#my boys are going through it

[sabbathbloodysabbeth]

Desire

Ao3 Link

Tw; Mentions of drug use/addiction, implied child abuse, strong themes of mental issues, mention of vomit (but not in detail)

Words; 6k

Summary; Eddie Munson finds himself under the influence and alone in Steve Harrington's bathroom. Not alone for the first time, but being in Steve Harrington's bathroom was definitely a first. Dabbling in his stash he comes to the realization that he doesn't want to become his father or go down the same path as him. Only eighteen, he's scared of disappointment and failing his uncle who has saved him from himself time after time again. Feeling like he is the only one who seems to not be mentally okay, Steve Harrington decides to stumble into his bathroom proving that there are others out there like him falling apart at the seams and barely keeping it together. He finds himself not only being comforted in his struggles he also finds himself comforting Steve who seems to be dealing with something far worse than Daddy issues.

Eddie doesn't mean to. One second he's in the thick of it, the center of the party as he hands out little baggies of drugs out to anyone who would sneak a crumpled up twenty in his hand. The next he finds himself in the bathroom, the wallpaper so ugly it hurts his eyes to the point he believes that's the reason he's throwing up. Not because of the drugs that were slowly pumping through his veins, causing his head to begin spinning in a bad way as the rush hits him.

He was unsure when he decided it would be a good idea to dabble in his own stash. Before, it had always been his number one rule not to finding any other drug dealer who did foolish. Now he was a hypocrite that craved for more then the drug. The hidden desire to be like the teenagers that had been swarming around him outside of this small bathroom. He wanted to be carefree not having to worry about bills, helping his uncle keep food on the table, or for one of these drug deals to suddenly go wrong and all that his uncle had been working for, for the past decade gone down the drain.

Eddie was still young, eighteen and finally in his senior year. Almost out of this hellhole known as Hawkins. He still had a chance to turn his life around, stop selling drugs or "experimenting" and get a more stable footing. He knows that Wayne would gladly get him a spot to work at in the factory but Eddie didn't want that life. He wanted something bigger. Something out of this world. He wanted to be like Ozzy, Dio, Tommy Lee, and Gene Simmons. Not like his father. Who could barely scrape enough money to keep a roof over their heads, and apart of Eddie understands that Al Munson needed to break the law to survive. Sell stolen cars for food. What Al Munson didn't have to do though was beat the shit out of Eddie whenever anything went wrong.

Drugs.

Drugs were the most stable thing in Eddie's life. Sure, Wayne was consistent but drugs have always been there since Eddie could remember. On the counters, in his pockets as he helped his father smuggle bags across neighborhoods, and even in his own system when things didn't feel right. Feel a bit down, people tell you to smoke weed. Solve all your issues. For a while it did. It helped Eddie float by on his own little cloud up until it didn't.

The longer Eddie listened to those people the more he realized that drugs were becoming the issue. Consuming him in ways that he's only heard from those who came to talk at school. This, this was going to be the last time. Eddie was determined on that. Though he had said that the last couple of times he's been like this. He needed help and he didn't know where to go. There was of course always Wayne, but he didn't want the man to look at him like he did his father. With pity, shame, and a lot of disappointment because Eddie should know better. Especially after what happened to his father.

He should but yet here he was, groaning he lifts his head up from the bowl. His eyes stay closed as he gags a bit more when the smell of toilet water hits his nostrils again. Throwing himself back from the stench, his head hits the wall. A soft thump, loud enough to gather attention if anyone was paying attention. That was unlikely as everyone was pretty drunk right now. Letting his head slack to the side a bit he lets his vision swim around him like a horoscope. He wondered if this was how flies saw the world. If so, he doesn't understand how they weren't constantly throwing up. Then again they did eat literal shit, so tunnel vision was most likely the least of their worries.

Squirming a bit, he fidgets with himself as he tilts his head back to look up at the light. His hair falls past his shoulders as he blinks lucidly, not processing the brightness of the bulb hurting his eyes as he giggles gently feeling the high set in. The warm feeling wraps itself around him like angel wings, protecting him from the darkness that lives inside of him. Numbing him enough for him to forget that he was currently at a party. In the bathroom of Steve Harringtons' house as he blacks in and out of reality. Fighting for control for a few minutes before giving in with a soft sigh. His body going lax as he gives up.

