#steddie hurt/comfort

[starrystevie]

"what are you doing," eddie mumbles in confusion, hair fanned out on steve's pillow, the moonlight streaming in giving him a hazy halo.

there's a hand on the side of his face and it's cupping his cheek, thumb stroking over his skin. it's soft, so soft, too soft. another hand is trapping his against the mattress, fingers trailing over his forearm before tangling into his own and squeezing tight. it's gentle, so gentle, too gentle.

eddie isn't soft, eddie isn't gentle. eddie isn't making love in a full size bed with wallpaper that matches the drapes. he isn't fluttering kisses in time with fluttering heartbeats and the fluttering wings of butterflies trapped in his stomach like the most lovely cage.

eddie is fucking at 2am when there's enough intoxication to make him look like he's worth it. he's rough and wild, quick and easy. a means to a barely wanted end because he's there and willing and with long enough hair to let people imagine he's someone else.

he should be caged instead of the damn butterflies. he bares his teeth and thrashes his limbs just to fight and see what he can get away with. he laughs loud and brash in the face of sweetness just to see anger, just to see hurt.

he has half a mind to think he's a feral animal that's hardly been trained, performing in some fucked up circus that charges two bucks to see him snarl and hurl insults at anyone who passes by. he bites at the hands that try to touch, try to feed, proving to the onlookers that he's only worth the pocket change they pay to see him.

but steve. he's holding his face like he wants to, holding his hand like it's the most important thing in the world. he's pressing kisses along eddie's jaw without any hurry, without any rush, kissing just to kiss. feeling just to feel. he's like a ray of goddamn sunshine even in the darkness that midnight provides, warming eddie from the inside out.

eddie wants to run. he wants to scream. he wants to feel like he's allowed steve's soft and gentle but he's-

"is this not okay?" and now steve's looking at him with all of whatever he's trying to give him lacing into his face, his eyes and spit slick lips sparkling in the moonlight like a shiny new toy. "do you not like it?"

concern and care are different sides of the same steve shaped coin and if eddie looks hard enough, he can see them blurring together in his frustratingly beautiful sparkling eyes and those damn butterflies start to come back.

"no, it's-" he let's out a sigh, relaxing his tight muscles and sinking into the bed, sinking into whatever steve is willing to give him. "just different, is all. good different, i think."

steve smiles and eddie shakily mirrors it back, before he's ducking his head again and slotting their lips together, fingers still holding tight to eddie's, still cupping his face like it's something precious.

eddie's come to terms with the taste of the metal bars of his cage, teeth wearing down as he tries to bite his way to freedom. maybe this time he'll let himself get used to the taste of soft and gentle smiles if it means loving steve.

[moonstruckme]

Hey bestie! I hope your day is going great! If you're open to it could I get some comfort from Steddie? I hate storms, always have and I unfortunately live in the Midwest. We are under tornado watch right now and could use something else to focus on. I wanna live vicariously through my beautiful Indiana boyfriends 😩. If you're too busy I totally understand. Thank you!!!

~😈

Hope your day is going even better ml!

cw: reader get anxious during storms

Steddie x fem!reader ♡ 717 words

You flinch when a piece of hail hits the window, and Steve tucks you closer against his side. 

Eddie shakes his head. He jiggles his keys as he stands from the couch. “I’ve gotta go get the van.” 

“No, no way,” Steve says, not for the first time tonight. “We’re all staying here.” 

“The closest tornado’s way off.” Eddie waves a hand, getting his boots from by the stairs and pulling them on. “I’m just gonna bring her here to take cover in your fancy garage so she doesn’t get fucked by the hail all night.” 

“So what, you think you’re gonna walk home and drive back?” Steve is incredulous. “Tornadoes can form anywhere, dipshit. On the road’s the worst place to be.” 

You tense as the winds pick up outside, and he tightens his grip on you as if he can contain your panic. You’re all holed up in Steve’s basement, the constant drone of the weather channel covering up the whine of tornado sirens outside. It’s probably overkill to have gotten out of bed to come down here this early—because Eddie’s right, the tornadoes are nowhere near you yet, you’ve only got the storm that the weatherman on channel 4 says comes before them—but there was no way you were going back to sleep after the sirens started anyway. Steve knows you feel safer down here, where the only windows are small and nearly at the ceiling, restricting your view of the outside to rain-pelted grass and occasional flashes of lighting. You get a bit freaked about this stuff. 

