#like.. is that not a literal declaration that he loved steve

[ironshieldchild]

we as a society got over the fact that tony literally gave steve HIS HEART way too quickly

[hairmetal666]

"I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he declares to all and sundry (Steve and Robin) in Family Video.

Steve laughs, ducks his head, hair a bountiful cascade that doesn't move an inch. He's blushing but it's not, like, a reaction to the sentiment of marriage. Steve knows Eddie is just like that, flirtatious and over-the-top and incapable of not speaking his thoughts as soon as they enter his head.

Robin roles her eyes, goes back to flipping through her magazine, something about cinema, and Eddie swipes his just rented movies off the counter.

"You think I'm joking," he twists so he's facing them, walking backwards to the door. "But I swear it, oh, beloved purveyor of movies and deleter of late fees."

"Yeah, yeah." Steve's face is pinker than before and Eddie recognizes and immediately forces himself to forget how cute it is. "But get out of here before I change my mind."

And Eddie, he loves to push his luck and also has very little filter between his brain and his mouth, so he says, "aw, don't be that way, Stevie, you love me."

Robin looks up, then, mouth a pursed twist as she tries not to laugh. "Gross, Eddie." She throws a Sour Patch at him. "Keep all that mushy stuff to when you two are alone."

It's his turn to blush, fierce and raging, and Steve whirls, squeaking, to whack Robin with a Twizzler.

Eddie points at her. "Rude, Buckley. You know I love you too."

"Again, gross." She sticks out her tongue, tinged blue from the Sour Patch.

"We really need to work on your ability to accept affection," Steve tells her.

She scowls, kicks him, makes Eddie laugh.

"I think that's my cue to leave, children." He says. He, quite literally, bows out of the store, just missing the barrage of candy thrown his way.

---

Three Months Later

Eddie stumbles into the Harrington house, kicking his boots off by the door. Steve's in the kitchen, fussing around the stove. His hair's askew and he's--

"Harrington, are you wearing an apron?" He ignores the kick in his chest at the sight. "You'll make a sweet little housewife one day."

"Shut-up," Steve says without any heat. "Try this."

He brandishes a spoon filled with red sauce in Eddie's direction, and Eddie--heart always on his sleeve--eagerly leans in to taste. He closes his eyes, savors, and it's good, truly. Perfect fresh acidity with just a burst of sweetness.

"It's amazing, baby," he says without thinking. He opens his eyes right in time to see Steve turning back to the sauce, blush high on his cheekbones.

"Thanks. You're making me nervous though, hovering." Steve hip checks him. "Go sit somewhere."

And Eddie does, jumps onto the island--the Harrington's are the kind of people who have an island--and chatters to Steve about his day, about his new campaign, about the new song he's trying to learn.

All the while, he's watching Steve cook, in his apron, with such care and thoughtfulness, with true command. Maybe it's the domesticity of the scene, maybe his raging crush, but he has this flash of the two of them in the future. In their kitchen, Steve cooking dinner, and Eddie's arms are wrapped around his waist, he's pressing kisses to his temple, complimenting all his hard work and--

Steve feeds him a bite of the finished pasta, and it's so good that he groans, full-throated, unembarrassed, and says--he says, "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington."

He laughs, face pink, batting Eddie's shoulder. "Go sit down, man. It's time to eat."

---

Two Months After That

Eddie's working on a new campaign when the storm rolls in, wind rocking the trailer, thunder and lightning crackling in the sky. The power doesn't go out, but only just barely, the flickers making his heart pound for reasons that have nothing to do with weather.

There's a knock on the trailer door, and he opens it to find Steve Harrington standing on the porch, hair plastered to his head, clothes soaked. Robin's bike is propped against one of the awning supports. Familiar panic snaps to life in his gut.

"God, Steve, are you okay? Did something happen? That's Robin's bike, where's the Beamer? Is it--is it Vecna? Is--" He's blabbering can't stop, so he shoves his palm against his lips.

"It's not--not Upside Down stuff." He runs a hand through his soggy hair. "Can I come in, man? I--I want to tell you something."

This snaps Eddie out of his panic, and he's moving aside, saying, "Oh my god, get in here, you're soaked. Let me get towels. Do you want a change of clothes, I can--"

Steve catches him by the elbow and he full stops at the look in those big hazel eyes, fearful and sad and he doesn't know what, but his anxiety amps back up.

"I was with Robin and we were--we were talking, you know? And I told her that I like somebody, like really like them, but it was unexpected and--and--it's a guy. He's a guy but I still like girls? Robin said--she said that I'm probably bisexual. That I like guys and girls and--and everyone, I think."

It sends shockwaves through him, and he hopes it doesn't show, doesn't think it shows, but he's having trouble processing. Steve is bi and he likes someone and--Eddie stuffs down the jealousy that claws at him, knows it's more important that he's here for his friend.

"Thank you for telling me, sweetheart." He reaches out, slow in case Steve doesn't want to be hugged, but he launches himself into Eddie's arms.

Eddie holds him tight, heedless of his wet clothes, can feel his shoulders shake, and it tears Eddie's heart in two. All he can do is hold Steve and offer comfort, jealousy be damned.

"You're so brave, honey," he says once the tears taper off.

Steve gives a wet chuckle, face still buried against Eddie's neck. "I don't know about that. I think I got snot in your hair."

"It'll wash out." He laughs. "Is now the time to welcome you to the family? Apparently, we're growing exponentially."

"Does the welcome include a cake or something? I could really use cake."

And God, Steve, is so fucking cute, so sweet, so--everything Eddie has always wanted, and he--it's an accident, or at least, thoughtless--he presses a kiss to Steve's temple. More than one.

Steve pulls back fast, and Eddie lets go immediately. "Sorry, sorry. I--that was stupid. You like someone already, and I--"

His words are cut off as Steve kisses him. Steve kisses him? His brain can't process, but he kisses back. Can't not, not with Steve. Like, he doesn't know anything, head empty, but his body is with the program.

They break apart, he's breathing hard. Steve is beautifully flushed, mouth red and swollen. "You like someone," is what Eddie says.

Steve laughs. "I like you, Munson. Fucking crazy about you."

He smiles, so big it hurts, so big it grows into a delight laugh. "I'm going to marry you one day, Steve Harrington," he says.

---

Six Years Later

They're in bed, Saturday morning, rain pattering softly on the window.

Steve places slow kisses against his naked tummy, makes him tremble, shiver with overstimulation.

"Baby," he whines. "Sweetheart."

Steve smiles up at him, something cold pressing against his ribs, then into his hand.

It's a ring, black metal, shiny and iridescent as he turns it in the light. "What--Steve?"

With one last kiss to his hip bone, Steve sits up, slips the ring onto Eddie's finger. "I'm going to marry you one day, Eddie Munson."

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #32

It all began when Dr. Jasmine Fenton—Jazz, to the brave and traumatized—walked into the Avengers Compound in five-inch block heels, a blood-red blazer, and a clipboard with everyone’s most damning psychological profiles printed in 12-point Times New Roman. She had been hired because, quote, “the last six therapists either quit, cried, or developed their own hero complexes.” SHIELD had gone through the best and brightest the world had to offer. They even tried a Wakandan empathy AI once. It cried. The AI cried.

So when Jazz Fenton walked in, armed with a dual PhD in clinical psychology and trauma therapy, the last thing they expected was that she’d personally know what hero trauma looked like. But she did. Her baby brother was a half-ghost interdimensional guardian who once got hit by a nuke and walked it off. Her parents were mad scientists who tried to dissect him. And her godfather was an immortal corporate vampire with a crown kink and a habit of kidnapping. She had seen things. She understood. And more importantly, she didn’t care. She wasn’t here to coddle them.

“Dr. Fenton,” Steve Rogers greeted politely that first morning.

“Please, call me Jazz,” she said with a smile that made even Natasha lower her coffee. “Or Doctor Fenton if you’re about to lie to me.”

Tony Stark made the mistake of raising an eyebrow. “Oh? What are you gonna do, psychoanalyze me into submission?”

She flipped to his file. “‘Severe abandonment issues, destructive self-worth tendencies, martyr complex buried under layers of narcissistic deflection, sleeps three hours a night, probably cries in the shower—’”

“I don’t cry in the shower!”

“That is because you don’t shower, Mr. Stark.”

That shut him up.

From that day onward, fear fell over the Avengers Compound like a thick, fragrant fog of anxiety. Jazz was everywhere. One moment she was on the roof with Clint discussing his grief over Budapest, the next she was in the lab with Bruce making him cry, and the moment after that she had Loki in handcuffs—not because he was arrested, but because he asked for them.

“I just think maybe I’m too attached to the idea of being hated,” Loki muttered, slouched on the therapy couch.

“You are,” Jazz replied, checking her notes. “You’re addicted to conflict because you’ve built your identity on being an outsider. Every time you’re offered genuine affection, you self-sabotage. You’re not a villain, you’re just a lonely youngest child.”

“I—” Loki blinked. “That is horrifically accurate. And incredibly offensive.”

“Cry harder, Sparklehorn.”

Thor, meanwhile, loved her. Adored her. Followed her around like an emotional support golden retriever with lightning powers. He kept trying to give her things—golden goblets, fur cloaks, an entire goat—until one day she casually picked up Mjolnir while fixing a crooked painting and everyone screamed.

“How the fuck—” Sam Wilson shouted.

“Why can she do that?” Peter Parker asked from the ceiling.

“Therapists shouldn’t be worthy!” Tony wailed. “It’s not natural!”

Jazz shrugged and handed the hammer back to Thor. “I was forged in the fires of Midwestern neglect and ghost radiation. You think Odin can break me? Try surviving your brother getting publicly disemboweled by a government robot while your parents take notes.”

She had no chill. None. She was the only person who called Wanda out on her grief projection, made Bucky talk about his repressed ballet skills, and forced Steve to draw a family tree so she could scream “YOUR ENTIRE FRIEND GROUP IS CODEPENDENT.”

“Group therapy!” she declared one Tuesday.

“No,” said literally everyone.

“Too bad. Show up or I will personally guilt you in front of the media using your own trauma receipts.”

And they did. They came. They came because they were afraid.

Tony sat with arms crossed. “This is stupid.”

“Tell that to your inner child.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Exactly.”

Clint sighed. “This is worse than Budapest.”

“Everything is worse than Budapest,” Natasha replied.

Wanda blinked slowly. “I think I just astrally projected my own anxiety. It’s hovering above me like a raincloud.”

Jazz didn’t even blink. “Let it hover. Let it watch you cry. Maybe it’ll finally grow up.”

Civil War? Canceled.

No one dared fight each other under Jazz’s watch. When tensions began rising between Tony and Steve over the Sokovia Accords, she locked them in a soundproof room with juice boxes and didn’t let them out until they hugged it out like the emotionally repressed golden retrievers they were.

“I will tranquilize you both,” she warned through the door. “I have the darts and the upper body strength. Don’t tempt me.”

They made up within the hour.

At one point, Nick Fury tried to get involved. He barged into one of Jazz’s sessions like he still ran SHIELD.

“What the hell kind of therapy involves throwing knives at a target while crying?” he demanded.

Jazz, unfazed, handed him a stress knife. “Want to try?”

He did. And then immediately rebooked weekly appointments.

By week four, the compound was transformed. Hulk was journaling. Peter was actually doing his homework. Wanda was learning healthy coping mechanisms that didn’t involve mind-controlling entire suburbs. Clint and Natasha were having pillow talks about emotional vulnerability. Even Loki was crocheting.

“Do you know what I’ve done?” he whispered as he stitched a duck.

“I’ve read your file,” Jazz said. “And your Tumblr tag. You’re not special.”

“I am special—”

“You’re traumatized, sweetie.”

Meanwhile, Tony—still deeply suspicious—began following her around trying to find proof she was a Hydra sleeper agent. What he found instead was her absolutely unhinged family.

“You’re related to who?” he asked over coffee one morning.

Jazz sighed. “My little brother is Danny Phantom, ghost-powered superhero and part-time physics major. My godfather is Vlad Masters, ex-billionaire and full-time supervillain with a complex. My parents are Jack and Maddie Fenton.”

Tony blinked. “The guys who duct-taped a rocket to a lawnmower and called it science?”

“The very same.”

“No wonder you’re like this.”

Jazz nodded. “Exactly. I was forged in chaos and trauma. Now I’m here to fix you.”

“I don’t want to be fixed.”

“Too bad. I’ve already started rebuilding your psyche.”

“What does that mean—”

“Check your inner monologue. Notice how it’s stopped calling you a worthless meat puppet?”

Tony screamed.

Even Doctor Strange, who allegedly had the answers to the universe, found himself in a corner drinking tea and rethinking the way he suppressed his emotions with sarcasm and facial hair.

“You’re not mystical, Stephen,” Jazz told him. “You’re just emotionally constipated.”

“I literally astral project.”

“Cool. Now try emotional projection. Maybe apologize to Wong.”

“…Wong is asleep.”

“Wake him up.”

By month two, even the press noticed. The Avengers were glowing. Smiling. Making eye contact during press conferences instead of brooding like middle school theater kids.

“What changed?” a reporter asked.

Tony grabbed the mic. “Her name is Jazz Fenton and she scares the hell out of us.”

Steve nodded solemnly. “She made me cry six times in one session. I told her about my dad.”

“She made me draw my feelings,” Clint added.

“I finally cried about Pietro,” Wanda whispered. “In public. It felt amazing. I think I vomited emotions.”

“Dr. Fenton helped me write a song about my grief,” Thor said proudly. “It’s a power ballad. With goats.”

And then came the incident.

The one time the Avengers tried to disobey her. Sam and Bucky had been arguing again. Loudly. And somewhere in the chaos, someone dared say, “It’s not like Jazz can stop us.”

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Jazz calmly walked into the sparring room, confiscated Bucky’s knife mid-twirl, took Sam’s wings with one hand, and sat both men down with the force of divine intervention.

“You two,” she said in a voice that made the walls tremble, “are not enemies. You are trauma-bonded enemies-to-friends-to-exes-to-besties. You are a trope. You are a fanfiction tag. You are not about to regress into kindergarten slap fights because one of you forgot the others’ favorite breakfast order.”

“…He forgot my birthday,” Sam muttered.

“Because he has memory trauma! You have it too! You both need to go on a spa day and cry it out in a hot tub like normal people.”

And they did.

They actually did.

The day Jazz left for a conference—just one day—the entire compound fell into shambles. Loki started monologuing again, Peter accidentally built a sentient AI who wrote poetry about death, Wanda started glowing red again, and Tony tried to weaponize emotional damage via sarcastic limericks.

The moment she came back, they all lined up like chastised children.

“What did I say about emotionally projecting without supervision?” she asked.

“Don’t do it,” they chorused.

“And?”

Peter sniffled. “We missed you.”

“Damn right you did.”

Jazz smiled, terrifying and fond, and flipped her clipboard. “Now. Who wants to talk about their mother?”

And the Avengers, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, sat down.

Because nothing���not Chitauri, not Ultron, not even Thanos—was scarier than the therapist who could lift Mjolnir and your deepest childhood wound in the same breath.

Dr. Jasmine Fenton was the real hero. And everyone knew it.