Time was always wonky when he was like this. Five minutes felt like an hour, a minute felt like twelve, and so on and on. So, he could not tell you how long he was in there for. Barely reacting when the door opens, not a surprise as he was too busy trying to hold his vomit in to remember on locking the door behind him. His reactions slow as he blinks startled as he sees an exhausted Steve Harrington walking in. Looking just as alarmed as Eddie felt.

Looking confused Steve hesitates. Not saying anything for a second as he stares at the other dumbly, like a deer in headlights. Before he flees into action, "Parties over, need to get out Munson." he says dully. The bags under his eyes were noticeable to Eddie who frowns as he tries to process what was going on. Moving he fights to stand up, unable to do so as he makes a soft whining noise. Eyes filling with irritation and embarrassment. The first crack in the dam of the great Munson flood. Everything starts to seep out uncontrollably as he tries to hold it in, save it for later. But it's too late as his body gives in to his needs and he's sobbing uncontrollably.

The high was not worth it anymore. It used to make him feel good far longer than this, and now he felt like shit. His hands shaking as he couldn't control his body. His brain streams a spew of anxious thoughts through his head. Wayne was going to kick him out if he found out. Eddies crying, and he doesn't even know the reason why. There had been so many instances when he kept his emotions bottled that he was not sure which one finally made him snap. Made him go crazy enough to cry like a little bitch in front of Steve Harrington.

He doesn't know what's happening and that's making everything seem far scarier than what it really was. He felt the other boy, who was only a year younger than him staring at him intently. Eddie felt like he was really living up to his nickname, a freak. A freak who was currently putting a complete stranger through a very uncomfortable encounter. Eddie was supposed to be an adult, yet here he was breaking down in front of someone that was legally still a child. For some reason that thought only makes him cry more. Eddie was barely a full year older than the other and he has yet to view himself as a child. The reality that his childhood was taken away from him because of drugs setting in as tears started to run down his cheeks. His eyelashes stick to his skin as he struggles to open his eyes from feeling so out of it and from crying so hard.

Time was fucking with him again, In the back of his head he knew that the whole encounter that was happening between him and the other boy was only a few seconds long. But the drugs were telling him it was much longer than that. He's pretty sure he was going through a mid-life crisis or something. He loses himself in his thoughts more as he realizes he's no better than his father. Selling drugs to those who have perfect lives is something that should be cherished but is only going to be destroyed by Eddie's doing. He's having a come to Jesus moment, as with in the next few seconds he makes the decision to no longer sell drugs to high schoolers. It's all going by so fast in his brain that he's not sure he's going to remember his promise in the morning.

Clap!

He blinks confused as two hands slap together in front of his face, a soft buzz clogging his ears from hearing anything but the muffled slap of skin. His eyes begin to regain focus as they stare back at Steve who is still staring at him carefully. As if he was on the verge of calling nine one one at any moment. Oh, God. Why did Eddie have the worst luck that always led him into situations like these. Covered in snot, tears, and possibly puke in front of the most popular boy of Hawkins?

"Hey... hey Munson." The boy's voice seeps through the fog. It barely does but it makes itself through, penetrating Eddie's brain enough for him to finally react to the other. Who looks like he's been trying to gather his attention for a minute now. Steve's eyebrows are furrowed up in concern as his hands stay at a safe distance from the other, but stays in Eddie's personal bubble just in case. In case of what Eddie wasn't sure.

Eddie blinks at the other, barely there as he frowns a bit as he feels his body moving up, almost on its own with Steve's help. Being led to the bathtub as Steve easily moves his legs in one by one. Moving and forcing him to sit down as Steve handles him with such care that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"What-" He slurs a little bit, blinking as he tries to talk but it felt like peanut butter was in his mouth, preventing him from doing such a task. "What are you doing?" His words come together, creating one but the other seems to understand what he was trying to ask as Steve smiles sadly at him, revealing a crack in his well pieced together image. Revealing his true nature to Eddie who was broken and drowning in his own mess in this tub.

Eddies high. Eddie is plastered, not in reality but he can tell when someone is like him. Broken. Barely holding on with a fake smile that was far different then someone who had it together. Relief hits him as he realizes he's not the only one out there. Then guilt as he felt greedy for feeling relief at the sign of the other man's pain.