“Don’t go,” you say to Eddie, pleading. 

Eddie hesitates by the stairs, and Steve looks right at him as he says firmly, “He’s not.” 

The other boy heaves a great, dramatic sigh, kicking his boots off and tromping over to flop back down beside you. You’ve got your legs curled up underneath you, and Eddie lays his head on your thigh, looking up at you with his eyes extra big. 

“You’ll help me take care of the dents tomorrow, won’t you, hot stuff?” 

“Mhm.” You nod readily. Steve thinks you’d agree to anything right now if it’d keep him from going outside. 

He watches Eddie realize this, the other boy’s expression sobering slightly before he doubles down on the teasing. His eyes flick up to Steve. 

“Or I guess you could always pay to get any damage fixed, huh?” 

Steve scoffs, using his free hand to brush a curl away from Eddie’s eye. “Yeah, right.” 

“What? Is my old gal not in the budget?” 

“Your gal’s sitting right here.” 

Eddie’s gaze moves back to you, and Steve thinks he sees you going a bit shy as Eddie makes a show of taking you in. Good. You could use a distraction. 

“Nah,” he says after a minute, quiet in an intentional way that makes Steve grin and you squirm. “That there’s my girl. Don’t insult her like that, Harrington, I’m talking about my old gal.” 

You turn to hide your smile in Steve’s shoulder, and he and Eddie share a look. It’s knowing, contented, grateful on one end and shit-eating on the other, and because you can always tell when they’re conspiring without you you mumble a not-unhappy, “I’m too tired for flirting,” into Steve’s skin. 

“Liar,” Steve accuses fondly. You’re basically flirting with him right now, the way you’ve got your arm snaked around his middle, anxious fingers fiddling with the hem of his pajama bottoms. “Why don’t we just spend the night down here?”

“Ooh.” Eddie turns onto his side, getting comfier on your thigh. “I like it. Whaddya think, baby? We can put on a movie, and that way you can stay here and keep feeling Harrington up.” 

You sigh. “That’s not what’s happening.” 

“Sure.” Steve drops a kiss on your head, and when you try to let go of him he holds you close.

Eddie gives your thigh a conciliatory pat. “We’ve all been there.” 

“If we watch a movie,” you say, and Eddie grins at your obvious attempt to change the subject, “can it please be something not scary?” 

“Sure, honey.” Steve rubs your arm, shooting Eddie an apologetic look when the other boy pouts. “Your pick.” 

When the next strike of lightning flashes in the window, you don’t seem to notice. 

[theshippirate22]

Eddie had seen some weird shit before.

I mean, he’d almost gotten eaten by rabid demon bats, and he’d watched Nancy Wheeler-resident priss- go ballistic with a sawed off shotgun, and he’d watched Chrissy crumple up and float into the air via the power of some eldritch horror.

Yeah, he’d seen some Weird Shit™️

However, nothing he’d seen in his 19 years of life as weird as this. Not demobats, or a gun obsessed honors student, or a literal magic murder. This was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen, no contest.

Steve fucking Harrington- you know, the most popular guy at Hawkins High, Hawkins’ most eligible bachelor, teenage heartthrob Steve Harrington- was sprawled on his stomach on the coffee table. His knees were on the couch behind him, feet kicked up to rest against the back of it, and his face was on the floor.

Well, that wasn’t true. His face was buried in Andrea Wheeler’s stomach and he was saying “Nom nom nom,” over and over again into her onesie, tickling at her sides to make her squirm.

Andrea saw nothing wrong with this, giggling incessantly with her pudgy baby fingers fisted around the longer parts of his hair.

The laugh that burst out of Eddie couldn’t have been stopped; that was a fact. It didn’t help that when Steve heard him, he instantly shouted “Ah shit!” and tried to lift his head, but Andrea refused to loosen her grip and yanked on his hair, which was immediately followed by “Ow! Shit!”

Eddie had to lean against the doorway to support himself. His sides ached from laughing so hard and he was gasping for breath not managing any words except “What are you doing?”

Steve managed to extract her fists and look up, flushed pink in shame all the way to the tips of his ears. He scrambled off the coffee table and the second he was out of her sight, Andrea started to cry.