[uss-butterscotch]

Part 6! If you haven’t seen already i’m working on naming this fic so if you want to vote for your favorite option it should be just a few posts down on my blog :)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

(cw for vague reference to child abuse. It’s literally like one throwaway sentence but just in case!)

~

“I keep having nightmares,” she started quietly, “I’m too late to stop Billy from hurting Steve, or the syringe is empty and it doesn’t work, and he kills Steve and then he kills Lucas, then Dustin, then Mike, and I’m yelling at him to stop, but he doesn’t. Because screaming didn’t stop him in real life.”

Eddie was reeling slightly from that alone, he didn’t have time to think of anything reassuring to say before she was talking again.

“Or, it’s the mall. And Billy doesn’t- he lets Jane die. And he laughs at me like I’m stupid for believing he could be better.” She looked back to Eddie then, “And that’s the worst part. Because that’s not what happened. He did do the right thing for once and it got him killed.

“And it all makes me hate him even more, because even after he’s dead, he won’t stop fucking with me!” And there. Finally something Eddie could work with.

Her hands were clenched hard, knuckles turning white. She finally seemed done with her train of thought, breathing slightly heavy, and glaring a hole through the windshield. Eddie nodded, but kept his eyes on the road ahead of him.

“That sucks, Red, I’m sorry.” He rapped his knuckles against the steering wheel lightly, “My dad was in and out of jail most of my life. On the occasion that he was out he was a mean drunk, to me and my mom, the supposed love of his life.”

He rolled his eyes at that. “If he had really cared about her, he would have tried harder to clean up his act when she got sick. But he didn’t, and we couldn’t afford her treatments, and she died. And I hated him so much.

“And then about a year later, he dropped me off with Wayne, said he had some business to take care of in Indy, but he’d see me soon.”

Eddie scoffed sarcastically, shaking his head. “Not too long after that, Wayne gets a lovely visit from the sheriff’s department with news that his brother’s dead, killed in some sort of deal gone wrong. They said from witness statements it sounded like he was trying to to get money back from someone who owed him or something, and to top it all off, his nephew, one Eddison Munson, seemed to be missing-“

“Your name is Eddison?” Max interrupted, a mocking smirk peeking through the panic from before.

“Yes,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes, “what’s yours? Maximillian?”

“Sure.” She said, crossing her arms and settling into her seat. “I would have guessed Edward. Or maybe Edwin.”

Eddie shrugged. “Eddison was like, my mom’s grandpa’s name or something. I never met the guy, but I guess he sort of raised my mom.”

Eddie waved a hand around wildly, needing to steer the subject away from that topic quickly. “Anyway! If I may continue,” he paused to give Max an opportunity to tell him to shut up. When she didn’t, he went on, “after the situation was sorted out, and it was declared I needed a new legal guardian because I was fresh out of parents, I started living with Wayne full time.”

The school was rapidly approaching, so Eddie tried to summarize his points as quickly as possible. “Point is, I was so confused and angry for years. I wondered if he knew how dangerous what he was doing would be, and he kept me away from it to keep me safe for once in his stupid life. I wondered what life might have been like if he had gotten whatever money he went there to get and used it to make things better for us. I had a million questions and a million theories. But none of those ideas fit with the asshole I knew he was, and then I was mad at myself for even thinking that highly of him. For thinking he could change. And worst of all, I would never know the truth.”

He parked the van and shut the engine off. “It took me a long time, and a lot of serious conversations with my uncle that he had to practically drag me kicking and screaming into having, to know what to do with that anger. To work on accepting life’s unknowns.”

Max looked at him, chewing on her cheek. He hoped he wasn’t imagining it, but something in her gaze looked a little softer.

As he opened his own door, he said, “You don’t have to talk about it now, and you don’t have to talk about it to me, but you should talk someone. Eventually.”

He got out, closed the door behind him. When he noticed she was still in her seat he walked around the van and opened her door. “Ideally, you do it before it makes you do something really stupid just to feel something else besides the anger and the grief.”

He stepped aside to give her space to exit the vehicle and she slid out of the seat. He made a show of taking his time to lock up the van to give her a head-start into the school. He watched as she made her way to the doors, and was surprised when, for the first time since they had been driving together, she veered off her path to meet someone. When he realized who it was, Eddie chuckled to himself. He made his own way to the school and gave a two fingered salute to Sinclair and Henderson, who were joined by Max (and smiling so wide their cheeks had to be burning).

He made his way into the school and to his first period class, pleased to be able to check this side quest off.

Part 7

[steddiehyperfixation]

still into you (steddie ficlet)

Eddie wakes to the mouthwatering smell of bacon and eggs and fresh-made pancakes. He stretches lazily and heads to the kitchen to find Steve at the stove making breakfast, moving expertly between flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs and checking the bacon. A stupid kiss the cook apron is tied at the waist over his bare torso and sinful pajama shorts, and he looks just as delicious as the food he's cooking. The whole scene makes something warm and fluttery bloom bright in Eddie's chest. 

He sits at the counter and sighs dreamily, resting his chin in his hand as he watches him. “God, I have such a crush on you.” 

Steve looks over his shoulder with an amused expression that crinkles the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. “We're literally married.” 

“I know,” Eddie gushes, so in awe of this fact you'd think it was a new development even though it very much isn't. He marvels at his husband of 34 years, admires every inch of Steve's middle-aged body, every place where his time-worn skin is creased with signs of age and a life well lived and well loved. The beauty of him still knocks the wind out of Eddie, a breathless giggle bubbling up his throat. “But that doesn't mean I don't still have a massive fucking crush on you.” 

Steve huffs out a chuckle before turning his attention back to the stove, a quick duck of his head as if to hide a blush. 

Emboldened, Eddie stands and comes up to wrap his arms around him from behind. He nuzzles into Steve's neck, breathes in his salt and pepper hair and smiles into the curve of his shoulder. “I’m serious. Even after all this time, you still give me butterflies,” Eddie says, resting his hands over Steve's stomach and pressing gently to demonstrate his words, “right here, like I’m a teenager again. My aged heart still does very youthful backflips just at the sight of you, and I feel that rush of falling in love all over again, again and again, like it's the very first time.”

Eddie remembers a conversation he'd had with his uncle once, when he was much much younger and Wayne was about the age Eddie is now.  When you get older, you don't feel that type a’ love the same way anymore, Wayne had told him. It ain't the same heart-pounding, all-encompassing, get drunk off of it sort a’ giddy head-rush you get in your teens and twenties. It loses that kind a’ thrill, gets quieter. 

Eddie had found that thoroughly depressing, despite his uncle’s insistences that this was not a bad thing. Don't mean that love and attraction ain't there or that you can't feel it anymore, Wayne reassured him, it's just different is all. He'd shrugged then, his face like leather, worn and fond and bemused by his nephew’s wild youth. Old hearts get tired, Ed, he'd said. You'll get it when you get to be my age. 

Well, Eddie has gotten to be his age and he still doesn't get it. He does feel that quieter love, the kind that comes from shared routines and easy conversation and even easier silences, made up of trust and familiarity, the kind that settles into his bones like it was always meant to be there. But the thrill is still there too, as strong as ever. Steve still makes his heart race and his head spin. Eddie's stomach still flutters at his smile; his touch still sets off fireworks beneath his skin. Even now, Eddie feels a little dizzy just holding him, heartbeat faster. 

“We may get old,” Eddie continues his declaration, “but the way I feel about you never will.” He holds Steve tighter, hooking his chin over his husband's shoulder after pressing a kiss to it. “I will never get over the thrill of you, and my heart will never get tired of it.” 

“You are a dramatic old sap,” Steve says through a suppressed smile, rolling his eyes as he plates the food and turns off the stove, but then he's turning around in Eddie's arms and pulling him into a spirited kiss.

Eddie's blood feels like it's made of champagne, bubbly and fizzy and utterly intoxicated as Steve fills his senses. They kiss with the same clumsy passion they'd had at 21, too eager clashes of teeth and bruising lips. It's messy, inelegant, perfect, broken within seconds when their smiles become uncontainable. They pull apart, pink-cheeked and laughing. 

Steve grins. His eyes shine with all the same giddiness of infatuation and warmth of love as he holds Eddie's face in his hands and tells him, “I have a massive fucking crush on you too.” 

[kitty384]

It's Not Just US Anymore

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Genre: Fluff / found family / soft slice-of-life Summary: Telling the Avengers you’re having a baby with Bucky should be nerve-wracking… and it is. But surrounded by laughter, love, and chaotic support, you’re reminded that family doesn’t just grow—it multiplies.

Warnings: Mild language, pregnancy reveal, protective!Bucky, soft emotional moments, found family fluff.

“Are you sure about this?” Bucky asked for the third time that morning, pacing your suite while you watched him from the couch, amusement tugging at your lips.

“I’m the one growing a person, Buck. I think I’m pretty sure.”

He ran a hand through his hair, still barefoot and disheveled from nerves. “I just… I don’t want them to make a big deal out of it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want Tony Stark to make a big deal about literally anything?”

He stopped pacing and gave you a flat look. “Touché.”

You stood, walking over to him. Your bump wasn’t huge yet—barely noticeable under most clothes—but it was real. And growing. And Bucky had officially entered protective, fidgety dad-to-be mode, alternating between hugging you every five minutes and spiraling about baby names, car seats, and whether his daughter might inherit his trauma.

“They love you,” you said, cupping his jaw gently. “They love us. This is going to make them happy.”

He exhaled slowly. “Okay. Okay, let’s do it.”

The Avengers were gathered in the lounge, halfway through pizza and some kind of game night-slash-argument about Mario Kart rankings. Clint had just dramatically declared himself the “reigning Mushroom Kingdom champion” when you and Bucky walked in.

Natasha glanced up first, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You two look suspicious.”

Tony, lounging upside-down on the couch like a bored teenager, added, “Is this the part where you tell us you’re moving to Canada to start a goat farm?”

Bucky blinked. “What—no. Why would we—”

“He means you’re being weird,” Steve clarified.

You squeezed Bucky’s hand. “Can we… steal your attention for a sec?”

That did it.

The room quieted. You could almost feel the shift—Avengers switching out of “bickering siblings” mode and into something softer. Something protective. Curious.

Bucky cleared his throat, glancing at you once before speaking.

“So… we’ve got some news. Big news. Uh. Life-changing kind of news.”

Sam leaned forward. “You’re getting a dog?”

Bucky blinked again. “Why do you all think it’s animal-related?”

You reached out and grabbed his hand again, lacing your fingers through his. “We’re… having a baby.”

There was one breath of stunned silence.

Then:

“What?!” came from about four people at once.

“No way,” Natasha said, eyes wide in the way they never were.

Tony sat up so fast he nearly flipped himself over. “You’re not kidding?”

You shook your head, smiling.

Steve blinked, his expression slowly melting into something so warm and proud it made your chest ache. “Bucky…”

Bucky looked back at him, eyes a little glassy. “I know.”

Then came the chaos.

Clint ran over and hugged you both like an excited uncle, nearly squeezing the air out of you before Nat pulled him back, muttering something about “she’s pregnant, not made of marshmallow.”

Sam kept saying, “Little Barnes. Man, I can’t believe it. You’re gonna have a mini you, that’s terrifying and adorable.”

Tony, of course, was already halfway through pitching ideas for Stark-approved baby tech. “Do you want a bassinet that monitors REM sleep? Wait, do you want a stroller that hovers—no, flies.”

Natasha approached quietly, giving Bucky a long look before hugging you. “You’re going to be such a good mom,” she said in your ear. Then she turned to Bucky, and her voice softened. “And you… are gonna be just fine.”

Bucky didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he nodded, almost like he was convincing himself. “Thanks.”

Steve came over last.

No words—just a hug that said everything. Bucky held onto him for a second longer than usual, and you saw the way Steve clapped a hand to his shoulder, steady and sure.

When Bucky came back to you, you slipped your arm around his waist and leaned into him.

Tony was already making a toast with a soda can.

“To the next generation of chaos. And to Barnes—who finally did something that makes me actually like him.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

And for the first time in a long time, you could see it—peace in him. A future he believed in.

Masterlist

Request

[deertaz]

'Byler cannot happen because Mike and Eleven are in love'

Erm...

Why that's stupid.

'Hopper and Joyce can't happen because Joyce loves Bob'

'Johnathan and Nancy can't happen because Nancy loves Steve'

'Robin and Vicky can't happen because Vicky has a boyfriend..."

THINGS CHANGE.

Let's discount the absolute tomfoolery that occurs during Mike and Eleven's relationship (which we have seen deconstructed to all hell by some very cool byler fans out there) and instead assume this is somebody arguing that...

'It's too late in the show'

No tf it ain't...So many shows pair together characters in the final season. Vlad the Impaler wasn't impaling until his mid-30s!

Gay couples in non-queer focused shows USUALLY do not get together until the final season. Because it prevents the show from getting cancelled.

'But Robin and Vickie-'

They haven't even kissed. That's how they get past censorship.

Examples:

Couple implied since Season One. Do not kiss on the lips until the final episode of the show (during their literal wedding).

A couple 'flirting' with subtext for ages. People literally missed how gay they were for each other, and were 'shocked' when they kissed in the finale.

Hate this entire ship. But again, Shiro isn't confirmed gay until the final season. He does not kiss a man until the final episode.

Not implied heavily until the final season. Confirmed verbally in the final episode by both Orel (you like my dad the way my mom likes my dad...) and Clay, declaring his love without directly saying it...

No kiss until season 2. Show is cancelled after the season 2 run, they are given a few episodes to 'wrap it up'.

Don't kiss or confirm a relationship until the finale. Alex Hirsh really said 'fuck you' to Disney's censors during the second (and final) season of Gravity Falls. But especially during the three-part Weirdmaggedon finale.

Only reveals that Castiel is in love with Dean in the last episode. We are unsure whether it is reciprocated (hated it, but still).

There are more, but I'm lazy.

Anyhow, it is really common for shows to confirm gay couples in the final episode. This mainly happens in shows where queer romance isn't the main storyline.

If ships are confirmed earlier, the show becomes a 'gay show'. They lose viewership in countries like China and have to heavily censor parts for foreign audiences. They also lose viewership in Western countries. Because some audiences do not like gay people...

Less viewers=Financial losses for Netflix=Cancellation

To prevent this, Netflix is likely to put 'blue tape' around popular shows like Stranger Things. Therefore, no leading queer relationships.

Remember this only applies to shows where queerness isn't expected or needed for the show to WORK. In terms of the basic plot and genre. There's a difference between a romantic coming-of-age like Heartstopper and a psychological horror crime drama like Hannibal.

Sex Education can be queer because it's already an R-rated show, therefore, certain countries and audiences are already going to be deterred.

Heartstopper and Young Royals can be queer because that's the whole point of the show.

Good Omens and Our Flag Means Death can do it because their main audience was already gay to begin with.

With very popular media like Squid Game, Stranger Things, and Harry Potter, streaming services will avoid adding queer characters, excessive sex or swear words like 'cunt', because their demographic reaches far out. To add a queer relationship is to lose a whole demographic of that wide audience.

But in the final season of a show. That's really when directors and writers say 'fuck it' and do the things they always wanted to do.

That could mean having more violent scenes, introducing themes that Netflix wouldn't want them to, or...having explicitly gay romances.

Hannibal is confirmed to be in love with Will in the episode before the show's finale.

