#janitor steve

[oneforthemunny]

santa claus is comin' to town |janitor!eddie munson x teacher!reader|

prompt: oliver's first christmas with you and eddie, since the adoption, is off to a not so great start. luckily, eddie knows exactly how to make both your spirits bright <3

read the entire janitor!eddie and teacher!reader series here!

contains: parents eddie and reader. oliver is adopted by you and eddie. past talk of parent trauma and neglect. a little angsty, a lot fluffy <3

“Ollie, look,” You nodded, pulling the young boy’s attention to the center of the mall, right outside the food court, settled in mounds of fake snow and twinkling snowflake lights was Santa’s Village. Children of all ages jumped with excitement, giddy at the chance to tell the man at the end perched on a red velvet throne, what they desperately wanted for Christmas. Their parents handing over wads of cash for a photo, a framed memory they could cherish for years. 

This was the first year you and Eddie would get the chance.

“Do you want to go see Santa?” You asked, grinning down at him with a smile so bright, it rivaled the lights around you. 

Oliver didn’t match your excitement. Instead he looked over solemnly, head shaking in a sad bob that had your stomach plummeting. “No, ‘s okay.” Oliver shrugged. 

You blinked, looking up at the lines. “It’s ok if you do.” You pressed gently, a soft smile to reassure him. He was still getting used to you and Eddie paying for everything, still skittish about it even after the judge made you his legal guardians. “I can go with you, if you want. I just want to make sure you tell Santa so he can get you what you want.” 

Oliver shook his head again, bottom lip jutting gently, small enough to have your face dropping in worry. “No, it’s ok.” He shook his head. “Santa never comes to my house anyways. I don’t think he knows about me, or he forgets.” 

“What do you mean, honey?” Your voice was strained with emotion, trying desperately to stay level, not to sound upset though your stomach was twisting in the most painful way. 

Oliver looked up at you through long, dark lashes. “He never came to my house.” He muttered, a tiny huff of a sigh that made you want to sob. “I’d always send him the letters at school, but he never came.” 

You felt every ounce of his disappointment, bore it heavy on your heart. Your throat constricted, unable to find the right words. What did you say to that? What could you say to make it better? You didn’t know, so instead you nodded, squeezing his hand gently, stopping for a cookie at the small corner kiosk and heading towards the music store Eddie was at. The once cheery, festive music felt mocking now, playing through the speakers. 

Eddie stood by the counter, strumming the newly repaired string of his guitar to test it. His face lit up, excited to show you how they’d fixed it, how much better it sounded now with a proper tune up. Instead, his smile fell. 

“Hey,” Eddie muttered, hand running over Oliver’s locks, ruffling them in an affectionate greeting that had him giggling. “What’s goin’ on?” 

You didn’t meet his gaze, swallowing the burning bile that rose in the back of your throat, eyes downcast towards Oliver. “Hey, you alright?” Eddie muttered, his hand touching yours, calloused thumb gliding across your knuckles. “Somethin’ happen?” 

“No,” He knew you were lying, your voice tight the way it was when something was wrong. “Did you get it fixed?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie frowned, scanning your features carefully. “Are you sure-” 

“-Can I go look at the CDs?” Oliver pointed towards the aisles of CDs, hand gently pulling yorus for attention. 

You nodded. “Stay towards the front, ok? Where we can see you. If you can’t see us-” 

“-Then you can’t see me.” Oliver grinned. “I will.” He chirped, giddily skipping over to the CDs. Somehow, his innocent happiness made your heart break more. 

“Hey, look at me, baby.” Eddie muttered, knuckle brushing under your chin lightly, pulling your gaze into his. “What’s’a matter? What’s wrong?” 

You pressed your lips together to stop the shake you felt coming. “I, uh, I asked Ollie if he wanted to see Santa. Tell him what he wanted for Christmas so we could get an idea for him.” Your gaze wandered to the small boy, on his tiptoes to flick through the CDs in the rock section- the ones he was starting to favor since listening with Eddie. 

“He said,” You swallowed, voice quivering with emotions that you were trying your best to keep in. “He said Santa never visited him, Eddie. He thinks he forgets him every year.” 

Eddie watched your face crumble, turning away to try and compose yourself. His own heart dropping. Rushes of his own childhood, the hope that maybe this year Santa would visit if he stole the Borden’s lights, threw them up on his roof instead so Santa could see. He even kept his light on so Santa would know he was home, but still, he never came. 

Until he stayed with Wayne. 

“Does he,” Eddie ducked, eyes cutting around the store. “He still, like, believes in him and all that?” 

You paused, brows furrowing lightly. “Yeah, I mean, I think he does-” 

“-I got it.” Eddie nodded, finality in his tone. “I got it, baby. Don’t worry.” 

“Ed, wait, just-” You stopped him, eyes cutting to Oliver. “You can’t make him, ok? If he doesn’t want to, then we should respect that.” 

“I’m not gonna make him, baby.” Eddie smiled softly. “I got it, ok. You trust me?” You nodded slowly. You did trust Eddie, in every way with everything. 

“Then let me handle this, alright? Don’t worry about it.” Eddie pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, squeezing your hip lovingly, walking back to the counter to gather his guitar. 

“Hey, Ollie, gotta ask you somethin’, little guy.” Eddie hummed, strumming his guitar, tongue poked out in concentration. 

Oliver was in front of him, mindlessly playing with his own action figures while Eddie practiced, flipping Spider-Man off the couch cushions and launching him over the coffee table with pure childlike imagination. “Yeah?” 

Eddie watched him carefully, trying to play it cool, easy- not to scare the kid. “Mama told me something,” The beloved name you’d adorned before the papers went through. Eddie had christened you with it happily, grinning at the way it made you gleam when he’d call you it. “Said you didn’t want to see Santa.” 

Oliver stopped, action figure hanging in midair, eyes wide like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Yeah.” Oliver said quietly. Eddie knew he was trying to read his tone, see if he was mad or upset. 

Eddie smiled at him softly, playfully throwing a hand out to him. “Dude, why?” He grinned. “You gotta tell the big man what you want for Christmas.” 

Oliver’s head lowered, dragging the plastic feet of the superhero across the coffee table. “Santa doesn’t come to visit me.” He mumbled. “He never has.” 

Eddie tried not to let his face falter. He knew it was coming, and it still hurt. Instead, he tried to remember what Wayne said, exactly how he’d said it and convinced him years ago when he was in Ollie’s shoes, hurt and disappointed. 

“He didn’t?” Eddie cocked his head to the side. Oliver shook his head, face falling. “That’s weird.” Eddie quipped, lips twisting in thought. He could feel Oliver’s eyes on him curiously, he wanted to play it up for him. “You know, I bet you’re not registered.” 

Oliver blinked. “Registered?” 

“Yeah, your parents,” Eddie cringed at the mention. “You, uh, you have to register everyone to Santa. There’s a lot of kids in the world, and he can lose count sometimes. If you move or if you have more kids, anything, you gotta get them registered so he’ll know. Kinda like attendance, y’know?” It wasn’t nearly as smooth as when Wayne did it, much more rambling, but Oliver’s eyes lit up. 

“You do?” Oliver asked, setting Spider-Man down completely. 

“Oh, yeah.” Eddie nodded, setting his own guitar down on the stand. “I’ve been meaning to call anyways, make sure they were sending me a form down so I could let them know that you’re here now. Let me just call really quick.” 

Oliver followed him, close on Eddie’s heels into the kitchen, where you were cutting carrots for the soup. “Hey, babe,” Eddie called, opening the junk drawer by the sink. “Have you seen the phone book?” 

“The phone book?” You frowned, turning to look over your shoulder at them. “It should be under the coffee table.” 

“No, the one for the North Pole.” Eddie muttered, eyes lifting to yours, shooting you a wide eyed look. 

You paused, tracking his sharp side eyed glance to Oliver, who’s eyes were wide and hopeful, hanging on Eddie’s every word. “Oh,” You squeaked. “Um, I think I put it in the address book in my purse.” 

Eddie fumbled through the contents of your bag, swiping the floral printed contact book with a sloppy grin. “Ah, found it.” He muttered, tongue poking out when he thumbed through the names and numbers. 

“Can I see?” Oliver asked, rising on his tip-toes to look over the edge of the book. 

“Hey, no way, c’mon.” Eddie shook his head. “Santa only gives it to parents. So we can call when you’ve been bad, or when we move and stuff. Can’t give it out or he’ll be mad.” 

Oliver hesitated, scanning Eddie’s face carefully. He was a little suspect, but Eddie said it so confidently, it was hard not to be convinced- hell, you were convinced, listening with careful amusement from the kitchen. 

Eddie pulled the phone off the hook, dialing the number with a covered hand, winking over at Oliver playfully. The line rang and rang and rang, until-

“Hello?” 

“Hi, this is Eddie- sorry, Edward Munson.” Eddie said cheerfully into the phone, just like he would talking to a customer service rep. “I was needing to talk to someone about registering a new house to Santa’s route.” 

There was a pause, the rustling of the line on the other end. “Eddie, what the fuck- are you high?” Dustin Henderson’s confused voice rang from the other end. 

Eddie grinned, jaw clenching at annoyance he tried to hide. Thankfully, Oliver didn’t seem to notice, eyes shining with awe at the phone call. “Yeah, we were just needing to talk to someone about registering our house for Santa to stop at.” Eddie’s tone was clipped behind feigned cheerfulness. “We have Oliver living here now, and we wanted to get the form sent.” 

“Eddie, what-” Dustin laughed on the other end. “Are you messing with me? You’re messing with me.” 

“Yeah, just a second-” Eddie covered the phone, leaning towards Oliver. “Ollie, can you grab my wallet? By the bed?” 

Oliver nodded, scampering down the hall. Eddie waited before turning, cradling the phone close to his mouth. “Henderson, play the fuck along, ok? I told Oliver I was calling the North Pole.” 

Dustin laughed, a loud cackle of a laugh, full belly and entertained. “Why? What are you doing-” 

“-Because Santa has never visited him.” Eddie hissed lowly, ceasing Dustin’s laughter. “And I am trying to get the registration form just to make sure we get added on Santa’s route, so Santa will be sure to visit us this year.” Eddie’s tone lifted, changing instantly back to that cheery tone he had before when Oliver ran in. 

“Thanks, bud.” Eddie grinned, taking the wallet. “Just my license number?” He hummed, flicking it open. 

“Eddie, I’m-I’m sorry, man. I thought you were messin’ with me-” 

“-Yeah, it’s W23-016.” Eddie cut the other man off through gritted teeth. “And it’s Oliver Munson. He’s eight, and his new address is 172 Azalea Lane in Hawkins, Indiana.” 

The line was silent. “What do you want me to do here, Eddie? Like pretend-” 

“Yeah, if you can send the form here, that would be great.” Eddie fought back an eye roll. He should’ve called Steve. “And my wife wanted me to ask, can Oliver go see Santa now and tell him what he wants, or should he wait until after we mail the form back?” 

“Uh, now? Is that what you want me to say? Dude, why didn’t you call me before so I could prepare-” Dustin huffed. 

“Great. We’ll get that filled out, and we’ll go next weekend.” Eddie smiled over at Oliver, heart swelling with warmth over the irritation he felt. “Thanks so much for your help, Nog. Have a good one.” 

“Oh, wow, use my ninth grade dwarf name. Real mature-” Eddie didn’t wait to hear the rest of Dustin’s whining, slapping the phone on the receiver. 

Oliver was bouncing, practically exploding with anticipation and excitement. You thought your heart might burst at the sight. “They’re sending it over.” Eddie clapped his hands. “Told you it was easy, Ollie. They said you just have to sign something when it comes, and we can send it back off to the North Pole, and can go see Santa next week.” 

“Wow,” Oliver beamed, smiling at you. “Thank you.” He muttered, barreling into Eddie’s side, squeezing his thighs in a tight, loving hug.

“You’re welcome, bud.” Eddie smiled, patting his head affectionately. “Can you go put my guitar back in the garage? In the case, please? Make sure to fasten it.” 

Eddie waited until Oliver was running back into the living room to slide over to you. Your eyes shining with adoration, awe. “That was the sweetest thing I think I’ve ever seen, Ed.” You muttered, arms wrapping around his torso. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so in love with you in my whole life.” 

“C’mon,” Eddie blushed, rocking you gently, a half stepped sway. “Not gonna let the kid have a bad Christmas.” 

“How did- How did you even come up with that?” You blinked, chin resting against his chest. “That was genius.” 

“Well, gotta give credit to Wayne.” Eddie shrugged. “He, uh, he did it first. When I came to live with him the first time after my mom passed. Dad hadn’t got me a gift since she died, too fucked up to remember the whole Santa thing. So Wayne told me it was because he forgot to register my house after we moved. I believed it. Made me feel better thinkin’ my dad just forgot to register the house, instead of forgettin’ me, y’know?” Eddie muttered, voice dropping lowly. 

Your heart ached in the most uncomfortable way, squeezing him tighter into your chest. “It was sweet.” You whispered, arms circling around his waist, pressing a kiss to the soft fabric of his t-shirt, right over his heart. It made him flush with heat. “Thank you for that.” 

“Baby, do you have construction paper?” Eddie asked, sliding into your classroom. It was still early, the sun just barely lifting into the grayed Indiana morning sky, frost still fogging at the windows. 

“Um, in the cabinet in the red drawer.” You pointed to the arts and crafts area, neatly organized safety scissors and crayons tucked away. “What are you doing?” 

“I got this idea last night. Ollie’s real excited-” Eddie paused, scanning the classroom for the little boy. 

“He went down to the gym with Mrs. Bronski.” You waved it off lightly, passing out the morning activity papers to each of the spots. “Excited about what?” 

“Excited about Santa this weekend.” Eddie muttered, flipping through the stack of construction paper, shimmying out a sheet of red and green. “Anyways, I got this idea about making the form. I found these letter stamps and ink pads in the art room, asked Lois if I could borrow them and she’s letting me. I think it’d be better printed like that so it look more legit, ya know?” 

You beamed, smiling brightly under the fluorescent lights of the classroom, making Eddie’s heart skip. “Yeah, that’s- that’s really sweet, Ed.” 

Eddie paused, shoulder’s tensing slightly, that familiar wide eyed, scared look creeping into his features. “You- It’s stupid, isn’t it?” He asked, voice tight. “I, fuck- sorry- I just, I dunno I thought it would be cool. Better than… It doesn’t matter. That was too much, I’m sorry, I just got excited-” 

“Eddie, what?” You lifted a brow, tone steady and calm, like it always was when he’d spin out like this. “Ed, I think that’s a great idea. I think it’s really sweet, and I think Ollie will love it.” 

Eddie scanned your features, looking for any reason not to believe you- a quirk in your lips, a blink that felt off, anything. “Are you sure? It’s not… too much?” 

“You think I’d judge you for doing too much?” You tilt your head to the side playfully. “I’m jealous I didn’t think of it because it’s perfect, Eddie. All of it. You’re just,” Your breath hitched, heart fluttering at the sight of him. “You’re just a really good dad, and it makes me so inexplicably happy that I get to be with you. Watch you be a good dad, and a good husband, and just be with you. I’m so happy with you.”  

Eddie blushed, cheeks reddening at your words. If you weren’t in school, the looming threat of HR surrounding you, he’d push you up against the poster board, make out with you right there. 

“Thank you.” Eddie muttered instead, looking down at his work boots, cheeks burning with the praise. “I, uh, I- yeah, I feel the same way, y’know. About you, and you’re a good mom- the best mom.” You rolled your eyes bashfully, grabbing his hand, squeezing it softly. 

“Hey, lovebirds,” Steve grinned, head ducking in your doorway. Eddie rolled his eyes, scoffing with exasperation. “Gotta go get the kids. Do you want me to walk yours up too?” 

“No, I’ve got it.” You smile politely. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll be right there.” 

Eddie was already reaching for your lanyard of keys, dropping them in your hand, pressing a sweet, parting kiss to your cheek quickly. 

He worked tirelessly in his tiny janitor’s closet, pulling out a broken ruler to make sure it was lined correctly, taking breaks in between the lunch cleanup and fixing a ceiling light, until it was perfect. 

Oliver was thrilled when Eddie came home, the bright red paper in his hand. “Guess what came in the mail today, Ollie?” Eddie sang in a silly tone, a grin so wide and dazzling it made you want to melt. 

Oliver signed the dotted line with careful, slanted handwriting. You thought you were going to cry seeing him sign Oliver Munson beaming with pride at the last name that was all his now. 

Eddie snuck it back into your bedroom after going to “mail the letter back”, neatly laying it in your bedside drawer. That night, the two of you lied in bed, looking over every careful detail of the paper, your own prized possession. 

“How long did this take you?” You muttered, fingertip tracing over Oliver’s pen scrawled signature, lip trembling all over again. 

“Not too long,” Eddie’s chest rumbled under you, lips pressed into your hair, holding you against him as close as possible. “Worst part was trying to make sure I didn’t miss a letter or something. I started on green but fucked up Santa. Spelled Satan, so had to start over.” 

You laughed, a small, watery giggle that had Eddie’s grin on you tightening, an affectionate squeeze to your hip. “Yeah, that might have him confused.” You beam, head lolling back on Eddie’s shoulder to look up at him. “He was so excited though, I don’t think he would have cared.” 

Eddie’s lips curled in a soft smile, hand moving to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in for a sweet kiss- the kind that left your head reeling with devotion, letting him press you back into the pillows, body sliding on top of yours. 

“Wait,” You panted, tapping on his chest gently. 

Eddie frowned, rolling off of you. “‘M sorry. I thought you wanted to-” 

You placed the paper back in your bedside drawer, neatly tucking it under a book so it wouldn’t get crinkled. “I didn’t want it to rip.” You smiled softly, flicking off the lamp. 

Eddie could see your eyes, glowing with that devious hint that had his heart jumping with excitement. You crawled over him, legs straddling either side of his hips, your hands in his hair this time, pressing him into the pillow, pinning him with a feverish kiss that left him reeling.

[den-ai-d]

I'm taking a break for December so might as well do a roundup of every Patreon reward I've made since I started this year!

I guess the best takeaway from starting this all is I actually managed to get paid for drawing an OC??? Like damn, that's amazing honestly 😊

[lanasgirlfr]

any William Afton/Steve Raglan janitor ai bots recs ?? bc I'm going insane

[shieldofiron]

The duffers want you to think Steve is a loser for being a minimum wage king after saving the world multiple times. I think it’s very Buffy of him and I hope he actually gets a “worse” job.

[evilhorse]

I still think “Judah’s Janitorial” has a snappy ring to it.

[f4n-im4t0r]

OH MY(yapping in tags again)

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #17

One week. One fucking week. That’s how long it took before the universe’s reality collapsed in on itself like a toddler knocking over a block tower made of cosmic rules, and Danny Fenton—sorry, High King Phantom of the Infinite Realms, Keeper of Balance, Ghost King of All Dimensions, Supreme Bureaucratic Overlord of Death and Souls, or whatever other bullshit title Clockwork slapped on him—was done. He was so done. With everything. With life. With afterlife. With bureaucracy. With math. Goddamn, he hated math.

He phased through the ceiling of what was left of the Avengers compound without so much as a knock because, frankly, he didn’t care anymore. People were dead. Everyone was dead. Half a fucking universe. And universes are fucking infinite. Literally. He’d been counting. Or trying to. But the math broke somewhere around “nine trillion decillion” and his brain short-circuited.

Inside, the Avengers were scattered around like bad leftovers. Steve was slouched in a chair like someone told him America lost the war. Thor was cradling a bottle like it was the last warmth in the world. Natasha looked like she hadn’t blinked in hours. Banner was trying to fix a coffee machine that had already given up on life. Tony—oh, Tony—Tony looked like he’d been held together with duct tape and sarcasm, and not the good kind.

“Yo,” Danny said, arms folded, crown floating behind him, cape swishing dramatically like it had beef with gravity. “Which one of you assholes thought wiping out half an entire goddamn universe was a great idea?”

They blinked. Steve slowly got to his feet. “Uh… who—?”

“No. Shut up. Don’t talk. I’m not in the mood. I haven’t slept in a week. Time doesn’t even exist in the Infinite Realms, and I somehow managed to be late to ten meetings that haven’t happened yet. Do you know what kind of eldritch administrative nightmare I’m dealing with? Do you?”

Tony blinked. “Not really, no.”

Danny whipped around to face him, pointing a glowing finger. “I don’t care, Stark. I don’t care that your kid sidekick is dead. I don’t care that half your team is sad. I don’t care that your billionaire ass is depressed and growing a sad beard like you’re auditioning for ‘Survivor: Superhero Edition’. I have literal oceans of paperwork made out of the screams of the damned piling up in my inbox because some purple California Raisin thought committing universal homicide was a vibe.”

“Hold on,” Natasha said, standing now, brows furrowed. “Who even are you?”

“I’m the janitor,” Danny deadpanned. “Of death. And you—you are all on my shit list.”

Steve opened his mouth.

“NO. I said no talking. Do you know how many souls half a universe is? Do you? BECAUSE I DON’T. THAT NUMBER DOESN’T EXIST. That’s not even math anymore, that’s heresy. There are species no one even knows about! I had to learn seven extinct galactic dialects in five minutes just to sign their death certificates!”

“Wait—wait,” Bruce said, cautiously stepping in like someone trying to defuse a bomb made of feelings. “You’re… the King of the Afterlife?”

“Infinite Realms,” Danny corrected. “Afterlife implies one dimension. I’ve got infinite. One of them is just an endless IKEA. You think you’re in hell? Try getting lost in that one for eternity.”

Tony blinked. “That explains the floating crown.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Danny snapped, sarcasm thick. “Yeah, the crown’s real subtle. You know what else I’m wearing? These.”

He held up his fingers. On them gleamed the actual Infinity Stones. Not the ones Thanos used. No, these were the OG versions—before the universe dumbed them down for mortal brains.