"Helping you man, don't want you to die in my bathroom," Steve says bluntly in an attempt to put that image back up that he didn't care about Eddie, but it was to late it had started to shatter a little. A glimpse of something dark seeping through that Eddie caught and wanted to see more of. And he didn't want to see the pieces that Steve has horribly glued together, not the image that has been up for years now. Seemingly destroyed out of nowhere.

Whatever it was that came through those cracks was dark, dark enough to trigger a morbid curiosity in Eddie. What could have possibly happened to Steve Harrington that made him mentally age up so fast? So fast that it gave Eddie whiplash as he could of sworn that just last month the other was looking down at people like him. Shoving teenagers against lockers and calling them queer for just being true to their authentic selfs. Now he was helping out one of those "queers" and it seemed to be a total one eighty personality wise. It just didn't make any sense. Someone didn't just change out of nowhere without something happening and Eddie wanted to know what that something was.

Eddie furrows his eyebrows a bit, confused as he wonders if he was misreading what the other was doing. The other genuinely seemed more worried about him then his bathroom, even if he was trying to make it not seem that way. Was Steve Harrington actually a decent human being? Something that Eddie had deemed unbelievable as his mouth opens trying to say something. Before he can say anything Steve is starting to move into action. Deciding it better to ignore Eddie from now on as his hands move to tug at the vest and leather coat that was wrapped around his body. Not giving the other enough time to protest.

Eddie makes some incomprehensible noise from the back of his throat as he hesitantly starts to let the other slide his clothes off his body. Leaving him in his shorts and his pants as Steve crouches down to his knees. Face scrunched up on a mission as he helps the other to the best of his ability. Only contradicting his goal of making Eddie think he didn't care.

"What are you doing?" Eddie asks, feeling dumb. He felt so out of control, he hated every second of it but another apart of him was enjoying every gentle touch the other gave him. Treating him as something that needed to be protected, not something that needed to be tough-end up like his father had. His body goes limp without his permission under the others hands, secretly blaming it on the drugs as he tilts his head back a little. A dopey smile on his face as he decides to just ride the high of being touched, something that didn't come often. "If you wanted to get me to strip so bad Harrington, just had to ask." He giggles gently under his breath trying to lighten the mood a bit. Blinking a few times as well, eyelids closing a few seconds to long causing him to miss the soft laugh coming from the other boys throat. Who thankfully found him amusing instead of annoying or worst disgusting.

"Well, I didn't think you would want to sleep in your own vomit and my concious would not feel right letting you go to bed like this." Steve admits as he leans over the tub like hes done this countless times. Possibly he has, with Tommy Hagan being his best friend Eddie wouldn't be to surprised. The way Steve handles himself and the vomit covered clothes only proves Eddie's hypothesis that he has done this before. The other barely even reacts to the smell or anything as he throws Eddie's Black Sabbath shirt off to the side. Leaving the metalhead shirtless and slouching forward a bit, looking at Steve with shocked adoration the longer he sits there.

Steves hands don't go any lower then his stomach, head tilting up and to the side to look at Eddie with a soft smile. Still a bit forced but more tired then anything as he asks. "Mind pulling your pants off for me? Don't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

Steves face is now a soft pink as he begins to lean against the side of the tub. Sleep obviously working its way into his body, the sight making Eddie feel bad about keeping him up later then what he had to.

Eddie doesn't argue and forces himself to focus on the task at hand, and lifts his hips up awkwardly and begins to shimmy his pants down. Groaning as he does, revealing his checkered boxers as he tries not to get any vomit on his skin. Holding the bunched up pants together once he's done and looks over at Steve for directions. Letting the other carefully take them from him, setting it on top of his shirt as he moves and stands up again. Moving to the shower and quickly turning it on cold, all of it spraying and soaking Eddie up immediately.

"Son of a Bitch!" Eddie's voice cracks as he yelps out. Hands flying up to shield his face a bit as he feels his curls stick to his skin, along with his boxers. One hand quickly moving down to shield his crotch just in case the cloth was see through. He shakes his head a bit, water going all over as he whines loudly. Struggling to get away from the freezing water. "Harrington! I thought we had something going on here!" He yelps out as he slides around the tub like a fish out of water. Faintly hearing Steve scolding him for getting water all over the place while also laughing a little.

