely and unlovable as he sometimes did. Or maybe not. Maybe that was just him, and the ghost of Eddie, still riding shotgun in his mind, his voice as dramatic as ever.

Five years together — his “formative years,” as Robin liked to call them — had left their mark. It didn’t matter that they’d been apart longer than they’d been together; time had a way of playing tricks like that. Some days, it felt like Eddie was still right there with him, leaning in close to whisper old secrets and inside jokes, making him laugh at the worst possible moments. Other days, it felt like he’d been gone a lifetime, the memories fading at the edges like an old photograph.

Steve took a sip of his beer, letting the cold liquid steady his nerves. He was doing this, trying. Maybe this one would stick.

Steve’s eyes drifted around the room, lingering on faces, searching for clues. He spotted a woman nervously tapping her fingers against her wine glass, a man adjusting his tie for the tenth time, another couple already deep in conversation, leaning in like they’d known each other for years. And then, just as he was about to turn back to his beer, he saw him.

His heart stopped. Or maybe it just skipped a beat — whatever it was, it felt like a punch to the gut. Eddie Munson.

Part 2

A few words about this: I wanted to try something new, so I'll be posting a new part here every day until it's done and then I put it on AO3. This actually started as backstory to my @steddiesmuttyseptember (follow this awesome blog for smutty goodness!) fill for make-up sex but now I'm at 5k and still no sexy times. Also, is exes to lovers make-up sex? Anyway, I'm loving the trope so I do what I want 😅

Part 2 will be up tomorrow, I promise.

[torakowalski]

Apols for the delay but Swimmer Steve is back and pretty much exactly where we last left him.

(part one | part six)

"Fuck," says Steve. "Fuck." He hasn't said much of anything else since he came out of the changing rooms, still damp and kind of stunned-looking.

"Fuck," Eddie agrees.

Steve looks at him, a smile starting to spread across his face, going on and on like it might be endless.

God, he's handsome.

God, Eddie is stupid in love with him.

"Olympics, baby!" Eddie crows. They've already hugged; Steve got a hug from everyone, as soon as he emerged. Eddie wants to hug him again, but that would probably be too much.

"Fuck," says Steve and sits down on the floor between their two beds.

Eddie shrugs to himself and sits down with him.

They've only come back to the hotel so Steve can get showered and changed before the celebration dinner that the kids have planned. Or, actually, Steve has come back to the hotel for that; thinking about it, Eddie's not sure why he came with, except that it just felt natural.

Either way, looks like they're going to take longer than expected.

"All good?" Eddie asks, just in case.

"Jesus Christ," says Steve, which is a change from fuck and laughs. He lifts his hands up to cover his face and when he lowers them again, his eyes are wet. "The Olympics, Eddie."

Eddie nods, can't do anything but smile stupidly back at him. He doesn't think he's ever seen Steve this open and relaxed and delighted. "The Olympics, Steve."

Steve rubs at his eyes with his fingertips, mostly just making his eyelashes damper and darker from his happy tears. "You know when you've wanted something your whole damn life, but you never really thought you'd get it? It feels fucking wild to get it."

Eddie thinks about his guitar, his band, how badly he wants to stand on a stage looking out at thousands of people who all want to hear what he has to sing. Then he reminds himself that this is Steve's moment.

"I bet," he says. "Congrats. You've worked damn hard and you absolutely deserve it."

Steve leans over and bumps their shoulders together. "You're coming with me, right?"

Eddie blinks. "Where?"

"... the Olympics," says Steve, like it should be obvious.

Eddie blinks some more. "Steve. Sweetheart. Steve. The Olympics are in Korea."

"Mm," Steve agrees, "but the war's over, it's totally safe there now."

Eddie loves and hates that Steve thinks that might be the only thing putting Eddie off.

Eddie stretches his legs out so they disappear under Steve's bed and hopes there's nothing really gross under there that'll stick to his jeans. "Look, the literal only reason I've been able to afford rocking up and down the country with you is government hush money and the fact you keep buying all my meals. There's no way I can stretch to plane tickets, and I'd need my own hotel room, right? 'cause you'll be living in the athletes village?"

He could have kept going, obviously he could have kept going, but he stops there because Steve is waving a hand at him.

"What? Don't say you'll pay. There's no way you have that much extra cash, either."

"Nah," Steve says, "but my dad does. And I will be fully, fully back on the credit card, after he finds out about this."

Eddie makes a face. "But we hate your dad?"

"We really do," Steve agrees, smile not even dimming. "But we love spending his money on shit he'll hate." He drops a hand to Eddie's knee, giving it a squeeze and a shake. "You'll come, right?"

"... You should take Robin," Eddie tries, one last attempt to be a good person. "Or the kids. God, the kids would shit."

Steve leaves his hand on Eddie's knee, like that's just a place where it goes now. "I'd take them all, if I could... Plus like, all their parents to keep an eye on them, but they'll all be back in school by the time the Olympics start. None of them can take like, three weeks out."

"I bet Erica could wrangle it," Eddie points out.

Steve makes a guilty face. "Love Erica, but I don't think we have the kind of relationship where we hop over to Asia, just the two of us. You know?"

Eddie wants to ask, And we do? But they do. He knows they do.

"I don't know," he says. It's a big fucking deal. He's never left the country before and he'd love to, but he really does hate Steve's dad and all he chooses to be. The idea of being beholden to him for that big a favour sits wrong in his gut, even if Mr Harrington never actually knows about it.

"Eddie," Steve says, like he's prepared to wheedle for what he wants. Then he stops, takes a breath, shakes his head. "I know it's a big ask and obviously you don't have to, if you really don't want to. I kind of just, I can't, I can't imagine doing this without you."

Eddie claps a hand to his chest. "Right in the flattery gland, Harrington."

Steve slides his hand up Eddie's leg and squeezes his thigh. Is this going to be a thing? Is Eddie going to have to get Robin to have a word with him about this soon?

"You're the whole reason I've got this far," Steve tells him, all close and sincere. "If you don't want to come, that'll suck, but it's okay. I just wanna make sure that you know I appreciate everything you've done."

Eddie knows every mole on Steve's face, but Steve's close enough now to reveal a few previously unknown freckles.

Eddie chuckles weakly. "Personal space?" he suggests.

"Overrated," Steve says and then.

And then.

And then he presses his lips carefully against Eddie's.

"What?" Eddie croaks. He can feel his breath dance off Steve's mouth.

"Thank you," Steve says and kisses him again, a little firmer, a little damper this time.

"I..." Eddie is a goddamn fucking hero because he makes himself lean back. "Don't. You can't. Don't kiss me to say thank you. That's not... Don't. Please."

He's expecting Steve to sit back, blush and apologise and explain he had to best of intentions. Instead, Steve lifts the hand not on Eddie's thigh and touches his cheek. "Can I kiss you 'cause I can't imagine not kissing you?"

The centre of Eddie's chest throbs. Even he doesn't know what that means. "You don't want to kiss me," he manages.

"Kinda really do," Steve says. "So? Can I?"

(continued here)

[the-prettiest-teardrop]

Second Chance Ch. 1

Pairing- Childhoodbestfriend!Steve x Introverted!reader

Warnings- Drunk Steve, Alcohol mention, Steve being an asshole, regret, kissing.

A/N- This was so fun to write, and part 2 should be out soon. This actually hit close to home tho cuz I got dumped by my childhood bestie right after lockdown ended

———

Steve-fucking-Harrington, childhood best friend, turned to someone you considered an enemy.

Elementary school was great, sitting on the porch together, eating popsicles, fighting over who was the faster runner. Middle school wasn’t bad either, minus a few arguments and awkward moments. Late nights were spent lying in your backyard, giggling and gossiping over who had a crush on who, and who was dating who. This was around the time you started noticing his popularity rise, more girls were starting to take interest in him, I mean, yourself included, but that was something he never knew. High school is when things went downhill, rather than laughing with him on the porch, you sat alone, staring down at your shoes, hiding inside whenever him and his new, cool friends came driving past your house. It all still hurt, the way it was as if you were erased from his memory, like he never knew you at all. 

