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thesightstoshowyou · 8 months ago

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Makin’ Friends

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x F Reader (NSFW)

Summary: A truck stop bathroom is about to see more action than it has in years.

Warnings: Nonconsensual touching, brat taming, use of “Daddy,” slapping, excessive dirty talk, descriptions of blood and gore, descriptions of drug effects, dubious consent, degradation, biting, facial

Fat drops of crimson drip and splatter onto broken tile and dingy, cracked porcelain. Trembling fingers rifle through supplies, bottle caps and ammo clacking as they are shoved aside. Gritted teeth grip hold of gauze wrapping and tear.

Smashing the dressing over your oozing gut forces a grunt up and out of your throat. The bullet in your belly burns where it sits nestled between innards. Your leg burns too—a graze—but it will have to wait. Vitals first.

You spit out a curse and frantically upend your bag. Provisions and supplies tumble into the sink and crash to the ground, but your concern is elsewhere. Against your palm, the dressing grows warm and sticky faster than you can replace it. If you don’t find this fucking Stimpak soon you’re gonna pass out. You can almost hear the Radroaches excitedly clicking their disgusting mandibles in anticipation of their next meal.

A pane of glass from the broken bathroom mirror smashes onto the worn countertop and you jolt, your frayed nerves making you skittish as a cottontail. Your gaze momentarily raises to your haggard reflection. Sweat beads along your brow and sticks your hair to your skin. Chapped lips press into a thin, anxious line when you see how much color has drained out of your face, the effects of blood loss startlingly visible.

Where in the fuck is that god damned—

Movement in the mirror, behind you. Breath sticking in your throat, you whirl around, boots slipping in the gore that has pooled at your feet. Your free hand grips the countertop to keep you upright as your eyes meet the gnarled, grinning face of the last thing you want to see in your current state.

Where’s your gun—your eyes flick to the right—shit, you set it on the back of that busted toilet—

“The fuck are you doing here, ghoul?” Your question drips with condescension, bravado your only available weapon.

The Ghoul shoulders the doorframe as one gloves hand comes to rest against the bandolier across his chest. “Shoulda known it was you making all that racket back in town. Did ya’ bite off a bit more than ya’ could chew, darlin’?”

You’d roll your eyes if you weren’t so lightheaded. “Bounty had some unexpected friends,” you comment. It would be nonchalant if not for the white-knuckled grip you have on the countertop.

A wry chuckle, then, “Friends, huh? Now that’s somethin’ you’re painfully short on, ain’t it?” The toe of his boot playfully taps at some debris on the floor. “Think it’s cuz of that winnin’ personality a’ yours?”

Your knees shake, your shoulder aching from keeping you upright. “You’re one to talk. I don’t see your entourage anywh—

Your words die on your tongue when you finally focus on what the Ghoul rolls under the heel of his boot. What you thought was a chunk of tile is actually the thing for which you’ve been searching so feverishly: The fucking Stimpak.

The Ghoul’s brows raise in feigned surprise when he spots you staring at the floor. “Oh, this what ya’ been lookin’ for?” Keeping his gaze on yours, he leisurely crouches and retrieves the coveted little vial before standing to his full height once more.

Your stomach plummets. You can’t stop the way your chest heaves, your body desperate to pump oxygen into your slowly dwindling blood supply. Agony pulses in nauseating waves through your belly, your jaw clenching to keep your weakness hidden. But who are you kidding?

You’re not stupid. You know this Ghoul has no qualms about splattering your brains all over the broken mirror behind you. If he wanted you dead, he would have done it already. No, he must be here for something else.

“What do you want?” you mutter, the words shaking as they leave your lips. Yellow teeth peek from between tattered lips as the Ghoul smirks. He pushes away from the door and steps toward you, boots crunching on shattered tile and glass and refuse with each unhurried step.

You stumble back, his advance pressuring you against the counter behind you, but he doesn’t stop until he’s mere inches away, until the scents of ozone and gunpowder and worn leather sting your nose. Instinct takes over and you lash out, fingers intent on his eyes, but he catches your weak jab with embarrassing ease. The Ghoul snatches your other limb for good measure and gathers up both of your wrists in one, gloved hand.

Your lips pull back over your teeth in a snarl, but it’s useless. You’re caught, caged in by his body and the sink digging into your ass. And now, with no pressure over the wound in your gut, blood freely leaks down your front to soak the both of you.

The Ghoul hums thoughtfully. “Kitty’s been declawed.”

“Fuck you,” you grit out, but it sounds more like a whine than an insult. Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision. You’re about to black out—

“Ah, now, is that how you ask nice for somethin’?” He brings the Stimpak into your line of site and dangles it there, taunting you. You give him the nastiest glare you can muster, but your anger seeps out of you with your blood. Animal panic takes its place.

He must see the desperation in your eyes because he leans down, his face so close to yours you feel the heat of his breath as he murmurs, “Go on now. What’s the magic word?”

Tremulous breaths spill from your nose as you clamp your mouth shut. Pride is going to be the death of you. Would you really rather die than give him whatever the hell it is he wants?

Thickly, you swallow and whisper, “…please.”

The Ghoul tilts his head, “What was that, sweetheart? Couldn’t make it out—

“PLEASE-“ you bite your tongue, suck in a breath, “Please, I…help me.” A low chortle greets your words, then stabbing pain as a needle plunges into your abdomen. You grunt and hiss as the drugs burn their way through tissue to jumpstart the healing process. Pain killers douse the anguish like water over a fire and you slump in relief, forehead dropping to a sturdy shoulder.

The empty syringe clatters when it’s tossed onto the counter. Gloved fingers find your hair and grip hard to tip your head back. You wince and blink in an effort to come back to yourself, opiates and stimulants and steroids and whatever else was in that vial at war with your consciousness as they repair your shredded guts.

“There now. All better. I believe a ‘Thank you,’ is in order,” the Ghoul drawls. You’re still so weak, desperately in need of rest and hydration, but the drugs have rekindled the embers of rage.

“I’m not telling you a god damned—

WHAP

Blinding pain collides with your cheek and suddenly you’re staring at the torn ad for Cram plastered to the wall: Now with 50% more Cram! Wetness, thick and tangy like iron, drips into your mouth. Your nose…it’s bleeding. Your cheek throbs in time with your pounding heart.

He’d fucking backhanded you….

Your head is yanked back by the hand in your hair until your face is inches from the Ghoul’s once again. “If you’re gonna be an ungrateful little shit, I can just put another hole in your belly and be on my way.”

You clench your eyes shut as your teeth grind together in barely contained ire. Curses that would make a sailor blush sit at the back of your throat like bile. It’s so tempting to just spit in his face and suffer the consequences. You’re not gonna fucking saying it, you can’t….

“…thank you.”

“That’s a good girl. I knew there were some manners in there somewhere.” Pressure between your legs makes your eyes fly open, a startled yelp slipping from your mouth.

Gloved fingers rub gentle circles at the apex of your thighs. Pleasure blooms in their wake, little pulses that arc through your core and zing up your spine. You open your mouth to hurl outraged insults, but, to your horror, a little mewl escapes instead.

Your cheeks burn and you splutter, “W-What-what are you—

“Looks like them drugs are workin’, huh?” The deep purr of the Ghoul’s voice rumbles against your chest and you squeak, goosebumps raising across your flesh. Fruitlessly, you tug against his iron grip on your wrists, but even just that consistent pressure makes you shiver.

You have got to be kidding….

The fingers massaging your cunt through your pants push right where you want them most and your lips part in a sharp gasp. It’s like your hips have a mind of your own as they tilt to increase the friction. The muscles of your thighs quiver in an effort to keep you from completely humping his hand.

Angry tears—anger? Is that what you’re feeling?—prick at the corners of your eyes as you look up into the Ghoul’s face. He smirks down at you, his eyes alight with mirth and hunger. Just that simple look he gives you makes your throat go dry.

“Feels good, huh?” You suck in an irritated breath through your teeth when he pulls his hand away. Yellowing teeth catch a fingertip of his glove, his bare fingers sliding free. “Good girls get to feel good. Simple as that. Now open up.”

Digits press insistently at your lips. Against your ribs, your heart pounds, the needy pulse between your legs matching its rhythm. It’s infuriating how badly you want him to touch you again….

A defeated groan sounds in the back of your throat when your mouth pops open. Fingertips tease your front teeth as the Ghoul murmurs, his words dark and deliberate, “I think ya’ know what’ll happen if ya’ bite me.”

You shoot him a withering look that says, ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’ He raises a brow in response. ‘I ain’t taking any chances with you.’ You let your tongue unfurl from your mouth for good measure.

Two fingers slide past your teeth and plunge deep into your mouth to test your gag reflex. “Suck,” the Ghoul orders. You only hesitate a moment before you close your lips around his digits and hollow out your cheeks. Still, that disobedient part of you can’t help but tease your teeth against his nails when he pulls the wetted fingers from your mouth.

“Seems like you’re wantin’ another slap,” he grumbles before shoving his hand down the front of your pants. Whatever clever quip you had prepared morphs into garbled nonsense when he locates your aching clit and strokes it with calloused fingertips.

You don’t realize the extent of your desire until he dips into the remarkable slickness of your folds. “Appears we didn’t need your mouth,” the Ghoul jokes. You would respond with something scathing if you could think of anything to say, but the mind-numbing shocks of pleasure rippling through your belly are making it difficult to speak.

“Turned ya’ into Daddy’s little brain dead whore in no time, didn’t I?” Your cheeks blaze and you choke on an indignant sound.

“I-I-you can’t just—fuck—

“S’alright. You can say it. Ain’t nobody else here to see you debasing yourself.” You whimper and shake your head, but your traitorous body rolls your hips into his stupid hand despite yourself.

Hot breath ghosts across your ear. “Say it and I’ll fuck that wet little hole. Just four simple words is all: ‘Please fuck me, Daddy.’”

“N-Not, I’m not—

“You know as well as I do that needy cunt’s beggin’ to be filled.” As he speaks, fingers circle your entrance for emphasis. You feel your resolve crumbling away beneath your curled toes.

But—christ—a ghoul? And a mean sonofabitch ghoul with the filthiest fucking mouth at that…. A ghoul that has you leaking like a broken pipe….

“…p-please—god dammit—please fuck me…Daddy.” Your face has to be on fire.

No sooner do the words leave your lips than you are twirled around. The room whirls like a top, your palms slipping in the blood still dripping off the countertop when you try to steady yourself. Only the hand in your hair keeps you from smashing your chin on ancient porcelain.

The Ghoul ruts against your ass while his free hand works his pants open. Your mouth snaps shut, your teeth clacking together to stop the groan when you feel his hard length dragging against your clothed flesh. Your skin tingles, your cunt soaking through your underwear in anticipation.

Dizzy from the drugs surging through your thin blood and the maddening want, you watch in the broken mirror as the Ghoul grasps the waistband of your pants to shove them down to your knees. Hot, gnarled skin slides along your slit, teasing, until you whine and wiggle your hips.

He meets your hazy gaze in the mirror, a smug sneer tugging at the corners of his lips. You huff and open your mouth to lash out, but the thick head of his cock breeches your entrance and turns the retort into a slurred, “Ffffuck!”

Hips surge forward to bury all that rough girth into slippery muscles that haven’t been used in god knows how long. Your eyes grow wide as saucers, your jaw locked in a silent scream, the air forced from of your lungs by the intrusion. Your walls spasm and clench in an effort to accommodate the stretch.

Behind you, a strained groan, long and low. “Tighter than I thought you’d be.” What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’d say it if you could figure out how to do anything other than moan.

The Ghoul’s scarred fingers dig into your locks, adjusting his grip so he can pull you back into his sharp thrust. The wanton noise you make has you wishing you’d bled out, but it’s not long before complex thought is wiped from your brain to be replaced with a mantra of ‘more, more, more.’

Wet slapping, the jingling of a belt buckle, rustling of a shredded duster, harsh grunts, and high, girlish cries fill the dilapidated bathroom as the Ghoul pummels you into the countertop. Your guts now ache for a different reason, assaulted from pleasure so taut and intense it borders on agony. You feel each frenzied stroke in the top of your skull all the way to the tips of your toes.

Warmth envelops your back as the Ghoul leans over you, the pistoning of his hips never faltering. Again, his lips find your ear, that voice like smooth bourbon filling your fuzzy head when he asks, “Is that pretty pussy about to cum on my cock?”

Resistance leaves you in a breathy keen. All the fight has been fucked out of you. Submission comes as an eager nod and a tiny, pathetic, “Please, Daddy.”

He gives a low growl in response, one you feel vibrating against your back. Fingers hook in the collar of your shirt and wrench it to the side. Bared teeth find the place where your neck meets your shoulder and sink into smooth flesh so hard you’re sure they’ll come away red.

You cum with a strangled scream, that pressurized ball of need rapidly unraveling in your belly. Slick walls squeeze, clinging tight to the girth battering them. Your eyes roll back, your shriek of euphoria reverberating off the low ceiling. Against your shoulder is a muffled rumble, then the absence of heat at your back.

Your head spins when you’re flipped around and shoved to the floor. A pained cry leaves your lips when your knees crack on filthy tile. Your head is jerked back, neck tendons popping with the force, while Ghoul’s other hand furiously pumps his drenched cock.

Your brain catches up with the situation just as he utters a pinched, “Fuck!” Eyelids snap shut a second before sticky warmth splatters across your face. The dose of radiation you’ll receive if any of that drips into your mouth…. You clench your jaw, lips pressed tight together.

Panting, trembling, skin buzzing like a thousand bees, you hastily wipe your face on your sleeve. Timidly, you peek up at the Ghoul looming over you. One hand still holds your hair, the other already readjusting his belt.

“That’s a good look for you, sweetheart.” All you can manage is an irritated nose scrunch. You’re too exhausted to bite, weariness settling deep in sore muscles. Rest and water are now your priority; that, and getting rid of the fingers still digging into your scalp.

Your stomach flips when he chuckles. “That’s cute.”

“What now?” you snap, the harshness of your tone lessened when your voice cracks.

“You think you’re done, dontcha?” Your breath catches in your dry throat. He can’t be serious.

“Hey, no, c’mon—

Your hands fly to his wrist when the Ghoul tugs you to your feet by your hair. You curse and stagger like you’ve forgotten how to walk, your knees seconds away from buckling.

“Up and at ‘em, baby. Night’s still young.”

#cooper howard #cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #thesightstoshowyou #fallout 2024 #fallout #go on now and reblog it #i know you want to

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puddingyun · 11 months ago

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sensitive . ݁₊ ⊹ k.ys

yeo x reader

18+ mdni

: 1.6k words, childhood friends, smut, dacryphilia, handjob/blowjob :

day 6 of fff24 ♡

Yeosang had always been softer than other guys you knew. He didn't care for the ugly parts of growing up - the playground fights, the bitching and backstabbing, the grazing of knees and spraining of ankles - and instead preferred the quieter, more beautiful things. He liked playing video games by himself, watching dust motes dance in the sun, and sipping on strawberry-banana smoothies when everybody else was seeing who could down the most malt chocolate shakes without puking.

It had always been quietly presumed that he would grow out of his softness when he got older, replace his naïveté with a little harshness and sharpen the gentle parts of him. This never happened, though. When he was younger, Yeosang had been the boy who needed a kiss to his knee before a band-aid could be applied, and now that he was older he still needed a kiss to his bruises before he could forget about their dull ache. As much as some people liked to turn their noses up at those parts of him, you couldn't help but find it endearing. He was sweeter than anybody else you knew, the same way a bruised peach was sweeter than a firm one.

Even this afternoon when you'd been walking back to his place in the snow you could feel his hand holding on tight to yours each time you walked over an icy patch, scared to slip and hurt himself. Each time you glanced over at him and saw his rosy cheeks you were reminded of his clumsy caution when he was younger, tiptoeing when everybody else would run.

You could hear him in the shower from where you sat on the sofa, his soft sighs interrupting the water drumming against tile. You turned down the sound of the TV and listened to him from afar, all of his faint sounds and movements filling the apartment like a radio show playing from next door.

"I'm sleepy," was the first thing he murmured as he stepped out of the bathroom, dragging his feet along the floor on his way to the sofa. He sat down beside you with a long huff and then slowly leaned into you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck so that you could feel his breath on your skin. "Aren't you sleepy yet?"

"Only a little. I just wanted to watch TV for a while," you replied, raising a hand to run your fingers through Yeosang's hair. When your nails scratched his scalp you felt him melt into you even more, moving to wrap his arms around you. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tired," he mumbled, withdrawing his face from your neck to see what it was that you were watching on TV. You watched the way he blinked slowly, trying to figure out what was happening in the middle of the episode he'd just walked in on. He was sweet and fuzzy around the edges the way you'd always known him to be.

"Hey," you whispered, smoothing some of his hair out of his face. "C'mere."

He was only a little curious when he turned his head back towards you, lips parted and ready to ask what was wrong. When you leaned in and pressed a soft peck to his lips his expression quickly changed to a smile, hands holding onto your waist tightly as he chased after your lips, kissing you again and again and again until you were breathless.