“I’m wearing multiversal cosmic artifacts as fucking accessories, Stark. I clapped death back into submission on my way here. I threatened Time itself with a lawsuit. I am so tired.”

Everyone was staring now. Thor slowly lowered his bottle.

“I have one question,” Thor said, eyes narrowing. “Can you bring them back?”

Danny didn’t respond immediately. He paced, muttering under his breath about soul processing queues and spectral overflow reports and ghost union strikes.

Then he turned, threw up his hands, and shouted, “Fine! Fine! But only because if I see one more Ectoplasmic Reconciliation Form I’m going to scream my own name and rip reality in half!”

Tony raised a cautious hand. “Just to clarify… you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

Danny glared at him. “I am doing this because your collective idiocy has backed up the Infinite Realms so badly, I have ancient god-beasts getting angry Yelp reviews for not guiding souls fast enough.”

Bruce choked. “You get… Yelp reviews?”

“Do not ask. Do not google ‘Spiritual Bureaucracy Yelp.’ You’re not ready. It’s worse than you can even imagine.”

He clapped his hands. The power reverberated like a sonic boom made of lightning and bass drops. Light cracked through the floor, time folded, and space rewrote itself. In an instant, everything was back. People. Planets. Souls. Loved ones. Unsnapped. Safely. No one reappeared in traffic or mid-air. They were all fine.

Everyone stared.

Tony gasped. “…Peter?”

Somewhere in the compound, Peter Parker screamed, “MR. STARK I THINK I DIED?!”

Danny muttered, “Yeah, well, get in line, kid.”

Tony looked like he might cry. Steve looked like he might cry. Even Thor blinked back tears.

Danny didn’t give them a second to bask.

“Listen to me and listen hard, because I am only going to say this once. The next time you idiots let some glorified space grape get his hands on cosmic power and kill half the universe, I’m not bringing anyone back.”

Natasha stepped forward. “Wait—what—?”

“I said,” Danny growled, eyes glowing green and crown sparking violently, “the next time this happens, I am going to let the universe rot. I don’t care if it’s your kid, or your moms, or your emotional support dog. You will live with it. You will suffer. Because I’m not spending another week cleaning up your mess like the goddamn galactic janitor!”

Tony muttered, “Kinda thought you said you were the janitor.”

“I will kick your kneecaps off.”

Tony shut up.

Danny took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going home. Do not call me again unless the universe is actually ending. And even then, it better be certified by at least three gods and signed in triplicate.”

He started floating upward, preparing to phase out, when Steve blurted, “Wait, thank you. Really.”

Danny paused mid-air, sighed, and turned around. “You’re welcome. I guess. But seriously. If another genocidal space maniac so much as coughs on the timeline, I’m filing a restraining order on this entire dimension. Bye.”

And with that, he vanished in a swirl of ectoplasmic smoke, leaving the Avengers staring at each other in the awkward silence that followed a divine ass-whooping.

Thor finally muttered, “I liked him.”

Tony sat down, blinked a few times, then said, “He just wore the Infinity Stones as rings. Like mood jewelry.”

Bruce nodded solemnly. “He’s not paid enough.”

“Was he even paid at all?” Steve asked.

And somewhere in the realms between life and death, Danny Phantom screamed into his pillow made of souls: “I AM NOT GETTING PAID FOR THIS BULLSHIT!!!”

[aemondsbabe]

Give Me an O!

summary: billy walks in on you in a bit of a compromising situation, and you finally go after what you want

pairing: billy hargrove x cheerleader!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, reader is very flexible, minor injury it's fine, piv sex, unprotected sex oopsy daisy, public sex technically, hand over mouth, fingering, breast/nipple play if you blink, dirty talk, reader's hair is long enough that she can have a ponytail but no other physical descriptors are used, billy is a himbo, steve harrington cameo

word count: 5k

a/n: finally getting around to a request from @sweetshifter! thank you for the idea bby & i hope ya enjoy! also, my first time writing for stranger things! yay! images in the header are for aesthetic purposes only!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

gif creds to @unwanted-animal

🖤 my masterlist

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!

“You sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” Your best friend asks as she slings her gym bag over her shoulder, “I don’t mind staying a couple minutes.”

“Nah,” you shrug, still panting a little from practice as you lean to the side with a little sigh, stretching down toward your leg, “You go on, I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

“Alright, cool,” she chirps, glossy lips flicking up into that sincere, beaming smile that had become her signature, “Bye!” She calls over her shoulder as she turns, white tennis shoes thumping against the shiny wooden floor as your name echoes around the gym. 

“Bye, Chrissy!” You reply with a smile, glancing up as the heavy metal doors at the side of the room click closed, leaving you alone for the time being. 

With a tired huff, you check your watch, one that matched Chrissy’s exactly – gold with a baby pink face. You’d gotten them at the mall last summer, a joint birthday present. 

4:34pm.

A sigh leaves your lips as you lunge forward, hands planted firmly on your hips as you try to ignore the slight burn in your thigh. So, that’s… like, forty-five minutes until basketball practice starts, you think, eyes pointed up at the white metal ceiling as you do mental math, trying to figure out exactly how long you’ll have to work on your stretches. 

Deciding to give yourself a few more minutes before calling it a day, you breathe out steadily through your pursed lips as you switch sides and lunge forward again, savoring the light burn in your calf. After a fifteen second count, you move onto your hands and knees, needing to stretch out your back. 

You hum softly under your breath, one hand planted firmly against the blue tumbling mat beneath you as the other reaches back and grabs onto one of your ankles, your limbs forming a graceful arch above you. A small grunt leaves you as you pull your leg up as high as you can, before dropping it down and reaching back with your other hand to do the other side. Mid-pose, you swear you hear one of the gym doors click open, the one out to the hallway with the locker rooms and various storage closets judging by the direction, but you’re so focused on holding your pose, you honestly can’t be sure. 

Huffing, you decide to just ignore it – Probably just the janitor or something, you think, keeping your eyes focused, once again, on the white metal ceiling as you roll over onto your back. 

Breathing steadily, you let your eyes slip closed as you press both legs together before slowly lifting them up, using your hands and elbows to support your back as you lift onto your shoulders. Wincing slightly at the twinge of pain from your left one, you work through it, trying to keep your breath steady. As your green and gold cheer skirt pools at your waist, you silently pray that if it is a janitor, that it’s at least not the creepy one.

Slowly but surely, you work both legs up and over your head until the tips of your white sneakers press into the mat, your arms planted firmly onto the floor for support. 

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, you count silently, breathing a little shakily as you focus on balancing… and on ignoring your shoulder. 

Suddenly, a loud wolf-whistle cuts through the silence of the gym, punctuated by a few slow claps and the heavy footsteps of someone walking across the wooden gym floor. 

“Aah!” You squeak as you topple to the side, concentration thoroughly broken. Huffing, you prop yourself up on one elbow as your head snaps up, eyes already narrowed into an irritated glare. Upon seeing who it is, you can’t help but sneer.

“Can I help you, Hargrove?” You sigh, exasperated, rolling your eyes as you angle both legs out in a side split, determined to get through your stretches even with the added annoyance of Billy’s presence.

“Just admiring the view, princess,” he drawls, blue eyes trailing up the length of each of your spread legs in a way that makes your cheeks flush, “You’re real good at that, aren’t you?” He questions, plump lips quirked up into that signature, flirtatious smirk. 

“Good at what?” You ask, brows furrowing as you bend over to the left, easily grasping the toe of your tennis shoe as the muscles in your legs stretch into a taut, familiar ache. 

He chuckles at that, hands on his hips as he studies you, the spicy, woodsy smell of his cologne filling the space around you. He cocks his head to the side, pearly white teeth flashing every few seconds as he chews a piece of gum. 

“Stretching,” he all but purrs, golden curls blowing slightly from the large fans that hum loudly on the ceiling. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he ogles at you, watching carefully as you bend to the right, “I bet it’d be really easy to just fold you up like a pretzel, huh, sweets?” 

With a sigh, you finally let yourself relax for a moment and tilt your head up to look at the boy as you lean back on your hands, your ponytail swishing across your shoulder blades as you do. 

“In your dreams, Billy,” you murmur, trying to keep the expression on your face plaid, wholly uninterested, which is easier said than done. 

You don’t like Billy, and you’re very quick to correct anyone who says you do, even if it is just friendly teasing. But, well, there’s something about him that just draws people into his orbit – charisma combined with a certain mystique. You knew from talking to the girls in the locker room that he was a lady’s man, and a player, but from how they all talked about him, there appeared to be something more there, some hidden layer that no one had been able to crack yet. He’s different from the other boys in Hawkins, no small town charm to hide behind. 

Plus, come on, he’s gorgeous. You might not be Billy’s biggest fan but you have eyes. 

“Damn right, in my dreams,” he murmurs, pulling you from your thoughts as he draws out every syllable of your name in a low, husky tone, familiar smirk playing at his lips like always. 

Cocking your head, you narrow your eyes as you peer up at him, “Aren’t you going out with Amber now?”

“Wouldn’t exactly call it going out…,” he answers as he bends down on one knee to retie the laces of his shoe, shooting you a little wink as he does so. 

“Does Amber know that?”

He pauses at that, a little huff of laughter bubbling up from his chest as he fixes you with a grin that is much too self-satisfied for your liking. “Now, princess,” he starts slowly, blue eyes narrowing at you playfully as he rests a forearm across his knee, “Why do you care so much about what I’m doing with Amber?”

“She’s my friend, Billy,” you say, sitting up a little more, the chill from the AC units making the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end. 

“So, it’s definitely not because you’re, I dunno, jealous or anything?”

“No!” You cringe inwardly as you say it, too quick and too defensive and just what the blue eyed boy had been hoping for, judging by the smug grin plastered on his face. 

This is how it’s been between the two of you for months now, ever since his stupid Camaro had rumbled into the school’s parking lot way back in August. Since then, it’s been a whirlwind of teasing jokes, sitting through History class after History class as you feel those blue eyes practically boring a hole in the back of your head, and somehow mustering up the willpower to dodge his advances. 

In the nearly three months since his arrival, Billy had managed to charm his way through at least a handful of girls, maybe more depending on which rumors you listen to, but you are determined not to fall for it, not to be just another notch on his bedpost. 

Which would be a lot easier if he’d leave you the hell alone. 

Flustered, you pull your knees up, tucking your chin over top of them as your arms wrap around your calves, silently rolling your eyes as Billy drops to the blue tumbling mat, rolling onto his back with a satisfied sigh, making it clear to you that he was here to stay. 

“Why’re you here so early, anyway?” You question, glancing at your watch once more, “Basketball practice isn’t for, like, another half hour.” 

“Had to drop my stupid step-sister off at some trash arcade,” he grunts, annoyed, “Didn’t wanna waste the gas to go all the way home, plus…,” he pauses, tilting his head to the side to slyly grin at you once more, “I figured I might get here early enough to catch the end of cheer practice.” 

“Creep,” you scoff, much more playfully than you’d intended to. 

The two of you fall into a, surprisingly, comfortable beat of silence. You let your eyes trail over Billy as his own droop shut, one arm propped behind his head as he lazes on the gym mat, jaw clenching every so often as he works the gum in his mouth. You start at his feet, taking in the faded black canvas material of his Converse before you let your eyes roam up his long, tanned, muscular legs. Finally, you reach the familiar dark green shade of his school-branded shorts and your eyes wander up the expanse of his stomach and chest, covered by the grey t-shirt he wears, the familiar eyes of Hawkins High’s tiger mascot staring blankly into your own. 

You nearly gasp as your eyes trail up to his face again, only to find his steely eyes already looking at you, a knowing smirk etched into his face as you feel the apples of your cheeks flush. 

“It’s rude to stare, princess,” Billy drawls, catching you red handed.

“And it’s not rude to perv on me stretching?” 

“Never said it wasn’t,” he shrugs with a little chuckle, sitting up and resting one forearm on a bent knee. You merely roll your eyes as he studies you for a second, the blush on your cheeks deepening enough that you can feel the slight tingle of blood rushing under the surface. 

“Whatever,” you sigh, shaking your head as you stretch your legs out in front of you again. You stretch forward again, letting out a breath as you grab at your ankles and try to ignore the way Billy sits up, propping his forearm up on a bent knee. 

“Could you, like, put your legs behind your head and all that?” 

“Probably,” you say with a little eye roll. 

“Will you?”

“Not for you!” 

The two of you carry on like that for a moment longer — you working through various stretches and familiar yoga poses as Billy seems overly curious about each one, questioning if you can twist into all kinds of poses. 

“Can you do a handstand and do the splits?” He questions, grinning when you groan in frustration, eyes trailing up your long legs to the bottom of your short cheer skirt. 

With a huff, you stand with one hand on your hip, the other pinching at the bridge of your nose as Billy’s incessant questions throw you off the silent count in your head again.

“Did you want something or are you just trying fuck me over?” 

“Mmm, close, princess,” the blond teases, earning another glare from you. Playfully, he holds his hands up in surrender, “You’re single, aren’t you?” He asks, smirking triumphantly at the way you balk.

“I’m not talking about this with you, Hargrove.”

His smirk widens when you don’t deny it, blue eyes darkening as they travel over the length of your body once more. “Look, all I’m saying is that the guys talk in the locker room and… well, I can’t help but notice that your pretty name just doesn’t come up.”

“Maybe I have better things to do than put out for you assholes,” you smirk, quickly stretching out your problem shoulder before kneeling back on the tumbling mat, meaning to finish up with a couple quick pushups.

Undeterred, Billy merely matches your smirk with one of his own, watching as you kneel next to him. “Just come with me to Harrington’s Halloween party next weekend, sweetness,” he offers, his voice a low rumble, “Come on, a couple hours, some drinks. Hell, I’ll even dress up with you, whatever you want.”

“Hmm,” you hum, taking a second to tighten your ponytail as you shoot him a playful little smile, “Whatever I want, huh?” 

“Name it,” he says lowly, watching appreciatively as you get on all fours. 

“Okay, how about…,” you stall, drawing out your words as you extend your legs behind you, grunting softly as your shoulder zings with pain once more, “Willie and Indiana Jo– Ah!” You cut yourself off, exclaiming in pain as you land with a small thud on the mat, wincing. 

“Whoa, hey,” Billy says softly, scrambling onto his knees, brows furrowed as he gingerly helps you roll over onto your back, “You okay?”

You nod, glancing away with a little embarrassed huff as you rub at your shoulder. “Yeah, it’s nothing. I just probably sprained it earlier during practice or something.”

“Lemme take a look at it,” he says, offering a hand to help you up.

Not expecting such chivalrous behavior from Hargrove of all people, you only nod dumbly and let him pull you up off the mat, chest heaving.

“Here,” he murmurs, gently nudging at your arm until you turn your back to him. You can hear the tumbling mat crinkle as he steps closer to you, the warmth from his chest practically radiating through his t-shirt as the spicy musk of his cologne seems to envelope you once again. 

“You better not be using this as an excuse to feel me up,” you warn, albeit playfully, pulling your ponytail over the opposite shoulder. 

“In your dreams,” he teases, goosebumps peppering your skin from the low way he says your name and from the gentle brush of his fingers over the back of your arm as they trail their way up to your shoulder. 

He’s silent for a moment, carefully pressing warm, slightly rough fingers against your skin, watching until you wince just slightly when he pokes at your shoulder blade. “That’s where it hurts?” 

“Mhm,” you nod, lips parting ever so slightly as he kneads around the area. You can practically feel him smirking when you sigh a moment later, his fingers working perfectly over the sore muscle as his other hand anchors itself at your hip, “You’re… actually, like, really good at this,” you murmur with a little laugh, needing to find some way to break the silence. 

“My mom is – was, she was a masseuse, back when we lived in Cali,” Billy explains, leaning in closer, his lips all but brushing against your ear as he speaks softly, like he’s telling you some deep, dark secret, “I might’ve looked at one or two of her books.” 

“Really?” You ask, brows furrowing as you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“Sue me, I was thirteen and they had nudes in ‘em,” he chuckles, biting into his bottom lip when your breathy laugh morphs into a moan when he presses just right against your shoulder. The fingers of his other hand tighten on your hip as he pulls you back against him, his lips just barely grazing over the crook of your neck, “But I still picked up a thing or two.”

“Clearly,” you breathe, brows tugging together as you tilt your head to the side, an open invitation. The blond doesn’t need any more convincing and you let your eyes flutter shut as his lips descend upon your neck, pressing hot kisses against the sensitive skin. 

The rise and fall of your chest grows shallow as the two of you seem to lose yourselves; you gasp as the hand on your hip trails down over your thigh, until Billy can drag the tips of his fingers beneath the white and gold hem of your pleated skirt just as the hand on your shoulder begins slowly moving around your ribs, to your front. Despite the AC units humming away, you can’t help but feel flush as he presses himself against you, already half-hard against the small of your back. 

With a gasp, you jerk away from him at the sound of a door opening and closing in the hallway, muffled voices and laughter filtering in through the closed doors of the gym. 

“Dammit,” Billy mumbles behind you as he quickly glances at the clock hanging above one of the exits, sighing disappointedly when he sees the time – fifteen minutes until practice. 

Deciding to finally give in to the wants you’ve been harboring for months, you grab one of his hands and playfully bite your lip, nodding to one of the sets of gym doors, “Follow me.” 

Smirking, he follows behind you as you quickly make your way to the doors, both of you pausing for a second to make sure the coast is clear before you bolt down the hallway. A second later, you’re pushing Billy through a door into a random classroom.

“This is the old Health room,” you explain, gasping as he turns and presses you against the old door, the metal of it cool against your back as you quickly scan over the empty room, dim other than the early evening light spilling in through the thin slats of the blinds, “No one ever comes in here.”

“Uh huh, fascinating,” he nods, turning his head to spit his gum into a small trash can by the door, before eagerly pressing his lips to yours. He smirks into the kiss as you mewl, his lips parting to quickly swallow the sweet sounds you make.  

Always one to give as good as you get, your lips move against his just as fervently, both of your hands trailing up underneath his t-shirt as you rub over his stomach, muscles taut under your touch. His tongue slips into your mouth in the same second he presses against you, his thin gym shorts doing nothing to conceal the hardness of his length as it presses against your lower stomach. 

You arch into his touch as his hands cup your breasts through your uniform, a low growl rumbling through his chest as you rake your nails over his chest and down his stomach. Boldly, you reach down and palm at his cock, savoring the surprised grunt he lets out before you quickly nudge your hand down the front of his shorts and into his boxers. 

“Shit,” he breathes, one hand still kneading at your breast as the other skates back up your thigh, his forehead resting against yours. Biting your lip, you watch through hooded eyes as you experimentally stroke over his cock, marveling at how hard he already is, like velvet over steel. 

Just as you feel him twitch in your grasp, the blond pulls away from you with a teasing grin and presses one last kiss against your lips before tapping the back of your thighs, urging you to jump. 

“Fuck, there you go,” Billy rasps, fingers digging into the curve of your ass as you clamber up into his arms, your shoulder only barely smarting as you wrap your arms around his neck. “I gotcha,” his muscular biceps flex as he quickly walks a few feet from the door and deposits on you on top of the, thankfully barren, teacher’s desk pushed haphazardly into the corner. 

“Billy,” you sigh, the sound being practically pushed from your lungs as he presses himself back between your thighs, cheer skirt rumbled around your waist as he all but folds you in half – your hands cling to his shirt desperately, one leg wrapped securely around his hip as the other ends up slung nearly over his shoulder.

“Yeah, princess?” He taunts with a wolfish grin, smirking at the way the muscles of your thigh twitch as his fingers move toward your pussy, hardly hidden beneath your boyshorts. You all but levitate off the desk as two of his fingers swipe over your slit, the apples of your cheeks flushing when he chuckles triumphantly, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide how wet you are. “Finally gonna give me what I want?”

You can feel your ponytail bobbing wildly at the crown of your head when you nod, a whiny moan blooming from your lips when he moves his fingers in tight circles against your clit, the flimsy material of your underwear quickly dampening against his touch. 

“Yeah, yeah, Billy,” your hands tremble as you pull at his t-shirt, desperate for what you’ve been wanting for so long, “C’mon, please!”

“Easy, tiger,” he laughs, tongue running over his bottom lip as he easily tugs his shirt over his head, your own hands scrambling to push down your boyshorts. Taking mercy on you yet again, he helps you, eagerly tugging the white cotton down your legs. He damn near tears them in two as he pushes your underwear over one sneaker, letting them dangle from your ankle. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, crowding against you again as you lean back on the desk, propped up on your elbows. You stare up at him, lips parted, as he all but folds you in half, warm hands pressing against the backs of your thighs, “Fucking leaking and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Oh!” You hiss, trying your hardest to keep your voice down, head thudding back against the desk as Billy quickly tugs his shorts down, just enough to get his cock out, and teasingly runs it through your folds, “Billy, oh my God, just do it!” You all but beg, teeth biting into your bottom lip at the wet sounds of him moving against you, deafeningly loud in the otherwise quiet room. 

Were you anywhere else, Billy would have absolutely no qualms about teasing you to within an inch of your life – payback for playing cat and mouse with him for almost three months straight. Lucky for you, he’s just as nervous at the thought of getting caught with his pants down as you are, shuddering to think what Neil would do if he got expelled over this. 

With a barely contained growl, he pushes into you, his cock sliding easily to the hilt with how wet you are. Your back arches off the desk as he slides home, stretching you beautifully as he fills you completely.

“Oh – oh my God,” you breathe as he stills, giving you a few seconds to adjust. Your hands scramble over the smooth top of the desk before you grab onto his wrists as his hands hook behind your knees. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans – the way he grumbles your name makes your walls clench around his length, punching another grunt from his chest as he starts shallowly thrusting against you, grinding his hips against yours. 