When the water is finally shut off Eddie feels like he has more control over himself. Still not completely as he squirms around shivering, arms crossing over his chest as he tries to curl up in himself to regain some body heat. Melting when he feels Steves much warmer hand land on his shoulder, gathering his attention as he looks up with loose tears slipping from his eyes. Making his eyes seem bigger then what they were as he looks up seeing Steve standing above him holding a glass of water that seemed to be pulled out of thin air.

No words are said as Eddies hands shakily reach out and takes the glass from him. He carefully drinks half the glass before his wet hands slip and dumps the rest all over his chest. The more sober he becomes, the more embarrassed he feels as more tears form in his eyes. Close to crying again, only refraining when he feels Steves looming presence over his shoulders. One hand carefully holding his back as the other moves down and takes the glass from him before he can hurt himself anymore. Then proceeding to set the glass down on the edge of the tub, eyes never moving from Eddie.

"I'm going to go get you some warmer clothes to wear okay?" Steve says gently, moving and pulling a fuzzy blue towel off from a rack and moves to gently wrap it around Eddie like a blanket. Eddie nods dumbly as he relaxes back into the tub. Feeling the lasting effects of whatever he has in his system dwindling and exhaustion start to take over. Causing him to melt impossibly more into the tub. Waiting as minutes slowly start to feel like minutes again as he hears shuffling coming from the other room.

His head stays tilted to the side as he smiles gently when Steve stumbles in with a pile of clothes in his arms. Who was unable to choose something for Eddie. Sweaters, shirts, boxers and sweatpants in his arms as he quickly drops to his knees with a soft thud. Looking over at Eddie with wide hazel eyes that were full of anxiety. Like he was afraid of doing something wrong.

Eddie sniffles a little as he smiles brightly, "Give me the Harrington special." He says without much thought. "Whats the most comfortable thing to wear in that jock mess of yours?" He teases as he moves struggling to sit up. Wanting to catch what the other has chosen to bring him he notices a blue striped polo along with pair of normal grey sweatpants hidden in the mess of dark colors. He could see other comfy looking sweaters and pants but the polo and grey sweats stuck out to him the most.

Steve sets the other clothes off to the side, far as possible from the vomit covered ones as he gets the new ones situated on the toilet cover. As he moves them Eddie can see a brand new pair of boxers that still had the size sticker on them.

Steve then continues and moves forward to offer Eddie a hand, who takes it happily and pulls himself up a bit wobbly. Eddie felt frozen as small little cold chills race through him, forcing his body to shake even more.

There's a brief pause as they both hold each others hand, Steve wanting to make sure Eddie doesn't fall on his face. Who then pulls his hand from Steves to move it under his armpit. Crossing his arms as he begins to feel a bit self conscious about everything. About this situation that he's forced Steve to be in to the fact that he was currently shirtless in one of the most jacked athletes in Hawkins.

His eyes begins to go hazy, drifting away from reality for a moment. Regaining focus after a moment, coming back to to see that he was staring a hole into the others floor. After a moment of breathing, questions start to fill his brain again. Trying to understand what the others goal was here.

"Why... why are you helping me?" He asks again. Still bewildered as he lets his eyes move to look back up at the other with confusion. This time Steve's eyes aren't meeting his and Eddie feels like there was more going on here. Never moving his eyes away from the others short movements, not missing the way the other seemed to be forcing himself to do everything. Like he didn't even want to be moving at all. Joints seemingly stiff as his limbs move, and if Eddie would have to guess they were probably like that from exhaustion. The bags under the others eyes a strong give away to Eddie's deductive reasoning.

"Like I said, I don't want you to die in my bathroom." Steve answers a bit shakily. Now holding onto another towel as he puts on a fake smile for Eddie, who frowns more. Not believing the other, well he did. He didn't think the other actually wanted him to die but there was some other hidden reason in there as well. One that Steve seemed desperate to not share.

Now realizing that the towel he recieved before was now crumpled up at the bottom of the tub Eddie takes the towel from the other. Beginning to dry his hair first before slowly rubbing at his skin, careful to not agitate his skin like the towels at home did.