"I thought you said you were tired," you teased, kissing the space between his eyebrows.

"I am, but..." he started and just as quickly trailed off, his cheeks flushed and hands wandering up beneath your top.

"But what, Yeo?" you asked, already smirking. As though on cue, Yeosang blinked twice and his eyes turned shiny with tears, glimmering in the low glow coming from the TV.

"We could kiss more," he mumbled, thumbs dragging along the skin beneath your breasts as though testing the waters. You watched, amazed as always, as his eyes remained a pool of unshed tears even as he tried to blink them away. They stayed there, not spilling or going away, and Yeosang's cheeks only turned darker the longer you went without answering.

"Okay," you replied finally, smiling at his relieved expression. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips and laid a hand on his chest. "Lay back."

Yeosang did as told, obedient and malleable as always. You placed your hands on his shoulders and your legs on either side of him so that you were pressed together, his arousal from the kisses you'd exchanged already obvious. Slowly, so slow it ached, you leaned down and kissed him again. This time his tongue swiped against your lips, hot and needy, and when you opened your mouth to let him in he groaned low in his throat.

His hands explored while your tongue licked into your mouth, pushing up your shirt only to travel back down to your hips before his blunt nails were digging into your ass, pulling you closer to him as though you weren't already as close as you could get. You took his bottom lip between your teeth, sucking and letting go with a soft nip that made Yeosang moan. When you pulled back a string of saliva connected your lips for a second before snapping and disappearing. You giggled, watching as the first tear rolled down Yeosang's temple.

"Are you okay?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer. Yeosang nodded, flustered, and sniffled. You felt him grind his hips up into you, eyes fluttering shut as he did.

"Yeah. I just like you a lot," he admitted breathily. He looked beautiful, lips slick with spit and lashes wet with tears he hadn't yet shed. You leaned in and kissed along his jaw, right up to his ear, and then kissed down his neck, stopping your trail only to bite down on his skin. "Fuck-"

Yeosang's moan trailed off into a whimper as you sucked on the skin until you'd left behind a dark, splotchy hickey there, the indents of your teeth still visible around it. You glanced up at Yeosang and noticed that his temples were both wet now, glistening each time he blinked. You pressed a quick kiss there, tasting the salt of his tears on your lips, and then moved to position yourself between his legs.

"Are you going to...?" Yeosang asked quietly, his voice wobbly and his hips bucking up into nothing.

"Do you want me to?" you asked, smiling when Yeosang nodded. "Okay, baby."

He was only a little squirmy when you pulled down his sweatpants and underwear to reveal his dick, already hard and leaking precum against his tummy. You smiled, leaning in to kiss the base while you watched his expression twitch from the slightest touch.

His soft panting rose to a string of moans as you took his dick in your hand, rubbing your thumb against the frenulum and watching how more precum oozed out of him. You couldn't help but smile as you began to stroke him, each movement wetter than the last. Even now he was sweet, his cheeks wet when he lifted his head to look down at you. It was all you could do not to shove your free hand in your pants and get off to the sight of him.

"Fuck, that feels good," Yeosang moaned, thrusting up to meet your movements so that he was fucking your fist. His abs tensed with each movement and then spasmed with each little hiccup and sob that managed to escape his lips. Leaning down to suck on the head of his dick you watched him press a hand over his mouth to contain his noises, moans muffled as you flicked your tongue against the head of his dick.

"Cum whenever you want, Yeosangie," you reassured him, eyeing the hand balled into a fist at his side. With each stroke of his dick you twisted your wrist a little, watching how fat, hot tears escaped Yeosang's eyes with each blink. He threw his head back and moaned loudly, dropping his hand from his mouth to let his sounds out into the apartment. You giggled, leaning down to kiss down one of the veins that ran along his cock.

"That feels - fuck - that feels so good," he sobbed, voice strained as he fucked into your hand. "Can I really cum whenever?"

"Of course, love," you hummed, kneading at his thigh with your free hand. "Whenever you want."

This was all the permission he needed, because as soon as you put his mouth back on him he was spilling his load on your tongue, whimpering and sobbing as you sucked him off through his orgasm. Even as you lifted your head and swallowed what he'd given you he was still hiccuping, tears rolling down his cheeks like a waterfall. Except this waterfall wasn't thundering or dangerous, it was meek and sweet.

"Good?" you asked as you moved back up to kiss him once more, the taste of cum and tears and spit all mixing to create an odd but familiar flavour.

"Mhm," Yeosang sniffed. He smiled up at you. "Now I'm really tired."

"Let me go take a shower then we can get into bed," you assured him, stroking his hair out of his face to kiss his forehead.

As you stood, you glanced back at Yeosang, his face all messy with tears and his nose and cheeks pink, and felt your heart (as well as something else) throb for him.

You really did love how soft Yeosang was.

#pirateeznet #joongfryefff24 #kang yeosang x reader #kang yeosang smut #ateez smut #ateez x reader #he's the sweetest (ㅠ‸ㅠ)

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tetzoro · 10 months ago

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ENDLESS LOVE — ༉‧₊˚.

ft. kuroo tetsuro !

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : after a steamy night with kuroo, he reflects on how he feels about you. aka the first time you tell each other ‘i love you.’

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : established relationship, pillow talk, takes place after sex but no smut, tooth rotting fluff — WC : 1k

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : in case you can’t tell, i love him >_< happy valentine’s day tetsu ᰔ dividers by @/cafekitsune

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᰔ*.ﾟ

“how do you feel when you’re with me?” you ask, hope filling your eyes as your body is still coming down from the high he gave you only moments ago.

kuroo rolls onto his stomach beside you as he ponders the question for a second.

it’s a good question, one that he has to mull around in his mind a few times. the problem is, the answer isn’t as simple, at least not the one he wants to give you.

because how does he describe how he feels when he’s biting into the sweetest strawberry for the first time, a burst of flavor rushing into his mouth that reminds him of the fondest summer days. the ones he’d spend chasing kenma around with a volleyball, scrapped kneecaps and uncontrollable laughter — endless nights of cherished memories and wanting to stay out long after the sun had set.

or how does he feel when he gets into the shower and feels the warmth of the water soak deep into his bones, washing away all of his negative emotions that flooded his mind — body becoming cleansed after a long, hard day of work. the feeling of coming home and seeking comfort, finding shelter and sanctuary between the slippery tile and the familiar scent of the soap he’s used for years.

or maybe it’s how he feels when he catches a shooting star racing across the clear night sky, making its presence known and allowing the watcher to make its wish — the kind of luck that doesn’t just happen to everyone, a rarity that few get chosen for but here it is unfolding before his very eyes.

those experiences don’t have words to define them, at least not to do them enough justice. they’re just feelings that bubble up inside of him and demand to be savored. it’s the exact same way with you. an entity that mere words couldn’t describe. but he’d try, for you.

“i feel —” he pauses, finger trailing along your jaw. the look in your eye tells him that he’s got your undivided attention, hanging on to every word as you prepare to gauge his response. so he figures he’ll bare it all. “one with the world when i’m with you. like i’m in the exact place i need to be in. i think about how lucky i am. i feel at home.”

you open and close your mouth like a fish and kuroo has to hold himself back from kissing you. the ghost of your lips haunt him for every moment they aren’t on his, never quite getting his fill of you. but he’ll be patient. for now.

“oh.” is all you say, biting your lip to hide that beautiful smile of yours.

“yeah, oh.” he laughs, his finger tucking under your chin and bringing you in for the kiss he’s been waiting for, yearning for, craving.

for a moment, he lets himself savor it, the way your soft lips glide over his, tongue poking out to meet his in an embrace. kuroo thinks he could kiss you forever and it would still never be enough.

kuroo pulls apart, amber eyes meeting yours, naked bodies still pressed up against each other, breathing in sync with one another, heart beating as one.

his finger trailed from your chin, down your neck, into the pools of your collarbones, drinking in every inch of your body. something stirred within him, his mouth having a mind of its own as he replaces his fingers with his tongue.

as kuroo makes his way across your collarbones and over the curve of your shoulder, his tongue turns into lips that press against your skin — soft as rose petals as they make their way down your arm.

every mole, every freckle is adjourned with his lips, kissing each and every mark, covering it with his saliva so a piece of him lays upon you, imbedding himself into your skin.

once he gets to your hands, his eyes find yours again, gently kissing each finger tip before he uses your palm to cradle his own face.

“why do you ask?” kuroo slightly hovers over you now, other elbow holding him up to keep his weight off of you as he kissed his way back into your personal space. like a cat, he tilts his head to the side, leaning into your touch as he waits for your answer.

“well i-“ you pause, eyes averting his sharp gaze. he doesn’t push, doesn’t force you to look back at him. “i asked because…”

“because?” his cheshire cat smile lacing his lips, ready to tease you for whatever answer you throw at him.

“because i love you, tetsu.”

those three words strike him right in the heart, cupid firing off a million arrows a second, cracking open his ribcage and letting his heart spill down into your awaiting hands.

to love and to be loved in return was something he pushed down for a long time, opting to focus on the more practical things in life — school, sports, his career.

but somewhere along the way you popped into his life, quite seamlessly he might add. he realized he loved you long ago but put those feelings on hold because how could someone like you ever feel that for him?

but you do. and nothing has ever sparked a greater joy in his heart, it’s beat thumping so loudly it drowns the rest of the world away, leaving you and him in a place to call your own. a place of belonging, a place full of endless love.

it courses through his body, warmth spreading to every nerve, synapses firing off with pure joy, so much that he almost forgets to repeat it back, the eager look on your face anticipating his reaction.

but you see it in his eyes, in the way they light up like a man who just got everything he’s ever wanted. his soul set aflame as he moves, opting to take your cheek into his palm instead, faces so close together you share the same breath.

“and i love you.” he whispers back, forgoing the ‘too’. for it’s not just a response to you, the word itself leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as it cheapens the value of his words. no, it’s his own declaration to set in stone that he loves you just as you love him — the way it should be and the way it will always be.

thank you for reading ᰔ

#◟˚. ☁️ ⋆ daydreams.#kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #kuroo x you #haikyuu x you #hq x you #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro #x reader

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loveinhawkins · 4 months ago

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swim to him

ao3 Written for @steddiemicrofic August 2024 prompt, “plug,” 437 words. Rated T, season 4, Scene Rewrite, after Steve’s dive. cw: descriptions of blood, injury & disassociation

When Steve’s pulled underneath the lake, he hears the screams: piercing for barely an instant, then muffled and echoing as he’s dragged further and further down…

It’s weird, but if it wasn’t for the burning pressure in his lungs, it’d almost be relaxing—like diving into the school swimming pool, hearing the buzz of conversation slip away, so all he needs to focus on is each stroke, the drag of his body through the water…

He feels a violent change; the relief of leaving the lake is cut short the moment he tries to take a gulp of air—the chill hits the back of his throat, and he’s in the tunnels in ‘84, breathing shallowly through a bandana—no, no, that sucks, think of school, school and swimming, school and…

It works for a little while, even when something—many somethings—gnaw on his flesh; he just dives deeper into the pool, the comforting sting of chlorine…

And suddenly Eddie’s right there, his hair soaking wet, dripping onto Steve’s skin; he’s talking, but Steve can’t make it out, his ears still plugged with water, so he reads Eddie’s lips.

Steve, he’s saying over and over, Steve, but that doesn’t make sense, Steve thinks, in school he’d just be Harrington, wouldn’t he?

“Steve,” Eddie repeats. This time, Steve can hear it.

The school melts away. But Eddie’s still there: face pale against an unnatural red sky.

Lightning flashes, and Steve glances down—watches the swell of his chest as he inhales, and he nearly turns his head away at the sight of blood. He stops himself, because he has the gut feeling that it’ll terrify Eddie even more: Eddie, who’s pressing material against Steve’s stomach—denim, Steve realises slowly, his vest.

It’s going to stain. It’s going to be unsalvageable.

Eddie doesn’t seem to care.

“You’re okay,” he’s saying now, pushing the vest down hard, wincing in tandem with Steve, almost like he can feel the wounds, too, “you’re okay, you’re okay—oh, Jesus—”

The pain spikes. Steve closes his eyes despite himself, and Eddie’s panicked voice fades, replaced with the deep echo of the pool, the kind Steve swears he can feel in his chest, and the only pain comes from the slightest of grazes: his toes scraping the tiles at the bottom; but it’s all worth it ‘cause he just made the best dive ever—

“Steve,” Eddie begs, “please.”

Steve pushes himself off the bottom of the pool. Kicks hard.

He comes to and sees the denim vest torn into strips, wrapped tight around his middle.

“I’m here,” he gasps.

“You weren’t,” Eddie says—accusatory, terrified—but his voice is a tether, keeping Steve afloat.

#steddiemicrofic #steddiemicroficaugust #pre steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

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gilbertpoolman · 2 years ago

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Signs Your Swimming Pool Needs Repair: Weekly pool service

The pool service company near me discusses various indicators that a swimming pool may require repair. They explains that several signs may suggest that a pool is in need of repair, including visible cracks or damage to the pool surface, leaking water, and malfunctioning pool equipment. They also highlights the importance of identifying and addressing these issues promptly, as neglecting pool repairs can lead to more significant and costly problems in the long run. It provides practical advice on identifying and troubleshooting common pool problems, such as algae growth, water discoloration, and malfunctioning pool pumps. They emphasizes the importance of regular pool maintenance and inspection to prevent issues before they become severe. Overall, gilbert poolman provides valuable insights into the signs of pool damage and the steps pool owners can take to keep their pools in good condition.

#gilbertpoolman #pooltiles #poolcleaner #pooltilerepair #arizonapoolservice #poolservice #repairservices #pool tile replacement #swimmingpool

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infinite-infinite-stars · 24 days ago

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So, uh. I built the Manor in The Sims 4.

(Commentary and gallery info below)

Obviously I couldn't make the layout exactly 1-to-1, due to the limitations of the build tools (meaning certain wall angles are impossible and I only had 64x64 tiles of space to work with) but I did my best!

This does mean, however, that Abe's co-opted study is now in the basement, and the kitchen is where the garage should be IRL. But no one drives cars in Sims 4 anyway, so it's not like they NEED a garage!

You'll notice I recreated the pool, and the big chess board out back, and the Monologue Stairs™, and Little Buddy. Oh yeah, and that mirror in the foyer, not that it's significant or anything-

Yes, I made sure the house had more than ONE staircase, ooh it's SOOO IMPORTANT.

If you want the master bedroom to have Actor's depression clutter you'll need to add it yourself xP There's also a seance room for Celine, two staff rooms (not pictured), and three guest bedrooms themed after Damien, the Colonel, and the DA! Can you guess which one is which??

I also put stage markers in strategic places so that your sims can flop over dead in just the right spot in the living room, or have a fight on the upstairs landing.

I did use custom content for this build: Little Dica's "art deco lounge" pack (for the bar and a few lamps), and Soloriya's "police detective clutter" pack (for some of the stuff on Abe's desk). If you don't have or want either of those, you can still download the house, you'll just need to replace those items.

My Gallery ID is StarryNightngale (note the lack of an 'i'), and the lot is called "Markiplier Manor 2024"!

#sims 4 #sims 4 build #markiplier #wkm #who killed markiplier #markiplier cinematic universe #markcu

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ao3-rex1223 · 6 months ago

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Tɾҽαԃιɳɠ Wαƚҽɾ

Pairing: Step-dad!Leon x Fem!reader

Tags: Step-cest, daddy kink, barebacking, creampie, try not to get caught, spanking, slight degradation, blow jobs, cum swallowing

Summary: There's been a ton of rain lately and your mother heads to the hardware store to better prepare the house for potential floods. You and Leon are left alone at home to comfort each other.

˜”°•.˜”°• •°”˜.•°”˜ ˜”°•.˜”°• •°”˜.•°”˜

“C'mon, sweetie! Let's get going!” your mother shouts. She taps her foot impatiently on the foyer tile. Her car keys jingle softly, as she twirls the key ring around her finger. “There's another storm in a few hours and I want to get ahead of it!”

You quickly trot downstairs. There has been heavy rain all week and the ground is so saturated the sump pump is having trouble keeping up with all the water. Your mother wants to go to the hardware store to get bigger tubing to move more water and prevent the basement from flooding.

“Maybe we should stay behind and make sure the house stays dry,” Leon suggests to your mother, casually. He gently places his hand on your shoulder. The task will be easier said than done as the mere touch of your step-dad is enough to drop kick your imagination into the gutter and dampen your panties. Your outer folds tingle as arousal pools between your legs. You gulp quietly.

Your mother contemplates for a minute then nods in agreement, “Yeah, I guess. I really don't want to have to replace the carpet in the basement.”

Your heart races. Finding and purchasing new tubing will probably take at least a little while, right? You subtly rub your thighs together, desperate to relieve even a sliver of tension from your cunt. Suddenly, every second your mother remains in the house feels like an eternity. All you can think about is hopping on your step-dad’s dick, feeling that thick, juicy cock impale you, stuffing your pussy and filling you with his cum.

Leon stands strategically behind you so your mom doesn't see his raging erection poking against your ass. Your entire lower half thrums with anticipation, tingling and sizzling from all the nasty thoughts running through your head.