The two of you dissolve into a flurry of breathy mewls and sighs, each of you desperately trying to keep quiet as the muffled sounds of skin against skin and the dull creaking of the desk fill the room. Your eyelids flutter as you watch Billy above you, golden curls bouncing with each of his thrusts as a light sheen of sweat covers his tanned chest. 

Grunting lowly, he presses harder against the backs of your thighs, practically pressing your kneecaps against the desk below you, blue eyes sparkling as you easily follow his movements. With the small change in angles, the head of his cock thrusts perfectly against that sensitive spot within you, and he grins triumphantly as you tremble beneath him. 

“That the spot, princess?” He questions, smirking when you nod your head with a little broken squeak, “Fuck, I can’t wait to get you in a bed – bet you can bend in all kinds of pretty ways, huh?”

“Y-Yeah, yeah, Billy,” you agree, willing to agree to just about anything as long as he keeps moving. You can hardly contain the moans spilling from your lips as he works you higher and higher, the adrenaline from the possibility of getting caught as well as the rush of finally having him making you rush toward your end faster than you normally would. 

Breathing heavily as your pussy clenches at his cock, he lets go of one of your thighs and shoves your shirt up, unceremoniously taking your bra with it. You bite at the back of one hand as he teases at your breasts, using one hand to pinch and pull at one nipple before moving to the other as he stares down at you with half-lidded eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“O-Oh, my – fuck, I’m –” You moan brokenly, squirming beneath him as you feel yourself nearing the edge, teeth biting desperately into your bottom lip as you claw at his forearm and waist. 

Cockily licking over his lips, Billy leans forward as he grinds against you, his hips putting pressure on your clit as he covers your mouth with one hand, propping himself up against the desk with an elbow as his other still grasps at the back of your knee. 

You squeeze him tightly as the tail end of his happy trail rubs deliciously over you, giving you just enough stimulation to throw you over the edge. 

“Yeah, princess,” he encourages, grunting with nearly every thrust into you as he feels you clenching around him, pushing him further and further toward his own edge as he clenches his jaw, determined to hang on as long as possible. 

After only a few more thrusts, he quickly pulls out with a small groan. “Fuck, fuck,” he pants, chest heaving as he strokes his cock, painting your lower belly with stripes of his release.

Both of you still for a moment, breathing heavily as you each come down. Half expecting Billy to simply get dressed again and leave, you’re surprised when he softly kisses you, more relaxed this time, as his warm breath fans over your cheek. Dazedly, you kiss him back, your lips moving together unhurriedly as you card your fingers through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

After a moment, you part and your lips quirk up into a shy smile as he moves back half a step, giving you enough room to sit up. 

“Oh, uh,” you breathe, looking down when you feel his cum cooling against your skin. Glancing around the room, you pout a little when you don’t see any tissues or paper towels, “There’s paper towels in the locker room?” You offer, looking over at Billy, watching as he quickly tugs his shorts back into place. 

“I got it,” he says with a small smirk and before you have time to question what he means, he quickly tugs your underwear off your ankle and uses them to wipe at your skin, grinning meanly when you look up at him with wide eyes.

“Jackass!” You exclaim, laughing softly despite yourself, “That’s the only pair I have with me!”

“Nothing wrong with going commando, sweetness,” he says with a wink, chuckling when you wrinkle your nose at the thought while you pull your bra and shirt back into place, “Come back to my place and I’ll was ‘em for you, my parents don’t get back until late, anyway.” 

“You just want a round two,” you laugh, hopping off the desk and straightening out your skirt the best you can before running your hands over your hair, trying to smooth out your ponytail. 

“Told you I was gonna fold you up all pretty,” Billy smirks, crowding against you yet again once he tugs his shirt back on and lightly grasping at your jaw, “Something tells me you won’t have a problem with that either.”

“That’s presumptuous, don’t you think?” 

“Sure, yeah, I dunno what that means, princess,” he says, grinning when you laugh, your hands pressed against his chest as he quickly tucks your boyshorts into the waistband of his shorts, “Just come back to my place, hm?”

“What about basketball practice? Jason hates when people ditch.”

“You really think I give a shit about what Carver wants?” Billy laughs, taking one of your hands in his as he makes his way toward the door.

“Okay, okay, fine,” you finally agree, rolling your eyes playfully as you let him pull you out into the hall.

“And come with me to the Halloween party?”

“You have quite a list of demands, Hargrove.”

“Hey,” he says with a little shrug, glancing at you as you walk side by side toward the locker rooms, “That’s what you get for teasing me.”

You merely giggle as the two of you round a corner, nearly freezing and nervously glancing over at Billy when you come across Steve, chest heaving as he leans over a water fountain. 

Standing straight, he wipes at his lips with the back of his hand, narrowing his eyes at Billy, watching as he quickly scoops up his duffle bag from where he’d tossed it down earlier in the hallway. “Dude, why’re you leaving? You’re almost, like, half an hour late for practice.”

“Yeah, well, tell Carver something came up,” the blond boy huffs dismissively before taking your hand once more. You shoot a bashful smile at Steve, blushing as you and Billy walk toward the doors out to the parking lot. 

Behind you, Steve takes a minute to connect the dots, brows furrowing as he plants his hands on his hips. After a second, his eyes widen and he shakes his head. 

“Come on, at school?” He calls down the hallway, shaking his head as you and Billy laugh, “Fucking animals, man.”

gen tags: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @imawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @fan-goddess @cl-0-vr @kittendoll05 @beautbuck @eponaartemisa @trshngyn @brettlovessuckingcocks @alerisc @moonriseoverkyoto @wolfdressedinlace @do-double-g @kennafild @cruelworldlana @mheraxes @eternallyvenus @chaotic-fangirl-blog @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Dumb Viking Thor

Thor x maid!Reader, Steve x maid!Reader

Summary: Deep grunts filled the bathroom. Cleaning supplies strewn all over the floor. Your life flashed before your eyes when the stall door jerked open, on your knees scrubbing the toilet is how he found you. “Mr. Odinson.” You say, jumping up.

Warnings: PLEASE CONSUME AT YOUR OWN RISK! Explicit ‼️ 18+ Material, Noncon, Rough Sex, Rape themes, Female receiving pen, Anal, subtle cream pie.

Word Count: 2,039 Masterlist

You meticulously mixed chemicals, being sure not to create mustard gas. Your first week working as a cleaner for Stark Industries left you with zero training. The lead janitor was too occupied with her own doings to teach you how to properly clean certain things. It took you double to time to clean the bathrooms, your coworkers knew it, so when you’d disappear for hours, they never questioned it.

You’d been in the men’s bathroom for almost an hour already. The bristles of the brush scrubbed the tile around the toilet, the sound being the only thing heard in the enclosed space. That and your deep breathing, exhaustion filling you after a long day of work, coupled with the ever growing redness on your sore knees. Your shoulders burned from scrubbing, and you were so focused on just finishing so you could clock out; finally go home.

You never heard anyone enter the bathroom, you were too focused. You only noticed you were no longer alone when the door to the stall gets pushed open. You jump up, not out of fear but by being startled. When you eject yourself from your kneeled position, you spin in place, turning to face whoever stumbled upon you. You’re relieved to see Thor Odinson, standing there with a calculating look.

“Mr. Odinson, forgive me, I will be finished in a second.” You say, assuming he wouldn’t want a woman in the men’s restroom while he uses it. Offering a smile out of curtesy, you hold it for a second too long, even after you don’t see any amusement appear on his face. You clear your throat, quickly returning to scrubbing the stall. One hand held the disinfectant while your other held the brush. You tried rushing, feeling his growing presence behind you.

“Just gotta wipe it down now, sir.” You give him reassurance that you’d be gone in a second. But that second never comes. You move to step around him, reaching for your cleaning cart that held the microfiber cleaning cloths. You’re too focused on hurrying and getting out that you don’t take note of how silent the gods being. How observant he is, watching every move you make.

Your hands were full, you couldn’t defend yourself. In an instant they were empty, the brush clattering to the floor. The spray bottle cracking upon impact, bleach spilling all over the floor in a growing puddle. Your hands were now pressed to the mirror of the sink vanity. Your cheek pressed there too, your eyes searched behind you for Thor, seeing the look on his face finally told you what you needed to know. He wasn’t even here, this is primal, instinctual, animalistic.

“Mr. Odinson, you know this isn’t allowed.” You try to calmly remind him. You were no fool, you knew the strength he held, you knew he was a god. You knew your position, you were nobody, a maid at best. You should be thinking of every reason to be grateful for this, instead you’re gasping for air as he presses it out of you, his body weight leaning on your from behind.

Thor doesn’t respond, he knows what he’s doing, whether or not it’s wrong is up for debate. What else was he supposed to do? He saw a woman on her knees and felt like he needed to do something about it. You’re just a maid, no one would even know, he is the god of thunder and a king, any woman is his if he wishes. He couldn’t even recall how many maids and ladies in waiting on Asgard who carried his bastard children.

To Thor, he was doing the right thing. Using the resources provided to him. And how rude would he be if he disregarded Starks resources. That’s why he doesn’t rip your uniform, he pushes it up around your hips, being sure to pull your tights down in one swift movement.

Your hands stayed planted on the mirror you had shined less than an hour ago. You don’t know why, but you knew better than to fight back, you knew better than to move. In any other position maybe you’d be flattered he’d took an interest in you; but this was…less than personal, it was just him getting his rocks off. You don’t doubt if it had been Rose or Serenity; the same sequence of events would’ve occurred.

You hear the sound of leather and metal clasps rustling behind you, and you close your eyes, numbing yourself for what’s about to happen. You thought you could do it, go limp, deaf, blind to what’s happening to you; the second the thick tip of his cock slid past the barrier your thighs created, you were dropping your hands from the mirror, reaching behind you to brace yourself.

You don’t understand that it’s an impossible feat. You could never brace for the searing pain that blossoms between your legs. You couldn’t even breathe, you were dry, but he didn’t seem to care, pushing past that barrier too. You felt your sensitive skin stretch around him, but when the relentlessness of him trying to shove himself to the hilt comes, you feel yourself tearing.

When you feel the tuft of hair at the base of his cock brush against your ass you know he’s bottomed out. You can’t feel it, after the first tear; your lower body clocked out. Only when his big hands wrap around your love handles, you can feel how gentle his hands are. No matter the pain he was inflicting, it was like he knew his hands would break your bones, bruise your skin.

He’s even has the curtesy to let you have some semblance of adjusting to him. You wanna laugh, but you can’t, the timeline of events only happening in less than two minutes. Your brain isn’t processing and comprehending what’s happening. Your brain was turning into complete mush, you were trying to convince yourself of two things; you didn’t want this, and you desperately wanted it. You were confused.

The confusion only intensifying when he leans down and brushed the hair from your shoulder, whispering behind your ear. “Good little maid.”. That shouldn’t have had the effect that it did, but here you were, pushing your body back slightly at the praise. Like you were doing something right by not protesting. You were good for not fighting back. Deserving because of your meekness.

He groaned when he felt you push back against him, knowing it meant you wanted it, even if you didn’t say it. But in the end, he didn’t really care what you thought, you were doing your job. Your duty.

He doesn’t notice the fog on the mirror from your shallow breaths, or the fact that you’re wet has mixed with blood from being torn. He just starts pumping in and out of you at a rhythmic pace. You wish you could feel it, but your body is still fighting to some degree, refusing to let you or him relish in this moment.

His pace picks up, causing you to raise yourself on your tiptoes, giving him as much access as he needs, making it easier for him to slam back into you every time he torturously pulls out to admire how you swallow him, the pink folds wrapping around him perfectly, like a set of lips, sucking him in.

He had been relatively silent, little grunts and that tiny comment of praise earlier, so it shocks you when he lets out a high pitched whine. “Fuck, stay just like that.” He exclaims, feeling the building tension in his balls come to an eruption. He mercilessly claps his stomach into your ass cheeks, the slapping sound echoing off the walls, and that’s it for you, finally giving up whatever you were holding onto.

Your pussy gushes over him, and you let out a strangled wail, “Please.” You beg, you knew your hole was obliterated, ruined, stretched and full, the only thing that could benefit you now was if you got to cum too. You heard him chuckle behind you. Actually laugh at your plea. As if you had no room to even speak and this was all his doing, for his pleasure.

Tears finally fill your eyes, but not for your situation, it’s over cumming. Your desperation becoming too much, you start rocking on your tiptoes, finding a friction that pleasured you so you could make yourself cum. Thor doesn’t seem to mind, glad you’re finally participating. He’s too close to care truly, the new found tightness of your walls desperately clenching down on him, was rushing him towards his undoing.

You’re no where near close when you hear the bathroom door swing open, cutting through the thick air and letting a cold wind sweep through the tiled room, the tears and sweat on your face drying instantly. You can’t even look who it is, the shame of being caught not finding you.

Thor of course carries no shame for what he’s doing, he does register the person, and their bewildered look, laughing again but not stopping his movement. “What the fuck are you doing?” You hear an angry Brooklyn accent. Your vision wasn’t completely there as you roll your head to face the door, your eyes finding Steve Rogers standing there, his shoulders rising and falling as his breath picks up.

You could just make out the confusion, the disgust, the shame on the Captains face as he looks at the cleaning supplies strewn around the floor, lifting his boot to see that he’d stepped in the spilled bleach. He places it back down and lets out a scoff or a huff, you were too delirious to tell.

“I am taking advantage of what’s been provided. You’re the one being disrespectful.” Thor says with no humor in his voice. He had slowed his movement, standing behind you pressed fully into you. With the captains invasion, your senses are slowly coming back, the feeling returning to your lower body. A burning sensation is slowly building, the tiny rips in your skin drawing attention from your pain receptors.

“Please…” You mutter again, but for a different reason, it was for mercy, mercy that maybe you’d be saved from this by Steve. But as your eyes watch his hand find the door handle, pushing it closed behind him, any ounce of hope you had in Steve was gone. He was slowly turning into that silent shark Thor was when he found you cleaning.

“Move.” Is the only command you hear from Steve before Thors slipping out of you. You could’ve crumbled to the floor the second he released you, but a new set on hands found your hips, raising you back up on your tiptoes. “Shhh, you’re doing such a good job.” Steve praises and you can’t comprehend what he’s doing till he’s pushing into your other hole, filling your ass up. He was much smaller than the inhuman god, but it didn’t take away from the soul wrenching feeling of him ass fucking you.

You were screaming, the pain Steve was inflicting completely different than what Thor had done. He didn’t take long to spill inside of you, if you weren’t in such a vulnerable position, you could’ve laughed at him for how short he lasted, you expected more from him. But he’s probably never done anything like this before, the taboo of it causing him to lose control, the explosion coming from how dirty it made him feel.

When he slid out of you with a grotesque wet sound you almost let out a sigh of relief. Your body meeting the sink as he lets your hips down. The almost sigh is caught in your throat when you hear him say the words “Now you can finish.” to Thor. He buckles up his jeans and leaves the bathroom, not coming to your rescue at all, he didn’t even give you a second glance. You can only hear Thor’s amused hum as he comes back behind you, not relenting on you. If only you cleaned faster, then maybe Rose or Serenity would’ve noticed how long you’ve been cleaning the men’s restroom, maybe they would’ve come to your aid.

[oneforthemunny]

​​janitor!eddie is always leaving an apple on teacher!reader’s desk every morning.

he gets there early before her to do some extra maintenance- the school had given him a raise to do both so they wouldn’t have to hire someone else. it started as a joke between you two. eddie grinned when you’d brought an apple to lunch one day, playful glint in his eye. “an apple a day, huh?” he asked.

steve snorted. “that’s a doctor, munson.” he rolled his eyes.

you shrugged, biting into your apple. “I like apples, ok?” you giggled. “guess I was made to be a teacher, huh? the stereotype doin’ it for you?”

eddie couldn’t stop smiling. so every day, when he’d stop at the gas station by the trailer park, he’d get his usual pack of camels and an apple. he’d place it on your desk, scribbling on a spare piece of paper a little note that left you blushing when you’d find it.

he’d pass by your classroom, catching your eyes when you’d see him, smiling and nodding towards your apple. later, when he’d take you out, you’d kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “thanks for the apple.” you’d mutter. “it was delicious.” you’d let your bottom lip graze over his cheek, sending a hot blush down his neck and cheeks.

eddie wanted that reaction always, so he’d bring you apple after apple, proudly propping them on your desk each day with a little note.

‘you’re the apple of my eye, sweetheart. have a good day. -ed’

you’d giggle, tucking them into your purse. you’d saved everyone, reading them later when you missed him, heart fluttering in your chest.

one day, eddie walks into his ‘office’- a storage closet with a chair and an old desk, a rack to hang his jacket. there where he put his lunch pail was a small tin of hand balm, ‘for working hands’ it read.

eddie’s heart swelled. he’d complained about the blisters and callouses from working at the school mixed with his guitar making his hands rough, the cold cracking them and making them bleed. when he held his hand in yours, you’d ran a finger over the cracked, raw skin with a sympathetic pout.

eddie picked up the tin, the best folded card on top reading:

‘a little of this cream keeps the callouses away (or that’s what the store clerk told me). hope this helps you my hard working man. xoxo’

eddie slipped it into his front pocket, a dopey grin on his face. he dug his fingers into the balmy substance, rubbing it over his hands before reaching into his lunch pail, grabbing the shiny, red apple out and starting towards your class room.

[hurtspideyparker]

Avengers High School AU

based on this post of mine

At a Party:

Clint: Here's a drink Pete

Tony: *takes solo cup from Peter* You idiot, he's underage!

Clint: So are we dipshit

Tony: *Chugs Peter's drink*

Clint: Whatever, I'll get him a lemonade

Tony: *Chugs his own drink*

—

Natasha: Steve I saw Tony heading for the janitor's closet

Steve: Okay?

Natasha: With Clint

Steve, sprinting down the hall: NOT THE TOILET PAPER BARTON

—

Bucky: Would you like to go out sometime?

Natasha: No

Bucky: I respect that. *Turns to Sam* would you like to go out sometime

Sam: Wait—but you just. What the hell man

Bucky: I'll take that as a no. *Turns to Clint* would you like to—

Clint: Fuck yeah

—

Tony: Did you hear about the fire in the chem lab?

Steve: Tony, what did you do

Tony: It wasn't me this time!

Steve: Oh. That's new

Tony: I mean I did text Bruce the calculations, it's not my fault he didn't see the decimal

Steve: Tony!

—

Natasha: And that's why I transferred in the middle of last year

Sam: Isn't that like...a crime

Natasha: Nobody will believe you.

Sam: What? What do you mean by that

Natasha, disappearing into the crowd:

Sam: What do you mean by that?!

—

Peter: Hi Captain!

Steve: You know only the football team calls me that Peter. I'm not your Captain

Peter: Yes sir

Steve: I'm only 2 years older than you, you don't need to call me sir either

Peter: Okay Captain!

Steve: No just...whatever

—

Tony: Hey Bruce whatcha reading

Bruce: AH! Oh hey dude

Tony: Wow you're jumpy. You need to relax

Bruce: I don't think I've relaxed once since I met you but thanks for the advice

—

Clint: Do you think Thor was held back?

Sam: Naw man, he's pretty smart

Clint: But he looks like he has a 401k and a mortgage

Bucky: Talks like it too

Sam: Maybe it's a Europe thing, school is different there

Clint: Maybe. Hey Thor! What's up buddy, how's the wife and kids?

Thor: Ay? Um...well? And yours my friend?

Clint: Fantastic! Well it was good seeing you

Thor: Alright then, farewell

Sam: What an odd guy

Bucky: Nice though

Clint: Real nice dude

—

Pepper: Tony, stop flirting with me to make Steve jealous

Tony: Whaaaaat, I would never

Pepper: You very loudly told your table, which is right next to mine, "I'm going to go flirt with Pepper to make Steve jealous"

Tony: Well do you think it's working?

Steve, at Tony's table: No

—

Peter: The decathlon supervisor is already one of my references, and I tutor for Mrs. Warren's freshman class a lot so I have her too. I also volunteered at a special needs camp over the summer, plus I applied for this competitive course where you write a research paper under a university professor for junior year, and if I get it that will look really good on my MIT application. I just hope it doesn't interfere with my internship at Oscorp. What about you, what are you doing to prepare for graduation? Aren't college apps due, like, next month for you?

Bucky: Well my boss at Dunkin Donuts said he'd give me a reference. Chicks in the drive through always tip me well

—

Sam: Why'd you punch Rumlow!

Steve: Cause he was saying creepy stuff about Natasha!

Bucky: You shouldn't have done that man

Steve: What do you mean, he was being a total asshole, I don't care if I get detention

Sam: It's not him you should be worried about

Natasha: Rogers, that was MY punch to throw

Steve: Oh no

Natasha: You think I'm some damsel in distress? Come here and I'll show you a damsel in distress

Steve: I, uh, gotta go *runs out the door*

Natasha: Which way did he go.

Sam: I didn't see nothin'

Bucky: Out those doors and to the left

Sam: Bruh

Bucky: A true friend understands when the consequences are necessary *kicks Rumlow who's still lying on the ground as he walks away*

—

Bruce: What did the racing hot dog say when he passed the finish line?

Tony: What

Bruce: I'm a wiener!

Everyone:

Bruce: Get it? Like winner?

Tony: It's okay man, just stick to academics

Thor: I have one! A priest, a pastor, and a rabbi walk into a bar

Everyone:

Thor: HAHAHA, what a coincidence for them all to arrive in the establishment simultaneously!

*Everyone bursts out laughing*

Bruce: Oh come on, that wasn't even a joke!

Tony: See he has charisma. It's all about the delivery Brucie Bear

—

Sam: Wait, you're saying that the elephant toothpaste all over the second floor right before midterms was you?