“I was just playing with her…” Steve mumbled, sweeping her off the floor and slipping his knuckle in her mouth for her to chew on. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I didn’t know you were on babysitting duty again.” Eddie wiped a few of his tears away, managing to keep his face straight. “I get why you’re her favorite now, though. You are committed to the bit.”

Steve rolled his eyes, pink flooding back into his face. He wouldn’t even look him in the eye. “Yeah… what can I help you with, dude?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t get shy. It’s cute, you know?”

“Oh, gee, thanks.” He pushed into the kitchen, setting Andrea in the high-chair-esque thing strapped to the counter. She instantly started to cry again so he handed her a wooden spoon She fumbled with it for a minute before sticking it in her mouth.

“I’m not shitting you, I’m serious. She’s gonna turn out a lot better than any of us did.”

“God, I hope so.” He pulled the box of baby oatmeal from the pantry and set it on the counter. Andrea threw the spoon and reached for him, starting to cry again.

Eddie picked up the spoon and set it on the counter in her reach, but he didn’t look away from Steve. Andrea did not accept the reoffered toy, and threw her head back to scream.

Eddie winced- God, this kid had a set of lungs on her- but he didn’t miss the way Steve’s shoulders slumped a bit and his eyes drooped heavily. But he sighed deeply, and gave Andrea his hand. She took hold of his thumb and pinky in each hand respectively and gnawed on the fingertips of the other three. “Will you grab her bottle?”

He crossed over and opened the fridge. There were three bottles- again with the Weird Shit; most twenty-something men didn’t have containers (plural) of their ex’s breastmilk in their fridge, but what did he know- all of which were labeled with a sticky note bearing a day of the week. “Which…?”

“There’s one from Tuesday, I think. Whichever is oldest.”

Eddie retrieved it, realized it was just about empty and grabbed the Thursday one too just in case. “What’s gonna happen when your parents come home and find all this stuff?”

“They won’t.” He poured some of the powdered oatmeal into a bowl, dumped in the Tuesday milk, stirred it, contemplated, then added some of Thursday. “Come home, that is.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t live here anymore. Like they own it and everything, but they bought a house in Miami, and they’d rather be there, so that’s where they live.”

He sat at the barstool across the counter from him. “And are we happy about that…?”

Steve shrugged. “I don’t know anything different. They’ve always been gone.”

Eddie wanted to say something, to take this away from him, but he was afraid anything he said would be interpreted as pity and it wasn’t, and Steve didn’t want that anyway.

Besides, Andrea had started to make a game out of biting the spoon every time Steve put it in her mouth, and he was starting to get frustrated again very quickly.

“Hey, can I have a turn?”

Steve stared at him. It was certainly no secret Eddie had no interest in the baby; the first time he’d been handed her, he looked positively horrified and Steve had laughed and taken her back.

“I don’t ever get to feed her,” He added quickly. “I only ever see her when Nancy’s around, and… well, you know.”

Steve wiped Andrea’s mouth with the spoon, set it back in the bowl, and pushed it across the counter to him.

Eddie had never fed a baby; there wasn’t anyone younger than, like, 13 in his life besides Andrea. He’d watched Steve do it long enough to figure it out though.

She regarded him with some suspicion for the first couple spoonfuls, but eventually, she warmed up to the fact that he had the food now.

Steve leaned back against the counter behind him, tipping his head against the cabinets and closing his eyes.

Eddie cocked an eyebrow. “Steve?”

“Hmm?” He mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“You do know you can tell Nancy no, right? You don’t have to babysit every time she asks.”

“I offered.” He yawned. “She doesn’t like asking me, but I know how important it is for her to finish her dissertation, so I don’t mind.”

“You know, she could send her to daycare.”

“Absolutely not. Books said no.”

It had been a while since Steve had referenced The Books. They weren’t a necessary now that she wasn’t a newborn, but what The Books said, goes. It had been weird enough watching Steve spend so much time reading while Nancy was pregnant and after Andrea was born, but it was equally weird hearing how much he’d learned and how much he talked about them. He’d never get used to that.

“Look, it’s not a big deal.” Steve added. “It’s like three times a week, is all. She needs the time. She’s got to write the dissertation.”