Shows have been cancelled in the past due to having 'gay' couples at the forefront of the show. There's a difference between implication and verbal confirmation (that can be written out or brushed over) and explicit actions. When a ship between two main same-sex characters becomes canon, it is very hard to cut it out without ruining the story.

Sorry to say it, but Robin's character still reads as normal if Robin is straight and just doesn't like Steve that way. There aren't enough scenes of her 'being gay' that would prevent it from being aired for international audiences. If Robin's character is cut down, her 'queer' scenes taken out, the plot of the show still makes sense.

However, if Byler were to become canon, there is no way they could get around it without messing up the plot. This is because both Mike and Will are very, very important to the show. If Mike is in love with Will and reciprocates, it's going to be a bigger narrative device than just a 'love interest'. Vecna is going to use it against them. We are going to get high-stakes scenes where confessing or telling the other they love them is the only way to 'win' or 'spur on' a victory.

I mean. Will being in the show is more important than Robin. If Will isn't a character, the show makes no sense. It changes the plot.

If Robin isn't a character, the show still continues without issue.

Therefore:

Vicky + Robin: Easy to censor, therefore is permitted by Netflix

Will being gay in Season 4: Never said out loud explicitly, could 100% be removed for foreign audiences.

Will and Mike being in love: There is no way they could get rid of this without interfering heavily with the story.

Edit: Just a note about Squid Game. Yes, there is a transgender character in the show, who is important to the plot. But again, there is definitely a way to cut out her identity with dubs. She can be a character in the show, but without acknowledgement of her identity. Being trans isn't a 'hot topic' in non-Western countries to the degree it is in the UK, Europe and the US. This is because being queer/gay is the first thing people attempt to tear down (because it's more common, and more visible). I mean, in the 2000s, 'crossdressers' did get made fun of on television. But, there weren't any politicians or random podcasters heatedly debating on whether they have the right to exist or not. Also, I do not think it's offensive that a cis man plays her; the portrayal is good. Of course, it would be better if they hired a trans actor, but I just don't think they could find one (in South Korea). Also I really think there's a difference between a character being trans and showing queer relationships. I liken it to the difference between having a gay character on the show for brownie points VS having two lead characters enter a same-sex relationship. It's just...different things. The same goes for Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Do we know they are gay? Yes. Do they kiss? No. Could it be censored easily? Yes. Does the plot still make sense if they are not lovers? Pretty much yeah.

[the-winter-spider]

What I Have | B. Barnes

Word Count: 2.5k

Warning: Probably the fluffiest piece ive written lol

A/N: I was listening to What I Have by Kelsea Ballerini and well here we are lol

—-

The year was 2024, over one hundred years since you were born—105, to be exact. Your life hadn’t turned out at all like you had dreamed or hoped it would.

You were supposed to marry the boy next door once the war was done. You’d picked out your wedding dress while window shopping with your best friend, even before he proposed. You made a scrapbook, meticulously curating hairstyles and makeup looks, debating over the choices as if they were the most pressing decisions in the world.

You sketched out your dream house, selecting the colors, the flowers for the front garden, and the vegetables you would surely grow in the back. You even chose the font for your new last name on the mailbox.

You had each of your children’s names picked out—three, to be exact. Two boys and one girl, you had hoped. Everything was a dream, but it seemed so close, so possible, as if it should have been a reality. You should be dead by now, having lived a full life, with your children who should have been walking the earth with their children, your grandchildren.

But everything went wrong. Literally, everything possible went wrong.

Bucky fell off a train and died. He actually fell off a train, and they declared him dead. In reality, he had lost his arm, survived the fall because Hydra had already experimented on him. They brainwashed him, like something out of a twisted fairy tale, turning him into a deadly assassin. Your beautiful, blue-eyed Bucky, your sweet Bucky, became a killer. A Bucky you would never see again, because even though he was still here, and you were so thankful for that, he would never be your Bucky again.

And then there was Steve. Of course, Steve found him, because of course! And let’s not forget that your best friend, Steve, who was once smaller than you, was injected with a serum that not only tripled his size but turned him into a superhero because, yes, apparently those needed to exist. Of course, he went off to war, driven by a need for revenge for his best friend, your fiancé Bucky. And of course, he had to be noble, going down for the cause, leading everyone to believe he was dead. But of course, he wasn’t. They found him, frozen but alive, because he was Captain America, and that’s just what happens.

And then there was you, consumed by grief, first losing the love of your life and then your best friend. You begged, on your knees, begged Howard Stark to use you as his test subject for cryogenic testing. You couldn’t bear to be here without your boys. He hesitated because he loved Steve, and he knew Steve wouldn’t want this for you. But when you threatened that if he didn’t, you would take your own life, he relented. So, of course, it worked because it was Howard, and he was a Stark. But decades passed, and the year he was supposed to wake you up, The Winter Soldier murdered him. So, as usual, you stayed frozen, but alive, until Howard’s son, Tony, found you in his father’s hidden lab.

You woke up to a world that was not your own, a century too late for the life you were supposed to live. The world had moved on, but you hadn’t. Your friends were legends now, mythologized beyond recognition. And you, well, you were the ghost of what could have been.

The years that followed were a blur of new faces, new battles, and new griefs. You tried to adapt, to find a place in this future that had no room for you. But every corner of this brave new world reminded you of the past, of the life that slipped through your fingers.

And then one day, while sifting through old boxes in Tony’s lab, you found something. It was an old, faded book, as soon as you saw the brown cover you heart dropped you knew what it was, it waa your scrapbook. The cover had an old faded photo of you, Bucky, and Steve, taken on a sunny day before the world went mad. You barely recognized the girl in the photo, with her bright smile and unbroken heart. But there she was, a relic of a time that now felt like a dream.

You realised then that maybe you didn’t belong in this world. Maybe you never did. But as long as you were here, you could try—try to make sense of the pieces left behind, to find some small measure of peace in the chaos.

And that’s exactly what you did. Even though you didn’t have the life you had once dreamed of, you still had them. And in what world does all that trauma happen, and you still end up alive with your boys?

You picked up the dusty book, holding it close to your heart, as you navigated through the compound, following the sound of laughter coming from the living room. You paused just outside the doorway, soaking in the warmth of his laugh—a sound you feared you might never hear again after Bucky began recovering from his trauma. But here it was, filling the room, and even though it wasn’t the same Bucky you knew decades ago, his laugh was unchanged, and it made your heart swell.

Rounding the corner, you saw Steve clutching his chest in joy, playfully shoving Sam, who was grinning widely.

Bucky’s eyes immediately found yours; he could always find you in any room. “Hi, doll,” he said, getting up to kiss your cheek and taking your hand to lead you to the couch.

“Hi, Buck. Hi, Stevie, Sammy,” you greeted them, settling in beside Bucky.

Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Bucky glanced down at the book in your arms. “What’s that?”

Steve’s smile faded into something more serious as he noticed the book, instantly recognizing it. “Is that what I think it is?”

You nodded, feeling tears well up in your eyes. “Stark… he kept it. I haven’t opened it yet. I thought… I thought we could do it together.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, his curiosity piqued.

“It’s my life,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “There are a few pages of what I thought it would turn out to be… but after everything happened…” You paused, taking a steadying breath. The memories of losing Bucky and Steve were still fresh, no matter how much time had passed. “I never planned or dreamed of anything else. It just felt silly without you boys. So, I just filled it with photographs.”

“Photographs of who?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

“Everyone,” you replied softly, glancing between Bucky and Steve. “Peggy and Mrs. Rogers,” you said, meeting Steve’s gaze. You saw the emotion in his eyes at the mention of his mother. “Becca and Winnie, Mr. Barnes,” you continued, feeling Bucky tense slightly at the mention of his mother and sister, their faces now distant memories. “I even have Howard and the Commandos.” You smiled a little. “But mostly, it’s us—all of us.”

Bucky reached out, gently taking the book from your hands. His fingers brushed the worn cover, the room fell silent as the weight of the past settled around you all.

“Let’s open it together,” Steve suggested, his voice thick with emotion. He moved closer, his presence a steady anchor as you all gathered around the book. Sam stayed distant, letting the three of you have your moment but still staying there.

Bucky opened the cover, and the first page revealed a photograph of you, Bucky, and Steve, taken in a simpler time. The three of you looked so young, so hopeful. You felt Bucky’s hand tighten around yours as he stared at the image, memories rushing back. It was a photo from your 16th birthday, the day he had gifted you the book.

“I gave this to you,” Bucky said quietly, the realization settling over him.

You nodded. “For my birthday. You wrote…” You trailed off, pointing to the top left corner of the front of the book.

He read the words aloud, his voice filled with emotion. “Happy 16th birthday to my best girl. I hope you fill these pages with your hopes and dreams. I can only hope that somewhere in amongst them, I’ll be a part of it. With all the love, Bucky.”

Sam smiled, leaning back in his seat. “Who knew you were such a romantic, Buck?”

You watched as Bucky’s cheeks flushed a light shade of red at the comment, and you gave his knee a gentle squeeze, feeling the warmth of the old affection between you.

“For y/n, he was crazy,” Steve chimed in, grinning. “You should have seen him—head over heels is an understatement. Try obses—”

Before Steve could finish, Bucky reached behind you and gave him a playful shove. “Can it, Rogers,” he muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Steve just laughed, catching himself before he toppled over. “You know it’s true.”

You chuckled, resting your head against Bucky’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Bucky’s hand found yours again, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. “Neither would I.”

As you all shared a quiet moment, the weight of the years seemed to lift, replaced by the warmth of old memories and the comfort of the present. Bucky turned the page, revealing more photographs—snapshots of moments that had once seemed so ordinary but now felt like treasures.

The pages turned slowly, revealing a life that could have been—a wedding dress sketched out, a house with a picket fence, names of children that never came to be. And then, the photographs—snapshots of moments frozen in time. Peggy’s bright smile, Mrs. Rogers’ kind eyes, the mischievous grins of Becca and Winnie, Howard’s confident stance, the Commandos’ camaraderie. But the most frequent faces were your own, Bucky’s, and Steve’s, from a time when the world was both simpler and infinitely more complex.

Each image told a story. There was one of you and Steve dancing at a neighbourhood block party, both of you laughing so hard you could barely stand. Another showed Bucky in his military uniform, giving you a wink as he prepared to head off to basic training. Then there were pictures of Steve and Bucky goofing around, each trying to outdo the other in some silly stunt, and you caught in the middle, rolling your eyes but smiling all the same.

There were pictures of Bucky and you around the campfire on the night before everything changed—before he fell off the train. Bucky paused on that photo, his eyes lingering on it. “That was the night before…” he said softly.

You nodded, squeezing his hand, understanding the weight of those words.

“Night before what?” Sam asked, his voice gentle.

“Before I fell,” Bucky replied, those three words carrying a lifetime of pain and loss. The room grew still, the significance of that moment hanging heavy in the air. Sam didn’t say anything more, sensing the depth of emotion in Bucky’s words.

Bucky’s gaze remained fixed on the photo, his voice quiet as he continued. “It was the last time I felt so much joy… I feel it now, but it was different then.”

Steve nodded in agreement, his expression solemn. “I get it, Buck.”

“Me too,” you added, your voice trembling slightly. “I keep thinking about what was supposed to be, what should have been.” You paused, wiping a tear from your eye. “I don’t understand why it all happened the way it did—why I didn’t get the life I thought I was going to.”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky whispered, his hand gently reaching out to wipe away your tears, his touch as tender as it had always been.

The room fell into a reverent silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts, the weight of your shared history settling over you like a heavy blanket. Finally, Sam spoke, his voice soft and full of understanding. “You’ve lived a hell of a life.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you wiped away a stray tear. “It wasn’t what I planned,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion. “But I wouldn’t trade it. Not if it meant losing this—losing you… both of you.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We didn’t get the life we dreamed of, but we got each other. And that’s enough.”

Steve leaned back, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “We’ve been through so much, but we’re still here. Together.”

Sam smiled, the warmth in his expression offering a quiet reassurance. “That’s what matters in the end. Not what you lost, but what you’ve kept.”

“Till the end of the line,” Steve spoke, the words heavy with emotion and depth.

“Till the end of the line,” Bucky echoed, pulling you closer to his side.

You glanced around the room at the faces of the people who had become your family—the ones who had stood by you through the darkest of times.

As the pages of the scrapbook turned, the photographs shifted from black-and-white to colour, reflecting the passage of time. The images grew fewer as the years became harder, but each one was more precious because of it.

Finally, you reached the last page, where an empty space awaited a new photograph. You looked up at Bucky and Steve, both of them gazing at the book with a mix of nostalgia and gratitude.

“You should take a new photo,” Sam suggested, his voice soft but certain. “One to mark this moment.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that melted away the years. “Yeah, we should.”

Steve grinned. “I’ll get the camera.”

As Steve stood to retrieve a camera, you leaned into Bucky, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand. This was the life you had, and it was more than enough. The empty space in the book was no longer a reminder of what was lost, but a promise of what was yet to come—a new chapter, filled with love, laughter, and the people who mattered most.

Sam took the camera from Steve, ready to take the picture. But just as he was about to snap the shot, you paused. “Wait!”

“What? You don’t have food in your teeth, but your hair…” Sam teased with a smirk.

“Well, I was going to say I want you in the picture too, but…” You trailed off

“No, no! I’m sorry, you’re beautiful… perfect—”

“Sam, watch it, that’s my girl,” Bucky warned, a protective edge to his voice.

Sam rolled his eyes, chuckling. “The whole world knows that, Buck.” He placed the camera on the tripod and took a seat beside Steve. “You sure you want me in this?”

“Of course, Sammy! You’re one of us now,” you insisted, smiling warmly at him.

Sam’s expression softened, and he nodded, touched by your words. As the camera clicked, capturing the four of you together, you knew that this was the memory that would fill that final page—the proof that even after everything, you still had your boys, old and new, and they still had you.

The book might never hold the life you once dreamed of, but it would hold the life you had lived—the one you had fought for, the one you had loved.

And that was more than enough.

[steviewashere]

Okay, I'm getting on here to be a little bit pissy. I'm sorry in advance.

I am so in love with the headcanons regarding Steve's hearing, whether it be that he's hard of hearing, actively in the process of losing his hearing, deaf with a hearing aid, or just completely deaf—every version is fucking fantastic. I'm hard of hearing myself, it's fucking great that this representation is being written or drawn. I love it.

However, I'm going to hold your hand as I say this, stop using language such as "when he learns to lipread" or "eventually learns to lipread." Please stop.

He shouldn't have to learn to lip read. That shouldn't be an eventual skill he learns.

And, gonna give you a little bit of history here, it's historically ableist to require a deaf/hoh person to learn lip reading. From the late 1800s and into the late 1960s, there were literally programs across America that would force deaf children to write, speak, and lipread English—they were punished for signing to others in their schools, in public, in their dorms. And that didn't change until "Total Communication" was brought forth as a possibility, a philosophy that declared children would learn better using their preferred communication—whether it be oralism (the practice of writing, speaking, and lipreading) or via signing. However, oral schools that implemented total communication into their core programs had sign language that was structured with English grammar, this is commonly known as Exact Sign Language, or Exact English Sign Language. It's not American Sign Language.