Rhodey: Hell yeah it was

Sam: But everyone blamed Tony. Even Tony's parents and the principal. The only reason he wasn't suspended was because the cameras were wiped of evidence, which was also blamed on Tony

Rhodey: Yeah you'd be surprised about how much stuff I do that Tony gets blamed for. Public image does wonders to create bias

Sam: What the hell? I thought you were the responsible one and Tony was your monkey on a leash. Why does he let you blame him?

Rhodey: Cuz he's a good bro. He gets to piss his parents off, I don't get kicked out of ROTC, and then we laugh about it afterwards

Sam: You evil geniuses...

—

Wanda: I want to get married

Natasha: Are you pregnant?

Wanda: What? No

Natasha: Oh thank goodness. Wait, then why do you want to get married

Wanda: Because it's romantic!

Natasha: And the tax benefits?

Wanda: No! Well, yes that would be nice, but no! I want to be a stay at home mom and have a nice family

Natasha: Girl you failed home economics and your type is men who think calling you their "situationship" is making it official, why don't we focus on finding the vertex for now

—

If u like this vibe I have a domestic Avengers "in a timeline where Civil War didn't end in divorce" series as well:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 :P

[pretentious-blonde]

finally

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: in the aftermath of everything, steve comes to one undeniable realisation—he has to let you in. he just hopes you’re ready for what he's about to give.

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, angst (what's new?), scars, crying, body insecurity, arguments, explicit smut, p in v, body worship kinda, it's so sappy guys

a/n: this is so long and was incredibly difficult to write, i swear i was struggling and probably deleted and rewrote each part at least twice. i really hope i did this justice. but buckle up because this is a rollercoaster.

series masterlist

Steve slipped through the front doors of the school before the sun had fully risen, a ghost drifting in silent halls. The echo of his footsteps against the polished floor was unnerving without the usual morning ruckus. Only a couple of bleary-eyed janitors acknowledged his presence with a nod, too occupied to question why he was there so early. 

Truthfully, he hoped they wouldn’t ask—because no explanation would ever sound right. But then again, that was nothing new.

He headed straight for the gym, heart pounding like a trapped animal in his chest. He could feel it throbbing in his ears, overshadowing even the squeak of his trainers on the spotless tiles. Rounding the back corner, he found the small set of showers—an afterthought of a space once used for older students or the occasional sports camp. 

He dropped his bag onto the bench, the sound echoing in the stark emptiness. Then, without hesitation, he tugged the clothes off his body—jumper and joggers, the ones he’d gone to sleep in. He couldn’t even remember how he’d managed to find his other clothes in his scramble to leave your place. His head had been too clouded with shame and panic.

But now, he wanted them off—his mind was already overstimulated, and the added fabric against his skin was only making it worse.

The steady flow of the water was comforting, constant in a life that felt like it was careening off the rails. He stepped under the stream, letting the hot spray pelt his skin. It stung at first, just a little too hot, reminding him that he was still alive—still breathing, still here. He forced his eyes shut, shoulders slumping as steam enveloped him.

He didn’t want to think about anything, yet the images came unbidden. Your face. The look in your eyes when he lost control, when he gripped you hard enough to bruise. It flickered behind his closed lids, bright and aching. 

The memory of that moment—your shock at his exit—slammed into him like a punch. A strangled groan escaped him. He raised his fist to the tiled wall, teeth gritted, so close to just letting go and smashing it. So very close.

No. Don’t. Not again. 

He could almost hear his therapist’s voice.

Nothing good ever comes from hurting yourself.

But what about the hurt he inflicted on you? 

Because—Christ, that was worse. 

Worse than any bruise he could plant on his own flesh. 

Part of him wanted to hurt. He deserved it after laying a hand on you. He couldn't stomach the thought of how those marks would look on your skin now—the shape of them a perfect match to his hand. Proof of his failure to protect, to be gentle. 

He was supposed to be better than this.

He was supposed to be getting better.

The water slowly turned tepid, so he twisted the knob off with a hiss, breath still ragged as steam ghosted around him. His hair dripped in limp strands around his face. 

Only after stopping the shower, he remembered something vital. 

No towel. 

He nearly laughed—a dark, bitter chuckle that caught in his throat. Nothing like standing drip-dry in an abandoned changing room. He hated the feeling of his exposed skin, even on the best of days.

He grabbed the abandoned jumper from the bench, pressing it to his body to wick away the water. The material felt clammy and foreign, but he pushed through, feeling each drop like another reminder of how he never planned anything right anymore.

When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he grimaced. The reflective surface was warped with condensation, but he could still see the angry marks etched across his torso—the largest slash running from his hip bone to just under his ribs. His stomach clenched at the sight. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen them; it always felt like the first.

He thought back to who he used to be. Cocky, a little arrogant, but at least he was whole. 

He used to swagger around the high school hallways, grin on his face, chest puffed out like he owned the place. Back then, he was King Steve, the golden boy—girls would practically sigh when he peeled off his shirt at the pool, drawn to his tanned skin and slick confidence. 

He could remember the way their fingertips would graze along his sides, warm and curious, sometimes shy, other times bold. He lived for it—lived for the validation of their longing stares, the flush of their cheeks when they realised they wanted him.

Now, he could barely stand his own reflection. 

The raised scars were ragged lines cutting across the person he once was. Each one told a story of violence, of fights he barely survived. The old Steve had worshiped the feel of someone’s palms sliding over his smooth skin; this Steve was terrified of letting anyone see the mess underneath his clothes. 

He was certain no one would ever touch him like that again—not without flinching. And why wouldn’t they flinch?

You didn’t.

The thought stabbed at his gut. He pictured your reaction when he first showed you the state of his arms—the complete lack of revulsion in your eyes. But those were just his arms. There was no telling how you’d react to the rest of him.

Maybe you’d feel obligated to tell him it didn’t matter—but he knew it would matter. It was too ugly, too raw, too real. His fingers ghosted over the ridges and valleys of ruined flesh, hating every inch of it, mourning the boy who used to be so sure that anyone’s hands on him were a promise of pleasure, not a reminder of pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting a shaky exhale pass through his lips. 

He wished he could go back—so fucking badly. 

Not just to yesterday, but to his younger self, to tell him to run and never look back. That’s what all his friends had done, anyway. Max, Lucas, Nancy, Dustin—they all left the moment they had the chance.

But then again, if he hadn’t stayed, who would have been there to protect them?

He didn’t regret that.

Staying had felt safer, clinging to the familiar. At least he had Robin. But now, all he did was look back on the life he could have lived, replaying the possibilities like a song stuck on repeat.

Back to simpler days when he reveled in stolen kisses behind the bleachers, back when the biggest problem was heartbreak or a lost basketball game. But he couldn’t rewind time. He was stuck here, carrying an inventory of scars on his skin and secrets in his soul, all of them carved by battles he never volunteered for but fought anyway. 

Selfless and stupid. 

So fucking stupid.

Cautiously, he stepped away from the mirror. His boxers slid up over damp thighs, sticking uncomfortably, a reminder of how unprepared he’d been for all of this. As he tugged on his jeans from yesterday, he caught another glimpse of those twisted lines on his hip, and his stomach churned. 

You’ll never look at him the way the others did. 

Especially after this morning.

He couldn’t let that self-hatred bloom right now, not when he still had to make it through the day.

He pulled the shirt over his head, careful not to aggravate the scar tissue. It still stung sometimes, and the shock of cool air against his wet skin made him shiver. One final glance at the mirror, and he felt that hollow ache gnaw at his chest again. 

He looked so far from the King Steve of old—his hair flat, his eyes rimmed, nothing left of that youthful swagger but a faint ghost.

Clenching his jaw, he bent down to pick up his bag. The clothes serving as a flimsy barrier between him and the rest of the world. A world that didn’t know the truth, a world that would never see the depth of his shame. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat, ignoring the pounding guilt that told him he’d never be worthy of touch or tenderness again. With slow, deliberate steps, he turned away from the mirror.

He was fully dressed, but it didn’t matter. Underneath the fabric, he was still raw, still marked, still broken—and no amount of clothing would ever change that. He couldn’t hide in this empty locker room forever. He had to face the day, face the kids, face you—except he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. Not after he’d left you in pieces. 

Get through the day, just get through the day.

The weight of it all made his steps feel leaden. When he emerged from the gym, the halls were still quiet. Everything was tinted in a dull gray that matched the cold ache in his bones. In a few hours, the corridors would be flooded with laughter, questions, and chatter, and bright eyes would turn to him for guidance.

The thought made his stomach churn. 

How could he possibly guide them? 

But there was no time to linger. He had to keep moving—because if he stopped, even for a heartbeat, he’d sink so far that he might never resurface. 

It had happened before. And he had managed to pull himself out once, but there was no telling if he could do it again.

The only thing you felt as you stared at the door was complete numbness.

Your body trembled, each breath catching in your chest as you try to wrap your mind around the fact that Steve just…left. Walked out without even a backward glance in your direction. 

The echo of the door closing still rings in your ears, and you swear you can feel it vibrating through the room, a certainty that he isn’t coming back. 

You’d called out, desperate, begged him not to go, pleaded for him to stay and fix this horrible mess that you had no idea how to navigate. He didn’t so much as hesitate. He saw the hurt in your eyes, registered the tremble in your voice, and still decided to leave you here alone.

And that’s what fucking hurt the most. 

It hits you in waves: confusion, anger, aching in your chest so sharp you think it might just hollow you out from the inside. A mix of emotions tangles in your mind, and you can’t believe this is the same man who’s been so gentle, so sweet, who made you feel seen and wanted. Protected, always. 

The sting of betrayal ignites something bitter—how could this man, the one who’d look at you with such warmth, so casually vanish when you needed him most?

You press a hand to your face, feeling the tears slip between your fingers. In a distant corner of your mind, you register that you’re shaking, your knees threatening to give. The memory of him grabbing you in the throes of that nightmare is still fresh, sharp as a newly opened wound. 

You can practically feel his grip on your wrist, the surge of his panic flooding you as he relived some horror. As frightening as it was, you understood—or at least, you tried to. Night terrors were real; you’d seen enough to know you couldn’t blame him for something he wasn’t even awake to control.

That was all explainable. 

What truly rips you apart inside is that he ran before you could even talk it through. 

You would have endured the pain in your wrist a hundred times over if it meant you didn’t have to deal with this gaping sense of abandonment. You needed him here, not just physically but emotionally—to see the remorse in his eyes, to hear his voice, to feel his arms around you as he promised this would never happen again. 

You wanted him to sit down with you, both of you maybe still trembling from the shock, and figure out how to handle it next time. Because you already know you’re in too deep to pretend you can just walk away. 

If this was going to be part of the reality you shared, then so be it—you’d find ways to cope, to help him. That’s what people do when they care about each other. 

They stay and talk and try to understand.

But he didn’t. He vanished, leaving the sharp tang of fear and heartbreak in his wake. And the one person who can stitch you back together is also the one who tore you apart in the first place. 

Worse, there’s a small voice whispering in your mind that he might not trust you at all, that he doesn’t believe you can handle this darkness—or maybe that he doesn’t want you to see how deep it really goes. It crushes you. If he can’t open up in a moment like this, when you’ve already witnessed him at his most vulnerable, how can you ever feel safe being vulnerable in return?

Your eyes drift again to the door, half-expecting him to change his mind and burst back in, breathless and apologetic. But the knob remains still, the room silent except for your ragged breathing. 

A profound sense of loneliness steals over you. You almost consider marching right out, driving to the school, demanding he talk to you. Let him try to brush you off in front of everyone—let him see you won’t be turned away so easily. 

But common sense, or maybe just the last shred of your pride, holds you back. You know better than to cause a scene, especially around innocent kids who don’t deserve to see two adults unraveling.

At length, you retreat to your bedroom, hands fumbling for clothes that feel safe and soft. You pick a long-sleeved top, something that covers the marks on your arm. The bruises throb with each movement, a physical reminder of everything that happened. Every time you rotate your wrist, the ache spikes, and fresh tears threaten to break free. 

You don’t know which hurts more: the bruises or the empty space where Steve should be, reassuring you that he never meant to cause you pain.

Downstairs, you force yourself into a routine. There’s an order on the desk, scheduled for pickup later today—simple enough to pack, something you can do on autopilot. You line the boxes, arrange the contents, trying to focus on each small task. But your wrist protests every time you bend it, and it’s impossible not to recall the panic in his voice, the wildness in his eyes when he woke.

You push through the discomfort, desperate for a distraction, but all it does is magnify the emptiness in your chest. When the last box is sealed, you exhale a shaky breath and rub your forehead, wishing you could smooth away the swarm of thoughts churning behind it.

You decide you’ll work the shop until the customer comes, feign a smile and some semblance of calm, then close up early. Maybe after that, you can collapse into bed and let yourself cry until your eyes ache more than your arm. Maybe you’ll try to sleep, or maybe you’ll just stare at your phone, hoping Steve will call. 

You hate how much you want him to, but you can’t help it. 

Because despite everything, he’s the only one who can stitch these pieces of you back together in any meaningful way.

You don’t want to think about it, yet it’s all that occupies your mind. He’d been terrified, and that knowledge twists your sympathy and anger together in a knot so tight you feel you might suffocate from it. 

The part of you that cares for him wants to comfort him, hold him until those nightmares fade. The part of you that’s hurt wants to shake him and demand he never, ever do this again. 

You aren’t sure which part is stronger.

You brace yourself for customer service mode, plastering on a polite smile you know won’t reach your eyes. 

And after that, you’ll close up shop and let your thoughts spiral in circles, trying to figure out if there’s a way to mend what’s been broken. 

Because, really, what else can you do?

You can’t go back to pretending everything is fine, not when you have the proof etched into your skin. And you can’t move forward until he decides to talk—if he decides to talk at all.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. 

The night blurred into a half-awake haze where every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. It was the only thing he had left since you had been dodging his calls. 

He’d told you he would—call that is—or at least, he thought he did. It was all so garbled and panicked, words tumbling out in a half-choked stream as he fled, too ashamed to look at your panic-stricken form for one second longer. 

At first, he wondered if you’d even heard. The confusion in your gaze suggested maybe you hadn’t. 

None of this would have made sense to you anyway.

He could barely comprehend it himself.

When lunchtime came around at school, he tried. He dialed your number on the ancient landline in his classroom, pressing the handset so tightly to his ear that his knuckles turned white. The phone rang on and on, that endless tone droning in his head like an alarm. Then, voicemail. No click of your voice picking up, no hesitant greeting, nothing. 

It was the first sign something was off. You’d always said it was important to answer—it could be a customer, after all. 

He set the phone down slowly. 

Maybe you’re out. 

But that uneasy feeling lodged itself in his chest, refusing to let go. You hardly ever left during your lunch hour. 

He tried again after class ended, his nerves coiled tighter than a spring as he tapped his foot under the desk. Every glance from a passing teacher through the door felt like it burned straight through him—like they all knew he’d done something awful. 

And it showed, too: even the kids had been oddly subdued, their usual energy muted by the forced smile he gave them, the one that never reached his eyes. He wanted to tell them, he wasn’t mad at them. That they didn’t do anything wrong. 

But he did. 

He couldn’t find the words. Not when all he could think about was how he’d scared someone he cared about, even if it was an accident. 

The phone rang and rang again, no answer.

By the time he walked the entire route back to his place, he was ready to crawl out of his skin. He tried once more after he closed his front door behind him, your number already lodged in his mind like a reflex. 

Nothing. 

Not a peep. 

His heart felt like it was in his throat. You always pick up. Especially in the evenings. 

He remembered all those late-night calls, you answering groggy but delighted, telling him he was being stupid for staying up so late. Then you’d laugh, that sweet, half-asleep giggle he’d come to adore, and he’d cling to the sound like a lifeline. 

You’d talk until dawn sometimes, spinning stories, sharing secrets. That memory cut him now like glass—because tonight, there was only silence on the other end. 

And that was the second strike.

When he tried one last time before bed—gripping the handset with both hands to his ear—and still got no answer, the panic set in. 

Hard. 

He could practically hear your voice in his head. But the ring trilled on, eventually sliding into voicemail again. The emptiness felt like a personal betrayal, even though he knew he was the one who’d run from you. 

Maybe you hated him now.

He wouldn’t blame you. 

Or maybe you were hurt and couldn’t bear to speak to him. Neither possibility let him sleep.

But that still didn’t make sense to him. Not answering when you didn’t even know it would be him.

He almost dialed Robin’s number, thumb hovering over the buttons. She’d know what to do—she always did. She’d give him some tough-love pep talk, maybe call you herself. But he pictured the horror on her face when she found out the full extent of what happened, how he’d latched onto you during that nightmare and left you with marks in the shape of his fingers. 

Would she see him differently now? As a threat? A monster? 

He couldn’t stomach that. Couldn’t lose her too. So he didn’t call. He just let the phone drop back on the holder and stared at the ceiling until morning.

The next day only confirmed his worst fears—still no answer. He tried you at every spare moment, hands shaking so badly sometimes he nearly dropped the receiver. 

He told himself he was a coward for doing this over the phone, but the alternative was to walk right up to your shop and risk you slamming the door in his face. He couldn’t decide which would hurt more: your silence over the line or seeing rejection in your eyes. 

But the silence was brutal. It chipped away at him, driving his mind into overdrive with possibilities. That unwavering habit of yours to always answer, to be available, had been so endearing. Now it had morphed into a warning sign.

No answer meant something was wrong.

No answer meant trouble.

No answer meant danger.

The more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t shake it. By afternoon, he was in his car, driving too fast through the quiet neighborhoods of Hawkins, heart rattling in his rib cage like it wanted out. Each stop sign felt like an obstacle, every slow driver a personal torment. A voice in his head whispered that maybe this was all in vain—maybe you wouldn’t even want to see him. 

He had to do something. If you were in trouble, if you were shutting down, he couldn’t just sit at home wracked with guilt. 

He owed you more than that. He could understand that now.

When he finally screeched to a halt in front of your place, he killed the engine in one rough jerk, not caring that the car was crookedly parked. His hand trembled on the door handle as he climbed out, the sight of your shop sending a jolt of dread through him. It wasn’t as bright, as welcoming. The windows seemed dimmer, as though the life had bled from the space. 

Or maybe it’s just you that’s gone dark. 

An icy wave of guilt twisted in his stomach. 

He tried the door, a gentle pull at first that quickly escalated into a desperate yank when it wouldn’t budge. 

Locked. 

You never locked it at this hour, at least not without a sign indicating you’d be back soon. This was abnormal.

Pressing a palm flat against the glass, he peered inside, squinting to see past the faint reflections. That’s when he noticed the state of your desk—papers strewn about, boxes teetering precariously, random books flung as if you’d knocked them over and never bothered to pick them up. 

His heart lurched. You hated mess, took pride in keeping everything tidy. He vividly remembered the meltdown you’d had over a weekend rush, how you’d scurried to reorganise everything within minutes. 

This was not like you.

A flicker of relief sparked when he realised only that corner was in disarray—the rest of the shop looked intact. But the relief was short-lived. This still screamed trouble. If you were leaving things in such a state, you had to be upset, or distracted, or both. 

Shoulders bunched, he thumped on the door, urgency mounting with each second. 

“Hey!” he called, the sound cracking in his throat. He said your name once, then twice, his voice rising in panic when only silence answered.

He remembered every unanswered ring on that phone, every message he’d left that was met with nothing but static. Sanding here, it felt like the universe was doubling down on his punishment, forcing him to relive the helplessness all over again.

“Please,” he said, pressing his brow against the glass. “Listen—I know I messed up, but—”

Suddenly, he saw something move at the edge of his vision. A flash of you, stepping from behind a shelf or the back counter—he couldn’t be sure. Relief slammed through him, leaving him momentarily dizzy. He straightened, heart in his throat, eyes drinking in the sight of you like a lifeline. 

He wanted to weep with gratitude that you were up. You were moving. 

You were alright. 

But the instant he registered your expression, his stomach knotted. 

You looked exhausted—drained in a way that went beyond lack of sleep. You were wearing the clothes you usually reserved for upstairs, they felt so out of place. No shoes, just those thick socks peeking out from beneath your pajama bottoms. An oversized jumper swallowed your frame, sleeves unrolled for once, hanging past your knuckles instead of pushed up like usual.

The relief that hit him was replaced by a heavier dread. He knew why. The sleeves weren’t for comfort—they were for hiding. He didn’t have to see the damage from a few days ago to know it would be worse by now.

You look broken. 

And knowing it was his fault made him wish he could just vanish.

He lifted a hand in a shaky attempt at a wave, lips forming your name in a breathless whisper. The only consolation he had was that you were here, physically okay—at least for now. 

His heart lurched the moment he saw you dart for the stairs.

So this is what it feels like. 

The helplessness of watching someone run when you need them most. 

It gutted him. He wrenched on the handle again, calling your name, more desperate this time. The echoes of what he did—leaving you in exactly the same state—taunted him. His shame rolled over him, drenching him in guilt. 

He called your name again, his voice unsteady, and caught a glimpse of you hesitating on the landing. You turned slowly, wary eyes meeting his, your expression pinched, unreadable and indecisive. You looked torn, as if caught between two instincts, sending him away for good or granting him the same chance you had begged him to give the morning he ran.

He wasn’t running anymore.

“Please,” he rasped, voice cracking around the word, “can you—fuck—can you just open the door? I—I just want to talk.” 

He winced at how needy it sounded, but desperation had stripped him of all pride. You turned fully, glaring at him with an anger he knew too well. 

How dare he ask that of you. 

It was a grim understanding, remembering how you’d wanted him to stay and talk.

He watched you stomp to the door. As your hand closed around the lock, he could see the barely contained fury in the tightness of your jaw. The click sounded thunderous in the still of the shop.

“You want to talk?” You snapped, throwing the door open. “Now, Steve? Really?”

His chest constricted, because you had every right to be furious. 