Eddie set the spoon down to look at him. “I don’t know, maybe she should’ve thought of that before she got knocked up on a one-night stand.”

“Eddie!” Steve snapped, staring him down with the bitchiest face he’d ever seen.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just saying.”

“She’s our friend. The least we can do is help her. It doesn’t matter what happened, Andrea is here and someone has to watch her. I can do it, so I should. It’s what friends do.”

Eddie nodded haphazardly. He’d heard the whole spiel before. “Well, you’re my friend. And I’m worried about you.”

“What- Why- I’m fine!” He spluttered indignantly.

“Yeah? Alright. Go take a shower.”

“Why…? Do I need it?” He lifted his shirt to sniff-test and grimaced. “Okay, yeah, I do. What’s your point?”

Andrea started to fuss because the oatmeal was gone. Steve and Eddie lunged to grab the box at the same time. Steve got it first, just because his arms were longer, but Eddie yanked it from his hand and started to pour some more.

“That’s what we’re talking about.”

“We? Who’s ‘we?’ What are you talking about?”

Eddie sighed, stirring in more of the Thursday milk to get the consistency right and offered it to Andrea. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“I don’t know, man. I thought you needed something.”

“Buckley sent me. So did Wheeler, actually. This is your intervention.”

Steve rolled his eyes, propping his hands on his hips. “I don’t need an intervention.”

Eddie raised his eyebrow suspiciously. Eyed the sink full of dishes- Steve hated dishes in the sink- the stack of mail overtaking the kitchen table, the dirty towels in a wad on the floor in front of the laundry room like a free throw that didn’t quite make it.

“What?! Okay, so it’s harder to do stuff when I’ve got the baby. Whatever. I’m the only person that lives here.”

“Steve.”

“It doesn’t really matter anyway. What if I went to your house and started nitpicking the state of your room? Because, I guarantee it’s worse than this.”

“Steve.”

“I don’t need an intervention. Nothing’s wrong. You’re all delusional because you think I’m completely incapable of everything, even though I’ve been-“

“Steve.”

“What?!”

He hadn’t realized until now that Eddie had stood up and crossed around the island to stand right by him. “You do know Nancy finished the dissertation two weeks ago, right?”

“How do you know that?” He swallowed hard, obviously irritated at being caught in his lie.

“Because she told me. Right after she told me that you’ve called almost every day for the last month to offer to babysit. You never go out with Robin anymore, you don’t want to come get high with me anymore, you don’t even take the kids to the arcade anymore. We’re worried.”

Steve rolled his eyes again, starting to turn around like he could walk out of the conversation because it was so unbearably ridiculous, but Eddie grabbed his shoulders and steeled him where he stood.

“Steve.”

“What.” It wasn’t a question; it was an ultimatum.

“Do you have postpartum depression?”

Steve gave him the dirtiest look that could’ve been possible. “Har har, you’re hilarious.”

“I’m not fucking with you, I swear. Do you?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got a mental illness that only new moms get because of a newborn over a baby I’m not even the father of SIX MONTHS after she was born! That’s definitely what-“

Eddie wasn’t here to argue. He roped his arms around Steve’s neck and pulled him down against his shoulder in a kind of violent affection that reinforced that Steve was being a moron, but Eddie was here. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Steve tried to push away at first, but Eddie didn’t let go, if anything pulling him closer, and eventually, his hands fell away from Eddie’s chest and wrapped around his waist. His shoulders relaxed, his face buried into Eddie’s neck.

“She needs me.” He mumbled. “She needs me. She needs me.”

“Who does?”

“Andrea.”

“Yeah, but she’s gotta be with her mom sometimes too. She needs her too. Nance said she’s with you more than her.”

“She needs me.”

Eddie swallowed, running a hand lightly through Steve’s hair. “This is about Mike, isn’t it?”

And Eddie’s stomach started to ache when he felt Steve’s silent sob vibrate through him. “They never call me anymore. They’re at the arcade right now, and they never even asked.”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” He mumbled, hating how his voice cracked uncomfortably. “They’re shitheads. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m not ready. I can’t do it yet. I’m not ready.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t fix this. So, he rubbed Steve’s head and murmured reassuring nonsense while he thought of something better.

Robin thought this would happen. “Eddie,” she’d said to him. “What do you think will happen when the kids learn to drive?”