"Don't do that." Eddie bitterly snips at the other as he casually bends over a bit to dry his legs. He doesn't mean to, but he was currently at his lowest and he doesn't want Steve to pretend to be any better then Eddie mentally. Strangely that hurt more then when  the other acted better then him just because he was a jock and had more money. It was obvious to him that the other was not okay.

"What?" Steve asks confused, eyebrows knitting together to express a simple emotion that seemed to have so much effort on his part. Mouth falling open a bit as he squints at the other as if he was struggling to see and for all Eddie knew he was. Something he quickly takes note of, for what he was unsure.

"Pretend... pretending to be doing better then me. You look like you are also on your last thread and I think its bullshit. Bullshit, that youre trying to act like this whole situation is normal when it isn't. Its painfully obvious that I'm not okay and just looking at you it seems like you aren't either so stop. Stop pretending man," Eddies eyes are filling with tears again as his words slur together. Hands moving out a bit and aimlessly pointing at the other. Never poking him in the chest as he sways on his feet a little. Shaky breathes falling from his mouth as he finds that the longer he stands there the harder it was to keep his eyes open.

Steve's reaction is unreadable as he silently hands Eddie the blue polo once he seems to be done drying himself. Eddie takes the shirt and pulls it over his head. Looking down at his wet briefs and back up at Steve who was now looking away not saying a word, holding a dry pair of boxers in his left hand. Dangling between his fingers waiting for Eddie to take them.

His silence could easily be mistaken as him being pissed at Eddie, thats what Eddie thinks at first before he realizes this was who the other was when he wasn't pretending. Shoulders sagged, head hanging to look down at the floor as he no longer puts any effort in his movement. Like he was now floating, in a similar way Eddie was. No longer fighting to stay grounded where he was as Eddie gets changed. No more words are exchanged as Eddie steps out of the tub to slip the sweat pants chosen on. Nearly stumbling and falling on his face from the lack of control over his limbs.

Smiling a bit tense as Steve is quick to catch him. Well Eddie wouldn't describe it as catching, the other wasn't putting much effort into holding him. Just allowing him to lean against him as both stay impossibly close. The contact making both of them stiffen up and back up away from each other a little. Both of them stumbling over their own feet as their eyes lift up and hesitantly meet. A conversation beginning with no words. Both of them to exhausted to speak. A different exhaustion then being physically tired.

Steve moves his head a bit, slides his feet out of the bathroom once he opens the door. Eddie follows along, no longer looking at the other for guidance. Instead he floats along with the other as they both silently walk down the dark halls of the now very silent house. Eddie was unable to see Steve that well anymore so he wasn't able to see him react to the silence or the mess that seemed to explode all over the house. Not just downstairs.

He tags along as Steve enters a room, looking over at his shoulder at Eddie who moves in with him. Confusion written all over his face as he realizes that this ugly room was Steve's. Turning his head he looks over at Steve with questions behind his eyes. Questions that couldn't be answered nonverbally as Steve begins to stutter out words. The effort of talking seemed to make him more uncomfortable then the idea of having a complete stranger share a room with him.

"I- I thought it would be better if you sleep in here with me. I don't want you falling down the stairs because I put you in the guest room that's next to the stairs and you try going to the bathroom and whoops, you've broken your neck." Steve's starting to ramble anxiously now. "and the two other guest rooms are a mess. I haven't gotten a chance to clean them so theres stuff on the floors in there and I don't want you tripping when you are like this. Plus I don't want to leave you alone when you are not sober just in case you accidentally overdose or something."

The words are pooling out and swimming around Eddies head. None of the very obvious excuses sticking as Eddie simply nods deciding not to question the other anymore or else he was going to get a headache. Lets the other live behind another image as he moves and flops himself down on the bed. Letting the silence fall over them again as he accepts his fate of sharing a bed with Steve Harrington, who seems eager to have someone else with him.

Eddie turns his head a bit and watches the other curiously, the other starting his bed time routine when he realizes that Eddie was no longer going to question him. Steves shoulders have grown tense as he pins his curtains up against the wall allowing the moonlight to fall in and brighten the room up. Casting more shadows along the room that the other seemed to hate a lot as he turns a light on to see better. Moving and taking what seems to be a starwars night light and plugging it in. If it hadn't seem to be to much effort, Eddie might have laughed. But as he looks at the other more, really looks at him he decides that if he could laugh he wouldn't.