It didn’t dull the sting of your words, but he owed you this, owed you the chance to say every bit of anger you’d bottled up. He swallowed hard, opening his mouth. 

No explanation came. How could it?

He deserved this. 

Your eyes flicked over him and you gave a mirthless laugh, then turned on your heel and marched back inside. He followed, hands sweaty and shaking, shutting the door behind him in a soft click that felt eerily final. 

“You wanna talk?” You whirled, arms crossed. “Let’s talk.”

He could feel your gaze cutting into him, but it was the exhaustion limning your features that really made his stomach knot. You looked one harsh word away from shattering into pieces. 

He recognised that brand of exhaustion all too well—he wore it often. 

“Look, I—I’m so sorry, angel,” he began, voice trembling. The term of endearment slipped out unthinkingly.

“No.” You inhaled sharply, tearing your gaze from his. “You don’t—you don’t get to call me that, okay?” Your breathing was shaky, tears threatening at the edges of your voice.

He swallowed and nodded, stepping back as if to physically rein himself in. 

This was worse than he thought.

“Alright,” he whispered. “I won’t. But please, let me say sorry. I—I never meant to scare you like that.”

Something flashed in your eyes, a deep, wounded frustration. 

He really didn’t get it.

“Steve,” you said with a weary sigh, “I don’t give a shit about that right now.”

He blinked, thrown. He expected you to rip into him for hurting you, even if it was unintentional. But you pushed on, your voice rising. 

“Are you ever gonna talk to me? Like, actually talk?”

“I—” He stammered. 

Isn’t that what he was doing right now? 

“Of course you’re not,” you said bitterly, eyes flicking to the floor. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Wait—wait, what?” A spike of alarm hammered in his chest. “I promise, I never meant to lay a hand—”

“Jesus, Steve!” You let out a broken laugh that cracked partway through. “I know that! I know what a fucking nightmare is, alright?”

He stared, stunned, as you raked a hand through your hair, tears brimming.

“I can deal with that,” you pressed on, your voice firm despite the weight of the conversation. “People have them all the time—maybe not to that extent, but at least I can make sense of it.”

You took a deep breath. 

This was it—the question that had been sitting on your tongue for months, the one you had rehearsed a hundred different ways but never had the nerve to say aloud.

“I know something happened to you—you think I haven’t noticed?” You exhaled sharply, a weak attempt to steady yourself before pushing forward. “I see the way you act around me, how you’re always looking over your shoulder, how you barely let me touch you. Don’t you think I’ve put two and two together by now?”

A twisted sense of dread pooled in his stomach. 

So much for keeping everything subtle. 

He’d thought he was being careful, showing you just enough to fly under the radar, but apparently not enough.

“I don’t know the details, not really. But I’ve been patient. I’ve been letting you take your time. And that’s fine. But—God—you need to let me in just a little. Anything. Especially if it could get this bad.”

He opened his mouth, a term of endearment on the tip of his tongue, but he caught himself. 

“I’ve… I’ve never done this before.”

Your eyes filled with pain. 

Is he not even going to try?

“Well, you’re gonna have to figure it out. Because I can’t keep doing this—stumbling around in the dark, watching you shut me out, and getting hurt for trying.”

The fatigue in your voice tore at his heart. He wanted to grab your hands, drag you close, promise that he’d tell you everything if it meant wiping that tortured look off your face. But he knew you needed space to speak, to get it all out.

“You know…I thought about leaving.”

“What?” His eyes widened, the notion shook him. 

Leave Hawkins? Leave him? 

The panic roared in his veins.

“When you left, I was a wreck,” you admitted, tears quivering on your lashes. “I couldn’t do anything right. The order I had to fill? I screwed it up—completely. And the customer tore me a new one, cursing me out in front of everybody. And I stood there, thinking, ‘Why am I doing this? Why am I giving my all to this place when it gives me nothing in return?’”

It was true—you had uprooted everything to move here, determined to start fresh. And for a while, you thought you could. Especially with him. But every time you tried to move forward, you hit a wall. Resistance. Silence. There was only so much you could take.

This lack of communication was breaking you. Only intensified by the last few days. 

“And—I’m not asking for your whole life story,” you said, your voice wavering as you wrapped your arms around yourself instead of reaching for him. He didn’t get that privilege right now. “But it’s like you’re not even trying. Like you don’t want to try. And—and it just—” You swallowed hard, struggling to keep your emotions in check. “It just feels like you don’t trust me.”

His throat constricted at the sight of your tears finally spilling over. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer—he closed the distance in a rush, wrapping his arms around you. You trembled against him, clinging to his shirt as sobs wracked your frame. 

He stroked your hair, pressing apologies into the air around you like whispered confessions, though he wasn’t sure if you could hear them over your own grief. But none of that mattered more than holding you right now, than letting you know he was here. 

He hadn’t even stopped to consider how hard this was for you—how much you had clung to him, relied on him. And maybe that was his fault. He didn’t know how to be your rock, the person you could turn to when everything else felt unsteady. He had shattered that illusion, along with everything you had given him, leaving you with nothing to hold onto.

Then, in a trembling voice, you muttered into his shoulder, something so small he could barely hear it. 

"I just—" You suck in a shaky breath, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t settle the ache in your chest or stop the way your voice wavers.

"I just feel so fucking stupid—like… like nobody even wants me here anymore."

Oh.

Oh, no. 

Sweetheart, you have no idea how wrong you are.

He holds you tightly as you crumble against his chest, your tears soaking through his shirt even harder than before. Each sob you let out is a blow to his heart; your cries cut deeper than any nightmare he’s ever endured. He scrambles for something to say, something that makes sense—something that won’t come out a tangled mess of incoherent feelings.

“Shhh, that’s not true,” he says softly, his voice steady. “Not true at all. Hey—c’mon breathe with me, yeah? That’s not true—I promise, it’s not—”

He had believed shutting you out would protect you, keep his past locked away where it couldn’t taint anyone else. Instead, all it had done was carve deep wounds in the present.

For a moment, he simply stands there, letting you pour out every emotion. 

He soon comes to a realisation he hates—one he’s been avoiding, hoping he’d have more time to figure it out. But the way you’re clinging to him now, begging for just a shred of honesty, for something real.

He understanfs that the only way to keep you from spiraling further is to open the door he’s kept barred. He needs to give you a glimpse of the shadows lurking behind his eyes, prove that he trusts you enough to share even the smallest fraction of his past.

He has to try.

He inhales shakily. 

Hoping to God this is the right decision. 

“It was…” he begins, voice raw. “It was summer of ‘85.”

He’s started now. 

Something small. Something safe—at least, safer than the rest.

Something true.

Your breathing stills, as if you’re trying to steady yourself. You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, tears still clinging to your lashes. 

“What?” you murmur, confused. But you don’t pull away entirely, you stay close, your fingertips still curled in his shirt.

He nods, exhaling a trembling breath. 

Here goes nothing.

“I—I was working the summer with Rob. At the old mall. First real job since graduation. It’s…where I met her.” 

His eyes flick away for a second, remembering the cramped ice-cream counter, the corny uniform, and how it had felt like the biggest joke in the world back then. But at least it had been something to do, a way to prove he wasn’t just a washed-up high school jock.

You study him, eyes red but full of concern. He can practically feel your pulse racing under his palms, so he drags in another breath and forces himself to continue. 

“It was a crappy gig, honestly. Couldn’t’ve picked something more humiliating if I tried. But hey, it kept me busy—got me out of bed in the morning.” He grimaces, remembering the bright neon of Starcourt, the endless swirl of customers. He presses his lips together, telling himself this is good, that he’s finally doing what you asked. 

Show you something. Let you in.

“Got too close to something we shouldn’t have,” he says finally, voice low. “Way too close. Put our heads where they didn’t belong, and suddenly things were…real. They were really fucking real.” 

He hesitates, haunted by the memory of secret corridors and muffled Russian transmissions. A slight tremor runs through him, and your hand comes up, brushing gently along his side as if trying to soothe the ache. He wonders if you can feel how tense he is, how his heart is pounding. 

Probably.

“It was my fault, really,” he mutters, guilt stabbing at him. “I—uh—I encouraged it. All of us. There were four total—Rob, me, Dustin, Erica. I swear I’ve mentioned ‘em in passing.” He catches the slight nod you give. He’s mentioned Dustin especially, and you’ve always been curious about him. “They ended up moving away after everything. It got too much, and I—I almost lost…all of them.” His voice falters, the words scraping at his throat. “We nearly didn’t make it out in time.”

At the time, he could almost see the humour in it—some twisted, detached part of him had laughed. But, as time passed, the reality of what occurred settled in, sharper than he’d expected.

Being forcibly drugged had blurred the edges of his memory, warping everything into a hazy, disjointed mess. For a while, that had felt like a mercy. But then, piece by piece, the memories began clawing their way back. His doctor called it a trauma response—fragments resurfacing at random, triggered by nothing and everything all at once.

Only they never came back gently. They came in the dead of night, harsh and sudden, a flash of something new, something he hadn’t pieced together before. And with each fragment, the picture became clearer.

He had been closer to dying than he ever let himself believe.

“What do you mean?” you whisper, eyes searching his face. Despite your own heartbreak, you’re looking at him with such compassion it nearly topples the walls he’s built. It’s that look that finally pushes him to give a bit more.

“There was something going on down there,” he whispers. “Something we couldn’t understand—still don’t understand, really. Then the whole place went up in flames. You can read about it in the papers, see how they spun the story.” His eyes squeeze shut, images flashing through his mind: the deafening explosions, the collapsing ceiling. “It was…bad, angel. So fucking bad. I just—” His breath hitches, the memory closing in, “the stuff I saw…I can’t—. sometimes it’s all I see—”

He’s on the verge of unraveling, stuck in the memory of being beaten to a pulp, thinking Robin was gone, not knowing where Dustin and Erica had disappeared to. 

It isn’t even the worst of what he’s been through, but it’s all he can manage right now. The rest stays locked away, too heavy, too unfathomable to put into words. He wishes he could give you more, lay it all out in the open, but even this small piece feels like pulling teeth.

Sharing it feels like exposing a fresh wound to the air. He’s terrified you’ll recoil. But instead, you rest your hand over his heart, fingers spread so you can feel how it thunders in his chest. He wraps you up in his arms again. 

“I’m sorry I can’t… give you more right now,” he says, voice quivering. “I’m so sorry. I—I thought I was better, y’know? I’ve been trying.” There’s a hollow laugh buried under his words, tinged with self-loathing. “I just—it’s hard. I’m working on it, you gotta believe me—I’m gonna work on it, I want—”

Your eyes glisten as you cup his face, thumbs brushing against his cheeks, silencing him immediately. It’s only then he realises tears have slipped past his defenses—he’s crying, and he didn’t even notice. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper, trying to soothe him, nodding to emphasise your words. “You’re okay.”

With tender caution, you lean up and brush your lips against his. It’s brief, but so warm. He kisses you back, just as softly, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he presses too hard.

Pulling away, he’s trembling all over, but there’s a new resolve in his eyes. The weight on his chest feels a fraction lighter. 

“I—I’ll tell you everything someday—everything,” he manages, voice husky with emotion, and he means it. Every ugly memory engraved into his mind, the ones that refused to fade—he would tell you them all. “I swear. Just…not now. I can’t. I’m sorry. I want to, but I—”

You press a gentle finger to his lips. 

This is a start, you are proud of him for this. It’s not a complete story, but it’s enough. You can work with this new information. 

“It’s alright. Really,” you say, voice thick but kind. “Thank you for telling me. I know it’s hard, but you did good, okay? You did really good.”

He’s struck by how your tone is almost parental, like soothing a wounded child. 

Strangely, it doesn’t anger him or make him feel weak—it only fills him with a sense of safety. And so he sags against you, letting your arms envelop him, letting himself be held.

“I really am sorry,” he murmurs. “About running off the other day. I don’t—” He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what happened. I just…I panicked.”

“It was a shock, and I get it,” you say softly with a nod. “But next time?” You arch a brow. “Please don’t run away from someone who’s trying to help you.”

He can’t help the short laugh that escapes him. There’s something genuine in your tone that loosens the last of the knots in his stomach. 

“No, you’re right,” he admits, bending his head to meet your gaze. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Your lips twitch into a playful smile. “I’m not that scary, am I?”

“I don’t know,” he teases, leaning down, his breath ghosting over your ear. “You have your moments.”

You roll your eyes in mock offense, but before you can pull back, he slips a hand behind your head and leans in, capturing your mouth in another gentle kiss. He loves the way you smile against his lips, the tension around you both lifting like a receding tide. When he finally draws away, there’s a lingering light in your eyes.

“You’re not actually gonna leave… are you?” he asks quietly, trying—and failing—to hide the anxiety that accompanies the question.

“No. I’m not.” You shake your head, offering a smile. “Was just being dramatic.”

He exhales, relief washing over him. Good, he never would have forgiven himself if he had been the catalyst. 

“That’s supposed to be my job,” he counters wryly, and you let out a laugh of your own. 

When his gaze drifts to your scattered desk, his brow furrows. 

“Is that his order right there?” he asks, tipping his head toward the pile of boxes and papers.

With a sigh, you slip out of his embrace and walk over, eyes lingering on the partially emptied contents. 

“Yeah, he took it all out to check it right in front of me,” you explain. “I swear I gave him exactly what he wrote down, but apparently there was a miscommunication.”

He makes a sympathetic noise, stepping up behind you. 

“Want help putting it all back?” he offers, hoping the simple act of assisting you might ease some of the tension that still permeates the air.

“Please,” you say softly, and that single word settles in his chest.

This is what he can do right now—help you, make things right, one careful motion at a time.

You both settle into the couch upstairs, nestling between his legs so your back presses snugly against his chest. His arm curves around your waist, the other hand drifting gently through your hair and brushing along your shoulders in soothing patterns. 

His voice is soft, almost playful, as he rambles about his old job. It reminds you of stories he’s shared in passing, but never in such detail—like he’s finally letting you peek behind the curtain.

“You know, she actually made a whole tally,” he says suddenly, chuckling under his breath.

“A tally?” you repeat, turning slightly so you can glimpse his expression. There’s a hint of self-consciousness around his eyes, but he’s smiling.

“Yeah,” he confirms, voice warm. “Wanted to keep track of how many times I struck out with girls. Really hammered home that I was ‘off my game.’” He air-quotes the last words, rolling his eyes. The self-deprecating smirk on his face makes you giggle.

“Wow,” you breath out. “Did you manage to score a date at all that summer?”

“God, no,” he groans. The memory clearly makes him cringe. “The uniform made sure of that.” 

“Uniform?” you ask, curiosity lighting up your tone.

This is gonna be good.

“I didn’t tell you about that part?” He sighs dramatically, tapping the back of the couch with his free hand. “It was a full-on sailor getup. Hat, shorts—everything.”

“You…dressed as a sailor?” A snort escapes you, and you try to muffle the laugh behind your hand. “Please tell me you still have it.”

“Seriously? No. No I don’t. Think I’ll stick to sweaters, thank you very much.”

You twist around in his lap with a coy grin. 

“Aw, come on. Might be a good look on you.”

He shudders theatrically, pulling you closer until you’re resting against him, torso to torso. 

“Trust me, I looked ridiculous. The last thing I need is to relive that nightmare.”

You laugh and wind your arms around his shoulders. You were joking about his mishap now, that was a good sign. 

“Fine, fine,” you acquiesce. “For the record, I like the way you dress. You have good style.”

He arches an eyebrow, fingers still sweeping through the ends of your hair. 

“You think so?”

“Mhm,” you confirm, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “Good luck ever getting your shirts back, by the way. I’ve already hidden a few in my room.”

He nods in surrender, before pausing as he recalls something that’s been playing on his mind. 

“Wait—did you take the navy one?”

“Hmm, maybe.” You tilt your head with a sly grin. 

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, though his voice is tinged with amused affection. “I was looking for that last week! Next time, at least give me a heads up.”

You feign contemplation. “I’ll think about it.”

Before he can protest, you lean in and kiss him. It’s soft at first, the way your mouths just brush and part. You can feel the subtle hitch in his breathing as he savours the closeness, smiling against your lips. 

The soft noise you make against his mouth sets his nerves alight, and he inches you closer to him by your waist—like somehow, if he just holds on a little tighter, it’ll anchor him to this moment. Your fingers tangle in his hair, a gentle pressure at his scalp, and he exhales a shaky breath into you, revelling in how you get him to respond so easily.

But then your hands slip lower, down his neck until they settle over his chest. It’s a featherlight touch, nothing that should spook him, yet he tenses anyway, that automatic flinch he hates so much. It’s barely perceptible—he’s skilled at hiding it—but you notice. 

Of course you do. 

You always do.

You pull back, just enough to search his eyes. He reads the hint of disappointment there, though you try to smooth it over with a soft smile. It makes his stomach drop, guilt surging through him. 

Why can’t he do it?

After everything.

Why can’t he just let this happen? 

Frustration burns in his ribs. Even in these moments, when his guard is down, his body still betrays him.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you shift as if you’re about to slide off his lap—ready to give him space and spare him discomfort. But he can’t let that happen, not when his heart is screaming at him for you to stay. 

He grips your hips, halting your retreat, guiding you back into place. You hesitate, blinking at him, confusion filling your features. You don’t push further, though. You just wait, letting him decide what comes next.

His eyes skim every detail of your face, taking in the way your gaze stills, the way your lips part in question. He cups your chin, and the resolution settles in his chest. 

He wants this. 

He wants you, and maybe it’s time he truly showed it—no more half-measures.

“I…” He begins, slow and steady. “I want… you,” voice low with longing.

Your lips curve slightly, if he wants to play, you have no problem humouring him. 

“You can,” you murmur softly, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “You have me.”

He swallows hard, shaking his head. You need to understand his distinction. 

“No. I mean…all of you,” he clarifies, his eyes flicking between yours. “I want all of you… against all of me.”

The confession nearly floors you.

This was big—huge. You could see it in the way he spoke, the look in his eyes, the subtlety behind his words. He was really trying, and that alone was a massive step.

You wanted to tell him not to push himself, that he could take his time. But, god, you wanted him to take this step with you. 

You were practically aching for it.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper, your words were true. “If this is because of today, I’m okay waiting. I don’t want you to rush.”

Don’t want him to do anything out of obligation. 

He exhales, some tension uncoiling in his chest. He hates how scared he is, how part of him is still so damn nervous. But he also knows he’s ready in a way he’s never been before.

“I’m ready,” he insists, voice tinged with a plea. “Please, I… I want this. Want to do this with you.”

You nod—gentle, careful not to draw attention to his vulnerability.

“Okay,” you say quietly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. “We can do that.”

Your hands rise to frame his face, your thumbs just grazing the underside of his cheekbones. You kiss him once more, and he feels your acceptance, sweeping away the last thread of doubt. 

He feels safe here. He feels safe with you.

He breathes against your neck, each kiss lingers, heavy with new meaning.

It’s yearning, it’s hesitation—it’s everything at once. Every emotion he can name, and even the ones he can’t, thrumming through him like a live wire. He’s pressed so close—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—that it almost feels like you share the same heartbeat. 

He’s stalling, but you understand. You sense the anxious flutter in his chest, in his movements, the old wounds fueling his wariness. 

You know he needs to be the one to cross that line. 

He needs to be the one to make that final decision. 

At last, he tugs lightly at the hem of your sweatshirt, lifting his gaze to yours in silent question. 

You go first?

You respond with a small, encouraging nod, letting him see your readiness—and your patience. Gently, he helps you sit up on the bed, his hands sliding carefully along your sides, fingertips testing their welcome at every shift of fabric. 

The tenderness in his touch sends a shiver over your skin, and you watch him exhale a slow breath as though reassuring himself this is safe.

Once the garment is off, he lowers you back down with a featherlight press, settling atop of you. His palm finds yours, lacing your fingers together, a tangible tether that seems to keep him grounded. Uncertainty dances across his expression, but he keeps going, letting himself hover in that intoxicating space between caution and desire. 

They say anxiety can heighten pleasure, and right now, he’s drowning in both.

He shifts, adjusting to find a more comfortable position—not just for himself, but for you too. If this was going to be the night he laid everything bare, he needed to get everything else right. 

No distractions. No missteps.

He pushes himself up, using the hand still linked with yours, but the second a sharp yelp escapes your lips, he freezes.

Shit.

Your wrist. 

Your fucking wrist.

Instantly, he recoils, eyes going wide. 

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” he blurts out, his voice shaking with fresh guilt. “I’m—I’m so fucking sorry.”

The weight of it all crashes down on him—the intensity of the moment, the last few days, everything piling on top of him until it’s suffocating. His breath stumbles, his grip loosens, and suddenly, the bed beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“I… I can’t do this. I—” He falters, breaking under the strain.

His voice cracks, and you can see it happening—the spiral, the shame rolling over him in waves, dragging him under. But you won’t let him disappear into it.

Not after he’s come so far.

Not after he was so close.

You cup his face in your hands, grounding him, your thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks.

“Steve,” you say firmly, your hands steady as you pull his frantic gaze to yours. “Look at me—hey, look—”

His eyes finally meet yours, wide and scared, like he’s teetering on the edge.

“I trust you,” you say, voice unwavering. “I want this. Okay?”

You soften, letting the urgency slip into something gentler, something he can hold onto.

“Please,” you add, barely above a whisper. Desperate to keep him here, to stop him from retreating into himself. To keep him from running away again.

Your words seem to slice through his panic, and he inhales shakily, forcing himself back.

He can do this.

“Yeah,” he rasps at last, nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I’m… I’m good.” His breath comes in unsteady bursts, the aftermath of an almost-panic detectable in his voice.

For a moment, he just clutches the edge of his sweater, hesitating as if every muscle in his body wants to lock up. You can practically feel the anxiety radiating off him, a pang of sympathy tightens in your chest.

He’s really doing this.