Eddie had given her the weirdest look. He hadn’t gotten it then. But Claudia had asked Steve to teach Dustin and he was so strange about it, always claiming he was too busy to give Dustin a lesson. Too busy for Dustin.

Karen had taught Mike. He was the oldest anyway; it made sense for him to get his license first.

“Why would it matter?” Eddie had asked.

She just shrugged, looking far off. “They won’t need rides anymore.”

“Yep, that’s how that works.”

She must’ve known he wasn’t quite getting it, but she just shook her head dismissively and murmured, “He’ll think they don’t need him anymore.”

“Who will?”

But she’d left it at that. That was the end of it.

He felt stupid now, with Steve pressed weakly against him and tears dripping down his neck. He should’ve known exactly what she meant, he should’ve stopped this.

Instead, he mumbled, “You’re gonna be okay,” another time.

Andrea fussed again, reaching pudgy, flexing fingers in Steve’s direction. Up! She demanded. Don’t forget about me!

Steve pulled himself away quickly, swatting at this eyes with his sleeve to try and wipe all of it away and lifted Andrea up onto his hip. “Sorry. That was weird. I couldn’t, uh… I’m just… You don’t have to… Don’t…” He stammered, looking anywhere but at Eddie and finishing unconvincingly with, “I’m fine.”

Oh hell no.

“Absolutely not.” He reached for her, despite Steve’s protests and her grip on his sweater but took her anyway and let Andrea lock her fists around the collar of his vests. “Go take a shower. I got it. Take a break, Stevie, I’m on top of it.”

Steve looked drained-the redness in his eyes didn’t hide the darkness underneath them, and no amount of masking could hide the slump in his posture- which is probably why he didn’t try to argue much, especially after Eddie added, “Go! Don’t think about it! Just let me take care of you.”

Steve closed his eyes, running his hands down his face and mumbled out a soft, “Okay.”

He started towards the stairs, pausing to grab the laundry on the floor Eddie had pointed out earlier, and was promptly told to leave it, which he did but he seemed more annoyed about that than the commandeering of his baby.

Andrea let go of his jacket for just long enough to take hold of a piece his hair and babbled something, following it with a deep sigh.

Eddie nodded. “You’re right. What are we going to do with him, huh?”

part 2? more of the comfort part of hurt/comfort? let me know!

[infinite-orangepeel]

Behind every shitty hole in the wall is a story.

It’s a hysterical combination of luck and determination that lands Eddie Munson in the back alley of a dive bar five years after the world was supposed to end.

It's by chance alone that Steve Harrington is snuffing out a cigarette under his boot. Eyes fixated on a useless point in the distance. Off into space or wandering no man’s land. Distracted and distraught.

He’s never been the same.

He’s never known how to come back home.

He’s punishing himself. Has been for half a decade.

It’s the first anyone’s seen of him, since—

There’s a smudge of grease or soot or black makeup outlining his cheek. There’s gel in his hair—sticky and functional. He’s tangible. Real—somehow. Dusting ash off on his dirtied pants and trying to make the most of a blasphemously humid afternoon.

He wipes sweat from his brow bone, breathes deeply, seems to come to terms with the harsh underbelly of reality.

The sky is orange; afflicted by caustic heat. He doesn’t belong in a place like this. It’s time to bring him home once and for all. Of that, at least, Eddie is certain.

Eddie isn’t certain of much these days. None of them are. Not since Steve left and took their bleeding hearts with him like a dissolute trail of breadcrumbs.

Every moment without him has been spent painfully avoiding the mention of his absence. Setting his place at the dinner table was a habit they all had to unlearn, but sometimes Robin will forget—put out a plate and fracture at the realization.

And, then, the evening is ruined. The evening becomes a sinking ship. Blurry conversations swirling around how to convince him to come back. How to see it through. How to show him he has a God-given right to nestle into their world without making desperate apologies. There’s no need.

The desert’s on Steve’s side. Thinks it can outsmart Eddie by parching his lips, cracking the skin around them, drying out his tongue like the package of liquor store jerky he anxiously gnawed on while driving into town. Kicking up arid soil with his tires and blinding himself to fear—to the voices in his head that tell him to let Steve sulk and suffer in silence, because he’s the one who chose to leave in the first place.

It was a choice.