There was something very wrong with the boy and Eddie couldn't place what. His first guess was that the other was afraid of the dark. Watching intently as Steve moves around the room, avoiding any dark area that the light didn't meet. Now closer to his closet as his hands move and shut the doors, right before he is running a hand through his hair. A nervous fidget possibly. Now if Eddie wasn't high, and thinking logically he probably wouldn't want to share a room with the other. Actually he would be home right now.

Though apart of him was happy he was here as he notices that Steve seems to have grown frozen. Body stiff as he stares down at the floor, eyes glazed over again. He doesn't look like he's here in reality anymore and he was the sober one. Which now that Eddie thinks about it, is a smidge weird considering the fact the other had been the host of the party.

Eddie doesn't say anything, let's the other be until his concern starts to grow. The other could possibly be having a seizure, he has seen someone have one similar to this. Just staring off with out realizing it. Eddie wouldn't be shocked if the other had them, after being hit in the head so many times between sports, Jonathan Byers and Billy Hargroves fists.

Eddie forces his body up off the bed, hearing the loud creak of the bed that seems to trigger Steve back into the real world leading to a very understandable anxiety attack. Steve's body shakes, hands squeezed into pale fists and chest heaving forward and back as he struggles to breathe. Head tilted and looking over at Eddie like he wasn't real. Stepping back as his back hits the wall. He doesn't seem like hes fully there as Eddie moves closer.

Steves hands fly up in the air as he starts to plead something. Eddies gut drops as this wasn't normal for a seventeen year old to be doing. There was something terribly wrong and Eddie doesn't know if he can help.

"Steve, Steve!" He yells trying to get him to come back to him. The others tears were overwhelming Eddie and it was making Eddie uncomfortable. Watching someone who has been perfect his entire highschool career seemingly snapping. "Its me, Its Munson. We are in your room about to go to bed man." Eddie is trying his hardest not to yell again. Not enjoying the way the other flinches back. Reminding him of himself when he first moved in with Wayne.

Something was off and Eddie wasn't sure if he wanted to know what if it made the other look like that.

So afraid and lost.

Eddie doesn't move much closer to the other, staying in the spot he stood to afraid to trigger the other more. Steves body is spasming awkwardly as his eyes stay glossed over, the bags underr them growing bigger right under Eddies concerned watch. The other was shaking, breathing coming in gasps before Eddie says fuck it and stumbles forward. Regretting his decision of getting high. But if he hadn't he wouldn't be here right now. Moving and pulling the other into a hug.

They were both two complete strangers, gripping onto each other once they realized that this was something they both needed. Steves still shaking as he hides his face in Eddies shoulder. Eddie is melting and not trying to put armor up to toughen up for the other. Instead he melts, and gives in as they become a puddle of tears. Both not okay as they stay like that for who knows how long.

Steve pulling back as his eyes grow wide, he seems to be there more then what he had been. "I am so sorry." He stutters out.

Eddie smiles tightly at the other, trying to act cool. Trying to be the rock of whatever fucked up situation they were in. But after a moment of trying he decides to follow his advice from earlier and not pretend as his smile quickly drops. "No don't me." He says gently. On his knees now as his eyes look at the other with curiosity.

He was watching in real time as the other starts to rebuild his walls. Starts to pull back from Eddie, literally and figuratively as he stands. Looking anywhere but Eddie as he sniffles, rubbing his eyes a bit. Eddie's mouth opens to ask the other questions, a light noise leaving his throat before he snaps his mouth back shut when his eyes meet the others cold, dull eyes. If this wasn't a messed up situation Eddie possibly would have made a joke about being on his knees in front of Steve. But instead he forces himself up, letting the other drag him along whatever cloud that he has been living on all by himself. Blinking and one second he's standing at the closet, the next he is laying back in the others bed.

Ignoring the way the others body shake and it wasn't from being cold. The room was hotter then Texas's balls, Eddie could barely have the others sheets wrapped around him because of it. The lights now all off, with the exception of the night light. But by the others actions Eddie wouldn't be to surprised if the other didn't leave his lamp light on also most nights. From the way he was taking shaky breathes to the way he squirmed around uncomfortably Steve Harrington was afraid. Of what, was the unknown part to Eddie. A mystery.