Finally letting you see what he’s kept hidden for so long.

He starts to pull the fabric up, inch by inch, and you swear you feel the tension building inside yourself, mirroring his every move.

Your heart squeezes as you watch him close his eyes, the last of his self-preservation roaring for him to stop. You know exactly how hard it is for him.

It makes you want to reach out, to still his trembling hands. Tell him how well he is doing. But you stay put, giving him the space he needs to do this on his own terms.

Once the material is off, he holds it in a death grip, knuckles bleaching white, and your stomach twists with an ache of empathy.

He’s shaking.

You want to tell him he doesn’t have to be afraid anymore. That scars or not, you’ve chosen him, over and over. But you wait, letting him find his own breath.

When he finally lets the fabric slip from his grasp, you see him glance around, as though searching desperately for a safe place—somewhere to hide the proof that he’s now so utterly exposed.

Your throat tightens, remembering every story he’s told you, every time he’s mentioned wearing hoodies in July, never taking off his shirt by the lake, being careful not to stretch too high in public lest someone catch a glimpse.

How many years has he carried that weight?

He’s kneeling there, half-naked, and the rawness in his eyes makes your heart pound. He looks at you then—uncertain, vulnerable, like he expects you to recoil.

But you don’t. You can’t.

You want him to know that in your eyes, he has never been anything less than beautiful. His scars are part of his story, and you want to learn every chapter if he’ll let you. The corners of your mouth curve into a gentle smile, and you lift one hand, offering it wordlessly. He swallows, then edges closer.

You didn't flinch, after all.

He’s shocked to find himself questioning if he overreacted. From your lack of response, this really was nothing.

The thought is an unsettling, creeping realisation. It’s painful to admit that the words he’s been told so many times might actually be true. That he is—truly—his own worst enemy. 

Maybe, it really was all in his head.

What he feels is grief. He doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know how to hold the weight of the unexpected emotion. He is grieving every lost opportunity, feeling dejected as he is the reason he was held back.

You beckon him closer with a simple lift of your hand. It’s a small gesture, but it speaks volumes.

Come here. He’s not alone in this. 

There’s a shake in his limbs as he crawls over you, and when your hands come up to rest on his shoulders, he exhales, trying to slow the roar of blood in his ears.

“Do they still hurt?” you ask first. Your fingers ghost along one of the longer scars snaking up his side, and he sucks in a breath.

“No,” he manages. His throat feels tight, so he tries a reassuring smile. “They don’t hurt anymore.” 

Not physically, at least. But the reminder of how he got them has always stung somewhere.

Your gaze fills with understanding. 

“Can…can I touch them?”

Can I touch you?

He stiffens, pulse kicking into overdrive. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Of course you can.”

Even if he can’t understand why you'd want to.

You surprise him by sliding a hand to his rib cage, fingertips light but deliberate. The sensation makes him tense, then relax. It tickles into a new feeling, one he has yet to feel in an age.

Freedom. 

Like some invisible chain has snapped, letting him feel your touch for what it is.

A sigh escapes him when you guide him down for another kiss, deeper this time, your free hand sneaking up to tangle in his hair. 

There’s an exhilarating rush as he senses just how badly you still want him—how your hips roll against his, hands clinging to his arms, his torso, fingers curling into his marked skin. 

You want this. You still want him. Nothing has changed.

It spreads through him, heating his entire form. You’re pulling him closer, practically begging for more.

It’s euphoric, familiar in a way that sparks memories of his younger self—before the world took a piece out of him. He’d felt invincible back then.  And now, as you arch against him, nails grazing lightly along his spine, it’s like a piece of that bold, fearless boy flickers back to life.

Your pyjama bottoms slip off with his help, soft cotton pooling by the bed. He lingers for a second, mesmerised by the sight of you in nothing but your underwear. 

He’s lucky. So fucking lucky.

A wave of gratitude swells, a fierce need to show you how seen and cherished you are in return.

His mouth travels over your stomach, up your ribs, scattering kisses like he’s leaving a trail of silent thank-yous. He finally shifts higher, he brushes his lips against your chest—hesitant at first, like he’s testing if it’s okay.

Then he grows bolder, his tongue and teeth teasing against sensitive skin, testing, exploring—soaking in every breathy sound you give him like a delicious reward. He pulls back just enough to glance at you, hair falling into his eyes. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs, voice catching in his throat. His fingers find the clasp of your bra, and when he slips it free, he dips his head to kiss and taste at the newly exposed skin. There’s something liberating about the way you curl into him, spurring him on with each gasp. 

“You’re… you’re so fucking stunning,” he breathes, His eyes flick up—just to watch. To take you all in.

“So are you.” You manage to speak, through the dizzying sensation of his mouth.

He huffs a laugh, he doesn't believe that for a second. 

“You don’t have to lie to me, sweetheart.”

You already had him. 

“Not lying,” you say, the sincerity in your flushed face makes his throat constrict.

It wasn’t a lie—he was gorgeous. 

Unfairly so. 

His hair, wild from your hands, framed his face in soft, unruly waves. His lips, plush and kiss-bitten, parted just slightly as he caught his breath. The sharp cut of his brow bone cast the faintest shadows over his dark, wide eyes, pupils blown with pure lust.

The marks on his body were plentiful, scattered like constellations across his skin—but so was his beauty. The slope of his collarbone, the freckle just above his stomach, the way his chest rose and fell in unsteady rhythm. 

“You’re beautiful, Steve Harrington,” you insist, every syllable dripping with conviction.

It sounds so alien to hear the word beautiful tied to his name, but the affection shining in your expression doesn’t waver. A sudden prickle of tears flutters at the corners of his eyes. 

You really meant it.

After you'd seen everything.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice thick, embarrassed at how easily you can unravel him. “I’m supposed to be making you feel good, not getting emotional.”

“You want me to stop?” You smile, leaning up to nip at his jawline. 

“Never,” he whispers, shaking his head, pressing his forehead to yours. 

He never wants you to stop wanting him. 

Your underwear joins the pile on the floor, and then he moves to rid himself of his own jeans. He pauses at the button, a sliver of lingering uncertainty present.

He sees the look on your face—entirely filled with desire—it’s enough to banish the last thread of doubt. He shucks them off, letting them fall, then tugs down whatever’s left until he’s utterly bare before you.

He returns above you, his chest hovering over yours. He kisses along your throat, lips trailing heat as he cups your jaw. His fingers slip lower, skimming across your collarbone, down the curve of your waist, until they reach the soft skin at your inner thigh.

“God, sweetheart…” he murmurs, sinking his teeth gently into the spot where your shoulder meets your neck. “All this for me?” 

Just at the sight of him?

He slides his hand further between your legs, groaning when he feels how soaked you are against his fingertips. 

“Haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he adds, voice rough, thumb circling lazily in a way that draws a quiver out of you.

“Steve,” you plead, your legs fall open wider, begging for more contact.  

It’s all he needs to hear.

“More?” He lowers his mouth to your collarbone, pressing a hot kiss there that makes you shiver. “You want more, baby? I’ll give you anything—just say it.”

“Want you inside me,” you manage, voice catching as your nails scrape lightly across his shoulders. “Please… been wanting for so long.”

Too long.

The words rip a ragged sound from his throat, a groan that vibrates against your skin. His mind swims with the idea of being inside you, everything else fading into white noise, but he resists—barely. 

He’s torn, wanting to give you exactly what you’re begging for, yet desperate to watch you fall apart on his fingers first. His free hand frames your jaw as he pulls back just enough to see your expression.

After everything, he needs you to feel nothing but pleasure tonight.

No pain, no doubt, just this.

Just him.

“I can take it,” you plead, arching your back and pressing your core more firmly into his hand. “Please.”

“I know you can,” he brushes his lips over your cheek, peppering kisses across your face. “I know,” he soothes, stroking deeper, harder, careful but utterly entranced by your every reaction. “Just a little longer, baby. You’re getting there—I can feel it.”

He’s single-minded, pouring everything into his movements—no teasing, no hesitation—just a relentless focus on pulling you apart, on making you soak his hand.

Every whine tells him he’s doing it right. Every breathless whimper is his reward.

Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut as you feel yourself coming close to the edge. He’s watching you intently, drinking in every flicker of bliss on your face. 

It’s enough to unravel whatever composure he has left, but he’s determined to see you through this first. His thumb finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside, coaxing a sudden cry from your lips.

“Let me have it,” he begs as you clench around his fingers. “Then you can have me, alright? I promise. Gonna take such good care of you, angel.”

That final push does it. Your body seizes up, shuddering around his fingers as your climax hits. A breathless moan tears out of your throat, your face tipped back against the pillow. He murmurs your name, transfixed at how you writhe beneath him. 

You cling to his wrist as the waves roll through you, and he eases you through it, pressing reverent kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.

He’s never seen anything so beautiful. It’s etched into his mind, this image of you, lips parted in bliss, your chest heaving with each ragged breath.

He barely has time to talk before you tug him into a fierce, urgent kiss, your lips parting under his as the aftershocks of your orgasm still tremble through you. He can feel it in the way your thighs quiver around him and the way you cling to his shoulders, desperately pulling him closer. 

You need him as badly as he needs you.

“Ready now,” you urgently murmured against his mouth. “Need you—now—please.”

It’s almost painful at this point, having him so close. 

“Okay,” he manages, voice husky. His hands slide to your hips, palms nearly trembling from how hard his heart is pounding. “Alright, sweetheart. You have me. Gonna give you what you want, yeah? Waited so long. Been so good for me—” 

You have. In more ways than one, offering him patience and reassurance even when he hardly deserved it. Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently, and you say two words that make his stomach twist. 

“Top drawer.”

He fumbles to reach over, pulling it open to find the box of condoms. He tears one packet open with shaking fingers, rolling it on before positioning himself over you again.

A groan spills from his chest as he drags the tip of his cock through your slick, letting himself feel just how soaked you are. His hips jerk involuntarily at the warm, wet pressure, a low rumble building in his throat. 

His past doesn’t exist in this moment—there’s only you, wrapping your legs tight around his waist, urging him closer. The sensation of your ankles locking behind his back sends a jolt of pure desire down his back.

His eyes flick up to yours as he presses in—slow, savouring every fraction of an inch. A tightness gathers at the base of his spine when he feels the snug heat of your pussy welcoming him. You draw a sharp breath, a little gasp that sets him on fire. 

He breathes hard, eyes squeezed shut as he basks in the electric bliss of being fully sheathed inside your walls. Every nerve in his body screams to move—to claim every inch of you and lose himself in the friction—but he holds himself still, chest heaving.

“Need you—” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Need you to move.”

He cups your face with one trembling hand, locking his gaze onto yours, the other hand planted by your head. 

“I will,” he assures you, voice wavering on the edge of control. “I will, I promise—shit, just—gimme a moment, yeah?”

You can feel it—the way he is barely holding on, the way his breath stutters against your skin. This is a lot for him.. 

He just needs a second to process it, to believe it.

Your grip slides up to cradle his head, guiding him to rest against your shoulder. 

“As long as you want,” you promise quietly, but you don't know how much longer you can take. His heart clenches at just how needy you sound for him.

He presses his forehead into your neck, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo and skin, before finally drawing back. The sensation of leaving your warm pussy and pressing back in again is everything he’s fantasised about—slow and unhurried, a deliberate, dragging friction that sends sparks dancing across his vision. A guttural moan tears from his throat at how good it feels, how perfectly you fit around him. 

Christ, this was so much more than he ever imagined.

The moment he starts moving again—slowly at first, then steadily building rhythm—it’s like he finally surrenders to everything he’s been holding back.

“Ah—shit,” he exhales, voice thick with need. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and he grips your hips more firmly. “Feels so good—you—you feel so good.”

Your fingers weave through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. The action sends sparks skittering down his spine, and he can’t help the low, desperate moan that escapes him. 

He already knows he’s gone, lost in the pleasure, but hearing you—the way you gasp and whimper whenever he thrusts just a bit deeper—only pushes him further.

“Steve,” you murmur, voice trembling with need. You tug at his hair, urging him closer, and he leans over you, chest pressed to yours. The heat of your skin against his feels like the most intoxicating thing in the world.

“Keep doing that,” he pleads. “Just—just like that—” He punctuates the words with a hungry kiss to your throat, then angles his hips in a way that makes you cry out. “So perfect for me. So fucking perfect.”

He’s never felt this drunk on pleasure before—like every stroke, every shift of his body inside yours, is rewiring his brain. It’s all he can do not to lose himself immediately, but he needs to last, needs to give you everything you’ve waited for.

His mouth begins running in a constant string of half-choked praise and filth, fueled by the steady drive of his hips.

“You… oh, baby—look at you,” he gasps, forcing his eyes open to watch your face contort with bliss. “Wanted to see you like this, wanted it so bad. God, you’re—”

A fucking dream.

You whimper again, arching beneath him as he thrusts deeper. Your nails dig into his back, leaving faint crescents that he’ll cherish like badges of honour. 

Maybe if he fucks you good enough, you could leave your own marks, ones that he can look at with pride. 

The sting of pain only sharpens the pleasure as he drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged. 

“You feel—” he mumbles, voice disbelieving, like the words are just flowing out of him. at this point. “Like you were made for me—fuck, can feel you squeezing me—”

His hips stutter, then snap harder, like he’s trying to memorise this, make up for lost time.

“Jesus—so fucking stupid,” he groans, breathless. “Why did it take me this long? Why did I—when you—”

Your moan splinters into a soft sob of ecstasy, and that sound just unravels him further. His confidence surges, stoked by your every reaction. He slides one hand up from your waist to cradle the back of your head, gently tugging so he can devour your mouth. His kiss is open-mouthed, messy, all tongue and desperation.

“You like that?” he asks, voice laced with a giddy awe, as if he can hardly believe he’s the one pulling those sounds from you. “Tell me—tell me how good it feels.” His words spill out before he can check them, he needs to hear if you are as gone as he is.

“Feels… so good,” you manage, broken and breathless. “You’re so—God, Steve—deep.”

He laughs—he fucking laughs. 

Pure, unfiltered bliss bubbles up from his chest, raw and unrestrained.

This moment, you—it’s all he’s ever wanted. 

It’s fucking everything.

“Shit—you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He nips at your skin, pressing kiss after kiss along your throat. 

Now that he’s had a taste of what he’s been missing, he never wants to let it go. Never wants this moment to end.

Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him deeper. There’s no space between you now, just the heated glide of your bodies. Each time he withdraws, he can feel the trembling in your limbs as you cling to him, pulling him right back in. And each time he plunges forward, a fresh surge of desire knots low in his belly.

He changes angle, dipping one shoulder slightly. The new position has him hitting a spot that makes you cry out his name, and he’s undone by it—his pace falters for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden wave of ecstasy washing through him.

“Christ,” he mutters under his breath, the word breaking apart as he punctuates it with a sharp thrust. His voice is wrecked now, spilling over with pure need as he rambles, barely thinking, just feeling. “All for me, yeah? Fuck—show me. Let me hear you.”

His grip tightens, his movements growing rougher, deeper—chasing your pleasure like it’s the only thing that matters. Like he’ll only believe this is real if he earns it from you, if he can wring it from your body, pull it from your lips.

“Please—don’t stop,” you whimper, needing to take all of him.

His breath stutters, jaw clenched, losing himself in the way you beg for him.

“Not gonna,” His voice is wrecked, thick with heat, his control fraying at the edges. “I’ll give it to you, baby—”

He’d give you everything. 

You nod frantically, hands sliding up to cup his face. Tears of pure bliss gather at the corners of your eyes, and he brushes them away with his thumb. He catches your lips in a sloppy, desperate kiss, tongue dipping into your mouth just as he drives his hips forward again in a relentless rhythm.

He watches your face, the way you bite your lip, your brows knitting as the pleasure builds again. His head spins because he’s the one doing this, bringing you right to the edge. Pride floods him, spurring him to keep going harder, deeper, until his thighs burn.

“Fuck, angel—gonna give you this whenever you want,” he can hardly believe the ragged edge to his own voice, how he’s speaking without filter, entirely guided by the euphoria coursing through him.

“Been so good for me—so fucking patient—” his words break apart with a shuddering gasp. “Not gonna make you wait ever again. You want this? You ask, alright? You fucking ask and it’s yours.”

You chase his mouth with yours, swallowing his words, your hands gripping the nape of his neck. He can’t tell whose breath is louder, whose heartbeat is pounding more fiercely. All he knows is that he’s dangerously close to the point of no return.

“That's it,” he coos, voice unsteady. “Let me see it again—you gonna show me?”

Your only reply is a shattered moan, your body tensing, then unraveling all at once as the pleasure crashes over you. Your walls clench tight around him, dragging a wrecked, guttural groan from his throat.

He thrusts again, pushing you both right to the edge and over, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Heat coils tight, then snaps, a white-hot pulse of pleasure ripping through you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Steve sees stars, fucking galaxies behind his eyelids as he loses himself completely. His hips stutter, his breath breaking against your skin as he buries himself deep, chasing the last aftershocks of your orgasm. He kisses you blindly, desperately, a hot, messy press of lips, as pleasure overtakes him—dragging him under, drowning him in you.

He lingers in the warm aftermath, breath coming in shallow pulses as he slowly, almost reluctantly, pulls away. His stomach lurches unexpectedly, and here’s a moment where he worries the spell might break now that he’s not entwined with you. But the blissed out smile on your face is a balm, telling him everything he needs to know.

He slips out carefully, skin still slick with sweat, and settles beside you on the bed. The rush of air against his torso feels strange—he can’t remember the last time he let himself be this naked in front of anyone. He mostly feels…peaceful.

He turns to you, propping himself up on an elbow. 

“Hey, you with me?” He murmurs, voice a bit hoarse. “Was that…okay? I mean—I tried—” He trails off, cheeks flushing as if he’s embarrassed to be asking.

“Are you really asking me if that was okay?” You tilt your head, amused by his bashfulness.

“I just—” This is so lame, like a kid asking if he did a good job. “It’s been a while for me...” he admits, face reddening. “Wanted to make sure I did everything right.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips, and you reach out to trace a line down his arm. 

“You did more than okay." You punctuate the word by pressing a light kiss to his jaw, feeling him exhale. "You were perfect.”

“Good,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut. He presses his forehead to yours for a moment, savouring the closeness. “I—I wanted to make you feel good.”

Wanted to prove that he could. 

“Trust me, you did,” you say as you cup his cheek. “I’m probably gonna be thinking about this all day tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” His lips curl into a tentative smile. 

“Absolutely. And the next week, too.”

A boyish grin spreads over his face, some tension easing from his shoulders. He eases off the bed, carefully removing the condom and tying it off, a bit awkward as he stands there stark naked. He holds it, looking around for somewhere to toss it before deciding on the small trash bin near your dresser. 

Once it’s gone, he seems uncertain, his gaze shifting from his discarded clothes to you. He swallows, arms hovering at his sides.

“Um…” He gives a nervous laugh, cheeks stained pink again, unsure of what to do with himself. “I—sorry, I didn’t think this far ahead. Do I just…?”

God, he’s out of practise.

The corner of your mouth quirks up. 

“Here,” you say, rolling onto your side and reaching for the closest thing at hand—his boxer briefs. You toss them to him. “Start with these.”

He catches them with a shy nod, pulling them on quickly. He’s still conscious of his body, but for the first time, he doesn’t feel the urgent need to cover them immediately. When he glances back at you, you’re holding his jumper out, an inviting smile on your face.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, stepping closer to the bed. But then he hesitates. “Actually… um… I—I’m good.”

He’d rather not put it back on if he didn’t have to—this was a workout in itself, both mental and physical. And honestly? He liked the way you were looking at him.

Your gaze lingered, hungry but soft, the way girls used to look at him when he was younger. You liked what you saw. 

“You sure?” you tease, wiggling the material in your hand.

“Yeah,” he says simply. It’s a big thing for him to admit that he’s comfortable remaining bare-chested around you.

“In that case…” You slip the shirt on yourself, pulling it down over your body. It’s long enough to graze the bottom of your hips, and you can feel his eyes lingering on your legs. His warm gaze makes heat flood your cheeks.

“Looks better on you, anyway.” He laughs softly, that sweet, affectionate sound that never fails to tug at your heart. 

Crawling back onto the mattress, you pat the spot beside you, and he settles in, letting you snuggle up close against his side. Your hand drifts lightly over his chest, gliding over both smooth skin and the raised ridges. To you, there was no difference.

The two of you just lie there in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound present being the soft rustle of sheets. Eventually, you decide to break the hush. 

“So…” you start, voice soft but teasing, a playful glint in your tired eyes. “You’re saying I can have you whenever I want now?”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he nudges his nose against yours. 

“Within reason, sweetheart,” he smirks, but there’s nothing but warmth behind it.“But yeah,” he murmurs, tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin. “Whenever you want.”

You lift your hand, brushing your fingers over one of his scars, tracing the mark with a gentle touch. He sucks in a breath, but his eyes stay on you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, letting your fingers linger. “I know this wasn’t easy.”

He huffs out a small, self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head. 

“You say that like it’s—I don’t know—like, it’s something groundbreaking.”

“Isn’t it?” You arch a brow. 

He hesitates, then exhales, running a hand through his already-messy hair. 

“I mean… it felt big,” he admits, voice lighter now, like he’s letting himself tease with you instead of retreating inward. “But, y’know… it’s just a shirt, at the end of the day.”

“Just a shirt?”

After everything, his casual dismissal shocks you—but you see it for what it is. 

Progress.

He’s crossed this bridge, left the fear behind. He’s looking forward. This is another obstacle he’s overcome, another weight lifted, he’s not letting it drag him back down.

He smirks, catching your thought process, and shifts beside you. 

“Okay, maybe a little more than that.” Then, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Only one other person’s seen me without a shirt in—damn—must be years now.”

That catches your attention. 

“Years?” You blink at him. 