Also, children who were approved for Coclear Implants in the early 1990s, were sent from residential deaf schools into day schools (public schools) that had a primary focus on oral teaching; pushed into day schools with little to no support, were discouraged from signing with even their parents. This was due to the fact that it was believed that signing at home would slow down their learning.

I am such a fan of deaf Steve or HoH Steve, but you have to be careful the language you're approaching his character with. If he has a sign language interpreter, then he most likely already knows sign language and will, also, most likely rely on an interpreter for communication with hearing people. If he is going deaf (maybe because of head trauma, maybe he gets into a traumatic accident, maybe he gets sick and just loses his hearing, maybe he listens to music too loudly and damages his ears that way), Steve will most likely already have the skills to write and speak in English, but lipreading is a skill that's difficult to garner.

I'll say, too, lipreading is fucking difficult because hearing people are so used to speaking (most of the time. I'm not talking about non-verbal hearing people in this conversation)—hearing people will typically talk fast, which makes lipreading muddy and indecipherable. I've been trying to learn this for years and I'm fucking over it, I can't do it. I speak and write, but I also use ASL, too.

Saying that Steve needs to lipread, that's ableist. Saying that he eventually or finally learns to lipread, that's ableist. Fuck it, I'm gonna say this, too—requiring or not giving Steve the option to decide whether or not he wants a hearing aid or implant device is also inherently ableist. Deaf people are (and should be) allowed to have a choice on having to hear. My own sibling made the decision recently to stop using the cochlear implant they've had their entire life because they weren't even given the choice to get one in the first place (and decided they were done with it), they hated the feedback the cochlear had, and it was just irritating in the sense that it would fall off, the volume control would change all on its own, and they just didn't like it. That's their choice. It's important to give a character that choice.

I let this get away from me, but I despise how people talk about his options for communication sometimes. It just rubs me the wrong way. And I think it's best we all reanalyze how we approach his characterization, especially how we can approach crafting the characterization without alienating a group of people.

*this post has been approved by my deaf sibling (who was born deaf), and obviously by me (somebody who can only hear out of one fucking ear. seriously be careful about volume control on your ear buds. and also wear ear plugs at shows. it hurts like hell to damage your ear drum.)

Here's a whole Wikipedia article about deaf education in the US (just in case you wanted another reason to hate America, but also if you're curious. definitely something everybody should learn).

[mostly-marvel-musings]

Libido - Part 2

A/N: You wanted a sequel…I’m serving you a sequel on a platter with a side of mush! Enjoy 👻

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warning: 18+ fluff, hints of sex.

Read Part 1 here.

.

It started with a missing conference room chair.

“Where the hell is the other chair?” Steve asked, looking around the room like it had personally betrayed him.

Natasha didn’t look up from her phone. “You don’t want to know.”

Then came the mysteriously fogged-up glass in the training room. No one had even been using it, except for that one time Tony had loudly declared he was “going to do some stretching with the reader.”

And when Clint found your earring lodged between two console keys in the Quinjet cockpit?

“Okay. That’s it. They’re doing it everywhere,” he said, holding it up like it was radioactive.

“Doing what, exactly?” Tony asked innocently, walking in just in time with you behind him, both of you glowing. Literally glowing. He had that smug, post-orgasm glint in his eye, and you had your shirt on backward.

Sam nearly choked on his protein bar.

“You think we’re dumb?” Nat drawled. “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

You tried. You really did. But Tony just smiled, laced his fingers with yours, and shrugged like a man with absolutely no shame.

“When the chemistry’s that good,” he said, “containment’s a myth.”

Wanda muttered something about psychic trauma.

Steve looked like he was trying to summon the Lord himself. Bruce started a new set of rules for common area usage.

.

Everyone’s already seated. Sam’s got a protein shake, Clint’s playing with a pen like it’s a weapon, Nat looks like she hasn’t slept, and Steve is, as usual, painfully upright. Tony’s chair is empty, and so is yours.

“So what are we waiting for, exactly?” Steve asks, checking his watch for the third time. “The mission debrief was scheduled for—”

The door swings open.

Tony strolls in, all cocky energy and ruffled hair, wearing a smug grin and that billion-dollar swagger. Right behind him, you walk in—barefoot, hair still damp from a very recent shower, and wearing one of Tony’s unmistakable Stark Industries t-shirts that hangs off your frame like it was pulled off the floor five minutes ago (because it was).

Silence.

Thick, awkward silence.

Clint’s pen drops.

Nat tilts her head slowly, like she’s trying to remember whether she bet money on this happening today or next week.

“Sorry we’re late,” Tony says, not sorry at all. “Traffic was a nightmare. Especially the, uh… hallway outside the gym.”

You shoot him a look.

Sam blinks. “You’re wearing his shirt.”

“What? No, I—” You glance down. Crap. “It’s just… comfortable.”

“It’s inside out,” Natasha points out.

Steve clears his throat loudly, like if he does it enough, he can erase the mental images already burning into his soul.

“We’re in a professional environment,” Steve manages. “There’s protocol. Standards. Dress codes.”

Tony spreads his hands. “Exactly, Rogers. And what better standard to set than one built on love, passion, and the occasional broom closet rendezvous?”

Wanda puts her coffee down and just quietly mutters, “I’m going to bleach my mind.”

“I told you they were doing it on the jet!” Clint hisses, jabbing a finger at Sam.

Bruce sighs and just starts jotting down new rules for the communal kitchen. Again.

“Alright, alright,” Tony says, dramatically flopping into his chair. “Let’s focus, people. The mission’s over, the city’s safe, and everyone walked away with all their limbs. I say that deserves a little celebration.”

“This is not what I meant by team bonding,” Steve mutters.

You suppress a laugh. Barely. And when Tony’s hand slides under the table and settles on your thigh?

Yeah. Everyone knows.

And no one’s getting over it anytime soon.

.

The laughter from earlier finally fades into the hum of city lights outside the glass walls. You’re curled up in one of Tony’s t-shirts again—an actual clean one this time—legs tangled with his under the sheets. He’s propped against the headboard, arc reactor casting a soft blue glow over your bare shoulder as you lie against his chest.

“So…” you say, smirking as you drag a lazy finger over his ribs. “Think we were subtle today?”

Tony scoffs. “Absolutely not. We were about as subtle as the Hulk in a glassware shop.”

You giggle, nose nudging into his collarbone.

“Steve looked like he was about to start a prayer circle,” you mumble.

“He might still,” Tony deadpans. “Pretty sure I heard him muttering something in Latin under his breath.”

“Clint owes Nat fifty bucks.”

“Fifty?” Tony raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? Our scandal’s worth way more than that.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Do you think they actually care?”

He’s quiet for a beat, fingers drawing absent-minded circles on your back.

“Maybe a little,” he says finally, voice softer now. “But they’ll get over it. Eventually.”

You tilt your head up.

“You sure?”

He meets your gaze, no smirk this time. Just warmth.

“I’m a genius, babe. I built suits that can fly into space. I can definitely handle a little judgmental side-eye from Captain America.”

That earns a snort from you.

“Besides,” he adds, brushing a kiss to your forehead, “I’m not exactly in this for team approval.”

You curl tighter against him, smile tucked into his chest.

“You’re in it for the sex, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah. That too. But mostly—” he pauses, tips your chin up to look at him, “—it’s you. I’m in it for you.”

A long beat passes before you whisper, “Sap.”

“Says the one cuddling me like a human space heater.”

“You are warm.”

“That’s love, baby. Or maybe post-orgasm endorphins.”

He kisses you again—slow, easy. You think it’s the kind that says, even if they all know, even if they all talk, it doesn’t matter.

You’re his favorite headline.

.

You’re making coffee in one of Tony’s oversized shirts—yes, another one—and trying not to burn your tongue on your mug. Hair a mess, legs bare, zero regrets.

Tony strolls in looking way too pleased with himself, robe swinging dramatically behind him, and Dum-E slowly trundles behind with a juice box because priorities.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Tony drawls, swooping in to kiss your cheek. “How’s my favorite scandal?”

You roll your eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re about to make this worse?”

“Because I am.”

He turns on the massive flat-screen TV embedded in the kitchen wall and—of course—there it is.

BREAKING NEWS:

“MR. STARK: CAUGHT WITH HIS PANTS DOWN (AGAIN).”

Below the headline is blurry footage of yesterday’s mission debrief… and in the background, just barely visible, you in Tony’s shirt, and Tony’s hand slowly sliding out of frame under the table.

You nearly choke on your coffee.

“Tony—”

“Look at that form,” he grins, pointing. “That’s an award-winning reach if I ever saw one.”

“You are unhinged.”

“Unapologetically.”

You press your palm to your forehead. “Great. I’m dating an international headline.”

“Technically, you’re the headline.”

You raise a brow.

“Okay, fine, we’re the headline. Power couple. Love story of the decade. Scandalous and sexy.”

He pauses, grins wider.

“And to think—Steve thought I couldn’t commit.”

[sadieshairbrush]

Helping Hand | Steve Harrington

Steve has a big date, but he loses confidence when his best friend puts in his head that he’s no longer in high school, and that the girl he’s seeing tonight won’t be impressed by the same old tricks. You got him into this mess, you gotta get him out of it

Warnings: my first smut on here so it’s kinda bad :0, no name but use of she/her pronouns, reader with boobies and cooter, making out, oral f receiving, p in v

Steve absolutely loves himself as far as you’re concerned. He thinks he can do anything, and he’s certain the entire population of Hawkins knows it, too.

Now, only to provoke this sentiment further, he stands in front of your mirror running a hand through his fresh, clean hair.

The twinkle in his eye was reserved for one thing, and one thing only. It was almost literally, like you could see it even in the dim lighting of your bedroom.

“Knew it, you’re planning on having sex,” you smirked, noting the stunned look he passed you through the mirror. “Steve the virginity snatcher.”

“Stop watching me,” he snapped, embarrassed. Because indeed, you lay on your front atop your messy bed, magazine abandoned beneath you. Your eyes are hard to shake.

“Weirdo.”

“This is more interesting,” you declared, grin widening at the pink creeping up your friends neck. “And you’re in my house, stupid.”

The smell of Aramis lingers around the room like spiced cinnamon.

He’d unwrapped the bottle you’d gifted him on his 15th birthday and has worn nothing else since. It reminded you of school mornings in his car, still half asleep in the passenger seat as he whined for your attention.

“Can’t get ready with dad breathing down my neck, can I?”

He turned, eying your form as you roll onto your back, head hanging off the bottom of the bed.

From here, the valley of your chest was on full display, dragging Steve’s gaze in.

You can’t blame him, it being a routine at this point. It’s as if you tried your very hardest to turn him on at the most inopportune moments.

Really, it depends how he looked at it. He supposed it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to let his motor run before he saw whatever girl it was that week.

As the pattern would make evident, there was every chance in the world you were doing it on purpose.

“Guess so,” you sighed, eyes still on him as he leans his palms on your dresser, head quirked at you. “Who’s the lucky lady this time?”

“Don’t make it sound like that,” he sneered. Why must you make it out as if he flies through women like the pages of a phone book? It really hadn’t become as bad as that.

“Heidi Morrison. Blonde girl, big rack.”

This changes things. Heidi who’s had three boyfriends, at least. Heidi who has some experiences under her belt to compare to.

Not that every girl Steve had pursued was a virgin, but all young and clueless.

“Steve, you understand that you’re probably not as good in the sack as you think you are, don’t you?”

Unnecessary and rude, he thought.

What the hell would you know about his performance?

“That’s just weird of you to say,” he squeaked, waving one distressed hand around by his head.

“All your sex-capades have gone on ten minutes tops with no room for foreplay,” you laughed, watching the new fire burn in his eyes. “I’ve been to those parties, Steve, there’s barely even any time to miss you.”

Okay, so he’ll admit, most of these aforementioned happenings were a quick “get in, get out,” but that’s all it needed to be, right?

If it feels good for him, it’ll feel good for her. It’s all part of the same experience, right?

“You wouldn’t know,” he fired back, scrambling to save himself this embarrassment. There you are, cheeks pink as the blood rushes to your head, full cleavage on display for Steve’s eyes alone. “You wish.”

“I wish to sleep with someone who doesn’t know where my clit is?” You tease, separating your legs, innocently. If only you knew how much he wishes you were turned the other way, just for one sneaky peak up your loose pyjama shorts.

“You’re in trouble~”

That stupid, sing-songy voice of yours, too. Are you trying to play games with him?

“I know where a clit is, I just- I figure if I’m feeling good, she’d be feeling good.”

And there it is, the truth you never thought you’d hear. Your best friend is probably pretty bad at sex. He lets out a huff of air, flying himself backwards onto your bed so his head is by your knees. “Why are you making me panic?”

“I’m not trying to make you panic,” you defend, sitting upright to look down at Steve who covers his face with his arms. “But this is a totally different situation now. Girls like Heidi know what they want from a man, and being repeatedly slammed into won’t cut it. It’s not high school anymore.”

“What else is there?” He all but growled out, a frustrated mess beneath you. He removed his arms, his honey brown eyes finding yours. “Not to cross a boundary with you here, but I’m so certain they always come.”

“That’s pretty unlikely, Steve,” you told, crossing your legs beneath you before motioning for him to sit up. He does so, rather begrudgingly.

“Probably around 80% of girls won’t come just because we have a dick in us. Most of us probably won’t even find it all that enjoyable, period. Not when there’s no foreplay, no external action, you should know this. They moan and they whine because they think they should be.”

Hearing this filth come out of your mouth so brazenly was surprising to say the least. Not that you two haven’t always been close as close can be, but the terms you’re using now were downright pornographic, and might have had him straining in his jeans if he weren’t so stressed.

“I didn’t think foreplay was necessary,” he admitted, sitting upright to mirror you. “I’ve never needed it.”

“Foreplay gives us time,” you explain, all tones of teasing disappearing for good. “It gives makes us expectant, wet.”

This made Steve freeze. He couldn’t possibly be hearing you right. Or maybe he was just looking too far into the whole thing. But either way, the very idea of you letting him in on what gets you hot and bothered nearly had him sweating under his jacket.

“I can tell you what you should do.”

He didn’t know whether or not you were serious, and you wouldn’t give it away. Your smile is light, innocent enough to where the ball was totally in his court.

It was almost too fun to watch him silently fumble, his cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, his pouty lips parted in astonishment.

You looked so pretty in the dim lighting, shorts wrinkled around the tops of your thighs, camisole top loose over your breasts. “Really?”

you nod, slowly, grin widening.

“If you want me to.”

He didn’t know whether he wanted to cross this line or not. Surely, you’d just be talking him through what you, as a woman, like. But even that had him hot under the collar.

“Okay,” he gulped, breathless as your grin widened to full.

“Tell me how you usually start,” you begin, sparing not a single second.

It’s an odd position to be in for both of you, but you were keeping your cool. Steve just desperately wanted to know whether that was because you were just generally unbothered by the lines to be crossed, or that he was mistaken that these lines existed at all.

“I don’t know, I just… I kiss her, lay her down on my bed, we’d strip down and… you know…”

“consummate?”

“Not the word I’d use, but, yeah, I guess.”

He was trying his very hardest now not to portray his defensiveness to you. But you could read him better than anyone, so if you did notice, you didn’t let him know.

“Well, you know when you make out with a girl? But like, really make out? When it gets all hot and heavy… that’s foreplay, so you’re not completely stupid.”