“Okay, call me if anything goes wrong,” your mother says then turns to head out the door.

You both stand quietly, waiting to hear the sound of the garage door closing, then you make your way over to the couch. You perch your knees on the cushion and lean over the back so you can carefully peek out the window and make sure you see her car driving away. You sigh with relief, but before you can turn around, Leon pins you in place. “Stay right where you are, baby girl. Daddy can't wait anymore. Gonna fuck your tight little pussy right here!” He cages you in place with his hands on either side of yours on the couch back. He presses his chest against your back and his hard dick against your ass. He drops his lips to your neck and kisses it, lightly at first. He begins moving his hips, grinding his erection on you, dry humping you.

“Daddy please!” you beg. You press your hips back against his.

He sucks gently on your neck and licks his tongue across your tender skin. “Shh, we've got plenty of time, princess,” he purrs while pulling your pants and panties off your long, silky legs. “Just relax for Daddy and spread your legs like a good girl.” He lifts up your shirt enough to unhook your bra, freeing your breasts while it remains hanging around your shoulders. He grips your soft, pillowy mounds firmly, groaning with desire, the vibrations from his chest humming through your back. “I have an idea, sweetheart,” he begins and plants another delicate kiss on your neck. “How about you stop wearing panties at home? That way Daddy can fuck you whenever he wants to.” He moves his hand to unzip his jeans then pulls them and his boxers down just far enough to free his hard cock. He slides his length against you dripping wet pussy, gliding against your clit. He coats himself in your slick while teasing you, torturing you. “Mmm, that's my good girl. Always such a cock hungry slut for Daddy. I think I'll take you shopping for some skirts and dresses.” He continues gliding his dick against your heat. “Wouldn't you like that baby? Then all Daddy has to do is bend you over to fuck your sweet pussy.”

You moan hungrily, desperate to feel him fill you. “Please, Daddy! I need you inside me!”

“Yeah? Need Daddy to breed you, baby girl?” He prods his leaking cock head against your entrance. Its addicting thickness promises to stretch your tight cunt open. “Gonna fucking knock up my daughter. Don't care if your mom finds out.”

Your eyes roll back in your head at his words and you press your hips backwards, impaling yourself on his dick.

He grunts, pleasured moans sputtering from his throat as your tightness envelopes him. “Baby…you're so fucking tight!”

“Daddy…” you moan in response.

“That's right, sweetheart. Tell Daddy how much you love his fat cock breeding your little pussy.” His hands slide up and cup your pert breasts, groping them firmly.

Your knees dig into the cushion with each thrust, but you ignore the discomfort. Leon's cock feels so fucking good inside you, you refuse to let anything dampen your pleasure. “Ohhh Daddy! Want it…want you to breed me!”

Leon growls, the beast inside him unleashing. His hands clamp down on your waist, and he loses all control, fucking you mercilessly hard. His cock pounds against your cervix, pleasure and pain mixing together throughout your body. “That's my girl, my good, slutty daughter who just can't keep off her Daddy's cock.” He slaps your ass then reaches around to rub your clit, the slick cream from your pussy lubricating his fingers. “Fuck…I can't ever stop this, sweetheart. I can't stand fucking your mother anymore. Just close my eyes and picture you underneath me, moaning loud and proud for your Daddy.” His cock pistons into you even faster, sweat glistening on your bodies. The sound of his wet hips slapping against your ass fills the air with a sinful, erotic melody.

You cry out as your orgasm crests, rapture overtaking you. “Daddy!” you scream. Your toes curl from the intensity of your passions. Your body trembles.

Leon hammers into you over and over while you barely manage to hold yourself up. “Fuck!” He slams deep inside you, cumming hard. He chokes out a gritty moan and squeezes your waist tightly with his hand as the last globs of his cum shoot inside you. He gasps for breath and falls forward, bracing himself on the back of the couch, trapping you against it once more. Between desperate gulps of air, he kisses your neck hotly. Savoring the moment, he remains inside you for a while before finally pulling out.

You feel the warm cum leaking out of you when your cunt is, once more, bereft of your step-dad’s cock. He plops down onto the couch then pulls you into his lap and captures your lips with his. His kiss is slow and decadent, allowing you both to savor the intimacy of the moment.

You kiss continuously until you see a bright flash of lightning through the window. A second later, a deafening clap of thunder cuts through the calm quiet. The house loses power and the noise rattles the house, nearly knocking you onto the floor.

The house is left in darkness, only dimly lit by subsequent strikes of lightning and what little sunlight manages to survive the journey through miles of dense storm clouds.

You cling to Leon and whimper softly, the sudden bursts of the storm and the loss of power startling you. Rain begins to downpour. The wind beats it against the side of the house.

He chuckles softly and wraps his arms securely around you. “It's just a storm, baby girl. Don't worry, Daddy will keep you nice and safe.” His phone chimes with a notification. He keeps you in his arms while he reads a text from your mother. “Hm. Seems the hardware store lost power, too. Your mother is going to stay there until the storm passes.” He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Guess we have a little more time with just the two of us.” He returns a text message agreeing with her and encouraging her to stay where she is until the driving conditions are better. You both may be betraying her in probably the worst way possible, but you still want her to be safe.

Leon finds a few flashlights and brings you to the basement, just in case. More thunder crashes through the air, shaking the house like it's made of paper. The tornado sirens sound in the distance. You tremble and Leon pulls you into his arms once more. “Don't worry, sweetheart. It's going to be fine; we're safe here.”

“I'm a little worried about my mom…” you admit as you sink into his inviting arms.

Leon kisses your forehead. “That hardware store has a basement. I'm sure they're bringing all the customers and staff down there right now, if they haven't already. She'll be safe there.”

You relax a little from his reassurance. He holds you in his warm, comforting embrace and you eventually fall asleep on the couch downstairs together.

The next thing you know, there's a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Wake up, sweetie,” your mother's soft voice gently urges. You open your eyes, a little disoriented, but, after a moment, realize your mother has found you laying on top of Leon on the couch downstairs. You panic for a split second then notice her face is calm and she's even…smiling. She kisses Leon lovingly. “Thank you so much for comforting her! I guess she told you how much thunderstorms scare her, huh?” She asks softly.

Leon thinks quickly and nods with a placid smile. “She did. I'm glad I was able to help her relax. She just looked so terrified, I couldn't bring myself to leave her all alone. I guess we both just fell asleep.”

Your mother clasps her hands together under her chin with an adoring smile. “That's just so cute! I'm so glad you guys get along so well! My daughter really needs a stable father figure in her life!”

Leon smiles at you, his eyes rich with deep affection. “She's the best daughter a dad could hope for, really. I would do anything for her.”

“Aww!” your mother coos, absolutely eating up the distorted truth you're feeding her.

Another clap of thunder shakes through the house, although this one is far less voluminous than the ones you had heard earlier. Still, the sudden noise combined with the terror that arrived when you thought you were caught in the act has you jump a bit.

“Don't worry, sweetie,” your mother reassures you. “The worst has passed. You can go back to your room to sleep. It's late, anyway. We should all go to bed.” She gently brushes your hair behind your ear. “Do you want me to stay with you till you fall asleep, honey?” your mom offers, just like she used to when you were five. Storms don't scare you nearly as much now as they used to; still, you're willing to play up the fear aspect right now to save your and Leon’s asses.

“Well, darling, why don't I stay with her? You know, we've gotten so close tonight after weathering that terrible storm earlier, I just really want to be there for her, now,” Leon suggests, desperately trying to hide the desire in his voice.

Your mother buys every word he says. She looks like she could melt from the sweetness. “Oh sure, honey! That would be so sweet of you!” She kisses him once more then heads up to her and Leon’s room.

Leon sighs with relief and you can feel his tense muscles relax. “Fuck, that was close.”

“Yeah,” you agree, letting out your own breath you didn't even realize you were holding.

He narrows his eyes and smirks teasingly at you. “So…afraid of storms, huh?”

You chuckle and shake your head slightly. “I was when I was a little kid, but it's gotten better as I've gotten older. Now, they don't bother me really at all unless they are causing lots of damage.” You sigh. “But I guess Mom still thinks I'm phobic. Shows how much she listens to me.”

“Well, now don't look at this like it's a bad thing. Let her go on believing it.” He leans in and kisses your neck tenderly. “Imagine how much we could use that to our advantage. Every time there's a thunderstorm, Daddy gets to hold his baby girl in his arms. I bet your mother wouldn't even care if I spent the whole night in your room, just to…comfort you.”

You grin wickedly at the thought. Your hometown gets a lot of storms in the summer.

“I can just picture it,” Leon whispers. He nuzzles your hair and carefully takes in your scent. “You, asleep in your bed, with Daddy's cock buried inside you all night. I'll keep all those scary storms away while my cute little daughter keeps my dick warm.” He nibbles on your earlobe. “C'mon, sweet girl, let's get you all tucked into bed and Daddy will keep you safe.” He walks you up to your bedroom, a slight distance from your mother's room down the hall, but definitely close enough to hear you…if you're too loud.

But the thrill of getting caught excites you instead of deterring you, like it should. No, in fact, your cunt is already dripping wet at the thought of fucking your step-dad while your mom sleeps only 20 feet away. Your knees nearly buckle as you imagine it, but Leon keeps his hand around your waist, stabilizing you. He quietly closes the door and locks it. Just in case. If your mother notices it somehow and questions it, he'll just make up some bullshit excuse about it making you feel safer. He undresses you and pinches your nipples while kissing you hungrily.

Your soft whimpers are desperate to grow into hot, sultry moans, but you force yourself to keep quiet. You undo Leon’s pants and push them along with his boxers down to the floor. His massive cock springs free and bobs against his belly. He's already hard as a rock.

He slips his hand between your legs, feeling your drippy cunt. “Mmm, always so ready for Daddy, aren't you?” His mouth melts into yours, lips and tongues tangling together in a soirée of need.

You gently run your fingertips along his chest, leaving his skin sizzling beneath them. He groans softly. Your hands arrive at their destination and gently grip his long, fat cock. You delicately rub the head with your thumb, already gooey with precum. His hips twitch a little as you brush along the sensitive area. Another flash of lightning illuminates his beautiful face for a brief moment. Thunder follows a few seconds later.

“Baby, you're gonna make Daddy cum too soon,” he purrs but doesn't stop you. “You want Daddy to cum all over your hand, sweetheart? Or maybe you'd like it in your mouth.”

You whimper again, struggling more and more to stifle yourself. Your grip on his dick tightens ever so slightly.

“Mmm yeah that sounds good, baby girl.” He manhandles you over to the bed, but doesn't push you onto it. Instead, he sits down on the edge and gently pushes you down to your knees between his legs. “Get on your knees for Daddy, baby girl. You ever suck cock before?” He smiles wickedly down at you while petting your head gently. He grabs the base of his cock and taps it against your lips. You instinctively lick and kiss it.

“No, Daddy,” you admit, your face flushing just a bit.

“That's okay, sweetheart. Just means it's easier for you to learn exactly what Daddy likes.” He threads his fingers into your hair and slowly guides your mouth to his cock.

You whimper and lick it again then kiss the tip, his precum coating your lips. “Daddy…” you coo, softly.

He smiles down at you and purrs, “Open your mouth, baby girl.”

You comply and drop your jaw, lolling your tongue out. You stare up at Leon with half lidded eyes, lust oozing from your innocent gaze. You feel Leon's dick twitch against your soft lips.

“Fuck…you look so fucking hot on your knees for me, baby girl.” he leans forward, hovering his head over yours. “Close your eyes. Got a little present for my sweet baby.”

You comply and close your eyes, breath hitched from anticipation. You feel a cool drop of saliva hit your tongue. Your pussy clenches around nothing as you realize the spit came from Leon. You moan again, still trying to keep it quiet. You swallow. “Daddy…more…please…” You drop your mouth wide open, tongue eager to feel more.

“Anything for you, princess.” He takes a moment to build up his next load of spit. He drags his thumb across your bottom lip then leans in closer, pursing his lips together. He parts them slightly and pushes the glob of saliva out to drip down onto your tongue.

Your cunt gushes slick onto your thighs. You curl your tongue back into your mouth, greedily swallowing every drop Leon gives you. “Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper.

“You're so welcome. Such a sweet daughter I have,” he replies. He runs his fingers through your hair, delicately. “Now, open your mouth again, baby. It's time to suck Daddy's cock like a good daughter.” He parts your lips with his fingers and feeds his dick onto your mouth.

You inhale sharply through your nostrils as you taste him for the first time. It's warm and salty, a forbidden but addicting treat. You wrap your lips around his thick shaft, eager to pleasure him, please him. You gently ease your head forward, taking more and more of his cock inside your mouth. You close your eyes, savoring the taste and sensation. You begin bobbing your head, like you've seen before that time on the beach when you meet Leon.

He throws his head back, covering his mouth to keep himself quiet. He breathes heavily, little groans and grunts slipping out between his lips. His hips jerk forward, lodging his cock in the back of your hot mouth. His tip hits your throat, making you gag.

You retch and pull away, coughing and gasping. A few tears leak from your eyes and you blush, embarrassed you weren't able to take him as far as he wanted. “Sorry, Daddy.”

He gently brushes your cheek dry with his thumb. “It's okay baby girl. You'll get used to it. Before long you'll be taking Daddy's cock all the way down that tight throat of yours.” He gently tilts your head up. “Let's try again, sweetheart.” He feeds his dick back into your waiting mouth.

You eagerly engulf him a second time, determined to succeed. He's gentler now, easing in slowly, carefully. You swallow all the saliva pooling in the back of your throat. Leon groans as he feels your mouth tightening around his dick.

“Good girl. You're taking Daddy so well.” He runs his fingers through your hair, tenderly massaging your scalp. The wet, slurping noises you make as you suck him off is like a symphony to him. “Use your tongue, sweetheart. Swipe it around Daddy's cock.”

You comply and swirl your tongue around the thick shaft, the occasional popping noise piercing the air as your lips lose and reform the seal around his fat cock. You begin moving your head again, consciously suppressing your gag reflex as he thrusts deeper.

Leon grips your hair a bit tighter and guides your rhythm exactly how he wants. It's a slow pace at first, but he gradually increases the speed. Your ears are ringing from so much effort to keep him in your mouth. You hear the faint sound of thunder, unsure if the storm has faded or the noise simply isn't reaching your brain with so many new sensations overwhelming your senses and competing for your focus.

“Oh baby…” Leon groans. “Just like that…Daddy's gonna cum down your tight little throat.” He pants, grunting and moaning while his chest heaves. He forces your mouth further onto his cock and thrusts his hips up. You feel the warm, sticky, salty fluid hit the back of your throat. “Need you to swallow it for me.”

You hold your breath and swallow every drop of his cum, letting out a soft moan after.

He holds your head in place until the last of his spunk shoots into your mouth. “Oh fuck…what a good girl…taking Daddy's cock so well and swallowing all my cum…I'm such a lucky Daddy.” He pulls your mouth off his dick with a pop and then guides you into your bed. He wraps his arm around you and pulls your back against his chest then kisses your neck. He gently rubs your belly with his hand. “Good night baby girl. Get some sleep. Daddy's not gonna leave you.”

The last of the storm rumbles in the distance, barely registering in your mind as you fall asleep in your step-dad’s embrace.

#leon kennedy x you #resident evil smut #leon kennedy x reader #stepdad!leon #smut

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 13 days ago

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Constellations of crimson

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 12

Prompt: Stargazing

Rated: E

Tags: Mafia AU; Mob boss Eddie; Dark Eddie; Blood and violence; Corpses; Nudity; Outdoor sex; Top Eddie; Bottom Steve; Bloodplay; Murder boyfriends

Notes: So I knew I wanted to do starlit outdoor sex for this prompt, but I couldn't decide on a universe to set it in, so I let @steddieas-shegoes pick one. She picked Kiss That Ring, which was a choice for sure. These two truly bring out the worst in each other.

“How many?”

Eddie nudges the body by the stairway with his boot, frowning when he sees the blood seeping into the floorboards. Great, he just had those redone.

“Five,” Gareth says. His gun is back in its holster, but his fingers are still hovering over it, just like Eddie’s haven’t left the hilt of his knife. “All dead.”

Eddie nods. “Any idea who sent them?”

Gareth's mouth twitches into a smile. “Got one of them to sing before I finished him off. A housewarming surprise from the Carvers.”

Eddie huffs a laugh. He's surprised they took so long. It's been more than a month since his not-so-friendly takeover of Dick Harrington’s firm. He'd been expecting the other mob families to test the waters sooner.

“Anything damaged? Anyone hurt?”

“Don’t think so,” Gareth says. “Jeff and Frank are doing a sweep of the property, but-”

“Eddie!” Jeff appears at the top of the staircase. His tone is enough to make Eddie’s hand tighten around the knife. “Steve’s gone.”

The world turns red.

“What do you mean?”

Jeff doesn’t reply.

