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paceprompting · 9 days ago

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ugly christmas sweaters

@steddieholidaydrabbles & @steddiemas

Steve drove straight to one place.

He didn’t even turn on the radio, sitting back in his seat with one hand on the wheel as he drove in the dark through a light snowfall, toward an escape. He didn’t decide when to turn, he simply turned, and when he shifted the Beemer into park, he had to blink for a few moments to realize just where he’d taken himself.

Forest Hills.

Gravel crunched under his feet as he exited the car, but he only walked as far as the front hood before he stopped. Soft light shone through the windows, and for a quick second, Steve thought he could hear the bright sound of Eddie’s voice traveling through the walls.

He couldn’t just go knock on the door.

It was Christmas Eve. Eddie and Wayne were probably in the middle of their own meal, not looking out their window for wayward boy moping on the hood of his car.

What was he doing?

The metal was still warm from the drive over, and Steve sulked as he sat on it, staring at his nails while picking at them. What a sight he must have made, sitting in the dark in black dress pants, shiny shoes, and a white button-up with a paisley tie he fucking hated.

All the warmth from the drive was dissipating from his body in the cold.

And yet he still yanked at his tie to get the strangling knot away from his throat.

“Steve?”

He hadn’t heard the screen door open.

But he wasn’t startled by the sound of Eddie’s voice.

It was the first thing that hadn’t made him want to tear out his own hair or throw himself into the quarry. So many people saw Eddie as too loud, too crazy, too much.

Instead, he found that Eddie filled in this empty space Steve had no idea he’d had.

Steve lifted his head toward the open door of the trailer.

“Hey.”

The light from inside shone through the wild curls of Eddie’s hair, highlighted in a couple places with the red, blue, yellow and green string lights hung around the outside of the trailer.

Like he’d found himself doing more and more often these days, Steve looked Eddie over.

If Steve thought he was dressed differently than normal, he’d had no idea what he was in for when he saw Eddie.

He arched a brow.

“Nice sweater.”

Eddie held it out from his body with a big, proud smile.

“Made it myself,” he said.

Steve definitely believed him.

The oversized sweater was black, obviously—although the neckline was a bright shock of red. But that was pretty much where “normal” Eddie wardrobe ended. First off, Eddie had pinned these small, sparkly green garland-like things with plastic light shapes onto his sleeves. And all across the front was a random assortment of tree ornaments, from shiny baubles, to a glittery white reindeer, and flamingos in Santa suits.

Eddie closed the door behind him, and descended the few steps to the ground.

“I thought your folks were in town for the holidays. With your aunt or something?” he asked, arms crossed over himself against the cold.

“Two aunts, one freshly divorced with a shitty kid and another on her third husband.” Steve shifted up a bit on the car hood to face Eddie.

It was the first Christmas in two years his parents had decided to spend in Hawkins. He’d had no idea they were coming until he woke up three days prior and found them in the kitchen with their suitcases, fresh off a six hour flight.

And until that night’s dinner, the three of them had co-existed in an unspoken agreement of ignorance.

“Dad’s already three glasses of bourbon deep. The aunts keep asking about nonexistent girlfriends while the snot-nosed kid flings his food at me. And my mom’s been hiding in the kitchen cooking and nursing the same glass of wine for as long as she can.” Steve rubbed at his brow, giving a strained smile. “Family traditions, right?”

He could see the question in Eddie’s eyes—considering Steve and his car were at the trailer instead of his own house.

“My mom said I could abscond if I wanted. First place I wanted to go was…here.”

Steve hadn’t questioned it or argued—just left without even grabbing a coat.

“Well, then it’d be kind of shitty of me to leave you out here,” Eddie said, adding in some levity and a tiny smile back onto Steve’s face. He held out a hand, wiggling his fingers in Steve’s direction. “Come on. Wayne always buys too much eggnog and we’re watching Year Without a Santa Claus.”

“Oh?”

Eddie pursed his lips and bent forward at the hips, pointedly gesturing at Steve. “I think you mean, oh yes, the best Christmas movie. Thank you, Eddie.”