Except maybe he is. He desperately wracks his brain for a time he followed such an intense make out session with sex. Making out was for when sex was off the table, if there wasn’t enough time for the deed itself.

Without having to admit a word, you catch on, knowing his shameful expression more than anyone.

With a sigh, you nudge his leg with your foot. What a pathetic loser your friend is.

“Think about it, you’re making out, your hands are on her waist, then her tits, her thighs. Your lips are on her neck, and she’s grinding herself against your lap ‘cause she’s so desperate. She needs friction, some contact to get her wet and ready.”

Again, pure filth.

You’re not beyond realising the hotness of the man before you, and the idea of grinding against his denim clad cock until you begged for his fingers was enough to have you squeezing your thighs together.

This wasn’t lost on Steve, but the last thing he wanted was to be wrong if he’d confronted this speculation head-on.

“Where would her hands be?”

And like he’d hoped, you shuffle impossibly closer, no heed paid to the mountains of tried-on and written-off clothes on your bed.

But his breath still hitches in the back of his throat when your hands come to meet the back of his neck, a light grip on the silky hair that resided there. He’s unable to hide the strangled groan that escapes his throat, but you don’t mind as you pull his hands to your back.

He knows exactly how to make out with a girl, it wasn’t new to him. His being clueless has more to do with this sudden pathetic attempt to feel your hands on him.

You shift a little closer so you’re settled between his parted legs, the strong odour of autumn fanning hotly from his neck. Your fingers are absently massaging his scalp and his hands move to your back, kneeding the flesh over your tank top.

“See?” You whisper, close enough to feel his breath hit your face. It was like cigarettes and mint. The mints in your vanity drawer, to be exact. “How easy is that?”

How easy is it to be this close to you? Smelling the sweet aroma of your skin, full cleavage a dangerous distance away? Not very easy, not easy at all.

You’d been this close before, but it had never been a position quite this intimate, but you felt as ease doing it.

Instead of answering, his eyes trail down the smooth skin of your neck down to the exposed expanse of your cleavage.

He knows he’s caught, but he brings his eyes back up to yours to see you’re unsurprised. You might even be encouraging him.

“This is already foreplay if you think about it,” you laughed, softly, sending heat radiating through Steve’s body. Because, here you are, in his arms, practically crotch to crotch, convinced you were taking part in what he’d call canoodling. “Is it helping?”

“‘M not sure… how do I know?”

“Well, aren’t you getting ideas? If I was a girl you liked, right here, tits in your face, pussy expectant, what would you do to make her want you? To make her feel good?”

Now you were asking the impossible. It’s like you’re trying to trick him into overstepping boundaries that should be obvious, but there’s no telling where the line is.

Is he allowed to say he’d been listening to you all along, and that he’d thumb your clit over those slutty pink shorts? Isn’t that what you’re asking him?

“You’d- umm… you’d need to move. So you’re on my lap.”

“Oh, she would, would she?”

You smirked, adjusting yourself to the position he’d asked, unsurprised but thrilled to feel the forming tent in his jeans.

“She, yeah, sorry.”

“Then, what?”

It’s obvious to you he’d had ideas. His eyes trailed down towards where your clothed crotch met his, and you’d immediately let your weight drop, sitting down where he wanted to feel you. “Don’t hold out on me, Steve, I know you’ve got some ideas.”

Reluctantly, he drops his hands lightly onto your thighs, skin smooth and warm. He didn’t know whether it was okay or not to squish his fingers into your flesh, but you seemed to be more than okay with this development, slowly grinding your core against the tent in his jeans, drawing out a throaty moan.

“This is where you should probably kiss her,” you spoke softly, drawing his dark eyes to yours.

It took a second to sense his agreement, but once you see him nod slightly, you lean in to press a light kiss to his lips.

It’s over a quick as it starts, you’re pulling away slowly, lips tingling and heart thumping against your rib cage.

Steve chases your lips, uncertainty still there but pushed to the back of his mind. It’s slow, it’s noisy, wet smacking sounds filling the room as you feel Steve’s hands begin to roam free over the skin of your thighs.

“Now what?” You breathed into his mouth, proceeding to brush your lips against his.

With less hesitation, he slides one hand around to hold the flesh of your ass, the other hand creeping closer to your crotch, dangerously close to your wet core.

“Can I touch you?”

His voice is muffled against your skin, breath moist on your face as you nodded. What has taken him so long to just say it?

You’d imagined your best friends hand creeping towards your core, soft, warm lips moving slow on your jaw. It was always a fleeting thought, when you’d been sat across from him at a party as he flexes his fingers at random, or when he had a strange blonde on his lap, palm pressed to her thigh.

Real life was different. His thumb presses into the damp fabric covering your clit, and you let out a quiet gasp into his mouth.

The sound was angelic to Steve. Here he had you, straddling his lap in your bedroom, and his thumb pressing harder but fleetingly into your clit as you chased the contact by rolling your hips ever-so-slightly.

It was unbelievable. He couldn’t even believe what he was doing, that he really had you flush on top of him, straps of your top falling down your shoulder, lips wet from his tongue.

He leaned forward again, capturing your lips in his. But it’s messy, all teeth and tongues as he nibbles around your lips.

His hands are kneading the flesh of your moving hips as his lips move to your jaw.

The thought of leaving evidence down your neck was so erotic and resolute, so he near enough attacked, nipping and biting only to soothe the burn with his tongue.

You were breathless, His eyes roam over your body, taking in every inch of you, a mixture of desire and adoration dancing in his gaze. He sits up, gripping your thighs, his hands gliding up higher on your skin as he pulls you closer, his gaze never leaving you as he looks up at you, his expression almost reverent.

“What’s next? What else do you wanna do to make me need you?” You breathed out, hips rocking against him in a motion to small you’d barely see it. But if the raging boner twitching in Steve’s pants was any indication, he could definitely feel it.

You don’t even know what you expected him to answer, but he didn’t say a word. His hand was on the back of your neck, and he was pulling you back into an open mouthed kiss.

He pushed his tongue against yours, hand wrapped around the wet fabric of the crotch of your shorts, knuckles brushing your slick folds, so dewy and inviting it sends a shiver down his neck.

He’d never been so aroused, it almost ached as his hardened cock strained so obviously against his jeans. A groan escapes his throat, strained and desperate against your tongue, making your lower belly swirl.

You hadn’t the brain function at the moment to register his lips moving to leave a wet and messy trail down the side of your neck.

Your skin is scorching as he nips and sucks at the sensitive skin. It’s enough to give you flashes of wild, dirty images of what’s to come.

Next thing you know, Steve is shrugging his jacket off, then he’s easing you onto your back to rest between your parted thighs. His hand held the back of your head as his lips found yours again in a messy, almost dirty kiss.

Maybe you were both completely lost, taken over by lust in all its plain simplicity.

Because damn, you can feel how needy he is.

His thumb finds your swollen clit as his hand settles under your shorts, drawing a shaky breath from you, moving to bury his face by your ear, a string of saliva still connecting your lips.

“…wet,” his breath was hot in your ear, a hoarse whisper as he slowly pulled your shorts down past your hips.

Oh fuck, this is really happening.

He slides the fabric down your thighs, fingers digging into your soft, smooth flesh as your shorts were abandoned and lost to the pile of clothes over your sheets.

The line was officially crossed, because Steve had a perfect view of your bare, glistening cunt. Your puffy lips slick with arousal, pulsing with a carnal hunger. Because the man in front of you was hungry, his hair a fluffy mess you’d never seen it in. His eyes, hooded with lust, drank in your cunt like a juicy peach begging to be tasted.

And that was exactly the plan.

All reasoning of why this was happening had been abandoned, and you were both completely consumed with blind desire.

He looks up at you, the look on his flushed face fleeting before it disappears between your parted thighs making you gasp.

His tongue flicks through your soaked folds, hands wrapped around your thighs as he savours the sweet musk of your hot cunt on his tongue.

A possessive growl escapes from the back of his throat while he feasts like a staved man.

Your head is spinning, body twitching with electric jolts with every flick of his tongue to your hardened clit before he pushes it into your small, fluttering opening, his nose now nudging your tiny bud.

Your mouth falls open, hips raising as if to get closer to his hot, wet mouth, his spit mixing with your slick spreading over your inner thighs and down the crack of your ass.

“So wet…”

It’s all you needed, your climax climbing closer and closer with every flick of his tongue, but those words made the muscles of your tummy tighten, your whining release coming in quick waves as your thighs shake, back arching.

You’re reduced to a writhing, moaning mess, liquid heat gushing onto his tongue.

As your chest rises and falls, Steve gets straight to unbuckling his belt, hungry eyes never leaving yours as he yanks his jeans past his thighs.

His grey boxers left little to the imagination, his sizeable cock straining against the fabric, an obvious wet patch where his slit is.

He leans back down, capturing your lips as he blindly reaches for his abandoned jacket, only pulling away to dig into the pockets.

You watch as he pulls out a condom.

“You’ll need that later,” I breathed out.

Ultimately, Heidi would still be waiting to be swept away by the man in front of you. She is, after all, the reason this is happening.

“No, I won’t.”

He opened the condom quickly with his teeth.

No further instruction was needed, and you got to yanking down his boxers in a flash.

If you were desperate before there’s certainly no hiding it now as you plucked the condom from his hand to roll it onto his angry, red cock, slick with pre-cum.

That action alone had him hissing harshly, sensitive to the touch.

A quick study, you call him. Because your pussy is more than ready to accommodate him, your soaked and sloppy hole clenching and unclenching around nothing, as if already milking an imaginary cock.

He growls with want, caging you in underneath him as you spread your legs. One of his hands guides his cock to your ready hole and he pushes himself party in, drawing two perfectly harmonious moans.

The stretch burns still slightly, and you whimper into his shoulder as he feels every ridge of your insides on every vein of his cock.

It’s slow, but he reaches the hilt, the dark patch of hair at his base meeting your ever-needy clit.

“You’re so wet… so tight…”

You only nod, chest heaving as you pull him in close with a hand on his back beneath his shirt.

“So tight,” you muttered against his shoulder.

He thrusts slowly and deliberately to start with, feeling how tight your cunt is, knowing just how full you must feel. And yes, you’re stuffed.

His face is buried into your neck, grumbling out nonsense between kisses to the skin there.

“So hot.”

“You feel so good…”

“So tight, fucking wet…”

His pace only picks up as you squeak out his name, repeatedly. What else can you do when he’s plunging into you with such urgency?

Lewd sounds fill the room, the squelching so obscene beside the groans and the gasps, the sound of Steve’s balls slapping rhythmically against your ass.

Your nails drag down his back, careful not to break any of his hot skin as he reaches impossibly deep inside you.

His grunting became persistent, his breath rapid as he held you tight and close, hips jerking harshly as he pulls almost all the way out, just to slam back it, all the way with a shaky moan.

“Gunna… cum… gunna cum,” he announces quickly, hips rocking into you rapidly.

Fuck, you were perfect, with your eyes hooded, your lips parted and your cheeks flushed a deep crimson. Not to mention he felt that your cunt was made for his cock, the way he fit so snuggly, the way it pulled him in…

Fuck.

His lower belly coils tightly, cock swelling inside you. His jerky thrusts were quickly becoming more urgent, and less controlled.

One hand tightened on your thigh, the other in your hair as he groaned out his release, filling the condom with his hot seed, his moan downright pornographic in your ear.

Steve Harrington just fucked you. On your bed. Before a big date.

He was collapsed on top of you, spent cock inside you with his face buried in your neck.

“Oh my God, sweetheart…”

“Isn’t it so much better like this?” You laughed softly against him, feeling him laugh back, nodding his head.

He looked back down at you, a light sheen on sweat over his skin, cheeks flushed pink in pretty blotches.

“I think I’ll skip that date. What else you got to teach me?”

[turinspeachjam]

Stobin Month 2025 - Prompt "What If?"

wc: 528 | cw: Implied Brain Trauma/Injury, Catastrophizing, Implied PTSD | rating: T

Robin sometimes thought about what would have happened if she had not gotten involved. 

Steve would have just been an annoying coworker up until the mall fire. And then he probably would have been dead. Not that Robin believed she was the reason he survived the Russians, but every time she tried to picture a version where she was not there, Steve died. By torture, getting caught in the crossfire, or sometimes her brain superimposed Steve over Billy Hargrove and it was the Mindflayer that killed him. 

She hated it. Which was how she held onto the belief that Steve was better off with her in his life, and him in hers. 

He reminded her as often as he could remember that he loved her and did not know where he would be without her. Robin listened, but there was still a nagging voice in the back of her head who told her no one wanted her. 

So Steve started leaving her little notes telling her exactly how he felt about her. 

You’re the smartest person I know—and we know literal geniuses. 

That one always made her laugh because Dustin had caught a glimpse of it one time when he came to visit and got so incensed over the fact that Steve considered Robin the smartest person he knew and not himself. Dustin almost went to visit Steve and give him a piece of his mind before Robin quietly reminded him that visiting hours were over, which took the wind right out of Dustin’s sails. Robin tried to cheer him up, but she could see that his mind was centered around Steve, so they spent the rest of the evening in heavy silence. 

You make me laugh more than anyone else. 

Whenever she looked at that note, she smiled, remembering his first confession to her in that dirty mall bathroom. The declaration that she was the reason he had laughed that summer more than he could remember doing so before. How it was Steve “The Hair” Harrington of all people who made her feel normal for the first time in her entire life. How he took her rejection and never held it against her. How he held her hand and declared her his best friend. Platonic with a capital P. 

You are the reason I keep trying. 

The first time she saw that note, she cried. She knew how hard it was for him to move forward after everything, how he suddenly felt like the world upended and nothing made any sense. He cried on her shoulder many times, unable to cope with how the world had changed and left him behind. She knew all too well how he felt. 

So, when he got admitted, Robin started leaving him secret notes all over his room, in plain sight and obscured from view. She wanted to surround him in as much love as she could. 

You are the strongest person I know—and we know Nancy Wheeler and Jane Hopper. 

You make me feel braver. 

You are the reason I wake up in the morning and the reason that I can sleep at night. 

You are my soulmate. 

[fandoms-in-law]

Sweet Hate

Summary: Eddie has an unconventional way to reassure Steve he won't be silent if he gets dissatisfied in their relationship

Authors Note: Based off the McFly song 'Hate Your Guts' It seemed like a good song for a relationship that came from an enemies to lovers trope like Steddie often gets seen as.

/\

It started as a reassurance and a joke.

Steve had only been dating Eddie for a month when he explained what happened with Nancy and his fears of it happening again, of not knowing when someone he dated wasn’t as into the relationship as him.

Eddie had nodded at it all, gotten annoyed, then told Steve in many ways that he’d never do that to him, ending with, “I promise if I ever hate your guts, I’ll tell you immediately. Will you do the same?”

Steve agreed, missing the scheming glint in Eddie’s eyes.

~

They’d been having a quiet afternoon. Eddie was painting some minifigs while Steve pottered with various things around the trailer when he broke the quiet by sneezing loudly. Eddie startled enough his paintbrush almost covered the figure he’d been close to finishing.

“Bless you. I hate you. You couldn’t have held that until I wasn’t holding a brush?” He complained, stretching and leaning close to see if he could save it.