Your phone rang, interrupting your otherwise quiet night. You set down your book, “Pride and Prejudice” and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Y/N, you think you could come help me out?” It was Robin’s voice, and you could hear drunken chatter and the other sounds of a party in the background.

“Depends on what it is.” You reply with an exasperated sigh, you were trying to have a relaxing night in, and having to save someone at a party didn’t sound like something you wanted to do right now.

“Listen, I need help getting Steve home, and before you complain, I’m not gonna be able to drive him home and you’re the only one I know that could help.” She explains before you can interject. She knew how he hurt you, and how you still disliked him to this day.

“God, fine, only because I want you to be happy.” You groan as Robin thanks you before hanging up. You put the phone back on the receiver and make your way to the party. 

Once you arrive at the house, you’re immediately hit with the overwhelming scent of alcohol and vomit, making you gag. You quickly find Robin, a drunken Steve at her side.

“Did you get him water?” You ask with a sigh, already over having to deal with him.

“Mhm, now get him home please, I’ve got things to do.” Robin reply’s, helping shift him toward you. You wrap an arm around the drunken boy, his hazy eyes meeting yours.

“I know I’m the last person you want to spend the night with, but let’s go.” You murmur, and he luckily complies as you get him into your car.

The drive home is fairly silent, until you turn onto your street.

“I don’t know why I ditched you.” He slurs drunkenly, and your heart seizes. You knew he wasn’t in his right mind, but hearing him say those words still meant something. “I thought they were cool or whatever, but now everyone’s off to college and I’m stuck working a stupid, dead-end job.” His words were sincere, no matter how drunk he was, it was all the truth. You couldn’t help but feel bad for him, it seemed like he’d changed, not completely, but enough to give him another chance.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.” You murmur, helping him out of the car and into your house, where you then got him settled on the couch.

You could hear him mumbling to himself as you got him water, and when you set it on the coffee table in front of him, his eyes landed on your face.

“You’re pretty, you’ve always been pretty.” He slurs, and you give a brief smile, acknowledging the comment without giving it any time to blossom into anything more.

You brought him a blanket, telling him to rest before retreating to your bedroom. 

As you laid in bed that night, his words kept replaying in your head, and you couldn’t help the little swell of excitement you got in your chest when you thought of him. He was still as handsome as always, with his gorgeous carmel locks and big brown eyes. You dreamed of him, of what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t ditched you, if your life hadn’t taken that turn.

In your dreams, you lay in his arms, his face tucked into your neck. You were utterly in love, attending college together, planning out the rest of your lives. Unfortunately, when you woke up, you were forced to face the harsh reality.

You walked downstairs, expecting to see Steve on the couch, but he was nowhere to be found, until you spotted him out on the porch.

“What are you doing out here?” You ask quietly, confused as to his sudden change in location.

“You deserve an apology, and I figured there was no better place to do it.” He says quietly, his voice low as you sit down beside him. “I really shouldn’t have done that, I was an asshole to you, and look where that got me. I know this isn’t nearly what you deserve in the forms of an apology, and I understand if you never want to see me ever again.” He explains, looking down at his shoes.

“Thank you, I mean, I can kinda understand why you did it, being popular feels good, especially when there’s no one at home to make you feel like you matter.” You knew all too well about the situation at home, all the times he stayed over at your house as kids, all thanks to his neglectful parents. “For the record, I really don’t want to lose you, not after getting you back.” You add, and you find your hand in his, fingers laced together.

“You know, I had a crush on you all through elementary and middle school, always thought you were pretty, even after I left.” He says, squeezing your hand a little.

“I know, last night, you said some things. I’ve always liked you too, I mean, I don’t think that’s a huge surprise, everyone likes you.” You smile sadly, which makes his heart ache. He’d hurt you enough, and didn’t want to do any more damage.

“I’d be willing to give us another chance, but maybe as more than friends.” He offers, his tone soft, fearing rejection. Your silence scared him, but before he could react, you were pressing your lips to his, and his hands flew to your lower back, holding you close.

You spent most of the day like that, sitting on the porch and chatting, catching up on the last 4 years.

[loveinhawkins]

Hi! hope you feel better soon! And hope you get some much needed rest in the meantime! For the one word prompt: post S4 Steddie, “hazy”.

thank you so much & thank you for inspiring a little moment about rest & healing 💕 •one word ficlet prompts

Steve finds that the couch next to Eddie’s hospital bed is ridiculously comfortable.

Eddie’s talking to the nurse—he can’t really catch what’s being said, the world growing warm and hazy—but he can hear that Eddie’s making her laugh. Knows that’s important, something that would’ve been unthinkable not so long ago: that Eddie feels brave enough to let something of himself shine through. That he can still trust in the kindness of certain people, even strangers.

Steve vaguely hears the nurse leave, glances over to see Eddie within touching distance, perched on the side of his bed. He’s folding some T-shirts in preparation for getting discharged—he’d joked when Steve had first arrived that it’s the most organised he’s ever been.

He must’ve washed his hair this morning, left it to air dry: some of the ends are still damp, and it’s gone kinda wispy around his face. It’s a calming sight, leaves Steve grateful that he no longer associates it with the dive into Lover’s Lake; now it’s something softer.

Something safe.

Eddie looks up. Smiles.

“Uh, Steve, with all due respect,” he begins, which makes Steve snort; he’s come to know it as one of Eddie’s sayings, preceding all manner of teasing objections, “what the hell?”

Steve would usually ask, “What now?” in feigned exasperation, unable to hide his amusement—but his head feels suddenly heavy, and all he manages is, “Hmm?”

Eddie’s smile grows, showing his dimples. He reaches over, and he places a hand on Steve’s knee, presses down gently, “Are you, like, training to be a contortionist?”

Steve feels the warmth of the touch through his jeans; he realises then that he’s sitting awkwardly: one knee bent towards his chest; his neck crooked, arms folded; his whole body instinctively angled toward the edge of the couch.

It’s a position he’s perfected over the years, honed in all kinds of makeshift beds—most recently the chairs of hospital waiting rooms, leaving space for one of the kids to rest on his shoulder. Snatching rest wherever he could throughout the nightmare of that Spring Break, never quite relaxing fully: ready to move, to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

He remembers Robin tactfully making sure that the RV was empty while everyone else stayed outside; his side still aching, Steve stretched out on the seat in the back. Even while he was alone, he only managed a fitful doze—nearly fell off his seat as he wrenched himself awake at the slightest disturbance.

He can’t find that urgency now. Hasn’t needed to for…

He must have zoned out for a couple seconds, because Eddie’s standing now. Watching fondly.

“If you’re tired,” Eddie says quietly, “you should sleep.”

And Steve hears the shape of it, that deliberation in how Eddie says certain things, where he slows down just a little—and Steve knows it must be because it’s something Eddie’s once been told by his uncle.

There’s a blanket getting draped across him now. Eddie touches his knee again, and this time Steve relaxes fully, feels himself slowly tilt back. There’s a pillow beneath his head that wasn’t there before.

Eddie smoothes out the blanket with care. Steve’s view is getting dimmer, a drowsy blur of eyelashes.

But he can see that Eddie’s smiling again. Hears him make a soft, jokingly disapproving tsk.

“Close your eyes,” Eddie whispers, with such affection.

Oh, you love me, Steve thinks.

It’s a thought that drifts in, honeyed and slow, like it’s really been there all along—that perhaps before, in the white-knuckled days of survival, he was too afraid for it. Did not have room to feel it.

Steve’s eyes close.