A fucking stupid choice, but a choice nonetheless—

Steve’s going to go back inside. He’s got a dish towel tucked into his apron pocket. A toothpick replacing the fallen cigarette between his teeth. Eddie’s been trying to muster up the courage to actually approach him for the past three days.

It always ends the same.

Steve’s fifteen minute break comes to a close, he disappears through the door on stage left to clock back in, and, as if looking through a broken kaleidoscope, the scene around Eddie fades into colorless obscurity. Everything else is void of meaning. Without Steve in the picture, life makes little sense. There’s no point. No clear way North.

He’d rather die than go through it again. The loss. Decay. Heartache and rage.

“Have you told your boss about the family emergency yet or do you need me to take care of that for you?” Eddie snarks, hiding his emotions behind a practiced smirk.

Steve looks up. Hand on the door. Stuck between two universes. One in which he hides and another in which he allows himself to be found.

“What are you talking about?” He chokes on a peach pitted fantasy in which he gets to briefly wake up and hit snooze–rub the sleep from his tired eyes, “Why are you—Eddie, you’re not supposed to be here. How the fuck did you find me?”

There’s uncertainty afoot. His chest rises and falls in shaky hesitation. One beat slow followed by two in rapid pace—standard procedure for someone who's been forced to confront his past in broad daylight. Out of the blue and into the unknown. Eddie wants to pin him to the wall and kiss him—drown his sorrows so he never has to feel them again.

But, it’s not time for that.

Not yet.

“Is someone hurt? Is it one of the kids? Robin? Nance?”

Eddie feels cruel for planting that seed in his brain so he cuts him some slack. Pushes past his own frustration, devastation, the scars on his torso that ache when he twists this way or that—reminders of who he was before.

“Everyone’s fine. Healthy and safe at home,” he swallows the gasp that wants to come out when Steve releases the handle on the door—when Steve makes the conscious decision to stay, if only for a moment, “You, however, won’t be, if you don’t march right up to your manager and let him know that you’re gonna have to throw in the towel a little early on this shift. We have plans and—unfortunately, for the big boss—they can’t wait.”

“I don’t understand—”

He starts to say and Eddie can’t help, but soften. Can’t help, but fall apart under his pretty eyes and pouty lips. Gaze catching and tugging on his heart strings when he notices the hint of Steve’s own scars lining his neck. Temporarily exposed by the breeze shifting the collar of his work shirt. Hidden unless you know where to look.

Eddie’s always known.

“Do you know how hard it is to say ‘no’ to a guy who looks like you—especially when there’s a sob story attached to that face?” He leans forward, exhales softly as Steve’s lashes flutter out of control, and bites the opposite end of his toothpick—stealing it and sucking it into his own mouth, “You have a family emergency. You have somewhere to be. You’ll be back tomorrow or you won’t—that part’s up to you. Knock ‘em dead, sweetheart. Go on. It’ll all make sense later. Just need you to trust me for now.”

He thinks of the bats. Of the fight. Flashes of the unforgiving war. The smoke and mirrors and nightmares that never fully went away. The cold sweat and salty tears. Memories that no one can verify, because time and space have made them intangible. Like monsters under the bed. Creatures that stalk the house in the wee hours of the morning. By dawn, they disappear, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real.

There’s no confirming or denying. Steve doesn’t nod or give a final answer with his hand hovering over a big red buzzer. Instead, he moves forward, steps through the door, doesn’t look back over his shoulder to contemplate if Eddie was a figment of his imagination. Leaves without a trace.

Like he was never really there.

Like he’s a ghost haunting the untethered planes of Eddie’s memory.

—

When Steve climbs into the back of Eddie’s van, it’s comical.

He bangs his head on the roof. Mutters a curse or two. Almost tips himself backwards hopping into the passenger’s seat. The van shakes with laughter—amused by the boy who has grown out of his old polos and button downs, but has somehow managed to maintain his childish humor. Slipping back into an old tattered suit and finding it’s still tailored perfectly to his measurements.

“Are you kidnapping me? Is that what this is?”

“Pretty sure kidnapping implies taking a ‘child’ against their will,” he smirks at Steve rubbing the back of his head, “You don’t fit into either of those categories by my estimation. Try not to get any blood on my seats. I just got this baby washed—I mean, sure, it was ten years ago, but—”

Eddie slings his arm around the back of Steve’s headrest. Talking a lot of smack for someone who feels as protective over his aggravated passenger as he does. The van’s hot. There’s no A.C. It’s stuffy and awkward and all Eddie wants to do is kiss him.