Eddie was high trailer trash who couldn't even help his father when he needed him most, or himself as he drowns in emotions. How was he supposed to help Steve Harrington? He's lost in his thoughts for what seems like forever. He could slowly feel the effects of what he took dwindling, eyes growing heavy. He knew the other was still awake, his body was still shaking and he tapping his fingers against the sheets like the rhythm calmed him.

Eddie would blame it on the drugs in the morning when they wake up tangled together. But for now he doesn't care as he carefully shifts over to the left side of the bed. Feeling pity for the other and wanting to stop the bed from shaking so much. He gently wraps his arms around the other, moving before any reasonable thought could stop him and hides his face in the back of the others neck.

Steve doesn't say anything. He's seemed to be nonverbal again, but his body does stop shaking after a minute. Barely two as soft snores start to fall from the back of his throat. And apart of Eddie is relieved that he could help the other the way he helped him in the bathroom. Taking the moment to ground himself once more as he takes in the smell of cedar and smoke. Probably the others cologne.

Eddie feels like he's walking on thin ice as he moves his legs forward a bit. Letting himself relax knowing the other wasn't going to push him away. Wrapping his leg around his hip as he melts into the other more. Even though it was to hot for cuddling. In the back of his head he couldn't help but wonder what scared Steve Harrington so much he couldn't go to bed without shaking? Wondered if the boys kindness from earlier was a one hit wonder?

So many questions and concerns. Along with the anxious thoughts about telling Wayne about his not so little drug problem he begins to doze off. Breathing in and out as he passes out. Having the best night's sleep that he has had in a long time.

Authors Note; I am not going to lie this one shot took a lot out of me to write and is probably one of my proudest works. I purposely try not to write a whole lot about drugs because of personal issues but this one shot seemed like something I needed to write. And even though this isn't the most angstiest one shot that I could have written it was personally draining as I have felt a lot of what Eddie has in this oneshot. Apart of me wants to write more for this au but another part of me doesn't so I'm going to leave this up to the response I get from you guys :)

[lil-lemon-snails]

sometimes you just need to hear it v some stills below the cut v

[frownyalfred]

“Jim Gordon would play it cool if Bruce ever revealed his identity to him” lies, that man chain smokes routinely for a glimpse of sanity. He’s consciously ignoring so much daily, it’s giving him heart palpitations and high blood pressure.

If he saw Bruce Wayne trying to approach him with that Batman-esque look in his eyes, Jim would probably throw himself off the nearest building to avoid him. He knows, but he doesn’t want to know. If it’s never confirmed directly to his face, then he doesn’t know shit.

It’s telling that he’d rather take twelve decapitation cases in a row (with seven missing heads) rather than spend more than .3 seconds near Bruce Wayne.

Jim can handle Gotham, but not identity shenanigans.

[raddestrose]

Shoutout to Shen Yuan the only man who actually read porn for the plot

[lovely-v]

I feel like some Fall Out Boy songs sound stupid until you listen to them in a very specific state of turmoil and then you’re like oh I get it hahaha yeah cheers Patrick yeah I’m gonna need u to sing that for me fifteen more times

[egophiliac]

he did it! 🐍 and it only took...uhhh...well, there probably could've been less punches, but why hold back!

PUNCHES FOR EVERYONE

[reagan-the-saunders]

The Dread Wolf's Eyes

[buddhamethods]

Bridgerton Season 3 Part 2 Trailer

[nidbaesenpai]

Dare you say this love could just save you

[thewiglesswonder]

"NO, I WANT TO KILL HIM!"

[inky-bun]

Hey so my last post about stp did pretty damn well

Want some more?

[densewentz]

hey if you guys go back to the scene where the Cat King puts the truth compulsion on Edwin and, after removing it, asks him "now, doesn't the truth feel better?" if you watch carefully you can see Edwin give a tiny shocked and vulnerable little nod right before the Cat King nods back and you TOO can start screaming and crying inconsolably like I am

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lap Pillow

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[lucabyte]

you dream of devouring your friends whole

[idliketobeatree]

edwin's "first adult experience" snippet anyone?

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

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Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it��s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.