“Yeah. And that was—” He winces slightly. “Well, I was in bad shape at the time, so not exactly a choice.”

Your heart tugs, but you don’t let the moment get too heavy. 

“So what you’re saying is you chose me?”

He groans, dropping his head against the pillow, but he’s smiling now, genuinely. 

“Jesus, you love making me say shit out loud, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, nudging him with your knee. “I do.”

He turns to face you more directly, his arm slipping beneath your neck, pulling you in close. 

“Well,” he murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. “If I was gonna do this with anyone… I’d want it to be you.” His fingers trace absentmindedly along your spine. "Feels right with you."

Another short silence blossoms, but this time it’s a cosy, intimate one. Eventually, he clears his throat. 

“So…maybe we should think about getting cleaned up?” He rubs at the back of his neck, a hint of bashfulness returning. “I’m kinda sweaty, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you respond, pressing a playful kiss to his arm. “You’re not the only one who’s all sticky. A shower sounds nice.”

He shifts, carefully easing off the bed. 

“You wanna come with?” There’s a boyish hope in his voice that makes you grin.

You stretch lazily, savouring the soft slide of his jumper against your skin, your eyes raking over him appreciatively.

“Mm, you go first,” you say, giving him a teasing smirk. “I might need a minute to recover from all that.”

He chuckles, a pink flush creeping up his neck. 

“Right… okay.” He stands up a bit straighter, seemingly buoyed by your banter. “Promise not to use up all the hot water.”

“Good luck,” you joke, arching a brow.

“I’ll try,” he fires back, a spark of mischief in his eyes. Then he leans down, planting a warm kiss on your lips. When he draws back, you catch a glimpse of that smile again. Pure elation.

A gentle hiss of water filters through the door. You can’t help but smile, thinking of how different things feel compared to this morning—so much tenderness in the air, so much more understanding.

Yet a nagging itch persists at the back of your mind.

You walk over to your chest of drawers, hand hovering for a second before pulling open the top. There, tucked under a few random receipts and spare pens, is the little notebook you began after he left you that morning. 

You retrieve it carefully, flipping the worn cover open to the page where you’d scrawled names and details he’d let slip in passing. Fragmented hints you’d gathered as though building a puzzle from mismatched pieces.

Now, after the night you’ve just shared, you have new pages of context to fill in. You let the pen hover above the paper, then jot down the fresh details. Every shaky mention, every half-finished explanation. 

You trust Steve—God, you do. But your anxiety over that horrifying scene a few nights ago weighs heavily on you. 

Never again.

Never want to see him that petrified or feel that helpless.

You pause to reread what you’ve written. A swirl of scribbles, question marks, underlined phrases. 

Starcourt, destroyed in a fire? 

1985.

Summer job.

Got too close.… nearly didn’t make it out?? 

The pen taps lightly on the page as you consider how these clues might fit together.

Your heart twists with guilt. You are unsure if this is a betrayal.

But then you recall the sheer terror in his eyes, the bruises on your own wrist, the way your chest had constricted with helplessness when he ran.

You need answers—not because you doubt him, but because you want to be prepared to care for him better, to protect him if you can.

You push the notebook back beneath the clutter, hiding it away. You straighten your posture, letting a slow exhale chase the tension from your lungs. Reaching for the stray clothes on the side of the bed, you toss them into the hamper. 

You do care about him—deeply. That care drives you now. 

No more blind-siding nightmares.

No more dark corners you’re unprepared for. 

Whatever he’s running from, whatever secrets linger, you’re determined to understand. Because ignorance, you’ve learned, doesn’t save anyone.

And you just hoped this was the safer option.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish

[greyyson-but-wrong]

ALIBIS

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warning: the winter solider, canon accurate civil war, violence, fighting, swearing, a single sentence hinting that they've fucked in the past lmao, hydra mention, partly edited

summary: you've been living with bucky for the past year, now he's been accused of assassinating the king of wakanda and of course they bring you in as well, but nobody knows who exactly you are

author notes: guys... this isn't a part 2 I actually have no motivation to write that atm icl so have this instead. I'm being so fr I could change one detail about this and have it be part of the same storyline as my previous work but I cba cause then there'll be a bunch of missing context :( hope you enjoy this!!!

word count: 4.6K

"Who the hell is that?"

Tony Stark didn't recognise the woman as he took a peak through the glass of the cell, index finger pointed towards her before moved backward to pinch at his lips. She was perched on the edge of the small bench they had given her, book in hand, leaning forward with her elbows resting against the skin of her thighs. For having just been arrested under the suspicion of harbouring a fugitive, the woman didn't seem too worried, too off-put or irked. She just simply sat there, breathing steady. At the change in scenery outside her window, she looked up only temporarily, the corners of her lips curving upward at the sight of the Iron Man, fingers leaving the paper of her book to wag her fingers in a wave. Tony's eyebrows furrowed at her actions. Suspicious. That's all she was.

Steve moved his eyes from the woman to look towards Tony, hands dug in his pockets, fiddling with the spare lint caught off the inside fabric. "She, is his alibi."

"Come again?"

The solider tilted his head, watching the woman as she went back to innocently reading her book, still as if she wasn't currently in a holding cell under the detainment of the American government. "She's been giving him a home for a year now, feeding him, keeping him stable, stopping him from becoming the Winter Solider."

Tony sighed, lowering his voice. "So why won't she testify again him?"

Steve eyed up the security camera in the corner of the room. It was no doubt someone was watching him on the other side, because while he was an Avenger and allowed somewhat free roaming around the premises, he was still technically a criminal now. They had to have all eyes on him. He had to keep all eyes on her though. "She knows that the government doesn't officially acknowledge the difference between the Winter Solider and Bucky as a person. Until they do that, she's refusing to tell us anything. That includes information about who she is."

"Well, she must have a name."

"She's told us Jane Doe, but, well. We're not stupid." Steve chuckles, shaking his head. "Someone, somewhere has her file, I won't be able to get it for you, though."

Tony Stark shrugs. "I'll get FRIDAY to gather the information about her, for me." He pauses for a second, letting his thoughts gather, letting everything come together in some form. He fiddles with his phone a little, before shoving it back into his pocket, turning to Steve again. "The question is, why is she so protective of him?"

Steve lets out a heavy sigh, eyes moving to watch her. "If only she would tell us."

The glass was soundproof. You knew, because several different groups of people had walked past the locked cell, mouths moving, faces reacting, but you could hear none of it. They had given you a random book to read to pass the time, but you were already about halfway through it and it had only been two hours, by the analog clock that was built into the left wall. The list of people that had walked past ran through in your head in the following order: Maria Hill, Fred the Janitor (he had a mop, so you assumed), a group of lawyers, the Black Widow, Fred the Janitor (again), Agent Ross as part of the CIA, a group of guards who were surrounding T'Challa (who you had made the worst kind of direct eye contact with), a couple more lawyers, then the cherry atop the cake: Captain America and Iron Man. Steve Rogers and Tony Stark.

It was obvious it was them because well, fuck, who wouldn't have known it was them? They were Avengers, they had saved the world countless times. They were also the reason Bucky had to run and hide with you, rather than in a much safer Witness Protection programme. They were also the reason you were trapped in this holding cell, because Captain America had led the Romanian police force directly to the apartment you had Bucky had been peacefully living in for a year.

The peace died pretty quickly when you had walked into your kitchen to find Steve Rogers standing there, shield in hand, looking at the photo of you and Bucky stuck to the fridge.

They had asked for your name. They had asked for your identification and your history. Perhaps a couple years ago you would have told them, but then all that information was revealed about Shield and Hydra, and now there was no way on God's Holy Earth would you ever trust them nor any government body again. After what Bucky had gone through, after what you had gone through, how could they have led Hydra infiltrate Shield like that? Black Widow thought that the encrypted versions of the files would mean the general public wouldn't be able to gain the information.

But you had been trained by Hydra. You weren't their brawn, you were their brains, so if anyone was going to be able to decrypt that information, it would have been you. When you spent hours scouring through the endless files to find out information about his life, that had been the day you had decided to never trust a government body.

So, no, you weren't going to tell them your name. Then they would look you up. They would find out that you used to work for Hydra and just like they were treating Bucky, they wouldn't understand you had been brainwashed and tricked and tortured to work for them. They would treat you like any other Hydra worker who knew what they had been doing; even though you didn't.

Now you were stuck in this cell, Bucky was nowhere to be seen and therefore probably in some containment centre to stop him from hurting anybody even though he wasn't the Winter Solider anymore. Even though he hadn't become the Winter Solider in months, thanks to the work you had been doing with him. What were you supposed to do? Anything you could talk about or tell anyone, they wouldn't believe it. To them, Bucky was a weapon, something that could hurt and couldn't love, but he did love. He had humour, he had a laugh, a smile, he stops in the middle of the street to stroke stray cats, he gets all soppy at cozy rom-coms and he spends his evenings listening to old Sinatra records.

But they would never see that.

Then Captain America and Iron Man walked in front of the glass. You couldn't help but grin, waving your fingers towards the billionaire. It was public knowledge that Tony Stark was on the side of signing the Accords and that Steve Rogers wasn't. It piqued your curiosity as to how they were able to have a real conversation while having such different beliefs, but that wasn't your main goal. You wanted to confuse them.

The name. Jane Doe, of course it was fake. You had told them it to be confusing, make it clear that you were more than just simply a safe house holder for the Winter Solider. What it would do was bring up all the attention towards you. The Avengers, the CIA, the FBI, whoever was in charge here would spend their time figuring out who the hell you were and why you had been so involved in Bucky's life in the past year. To cause a bit of a ruckus, and a lot of confusion.

Because while they would be doing all of that, Bucky's trial would be put off longer and longer, until your people could prove that the Winter Solider was not the same person as Bucky. You were refusing to talk not just because they didn't understand that simply fact, but you also needed time to gather enough evidence that it would be impossible to dismiss the truth. You were not the Huntress that Hydra had turned you into, and Bucky was not the Winter Solider they had tortured him into becoming. Once they understood that, maybe, just maybe, you had a chance of getting out of here with Bucky and living free with him like you should have been doing for the past year.

Hydra had taught you well. Half of the data was already sat in your lab in Romania, proving that brain mechanics, movement, thoughts and procedures changed whenever he was under the throes of the Winter Solider. Pictures and files dating each time Hydra experimented their brainwashing technology on him. Images of the different machinery, some of them with him in it, some of you working at the nearest computer.

Your work from the past year had taken a lot out of you, but damn was it worth it. Once your people took a look at the final conclusions and sent through the final part of the plan, you and Bucky would be one step closer to freedom.

They bought you in for his evaluation. He was in a glass box, restrained at every possible part of his body, particularly the metal arm. His head was hung, hair falling not-so-graciously in front of his face, masking him. The image was projected onto a giant monitor towards the front of the room, where everyone could see what was happening. They still had you handcuffed, behind your back, something strong, perhaps vibranium so you couldn't get out no matter what. Four guards stood around you, stopping any possible escape plan. But none of them were even on the table unless you knew where to find Bucky and guarantees you got out with him by your side.

To the left of you and the guards stood Tony and Natasha, both on the side agreeing with the Accords. Behind a glass door was Steve and Sam. As his evaluator started speaking, your eyes began to droop. Nobody would take this serious, or how they should.

"Hello, Mr Barnes." A Sokovian accent was the first thing you spotted. Nothing too out of the ordinary but it definitely piqued some form of interest in you for a reason you hadn't yet been able to decipher. "I have been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit?" On the screen, he gestured to the chair and desk. When Bucky stayed silent, he sat down, opening up his briefcase that had been placed on the wood of the desk. "Your first name is James?"

Bucky stayed silent again. You knew this would be difficult, and everyone else in the room was beginning to catch onto that point as well.

"Do you know where you are, James?" Again silence. The examinations officer sighed. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

A brief pause. Bucky lifted his head, revealing his face to the officer. He swallowed, lips parting to speak. "My name is Bucky."

In the other room, behind the glass, Steve and Sam, plus a woman that you didn't know the name of yet, started speaking. They all had that look on their face. Curiosity, suspicion, a tint of fear muddled in with the rest. Steve was fiddling with a piece of paper, could have been a photo, but it was difficult to see from the angle the guards had you at.

"Tell me, then, Bucky." He started speaking again, making notes in that little book of his. "You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

Bucky's voice was strained as he spoke, eyes droopy, that fear, that pain having seeped it's way back into his features. The same state of mind that you and him had worked so hard to leave in the past. It was just being dug back up again, unmercifully. "I don't wanna talk about it."

He waved his hands about, barely visible through the screen projection. "You fear that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop." He was intentionally poking the bear.

A moment paused. The examinations officer looked down to the left of his notebook to a propped up screen, the camera to far away to read what was visible on the screen. "Don't worry. We only have to talk about one." Another second passed, then—

The lights went out.

The next couple moments were a blur. Agent Ross started pacing between different computers, Tony Stark went off to talk to his AI, Natasha had already left the room. Steve had stood up straight at the outage, looking towards the woman and immediately signalling at Sam to following him. Believe me, you tried to stay put, not let anything get any worse than it already was, but Steve clearly knew where Bucky was, and if what you thought was happening was happening, then they needed you. So you spotted as one of the guards slipped, moved out of space for a single second, distracted, and you bled into the shadows, melting away so that no one could follow you. Hydra didn't simply train you with hardware and software, after all.

You slipped through and into the glass room, then again through the door that Steve had just disappeared through. Once you were in a clear corridor with both Steve and Sam at the end of it, you began running after them, pausing for just a single second to use a door handle to break the handcuffs that were restraining you.

Because, of course, the examinations officer wasn't CIA, or FBI, or actually from the UN like he said he had been. You knew you recognised the book, the red leather front and that stupid fucking black star painted on it. Your own fucking writing was in it! How the hell this man had gotten a hold of it, you couldn't figure out, but that wasn't the priority. Right now, the Winter Solider was being summoned, and would be under the control of some random person, who was also probably at the fault of T'Chaka's death too. Only God knew what he was really planning, but Bucky would be at the heart of it and that was the one thing you aimed to stop.

Eventually, you caught up with Steve and Sam. It took them both a while to clock you were running behind them but neither of them cared enough about you in the moment to stop running because you all had the same goal: finding Bucky.

The three of you made it to the entrance of whichever room Bucky had been put into. Steve came to a halt at the seemingly endless pile of bodies on the floor. It was too late. He was already the Winter Solider and he had already hurt people.

Steve turned to you, chin held high. "How the hell did you get out?"

"Slipped away." You shrugged. Steve's lips parted as if to speak again, but you held a hand up, shaking your head. "But that's not what's important right now. Bucky has just become the Winter Solider again, and if we don't get to that man in order to save Bucky again, then we're all going to be in a lot of trouble and not just with the government this time."

He ran a hand over his face but nodded, turning back towards the doorway.

In the middle of the room, Zemo was curled into the floor, shaking. Steve didn't give you nor Sam any chance to do anything, running forward and picking him up, shoving him up against the desk, chin held high as he began to speak. You were so focused on Zemo, that you didn't notice Bucky standing in the corner of the room, shoulders dilating as he panted, fully reformed back into the Winter Solider. You also didn't see as he made a leap towards Steve, shoving him across the room at lightning speed.

At the sound of Steve crashing against the wall, you leaped too, in a way that left your hands rested on his shoulders, readying to pull off. All three of you had the serum, but they were still both men, and Bucky under the brainwashing programme gave him extra strength, no holding back. When his trapezius twitched and his jaw sharpened, you knew he was going to swing behind him, so you ducked, dodging his hand and using the temporary drop in his barriers to reach for his arm, curling it around his back.

His metal arm was still pressing against Steve, so with your hands still keeping his flesh arm behind his back, you leaped up and wrapped your legs around his waist, your other hand moving around him to cover his face. Confusion, distraction, anything that meant Steve could get himself out of the grasp Bucky had him in.

And while Steve did make it out, slipping from his grasp, Bucky caught on far too quickly. He was able to maneuver himself to make you fall, spinning on his feet and falling to his knees as your back hit the ground. He went for your hands, clasping them above your head so there was no way to get out. This position certainly wasn't unfamiliar, but every other time, you knew he would let you go at a signal. The Winter Solider would not listen to a signal. He climbed your body, eyes meeting yours straight forward.

They were pained. A familiar warmth that looked like home but only once you dug deep. On the surface was simply a message, follow the mission, the unfamiliar blue did scare you. The only thing that kept you going was the knowledge that Bucky was in there somewhere, no matter how much it didn't seem like it — Bucky was there. You'd get him out, or die trying.

"Bucky—" You gasped, gaping for breath, trying to get his attention. His, not the Winter Solider. "I know you're there. I know you can hear me."

He simply snarled, teeth bared. You lifted your head to look outside of his gaze, seeing Sam and Steve after Zemo, who had given in not so quickly. Looking back towards Bucky, you met the blue again, letting your head drop to the floor, letting your muscles relax, your breathing beginning to settle as you calmed. If you were calm, then so was he. If he was calm, then so were you. That was the deal. But that did nothing, if anything it worsened the situation, because he removed his metal hand from holding yours, still able to keep you bound with just one, and moved the metal so that it was pressed up against your neck.

Not pushing, not squeezing; just settled. Acting as a warning, to make sure you didn't try anything.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes but— everyone calls you Bucky and you can't remember why." You speak, more wary of your breathing than you ever have been before. A quick glance downward, then back up to meet his eyes. "Your favourite singer is Frank Sinatra, but you think musically, Nancy Sinatra did better work. You—" You gasped for air as his fingers twitched around your neck, your words beginning to break through. "There's a cat, you call her Alpine, that always stops at our window and you shouldn't feed her— because she's not our cat, but— you do any way— because you're secretly a softie."

Bucky blinks. Bucky blinks. Not the Winter Solider. The warmth slowly flows towards the front of the blue, that familiarity coming back.

But that's what Steve didn't see. Steve handed Zemo over to Sam to get rid of then turned to see the Winter Solider choking you, so he leaped towards the two of you. The shield bashed against Bucky's side, knocking him over. Just as he was ripped from your sight, you saw the blue darken again, and Bucky was gone.

"He's making his way to the helipad—" Steve spoke, storming in the direction of the mentioned exit, not even sparing you a glance as he passed you.

The fight had gone shit. Sam had been sent after Zemo and had no luck, the man seemingly disappearing off the face of the earth. Everyone had had their turn at Bucky, only making things worse, only escalating things. You had managed to pull Black Widow away from the solider, pushing her to the side and running after Bucky as he fled. Then Iron Man had wanted a turn, half suited and dodging a bullet that Bucky had managed to aim in his direction. Steve had been in and out of everything, and was now on his way to following Bucky as he attempted to escape.

You hadn't seen Steve since he had knocked Bucky away from you in the bunker. Now he was storming away from you and you had some less than pleasant words that he definitely needed to hear. "Steve, I swear to God, what the fuck—" You paused, still walking after him and scoffing as he simply continued walking. "I had him! I had Bucky back and you ruined it! What right do you even have protecting him or me like that?"

It was a stupid thing to say. You knew that him and Bucky had been inseparable during the war, because who didn't? You knew that he was risking his power as Captain America in order to protect Bucky from prosecution.

Steve paused, turning around and finally facing you, pointing an index finger at you in a accusatory act, eyebrows furrowed in anger. "Listen, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but Bucky is my best friend and I will do anything to make sure he's safe. So don't bullshit me with who deserves him more, because I don't know a single good thing you've done for him in the past 100 years."

You grit your teeth, fighting off a groan. Just about to reply, movement in your peripheral shifted your attention, seeing the solider swing open the door to a free helicopter. "Steve, quick—"

He followed where you were looking, and at the realisation that there wasn't time for a spat, you both started running, outside and onto the helipad. Bucky knew how to work it, getting the vehicle up in no time. Steve leaped, grabbing the landing skids, attempting to pull it downward. Bucky saw, shifting so the helicopter moved away from Steve. You reached for Steve's spare hand, using your joint strength to further pull the helicopter towards the concrete.

Bucky shouted, again shifting and this time behind successful. The helicopter was dragged towards the edge, Steve dropping your grasp and having no choice but to latch onto the yellow railing around the edge of the helipad.

"Let me help!" You shouted, rushing forward and pulling on his hand, you in turn, starting pulling both Steve and the helicopter away from the direction it was heading towards. Knees pressed against the concrete, you grabbed onto the railing as a fail safe, which eventually came in handy as the helicopter tugged the two of you and Steve away from the ground.

You were dangling in mid-air, hand in hand with the Captain America, attempting and failing to pull Bucky back to the ground. What the fuck? What the actual fuck. Steve caught your eyes, a mouthed 'tug on three, yeah?' You nodded in return, and he began to shout over the whirring of the main motor. "One—" You were latched onto the yellow railing, securing your grip. "Two—" It was a struggle, but it seemed possible. Or at least, you tried to tell yourself that. "THREE!"

Steve pulled, as did you, a sudden, unexpected tug. It sent pressure through the helicopter, a shift that Bucky couldn't predict and therefore couldn't avoid. The vehicle stuttered, and lost momentum, crashing into the side of the railing. Rubble was everywhere, you had lost Steve's hand and he was nowhere to be seen.

The helicopter creaked as it collided with the concrete. Then it slipped, stuttered, and slowly dropped from the ledge, falling into the river below.

Bucky groaned, muscles aching. His eyes fluttered open, and he was met with the stern looks of Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, both with their arms crossed over their chests. He spluttered a cough out, pushing himself to sit up. As the two stayed quiet, Bucky let himself look around the room. Leant against the far brick wall, was your body, limp and still unconscious. At the sight of you, Bucky sat up fully, pushing himself up and moving towards you.