He falls asleep so completely, knowing that Eddie will still be there, that time isn’t running out anymore; he can stay right where he is. He has room to breathe, to just be—room for the next thought, the next moment, for every moment to come.

[moonstruckme]

i am also sick and now dreaming of comfort from Steve :( hereby requesting a sick fic with Steve and gn!reader pls and thank you (when/if you feel like it!!)

Thanks for requesting babe <3

Steve Harrington x gn!reader ♡ 915 words

When Steve knocks for the third time, you relent. 

You cover your mouth and nose with your blanket as you open the door and block the entrance with your arm. “Don’t come in here,” you warn. 

Steve pushes past your arm easily. He’s carrying a small plastic bag. “How am I gonna make your soup from out there, genius?” 

“Steve, I’m serious,” you say, though you close the door behind him before tailing him into the kitchen. “You don’t want to catch this.” 

He sets his bag on the counter and turns on you. You’re not prepared for his hands on your face, cool and unbelievably soothing. He frowns. “I can tell," he says. "Has it been this bad all week?” 

You’re so tempted to fall asleep in the safe haven of his palms that it takes you a second to answer.

“Pretty much,” you admit. 

Steve hums and thumbs a line down your cheek. “I should have come sooner.” 

“You shouldn’t be here now,” you say, but the fight is going out of you with every second of tenderness. You’ve been pathetically lonesome this last week, filling your home with tissues and discarded dishes while telling Steve over the phone that you weren’t that sick and then indulging in copious amounts of self-pity while walking to the store to restock on drugs and cough drops. 

“You should’a had someone to take care of you,” Steve argues gently. 

“I’m fine.” 

His smile is wry. He lets his hand slip down to your shoulder, giving it a good squeeze before turning around. “Maybe I’ll start to believe you when you can say that without all your consonants sounding like bs and ds,” he says, rustling through his bag. “Deal?” 

You sigh but follow him to the stove, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the counter. “What are you making?” 

“Harrington family recipe.” Steve holds up a box of noodle soup mix. “Water and sodium.” 

You start to laugh but it turns into coughing, horrific, racking coughs that you hide in your blanket. Steve’s hand lands on your back, tentative and then firm as he rubs between your shoulder blades. 

“Jesus,” he says softly. “You okay?” 

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak as the fit dies down. 

“Why don’t you go lie down?” He sounds concerned. “I’ll meet you in there.” 

You want to stay but your cough drops are in the bedroom, so you shoot your boyfriend a lame thumbs-up as you go. Every cough ignites a brood of aches, your throat and chest and temples each throbbing with their own special brand of hurt. The one in your temples sticks around the most. You grab a washcloth after popping a cough drop in your mouth, dampening it with warm water and laying it across your eyes while you lay down on the bed. 

You’re still trying to suppress your cough despite the lozenge when Steve comes in. When you move the washcloth to see him, he looks upset. 

“Your head hurts?” he asks, so concerned you really could cry. 

“It’s just my sinuses,” you say, like that makes it better. “Is that my soup?” 

“Yeah, but it’s too hot to eat.” He leans forward, setting the steaming bowl on your nightstand. “You wanna face massage for now?” 

You blink. “Are you serious?” 

Steve grins, suavish and yet sweet beneath that. “Yeah, honey. Close your eyes.” 

You do. Steve’s hands on your face aren’t a surprise this time, but the effect is about the same. You relax, instinctively, before he’s even done anything, and when he starts pushing at the skin just above your eyebrows with his thumbs, you actually sigh. 

He laughs. “Good?” 

“Yeah.” Your voice is breathy and embarrassing, but at the moment you couldn’t care less. “Where did you learn how to do this?” 

“Hey, I know things, okay?” Steve feigns offense, but he’s no good at hiding the pride in his tone. “I’ve been sick before, too.” 

“Thank you. I owe you my life for this.” 

His voice softens. “Don't sweat it. Just relax for a bit, yeah?” 

It’s not a hard direction to follow. Steve’s thumbs are firm but kind as they press into your forehead and the areas around your eyes. You imagine your skin moldable as wax, his touch smoothing out the crackly lines of your sinuses until they’re soft and supple.

“Can I say something stupid?” 

You crack an eyelid, sniffling. “Sure.” 

“I’m feeling, like, weirdly protective of you right now.” Your surprised laughter launches you into another hacking fit, and Steve’s own smile is guilty as lets go of your face, rubbing your shoulder. “Seriously! I couldn’t give a shit if I’m going to get sick. You look all sad and vulnerable, I feel like a bear or something is going to come in here and you’re too weak to protect yourself, so now it’s my job.” 

“You w—” You press a hand to your chest, tiny tears squeezing out of the corners of your eyes. “—wouldn’t have protected me from a bear before?” 

Steve grins. “And your voice sounds hot like this, too.” 

Your coughing worsens again. You shoot him a look to say Stop making me laugh, but you don’t really want him to. 

“This is what does it for you?” you croak. 

He shrugs. “I’m just saying, there are silver linings.” 

You don’t argue as Steve unwraps another cough drop and passes it to you, placing it in your mouth as he resumes his work on your headache. You suppose there are. 

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR FOURTEEN

in which eddie finally offers you an honesty hour. which is great, until you learn you've bit off more than you're capable of chewing. (oh, and we find out more of what happened at steve's infamous party)

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 5k+

→ a/n: there is still one more bit of the memory left for steve's party!! i broke it into three bits because otherwise it would be too long as one giant clump lol. sorry this is being posted so late... but hey! it's here! see y'all again thursday lol thank you to everyone for continuing to be so kind about this story and show it so much love

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

14:00 ────────ㅇ─────── 24:00

SIX MONTHS EARLIER 

It’s Eddie. You only know because when Nancy opens the door, she greets him loudly, letting her drunken squeal echo down the hallway and into the kitchen. 

“Munson! Finally!” her voice carries, and you fight the urge to try and move to peek through the doorway to see him, “Took you long enough!” 

Eddie's voice is too quiet for you to hear his reply. He’s not drunk, not fueled by reckless decisions and overflowing affections like most of the other friends were already. 

There’s a terrible twisting in your gut at his arrival, and you know it shows across your face when Robin looks at you apologetically. As if for a moment, they had forgotten they way you and Eddie avoided each other. As if for a moment, they had all pretended that the entire group could convene and it could be easy, and that was on them instead of you or Eddie. But it wasn’t on them. That blame could never fall on them.

It was on Eddie, you decided. He was the one who more ardently avoided you rather than vice versa. He was the one with a sharper tongue between the two of you, always snappy, always irritated with you. It was on Eddie. It should be on Eddie. 

Except, you still felt bad about the Chrissy ordeal. He may have acted as if he disliked you for no reason before, but now he was hating you with reason. You can’t blame him; you’d do the same thing.  If he ruined a date like that, stomped all over possible potential and threw it away without even considering your feelings involved, you’d be out for blood.

You sort of needed to apologize, and needed to apologize soon. 

“Eddie, my man!” Argyle calls out from the couch. It captures your attention just in time to look over and watch as Eddie enters the room, his back facing you, his shoulders slack beneath his leather jacket. 

He’s relaxed. You’re immediately sure that he doesn’t know you’re here yet. 

“Hey, man,” he greets with a gravelly voice, an edge of fatigue to it you’re familiar with. It’s the kind of tiredness that follows long weeks, as you two had spoken about that first night. For a second, you wonder if he’s still having those. And if he is, how often they happen, if he ever comes home from them and thinks about that night, if he has anyone to call when it’s late and they haunt him.

You know you don’t. Neither Steve nor Robin are ever awake that late, or at least don’t answer the phone at that time of day, and you don’t feel close enough with the rest of the group to burden them like that.

There had been a time where you would wonder if Eddie could have become that person, if the type of conversation you two had at the bar the first night could ever translate over phone lines. But that time had been early on, and was long dead. It laid in an unmarked grave with all your other ponderings of what a friendship with Eddie might look like. 