“Thank you, Eddie,” Steve echoed, sliding off the front of the car.

Eddie rocked up on the balls of his feet and turned sharply back to the trailer, leaving Steve to follow. Like his drive over, Steve moved on instinct. Of course he would follow Eddie.

Inside, Wayne sat on the couch, in his own tinsel-covered red and green sweater, nursing a mug of what he guessed was eggnog. He subtly raised his brows when Steve walked in after Eddie.

“Sir,” Steve greeted with a nod.

But whatever Wayne’s possible answer was, Steve wouldn’t remember it over Eddie bounding over from across the room, proudly holding up the most garish sweater so far.

In Steve’s direction.

Steve’s eyes fixed on the giant pipe cleaner Christmas tree right in the middle of the torso, complete with tiny gifts underneath. And the sleeves, striped with white tinsel over the green fabric.

Steve tentatively poked it.

“Are you just pulling these things out of thin air?”

Wayne chuckled, a harbinger sound of Steve’s fate.

“Hey, you’re in my house now, Harrington,” Eddie said, playfully scowling as he shoved the sweater into Steve’s arms. “Whole new traditions.”

#ALL of the ugly christmas sweaters #no i will not hear slander about year without a santa claus #eddie has spoken #steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie microfic #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steddie drabble #post season 4 #pining steve harrington

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levans44 · 2 days ago

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underneath the tree

pairing: steve rogers x agent!reader

summary: Everything is where it should be: a giant pot of mulled wine simmering quietly on the stove, colorful bags of icing and sugary sprinkles strewn all over the cookie decorating station. Even an old-timey record player crackles softly in the corner, one you’d thrifted on a whim in hopes of teasing a certain someone about it.

Except that certain someone wasn’t… here.

warnings: fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, first kiss, light angst

word count: 2.7k

a/n: hey friends, this one’s a holiday special w/ pure fluff (and a pinch of angst b/c who am i without it?) feedback is always welcome! thanks for reading and happy holidays 🎄✨

“Santa’s… Favorite… Ho.”

The words glitter in bold, obnoxious cursive, smack dab across the chest of your favorite red-haired assassin.

“Good one, Romanoff.” You smirk, biting back a laugh as she levels you with a deadpan stare, betrayed by the faint twitch at the corner of her crimson lips.

Your very first time hosting a Christmas Party.

Or, as Nat lovingly dubbed it—a ’Derelict’s Christmas.’

It’s a tradition you’re determined to start this year, for anyone on the team without family during the holidays—a way to make sure no one spends this time of year alone.

And, naturally, another opportunity to humiliate your coworkers.

The rules were simple: everyone had to show up in the ugliest, most eye-searing sweater they could find. No exceptions.

And I mean ugly, Nat. A basic red sweater is not ugly.

Even Bucky’s adhered to your law, donning a laid-back penguin wearing sunglasses, sprawled beneath the words ‘Chill Vibes Only.’ A festive tinsel garland spirals around his left arm, which will undoubtedly be the subject of jokes he won’t live down until well after New Years.

Wait, does this make you the Winter Wonderland Soldier?

As you glance around your living room, soft, warm light dances off the mismatched decorations adorning the walls—the kind you’d spent all week setting up—and you can’t help but feel a distinct melancholic warmth reserved for this time of the year.

Everything is where it should be: a giant pot of mulled wine simmering quietly on the stove, colorful bags of icing and sugary sprinkles strewn all over the cookie decorating station. Even an old-timey record player crackles softly in the corner, one you’d thrifted on a whim in hopes of teasing a certain someone about it.

Except that certain someone wasn’t… here.

Your eyes flick to the door for what must be the tenth time in as many minutes.

No luck.

You try to tell yourself it’s just traffic, that he’ll walk through any second. But the party flows on, cruelly indifferent—drinks flowing, laughter bubbling—Sam’s already made his second sappy toast of the night and is well on his way to a third. With each passing minute, the excitement in your chest grows heavy, twisting into disappointment.