“What the fuck do you mean, gone?” Eddie’s voice slaps back from the high walls. “He was in the bedroom, where-”

“The window's busted,” Jeff blurts. “I came here as soon as I saw, I-”

Eddie has taken off running before he's even finished the sentence. He can hear their shouts behind him as he sprints through the living room and out into the dark garden, but he doesn’t slow down.

Time blurs into a crimson haze. He sees Steve, naked as he was when he left him. Sees the two men hauling him through the wilted hydrangea bushes by the pool, towards the gate in the garden wall. Sees the bruises and the blood on that pretty face. And then he doesn’t see anything. He just moves.

When he comes back to himself, there's a warm, trembling body in his arms.

“Fuck,” Eddie swears. “Fucking bastards, I'll kill every single one of them. I'll rip out their eyes and cut off their- hold still!”

Steve, who has been burying his face in his neck like he's trying to crawl inside of him, goes pliant, allowing Eddie to pry him away and hold him at arm's length. Eddie wipes his split lip with the pad of his thumb and he hisses in pain. There's more blood on his face, and some on his chest and arms, but no wounds.

“Will you quit that?” Steve snaps when Eddie grabs his chin to tilt his head aside. “It's not mine. God, look at this mess, can't you control yourself?”

Eddie frowns, shaking the crimson fog from his head to take in their surroundings.

The pool has turned red. One of the men is in the water, sightless eyes looking up at the starry night sky. His companion is on the tiles by the poolside, blood from his slit throat oozing into the water. At the edge of the patio, Gareth discreetly ushers Jeff and Frank back into the house.

“Shit,” Eddie mutters. They'll need to replace all of the water, and he knows how Steve gets without his daily swim. “C'mon, let's get you insi-”

“No,” Steve says, hands fisting into the lapels of Eddie’s jacket to pull him close. He's still shaking, eyes still huge and fuzzy with fear.

He's also fully hard.

“Let's just …” Steve murmurs, lips finding Eddie’s neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. They taste like copper. “Let's stay outside? The stars are beautiful.”

“The stars,” Eddie repeats, mouth tugging into a wolfish grin while Steve pushes him down into one of the deck chairs and climbs into his lap. “Sure, little nymph. And they're calling me a sicko and a freak.”

Steve doesn’t grace him with a reply. Instead, he opens Eddie’s zipper with quick, impatient hands. The night air is cold against his cock when it slaps free, hard and flushed and leaking already. It only lasts a moment, though. Steve makes a wrecked little sound, straddling Eddie on either side and sinking down on his cock in one fluid movement. He's still slick and loose from earlier, and so beautifully warm.

“Shit,” Eddie groans, watching through hooded lids how Steve starts to move - lifting himself up on quivering legs, only to slam back down a second later, impaling himself deeper with each thrust. “Shit, look at you. You're perfect, aren't you?”

It's true. He doesn't think he's ever seem anything as beautiful as Steve fucking himself on his cock, head thrown back in ecstasy, face backlit by the stars in the night sky. They bask him in their light, a halo of silver dots all around his head, but Eddie only has eyes for the constellations on that beautiful body. Dark moles on golden skin, mixed with speckles of crimson slowly darkening to brown.

He's perfection.

He's divine.

And he’s his.

Eddie reaches out to cup that beautiful face in one hand, needing to reassure himself that this is real, that it's not a dream, and Steve turns his head, sucking his bloodstained thumb into his mouth. Eddie plunges over the edge with a startled moan, and tumbles right into the starry sky.

When he comes back down, Steve has collapsed on top of him, nose tucked into the soft leather of his jacket.

“I hear we have Jason Carver to thank for this,” Eddie says, combing his fingers through that soft hair. “We’ll need to think of something to repay the favor.”

“Oh?” Steve chuckles. “Does this mean I'll get a repeat of this little show?”

Eddie thinks he'll cut Carver's beating heart out and serve it to this boy on a silver plate, if this is what he wants.

“I'll do anything for you, darling,” is what he says. “I think you know this by now.”

More holiday drabbles

He’s Steves as much as Steve is his, after all. And together, they’ll paint the whole world in constellations of crimson.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #hype's holiday drabbles 2024 #kiss that ring

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librababe99 · 4 months ago

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Vigilante's Lullaby |Part Two|

cw: 18+, MDNI, Jason Todd (Red Hood), gn! Reader, blood, injury, emotional trauma, self loathing, anger and violence, mental health struggles, SLOW BURN word count: 2.9K summary: Red Hood returns to your clinic after a brutal fight, more emotionally shattered than ever. As you tend to his physical injuries, the vigilante finally removes his mask revealing both his true identity and the emotional scars that run even deeper than his physical wounds.

a/n: Decided to take a break from my epidemiology course and churn out the second part to this series! Thank you for the interactions with part one... it makes me happy seeing it reach people--if you'd like to leave feedback or want to be tagged for this just drop a comment below! Happy Reading <3

(part one) | (DC Masterlist) | (Part three)

The night Red Hood stumbled into your clinic felt different, even before you saw the state he was in. The familiar creak of the back door announced his arrival, but the sound was sluggish, as if even the door sensed the weight of his presence tonight. The air seemed heavier too, thick with a tension that hadn’t existed in your previous encounters. You heard the faint shuffle of his boots against the tile, the drag of his body as he moved, and immediately you knew something was wrong—terribly wrong.

He stepped into the dim light of the room, his silhouette barely visible in the flickering glow of the overhead bulb. You could tell right away he was worse off than usual. He wasn’t just hurt; he was shattered, more broken than you’d ever seen him. Blood poured from gashes in his side, and the fabric of his suit was torn and darkened with dried crimson, almost as if it had fused with the wounds underneath. Sweat slicked his skin, shining under the weak fluorescent light, and mixed with the blood in a gruesome pattern that made his normally imposing figure seem even more tragic.

His footsteps were slow, labored, and when he finally sat down in the chair by your desk, he slumped into it like a man carrying the weight of the world. His chest heaved with erratic breaths, his broad shoulders rising and falling as though even the act of breathing was a battle. His usually sharp, unrelenting posture was gone, replaced by exhaustion so deep it seemed to settle in his very bones.

“You’re lucky I’m still awake,” you muttered, grabbing your medical supplies with hands that were steadier than you felt. Your voice was automatic, almost muscle memory at this point, but when you turned to look at him—really look at him—you stopped short.

The words died on your lips.

This wasn’t the Red Hood You knew. The cold, hard-edged vigilante who usually stormed into your clinic with a snarl and a bitter remark was gone. In his place was something fragile, something broken beyond repair. His shoulders sagged, his arms limp at his sides. Blood trickled down his body, pooling at the base of the chair, but that wasn’t what made you freeze. It was the way he looked at you—like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was still real.

He didn’t snap back at you this time. Didn’t bristle, didn’t mutter one of his usual retorts about how he didn’t need anyone’s help, especially not yours. No, this time, he was quiet. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken, and it filled the room like a suffocating fog.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands—gloved, as always—and flexed his fingers as though testing whether he could still feel. He took a long, shuddering breath, and his fingers drifted toward the edge of his helmet.

You watched, your heart hammering in your chest, as he hesitated for the briefest moment. His hand hovered near the helmet’s edge, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. It was a gesture you’d seen before—one that indicated he was about to let his guard down, though never quite as fully as this. But tonight, there was something final about the way he moved.

And then, with deliberate, almost painful slowness, he pulled the helmet away.

It was like watching a wall crumble, slowly, painfully, revealing what had always been hidden behind it. The helmet came off with a quiet hiss, the sound almost too soft for the enormity of the moment. And there he was—Jason Todd, unmasked, laid bare in a way you’d never seen before. The boy who had died and somehow returned, a ghost reborn in flesh and blood.

His dark hair, matted and damp with sweat, clung to his forehead in disarray. His skin, pale and almost sickly under the clinic’s harsh lighting, was marred by bruises, cuts, and dirt. But it was his face—his bare, vulnerable face—that stole your breath away. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones now hollowed by exhaustion, and a long, jagged scar that ran from his temple to his chin.

That scar was a reminder of the death he’d once suffered, of the violence that had stolen him away from the world only to bring him back, changed—scarred not just in body, but in soul. His lips, usually pressed into a firm, unyielding line, were slightly parted, as if every breath he took was a struggle. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the labored breaths ragged and strained.

But his eyes—you didn’t let yourself look at his eyes just yet.

Instead, you focused on the scar, on the reminder of all that had happened to him, of the darkness he had endured and the horrors that had shaped him. It should have been the most shocking thing about him, but it wasn’t.

The most shocking thing was how broken he looked—how utterly, irreparably shattered.

“I died,” Jason said suddenly, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He spoke the words softly, like they weren’t meant to be heard, as if saying them too loudly would make them hurt more. “And then I came back. But not like they wanted. Not like I wanted.”

His confession hit you harder than any of the wounds you’d ever treated. It wasn’t just the words—though those were devastating enough—it was the way he said them. His voice was hollow, distant, like he was recounting something from a nightmare he still hadn’t fully woken up from.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand, even as your heart clenched painfully in your chest. You moved closer, taking in the full extent of his injuries, and began cleaning the wounds with practiced, methodical movements. But your mind was racing, trying to piece together the fragmented puzzle of Jason Todd. The boy who had been Robin. The boy who had died. The man who had returned, not as the hero he once was, but as something darker—something forged in vengeance and rage.

Jason flinched slightly as you pressed a clean cloth against a particularly deep gash on his side, but he didn’t say anything. He just sat there, letting you work in silence, the weight of his confession still hanging heavily in the air between you.

As you stitched him up, he started talking again, his words coming in fits and starts, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to say them but couldn’t stop himself. “I used to think… if I just kept fighting, kept going after the ones who hurt me, it would get easier. That the pain would stop, eventually.” His voice was rough, a rawness in it that you hadn’t heard before. “But it doesn’t. It never does.”

His words settled over you like a shroud, wrapping around your heart and squeezing tight. He wasn’t just talking about his physical wounds anymore—he was talking about the emotional ones, the ones that cut deeper than any knife ever could.

You glanced up at him briefly, your hands still moving with steady precision as you closed another wound. “Jason…” you started, but you weren’t sure what to say. What could you say to someone who had been through what he had? Who had died and come back to a world that hadn’t made space for him?

Jason didn’t meet your gaze. His eyes were focused on some point far beyond the walls of your clinic, as though he was staring into the past—into the darkness that had swallowed him whole and spat him back out.

“I’m not… who I was,” he continued after a long pause, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “I’m not Robin anymore. I don’t think I ever really was, even back then.”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat at the quiet resignation in his voice. There was no anger, no bitterness—just a deep, bone-deep sorrow. A weariness that went beyond the physical.

“I’ve tried to be something else,” he said, almost to himself now, his gaze still distant. “Tried to be what I thought I had to be. What Gotham needed. But…” He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”

His words cut through you like a knife, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. You could see the toll this life had taken on him—the relentless fight, the endless war he waged against the criminals of Gotham, against the shadows of his own past. It had worn him down, broken him in ways you weren’t sure could ever be repaired.

And yet, here he was. Sitting in front of you, bleeding and bruised, but still here. Still fighting, even if he didn’t know why anymore.

You finished the last stitch and leaned in closer, your face just inches from his. Your breath caught in your throat as you found yourself staring at his lips, at the shallow, ragged breaths he was taking. For a moment, you hesitated. Your hand hovered over his chest, your pulse quickening as the space between you seemed to shrink.

Jason’s eyes finally flicked up to meet yours, and for the first time since he’d pulled off the helmet, you let yourself look into them.

They were dark, deeper than you could have imagined, filled with a storm of emotions you couldn’t begin to untangle—pain, anger, regret, fear. And something else. Something softer, more fragile. Vulnerability.

Your heart raced as your gaze locked with his, the intensity of the moment nearly overwhelming. For a split second, it felt like the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you in the dim clinic, suspended in that fragile moment. Your hand hovered just above Jason’s chest, fingers trembling slightly as you felt the tension in the air, thick and charged with something unspoken. His breath hitched, his lips parting ever so slightly, and in that instant, everything felt raw, vulnerable, and terrifyingly real.

The space between you seemed to close on its own. Your lips hovered near his, so close that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, hear the faint, irregular rhythm of his breathing. Your heart pounded in your chest, louder than the quiet sounds of the city outside, louder than the doubts in your mind. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to close that final inch, to bridge the gap between you and him.

But just as your lips were about to meet, Jason pulled back.

It wasn’t a sudden movement, not a sharp rejection, but a slow retreat—a careful, deliberate withdrawal, as if he were trying to stop himself before he crossed a line he wasn’t ready to face. His eyes, so full of stormy emotion just moments before, shuttered. The vulnerability that had been there, fleeting and fragile, was replaced by something harder. Something broken.

Jason dropped his gaze, his jaw tightening as he leaned back in the chair, putting more distance between you. His hands clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white beneath the dark fabric of his gloves. The air between you, once thick with potential, now felt colder, emptier.

"I can't," he muttered, his voice rough and barely above a whisper. "I can't do this. Not with you."

Your heart sank at his words, but you knew—on some level—you understood. This was Jason Todd, after all. A man who had lived through death, who had clawed his way back from the grave only to find the world colder, more unforgiving than ever. He had built walls around himself—impenetrable, unscalable walls—and you had just seen them start to crumble, but they hadn’t fallen completely. Not yet.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a step back, giving him the space he so clearly needed. “Jason,” you started, your voice gentle, “I’m not asking for anything you’re not ready to give.”

He glanced up at you, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you thought you saw the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—gratitude, maybe, or relief. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, buried beneath layers of self-loathing and doubt.

"You don’t get it," Jason said, his tone harsh now, frustration creeping into his voice. "I’m not… I’m not someone you should get close to. Everyone who does—everyone who tries—they end up getting hurt. Or worse."

You shook your head, your chest tight with the weight of his words. “You’re not responsible for what happens to other people, Jason. You don’t have to carry that burden alone.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and cold. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I was dead. Do you understand that? Dead. And I came back, but I wasn’t the same. I’m not the same. And I don’t deserve—”

“Stop.” You interrupted him, stepping closer once more. “Stop punishing yourself for something you had no control over.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening as he looked away, his eyes dark with a mixture of anger and pain. “I can’t… I can’t do this,” he said again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I’ve lost too much already. I can’t lose you, too.”

His admission hit you like a punch to the gut. He was pushing you away, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. He was terrified of letting you in, of what it would mean to open himself up to someone again—to risk the pain of losing another person he cared about.

Your heart ached for him, for the boy who had once been Robin, full of hope and light, and for the man he had become—hardened, scarred, and deeply, irreparably broken by the weight of everything he had endured.

But even so, you couldn’t walk away. You couldn’t just let him drown in his darkness, not when you knew there was still a part of him that wanted to fight, that wanted to feel something other than pain and rage.

You reached out, gently placing a hand on his arm. His body tensed at the contact, but he didn’t pull away this time. “You’re not alone, Jason,” you said softly.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at your hand on his arm as though he couldn’t quite believe it was real. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, his body seemed to relax ever so slightly beneath your touch.

He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. The silence between you was enough, a fragile truce in the midst of all the chaos and pain.You stayed with him for a long time that night, tending to his wounds in silence. But something had shifted between you, a crack in the walls he had built around himself. And though it was small, though it was fragile, it was a start.

The next few nights were quiet. Jason didn’t come back right away, and you tried not to let the growing ache in your chest consume you as the days slipped by without a word from him. You kept busy, focusing on your work, on the patients who came through your door with injuries and stories of their own.

But Jason was always there, a constant presence in the back of your mind, lingering like a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. You wondered where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe. If he was still trying to outrun the demons that haunted him.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Then, one night, just as you were about to close up for the evening, he returned.

He didn’t say anything when he stepped into the clinic, didn’t need to. You could see the tension in his body, the way his fists were clenched tightly at his sides, the faint tremor in his hands that betrayed just how close he was to the edge.

This time, the mask was already off.

Jason’s face was pale, the shadows under his eyes even darker than before, and there was a wildness in his gaze that sent a chill down your spine. He looked like a man barely holding himself together, like he was seconds away from shattering completely.

You didn’t ask what had happened—you didn’t need to. The blood on his clothes, the bruises on his face, and the haunted look in his eyes told you enough.

Instead, you moved toward him, grabbing your supplies. “Sit down,” you said, your voice steady, though your heart was pounding in your chest.

He didn’t argue this time, didn’t resist. He just collapsed into the chair, his body folding in on itself like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. His hands, trembling and bloodied, rested in his lap, and for the first time, you noticed the way his knuckles were bruised and raw.

“Jason…” you whispered, your voice breaking ever so slightly as you knelt in front of him. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, just stared at his hands, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“I went too far,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost control.”

His words were sharp, filled with a self-loathing that made your heart clench painfully in your chest.

“You’re not a monster,” you said softly, reaching out to gently cup his face. “You’re not beyond saving.”

Jason’s eyes met yours, and for the first time, you saw the fear there—the fear that he was, in fact, beyond saving. The fear that the darkness inside him had consumed him completely, and there was no coming back from it.

But you didn’t let go. You held on, refusing to let him drown in that fear.