“We can keep you two apart,” Robin whispers, or at least tries to whisper. She’s loud, “He said he had work and wouldn’t make it. We… We thought he wasn’t going to come, so we invited you instead.” 

Oh. 

Oh, what a knock to your pride. Robin means nothing harmful of the words, they should be neutral and just an explanation offered to you. But your mind takes them in its grasp and runs, runs, runs. 

“We thought he wasn’t going to come, so we invited you instead.” 

You’re the backup plan. You see it now, and it sucks, but you press your lips into a cellophane smile that Robin can’t see through in her flurry to distract you with an offering of you two plus Steve having another round of drinks. You decide to take a straight shot of the nearest bottle of vodka, swallowing it down to drown your already sinking heart. You fake laugh when Steve tells bad jokes, you make up lies about your dates of the last few weeks, deciding you no longer care if you add in more details to look less pathetic. 

You’re the backup plan. So you’re sure they won’t notice when you spin a new version of yourself.

This version of you that spews from your lips has gotten lucky more times in the last month than you have in the last year. This version of you is always the one having the last say in conversations, the one leaving men on read rather than the tables being flipped as they were in reality. 

Robin says nothing, even when she notices some of the things you say not aligning with what you’d told her earlier that week.  She only side-eyes you as Steve drinks in every detail, only disrupting to suggest another shot. 

At some point, she gets too drunk to side-eye you. 

“Fuck,” Steve sighs, throwing his head back as he glances out to his living room, where Nancy, Jonathan, Argyle, and Eddie have taken to sitting in an oblong circle around on his and Robin’s furniture, “I need some fresh air. Anyone else?” 

“Me,” Robin responds so quickly, you would have made fun of her if you didn’t notice the sickly shade of green creeping up on her. 

Steve looks at you, raising an eyebrow, but you only shake your head. It makes the room threaten to spin. Maybe, just maybe, you should have slowed your roll with the vodka shots. Maybe.

“I’ll stay in here, hold down the fort,” you promise, letting your eyes fall shut before you inhale deeply through your nose, exhaling softly through parted lips. 

No way. You hadn’t drunk nearly enough tonight to excuse getting sick as Robin was seemingly about to. 

Robin and Steve leave you be as you compose yourself. You think you hear them extend the offer to everyone in the living room, but you can’t make out who agrees to go and who stays. But as you listen to all the footsteps making their way out the front door, Steve calling out that they’d be back soon, you start to become convinced you’ll open your eyes to an empty apartment. 

You open them to an empty kitchen. So far, so good.

But then a voice clears their throat from the living room, just as you pull your phone out of your pocket. You open it to find the cursed dating app still open, your messages with the bartender still staring you back in your face. The bartender you thought you’d hit it off with. The bartender that had stood you up the night before. 

Fuck him, you think bitterly as you turn to find Eddie entering the kitchen. Because of course, given your luck, Eddie was the only one who stayed back. 

“Those apps fucking suck,” Eddie notes, using the neck of his beer bottle to gesture in the general direction of your phone. 

You look between him and the lit up screen for a moment, finding half the mind to click out of the private messages, “You’ve used them in the past?” 

“Nope.”

You wait for a second, giving him the chance to elaborate. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t, he’s Eddie. If he explained himself to you, that would just be too easy. 

“Okay,” you sigh, squinting at the page and past the vodka, trying to fumble your way back onto the screen that would show you eligible bachelors in your area, letting you swipe and judge them by solely looks as if they weren’t actual people on the other side of the phone. As if they weren’t more than a reservoir of attention at your fingertips. 

Maybe that had been your mistake with the bartender – you let him become a real person to you.

“Why are you even still on them? I heard you’ve been having a shit time with the guys on there – quite the opposite of what you’ve been telling Harrington tonight, might I point out.” 

It’s something in the way he says it. One moment, you’re looking down, ignoring him. The next, you can’t help but lift your head in shock. The words all felt sharpened and poised for a kill, ready for an attack you hadn’t expected so early on in the night. 

“I-” you don’t know how to defend yourself. You don’t know whether to stick by the lies you’ve told tonight, or to be concerned with who was telling Eddie about your love life, “You win some, you lose some. It’s the nature of the app.”

Eddie grins and leans on a counter across from you, “You haven’t made it sound like you’re losing at all tonight. I nearly started a drinking game with Nance where we took a swig every time you said you managed to pull another ‘fuck ‘em and leave ‘em’. Quite the body count you’ve got there, player.” 

You’re drunk. You tell yourself that’s why you take his words straight to heart – you’re drunk, and therefore, you’re sensitive. 

“You’re bluffing,” you snap, “You couldn’t hear me from all the way over there.” 

“We could.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Yes, we could.”

“You’re lying,” you spit finally, crossing your arms defensively. Your emotions were rising too high, too quickly, and you blame the vodka. You blame the vodka and you blame the drink Steve had made you. You blame the bartender who stood you up. And most importantly, you blame Eddie. 

“I’m lying? You’re the one who’s been telling Stevie nothing but lies tonight,” Eddie narrows his eyes at you, as if he expects you to shrink in cowardice when he stands up straight and takes several steps across the kitchen to be closer to you, “Why do you need to even lie about all that, anyways? It’s not like the truth would be any more pathetic than the act you’re putting up. Everyone strikes ou-”

“I’m pathetic?” you scoff and interrupt him, not even paying any attention to where he was going. The tips of your ears are starting to flame with a red tinge, “Just last week, you lied to the group. You were trying to avoid being where I’d be and told them you had to walk your neighbor’s dog.” 

“I did!”

“Your apartment has a strict no pet policy, Eddie.” 

He freezes up entirely, grin faltering before your eyes, “How do you know that?” 

“I didn’t, but Nancy did,” you roll your eyes at the cracks in his composure, “It’s all I had to hear about the entire night. How she wishes we could get along, how she hates when you lie to her. Thanks for that, by the way.” 

“It’s not my fuckin’ fault you go out with my friends,” Eddie grumbles, reserving himself back to his side of the kitchen. If someone came in and squinted closely, they’d find that imaginary boundary between the two of you, an invisible line that would not be crossed. Not here, not tonight. You wouldn’t touch Eddie Munson with a twelve-foot pole if you could help it. 

“And it’s not my fault that you don’t.” 

You can see his agitation spreading like wildfire across his face, in the tick of his jaw and the twitch of his eyes. You can practically see the words that linger on his tongue as he bites down on it – it is your fault. 

“Whatever. Why are you lying to Steve?” his voice goes monotonous as he crosses his arms, and the muscles strain against his shirt. His leather jacket has long been discarded, probably thrown over the back of the couch or a chair in the living room. 

You mirror him, crossing your arms, letting the screen of your phone press into your side, “I’m not lying.”

“You are. With Steve, and with me at this very moment,” his eyebrows furrow and you consider the consequences of chucking your phone at him. 

Your irritation, your own agitation, is all bubbling beneath your skin. If it wasn’t for the vodka mingling with it, you would have been squirming from the discomfort. Usually, he doesn’t get to you. Normally, his off-handed comments come with a sting that can quickly fade. 

None of the jabs are fading tonight. They only seem to linger. Because he’s right, and you hate that he’s right. 

“How the fuck do you even know how my dating life is going?” you uncross your arms, waving your hands wildly into the empty air between you and Eddie, “We aren’t exactly friends. Did Robin tell you? Did Steve tell you?” 

Eddie swallows hard, and you can watch the words wash over him, but you’re unsure of which of your drunken slurs specifically got to him. You weren’t wrong in any of your statements, you weren’t outlandish in either of your guesses. But your words have frozen him up all the same and you aren’t sure why. 

“You’re right,” when he physically melts, the deathly chill remains in his voice, “We aren’t friends. But Rob and Nance are, and Nance and me are. See where I’m going with that one?” 