All Eddie’s ever wanted to do is kiss him. Just once more. Once would surely be enough to quench a thirst that’s plagued him for five long years.

“People would come looking for me, y’know. I have friends. People in town who would notice…eventually,” Steve snaps, but his heart’s not in it. Sounds like a luckless penny hitting the bottom of a dried up wishing well.

“Well, you’re worth caring about,” Eddie feels the edge of a splinter graze his tongue off the toothpick, “Always have been. Shouldn’t be such a surprise.”

It’s too honest. God, he knows, it’s too honest.

Steve doesn’t say anything. Eddie half expects him to throw a punch.

A few miles pass and the only interruptions to the weight of their shared silence are the bumpy groan of a shallow pothole and the lonely howl of a coyote on the horizon.

Maybe he's been separated from his pack—

The thought is almost too much to bear.

“How’s business?” Eddie tries to change the subject, turn back the clock, pretend it’s just another weekday on the way home from school.

“Does it matter?”

“Guess that all depends on if you’re planning to stick around this dust bowl or not, but I don’t think you’ve quite made up your mind one way or the other.”

They’re almost to Eddie’s hotel. He can see the flashing bulbs of the sign down the road—The Saguaro Inn. It’s not the nicest establishment. The sheets have moth holes, he’s had to kill a spider or two, but the guy at the front desk gave him a six-pack of beer on the house and that, alone, was worth its weight in gold.

“Where else would I go? I live here. I work here. This is my home, now.”

If Eddie looked over and saw Steve running lines off a Hollywood script, he’d believe it. Authenticity evaporates from his voice like everything else that the blistering desert sun destroys in its wake. The only things meant to survive in such an unbearable climate are cacti, insanity, and dread.

Even the coyotes are lost and out of touch.

“Hmm. Funny,” Eddie raps his knuckles against the peeling steering wheel cover—needs to get it replaced, but in the face of an unearthed Steve Harrington it’s the last priority on his list, “We clearly remember things differently. As I recall, you’re a Midwestern boy. Born, bred, and raised on Indiana corn. Not whatever the Hell they serve at that dump you work at.”

“Fuck off. I’m happy,” Steve argues hotly, fists balled at his sides—tension working through his jaw like a flame on an inevitable collision course with the end of a stick of dynamite, “I’m fine. I’m not some damsel in distress who needs you to come rescue her. I chose this. I want this.”

It’s clear he doesn’t.

If only he had the wherewithal to look himself in the damn mirror and tell the truth. Tell it without leaving out the obvious—the lie written all over his face.

Steve undoes his apron, tosses it in the back, and throws a sidelong glance at Eddie as if sizing him up. As if searching for the minute details that have shifted, collapsed, grown in prominence. Like one of those ‘spot the difference’ games on a children’s menu in the back of an old diner. Illuminated by lightning bugs, grease, and splattered syrup.

Eddie doesn’t think he looks much different.

Eddie doesn’t think he’s much of anything to look at.

Old soul. Dark curls. A leather jacket that’s seen better days. He aims for mystery and shoots blanks. Comes up with mediocrity, a sense of macabre discontentment, the bitter taste that hangs around on the back of his tongue.

He practically jumps out of his skin and bolts when Steve, unexpectedly, runs a thumb over the Demobat scar on his cheek. It’s hyperreal. Throttles him through the past and future. Merging together hopes and dreams that he hasn’t allowed to see the light of day since those scars first got bandaged up at Hawkins Memorial Hospital.

“It suits you,” he hums thoughtfully, “I like it. Gives you an edge.”

Dizzy doesn’t even begin to define it.

In some universes, in this one, he might have fared better if Steve had the guts to hit him instead. To draw a knife, send a bullet flying, be a force of conventional violence rather than whatever the fuck this is.

This is worse.

This is a death he’ll keep reliving until the day he actually finds rest.

Or, perhaps, this is the afterlife and Steve is his eternal punishment for being stupid enough to care.

—

The short journey from the van to Eddie’s room is blissfully uneventful. Mundane.