Sure, he’s probably got a million other things to do. Even on Christmas.

But when you’d brought up your little soiree, he’d agreed with a gentle nod of his head, and smiled in that boyish way that made your heart flutter.

Sounds fun, I’ll be there.

It’s not like him to just leave you hanging. But when there’s no work emergency and everyone else is here, it’s hard not to take it personally.

Your mind feels exhausted, steaming like a train running low on fuel, huffing its way to its final station, desperate to come up with more excuses. You’ve run out of them about two drinks ago.

You’re about to prepare your third, slumped against the kitchen island with a cutting board under you, when a quiet voice cuts through your haze.

“Not feelin’ the holiday spirit?”

You start at the interruption, the lime in your hand slipping from your fingers and tumbling away, rolling off the cutting board with a soft thump.

“Jesus, Barnes, give a girl a warning.”

You abandon your knife with a quiet sigh, eyes following the trail of red and green tinsel up Bucky’s arm as he steps in closer.

Lips twitching in something like amusement, he leans casually against the counter, gaze flicking pointedly toward your apartment entrance before drifting back to you.

“Noticed you’ve been staring at that door all night.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You force a roll of your eyes, dismissing his observation with a shrug. But your fingers hesitate over the cutting board, the lime mocking you from its spot against the cool backsplash.

“I’m not—” You cut yourself off, the words tasting too defensive.

A heavier sigh slips from you when you reach for your glass instead.

“It’s just not like him, you know?” You mutter, swirling the last sip in your glass before downing it. Your lips come up sticky-sweet from the rim when you mumble, more to yourself than him.

“I mean, sure, he’s busy, but…” You trail off, meeting Bucky’s gaze to find that the teasing glint was gone, replaced with something softer, unreadable. The shift unsettles you, and your stomach twists.

“What?” The word comes out sharper than you intended.

He tilts his head, as if weighing his words, and the silence grows heavy—a non-answer wrapped in a knowing look. Brows furrowed, you wait, trying to decipher his hesitation.

It’s another long beat before he sighs, lifting himself off the counter, and taps his fingers absently against the edge.

His eyes dart to the side, glancing briefly over the room. “He… didn’t want me to tell anyone.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the stem of your glass, teeth scraping over the remnants of sugar sticking to your bottom lip.

“About what?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Steve’s…” His gaze flicks to yours, softening, “He’s probably over at New York-Presbyterian.”

Your stomach drops, fingers slipping around the glass as you reach for the countertop. The train jolts back to life, racing faster than ever, the wheels screeching as each thought barrels forward, colliding with the next in a blur of frantic speed.

The hospital?Why, was he hurt?What happened?How had you not heard?

“No, no, he’s not—” Bucky cuts in quickly, raising a hand to stave off your growing panic. The wince on his face softens into a small, apologetic laugh,

“He’s fine. Just…volunteering for the kids. Does it every year.”

You blink, the rush of thoughts screeching to a sudden halt.

“He’s…”

It takes all of two seconds for the realization to register, your body moving before your mind can catch up. The glass is abandoned on the counter as you scramble for the nearest coat, not caring whose it is, and rush for the door.

The pediatric ward offers a welcome reprieve from the usual maze of sterile corridors—paper snowflakes and crayon drawings adorning the walls, giant inflatable snowmen standing guard at the entrances to patient rooms. A small Christmas tree, twinkling with homemade ornaments and tinsel, stands next to the nurse’s station.

Your desperate steps falter when you spot him in the corner of the ward, sat cross-legged over a rug in a makeshift play area, surrounded by a small circle of children. The Captain America outfit stands out amongst the sterile blues and whites—and it’s not the usual tactical gear he wears on covert missions, muted tones and coarse to the touch.

No, its the spandex version of his uniform, that ridiculously colorful suit he’d worn to punch Hitler on stage every night. Soft patches of red, white, and blue that fit snugly around his shoulders, but hang a little loose over the rest of his frame.