“Nope, could you wipe it off?” Steve asked, wandering over to look at it as well, only quietly adding “Just annoyed? Not actually hate?” quietly into Eddie’s shoulder once there.

Eddie grinned over his shoulder, “Just annoyed.” He reassured, “And maybe. Oh, it could be a backstory thing too.” With that he was grabbing a tissue and entirely focused on the minifig again.

~

Since the first time Eddie had done it the paid had fallen into the habit of declaring their hatred at the smallest things. For Steve if was generally in private, because he’d just go with the flow for a lot of social things, but wanted spaces to be tidy or organised which Eddie struggled with. Eddie however would declare hatred at least a couple times during each hang out and even if they spoke if it was something they’d need to work out, and knew if it was a dumb complaint, they started to get concerned looks from the kids again.

It all led up to Dust in Eddie’s doorstep one morning, upset and confused and resolute on getting answers over why the two people he’d tried so hard to make get along didn’t again.

“Why do you hate Steve?” Dustin demanded as soon as he was let into the Munson trailer.

Eddie shrugged, glancing behind him to the door hiding Steve in his room, still asleep. “I don’t hate him. I love the guy. He’s brilliant.”

“You literally always say you hate him.” The counter was annoyed and paired with a glare even as the kid fell back on the sofa as if he was the one that lived there.

He shook his head, not really sure how to explain why he did that to other people. “It’s not meant and he knows that. It’s just a thing we do.”

“I thought you were dating but you keep saying you hate him all the time.” Dustin grumbled, clearly not believing or not listening to him.

The door to his room opens and out comes Steve, yawning and smiling sleepily. “It’s sweet and I say it back. Like this, Eddie, I hate your guts. I got none of the blankets until you got up today.”

“Not sure how to solve that one Sweetheart, maybe we need separate blankets for sleeping.” Eddie mused, ignoring Dustin gaping between them.

After a moment to be stunned Dustin exclaimed, “How is it sweet to declare hatred all the time?”

“Just is.” was all the explanation given as Steve decided to help himself to breakfast.

~

After that scene the kids still frowned at them some, but seemed less concerned over it. Will once or twice tried suggesting over ways to communicate but didn’t worry if they were ignored.

Robin however had also noticed them and the only thing preventing her from speaking up sooner had been that Steve still seemed happy, almost happier than he had when he first started dating Eddie, she thought.

It still wasn’t something she could entirely ignore though, so one shift when Eddie hadn’t snuck in, she had to ask, “Steve? Are you happy?”

“Yes, why?” He replied automatically, focused on rewinding the returns that had been dropped in during the pre-work rush.

“You’re dating Eddie, but-” She broke off, unsure how to continue and hoping he’d figure out what she was talking about.

Steve turned to her, leaning against the wall now. “But?”

She huffed, just saying as quickly as she could, “He keeps saying he hates you, like everyday.”

“Nah, he loves me. It’s a sweet thing.” Steve corrected though he didn’t argue over how much it happened.

“Sweet?” She asked, confounded, “Normally I can follow your brain, but how is saying he hates you sweet?”

Steve shrugged, swapping the tapes over as the one he’d put in finished rewinding. “I worried he’d hide it from me if he wasn’t into me any more, so he started this. Every small peeve gets said so we can sort it. I just do it less around everyone.”

“But ‘I hate you’?” She asked, feeling entirely stuck on how that could be sweet in any world.

“I check if he means it if it’s too seriously said.” Steve smiles softly, looking at her imploring her to understand.

Robin smiled back, nodding and relaxing, “Okay Dingus. Just know I’m here if it stops being sweet.”

“I know.”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Bound by Love and War

Pairing: Steve Rogers X reader (already established) eventual Steve X reader X Bucky

Warnings: None! Just fluff🤭

Word count: 2.1k

Authors Note: I’m in love with these two, literally have me in a choke hold, enjoy!

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

It hadn’t been some grand declaration or movie-style romance that brought you and Steve Rogers together. It started with quiet moments after missions, both of you sitting side by side in the Avengers compound, talking in hushed tones to unwind after the chaos. Steve had always been easy to talk to, even when his status as Captain America had once made him seem untouchable. But over time, beneath that shield and that larger-than-life presence, you saw the man: Steve, not the Captain.

You remembered the first time you’d actually let your guard down around him. It was after a particularly rough mission. Your telekinetic powers had saved lives, but it had drained you. Physically, mentally, emotionally. You’d found yourself in one of the compound’s common rooms, staring out the window at the skyline, feeling the weight of the world pressing in.

Steve had quietly joined you, his presence always calm and reassuring. He didn’t speak for a long time, but his closeness grounded you in ways you hadn’t expected.

“I know that look,” he said after a while, his voice gentle but sure. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

You sighed, brushing away the emotions threatening to spill over. “I’m not as strong as you, Steve. Not in the way that matters.”

He had turned to you, his eyes soft and warm. “Strength isn’t about being unbreakable. It’s about being willing to let people help when you need it.” Then he reached out, hesitating for just a second before resting his hand on yours. It was such a simple gesture, but in that moment, it felt like an anchor.

That night was the start of something neither of you had fully realized at the time. More and more, you found comfort in each other’s company. The late-night talks turned into early-morning runs together, which, admittedly, were more him dragging you along until you found your rhythm. And those quiet, shared moments began to feel like home.

It wasn’t until a mission where things went sideways—where you had been cornered and Steve had fought his way to you with a desperation you’d never seen in him—that everything became clear. His eyes, wild with fear and relief when he found you, said it all. As soon as the danger was over, he had pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his lips brushing against your forehead.

“I thought I lost you,” he had whispered, his voice breaking.

You had pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, heart pounding. “I’m here, Steve. I’m not going anywhere.”

In that moment, something shifted. He had kissed you, slow and tender, like you were the most precious thing in the world to him. And maybe, just maybe, you were.

That was almost a year ago. Since then, you and Steve had built something real, something steady in the middle of the chaos that was your lives. He was everything you could’ve hoped for: kind, supportive, strong in ways that went beyond the battlefield. He didn’t just see the hero in you; he saw the person.

But there had always been Bucky.

At first, it was easy to write off the connection you felt with him as something natural. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, practically family, and over time you’d grown close to him too. He had opened up to you in ways you didn’t expect, sharing pieces of his tortured past that he still struggled to reconcile with. You admired his strength, his resilience, and the way he always fought to be better, even when he didn’t think he deserved it.

It had started as friendship. But the longer you spent around Bucky, the harder it became to ignore how your heart sped up when he was near, how your thoughts drifted to him in ways they shouldn’t. You loved Steve, there was no question about that. But the truth was, part of you had begun to love Bucky too.

And that was where things had gotten complicated.

One night, after a quiet dinner together, you and Steve had been sitting on the couch, his arm draped casually over your shoulders. There was a weight between you—something unsaid—but you could feel it pressing in. Steve had been distant, thoughtful, and you wondered if maybe he sensed it too. The growing tension, the unspoken feelings.

“I’ve noticed something,” Steve said quietly, breaking the silence. He wasn’t looking at you, but at the floor, as if gathering his thoughts.

You felt your stomach twist, nerves creeping in. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath, turning to face you. His expression was soft but serious. “I think… you have feelings for Bucky.”

Your heart dropped. This was it. The moment you had been dreading, where the truth you hadn’t wanted to admit came spilling out. You had no idea what to say, how to explain it without breaking his heart. “Steve, I—”

But before you could even finish, he held up a hand. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain. I’ve seen it for a while now.”

You blinked, confused. “You’re not mad?”

Steve smiled softly, his hand reaching to cup your cheek. “No. How could I be? I love you. And I know you love me. But I also know that you care about Bucky. And… I care about him too.”

Your heart raced at his words. “You… you have feelings for him?”

He nodded slowly, looking as though he had come to terms with something that had been weighing on him for a long time. “I think I always have. I just didn’t realize it until recently. He means everything to me, and seeing the way he’s been with you… I guess it made me realize I’m not the only one.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. This wasn’t the conversation you had expected. And yet, here Steve was, not angry, not hurt, but understanding. Maybe even feeling the same way you did.

“So what do we do?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Steve’s thumb brushed against your skin gently. “What if we didn’t have to choose? What if we asked Bucky to be part of this? All three of us. Together.”

You stared at him, unsure if you had heard him right. Could something like that work? Could you love them both, and could Steve, and Bucky, love each other the same way? The idea felt almost impossible, but in a strange way, it made perfect sense.

“What if he says no?” you asked, your voice trembling.

Steve’s expression softened. “Then we’ll figure it out. But we won’t know unless we talk to him. And something tells me he might feel the same way.”

The sun had barely risen over the horizon, casting soft golden hues across the landscape of the Avengers compound. You stood on the training field, focusing on lifting several objects in the air with nothing but your mind. Your telekinetic powers hummed in the air around you as you moved boulders, crates, and even a few steel beams without breaking a sweat.

A familiar voice brought you out of your concentration.

"Still showing off, huh?" Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—smiled as he approached. His blue eyes sparkled as he crossed his arms, admiring your abilities.

You smirked and set the objects down carefully. "Just keeping my skills sharp, Captain."

He stepped closer, his hand brushing against your arm. The two of you had been together for a while now, navigating the chaotic world of being superheroes and partners. It hadn’t been easy, but Steve’s steady presence and unwavering sense of duty made everything seem possible.

"I’ve been thinking," Steve started, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. You raised an eyebrow at him.

"That’s never good," you teased.

He chuckled softly but then grew serious, his gaze searching yours. "No, really. I’ve been thinking about us… and about Bucky."

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Bucky Barnes—Steve’s best friend, the man who’d fought through hell and back, and someone you’d grown incredibly close to. Your feelings for Bucky had grown over time, and they had become confusing, tangled in your deep love for Steve.

"You have feelings for him," Steve stated, not as an accusation but as a fact. "And I know I do too."

You blinked in surprise, taken aback by his honesty. You had thought about it before—those stolen glances between Steve and Bucky, the quiet moments they shared, the unspoken bond that felt stronger than just friendship.

"Well… we had that talk the other night but what are we going to do about it Stevie?," you asked him softly, trying to process what Steve was saying.

He sighed and ran a hand through his blonde hair. "I wasn’t sure at first, but it’s been on my mind for a while now. I love you, more than anything, but I also care deeply about Bucky. And I can see how you look at him."

Your face flushed as you looked down, feeling slightly guilty for the affection you had for Bucky, even though your love for Steve had never wavered.

"I don’t want to hurt you," you whispered.

"You’re not," Steve reassured, taking your hand in his. "Why don’t we talk to him about it?"

Your eyes snapped up to meet his. "What are you saying?"

Steve’s thumb traced circles on your hand, his touch soothing. "What if we invited Bucky to be part of this? The three of us, together. I mean it this time. All three of us together."

You stared at him, your mind racing. Could something like that work? You knew how much Steve meant to Bucky, and if Steve had feelings for Bucky too, maybe this wasn’t such an impossible idea. And your heart had been aching for Bucky for so long.

"What if he says no?" you asked quietly.

Steve smiled, that soft, reassuring smile that made you feel like everything would be okay. "Like I told you yesterday, we’ll figure it out but, love we won’t know unless we ask him. And knowing Buck… I don’t think he’ll say no."

Later that day, you found Bucky in the gym, his metal arm gleaming under the overhead lights as he punched a heavy bag with ferocity. His dark hair was damp with sweat, and his jaw was set in concentration.

Steve and you approached cautiously, waiting for him to finish his set. Bucky noticed you both and gave a small smile, wiping his brow.

"Hey, what’s up?" he asked, catching his breath. "Something on your mind, Stevie?"

Steve exchanged a glance with you before stepping closer to Bucky. He was nervous—you could feel it—but he pressed on.

"Buck, we need to talk to you about something," Steve began, his voice calm but firm.

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he sensed the seriousness in Steve’s tone. "Okay… what’s going on?"

You swallowed, your pulse quickening as you spoke up. "It’s about us. Steve and me… we’ve been talking. About you."

Bucky’s confusion deepened. "Me?"

Steve took a deep breath and stepped closer to his friend. "We care about you, Buck. More than just friends or teammates. And we were wondering if… if you’d want to be part of our relationship."

Bucky’s eyes widened in shock, his body going still. He looked between the two of you, clearly trying to process what had just been said. "Wait… what? You’re serious?"

"Dead serious," Steve confirmed. "We love each other, but we also love you, Bucky. And we want to be with you."

Bucky stared at the two of you, his mouth slightly agape. He had been silently pining for you both for months now, his feelings buried deep beneath layers of guilt and denial. He never thought in a million years that this would be possible.

"I… I don’t know what to say," he finally muttered.

"You don’t have to say anything right now," you said gently, stepping closer to him. "We just wanted you to know how we feel. And we don’t expect you to decide anything immediately."

Bucky’s blue eyes searched yours, then Steve’s. His heart was racing. He had always felt like an outsider, someone burdened by his past, undeserving of happiness. But here you both were, offering him a place, a family, a chance at something real.

"I’ve… I’ve wanted this," Bucky confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I didn’t think it was possible."

Steve grinned, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, it is."

For the first time in a long time, Bucky allowed himself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

He smiled softly, feeling the weight of his fears lifting. "Okay… let’s give this a shot."

And in that moment, standing together with the people who had always been by his side, Bucky felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: home.

Hope you enjoyed! Please follow, like and Reblog💜 -Midnight’s Cafe

[quixoticall]

This Could Get Ugly Track 6: The Aftermath

Summary: It's 1983 and The Downsides need another lead singer and you just happen to need a band--it's a perfect match. The only issue? You have to pretend to be in a relationship with your bandmate, Steve Harrington, but you can't help but be drawn to the band's broody guitar player.

pairing: s.h. x fem!reader, e.m. x fem!reader, j.b. x n.w.,

warnings: ANGST, drinking, drug use, smut, oral and fingering f receiving, p in v sex, the Harringtons make an appearance.

a/n: It has been a while my loves! I really have no excuse but I am excited to get back into the swing of things! Originally, this was meant to be one chapter but I split it in two, hopefully you don't mind! Also, I kinda rushed towards the end so it's not as neat as the rest of it--I'm sorry! I just really wanted to get this! I'm kinda itching to get to the next installment!

wc: 5.8K

MASTERLIST🎸

PLAY PREVIOUS TRACK 🎵

MURRAY: There were doubts about how well the tour would do, especially after all the scandals. But even despite assholes like Chris Palmer—or maybe because of them—the first tour had been way more of a success than anyone had ever imagined. Brenner and his team essentially had dollar signs for eyes by the end of it. They wanted the band to record the second album literally as soon as they got off the tour bus. 

Me and Hopper tried our best to advocate for the kids getting some time off, especially since tensions during the last half of the tour had run hot according to Hopper. The best we could get them was a month. 

Listen, we really, really tried our best for those kids. There were some really nasty fuckers at the label who saw them as nothing more than a product to push, a means to an end but we tried our best to keep them afloat. And sure, part of that is because they were our most lucrative artists, but we also genuinely cared for them and we wanted to help as much as we could. 

Sometimes, though, they made that really hard. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

JUNE 14th, 1984—LOS ANGELES, CA

You’re the last one at Starcourt studios. Everyone’s eyes turn at the sound of you rushing through the lobby door. Everyone looks equally as weary as you feel, having only been back in LA for effectively 48 hours. 