It’s in the way he says it, confirms it. 

We aren’t friends.

He hisses it out as if it were a painful reminder, as if saying those words burn him eternally. He says them as if they are capable of sending ice through his veins and bones alike. 

You know why he froze now, and it’s too late. 

“Well-” you pause, unsure of how exactly to respond. You’ll be having a talk with Robin, surely. But technically, Nancy was your friend, right? Surely, she was allowed to know the drama of your love life, wasn’t she? “You say that as if Nancy and I aren't friends.” 

“Are you?” he tilts his head tauntingly, as if he knows something you don’t. 

“We… are.” 

He catches the hesitation; he runs with it. He finds the handle of the knife you’d tried to keep so hidden, and he twists as hard as he can.

“Would Nancy agree if we asked her?” he hums, as if he were seriously contemplating this, as if it were a mediocre debate rather than a question of if you had friends or not, “Do you even have her on Instagram?”

“You, her supposed best friend, don’t have her on Instagram.” 

“Because I don’t have Instagram, full stop.” 

“Instagram isn’t the normal gauge of friendship,” you defend yourself, “Some people can have thousands of followers and no friends.” 

You don’t have Nancy on Instagram. You don’t follow her, she doesn’t follow you. The most she’s acknowledged your presence on the app was tagging you in a photo on a night out once. 

“It’s not about follower count,” Eddie shrugs, “It’s about mutual followings. That’s how Hollywood dictates whether celebrity couples are still together these days, yeah? If they follow each other. If you’re friends, you’d follow each other.” 

The vodka makes you bold. Bold enough to mutter out, “Oh, fuck you,” in response to Eddie’s prodding. 

“Wait, I-” you watch an unfamiliar emotion pass over Eddie’s face, something kin to regret. But his words are already out in the air, he’s already twisted the knife in your gut fully. He’s already spilled your blood in the middle of Steve’s kitchen, with no one around to witness it. He did it for himself – he did it for his own pleasure, his own enjoyment.

He enjoys hurting you. 

“Save it,” you mutter, slowly deflating as you turn your back to him, facing the counter to grab your drink to nurse your wounds. 

If you looked close enough in the corner of the room, you would have seen the shovel you should have used to bury away your hope of a friendship with Eddie. You should have piled the dirt over the casket, should have put 6 feet of soil and earth and worms between you and that fruitless yearning. 

But you didn’t. He hadn’t taken it quite far enough yet. 

Yet. 

But then he had to cross that invisible barrier. He just had to walk across the kitchen, come up behind you, and not mind his own business. He just had to look over your shoulder just as you opened the bartender’s profile again, if for nothing else than to further hurt yourself for the night.

You were so caught up in your own disappointment, you never saw the flash of recognition that crossed Eddie’s face. Only the anger that followed.

—

HOUR FOURTEEN - 5:00 AM 

You don’t bother with putting pants back on, only Eddie’s sweatshirt. At this point, pants were just beginning to feel like a nuisance when it came to the two of you. A nicetie, as one might put it.

What were the points of niceties with him if he could never hate you? 

You have the entire five minutes he spends in the bathroom to try and compose yourself. To try and desperately ruminate through these feelings and detach them from everything that was transpiring. The emotions didn’t belong here, there weren’t twists of guilt and sorrow of loss involved for Eddie when he was fucking you. 

So why is that all you could feel right now? 

He could never hate you, but he had spent the last year doing exactly that, hadn’t he? 

“Hey,” he reappears in the entryway of the kitchen with the worst possible timing, right in the eye of the storm that had begun to cloud over your mind. He holds up a pack of cigarettes you can only assume he’d snagged from his room, “I’m, uh- I was gonna grab a smoke out on the balcony. Join me?” 

There’s something of desperation in the way he asks you. All the words are casual, but his tone is an undermining plea; please say yes, please join me, please let me in. He knows something’s wrong, and he’s not just turning a blind eye and ignoring it this time. 

You stare at the pack of Marlboro Reds for a few seconds before shrugging, “Sure.” 

It’s certainly not as enthusiastic as you’re sure he was hoping for, but he smiles at the small victory nonetheless.

The first thing you notice about his balcony, aside from the clustered furniture, is the view. You’ve never thought your city to be very charming, always looking at it from a pedestrian’s view or through the lens of a tired, crabby college student embarking on another late night. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d step foot on a higher floor of a building like Eddie’s, one just tall enough to see over the rooftops of most of the mundane buildings, one that could peer right over the skyline and show a new dawn breaking. It’s a flourish of pink, orange, and violet, each shade stealing away another breath. The sun is just barely yawning over the horizon, just finally awakening. 

God, you’re going to regret not actually sleeping during this time.

“What’s got you scowling?” Eddie mumbles the question out around a cigarette, pausing with his lighter in midair.

You turn your head, and- just like that, all the anger and confusion melts away. He’s painted in the same shades of the sunrise, in a golden light that almost seems to be emitted from him rather than the waking sun. He is all soft edges and tired eye bags, a stubble that you can imagine the itch of against your palm if you were to reach out a hand to hold his face. If you were to kiss him right now, you fear he might dissolve all over your tongue, leaving nothing but his sweetness behind to remind you it was all real. 

It’s real. Even if it doesn’t make sense with what you guys projected before tonight, even if it doesn’t align with how your lives will continue on, tonight was real. You were here, he was here, and what happened…. Simply happened. 

I could never hate you. 

You get it now. Because in this lighting, with a soft breeze tugging your hair and mind alike, you know you feel the same way about him. And you know it contradicts all you have shown him in the past. 

You could never hate him. He could never hate you. It’s unfortunate that that’s what you’d been calling it before tonight – hate. 

“It’s going to really suck,” you breathe out half a sentence. Two endings before you: letting this night go or, “Not sleeping for a full twenty four hours.” 

You don’t know how he does it, how he looks at you like he knows you had something else to say. But he gives you those eyes, and they almost elicit the truth from you. 

Almost. 

He throws his head back in laughter, and the pinks and purples and all the fights wasted are now trailing down his neck, “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” 

He’s much better at pretending than you are. You know that now. 

“Seriously,” you turn and walk to the railing, crossing your arms against the metal grate before he joins you at your side, “I’ll probably ditch my classes on Monday. I’ll have to sleep twenty four hours straight to even the score.” 

“God, I wish I could fuck off for Monday,” Eddie groans. He’s throwing his head back again, and you can’t help but wish you could replace the golden rays with your lips. You wish your warmth could sink beneath his skin like the sun’s does. 

“You can’t?” your voice cracks with the question as he finally lights the cigarette between his lips. 

He takes a long drag, shaking his head with the exhale of smoke, “Nope. I work Mondays at the shop.”

“The shop?”

“Myo’s,” the way his lips curl around the filter of his cigarette as he fights his grin burns a hole in the middle of your chest. Burning and erupting, yearning and longing, ignored and buried, “The auto shop on Main street.” 

You know by the way he looks at you that the name should ring a bell, but considering you don’t own a car, you don’t have the slightest clue what his job is, “Oh, so you’re a mechanic?” 

“I- Yeah,” he nods slowly, “Yeah, I’m a mechanic,” he pauses and you can see that he has more to say, it just takes him a moment. He looks off the balcony, shifts his weight between his two feet, takes another drag of nicotine. When he finally gathers his thoughts, you’re patient and waiting, biting back a small smile the moment he whips his face towards you, “Have we seriously never talked about that before? I swear I’ve told you I’m a mechanic.”

“Nope, seriously. Never.”

“There’s no fuckin’ way.”

“There absolutely is a way,” you laugh, letting your head fall backwards and not catching the way his gaze falls on you. The sunrise paints you in just as beautiful of a lighting as it had him. If someone asked you, you’d say that you doubt he noticed, but he did. He noticed. He always noticed, “Usually, by now, we’d be at each other’s throats.” 