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ghosttotheparty · 2 years ago

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a place where i belong

also on ao3 // 13k words cw: verbal abuse; gaslighting; family angst; smut/nsfw

He’s in the kitchen when he hears it. Standing by the sink and downing a painkiller, shoes on, jacket on, car keys in hand. He pauses when he hears it, hypervigilant as always, freezing without swallowing the gulp of water, the pill floating in his mouth for a moment as he realizes.

A car pulls into the driveway.

He swallows, closing his eyes and sighing heavily, and he sets the glass in the sink.

He’d forgotten they were coming back today. It’s been on the calendar, marked with a vague, innocuous red dot that he’d begun to look past, to look through, to ignore without meaning to. He’s been too focused on everything else, on his own messy handwriting reading Lucas basketball - 3pm and kids theater - noon and Max physical therapy - 1pm. His weekly hours are jotted down on a piece of paper that’s stuck to the wall next to the calendar, updated every Saturday evening. Robin’s handwriting is just as bad as his, but he’s gotten better at reading it, the same way she’s gotten better at reading his.

Steve rests his back against the counter by the sink, taking a breath, steeling himself. He crosses his arms, clutching his keys in his hand so tightly the teeth bite into his palm. He looks at the ground. Follows the lines between the tiles with his eyes like he’s mapping out a maze. Or an escape.

He hears the front door open. Hears some shuffling, some muttering, the clunking of suitcases coming through the entryway.

And then he hears, “Steven, your car is filthy, when was the last time you had it washed?”

His eyes get stuck on a tile, at the corner of it. The tiles used to be a pristine, shining, sparkling white. When Steve was a little boy, they were always sparkling. Glistening. Always freshly mopped, scrubbed, waxed. They don’t look like that anymore. They’re dull now, still white but just barely grey. The one Steve is looking at has a crack in it. It’s a tiny crack, thin as a hair, branching off from the corner, but he sees it from where he’s standing.

“A few weeks ago,” he says, even though he knows it’s been months. “I don’t know.”

The house has aged with him, he thinks. His parents stopped making sure the floors were being taken care of when they started leaving. They stopped making sure the chimney was cleaned, the pool was cleaned, the walls were sturdy. Steve gave up on keeping everything in order when he started high school. When he started to question whether or not they were coming back at all instead of what day they’d show up.

Steve stares at the tile. Traces the crack in it.

“Steven, I paid good money for that car, I expect you to take care of it.”

He nods at the floor.

Quiet.

Good.

He hates when they come home. It’s like the house gets a little colder, like the echoes of the kids’ laughter get sucked out the windows. Like the last burning embers in the fireplace have turned to ash.

It doesn’t happen often, them coming home. But when it does…

“Goodness, this floor is filthy. We need to get these tiles replaced.”

He blends into the walls. Turns to mist that they look right through. Fades back into the little boy he used to be, too small to look into his father’s eyes or to reach the liquor cabinet, quiet and well-behaved and good.

They keep talking. He doesn’t hear his name. He keeps looking at the floor. He decides he likes the crack in that tile. He kind of wishes they were all like that. It took almost twenty years for that crack to appear, that tiny, thin crack. He wonders how many tiles there are in the whole room, wants to multiply that number by twenty. See if he’ll still be alive when they’re all like this one, damaged so subtly he has to look for it. He imagines it, the tiles grey and dusty with age, cracks spreading across them like a spiderweb across the floor. In his head, it’s beautiful.

And then he remembers that they want to replace them now. Because they’re not as shiny as they used to be.

Steve doesn’t feel very shiny. He doesn’t think he’s ever been shiny.

They’re still talking. Steve exhales.

His eyes find a scuff on his shoe. He blinks at it, trying to remember where it came from, and for an awful, awful second he thinks it’s from gym class, from basketball practice, from fucking around in alleyways, before he remembers.

He thinks it’s from the Upside Down. From running, hiding, fighting.

The keys bite into his palm, and he loosens his grip, inhaling sharply as his brain registers the pain. He looks at his hand, holding his fingers open to make sure he isn’t bleeding. He isn’t. His skin is red, indents from the teeth of the keys sharp in his skin, in the creases of his palms.

Fuck.

He looks at the clock across the room, and for a moment he wants to just leave silently, to walk right past them to the front door. But he doesn’t.

“Uh,” he says, quietly enough that he isn’t really interrupting them. They both look at him, turning their heads a little but still glancing at him out of the sides of their eyes, and he finally looks at them. Sees them. They look older than he thought they did, lines around their eyes and mouths and on their foreheads. His father’s hair is mostly grey now, his mother's still dark red. It looks fake, just like the pearls around her neck. “I need to… go.”

“Go where?”

“To— To pick up some kids.” He stutters. He hates stuttering. “And take them home, I— I told their parents I’d get them home by six.”

Walter sneers.

“Why are you driving children around?” he asks. But he isn’t really asking anything at all. He’s just… commenting. Like he always it. Your grades are shit. Your car is dirty. Why are you driving children around?

“I’m their babysitter,” Steve says. He used to hate that word. It felt so demeaning. He remembers his babysitters from when he was little, teenagers that only took the job for the money instead of for Steve, teenagers that would spend hours in the living room smoking or nursing beers and watching movies while Steve played by himself upstairs or in the corner.

But he doesn’t mind it now. Being the babysitter. Driving the kids around. Making sure they’re okay, they’re safe and healthy and happy. Even though he tells them to shut up, he likes hearing their laughter and relentless bickering from the backseat. Even though he calls them little shits, he thinks he loves them.

“Babysitter,” Walter repeats dryly. He’s making that face again. He’s always making that face at Steve. Like he smells, like he’s a stain on the carpet. Like he’s a dirty floor tile. Walter sighs, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “We’re going to need to discuss your career plans, Steven, you can’t go on with your life babysitting.”

Steve stares at him blankly. He won’t meet Steve’s eye.

He’s wearing a suit. He’s always wearing a suit. Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him in anything else.

And now, come to think of it, Steve can’t remember the last time he saw him.

It’s been months that they’ve been away. Months since they’ve stepped through the front door into the boring entryway, through the boring hallway, into the boring kitchen. With no greeting, no Hi, Steve, how’ve you been? No We missed you, how are your friends? What happened with the earthquakes and the serial killer? Are you okay?

Nothing.

A comment about the dirt on Steve’s car, and the dull floor tiles, and Steve’s future career. He wonders if they even know what color his eyes are.

“Right,” he says finally, his hand clenching around the keys again. “Well, I’d love to have that conversation with you, but I really need to go, so…”

“We just got home,” Catherine says sharply, looking at him from where she’s sitting at the table, unbuckling her high heels. “You haven’t seen us in months, Steven, and this is how you greet us?”

Steve looks at her. At her hair. It’s stiff with hairspray, piled up on top of her head in fake curls. Her makeup is creasing in her wrinkles, and her lipstick is faded around the center of her lips. Steve blinks.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here right now,” he says carefully. “And I already told the kids’ parents I’d have them home by six, it should only take a few minutes.” He pauses, looking at her but feeling Walter’s eyes on him. Like he’s analyzing him, looking for faults. He can’t see the scars under Steve’s shirt. “I can’t just leave them there,” he says, pausing, thinking about how worried the kids would be. How they’d blow up the walkies trying to contact him, calling Eddie and Robin and even Nancy to ask if they know where he is, if they’ve heard from him. But he knows Walter would just laugh. “I’m responsible for them,” he finishes.

And he starts toward the door.

“When did you turn into such a little adult?” Catherine says lightly behind him, teasing. Careless.

He stops walking, fist tightening on the keys again. He’s facing the doorway, and the room is quiet except for the soft shuffling of her shoe on the ground as she undoes the buckle. And he feels like his whole body is aching and sore, because he was nine.

The first time they left him home alone. It was just a few days while they went to Indianapolis, but he remembers how quiet the house was. How he suddenly missed the smell of cigarettes and weed, how he missed the indistinct chatter of the television, of his babysitters’ voices muffled through the walls while they talked to their friends on the phone. He sat on the stairs for a while after hearing their car pull out of the driveway. Like he was waiting.

He realized after a few hours that without a babysitter, he could go outside. It was his first time outside without supervision.

He just tried to catch the fireflies.

Steve turns around and looks at them. They’re both looking back at him, eyebrows raised curiously at the way he stopped short, at the way he froze.

“Probably when I turned into an actual adult,” he says, his voice quieter than he intends.

Walter scoffs.

Steve feels like he just plunged into Lovers’ Lake again. Ice cold all over, in the dark. Eyes straining to see what’s ahead of him.

“You’re an adult when you finish high school, Steven. You’re a child.”

Steve blinks.

His gaze shifts over to him, to that fucking expression, at the earnestness in his eyes. The fucking ignorance. And Steve, inexplicably, laughs.

It’s a short laugh, but it’s almost hysterical, and he really just doesn’t know how the fuck else to react, to respond. They’re looking right at him. And they can’t see the age in his eyes, in his height, his face. They don’t even know him. He’s a stranger in their house.

They’re strangers too.

“I’m an adult, Dad,” Steve says dryly after the laugh, still half-smiling, even as the expression on Walter’s face deepens. Condescending, and mean, and judging, and even with the grey hair and the wrinkles, he’s the same man that Steve used to look up at as a child. “I graduated high school,” Steve says before Walter can say anything. “Two years ago.”

Walter blinks, making a face and looking at Catherine, who just raises an eyebrow at Steve.

“You were in Italy,” Steve says, trying as hard as he can to remain light, nonchalant, to keep his voice soft and sweet and quiet and good. “I sent you an invitation to the ceremony.”

“Oh, Steven, you know we never check our main when we’re abroad,” Catherine says lightly.

Steve looks at her. The faux kindness in her eyes. The smile gracing her red lips. Like it’s Steve's fault. Like he’s a child.

He hates her.

“Right,” he says softly, nodding slowly, looking away. “Silly me.”

“So you think finishing high school makes you a grown-up?” Walter says, amused. Steve looks at him.

“Isn’t that what you just said?”

“...Steven, you have no idea what it means to be an adult.”

Steve looks at him. At his face. The condescending shine in his eye, like he’s talking to a kid, like Steve isn’t his height. (Maybe taller. He’s too far away to tell right now.)

Stranger. Stranger. Stranger.

Steve nods. Puts his keys down.

“I’ll be back in a second.”

The phone is in the living room, near the doorway, and he closes his eyes as he picks it up, taking a deep breath before he dials the number he memorized within a day of learning it.

“Munsons.”

“Hey,” Steve says quietly. “Uh, would it be cool if you picked the kids up from the arcade for me?”

“The arcade…” Eddie repeats, his voice more distant like he’s leaning away from the phone. “Weren’t you getting them today? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve lies easily. But Eddie’s always able to know when he’s lying. Steve doesn’t know how he does it. Every time Steve lies that he’s fine, that No, my head doesn’t hurt, and I didn’t have a nightmare, I just wanted to get some water, and I feel fine. Eddie just… looks at him.

“Steve.”

And Steve always breaks. Lets the brick wall between them crumble to dust.

“Uh.” He pauses, glancing down the hall. He feels like they’re listening. “My parents came back a minute ago. We’re talking.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says. “Is everything okay? Do you need backup?”

Steve smiles into the phone, closing his eyes as his stomach flutters.

“No, just… It’ll be fine. We’re just talking.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and Steve can practically hear the gears in his head turning.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get the little shits, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Steve says, taking a deep breath. “Thank you, Eddie.”

“‘Course, Stevie.” Steve’s stomach flutters again. “Good luck with your parents.”

“Thanks.”

They hang up. Steve presses his face to the wall for a moment, taking a slow breath before he exhales.

He goes back to the kitchen.

Leans against the counter by his keys. Crosses his arms and looks at the floor. Finds the cracked tile and stares at it.

It feels farther away now. Like he’s gotten taller.

“You don’t think I know what it means to be an adult,” he says.

“No, Steven,” Walter says lightly. Jovially. Condescendingly. “I think you’ve lived a very sheltered life. You haven’t seen the world, or experienced anything that could push you into adulthood. But that’s okay,” he adds like it’s reassuring. “You’re fortunate, you know.”

Steve's jaw twitches. He grinds his teeth. Stares at the tile, then the scuff on his shoe.

“Do you wanna know what I think?” Steve asks quietly.

Walter scoffs again.

The sound grates at the inside of Steve’s skull, and his stomach twists. His lungs feel constricted, like they’re too tight.

“What do you think?” Walter asks. His voice is gentle, so gentle it sounds like he’s talking to a five-year-old, humoring him, playing along. Steve lifts his head and levels a gaze on him.

And across the kitchen, in the soft late afternoon sunlight, Steve looks at his wrinkles and his grey hair and his goddamn suit, and he’s just a man. And Steve wonders how the fuck he used to look up to this man, how the fuck he used to think he was anything more than this.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” Steve says softly.

Walter’s eyes widen, and he tilts his head in shock as Catherine lets out an Excuse me!

Steve nods, staring, and staring, and staring, and he can’t look away.

“I think you don’t know shit about me,” he says again. “I think I have been… through hell. And you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here,” Steve snaps, his voice a little louder. He uncrosses his arms and stands up straight, and he thinks he is taller than his father. His stomach twists again. “You wanna know when I became a little adult, Mom?”

She stares at him, eyes wide.

“I became a little adult when you left me home alone to fend for myself,” he says forcefully. “When I was a child. And I should have been off playing with my friends, and memorizing multiplication tables, and getting my knees scraped on the pavement.” His heart is pounding now, and he can barely hear himself over it. “I wasn’t doing any of that. I was learning how to fucking cook, because there was no one else to do that for me. I was learning how to reset the heat in the house, and I was growing up when I shouldn’t have been.”

“So you’ve been through hell because you had to learn how to use the stove,” Walter says dryly. Steve looks at him.

“God, you really have no idea who I am, Dad.”

“I’m your father,” Walter says, an amused smile teasing his lips.

“Is that what you call yourself?” Steve asks. “Is that what you tell people? That you’re a father? Because, I…” He scoffs and shakes his head, and maybe he’s more like his father than he’d hoped he’d be, but he doesn’t care right now. “I gotta tell you, man, that’s gonna be really misleading when people hear that.”

“You don’t think I’m your father,” Walter says. He’s starting to get angry, and a part of Steve feels vindicated. Good.

“No,” Steve breathes.

“How on Earth is he not?” Catherine interrupts, and Steve had almost forgotten that she’s even here, looking up at them from the chair she’s sitting in. “You have his DNA.”

“Right,” Steve says. “So we’re related. Biologically.” He looks back at Walter, and they’re closer than he thought they were, but he can't tell how close they really are. Concussions and trauma do wonders to one’s depth perception. “You didn’t raise me.”

“I didn’t raise you?” Walter says, his cheeks flushing red. Something in Steve cheers.

“No,” Steve says calmly. “You left me alone with teenagers that didn’t know shit about how to take care of children, and you left me home alone. By myself. In the middle of the fucking woods.”

“You weren’t that young, Steve—”

“I was nine.” He looks at Catherine, silencing her. “I remember.” He looks back at Walter. Their eyes meet. They have the same eye color. Steve hates it. “Fathers know their children,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

“Of course I know you,” Walter snaps. “You’re my son, Steven, how could I not—”

“How old am I?”

The room falls quiet.

Steve stares back as Walter looks at him. He can hear his own heartbeat, his own breaths. The water tapping in the sink. A bird chirping outside.

And he nods.

“You don’t know me,” he says quietly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re still our son,” Catherine says haughtily.

“...When’s my birthday?” he asks. When they’re silent, he says, “What am I allergic to? What’s my favorite color? Who’s my best friend?”

“The Hagan kid,” Walter says, like it’s an accomplishment, answering one question incorrectly.

“I haven’t talked to Tommy Hagan in three years,” Steve says. “And you didn’t know that.”

Walter huffs and rolls his eyes.

“How was I supposed to know that?” he mutters. “Look, Steven, this…” He gestures aimlessly at Steve, making a face. “Your favorite color, your friend’s name, they don’t matter.” He laughs lightly, dismissively. “You wanna be treated like an adult, but these are the things you care about, Steven, they’re irrelevant.”

“It doesn’t matter that they’re irrelevant, Dad,” Steve snaps, his voice louder. “It matters that you don’t care. I’m your kid, you should care about the things I like, and— and about my friends, and about my fucking birthday.”

“Don’t you raise your voice at me,” Walter says, his eyes darkening with anger, and Steve aches.

When he was six, he was watching Looney Tunes on the television on a Saturday morning. He laughed a little too loud, and he was sent to his room for the rest of the day. Because his father needed quiet to focus on his work. Walter’s always hated hearing Steve speak, so Steve has kept quiet. Seen and not heard. Fading in the background, hiding in plain sight. But Steve is fucking sick of being looked through. Ignored.

“No,” he says, shaking his head, almost on the verge of delirious laughter. “No, I’m gonna raise my voice at you. Because I’m pissed, and because you never had a problem raising your voice at me.”

“You were a child—”

“So that made it fine? To yell at me? To tell me to keep my fucking mouth shut? That’s all fine to tell a child?” He stares at Walter. “You wanna talk about the shit that actually matters, fine. Let’s talk about the shit that actually matters.”