He’s reading from a tiny children’s book, splayed open in one hand, while the other steadies a little boy in a hospital gown perched on top of his shoulders. The boy’s eyes are wide, glued to the page as Steve gently rocks him side to side.

You hesitate, pulse quickening, letting his soft, steady voice wash over you for a moment—a rhythmic murmur that envelops the quiet corner of the ward.

It’s not until he finishes the book that he realizes you’re standing there.

Soft blue eyes crinkle at the edges when he frowns, starting to uncross his legs.

"Hey, uh… guys, new mission,” He’s still a little unsure when he sets the book down, gaze still on you. “…whoever can help me clean up the blocks gets to pick the next game, okay?” He clears his throat, smiling back at the eager group as they scramble off to the toy bins in the corner. He gently lowers the boy from his shoulders, letting the little one rush off to join the others.

You move forward, feet shuffling against the soft foam padding of the floor. As Steve meets you halfway, you clutch the sleeves of your sweater tightly, heart hammering.

“Hi.” He breathes out, surprise still evident in the small dip between his brows, though it gives way to a gentle smile.

“Hey.” Your words come out choked, something unmistakably tightening in your chest.

“How did you…” His eyes flit down to the loud pattern on your sweater, then behind you at the clock. His gaze lingers there for a moment, eyes fluttering shut in disbelief.

“Shoot. I’m sorry, I had no idea it got this late. I was going to—”

“—Steve.” Your voice cracks, thick and watery—frustration, sadness, guilt, longing, all tangled with a deep, aching incredulity.

And goddamn it, why was the tip of your nose prickling?

You take another step toward him, now close enough to notice the tiny details of his uniform—the delicate lines of stitching, the faded patch of white over his chest. And as your eyes trail over the frayed seams, you can’t help but lift a hand, the tip of your index tracing a gentle line against the end of a loose thread, pressing it down and watching it pop back up. It’s all you can do to keep from collapsing into his arms, or punching him square in the chest.

“It’s been sitting in my closet too long,” he murmurs, the low timbre vibrating against your palm, “Figured I’d take it out for a spin.”

Your eyes snap up, and the air that escapes your nose is somewhere between a snort and a desperate cry because you know you’re fucked.

Utterly ruined by this ridiculous, stupid, dumb man standing in front of you.

And when he tucks his bottom lip under his teeth, trapping the soft pink flesh in quiet hesitation, the spring finally snaps.

Brows furrowed, he's halfway into offering some kind of reassurance—maybe another damn apology—when you rise on your tiptoes, yanking him down by the loose collar of his uniform.

And then it’s nothing but the heady sensation of his lips flush against yours, a little stiff but warm and alive just the same. His broad hands find their way to the small of your back, the pressure against your lips growing firmer as he bends down, pulling you in closer. You’re gripping his uniform so tight your knuckles have turned white, but you refuse to let go even when he pulls back, his breath warm and steady against your skin.

His gaze is soft, searching, and you become acutely aware of the hot sting rising behind your eyes, the bruising grip on his collar the only thing holding you together. You wonder if he feels it too, the weight of so much time lost and longing unspoken, rushing to fill the space between you.

Then he smiles—a quiet, unguarded thing that tugs at the corners of his lips and lights up his eyes.

And just like that, the weight in your chest slips away as if it was never there.

His gaze flits down to your lips, eyelids fluttering tenderly as he starts to lean back in, only to be stopped short by a ripple of delighted gasps from about three feet below.

“Look, look, they’re kissing!”

“Steve is that your girrrlfriend?"

A gaggle of children ambushes you two—a surprise strike from all sides with no escape route. Squeals of joy pierce the air as tiny hands grasp at Steve’s uniform, tugging at his sleeves, pulling at his boot. It's a full-on siege, and you’re caught squarely in the middle. Steve looks back at you, brows raised in defeat.

“Oh my god, she’s toootally his girlfriend!”

“Cap-tain America sitting on a tree,” A loud chorus of singing erupts. “K-I-S-S-I-N—“

“Okay, okay, guys–“ He’s got the biggest, dumbest grin on his face when he raises a hand to try and quiet the noise, the other still resting on your waist.