“We sort of were,” he shrugs, eyes still glued to how your collarbone peaks out from beneath his sweatshirt, “Surprised we didn’t leave more hickies.” 

The topic you’d been avoiding. The topic he seemed indifferent about. 

I could never hate you. 

You decide to put his words to the test.

“Are we going to talk about it?” you ask, looking down now and picking at flakes along the metal railing, still not noticing him noticing you, “About…. what we just did?” 

“Are you always this straight to the point?” he chuckles nervously. In your peripherals, you catch the way he leans and mirrors you, side by side on the railing. His light cigarette hung loosely between indifferent fingers. Indifference, indifference, indifference. 

If you’d just look at him, you’d see anything but indifference written across his face. 

“Only when it matters,” you reply, breathing in his secondhand smoke, “Only when it’s important.”

His pinky is within reach of yours once more, just like at the parking garage. Even after feeling the entire expanse of his bare skin against yours, you still crave more – you crave for the intimacy that comes from hooking pinkies as grown adults, from knuckles curling into each other like hinges of a door of possibility. 

You don’t see the way he swallows hard, or how he nods subtly to himself before he says, “Alright. Let’s talk about it.” 

Those words make you look at him quickly, taken back and not expecting for him to give so easily. If you had noticed him noticing you, it would have been the expected reaction; if you’d seen the way his eyes traced over the pink and orange shadows of your features, you’d know he can’t really say no to you. Not anymore. 

“Yeah?” you only ask for the confirmation because you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He won’t let it. He holds it tightly, just nodding, “Yeah. I… You deserve my honesty.” 

You deserve my honesty. 

I could never hate you. 

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling of deja vu, Eddie. We don’t have to do honesty if you don’t want to-”

“Ask me anything. Right here, right now. I’ll answer with the full truth.” 

You flashback to hours before, when he’d offered his honesty this willingly and you’d only thrown it back in his face. But right now isn’t that moment, the two of you aren’t in the heat of an argument, there isn’t an impending doom on the horizon and the weight of the night no longer rests on either of your shoulders.

You don’t care as much about why he hates you now, or what he meant by never hating you to begin with. You don’t care much about the porn magazines and you don’t care what changed that first night. 

They’re all petty details that have had too long to gather dust. 

You do care about his job, you do care to know why he chose to fix cars. You do care about if he still takes night classes, and if yes, which ones. You care to know his favorite color and you care to know how he takes his coffee in the morning. Maybe you even care to know if he has a favorite coffee shop. 

You care to know all the new petty details you’d never uncovered about him. Miniscule bits and pieces of him you crave to hold in your hands, if only just for tonight- or today, at this point. 

But you need a baseline question. Something that won’t throw him off, but really doesn’t twist around your heart as severely as the others. Something that does neither damage nor nurture to the vines and blooms still occupying your chest. 

You suddenly remember a small detail that had been revealed to you by a third party tonight, “Okay, um, well…” you ponder on phrasing, and Eddie edges ever so closer to you, “At that bar we went to tonight, the bartender – Frank – mentioned how you’d been going there for about six months.” 

Eddie pales, but he nods nonetheless. Maybe the question is more loaded than you’d anticipated. 

“I guess... I…” you continue to stumble over your words and it only leaves Eddie more time to panic, “I’m just curious why you started going? Yeah, yeah. That’s… that’s my question,” you tilt your chin up, try to be seem more confident in your question. 

Even in his panic and sudden blanching, Eddie looks ready to laugh at you as his eyebrows scrunch. Somewhere between the wrinkles, you swear you could find something like affection, “That’s your question? Why did I start going to a bar that’s conveniently close to my apartment?” 

Maybe it is a good baseline question. Maybe he was just nervous from the other possible questions you could have asked about your time spent together at the bar. 

“That’s my question,” you confirm. 

The color isn’t returning to Eddie. His hand shakes when he brings his cigarette to his lips. His breath is evidently shaky on the exhale as the smoke puffs out unevenly. 

It’s not a good baseline question. 

“I…” he won’t meet your gaze, and all your gut can do is twist, twist, twist in anticipation, “I got kicked out of my last bar I was a regular at.” 

“Got kicked out? Why?” 

It’s ripping the bandaid off the wound of honesty, and neither of you even realize it. Neither of you notice the blood of your history catching up to you. 

Eddie sighs and rolls his shoulders before looking at you, “I got into a fight.” 

Your twisted gut stills. A fight? Why is he freaking out so evidently over a fight? Does he think you’ll judge him that harshly? 

“A fight?” you echo your thoughts with a soft laugh into the morning air, “You… Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? Jesus, did you go to jail that night? That would suck, but… Eddie, I won’t judg-”

“I didn’t go to jail,” he interrupts, “I mean, they should have called the cops on me, but they didn’t. They gave me a second option of leaving immediately, and being banned for life, effective the moment I stepped out of the building that night. I took the ban.” 

“Well,” you relax your shoulders, looking over at the rising sun, “That’s nice of them, I guess, right? I’m sure whatever mean drunk swung their fist at you deserved to get their ass handed to them-”

Eddie interrupts you with a soft utterance of your name, making you look back to his hues of gold instead of the sky’s, “I swung first.” 

Oh. Maybe that’s why he still looks so wrecked with nerves. Maybe he thinks that’s the piece you’ll judge him on – it has to be the reason you can see sweat gathering along his eyebrow, just beneath his bangs. “Then I’m sure whoever it was deserved it? I-”

“He did,” he interrupts one final time. You’re about to finally snap at you, telling him to just let you speak, to just accept that you weren’t going to judge him over some bar brawl, when he drops the final bomb of an answer. Here is the honesty, you both realize at the same time, as his words slice through you, “It was about you. I got banned because of you.” 

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[familyvideostevie]

alright, hear me out. i looked through the prompts list and can we give roommate!steve a little airtime beCAUSE—

trying to not hit anything or each other, when there is a power outage and it’s way too dark

— is SO steve coded. i wanna see this man during a power outage. please and thank you. i love you.

hi baby. here you go. sorry it took so long. it is the first thing i have written in about 6 weeks so apologies for it's roughness. i adore you. thank you for helping me give steve Harrington his triumphant return. | fluff, 1.3k, roommates!au

Summer storms in the Midwest always take you by surprise. The never-ending expanse of blue sky becomes crowded with swirling grey clouds without warning and everything stills, like the very fabric of time is holding its breath. Until the dam bursts and rain pounds on your windows, the roof, the pavement with wild abandon. Deep, rumbling thunder follows bright flashes of lightning.

You find it relaxing. A steady, reliable chaos into which you settle without complaint.

Well, usually. Your roommate, Robin -- a talkative and whip-smart girl who makes you laugh-- enjoys storms just as much as you do. It's one of the only times she settles, so you often read side-by-side in companionable silence. Sometimes, if you're feeling bold, you'll both dance in the rain.

But Robin is on some six-month trip for brilliant people and she's left you with a subletter.

"My best friend Steve," she'd said. "Come on, I talk about him all the time. You basically know him."

It's true. Robin is full of stories and this Steve is in most of them. A funny, brave, well-intentioned guy who is a bit of an idiot and has a great head of hair.

And now he's living in the other bedroom. And he's hot. And he always does his dishes and remembers to put the seat down after you scolded him once for doing otherwise and you have a crush on him.

It's annoying. He's been here for like, three weeks and keeps asking you where the spoons are and you like him.

But Steve? You are learning that Steve does not like summer storms.

In the few you've had since he arrived you've noticed that he paces, or sits in the living room with the television turned up high, or something noisy. You've never asked him about it because honestly, he could be much worse as far as roommates go.

You can hear his radio through the wall and it's making it hard to focus on your book. You should really go to sleep but this chapter is really good and does he have to be so loud? Maybe you should get up and ask him to keep it down --

A flash of lightning makes it seem like daylight in your room for a brief moment and then everything is dark. Everything.