You’re sure you would all rather be anywhere but Starcourt except Murray and Hopper called an urgent meeting that apparently could not wait. 

As you approach the group sitting in the lobby you look around to the tired and anxious faces of your bandmates and eventually you end up meeting Steve’s eyes.

Poor Steve, who showed up at your door the day following his drunken, lovelorn, declaration full of shame and embarrassment that only hangover of an infinite caliber could accompany. He had begged you to forget the whole conversation had ever happened and you agreed readily although the damage had already been done.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MURRAY: I chose to never have kids because I never wanted to deal with the responsibilities. So, tell me why I was out here parenting a bunch of 20 something’s who were hellbent on ruining their own lives and mine in the process? 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Here’s the deal,” Murray begins, once all the band members were settled into his office, “the label seems to want the album sooner than we thought. We can’t give you the three months off we had originally agreed on—” this announcement is met with the expected amount of jeers and complaints “—but Hopper and I fought for you all to get a month before we start recording again.”  Murray pauses expectantly but is met with silence. 

“Okay, well, you’re welcome for that, ungrateful little fucks. We will be back here in a month’s time to start,” his gaze focuses in on you and Eddie at this point, “except for the two of you. This dribble you decided to call lyrics is absolutely atrocious and I need new material. I’ve marked everything that is salvageable but the rest is scrap. “ 

Eddie immediately erupts into protests that eventually get cut off by Steve who argues for rewrites to happen together while the others take the opportunity to try to barter for more time off.

You’re far too stunned by Murray’s disparagement to weigh in. Sure, some of the pieces needed work but were they all really that bad? 

“This isn’t meant to be a team effort,” Murray says to Steve, “this is meant to be a punishment for these two for not doing a good enough job.”

“Wow these songs must be terrible,” Robin cuts in, “can we see them at least?” She asks as she makes a grab for the papers which Murray barely manages to dodge. This, once again, causes the room to descend into arguments and chaos, forcing Hopper to take over.  

“Enough!” He bellows, deep and authoritatively. “None of this is up for debate. We’re taking a month off and when we regroup, we’ll have an album’s worth of new material to record that hopefully isn’t terrible. Are we clear?” 

There were murmurs of agreement as the hand began gathering their things before your manager cut you off, “Sit your asses down, I have something else to talk to you about.” 

Hopper then spends twenty minutes reading off a list of every instance of property damage that happened over the tour and how much they cost while the rest of you squirm in your seats under his judgmental stare.  Eventually, mercifully, the meeting is ended, and you dash out of your seat in hopes of making it out without any further uncomfortable conversations but of course, luck is not on your side because before you can even stand, Murray has another request.  

“Minx, Munson, hang back for me while you?” 

You and Eddie awkwardly watch as the resort of the band file out and stand silently waiting and their voices grow more and more distant down the corridor. 

Finally, when it’s certain that it’s just the three of you, Murray speaks. 

“So how long have you two been a thing?” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MURRAY: One look at the music they had sent in, and it was clear, there was something going on there. Listen, I don’t usually get involved in the personal lives of my artists but the was a unique circumstance.  For one, it was very obvious what and who the lyrics were about. Songs about edgy, mysterious lovers and wanting someone you can’t have don’t necessarily scream “Happy, functioning, long term relationship”. 

We couldn’t risk the press, or worse, Heart-Eyed Harrington getting wind of that. It would wreck our credibility and break the kid’s heart and that would’ve been curtains for the band. 

So, I pulled the two aside and told them they would have to rewrite their lyrics to be less transparent and also less bad.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Can you believe he said that?” You ask once the two of you are in the privacy of the studio’s parking lot. 

“Oh well, I dunno, we were definitely phoning it in towards the end. Plus, we could use more cohesion,” Eddie reasons, struggling to keep up with your angry strides. 

“No not that! I’m talking about all the other stuff,” you wave a hand fancifully in the air, “about us having feelings for one another. That’s crazy!” You let out a sharp exhale in place of a laugh. 

“Right,” Eddie trails off, “… and why would that be crazy, again?” 

“Well, for one, you hate everything I stand for, remember?” You laugh as you unlock the front door of your car. 

He peers at you from under his lashes, sunshine weaving through his hair, face stoic.

“You’re right,” he says finally, after consideration, “I do.” 

You nod in agreement and not even a little offended. 

“And that’s why it works so well,” you explain as you lower yourself into the driver's seat, “because we don’t like each other like that.  That’s what Murray doesn’t understand, it’s just sex.”  

“Right,” Eddie echoes, tersely, “it’s just sex.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

EDDIE: It wasn’t just sex for me. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

MURRAY: You would think that two Songwriters’ Hall of Fame recipients wouldn’t need to be babysat to, you know, write music but those two were an absolute nightmare to deal with. It was a struggle just to find them a place to get together to write. Her place was constantly getting hounded by paps and Munson refused even to tell HR where he lived. 

A week in, we realized they needed to get out of town which is why I ended up sending them to a property I owned in Ranch Cucamonga just so they could get out of my hair. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

JUNE 22nd, 1984—RANCHO CUCAMONGA, CA

“What is this place?” You wonder aloud as Eddie unlocks the front door of a very average-looking split-level suburban home. The house is sparse and humble, lacking all the opulence that Murray’s LA residence had in excess. 

“Probably where he meets up with his girlfriend,” Eddie shrugs.

“Murray has a wife.” 

“Yeah, I know. Why do you think we’re all the way in the Inland Empire?”

You open your mouth to argue but you’re stopped by the realization that Eddie is probably right and instead you grip your bag thingy against your body and with eyes darting around to every piece of furniture in sight, you say, “we should probably disinfect all the surfaces.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

EDDIE: It was the perfect spot: quiet, secluded. Plus, we were so grossed out at the idea of hooking up in Murray’s sex pad that we kept it PG and focused.  

MURRAY: It was not a sex pad.  

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“He has a waterbed, Nance,” you relay over the phone later that night, once you and Eddie had settled, “if that doesn’t say ‘sex pad’ I don’t know what does!” 

Nancy gags in response, “Ew, that’s disgusting!” 

You giggle at her exaggerated response, grateful that she answered the phone on the second ring. 

“How’s everything over there?” You inquire, pointer finger coiling around the telephone cord. “How’s…everyone doing?”

“By everyone, do you mean Steve?”

You kick your feet in the air from your perch on the kitchen counter. “Steve is part of everyone, isn’t he?” 

“Well, for starters, I don’t think he’s very happy that Murray sent you off with Eddie.” 

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, I can see him in the pool right now. He’s doing laps—butterfly.” 

“Okay? Doesn’t he always swim though?” You were confused.  Back when you were on tour, it was not uncommon to find Steve at the hotel pool in the early mornings.

“He only swims butterfly when something is bothering him,” Nancy explains like it’s obvious. 

“Wow Nance, you sure remember a lot about your ex-boyfriend’s strokes,” you joke.

“And the two of you sure do care a lot about what the other is doing for being in a fake relationship,” she retorts.  “It is still fake, right?” 

“Yes, of course it is.” 

The front door clicks unlocked—Eddie’s back from picking up takeout and you rush to change the subject, “Speaking of relationships, how’s Jonathan?” 

Nancy, mercifully, doesn’t dwell on you and Steve and instead sighs at the mention of her boyfriend.

 “Not great.  Turns out Joyce downplayed Will’s condition while we were on tour. Jonathan’s livid, of course.” 

Even through the static, you can hear the strain in Nancy’s voice as she struggles to keep it steady. 

“Yesterday he got angry with me for trying to get him to talk to her.  Will’s about to go to surgery and it’s not for him to see the two of them fighting.

He’s just so moody and hard to be around. I’m starting to avoid him if I’m honest. Is that bad?” 

 For as long as you’ve known her, Nancy had always been like a well-shot arrow: sharp, steady, and sure of where she was going. It’s strange to hear her at a loss. 

“No, not at all,” you comfort, “things are tough right now and it sounds like you might need space. Maybe you can come by next week? Stay a few days and help us write. It’ll give you both some space.”

 Your eyes find Eddie’s across the kitchen counter where he’s unpacking steaming containers of Chinese food. You can tell he’s been listening in on your conversation because he nods along emphatically at your suggestion. 

“Are you sure?” Nancy asks.

“Yes,” you assure, “I’ve cleared it with Eddie, and he agrees.” 

“I agree!” Eddie shouts in the background and that gets a giggle out of Nancy. 

You bid goodbye to Nancy but not without asking her to seriously consider your offer. 

“Nancy might come and visit,” you announce as you start stacking your plate with food.

“Yeah, I heard,” Eddie responds, mid-noodle slurp. “But just so we’re clear, if Wheeler does come, she’s taking the waterbed.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Maybe it’s the change of scenery, or maybe it’s the above-average Chinese food (or maybe it’s the grade-A hydroponic hash that Argyle has passed along as a parting gift) but for the first time in months, you and Eddie are back in your songwriting groove.

The two of you work into the night, sifting through your existing work, parsing out what can be saved. 

You work until your eyes and fingertips burn and you have no choice but to call it a night before heading up to the guest room upstairs. 

“Night, Eds,” you call out over your shoulder as you stumble up the stairs. 

His response is muffled by your yawns. Exhausted, you cannot wait to get into your (non-water) bed and you flop belly-first onto the mattress, ready to succumb to the exhaustion of the day. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You can’t sleep. You’ve been tossing and turning for an hour and as hard as you will it, you can’t sleep. 

There’s an unfamiliar emptiness settling into the space that you can’t seem to cope with. There are no blaring police sirens or yelling partygoers around to indicate life. As far as you know, you could be the only person on the planet. You balk at the idea and decide to go downstairs in search of life. 

Eddie had decided pretty early on that he preferred sleeping on the couch than on the waterbed in Murray’s room. When he announced his decision earlier over dinner, he had paused, almost as if leaving space for you to invite him to share your bed in the guest room. There was room, after all. But you didn’t make that offer because why would you? The two of you might have been sleeping together on tour but even then, that rarely meant spending the night. Offering to share a bed with him now, with no promise of sex (which you refuse to have for a myriad of reasons including the fact that this was Murray’s sex pad), well, that would seem far too close to what Murray was accusing you of back at the studio and you would rather die than see him be right. 

That’s how Eddie ended up on the couch. He’s still awake when you descend down the stairs, strewn across the sofa joint in hand and bathed in synthetic blue light from the TV. He doesn’t see you at first but when he does, he smiles, slowly and waves a hand lazily. 

“Hey,” he greets as you land at the foot of the stairs. 

“Hey,” you greet back, padding into the kitchen and pouring yourself a glass of water. 

You linger in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, debating whether you should stay. Your initial plan was to just grab a drink and go back upstairs, but that was back when you thought Eddie was asleep.  You chew your lip in indecision. Eddie’s pretending not to watch you. 

“Can’t sleep,” you explain as you drop onto the opposite side of the couch after consideration.

 “Why not?” He asks his eyes completely removed from the TV, the old episode of “Million Dollar Man” he was watching forgotten. 

“Too quiet,” you explain, simply, “I’ve never slept in a place this quiet.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, yeah,” you grow shy under his gaze, pulling your knees to your chest and curling a throw pillow into your chest. 

“Not even when you lived in your fancy mansion on the hill?” You can tell by his tone that he doesn’t mean to poke fun with the question; he’s genuinely curious. 

“No. My parents were always having people over, there was always some party my mom would host or some actors staying with us while my dad filmed and even when there weren’t people over—which was rare—my parents would always be fighting. They would yell a lot.”

“What would they fight about? Who got to drive the Rolls Royce?” Eddie laughs nervously, he’s doing that thing where he makes jokes when he’s uncomfortable. 

“Let’s just say that my dad was not nearly as discreet as Murray is about his extra-curricular activities,” you scoot closer to reach for the joint in his hand. You refuse to be sober while sharing childhood details.  

Eddie leans closer and hands you the joint. Your fingers brush. 

“I get that,” he commiserates, “my pop wasn’t around much, but when he was, he and my ma would really get into it. Yelling, throwing plates, the whole thing.” 

“Shut up!” You exclaim, “my parents would throw plates too!” 

You’re not sure why but throws you into a fit of giggles. Eddie watches you tilting your head back as laughter rips through you.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, half laughing himself. 

“It’s just, that,” you struggle to say through the laughs, “for all the fuss you made about how opposite we are, we’re not that different after all. In the end, we’re just two kids who grew up watching their parents throw plates at one another.” 

He lets out a chuckle at this now, too, as he leans forward to place the joint on the coffee table, “Yeah, I guess you’re kinda right.” 

The two of you laugh a little longer, probably a result of your exhaustion and the joint you’ve now whittled to a nub and then you sink into a comfortable silence, full attention back on the television. 

After a while, during a commercial break, Eddie leans over and says softly, “You know, I don’t hate you, I just hate everything you stand for.” 

Your shoulders are touching as the two of you have gravitated towards the center of the and you’re so mesmerized by the way his Adam’s apple moves as he speaks that it takes you a second to register what he’s said. 

“Thanks,” you respond sarcastically once his words have sunk in, “that makes me feel so good about myself.” 

His cheeks darken and he ducks his head towards his chest in embarrassment. 

“I meant that as a compliment, you know.”

“That’s a shit compliment, Eds,” you deadpan back.

He sighs, “Yeah, I know but I can never get my words out right when I’m talking to you. What I meant to say is that contrary to what you may think, I do like you and I think you’re very talented… and maybe… perhaps, I was wrong about you.” 

You lean forward as he says this, a gloating grin rising on your face. “Why, Edward, I believe that might be the kindest thing you’ve ever said about me.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The phone is ringing. 

The early morning sun is burning your closed eyelids, which is annoying but not nearly as annoying as the phone ringing. You know you should get up and answer the phone that simply won’t stop ringing but you can’t will your body to move. 

You nestle further into the warm cocoon you’ve found yourself in this morning and wait for whoever is on the other line to eventually give up. 

The phone does eventually stop ringing, just like you knew it would, but not even three seconds later, it picks up again.

You try to ignore it once more, but it is insistent. You realize you have no choice but to get up. 

You’re far too peeved to notice at first, but the warm cocoon you’ve been so hesitant to leave isn’t a nest of blankets like you had originally thought, but a pair of arms wrapped around your shoulders and a solid chest where your head once rested: Eddie. 

You blink wearily up at him. He’s completely unfazed by the ringing. Even though you know Eddie to be an annoyingly deep sleeper, you still try to gently extract yourself from his arms. 

You sit up halfway and catch a glimpse of Eddie’s expressionless face, and, in its peace, you’re reminded of his kind words last night. Suddenly, you lean down quickly and peck a kiss on his cheek. You recoil quickly in surprise scrambling off the couch and quickly pad over to the still-ringing phone. 

“Hello?” You snap. 

“Nice of you to finally pick up,” Murray replies.

“What is it, Murray?”

“I wanted to see how it was going.”

You sigh in response, letting him know exactly how little patience you have.  

“Fine. It’s going fine.”

“How’s the writing?”

 “Fine.”

“And the house?”

“Fine.”

“And the waterbed?”

“Gross and untouched. Is that all?”

“You’re no help. Get me Munson.”

You’re about to tell him that Eddie was asleep when a hand snakes around the back of your head and wraps around the receiver in your hand.