Steve stepped to the left, blocking his path. "Hold it—"

"Let me get to her, Steve." Bucky pleaded, voice wavering in fear of the way she was so limp against the wall, a hand held out pointing towards her. "I need to check she's okay. If she's not— I don't— She has to be okay, just let me ch—"

The captain cut him off, a hand held up to cease his speech. "She's okay, trust me. You can go see her in a second, we just have a couple questions, first."

Bucky swallowed, nearly glaring up at Steve. He shrugged. "Go crazy."

"What's your name?"

He scoffed, shoulders shaking, eyes never leaving yourself. "Bucky Barnes."

"When were you born?" He was being very very quick with these questions. Bucky found it almost demeaning, but under the circumstances and taking into consideration the entire situation, he became a bit more empathetic.

"March 10th, 1917."

Steve swallowed, allowing two quick glances, one toward Sam stood next to him, and then behind him to where you were still unconscious. "Tell me something only Bucky would know."

Bucky sighed, shoulders deflating and finally being able to draw his gaze away from you, meeting Steve's. "Your mom's name was Sarah. You used to put newspapers in your shoes—"

At Sam's small chuckle, Steve held a hand out, pausing him. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry for the paranoia, but with the fight that just broke out, I hope you can understand why. I swear, we've done our checks and she's really alright but you go ahead."

"Thanks." He nodded curtly, rushing towards you and falling to his knees. He pushed your hair back from your face, hands pressed against your cheeks, examining your face.

Steve, arms crossed again, looked to face him. "Who even is she?"

Bucky grinned, forehead pressed to yours, letting out a deep sigh as his conclusions came back that nothing was inherently wrong, you simply needed to wake up. "She's my saviour. She is the reason I'm still alive, that I'm not a slave for Hydra anymore." Pulling back, he sought Steve for a reason. In the small moment he was looking away, you twitched, gasping for air and eyes flicking open, regaining consciousness.

"James—"

At the breathe of your name, he spun, eyes widening at the sight of you awake. Immediately, he pulled you into him, arms around your torso, chest flush against his. You sighed, realising he was here, and safe, and not the Winter Solider. His face pressed against your neck, warm breath jarring against the cold of wherever the safe house was.

He sighed contently into your neck. "You're okay, doll, you're okay. Are you okay? How—"

Pulling back, you laughed, palms moving to press against his cheeks. "Am I okay? Oh, James, I swear. Are you okay? You're the one that was triggered, how do you feel?"

"A bit shaken." He spoke, breathing calming down. "But alive, and happy you are too."

"Good."

Sam cleared his throat, and the two of you were brought back to reality. Steve hid a chuckle behind a cough and in order to force the awkwardness to dissipate, he took over the room, setting about recap of the circumstance and what the next plan of action was. It would be a lot of work, but anything to make sure Bucky was free.

a/n: hope you enjoyed!! lemme know if yous want a part 2 or want me to create a tag list or anything any support is appreciated 👏

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

#5 or 50 for the touching prompts please ✨

this is irt this post!

steddie | M | 934 | shutting you up

He should’ve been fine.

He purposely waited until after all possible scheduled practices were done for the day, after the lights had been snapped off for the night, and there were only about ten minutes left before the doors were locked.

There should not have been another soul in the entire school.

And yet.

“Munson!”

Eddie yelps, jumping at least six feet off the floor at the sound of his name. He wheels around to see none other than Steve Harrington himself leaning out the nearby janitor’s closet.

“What the–”

“Get over here, quick!” Steve beckons, glancing up and down the hallway.

“Uh…”

“C’mon!”

“What is happening–”

“Just–” he huffs, darting out of the closet to grab Eddie’s arm and haul him back in with him.

“Dude! What in the hell are you doing??” Eddie complains as Steve shoves him amongst the frankly unusual amount of mops in the corner.

“Shh!” Steve says, pulling the door closed and peering back out the wire-crossed window.

“No! Tell me what you’re doing here so late!”

Steve looks back at him, baffled. “You’re one to talk!”

“I’ve got hobbies too, your majesty, I’ll have you know that—”

Steve’s head whips back around to the window and his hand comes up to clap down over Eddie’s mouth (not hard to do when the closet is only about two people deep and one and a half wide).

“Someone’s coming..” he whispers.

Eddie bats the hand away and asks “What are you waiting for??” at a normal volume.

“Shut up, Munson.” 

Steve’s hand once again comes up to Eddie’s face, the crook between his thumb and pointer finger resting under his nose and his palm and fingers pressed over the entire rest of the lower half of his face.

His hands are huge.

Holy shit he’s gonna have a damn heart attack.

Belatedly, Eddie realizes that Steve’s been hurriedly whispering at him, “--and they’re always already in my locker no matter when I get here, so whoever it is must be leaving them after hours right? So I just stayed here after practice and have been watching my locker to see if I can catch them in the act!”

Oh.

Oh Jesus Christ.

Thank fuck Steve pulled him in here. 

He would have died on the spot if he’d been caught putting the next note in his locker.

“Where are they?” Steve asks himself, looking up and down the hallway. “They’re gonna lock the doors in like eight minu— Dude, are you alright? Your pulse is going nuts.”

Steve’s looking back at him now, pushing his ring finger more purposefully into Eddie’s pulse point. Eddie feels his heart rate jump.

“Are you– shit,” he pulls his hand away, “Was it that? Sorry..”

Eddie just stares at him.

A muffled squeak pulls his attention back to the window, “Someone’s coming!” 

He’d hoped that Steve had been enjoying the notes he’d been leaving, lifting his spirits after that disastrous breakup with Wheeler.. but the pure excitement on Steve’s face at the prospect of seeing what cute girl was leaving these notes for him was something else entirely.

He’s gonna have to weasel out of this somehow.

“Steve–”

“Shh! Here they come!”

Sure enough, someone lopes into view through the window…

Darry, the school Janitor, whistles merrily on by with his keys spinning on his finger.

He passes, the squeaking of his boots going with him.

Steve turns around.

The high of Steve’s excitement curdles in Eddie’s stomach at the look on his face now.

“They didn’t come.”

Damn.

“Hey, don’t worry about it Stevie, I’m sure she just wasn’t able to come tonight.”

Steve sighs. “Yeah, they’ll probably just come tomor— what did you just say?”

Eddie rewinds the last bit of their conversation, not hard to do when you’ve only said the one thing, “Uh.. she wasn’t able to come tonight?”

Steve steps closer to him, Eddie steps back on instinct.

“Before that.” another tiny step forward.

Another tiny step back, “Uh, Don’t worry about it?”

“After that.” another step.

Another step– Eddie’s back hits the wall. “I–I don’t know?”

Steve is barely a hair’s width away from him. “What did you call me?”

“...Stevie? Why, am I not allowed t— oh shit.”

Oh holy shit.

You stupid motherfucker.

“Y’know who else has been calling me ‘Stevie’ recently, Eddie?”

Eddie’s mouth has gone as dry as a desert. He swallows around nothing, licking his lips to respond.

Steve’s eyes flick down momentarily.

…. Oh there’s no goddamn way.

“Me?”

Steve smirks, “Can I have my note?”

Eddie sighs, reaches into his pocket, and produces the folded scrap of paper.

He takes it, staring down at the ‘Stevie' scrawled across the front.

“Steve, listen, I–”

Instead of opening it, Steve tucks it into his pocket and reaches up instead, hooking a hand around the back of Eddie’s neck and pulling him into a kiss.

He presses fully into him, his other hand holding Eddie to him by the waistband of his jeans.

It takes a moment, but eventually Eddie gets with the program and spins them, pressing Steve into the wall behind them with a leg between his.

Breaking apart with the movement, Steve breathes out a “Holy shit.” then pulls him back in, rolling his hips for good measure.

“Holy shit.” Eddie repeats, this time into Steve’s mouth.

Breathlessly, Steve says “Are you gonna make out with me or not, Munson?”

“Oh don’t you worry sweetheart, I’m going to do that and more.” Eddie grins, rolling his hips forward in response, “But I’ve got a much better place to do it.”

Twenty minutes and one and a half blowjobs later (Eddie was never going to last long after getting Steve’s dick in his mouth the first time), Eddie watches bone jellied-ly as Steve fishes the note out of his pants pocket from where they’d been kicked off to the back corner of his van. “Oh god, you’re gonna read that now?” “Why not?” Steve shrugs, sitting back down on the haphazardly spread out comforter. “Shit’s embarrassing!” Steve levels him with a look. “More embarrassing than coming ten seconds after I got my mouth on you?” “...Yes.”

shoutout to @tinytalkingtina who responded to an old comment of mine on one of their fics and inspired the little bit of secret admirer-ness of this one!!

[danicalithegirl]

Dustin and his dad's.

Hawkins, Indiana – June 1986

It had started because the school finally kicked Eddie out.

Technically, he graduated—which was the shocker of the century according to half the teachers at Hawkins High. But the real problem came after: no longer being a student meant he couldn’t claim the AV closet for Hellfire anymore, and the janitors were itching to get their storage space back.

So, he’d gotten a notice from the school office (“Final warning before items are discarded,” in all caps) and immediately called in reinforcements. Namely: Dustin, who owed him at least a dozen favors; and Steve, who didn’t owe him anything but showed up anyway, because that’s just what Steve did now.

Hellfire’s old headquarters was chaos incarnate. Towering cardboard dragons. Mismatched dice in cracked film canisters. Paint-chipped miniatures. Torn campaign maps. A box of cloaks that smelled like body spray and ramen. Eddie treated it like sacred treasure. Steve treated it like it might contain anthrax.

They spent the morning hauling boxes out to Eddie’s van, then to a half-cleared unit at an old storage lot outside of town—one he claimed was "temporary," though he’d already hung up Christmas lights in the rafters for ambience. Something about maybe throwing band rehearsals in there. Something about “the vibe.”

The heat was punishing—Indiana summer already in full swing—but Steve had shown up in a cream-colored cable-knit sweater and slacks, like someone’s dad on his third wife’s second wedding.

Dustin gawked at him when he arrived. “What the hell are you wearing? Are you okay?”

Steve just shrugged. “Had brunch with my mom. You know how it is.”

He didn’t elaborate. And no one really asked. But the truth was: it was safer this way. After what happened last spring—everything in the Upside Down, everything with Vecna, everything they couldn’t tell anyone—his mom had become just attentive enough to notice if he looked “unraveled.” Sweaters hid scars. Slacks hid bruises. Sweaters meant “I’m fine, Mom,” and for a while, that was what he needed to be.

Besides, Eddie had looked at him once while he was wearing it and called him “Professor Daddy Issues,” and then blushed so hard he nearly tripped over a crate of resin dice. Which honestly made it kind of worth it.

Eddie, by contrast, was in full gremlin-mode: black jeans torn at both knees, boots scuffed to hell, and a Nirvana tee with cracked yellow lettering under his vest. The shirt technically belonged to a cousin from Indianapolis—some college guy with a taste for weird zines and off-label punk. He’d handed Eddie a tape labeled Bleach (Sub Pop) the last time they saw each other and said, “You’re welcome, metal boy.”

Eddie had listened to it so many times the tape was already warping.

“This band’s gonna blow up,” he kept telling Steve and Dustin, like he was personally manifesting it.

“I’m sure,” Steve said dryly, wiping sweat off his forehead with the hem of his sweater, which made Eddie grin and mumble something like, “God, you’re such a jock.”

But he didn’t mean it like an insult. Not anymore.

---

The Secret of Them

Steve and Eddie hadn’t meant to end up together. It was never part of the plan.

They'd started talking more after spring. After the battle. After the hospital. It began with late-night drives and shared cigarettes on the roof of Family Video. Steve had a lot of quiet he never used to have, and Eddie had a lot of noise he didn’t know how to shut off.

Somewhere in between they started hanging out just to hang out. Not because Dustin begged. Not because there was supernatural horror afoot. Just... because.

One night, Eddie let it slip that he never really dated anyone seriously in Hawkins. Steve said “yeah, same,” and meant it for the first time. A few weeks after that, Steve kissed him on the back step of the trailer when he thought no one was watching.

That was early May.

Since then, it had been movie nights, and stolen looks, and hands brushing when they passed soda cans. Quiet stuff. Small stuff. Hidden stuff. Dustin and Robin didn’t know. Wayne probably did. But they didn’t say anything. Not yet.

---

And Now... This Dumb Joke

So when Dustin showed up, jittery from sugar and full of post-graduation chaos energy, it wasn’t surprising that he found Steve and Eddie loitering in the string-light glow of a half-empty storage unit, surrounded by old cloaks and boxes labeled “Critical Hit!” and “DO NOT OPEN – CURSED?”

What was surprising was the way Dustin grinned and declared, “Mike. Take a picture of me and my two dads.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Come on.” Dustin wedged himself between them, practically bouncing. “Dad #1: leather, rock n’ roll, possibly cursed. Dad #2: sweater-wearing, mom-car-driving, looks like he pays taxes early.”

Eddie wheezed with laughter. Steve huffed but didn’t pull away.

Mike—beyond done—snapped the photo and muttered, “Say ‘bad life choices.’”

The shutter clicked. Eddie barked out a laugh. Steve gave Dustin a noogie. Dustin screamed. It was dumb. It was great. It was... over.

Until the photo showed up in a frame.

---

It was the following weekend when Dustin spotted it.

He’d dropped by Eddie’s trailer to borrow a box of old D&D minis and maybe convince him to run one more summer campaign before college stuff stole everyone away. But as he stepped into the living room, there it was. Sitting proud and centered on a shelf just above the legendary Mug Wall™—Eddie’s weird, ever-growing shrine to novelty mugs.

“Uh.” Dustin blinked. “You framed that?”

Eddie looked up from where he was trying (and failing) to glue a goblin’s arm back onto a tiny figurine. “Framed what?”

“That.” Dustin pointed like it might disappear if he didn’t. “The dad pic.”

“Oh,” Eddie said, like it was no big deal. “Yeah, of course I did. It’s a classic.”

“You have, like, a hundred mugs and one photo up here. This is practically a shrine now. What, is this the Church of Eddie and Steve?”

“Maybe.” Eddie smirked. “Don’t be jealous just ’cause we’re photogenic. Also, look at your face in that shot. You look proud. You look like we just picked you up from Little League.”

“I’ve never played Little League,” Dustin scoffed.

“But if you had,” Eddie said, gesturing with the glue-covered goblin, “we would’ve been in the stands. With matching ‘Henderson #1’ shirts.”

Dustin snorted. “Oh my God.”

Just then, Wayne appeared from down the hall, towel slung over one shoulder, having clearly just showered after a shift. He nodded at Dustin in greeting, then paused.

“Huh,” Wayne said, squinting at the photo. “That’s a good one.”

Eddie perked up. “Right? It’s got energy.”

Wayne scratched his chin. “You, your boyfriend, and the kid. Real cute. Like a Sears ad if Sears had a section for weirdos.”

Record scratch.

Eddie froze. Visibly. The kind of full-body panic Dustin had only seen in horror movies and the time Mrs. O'Donnell almost caught him cheating off Lucas in history class.

“I—he—I—” Eddie stammered, suddenly red-faced and nearly dropping the glue.

Dustin’s mouth fell open. “Wait. WAIT.”

Wayne frowned. “...What?”

“You knew?!” Dustin squeaked, spinning toward Eddie. “You’re dating Steve? Like, actually?”

“Okay, first of all—Wayne, what the hell, I told you we were keeping it quiet!”

Wayne held up his hands, utterly unbothered. “Didn’t know it was a secret. You’ve been starin’ at him like he’s a damn Hallmark movie for months. I figured everyone knew.”

“I didn’t!” Dustin shrieked. “How do you know before me?! I live in the middle of all your weird flirt fights!”

Steve chose that exact moment to enter, holding a paper bag. “Hey, I brought fries. Why is everyone yelling?”

“STEVE,” Dustin said, pointing dramatically. “YOU.”

Steve blinked. “...Me?”

“YOU’RE DATING EDDIE.”

Steve looked at Eddie. Then at Wayne. Then back at Dustin.

“Well,” Steve said slowly. “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

Eddie groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I’m going to kill Wayne and then myself.”

Wayne patted his shoulder on the way to the fridge. “Relax, kid. It’s cute. And I’m too tired to be murdered today.”

---

Dustin didn’t shut up about it for a week. He made Steve and Eddie endure endless teasing, dramatic reenactments, and a new nickname: Dad².

But what he didn’t tell them—what he told no one—was that a couple days later, he got a copy of the photo printed.

He slipped it into a frame from Melvald’s and set it on his own desk at home, right next to a little science trophy and his radio.

Because... yeah. They were his dads.

And maybe it was kinda cute.

Even if they were idiots.

[loveinhawkins]

and watch this feeling rolling in

ao3 Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt, “school’s out for summer,” 942 words. Rated G, Missing Scene, pre season 3, last day of senior year

The bricks are warm against Steve’s back. He shifts his position, stretches his legs out some more. The school parking lot is practically empty; he’d watched as bit by bit everyone left, the giddy promise of summer in the air, until the excited cries and last minute party arrangements faded into nothing. The janitor gave him a weird look as he was locking up, but Steve just waved, and that seemed to give enough reassurance that he wasn’t gonna set fire to the school when no-one was looking.

Now there’s just… quiet. He knows there’ll be a great sunset later; the sky’s already streaked with pink, like it’s anticipating the moment, too.

Footsteps approaching: he can tell from the way the shoes scuff against the ground that it’s another student. Well—he glances down at the English notebook in his lap, the last few pages unused, unneeded—he’s not a student anymore.

The footsteps come to a stop. Steve doesn’t look, not until a shadow blocks his perfect spot in the sun.

“Dude, move,” he says reflexively—it’s not a challenge, not really.

“You move,” Eddie Munson returns, but there’s equally no bite to the words, like maybe the school day has sapped his energy. “I had a whole brooding atmosphere going on, Harrington, you’re ruining it.”

Who says I’m not brooding? Steve thinks. He makes a half-hearted effort to move and pretends that he’s glued to the wall. “Sorry, man. Guess I’m stuck here forever.”

Eddie’s mouth twitches at one corner. He laughs through an exhale, as if it’s snuck out almost without him noticing.

“Last look?” he asks knowingly.

Steve shrugs. “Sure.”

“Yeah, been there.” Eddie gives a sardonic smile. “Over and over. Seriously, this is my ritual, get your own.”

But he doesn’t mean it; Steve can see that from a mile away.

“You gonna sit down or what?”

After a second or two, Eddie does. They sit side by side, just existing in the quiet, and Steve hopes that Eddie’s come to the same understanding as him, that there’s no audience here, if only so he’ll relax. But when he looks over, Eddie’s back is still a little stiff against the wall.

“D’you think,” Steve starts, and Eddie raises his head curiously as if despite himself, “that today’s kind of an anti-climax?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie says with a sudden eagerness, like he can’t believe someone’s been thinking the same thing all along. “Like, what’s up with that? I swear, last year, even when I pretended that I’d actually, y’know, it still felt, like, that’s it?” Eddie sighs. “Guess that’s what graduation’s for.”

Steve doesn’t think so. He already knows what’s in store for graduation: parents and kids having to pretend like they know how to be around each other. It’s not the kind of ending he’s searching for.

“You’re quiet,” Eddie says, as if faintly surprised.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You’re loud.”

Eddie laughs, and as he does, his shoulders finally relax. “That’s fair. Not—not always, though.”

“No,” Steve agrees, but he’d mostly prefer to forget such times; a quiet Eddie Munson typically occurs after harsh words, whether from a teacher or a student, that have plainly, for whatever reason, caught him off-guard.

Eddie indicates the notebook in Steve’s lap. “You got a souvenir?”

Steve idly flicks through the pages. “It’s for English. Almost left it—”

“That’s not your handwriting,” Eddie says, pointing at a page with neat blue print, I’s dotted with hearts, and before Steve can even make a quip about how nothing gets past him, he adds, “Preserving your love letters?”

Steve can’t help it; he laughs. Draws out a low, amused, “Jesus.”

“Hey, what? What did I say?”

“Do they have to be love letters?”

“I—” Eddie pauses, then says carefully, “I guess not?”

Steve shakes his head with a smile. It’s a girl’s handwriting, but they’re not love letters or whatever else Eddie’s dreamed up. It’s feedback on one of his stories from a girl in his English class, the only other person who was submitting a portfolio. Steve recalls the fleeting hope of last September, back when he thought he actually had a chance at…

Eddie’s scrambling for his bag, bringing out his own notebook like it’s a peace offering. “I see where I’m going wrong,” he says, faux gravely, “you’re writing all of that, and I’m—”

He thumbs quickly through the notebook in demonstration. Steve���s eye is drawn to the top of each page, where a little stick figure runs across like it’s in a choppy silent film.

“Impressive,” Steve says, and underneath the joke, he means it. I know you’re really trying, dude, you don’t have to pretend.

Maybe some of his thoughts show on his face, because Eddie looks down while he puts the notebook back in his bag, as if suddenly shy. “I—I better go, my uncle—he works nights so we, um, eat kinda—”

“Cool,” Steve says. “I’ll see you around.”

Eddie shoots him a disbelieving look even while he smiles back. “Oh, sure, like you’re not gonna ditch this place immediately.”

As Eddie walks away, it occurs to Steve that Eddie’s mistakenly assumed he’s leaving Hawkins. He’s only ever told Nancy that he hadn’t got into college, and she’s clearly not spread it around.

With a soft pang he can’t quite explain, Steve calls across, “You assume a lot.”

“Huh?” Eddie says, a hand to his ear.

Steve just waves. “Never mind.”

And it’s still too early for a sunset, but he finds he’s glad that he can see Eddie’s distant silhouette lit up exactly like this. Thinks that, just maybe, he’s not been searching for an ending at all.

and they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves so they wouldn’t do anything except listen to the songs in their heads which were sad ones like nearly all good songs and watch this feeling rolling in, sunshine or rain, we don’t know yet, it’s a good one, it’s the best one, though it has no name. —Emily Berry, No Name