"Fuck," you say. The power must have gone out. A clap of thunder so loud it feels like your building shakes startles you. You hear a shout from the other side of the wall.

It's not as hard as you'd expect to feel your way to your bedroom door in the dark. You manage to do so without injury apart from bumping your hip on your dresser.

But when you open your door you smack into a solid wall of warmth. Your fingers grasp for purchase and find none -- only bare skin.

"Jesus Christ --" Steve says. He manages to prevent you both from falling over and holds you at arm's length in the dark. "What are you doing?" His voice is tight and he squeezes your shoulders once before releasing you.

"Uh," you say. You're certain that he's not wearing a shirt. You can feel that he's not wearing a shirt. "The power went out."

He huffs. "Wow, thank you. I had no idea."

You wish it wasn't dark so you could see his face. Three weeks hasn't been enough time to learn all of his expressions. "Were you sleeping?"

It feels like a dumb question considering how loud his music was.

"Yeah," he says. "Obviously I was sleeping. It's like, 1 am."

"Just go back to sleep. If you can, under the volume of your radio."

You imagine him wincing. "Sorry," he says. "I don't, uh. Sleep well during --"

Lighting illuminates the hall and you see him for one brilliant second, messy hair, bare chest rising and falling, boxers slung low. Boxers with...are those...bananas? Then: darkness, thunder. You sense his flinch.

"That," he says flatly.

A smile creeps its way onto your face and you allow it because he can't see. The fact that this guy, your temporary roommate, your sort-of crush, is afraid of thunderstorms fills your chest with warmth. It's endearing. It's adorable. It makes you like him so much more.

You ease past him and into the dark of the rest of the apartment.

"Woah, woah," Steve says. "Where are you going?" You hear him follow you and immediately run into something. He curses. You keep your hands out to avoid the same fate.

"You okay?" you call back.

"Why do we have so much furniture?" he grumbles. "Fuck, that hurt."

You don't correct him that we actually means you and Robin.

"Watch where you're going," you say lightly.

"Oh, ha, ha."

Careful steps take you closer to your destination. "Go look for candles in the kitchen," you tell him. "They're in the drawer by the trash."

"Uh, okay," Steve says. He bumps into things with quiet curses on his way as you look for the matches that should be in the closet. "Why? You could just go back to bed. I'm fine."

You chew on your lip. He's right. But you want to hang out with him. The dark makes you honest. "The thunder is loud," you say. "I won't be able to sleep. We might as well hang out."

He laughs, the first genuine one all night. "Oh, you want to hang out? In the dark? You know what this sounds like, right?"

Ah, the famous Harrington charm Robin has told you about. It makes your cheeks feel hot and you can't hide a smile. Steve ruins the moment by running into something again.

"Fuck! Jesus --"

"Steve, be careful."

"I can't see anything!"

You sigh and finally find the matches. Box in hand, you carefully make your way to the kitchen, your eyes adjusting just a little and making it easier.

Steve is looking in the wrong drawer. You should just tell him so, but instead you reach for him, fingers circling his wrist and dragging it to the right one. His skin is warm under yours, the back of his hand softer than you'd thought it would be. You open the drawer together and hear the candles roll around inside.

His face is a dark outline but you focus on the dark and think you see his eyes. You wish you could see him.

"Found them," he says. You're much closer than you realized, so close you feel his breath on your cheek. Steve leans in -- or maybe it's you, you have no idea, and your noses brush. He puts a hand on your hip, fingers sliding under the hem of your sleep shirt and burning you like a brand.

Your eyes slide close and you miss the flash but not the boom that follows, sending you both about a foot in the air and away from each other.

"Shit," you gasp. Steve laughs and you join in, giggling in the dark like teenagers.

Maybe this is a one-night thing, the darkness making you both a little lonelier and a little braver. But you've got months more of him and the idea of spending that time being something more than just roommates? It's appealing, to say the least.

You reach for Steve in the dark and he must have been doing the same because your fingers tangle without much effort.

"Come on," you say. "Let's light the candles and sit on the couch. I'm sure the power will come back on eventually."

He squeezes your hand and you squeeze back. "Okay," he says, a smile in his voice. "Don't let me run into anything."

You grin at him in the dark and hope that come morning he'll be familiar with it in the light, as well. "Don't worry, Steve," you tell him. "I've got you."

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

[headkiss]

hellooo for the summer asks I was wondering about our boy Eddie and going to the beach with him and feeling insecure about our body, but ofc he’s a sweetie so he makes us feel better 🥹 just some hurt/comfort my love 🫶

thank u so so much for ur request baby!!! ily i hope this is okay <3 | 0.8k of fluff, tw for problems with body image

The sun beams harshly on your shoulders from your spot on the sand, a towel serving as the only cushion beneath you, eyes squinted behind your sunglasses.

In a rare instance, the group’s schedules have all lined up and given you the same day off, and immediately, that meant packing up Eddie’s van full to the brim with coolers and towels and more people than seats and driving to the beach.

The drive had been a blast, Steve and Eddie arguing steadily over what music to play, Robin egging them on even though she’d dance along to anything. Eddie’s hand had been a comforting weight on your thigh the entire ride.

Now, hours of sun and swims later, hair messy from the wind and water, cooler much emptier than it had been earlier, you’re watching the gang play volleyball (you say this loosely, because there’s no net nor is there an established court).

It’s fun, to be a part of a group of friends this way, to watch such an uncoordinated game where everyone is smiling and having fun despite there being competition involved.

You’re having fun, too, laughing every time Eddie trips or winks at you and says “this one’s for you” before hitting the ball in a random direction. Then, there’s the way Steve calls “mine!” every time the ball comes anywhere near his side of the ‘court,’ even when Robin was even closer, prompting them to start bickering.

So really, it should be all light and easy. A relaxing day at the beach with your favorite people. And it is, until it isn’t.

One second, you’d been smiling at the game, shifting your sunglasses off of your eyes and using them as some sort of headband instead. The next, your eyes were wandering around the beach and noticing everyone else.

Noticing the way the other people around looked. Girls brilliantly tanned in their triangle bikinis, denim shorts fitting them perfectly. Or the guys in their swim trunks and how carefree they look.

You can’t help but see everything they are that you aren’t. Or, that you don’t believe you are.

Things like this creep up on you in funny ways. Like a chill that just passes through, sudden and unavoidable. A simple thought snowballing into a hundred small ones shaped like arrows aiming towards yourself.

You shift to cross your arms over the soft of your exposed stomach, suddenly wishing you’d brought more than a tank top to cover up with.

Eddie snaps you out of your thoughts with a call of “you sure you don’t wanna join, sweetheart?”

You muster a halfhearted smile as you shake your head. “I’m okay.”

The two words are enough to tell Eddie that you aren’t exactly okay at the moment. Your smile not reaching your eyes the way it should, that line between your eyebrows worried the way it shouldn’t.

When you aren’t looking, he signals Argyle over to take his spot in the game and jogs over to you, sitting down next to you and nudging your shoulder with his. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Eds. You didn’t have to stop playing,” you say, though you can't deny that the warmth of his arm brushing yours feels nice.

“Hey, look at me,” he urges you gently, his knuckles catching your chin to nudge your face up to his. “It’s just me. You can say it.”

“It’s silly,” you shrug. Eddie pins you with a look that says ‘try me,’ and because he’s the sweet boyfriend he is and because you trust him and love him, you do. “I just- I looked around and just noticed all these people and the way they look and I’m not-”

“Sweetheart,” he stops you, his voice painfully soft. His brown eyes even more so, shining in the late afternoon sun. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not just sayin’ that. I mean, you’ve seen the boners you give me, so…”

“Eddie,” you scrunch your nose and slap his chest lightly, though you’re fighting back a smile.