He’s blushing something fierce, redder than a Christmas stocking, and hell, if your cheeks aren’t warming up too.

The nurse on duty eventually settles down the noise, gently ushering the children out of the play area and leading them to their rooms. You watch warily as the kids shuffle out, stuffed animals raised in the air as they wave goodbye.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…”

“No, we should’ve wrapped up a while ago.” Steve smiles sheepishly, his cheeks flushed as he ruffles the back of his neck. “It’s late.”

“Right.”

Silence stretches between you, deafeningly loud without all the tiny agents crowding your space.

He steps forward, hand still curled around his nape, and you resist the urge to kiss him again.

“Do you… wanna grab some hot chocolate?”

You sit idly in the waiting area, observing the ease on Steve’s face as he chats with the nursing staff, thanking them before heading back toward you with two plastic cups in hand.

The seat beside you creaks under his weight, and you go to cradle the warmth in both hands with a quiet smile. Your eyes drift over to the lights wrapped around the Christmas tree near the nurse’s station, shining brightly—and with it, the familiar knot tightening in your chest.

“Every year, huh?”

“Yeah,” He nods in your periphery, “The kids seem to like it.”

Your lips quirk up in a sideways smile, “Yeah, I bet.”

A beat, then: “Did Bucky tell you?”

You nod, and his smile widens, his gaze dropping to the floor as his leg bounces ever so slightly. The shiny red of his boots gleams against the linoleum, as he taps once, twice.

“I’m sorry I missed the party.”

You track the rhythm of the tree lights as they blink—on, off, alternating between bulbs then flashing all at once—and he’s still apologizing.

“I was looking forward to going.”

“Steve, it’s…” you sigh, brows furrowing at the absurdity of his apology, only for a new ridiculous thought to take its place. You blink, then, nose crinkling in amusement as you swivel around in your seat.

“Wait, were you, planning on showing up in that?”

He laughs, the sound breaking out so warm and easy. “That bad, huh?”

You gaze incredulously for a long, deliberate beat.

“You know what? I’m actually glad you didn’t come tonight. I mean, for your sake.”

Quiet laughter bubbles up in your chest, a smile tugging at your lips as you turn your gaze back forward. But in the silence that follows, a thread of bitterness winds its way back through your thoughts.

"You know," you murmur, eyes drifting to the neatly stacked parcels beneath the tree, "you’re always helping out, doing things for everyone else." A warm, fuzzy feeling hums low in your stomach—though you're not entirely sure if it’s from all the cocktails you’ve had tonight.

You sigh, your head lolling onto one shoulder as you turn to meet his gaze.

“…does Santa ever get anything for Captain America?”

He blinks, a quiet tilt of his head followed by a slow, knowing smile.

“Well,” the chair creaks again when he leans back, stretching out his legs with a satisfied breath. “He did this year.”

At the puzzled furrow of your brow, he shrugs, eyes dropping down to the narrow strip of linoleum between you two.

Then, a gentle tap of his ridiculous, shiny boot against your foot.

When your gaze snaps back to his, he’s wearing that same boyish grin again, wide and stupid and far too charming for its own good.

You can’t decide if it makes you want to shove him, or punch him, or kiss him—or maybe do all three just to get it out of your system—because yeah, you’re completely done for.

Utterly ruined in ways you never saw coming, and it’s all his fault.

And if he leans in for another kiss, and you let him pull you in with a shaky breath and a smile that feels like surrender—

Well, that’ll have to be between you, him, and the giant inflatable snowman keeping guard just two feet away.

(It’s not until you’ve both finished your hot chocolate, and shared just as many kisses as laughs, that you glance down at your phone to notice Sam’s text:

bird boy 1 hour ago

yo di u take my fcking coat??)

#steve rogers #captain america #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #christmas #captain america x reader #captain america x you #mutual pining #fluff #first kiss #friends to lovers #light angst #bucky barnes x reader #christmas fluff #christmas fic #holiday fic #marvel mcu #reader insert

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