He’s shaking now, breathing hard and trembling with twenty years of anger that's boiling and spilling over his edges.

“You guys know about Hawkins,” he says, crossing his arms and looking at the floor, avoiding their gazes as he takes a breath.

“About Hawkins,” Walter repeats.

“Hawkins, yeah,” Steve says. “The shitshow that is my hometown, you know all the shit that’s happened here, right? The missing kids, the— the fires, the lab.”

“Of course we know everything about this town, Steven,” Catherine says curtly. “We’ve lived here twenty years.”

“You really haven’t,” Steve says lightly. “But that’s fine. You know about everything.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “You know the girl that went missing?” he asks, looking up at them. “Barbara. And the whole conspiracy with the lab and the chemical spill and everything.”

“Yes,” Walter says. “We heard about all of that.”

They’re both staring at him curiously now, quiet while he looks back.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “I was involved in all of that.” He watches their confusion deepen the wrinkles on their faces. “She was my ex-girlfriend’s best friend. She went missing from here, from—” He gestures out the window, toward the pool that’s covered with a blue tarp. The water is probably swimming with dead leaves.

“You know anything about Billy Hargrove?”

Catherine blinks.

“The… The boy that passed away in the fire,” she says slowly, remembering. “At the mall.”

The fire.

“The boy,” he mutters to himself before he bites his lip, pausing. “Yeah. The year before he ate shit, he almost fucking killed me.”

They both blink at him, blank.

“And he tried to kill me,” he continues, “because I stopped him from killing a thirteen-year-old.” He takes a shuddering breath, uncrossing his arms, looking at them, and his vision wavers as he remembers it, as he remembers the glass smashing over his head, the floor against his back, Billy’s laughter. The kids’ shouting. “He beat… the shit out of me. Gave me a grade four concussion.”

He looks back at forth between them, waiting for a reaction, but they keep staring. Catherine’s eyes are wide, but Walter just looks angry. Like Steve is wasting his time.

“It took me three weeks to recover from it,” he says. “And you were in fucking Spain.”

His voice shakes.

“The mall fire,” he continues before they can say anything. “You know about it. Fourth of July, thirty dead.”

“Yes,” Catherine says softly.

“Take a wild fucking guess where I was.”

Silence.

Until Catherine’s voice says quietly, “...The mall.”

“Inside,” Steve says softly, looking at her intently. “With my friends, with the kids I babysit— and it wasn’t just a— a fucking fire.” He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t tell you what really happened, because I signed a goddamn nondisclosure agreement—”

“Steven, what—”

“But I can tell you,” he interrupts loudly. “That I got the shit beaten out of me again.”

A flash of light. A fist cracking against his face. An ache in his ribs, a sharp pain in the side of his neck. His own voice, rough from screaming, broken and pleading.

“Another grade four concussion. The medics asked for my home number so one of you could come to pick me up,” he says, his throat tightening, his eyes stinging. “And I had to tell him that you were in Chicago for a fucking business trip.” His breath shudders, and his vision blurs, and his hands are trembling as he gestures aimlessly, pointing to nothing. “I was driven home by a fucking government agent, because you weren’t here.”

“Steven—”

“You heard about the kids in town that were murdered?” he says, his voice breaking, tears sparking his eyes. “The kids that were fucking… broken?”

“...Of course we heard about them.”

Steve exhales shakily.

“...There was a serial killer loose in town,” he says, fingers curling into fists. “And you never even called.”

“We were working,” Walter snaps.

“You’re always fucking working,” Steve says strongly. “I got used to you not being around, but it didn’t make it any fucking easier. You weren’t here when I had concussions, when I couldn’t fucking see, or when my hearing started going, you weren’t here when I could barely move because my injuries were infected, you were never fucking here.”

“Oh, Lord,” Walter says, rolling his eyes and scoffing, glancing at Catherine. Steve’s stomach twists, and he can’t see clearly. Everything is too bright, swimming in his tears. “How were we supposed to know you were hurt?”

Hurt.

He makes it sound so… little. Like Steve had a papercut. Like he needed a band-aid and a kiss on his forehead to feel better.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Dad,” Steve says adamantly. “Obviously you wouldn’t fucking know, that’s not the problem— The problem is that you weren’t here for any of it, for anything I’ve gone through, and even when you knew what the fuck was happening in this town you couldn’t even be bothered to call, to— to make sure I was okay.”

“You said you’re an adult, didn’t you?”

Steve exhales.

He doesn’t feel like an adult right now.

He feels like a child. Like he’s five years old, searching for his parents’ attention, their affection, anything. Like they’re looking past him, through him, ignoring him in the hopes that he finally shuts up.

Seen and not heard.

“You said you signed a nondisclosure agreement,” Walter says. “Let’s say you really did— You have to be eighteen for contracts to be legally binding. So you’re an adult.” Walter looks into his eyes, like he’s sizing him up. “You shouldn’t need mommy and daddy to take care of you.”

Steve’s lip quivers. He blinks tears back. And he’s stuck here. A kindergartener in the body of a twenty-year-old, the way he was thirty when he was twelve. Unmoving.

Walter scoffs again, looking at Steve trying not to cry.

“Are you done with your little temper tantrum?” he asks dryly, turning slightly. “It was a long trip back, I’d like to take a shower and rest.”

And Steve longs to tell them. About the monsters, the dark, the flickering and flashing lights. About the Upside Down. To show them the scars that cover his skin.

“You weren’t here when I was a child, either,” Steve says, stopping him before he can leave, and Walter turns with a heavy sigh, giving Steve a bored look. Steve’s fists tighten. His nails bite into his palms.

“Steven,” Catherine says, standing from the table like she’s bored too. “That’s quite enough.”

“You weren’t here when I was injured,” Steve says shakily, his vision blurring again. “You weren’t here when I was concussed, and when I couldn’t see, and you weren’t here when I turned twenty, or when I graduated high school, and you weren’t here when I learned how to ride a bike, or how to swim, and you weren’t here when I got my first A, and you weren’t here for parent-teacher conferences— I went by myself,” he adds roughly, gesturing at himself, hitting his own chest.

“Steven—”

“You weren’t here when I had nightmares or when I got sick, I took care of myself.”

“It made you strong—”

“I was a child!”

He’s never raised his voice at them like this. Never yelled. But he’s crying now, tears falling freely down his cheeks as they stare like he’s grown another head, and he can’t help it.

“I didn’t need to be strong,” he shouts. “I needed to be loved, and I fucking wasn’t.”

“How…” Catherin huffs, her face red, and Steve looks at her, taking a hiccuping breath. “You think we didn’t love you,” she says. “But we provided a roof over your head, and—”

“A roof wasn’t enough,” he says, holding back a sob. “I used to— I used to wait after school, fucking waiting for you to come get me, to— to drive me home, I used to watch all the other kids with their moms and dads, I used to watch them laugh, and smile, and hug them, and I fucking waited for you. I waited until nighttime once, and you never fucking came.”

“Steven, that’s just irresponsible,” Walter says, and Steve hiccups.

“I was nine,” he says. “I waited for you, all I fucking wanted was my parents to drive me to school, and you were off in fucking Paris or wherever the hell you were. I had to teach myself how to ride a bike, and I had to take myself, because you weren’t here—”

“I have responsibilities—”

“I was your responsibility,” Steve finally screams. “I was your son.”

He takes a gasping breath as they stare at him again, and he wipes his face so roughly it hurts.

“I missed you,” he chokes. “I needed you.”

“You clearly didn’t need us that much,” Walter says, huffing, gesturing at him. His wedding band sparkling in the sun and Steve wants to melt it. “If you’re doing just fine now.”

“I’m not,” Steve says before he can stop himself.

He’s never said it before. That he’s not fine. Even when he was concussed, when Robin was concerned, he insisted he was okay. It doesn’t hurt that bad, Robbie, don’t worry. And he went home. Turned off the lights. Covered the windows. Laid in bed. Cried.

It’s some cruel, cruel irony that these are the first people to know.

“I’m so fucking far from fine,” Steve says. He covers his face for a moment, and for a brief second, he wishes he was bruised, purple and blue and bloody. He doesn’t know why. Maybe so they could fucking see it. So they’d believe him.

“...The first time my best friend said I love you to me, I laughed.” He looks at them, and he suddenly wants to crumple to the floor, to lean against the wall, to go to bed. Exhausted. “I never fucking heard it from you guys. Never heard it from my girlfriend. I didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know what it fucking meant.”

He looks at them across the room. They’re both near the doorway of the kitchen, both turned slightly toward each other like they’re leaving, hesitating to watch Steve. Like he’s putting on a performance, like he’s pretending.

“You really fucked me up,” he says weakly, tiredly.

They’re quiet for a moment. And he doesn’t know what he expects. An apology. We’re sorry, Steve, we’ll be better parents from now on. We’ll be present in your life.

“I really don’t like the language you’ve been using today, Steven,” Catherine says. Ignoring him. The tears on his face. “It’s really no way to speak to your parents.”

But he supposes he should have seen this coming. The deflection.

He looks away, blinking tears back and exhaling, but before he can say anything, a car pulls into the driveway. He turns to look out the window, wiping his face as he catches the end of Eddie’s van before it’s hidden from view, and in spite of it all, he smiles.

That was quick.

He should have anticipated Eddie coming over as soon as he could. He probably sped on the way here.

“Who…” Walter starts, but he’s interrupted by the front door swinging open. The doorknob hits the wall with a muffled bang, and a moment later, Eddie appears behind in the entry to the kitchen.

Walter and Catherine part, looking him up and down, looking, scandalized, at the rips in his jeans, the swords on his t-shirt that form an upside down star, at his hair. And he isn’t even wearing a jacket or any jewellery, and Steve’s stomach flutters with the realization that Eddie really didn’t waste any time.

Eddie’s eyes find Steve, and he crosses the room, pushing past Walter.

“Are you okay?” he asks Steve quickly, his eyes scanning over his face, his body, lingering on the tear tracks on his cheeks. “Did they touch you?”

“No,” Steve says softly, wiping his face again, and Eddie’s eyes follow the movement. Steve thinks he must be holding himself back; usually after nightmares, he wipes Steve’s tears for him, the same way Steve wipes his. “No, I just…”

Eddie exhales, looking into Steve’s eyes, looking for a lie. He’s out of breath, like he ran here instead of drove, and Steve smiles weakly. Until Walter interrupts.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” he says forcefully, and Eddie and Steve turn to look at him. “Coming into my house.”

Eddie looks back and forth between Walter and Catherine like he’s trying to memorize them both, scanning their clothing the way they scanned his. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are pursed, and even though from here Steve can’t really see him, there’s a warm pit in his stomach, because Eddie’s so beautiful, and he came for Steve, and he’s stepping forward a little bit like Walter is going to try to lay a hand on Steve, and Steve’s never felt so fucking safe before, and he doesn’t know what to do with this, and—

Catherine gasps. Steps back with a slight stumble even though she’s not wearing her high-heels anymore. Clutches at her pearls.

“You’re that boy,” she says, touching Walter’s arm and pulling. “That Hellfire boy, you—”

“Eddie didn’t do anything,” Steve interrupts, his stomach dropping, but Walter recognizes him too, and he turns red, glancing at Steve and then looking back at Eddie.

“Get out of my house,” he says, his voice too loud, and Steve feels so fucking small, and he hates feeling small.

But Walter starts toward Eddie when he doesn’t say anything, and Steve remembers suddenly that he isn’t small anymore.

He steps in front of Eddie, knocking Walter’s hand aside before he presses his fingertips to his chest, pushing him back gently. Walter stares, wide-eyed, red-faced.

“You lay a finger on him,” Steve says too calmly, “and I will fucking kill you.”

Walter blinks, shock coloring his face darker before he laughs, but it’s a forced laugh, and Steve’s never been more serious in his life, his hands shaking with adrenaline, his heart pounding, and Walter doesn’t seem to know that Steve will do whatever the fuck he needs to for Eddie.

“You think you can kill me, Steven?” Steve looks into his eyes.

He’s smaller than Steve. Not by much, but when Steve lifts his chin, he has to look down at him to hold eye contact.

“We just had a whole conversation about how little you know me,” he says quietly. “Do you really wanna fucking test me?”

He hears Eddie exhale behind him, but he doesn’t look away, staring into Walter’s eyes, challenging him, and his hands almost itch. He hasn’t had any fights in a good long while.

Walter looks past him, breaking eye contact, staring Eddie down now, but his eyes flicker like he’s looking across Eddie’s face, analyzing him. Steve knows what he’s looking at. The scar on his cheek, the mangled skin. Steve loves that scar. It had to be stitched together, but it makes Steve think of the constellation Cassiopeia, almost W-shaped. He longs to trace it someday. To thank it.

Walter backs up finally, and Steve exhales, watching him go back across the room to stand with Catherine, who’s still watching, wide-eyed, a hand on her chest over her heart.

“Sickening, Steven,” Walter says, shaking his head and glaring at Eddie. “Really. I thought I raised you to associate yourself with better—”

“You didn’t raise me,” Steve interrupts. “Stop… acting like you were some fantastic fucking father that a fucking stand-up job of raising a son, you didn’t do shit.” He stares, breathing hard, his back tingling with some sort of anticipation. “I did. Not you.”

“So you think you’re so independent?” Walter says with that awful fucking laugh again.

“I had to be,” Steve says softly. Eddie is closer now, still behind Steve, but less like Steve is protecting him, and more like Eddie is here. “You didn’t give me a choice.”

Walter looks at him. At Eddie. He’s holding the back of a chair, exasperated, and he shakes his head.

“Never thought I’d be so disappointed in my own son.”

Steve looks away, hesitating.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says softly. His voice is so kind.

“...Can you go upstairs and pack me a bag?”

“‘Course.”

Eddie touches the small of his back gently as he passes by toward the entryway, where he passes Walter and Catherine with a faux polite nod that’s so on brand for Eddie that Steve wants to smile.

Walter glares at Steve while Eddie goes upstairs, and Steve can hear him breathing heavily. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw him this angry.

And then Walter is standing up straight abruptly, muttering something about fucking trash in my house under his breath as he leaves the kitchen, and Steve’s stomach drops as he follows, his vision blurring as his blood courses in his veins, fingers twitching. But instead of going up the stairs, Walters passes by them, headed toward the master bedroom, and Steve stops, watching. He scoffs when he realizes where he’s headed, and he leans against the wall. He hears a thump upstairs.

“Steven, you really…” Catherine shakes her head in disappointment. She’s got her arms crossed, twisting the plastic pearls of her necklace. “This is all very disrespectful.”

Steve looks down at her.

“...You think you deserve my respect?” he asks quietly. She looks at him like she’s alarmed. “You think I care if you think you do?”

He looks away before she can respond.

Eddie is coming down the top steps just as Walter appears again.

Steve looks up at Eddie.

He’s carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder, carrying the nail bat in one of his hands, and he raises an eyebrow as Walter yells at Steve from across the room.

“Where is it?”

“Nowhere you’ll find it,” Steve says lightly, lifting a hand to catch the bat as Eddie tosses it to him as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. Walter is huffing, and puffing, and it’s kind of ridiculous now.

“What’s he looking for?”

“Gun.”

“Ah.” Eddie is almost smiling. The gun is in the back of his van, taken for target practice when Nancy taught Robin how to shoot.

Steve turns back into the kitchen to grab his keys, swinging the bat. It scratches the tile floor. When he turns back around, Walter and Catherine are staring at it, at the rusted nails and the blood-stained wood.

“What the hell…”

Steve swings it again, moving his keys so he’s holding the one for his car between his fingers.

“You don’t know me.”

Eddie is by the door with the duffel bag when Steve gets to the hallway, and he looks into Steve’s eyes. The light is dimmer now. The sun’s starting to go down.

“Come to my place, yeah?” Eddie says softly, touching Steve’s arm gently, his thumb brushing over the fabric of his jacket before he squeezes. His eyes are shining earnestly, and Steve’s chest aches. He nods.

They both step out onto the porch. It’s cold out, the air biting at Steve’s face, but it feels refreshing, like inside the house was stuffy and claustrophobic, like he’d been trapped under a blanket for too long. Eddie goes to the van, tossing the duffel bag in as he gives Steve one more look.

“Is there anything else we don’t know about you?” Walter says behind Steve, who turns to look at him again.

Walter’s eyes are lingering on Steve’s arm, like he can see Eddie’s handprint on it, and then he looks into Steve’s eyes, shining with disgust and judgement and hatred, and Steve

doesn’t

fucking

care.

“You’ll never get to know,” he says quietly.

And he leaves.

He’s vaguely aware of Catherine saying something, her voice high-pitched and wavering, and Walter shouting something about the car, but Steve ignores them, blank and empty as he gets into the car and pulls out of the driveway. He glances at the house in the rearview mirror as he leaves. It occurs to him that with the location of it, hidden by trees, away from town, Steve could live in Hawkins all his life and never have to look at the house again.

He smiles.

Eddie and Wayne live in an apartment in town now. It’s two floors above a cafe that opened a little after Starcourt, and sometimes when Steve is going to the door, he smells coffee and baking pastries. It’s nice.