“I’m serious. Look at me compared to these people, babe. I look different, too. I’m not ripped or anything, and I’m pale as fuck. Like, ghost-level.”

You look at him, the frizzy curls framing his face and the curve of his cupid’s bow, to the tattoos dotting his skin and how his abs are just barely visible beneath the soft of his tummy. The way his cheeks and chest are a little pink from the sun. He’s perfect to you. For you.

“I think you’re pretty, Eds.”

“Well I think you’re fucking pretty, too, sweetheart. That’s my point,” his arm slings itself around your shoulders, tugging you into his side, uncaring of the heat or whether or not you’re sweaty. “Different doesn’t mean bad. It just means different. And I love you and your different, okay?”

You like the way he says it, like it’s a fact, like he’s never once thought otherwise. You like the way he trails his fingertips up and down your arm, too, like it’s an instinct.

And, well, when he dips down to kiss you all sweet and slow and sure, you think it’s the prettiest you’ve ever felt.

[piratefishmama]

Fake it Till you Make it | Part 16

Watching Eddie scope out his surroundings was… a sight to behold. He didn’t just walk from room to room like any normal person would, no, much like an adventurer, cautiously taking in their surroundings in a new place, in a new dungeon, stretching his neck to look around corners before stepping fully around them, gently touching walls to balance himself as he stretched.

Walking with his heel off the floor, quiet as a church mouse, going from room to room, appraising each one with varying sounds of approval while Steve watched in fond amusement.

It didn’t escape him, how lucky he was. How lucky he’d gotten, how rare it was for people like him, for people like Eddie, to feel comfortable enough to just be in a place that his parents also occupied. That running into his father on the second floor, midway through twirling Eddie from the master bedroom on one side of the hallway to the other where another door awaited his eager exploration, wouldn’t result in some kind of fight, that neither he, nor Eddie, had to hide who they were and what they were doing.

It didn’t escape him that he was lucky. Not just in the freedom he had either, but that he got to see Eddie comfortable. Got to see him light up like Christmas had come early, got to witness the exact moment downstairs when he’d relaxed in Steve’s space.

When he’d taken in all that stood before him and found comfort in it. Steve knew he was lucky that he got to see that. So he wasn’t about to take it for granted.

He wasn’t going to squander the opportunity to make the most of it. Of Eddie’s childish glee. Even if it was all based on a ruse. It was a mutual ruse. A ruse they were both aware of. There was no unfortunate reveal waiting at the end of the tunnel, no high school drama where some asshole pulled the wool from someone’s eyes to reveal none of it was real!!

He was going to make it as real as physically possible, and hopefully… just… continue. After the holiday. Maybe a conversation could happen to clear up any possible misunderstandings but… Steve wanted. He wanted the ultimate nerd currently scoping out the bedroom closest to the home theatre.

“We don’t want this one” Steve advised, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest as Eddie poked the mattress with a single finger, as if that would accurately test the quality of the mattress, as he’d been doing for each room. “The home theatre doesn’t have proper sound proofing, if someone wants to watch a film later, we’ll be able to hear it through the walls.” It’d been a solid DIY job on his grandfathers part.

No professional involved, just ‘yeah I can do that, stand back Mags, let a man work’ and that was that. He'd even put it on the second floor, absolute madman.

Steve always pictured his grandmother just standing there, in the same pose he was currently standing in, watching with fond exasperation as her husband went to work on a project he was deeply inexperienced in, and completely unqualified to tackle.

The fact that it looked good in there was a miracle.

“Okay so, not this room, not the bunk bed room, and not the hot tub room, that leeeaves—”

“Master bedroom, or either of the two on the right side of the house.” The options were actually limited when other people were staying, if it were just him and Eddie they could have any room they wanted, but with his parents there it cut down the options.

“Tch, why’d you have me explore all of em then! We should probably just take the master bedroom, right? Since it’s apparently your house, oh great and powerful Master” Steve raised a brow as Eddie dipped into a low bow, theatrical as ever, his tone teasing, his hair bouncing around his face as he righted himself again. Cute.

“Hmm, you looked like you were having fun, you’re cute when you’re having fun.” And his cheeks coloured so nicely whenever he was complimented, hid behind his hair in a way that made Steve’s heart do a funny little flip flop, he’d file that information away for later, continuing on as if he hadn’t just dropped a flirty bomb on the other man “but you’re right, we should probably just take that one, it does have its own private deck…” oh the things they could do on that private deck. If it were all real. “Usually I let my parents have it buuut…” he had company this time. He’d have more than enough of an excuse to get the private deck, even if he wasn’t going to use it for anything other than relaxing. He had a reason to want a little privacy. “I’m sure they’ll understand us wanting it more.”

Eddie rolled with it, quickly recovering with the out Steve had created for himself, or maybe the guy was just so smooth he didn’t even realise he was flirting. That was definitely it. “Or they’ll think they understand us wanting it more” Eddie winked all conspiratorially, which only served to make Steve laugh leaving Eddie looking upon what he’d done in pride. He made Steve laugh. He did that. He’d done that a few times and honestly the high kept staying pretty fucking high.

How had he been so wrong about Steve for so goddamn long? How long had Steve been this glorious thing, like sunshine in human form?

“Exactly” Steve chuckled before pushing himself away from the doorframe “let’s go get our bags then, our shit wont unpack itself.”

“Actually could you get them? I… I should probably call Wayne, let him know I’m safe. It’s not too late there so he should still be home, is that okay? I don’t wanna leave it too late and have to go through reception at the plant, it’s… not great.” Nine times out of ten he wound up speaking to one of the three other Wayne’s working there.

“Yeah, there’s a private line in the room, you go ahead, I’ll grab the bags.”

“My Herculean hero” it wasn’t even remotely fair how badly Steve wanted to kiss him for how little he did to earn it.

“Yer very quiet, Ed, considerin you called me.” He’d gotten through to Wayne after three rings, reassuring him about his safety had been the first thing on the agenda as he got comfortable on the frankly unnecessarily large king sized bed, but then Steve returned to the room with their bags.

All of their bags. In one go, and Eddie’s brain kind of short circuited. “Huh?”

“Yer quiet, somethin the matter?”

“Steve is carrying everything all at once.” It earned a scoff from the man on the phone, and an amused smile from Steve. “It’s awfully distracting, I dunno what to tell you, Wayne I am very distracted.” Steve’s smile only widened

“Uh huh, well, I’ll let you get on then, gotta head out soon anyway, money ain’t gonna make itself. You sure everythin’s alright though? No red flags?”

“Nah… all green flags here, they’re… they’re nice, y’know?” He hadn’t expected it, so many stories of rich people being awful, but… they were just two extremely hard working people who’d had their hard work pay off. Even on holiday they were still working, it was both exhausting to watch, and deeply admirable. Eddie could never. “I’ll call you again tomorrow to check in.”

“I’ll be waitin. Be safe, son.”

“Say hi to Garfield for me” there was a short laugh on the other end, before the line cut off, leaving Eddie smiling as he put the phone down

“Who’s Garfield?” Steve asked, “other than the fat cat.”

“He’s the fat cat shaped mug I can no longer drink from after the great mug smashing of ’86. That stupid earthquake killed him, but we had superglue, so it was fine, just can’t drink out of him anymore cause he’s fragile.” No amount of superglue could fix the tiny areas they hadn’t been able to fill in with pieces, slivers of pot lost to the dark underside of the cabinets. “Need any help?”

“Nah, you just sit there an look pretty for me.” It had the desired effect, Eddie’s eyes widening, a pretty blush blossoming on his cheeks and the final kicker, he hid behind his hair. Adorable. Perfect. Beautiful. Had they actually been dating he’d have pressed pause on the unpacking, instead, he snipped that last thread holding Eddie’s composure in place with a smoothly delivered “just like that, yeah, God, you’re such a good boy.”

The consequences were immediate.

Part 18