A bleary-eyed Eddie gently tugs the phone from your hand and brings it to his ear.

“You’ve got Munson,” Eddie greets through a yawn.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

EDDIE: The Rancho Cucamonga house was like a bubble where the outside world didn’t exist for us. We were finally able to focus on the songwriting without having to work around a tour or press appearances or the rest of the fucking band. We were finally just able to write, and we killed that shit.

 There was something else too, though. I’m not sure how it started… I guess that first night we bonded—shared trauma, you know? And the next morning when I woke up on the couch, she was in my arms. All that time we were fooling around, that had never happened. When I woke up and saw her asleep on my chest, I just closed my eyes and lay there, not wanting to get up. Corny, I know. Eventually, she woke up—Murray’s fault—and she kissed me, on my cheek. She probably thought I was still asleep.

After that, it was like all bets were off. We started being affectionate with each other all of a sudden. We didn’t have sex—somehow it felt like sex would ruin it. But it was like we had entered this alternate universe where we were just, I don’t know, two twenty-somethings that were in love and living together and making good fucking art.

She would do this thing when she wanted my attention and kiss me on the jaw. She would make me breakfast—Eggos, the woman has never been a chef—but it was the thought that counted. I would make her her tea every night, exactly how she liked it. I somehow knew how she liked her tea. I know it sounds so… mundane and small but all the little things added together is what makes something real.

We wouldn’t talk about it. It would’ve ruined it, we both knew.  It was like if we didn’t acknowledge it, we were giving the other person room to back out.

If you asked her how she’d describe that week we spent in the suburbs, I’m not really sure what she’d say, but if you ask me, right now, I would still say it was one of the best weeks of my life.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Nancy!” you yell across the driveway at the brunette.

The keyboardist turns and waves emphatically before handing her cab driver a few dollar bills for the fare.

You run out towards her, throwing your arms around her neck in delight.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you breathe out, as your eyes scan over her in assessment. She looked more haggard than before, the bags under her eyes were more prominent. Despite this, her smile is genuine.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she says as you lead her up the front steps while Eddie follows with her small luggage.

You immediately launch into a tour of the house while Eddie, generously, has made himself sparse to give the two of you some privacy and goes out for a smoke.

Nancy, being the gracious guest that she was, had no qualms with taking the waterbed and while you helped get her settled into her new space, she fills you in with what’s been happening in your absence.

“Robin went back home; her younger sister is about to start at Marquette. Argyle went back to Arizona for a few days and Steve went with him.”

Hearing Steve’s name was jarring but even more so was hearing that he had traveled to a whole other state without you knowing about it. That was a silly thought, you knew, after all, you hadn’t spoken to him once since you’d traveled inland. Plus, you had been living the last week in a watercolor haze with Eddie, something that only worked when you pushed Steve to the back of your mind.

“How are things with Jonathan?” You cut in, anxious to be rid of any mention of Steve from the conversation. It’s Nancy who then falters. and grows tense.

“He was very supportive of me coming here,” she divulges, lowly. “He seemed kind of guilty when I told him how this was affecting me. That’s Jonathan for you though, constantly carrying the weight of everyone’s problems on his shoulders.”

“Gee,” you let out a mirthless laugh, “I wonder who he has that in common with?”

Nancy rolls her eyes, but her shoulders relax, a tiny bit, and slowly, the information unspools out of her. She tells you about Jonathan’s family—his worrisome mother, his absent father, and his perpetually sick younger brother who was the reason behind anything he did—and about the nights spent in hospital waiting rooms, hopeful for miracle treatments to finally deliver (they never do).

You felt the weight of burden coming

Nancy rolls her eyes, but her shoulders relax, a tiny bit and slowly, she begins to unfurl.

She tells you about Jonathan’s family—his worrisome mother and his absent father and his perpetually sick younger brother that was the reason behind anything he did—and about the nights spent in hospital waiting rooms, hopeful for miracle treatments to finally deliver (they never do).

 She talks about her own family too, and the mounting pressure to be successful in the face of her parents’ disapproval after she had turned down her university full ride in favor of the band.

She also tells you about the growing tension in the band’s shared house and how she’s pretty sure everyone is sick of living with each other, but no one wants to be the first to admit it.

She’s being pulled taunt in every direction and as you listen to her unload her burdens, for the first time, you feel lucky to only have yourself to answer to.

Later, once Nancy’s heart has been borne, and you’re out on the deck with Eddie, you can’t help but share your discovery with him in between cigarette puffs.

“I dunno,” he shrugs stiffly, “I’d like to think that the right person would be worth any trouble they may bring to your life. She seems to think so too,” he motions towards the sliding glass kitchen doors towards Nancy who is currently on the phone with Jonathan, her brow once again furrowed in worry.

You tilt your head, unconvinced, “Maybe they see it that way, but for me, it just seems like a slippery slope to plate throwing.”

He laughs dryly at this, a quick exhale of smoke that frames him in a momentary halo. He’s leaning with his arms against the deck railing and the smoke mixes prettily with the spackling of stars in the night sky bringing out his fine, aristocratic features and making him look like a painting brought to life.

“Just because our folks were pieces of work that doesn’t mean you should give up on love altogether.”

The statement stuns you for a moment—you were sure that in Eddie you’d find a kindred spirit, a fellow love nihilist.

“I haven’t given up on love,” you backtrack, “ I’m just afraid, I guess.” The last part comes out small but you can’t help it.

This peaks Eddie’s interest, “Afraid? I’ve never seen you afraid of anything. What could you possibly be afraid of?”

You sigh, the conversation having veered out of your control but at this point you’re too caught up to stop it.

“I guess I’m scared that I’ll love someone so much I would lose sight of everything else I really want,” you explain. “Or worse, that I would give it all up if they asked me to,” you confide voice small, “that I would do anything they’d ask me to.”

“That’s kinda what love feels like though,” Eddie lights another cigarette, “like you’d let them do anything to you but trust them not to. Because if they really loved you, they wouldn’t make you give up something that was important to you.”

Then, before you can stop it, the question comes tumbling out, “have you ever been in love like that?”

He looks at you hard, like he’s willing you to know the answer. Finally, after what feels like an eternity he responds, “Yeah, once or twice.”

“How was that?” You croak out awkwardly. What you’re really asking is what did you let them do to you?

He laughs, a little softer this time, a little bird endeared and a little bit incredulous. “You’re asking me how it is to be in love?”

You nod, feeling a little silly.

Eddie takes another puff of his cigarette, mulling over the question carefully.

“It kinda sucks,” he eventually says, “you feel constantly exposed, like a wounded animal. And you hate everything that isn’t them. And you would do anything for them, which is terrifying. And you spend the whole time wondering how it will end—because of course, you never feel worthy of them—and then when it does, it’s like a dull knife. But that’s okay because it’s all worth it and I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

You sit with his answer, rolling it back and forth in your mind like a marble on concrete. He watches you, expectantly, once again with that willing expression on his face. You’re trying to read his mind but you’re not sure you can.

Eventually, you say aloud the only thing you can think of, “You should put that in a song.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Having Nancy around is great.

For one, she’s a great songwriting collaborator. Her skill with the piano is unmatched and she has a propensity for ballads that neither you nor Eddie seem to possess.

Also, having her around helps curb whatever was happening with you and Eddie.  Things did not stop, however, they didn’t go further than where they were and you’re certain that if Nancy hadn’t With Nancy around to keep you focused, you’re churning out songs—good quality songs—faster than ever.

Murray asks to see what you have halfway through your stay and you fax him the best of what you’ve written. It’s a struggle between the three of you to get the ancient fax machine in Murray’s home office to actually work but the 30 minutes of cursing on the phone with ‘Murray’s secretary is worth it when later that evening the producers gives you a call to tell you that you’ve finally hit the mark.

“It was like pulling teeth, but you got there. Thank Wheeler for me,” he says over the line and it’s the closest you’ll ever get to a direct compliment from him. He mentions something about sharing the songs with a few others to help with the arrangements and then hangs up without saying a proper goodbye but you barely register that because you’re too relieved.

“He likes it!” you announce and the three of you whoop in celebration. Eddie picks you up and spins you around landing a kiss on your temple that you’re hoping Nancy, by some miracle, missed.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

NANCY: I saw when he kissed her that night, but that was nowhere near the first weird exchange I caught between them that week.

Nothing big, just little couple things, you know? The little minutia that two people in a relationship do like making each other coffee and gentle touches and talking soft and careful to each other.

The type of things Jonathan and I used to do before things got bad.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“What’s going on between you and Eddie?”

Nancy’s tone isn’t accusatory when she asks, just curious.

It’s the night before you are slated to go back to LA and the two of you are on a sunset walk around the neighborhood, it was all very domestic, and you had been enjoying it immensely until Nancy’s curiosity got the best of her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you respond, airily, “nothing’s going on.”

She cuts you a look that says you know better than to lie to her and you deflate and come clean.

After she bore you all her troubles on the night of her arrival, you feel like you owe her some honesty in return.

So you tell her everything from the beginning.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

NANCY: Frankly, for the entirety of our first tour, I thought something was going on between her and Steve, so when she told me that she and Eddie had been sleeping together during the tour, well that totally took me by surprise.

The craziest part was that they had never talked about it. Well, maybe it’s not that crazy, neither of them is really known for being upfront about their feelings.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“So are you two in a relationship?”

“No, I don’t think so?”

“So what, you just sleep together and are affectionate with one another and take care of each other? That’s a relationship.” Before you can argue back, Nancy jumps into the next question, “What about Steve? I honestly thought you two had something going on.”

“Steve is great. He’s kind and easy to be around, and so is Steve. But he doesn’t see me for who I am. He expects too much from me, and I know I’m going to let him down. " You feel stupid and dramatic admitting this, but you want Nancy to understand.

“Eddie knows me, he knows what to expect of me. He’s not trying to convince me to buy into this…  fairytale relationship box Steve is trying to put me in. Eddie just kind of takes whatever I can spare when it comes to affection, and he doesn’t ask for more. It’s convenient with him.”

“You both deserve more than convenience and scraps of affection,” Nancy argues.

“Listen,” she pauses on the sidewalk to look at you, eyes as big as the moon under the light of the streetlamp, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but we both know this thing is a ticking time bomb.

“You need to spend some time figuring out how you really feel and have some honest conversations with both of them before someone gets hurt.”

That’s the last thing she says before walking away.  

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[munsonsreputation]

hii! omg so i rlly love your writing its incredible. i have two requests but you can choose whichever one! the first one is an imagine w steve and the reader based off of call it what you want by taylor. orr a hurt/comfort imagine where the reader is basically comforting steve maybe aft he’s had a fight w his parents or something? again i rlly love your writing literally look forward for new writeups all the time!

at least we did one thing right

a/n: this one has been sitting in my inbox since forever and i managed to stir up this cute little thing. ciwyw is one of my favorite tracks of reputation and i can't wait to get the re-recording of this (hopefully soon!!!)

The party was in full swing, and by party you meant all of your close friends who are gathered in Steve’s living room and kitchen entertaining themselves while you and Steve hid away in his backyard like a routine.

His gaze flickered through the sliding doors, mock concern etched on his features as he mutters under his breath, “I swear to god, they better not pick the pineapple off the other slices.”

You turned your head to see what he was going on about, and sure enough the teenage boys were ravaging the kitchen like they hadn’t eaten in days. At this rate, they were like bottomless pits, and you weren’t quite sure how they were able to put away a portion of food without blinking.

Still, you snorted, swatting a hand over his thigh and garnering his attention back to you.

“They’re growing boys and their appetites are different from when they were twelve. We can order another if they’re still hungry.” You shrugged.

He shook his head, shifting to pull your legs over and across his lap.

“I ordered pineapple for you, and you should at least get to have one slice of it.” Steve insisted, though your orbs were too clouded with heart eyes to see the irritation he wore for the innocently selfish boys.

You pursed your lips into a tight smile, hooking your arm over his bicep, tugging yourself closer to him, “You’re so cute for someone who hogs all the blankets at night.”

He looked down at you, shaking his head with a mushy smile coming over him, “Hey you’re the one who likes the house freezing!”

Steve rumbles a string of laughter into the air, using his free arm that’s not being clung onto, to drape over your frame, practically wrenching your whole body onto his as you begin joining in the amusement. You give up on trying to get the upper-hand, letting yourself sit comfortably in his lap, your joined hands resting on either side of your bodies and you lean down to lay your head on his chest.

You snuggled deeper into the fabric of his shirt, inhaling the lingering scent of his cologne. It’s a simple pleasure of yours to be wrapped up in his arms, high above the whole scene, in your own little world like nothing else mattered.

“You’re my portable space heater, got all the warmth I need,” you declared, pressing kind kisses over his chest feeling his lips brush over your hairline.

Steve thought he must have done something right in this lifetime in order to give himself to you in a way he hadn’t given anyone else before. He doesn’t care that it’s simply you two sneaking away just to act like corny teenagers again. All of that fades into nothing when you look at him the way you do.

But before you could savor the moment, a familiar voice interrupted from above, followed by the squeak of rusty wheels gliding across the frame.

“Are you guys having fun out here without us!” Robin shouted, ringing out closer as she approached you both, but of course not without the presence of Eddie by her side.

You sat up, laughing, while Steve groaned and craned his neck to greet them. “You guys have to stop sneaking off to do whatever this is,” Eddie teased, gesturing between you both with a lighthearted smirk.

Steve grunted, “You’re just mad you don’t have a girlfriend to love on,” he shot back, pulling you down by the wrists to meet his lips in a messy kiss that left you giggling.

Eddie feigned revulsion and quickly retreated back inside, while Robin settled beside your bodies, her eyes twinkling with affection. “I still think you guys are adorable, even though this sneaking off thing is getting old.”

Robin had always been rooting for the two of you — there was just something about you both that made perfect sense, and when you finally bit the bullet, it was safe to say she was celebratory about the whole thing.

“We just don’t want to bore you guys with our public displays of affection,” you teased, sharing a knowing smile with Robin who threw her head back and laughed at all the times your friends would scold you both to cut out the lovey dovey acts.

Steve interjected, “Last time we cuddled on the couch you kicked us out of movie night…in my house!”

Robin rolled her eyes, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That’s because we could all smell the sexual tension between you guys. Seriously, just get it out of your systems before we get here.”

You slapped your hands over your flushed face, groaning behind them, “Noted. We’ll remember that for next time.” You promised, shaking your head.

Steve couldn’t contain his laughter, his eyes crinkling as he turned to his best friend with a pleading look. “Now, can you please leave and let me make out with my girlfriend in peace?”

She rose up out of the lounger with a grin, “If there’s one thing you guys did right, it’s each other… and I don’t mean sex!” With that she disappeared back inside, leaving you both to yourselves.

Steve gently pulled your hands away from your face, his soft smiling easing away any idling embarrassment that you knew was all in good fun. He brought your hands closer to his lips, spreading kisses across your knuckles that made your stomach flip with warmth.

“Well, at least did one thing right,” He murmured, raising his brows up at you as you blushed and nodded.

“We sure did.” You whispered, before cupping his cheeks and bringing yourself down to him.

Your eyes fluttered shut, closing the distance between your lips, fitting themselves together like a daydream. The jokers and the drama queens could take all the swings and call it whatever they wanted to — as long as you and Steve knew it was love.

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