He doesn’t smell it at this time of night, though.

He and Eddie arrive around the same time, and they’re quiet as Steve parks next to the van, grabs the bat and silently follows Eddie to the door. Eddie leads him in, up the narrow stairs, and they’re quiet as he unlocks the apartment, as they step inside and kick their shoes off. Steve leaves the bat resting against the wall by the door in Eddie’s room, and Eddie tosses him his bag.

Steve looks into it, rummages through the bunched-up, hastily-packed underwear, jeans, shirts, sweaters. His fingers brush cold cans that he recognizes as his hairspray, and he smiles, his stomach fluttering because Eddie remembered where they were.

“Steve,” Eddie says softly. He’s leaning against his dresser. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says easily.

“Steve,” Eddie says again, almost whispering.

“I am, Eddie,” Steve says, looking up at him, his hands falling still on top of the bag. Eddie’s eyes are shining with concern, and his arms are crossed. “I really…” He trails off, looking at the ground.

It’s hardwood, the wood faded and creaky, and there are a few gaps between the floorboard. He can see the nails in them, shining in the dim light of Eddie’s room, and it makes Steve think about the tiles in the kitchen at his parents’ house. Faded and dull and cracked because they’ve been walked on. Used.

“I feel great,” he says, looking back at Eddie, half-smiling.

Eddie’s expression softens.

“Just tired,” Steve adds, looking away. “I haven’t… cried. In a while.”

“You wanna lay down?”

Steve hesitates.

“...Can I borrow a sweater?”

Eddie smiles.

“‘Course, Stevie.”

Steve likes it when he calls him that.

It makes him feel little, but not in the way his parents make him feel. Not little like a little boy, like he has to stay quiet, stay still, like he can’t ask for a second serving of dinner or turn the volume of the television up past three in case he pisses them off.

Little like Eddie will take care of him.

Which he does, even though he has no idea how it really affects Steve, how it makes butterflies erupt in his belly every time he touches him, every time he calls him Stevie. He has no idea how hard Steve is crushing on him, and a part of Steve hates him for it. For how sweet he is, how kind.

Because there are nights he’ll call after a nightmare and Steve will look out at the moon while he listens to him cry, while he listens to Eddie tell him he called because in the dream he lost Steve, because he needed to make sure he was okay.

Because Eddie touches him in ways no one else does, in ways no one else ever has. In ways Steve wouldn’t ever let anyone.

He blushes every time he remembers that night, the night he’d spent after staying up too late watching movies with Eddie. He’d had a gruesome nightmare, but as soon as his eyes opened he couldn’t remember what had happened. But Eddie was there, tentatively touching his hand, eyes wide awake, saying Stevie. Stevie. I’m right here. You’re okay. And Steve had just cried, reaching out to Eddie, who took him in his arms.

He held Steve until he stopped crying. And then he kept holding him. Steve had pushed his face into Eddie’s chest, gripping his shirt, listening intently to Eddie’s heartbeat. It was a little fast, but it still helped.

And then Eddie pushed a hand into Steve's hair.

Steve was already falling asleep, and he had let out a soft hum. Eddie pulled his hand away, apologizing.

Sorry, I know you don’t like your hair being touched.

And even half-asleep, Steve spoke.

Only you. Please.

Eddie pushed his hand back into his hair gently. Steve hummed. Eddie’s fingers twisted around the strands carefully as his other hand slid up Steve’s back, and Steve just fucking melted. He let out a whine that he could barely hear, and Eddie’s fingers curled into a fist, gripping his hair in a tightening fist until it almost hurt, and Steve groaned.

Too hard?

Mm. Feels good.

Eddie kept doing it until Steve fell asleep, pulling his hair, squeezing his fist in it, tugging until Steve’s scalp ached dully, and when Steve woke up, Eddie was still asleep, his hand still in Steve’s hair. And then it was normal, every time they slept in the same bed or sat too close on the sofa during movie nights, Eddie’s fingers would find Steve’s hair again.

They both change. Eddie tosses Steve some sweatpants along with the sweater, and Steve smiles, glancing up at Eddie as he changes, facing away from Steve. He’s paler than Steve, and Steve kind of wants to see what their skin would look like side-by-side, pressing close. His scars are mesmerizing. Steve wants to trace them with his fingertips, with his lips and tongue.

Eddie beckons to Steve when they’re climbing into his bed, and Steve sighs. They move into their normal position, Eddie leaning against the wall, Steve between his legs, back to his chest.

He feels little again.

Eddie’s arms wrap around him, hugging him tightly, and Steve lets his head fall back to his shoulder, sighing. He slides his hands over Eddie’s forearms. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, and the fabric is soft. Steve plays with one of the folds, looking around the room, and he realizes they haven’t communicated at all about how long Steve is staying here.

His bag is on the floor by the dresser. It blends right in with Eddie’s dark clothes littered around the floor and hanging out of his drawers, with the dark rug that Eddie bought when he moved in.

Steve’s eyes trail across the wall, across the sliding doors of the wardrobe that are partially open, the interior hidden in shadows. At the CORRODED COFFIN tapestry that’s pinned up, the Judas Priest poster on the back of the door. The photos and magazine pages and posters that are covering the old, faded wallpaper. Eddie’s lamps have a golden glow, and it makes everything look warm. Steve loves it here.

“How long am I staying here?” Steve asks softly, and Eddie snorts, arms tightening, burying his face in Steve’s neck.

“Forever?” he says. “I hope?”

Steve’s stomach flutters.

“You want me to stay forever?”

“Mm.”

Steve exhales when Eddie’s hand finds his, and he watches, spreading his fingers to lace with Eddie’s. His hand is a little cold.

“Sounds nice,” he says quietly. Eddie hums. He sets his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“You still feel okay?” he asks softly, his voice soft and breathy next to Steve’s ear.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He feels so okay. Here in Eddie’s room, in his clothes, in his arms. “I feel good.”

One of Eddie’s arms reaches across his chest like he’s keeping him secure, and he rubs Steve’s upper arm, squeezing gently.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Steve takes a breath, unlacing their fingers to trace the back of Eddie’s hand.

“It was kind of, like. A lot of stuff.”

“Tell me, Stevie.”

Steve closes his eyes.

“They, uhm. Came back and just… started telling me my car was dirty, started saying the— the kitchen floor was dirty, that they should get the tiles replaced. They didn’t even say hi.”

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes.

“And when I tried to leave, I had to, like, explain I had to pick up the kids, and Dad started, just, berating me for babysitting, and Mom made this… comment. That I was acting like an adult. And when I said I am one, Dad…” He exhales, pressing closer to Eddie, whose arms tighten. “Said I’d be an adult when I graduated high school.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment before,

“What?”

“Yeah, they don’t— they don’t even know how old I am.”

“Holy fuck, Stevie,” Eddie says softly, squeezing him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Steve ignores the butterflies that erupt in his stomach.

“It’s…”

“You don’t have to say it’s fine.”

“...It’s not fine.”

“‘S right.”

“I tried… I tried telling them, like— showing them how they just don’t know me, but they just— everything I fucking said, they just… Tried to make it so it wasn’t their fault. Pretended it was no big deal, even though— even though it is, I…”

“It is,” Eddie murmurs softly. “It matters to you, they never treated you right, Stevie.”

Steve exhales shakily, relaxing against him again.

“They’re so fucking condescending,” he says after a moment, his voice softer. Eddie rubs his arm gently, reassuringly. “He always does this thing, where, like… If I point something out, or I— I do something, he pulls this bullshit, and he’ll say, like, Oh, let’s say that’s true, as though I don’t fucking know, like I didn’t just fucking tell him.”

Eddie lifts a hand and reaches to touch his hair, running his fingers through it gently.

“He said I’d be an adult when I graduate high school, and then as soon as I told him I did, and I am, suddenly I actually know nothing about adulthood and I haven’t experienced the world, and I’m— Whose fucking fault is that? They never took me along on any of their fucking trips, they left me in fucking Hawkins, Indiana.”

Eddie plays with his hair, listening to him talk. His fingers are so gentle.

“He said I was having a temper tantrum,” Steve says, looking across the room. Eddie’s hand tightens, tugging gently. “I just… They make me feel like— like such a child. And it’s bullshit, because how can I feel so fucking little when they never treated me like I was little when I was?” he rambles. “They acted like I was a grown man when I was a kid, they acted like I knew how to live my life, but they were never there to show me how. And now I am grown, but they tell me I’m disrespectful, and that I’m having a tantrum, and…”

“Take a deep breath for me,” Eddie says softly.

Steve inhales slowly, closing his eyes, and he exhales after holding it for a moment, relaxing against Eddie again, who murmurs a soft, “There you go.”

“Can I tell you something?” Eddie asks quietly. Steve nods, holding his forearm with both hands as his fingers drag through his hair slowly. “...You did everything fucking right, Stevie.”

“...You think?”

“Jesus, yeah. They’ve never treated you the way you deserve, Steve, you have every fuckin’ right to stand up for yourself, to— to tell them to go fuck themselves.”

Steve exhales again, a feeling settling in his chest.

“I hate them,” he says quietly.

“Me too.”

“And I hate that fucking house.”

“You’re here now.”

Eddie tightens his fist in his hair, and Steve sighs, closing his eyes.

“Love you,” Eddie says softly. Steve squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

Eddie says that a lot. Every time they say goodbye, every time Steve does something stupid, every time either of them has a nightmare.

It was a nightmare that prompted it the first time. Eddie had slept over at Steve’s, and Steve woke up to Eddie crying in his sleep, his body shaking as he cried into the pillow, whimpering and clutching at the blanket. Steve woke him up carefully, touching his face, his hands, his arms, squeezing as gently as possible, whispering his name. Eddie woke after a minute, his eyes finding Steve in the dim moonlight, and before Steve could even say anything, he was reaching out for him, sobbing and pressing his face into Steve’s chest as Steve pulled him into a hug. He whispered it when he stopped crying, as they were rocking back and forth, as Stee combed the tangles out of his hair.

I love you, Stevie.

And Steve’s world flipped inside out, and he was in pain, every cell in his body on fire, because he was hearing it, because Eddie told him, and because only Robin had ever said it to him like that, all three words, carefully annunciated, intentionally said. And also because Steve knew how he meant it.

I love you too, Eddie.

“Why’d you come?” Steve asks. “After taking the kids home?”

“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” Eddie says. “...Had a feeling.”

“...Thank you,” Steve whispers.

Eddie takes a breath, tugging again before he turns his face and presses a kiss to Steve’s temple.

He’s never done that before.

Steve feels almost sick with butterflies, and he can feel his face flushing with heat, but he can’t suppress his smile. Eddie looks at him for a moment, and then he does it again, slowly. Deliberately.

Steve exhales, letting himself feel it, Eddie’s lips on his skin, his breath warm and close. Eddie’s hand tightens again, his fist squeezing in Steve’s hair before he lets go.

And then Eddie’s lips press to his cheek, slowly and softly, and then again, and again, slowly moving down toward Steve’s jaw. Steve tilts his head, his eyes closed, and he’s scared to open them, scared he might wake up.

Eddie’s lips press under his jaw, sucking a soft kiss into his skin, and when he pulls away, his lips brush Steve’s skin as he murmurs, “So fuckin’ proud of you.”

And Steve whimpers.

He’s gripping Eddie’s arm tightly, and he feels like he might start crying, but Eddie just kisses him again, moving down to the side of his neck, gently pulling his hair out of the way.

Steve bites his lip to hold in another sound, squeezing his eyes shut as he listens to it, to Eddie’s lips on his skin, to Eddie’s soft, slow breathing, as he feels Eddie’s fingers tug at his hair. He feels fucking weightless, like he’s floating in the air, like nothing in the world exists right now except for them.

“So proud,” Eddie breathes against his neck, kissing him again.

“Did I do good?”

Steve wants to jump out the fucking window.

His voice comes out weak and breathy, quiet and so fucking desperate that he flushes with embarrassment, and he opens his eyes like he’s going to look for an escape, to leave even though he just got here, but Eddie…

“So fucking good, Stevie,” he whispers without hesitation. “You did so good, I’m so proud of you.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut, and he exhales sharply, his head falling back as Eddie kisses his neck again. It’s wet this time, and Steve keens at the thought of Eddie’s open mouth against him, of his tongue and his teeth and his spit.

“Eddie,” Steve whines breathlessly, squeezing his arm.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks quickly, his hand pausing in Steve’s hair.

“Don’t stop,” Steve says weakly. Eddie hums softly, his hand tightening, and Steve lets out a soft noise before Eddie kisses a slow line up the side of his neck until he finds his earlobe, where he pauses, kissing it before he sucks it between his lips as gently as possible. “Eddie.”

“Alright?”

“Mm. Feel so good.”

Eddie hums quietly, and Steve keens as he nibbles at the shell of his ear, his teeth nipping gently, tenderly. His arm tightens around Steve’s torso, his other hand squeezing in his hair so hard that it hurts, and one of Steve’s hands finds Eddie’s leg next to him, gripping just above his knee desperately.

“I got you,” Eddie murmurs into his ear, like he just knows how overwhelmed Steve is, how his whole body is flooding with this feeling.

“You got me,” Steve repeats absently, head lolling back onto Eddie’s shoulder.

“‘S right, Stevie.”

He kisses his neck again, harder, more confidently, his teeth and tongue on Steve’s skin, and Steve fucking hopes he leaves marks in his path. He wants evidence of this, proof that it wasn’t all in Steve’s head like some fucked up wet dream.

Eddie tugs on his hair, moving his hand to the back of his head before twisting his fingers in it tightly. Steve lets out a broken noise, biting his lip to muffle it.

“Eddie—”

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes.

“I…”

“What is it?” Eddie whispers, kissing his jaw gently. “Tell me.”

“Need more,” Steve says weakly, his face hot with embarrassment.

“More what?” Eddie murmurs, and Steve wants to be annoyed, to roll his eyes and tell Eddie not to make him say it, but he can’t, because his head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and his limbs feel heavy, and he feels fucking high, just because of Eddie’s mouth on him, because of Eddie’s sweet words.

“You,” he chokes. “Please, Eddie, I need you, please—”

“Fuck,” Eddie exhales, tugging Steve’s hair so his head tilts before he leans down and kisses his neck, his lips brushing his skin as he speaks. “I need you too, Stevie.”

Steve stifles a whine, pressing his lips together as Eddie sits up a little, leaning closer to kiss his neck, and he’s almost kissing his throat now as Steve’s head falls back, and Steve reaches up to his head, pushing his fingers into Eddie’s curls messily.

“Eddie, please,” he says softly. “More.”

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, breathing hard against Steve’s neck. “Turn around, come here.”

Steve turns, aching when he has to leave Eddie’s chest, and he tries to keep his balance on Eddie’s soft mattress that’s covered in blankets. Their legs tangle, and Steve has to take a moment to sort them out, and Eddie giggles softly, reaching to push Steve’s hair out of his face. Steve smiles hopelessly, moving forward.

Eddie pulls at his legs, tugging him so their legs are wrapped around each other, so their chests almost press, so their faces are close. Eddie looks wrecked, his cheeks flushed, hair messy, eyes shining like he’s going to cry, and Steve knows he can’t look much better. He exhales, reaching up to trace his scar. It stretches when Eddie smiles. Eddie closes his eyes, turning his head to let him.

His hands slide up from Steve’s legs to his hips, his waist, pressing and firm and gentle on Steve’s sides. Steve slides his hands to hold his face, leaning close enough that their noses nudge together.

Eddie exhales, his eyes fluttering shut, and his hands slide to Steve’s back, pulling him closer as he murmurs.

“So fucking proud of you, Stevie, I can’t even tell you,” he says softly, nudging their noses together again. “No fucking words.”

Steve’s body flushes with heat, and he melts, his hands slipping to Eddie’s neck. He can feel the scars under his fingertips.

He tilts his head, his eyes stinging as Eddie keeps talking, keeping whispering and murmuring about how proud he is.

No one’s ever told Steve that they’re proud of him. He’s never heard it before.

But Eddie says it so earnestly, like he’s fucking reverent, and Steve listens.

And then Eddie is kissing him between words, his lips gentle and a little chapped against Steve’s, and Steve feels like he’s going to fall over with it all, his lips parted because he can barely kiss back. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his chin, whispering to him.

“So proud of you, Stevie, you did so fucking good. So brave.”

Steve’s hands find Eddie’s head again, his fingers pushing into his curls, and he sighs, listening and listening and listening and absorbing the feeling of Eddie’s lips pressing to his softly.

His hands tighten in his hair after a moment, and he pulls Eddie in, shutting him up with a hard, lingering kiss. Eddie’s hands tighten on Steve’s waist, his fingers pressing into the scarred skin, and Steve’s whole body aches. They part with a slick sound and a gasp, but Steve pulls him back in before he can say anything, tugging his hair.

Eddie kisses him back desperately, clutching at his back, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, and Steve thinks he might be dying. It feels so fucking good, and the way Eddie is touching him…

His fingers dig into the knit of the sweater he’s wearing, holding him close as his legs tighten around him, and after a moment, one of his hands slides around Steve’s side, up over his chest slowly until it reaches his neck. It feels like he’s being so careful, gentle like Steve is delicate, and Steve’s never wanted to feel delicate before, but he’s basking in Eddie’s touch like it’s sunlight. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s neck, and their chests are almost touching as Eddie nibbles his lip the way he did with his ear earlier.

It feels kind of silly, really, in the grand scheme of things.

That they’d survive the end of the world, stop the end of the world, live through horrors beyond comprehension, and Eddie is proud of him for yelling at his parents. And now they’re making out, kissing each other stupid in Eddie’s bedroom, surrounded by his posters and blankets and the glow of his cracked lamps.

But Steve can’t think of a single place he’d rather be.

Eddie is holding the side of his face now, his fingers gentle on his skin, and Steve holds in a groan when Eddie’s tongue slips past his lips, his chest tightening.

Eddie pulls away and they both gasp for air.

“Baby,” Eddie breathes.

“God, yeah.”

“Was that okay?” Eddie asks quietly, brushing his thumb over Steve’s cheek, and Steve closes his eyes as they start to sting. He doesn’t want to cry right now.

“Yeah,” he says weakly, almost choking the word out. “It was so okay, Eddie, I… Please.”

Eddie kisses him again. Pulls away to breathe, resting their foreheads together.

“Want you,” Steve says softly, whispering.

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but he can’t take it back.

Especially when Eddie is kissing him like this, like he’d die if he didn’t, like he’s drowning and Steve is air. Steve’s arms tighten around his neck, and he’s shivering, chills spreading over his skull, down his spine, as he listens to the soft breathy hums Eddie is letting out as he listens to the wet sounds of their lips, their tongues. Eddie licks into his mouth, licks his lips and his teeth and the roof of his mouth, and Steve lets him, even though their lips and chins are wet now, slick with each other’s spit, and it’s a little gross. Steve doesn’t fucking care. It feels good.

He lets out a whine, letting his jaw drop for Eddie to suck on his tongue for a moment, and his cheeks flush with heat. Eddie smiles against his mouth, kissing him again.

“You still want more?” Eddie murmurs, caressing his cheek. Steve exhales, nodding.

“Please.”

Eddie presses wet kisses over his jaw, down his neck, and Steve melts, his head falling back to give him room. He shivers, tightening, when Eddie’s lips find his throat, pausing to suck on his skin lightly before he continues, kissing across the scars on his neck.

His scars are lighter than Eddie’s. Shallower. A metallic, faded pink that only stands out against his skin when he tans.

His parents didn’t notice them.

Or the scar on his chin, which Steve forgets about himself a lot of the time. It’s from that night at Starcourt. He used to stare at it in the mirror, hating it, hating himself. It’s faded so much it’s barely noticeable, but everyone knows it’s there. Steve knows it’s there.

Eddie knows it’s there.

He kisses it when he finishes with Steve’s neck, holding Steve’s face in place as he presses kiss after kiss after kiss to it, softly and tenderly, and Steve wonders if he looks at this scar the way Steve looks at his scar.

“Eddie,” he breathes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

Steve bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut, and Eddie presses his thumb to his lower lip, pulling it free before he kisses him gently.

“Do you wanna take your sweater off?” he asks quietly, whispering. Steve nods.

“You too,” he whispers, opening his eyes and meeting Eddie’s gaze. He looks so… tender. His eyes are shining at Steve, and he’s almost smiling, just barely, and his face is so relaxed, more at peace than Steve thinks he’s ever seen him while awake. “Please.”

Eddie nods, kissing him again before pulling his hands away from his face, and he reaches for the hem of the sweater Steve is wearing.

They have to separate for him to pull it up over Steve’s head, and Steve shivers when it’s off, the air in the room colder than he expected. Eddie tosses the sweater aside, his eyes skimming over Steve’s body, and he feels shy suddenly, overcome with the desire to hide his chest, his scars, the soft rolls of his belly.

Eddie pulls his sweatshirt off, and Steve watches, crossing his arms over his stomach as he looks at Eddie’s pale skin, at the scars that mark his sides, his chest. The art that’s inked into his skin. One of the tattoos is almost gone, the bare edges of it rough around the skin graft on his chest.

“Don’t do that,” Eddie says softly, like he’s scared of disturbing the quiet air. He reaches for Steve’s hands, pulling them away from where they’re hiding his stomach, and he leans in to kiss him, pulling his hands to touch Eddie. “Wanna see you.”

Steve kisses him back, squeezing his eyes shut, and he slides his hands across Eddie’s chest to touch his neck. Eddie hums, pulling his mouth away to look at him, and Steve blushes as Eddie’s eyes scan his chest, his arms, his belly.

“So fucking gorgeous, baby,” Eddie murmurs against his mouth.

Steve whines.

He pulls Eddie into another desperate kiss, and he shifts onto his knees, leaning over him, holding Eddie’s jaw so he tilts his head back.

“You too,” he says breathlessly, into Eddie’s mouth. “So fucking pretty, Eddie, you’re so beautiful it fucking hurts.”

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie pants, and he wraps his arms around Steve’s legs, holding him as they kiss, and it’s messy and sloppy and desperate, and Steve feels like Eddie is touching him everywhere, his callused hands rubbing away every bad feeling Steve’s ever had. He tilts his head, sliding his tongue along Eddie’s, and Eddie’s hands tighten, squeezing his thighs.

He slowly shifts onto his knees too, moving up so they’re face to face, and he hugs Steve’s waist, pulling him against himself. Steve groans softly, stifling it, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s neck again before he slides his hands over his shoulders.

And they can’t keep their hands off each other, palms and fingers sliding and pressing and touching. Eddie’s hand pushes into Steve’s hair, tugging sharply as he sucks on his lip, as his other hand slides across his back, gentle on his scars, and then he’s running his hands over Steve’s waist and chest and reaching down to his thighs, murmuring beautiful into Steve’s mouth, and Steve believes him.

They kiss until Steve’s mouth is sore, until his legs are tired from kneeling like this, until his chin is wet again, and Eddie is smiling against his mouth, still fucking talking, still telling Steve how proud he is, how good Steve was.

He kisses Steve’s neck, and Steve’s head falls back.

“God, baby,” Eddie breathes, panting as he kisses his neck again, and his tongue slips over Steve’s skin. “You’re so fucking good, shit.”

“Eddie,” Steve chokes, pushing his hand into his hair and pulling. “I need— Fuck, I need you, baby, Eddie, please, I—”

Eddie lowers so he’s kneeling, and he pulls at Steve’s thighs again, pulling him so he’s straddling his hips. Steve wraps his arms around him, letting out a sharp breath as he lowers, as Eddie licks a line up his neck. Eddie’s hand runs over Steve’s stomach until it reaches his sweatpants, and he touches him over them, gently pressing against his dick. Steve chokes, hiding his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks breathlessly, his other hand running up his back and holding the base of his skull. Steve nods. “Baby, I need words, please.”

“Yes,” Steve gasps. “‘S okay, it’s so okay, please, just… I need you .”

Eddie does it again, pressing and squeezing, and Steve is so hard it almost hurts, but Eddie is so tender with him, rubbing his back as Steve clings to him. They’re both breathing hard, and Steve is biting his lip to stay quiet, but it’s hard when Eddie whispers.

“Can I take it out?”

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “Yeah. Please.”

He holds his breath.

Eddie’s hands are warm. And gentle. Eddie pulls away just enough to glance down to look, carefully tucking Steve’s sweatpants out of the way, and he’s smiling. Steve tugs at his hair, making him tilt his head back so he can kiss him so hard their teeth clash. Eddie is still smiling, his hand moving slowly, carefully.

When they part, Steve is gasping for breath, eyes squeezed shut so hard he might get a headache, and Eddie notices, reaching up and rubbing the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb.

“Breathe for me,” Eddie whispers. Steve exhales slowly, looking at him, watching as he nods, and lowers his head. A moment later, he’s letting a line of spit drip out of his mouth to Steve’s dick and Steve groans quietly, pulling him back into a hug as Eddie slides his hand to spread it. Eddie’s other hand presses to Steve’s back securely, holding him close.

“Do you like it?” he asks softly.

“Fuck, yeah,” Steve says, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s so high-pitched, weak and shaky and breathless and so vulnerable he wants to hate it, but he also doesn’t care, because Eddie is holding him like this, touching him and letting him tremble. “I like it, I like it so much, Eddie.”

“Good boy,” Eddie murmurs.

And fuck.

Eddie moves his hand slowly, and after a moment he shifts so he’s sitting, and they’re back to how they were before, their legs wrapped around each other. Steve keeps his arms around his neck, hiding his face. Eddie slides his other hand into his hair.

“You want me to pull?”

“God, yes,” Steve chokes. “Please.”

And Eddie definitely noticed how it made him feel just a moment ago, because—

“Good boy.”

Steve can hear his smile.

His hand tightens, his fist squeezing in it, and it’s a slow, dull ache that grows on Steve’s scalp. He stifles a groan, pressing his lips together.

“Stop doing that,” Eddie says breathlessly, his hand loosening, and Steve exhales with relief, his mouth falling open. A moment later he processes Eddie’s words, and he hums in confusion.

“Keeping yourself quiet,” Eddie says. “Stop, I wanna hear you.”

Steve blinks his eyes open, his eyes blearily finding the Slayer poster above Eddie’s bed. His vision is blurry, and he feels like he’s cross-faded, out of his damn mind with the feeling of Eddie’s hands on him.

“You don’t want me to be quiet,” he mumbles absently. He doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

“No,” Eddie says softly, twisting his hand. Steve’es eyes close again. “I don’t want you to be quiet. Let me hear you, baby.” He moves his hand a little faster, tightening his fist, and Steve lets out a whine, burying his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Louder,” Eddie says, moving his hand faster, his other hand tugging Steve’s hair sharply.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps before he moans weakly.

“Louder,” Eddie whispers, his hand tightening in his hair. Steve lets out a sob.

“Eddie.”

“There you go,” Eddie whispers, tilting his head to kiss his jaw, and it sounds almost condescending, but it wraps around Steve like a blanket. “Good boy. You don’t have to be quiet, baby.”

So he isn’t.

His mouth stays open, panting against Eddie’s neck and shoulder, letting out soft moans and whines and whimpers and Eddie’s name as Eddie pulls at his hair again, his other hand jerking Steve off, alternating between rapid and fast and slow and tender, squeezing and tugging and drawing it out.

“I love how you sound,” Eddie murmurs after Steve lets out a sob. “So fucking pretty, baby, God.”

“Eddie,” Steve whimpers.

“I got you, honey, ’s okay.” He scratches Steve’s scalp, pulling his hair.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Eddie lets out a soft noise, and he pulls at Steve’s hair sharply, tugging him away from where he’s resting his head, and he kisses him. Steve kisses back after a moment, almost lightheaded, and he clutches at him, at his hair, his arm.

“I love you too, baby,” Eddie pants when they part, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you so much.”

Steve lets out a long groan, squeezing Eddie’s wrist.

“Eddie, I—”

“You can come,” Eddie murmurs. “It’s okay.”

He kisses Steve’s cheek, murmuring as Steve buries his face in his neck again, moaning as Eddie’s hand speeds up again, and Steve is crying into his neck, sobbing as his body floods with heat, as he comes.

“There you go, baby,” Eddie whispers, fingers still working, jerking Steve until he finally slows down. “Did so good, Stevie.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie’s hand finally stops, and he lets go, his other hand running through Steve’s hair comfortingly as Steve catches his breath. He tucks Steve back in his sweatpants carefully, patting his crotch when he’s done, and Steve snorts.

“You okay?” Eddie asks softly when Steve is breathing slowly. Steve hums. “That good, huh?”

“Mm. No one’s ever wanted to hear me before.”

“No?” Eddie says, running his hand over Steve’s back, tracing his spine. “But you sound so good.”

“Hm. I don’t know,” Steve mumbles. “One girl commented that I was noisy and it just… made me self-conscious, I guess.”

Eddie hums softly, sliding his hand up to hold the back of his neck, and it feels protective, possessive, and Steve could die happy here.

“I like hearing you,” Eddie says. “Don’t ever want you to be quiet.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath, nuzzling into Eddie’s neck before he kisses him gently under his jaw. “Can I get you off?”

“Mm. Yeah. ‘S not gonna take much, though, I almost came just listening to you.”

Steve giggles, lifting his head and reaching for the hem of Eddie’s sweatpants as their eyes meet. He pushes his hand under them, watching Eddie’s expression shift, watching his eyes flutter shut and his lips part, watching his shoulders slump. He’s still holding the back of Steve’s neck, and his hand tightens.

“Can I take it out?” Steve whispers.

“Yeah, baby,” Eddie breathes. “Go ‘head.”

Steve does, licking his lips, and Eddie pulls him in to rest their foreheads together. Steve lifts his hand to his mouth and spits on his palm before reaching down again, touching him.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, laughing lightly. “Fuck.”

“You always this easy?” Steve asks softly, whispering. Eddie hums.

“Only when I have the… hottest boy in the world touching my dick.”

Steve giggles, sliding his hand up and down slowly, listening to Eddie breathing heavily. He’s having fun. He’s never had fun like this during sex. It’s always felt like something to just do, to get done, to make his partner feel good. But even as he focuses on Eddie, he can’t stop smiling, watching his own hand on Eddie’s dick, listening to the soft moans and hums Eddie lets out. Eddie’s other hand finds Steve’s thigh and squeezes tightly, gripping so hard Steve wonders if he’ll leave bruises under his fingertips. He kind of hopes he does.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasps after a while. “I’m gonna come.”

Steve kisses him. Messily, desperately.

“Come for me.”

Eddie grunts, his hand slipping to hold the base of Steve’s head, and he pants, breathing hard against Steve’s cheek as Steve watches, almost mesmerized by the come dripping over his fingers, his knuckles.

“Jesus,” Steve breathes as Eddie comes down, his grip on Steve’s leg and head relaxing. “You’re so…”

Eddie hums softly.

“So…”

“I don’t know,” Steve says quietly, pulling his hand away as Eddie softens, and he tucks him back into his sweatpants, imitating him with the gentle pat. Eddie laughs. He has a beautiful laugh.

“I’ve heard I’m a lot,” Eddie says.

“You are,” Steve says, looking into his eyes. He smiles, and Eddie tilts his head curiously. “In a good way,” he adds. “I like it.”

Eddie smiles bashfully, his cheeks pink, and Steve nudges their noses together, closing his eyes.

“...Are you gonna talk about it?” Eddie says after a few moments. Steve exhales, swallowing.

His hands are in his lap, and he looks at them, at the come on his hand.

“...I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Eddie touches Steve’s chin, gently prompting him to lift his head. He’s smiling when Steve looks at him, and he leans in to kiss him softly, chastely. Familiarly.

“Cool,” he says, his lips brushing Steve’s. “Same.”

And Steve laughs.

Eddie kisses him again, smiling against Steve’s smile, and Steve wraps his arms around his neck, keeping his dirty hand in the air as his other hand pushes into Eddie’s curls. Eddie’s hands slide across Steve’s back.

Steve pulls away.

“You are getting come all over my back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eddie says sarcastically, and Steve snorts. “What do you think about a shower to clean you up?”

“Ah, that was your master plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, my goal was to get you naked by getting you mostly naked.”

“Pure genius, Eddie.”

“I know…”

Steve follows him to the bathroom after they get clothes. (Eddie just gives him more of his own)

It feels nice when Eddie washes his hair. Even though he forms it into a mohawk with the soap. He’s grinning as he does it, his eyes sparkling, amused, and Steve lets him. It also feels nice when Eddie washes his body, which he does without saying anything, scrubbing him gently, tenderly, washing the soap away with the showerhead and pressing kisses to his wet skin. Steve does the same to him. It feels nice to do this, to help him even though he doesn’t really need it.

Steve kneels to do his legs, and as he does, he kisses his scars. Eddie holds a hand out, blocking the water from hitting Steve’s face. And Steve somehow falls in love all over again.

The tile wall is cold as Eddie pushes him against it to kiss him, but he doesn’t mind.

They separate to dry themselves off, and Steve stops him when he starts to scrub his hair dry with the towel. He scolds him lightly, pulling close and taking over, scrunching the ends and drying it gently, noting that he wants to get some product for him. Eddie just gazes at him silently, his hands on Steve’s hips.

“I love you,” he whispers when Steve hangs the towels.

Steve hugs him, and Eddie hugs him so tightly that he lifts him up a little bit, his toes touching the ground.

“I love you too.”

Over his shoulder, Steve can see them in the reflection of the mirror. It’s fogged over from the shower steam, but he can see the shape of them, their dark clothing in the bright light of the bathroom, and Steve sighs.

They go back to bed, arms around each other as they find their places again, Steve’s back to Eddie’s chest. Eddie kisses his neck. Steve closes his eyes.

“So what do you say about forever?” Eddie asks quietly as Steve is starting to drift off. He hums, turning to tuck his face into Eddie’s neck, and Eddie pushes a hand into his hair, holding him gently.

“Forever sounds nice.”

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