They chat about vending machine snacks. Steve gets a candy bar and Eddie gets a pack of sour gummy worms. They split them. Share in the sugar coating, the sour bite, the milk chocolate that gets stuck in the backs of their teeth. It’s a dinner two little kids playing house would ‘cook’ up.

Only understanding later why their parents always advised them to save dessert for later. To end things on a sweet note.

Eddie’s room is 111 which prompts Steve to ask about El and the kids while he’s working at the keycard. The scanner’s finicky. Won’t budge unless the plastic’s inserted at just the right angle. It’s fucking annoying, but the place was cheap and, frankly, he didn’t know how long he’d be in town when he checked in.

He tells Steve about their accomplishments. Sounding like the proud father he never had—sounding like Wayne who made up for the lack of one. Max’s studying sport’s medicine at the community college. Dustin’s starting his summer engineering internship. Will’s got an art showcase coming up in October. Robin and Nancy’s new apartment is close to the city. Eddie crashes there most weekends and takes them out for coffee on Sunday mornings to show his thanks.

By the time Eddie’s done recounting the events Steve’s missed out on, their shoes are off. Tucked side by side next to the door.

Steve checks three times to ensure the latch is secure. Blushes when Eddie tells him its’ safe. Its’ okay to rest and close his eyes if he needs to.

Life isn’t what it used to be, but old habits die hard.

Eddie gives him the last gummy worm in the pack. Does it wordlessly. Automatically. Steve goes to decline, but Eddie does him a favor—closes his hand around it and nods.

It’s an act of love. It’s an act of faith. It’s the only way he can figure out how to say that bitter thing on the back of his tongue.

The mattress creaks obnoxiously to announce their arrival upon it. There’s a modest amount of space between them. Left vacant so their secrets have a place to run and hide. So they don’t have to speak them aloud.

“Do you ever miss it?” Eddie bumps Steve’s shin with his foot.

Cartoon sound effects curate the fantasy. Glowing orange and yellow from the rabbit eared television set—out of date and grainy, but that’s part of the appeal.

The screen casts desert colors across the headboard and suddenly, this is their life. A shared life. One they’ve built together. Nothing separates them anymore, but the itchy floral sheets and the inconvenience of clothes. Memory loses its ache.

“Which part?”

Steve looks at him through glassy eyes, marbles rolling across the floor.

“Whichever part you miss, I s’pose, if there is one,” Eddie shrugs and prays to a divine entity he doesn’t know the name of, “I’ve always wondered. ‘s hard not to.”

“Sometimes,” Steve reaches over the nightstand to grab a handful of ice—sets it on his chest over his shirt to cool off, “When I get off work. When I’m on the bus ride home and I’ve forgotten my headphones. Those times, I miss it—the sound of everyone talking over each other in Mike’s basement. It used to be like wrangling a bunch of wild animals. They drove me up the fuckin’ wall, but that sound? That sound was home. That sound was family, to me. No matter where I go, I don’t think I’ll ever find that again, but I was lucky to have it for a little while.”

“It’s not, like, that door over there,” Eddie points to the overly complicated latch that was designed to keep out intruders and cockroaches alike, “You’re not locked out unless you have a special key. The door—back home—it’s wide open. It always has been,” he studies Steve’s grimace; the evident pain he feels at that ‘too good to be true’ promise.

In the cartoon, it’s sunny. Steve’s bathed in a fictional variety of yellow optimism.

The character’s smile, laugh, and dance around in the middle of a playground. The swing’s never swing higher than they’re supposed to and conflict is resolved by the end of each thirty minute segment.

It’s a cruel juxtaposition to pay witness to as Steve’s cheeks become stained with tears. It hurts to see him curl up onto his side. To sit idly by as he goes about the wretched business of breaking his own heart.

“They’ve moved on, Eds. They’re onto bigger and better things. I’d just be holding everyone back. It’s okay.”

“It’s not—”

“Eddie,” Steve inches closer to him; knees knocking together—mirroring each other, “let it go. I’ve made my peace. Why can’t you do the same? Why can’t you let me–”

“Because, watching you leave was the single worst moment of my life. Worse than the bats. Worse than Vecna. Not a day goes by that I don’t replay it in my mind. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about what might have happened if I’d been brave enough to stop you.”

Kissing him is wrong.

Kissing him resolves none of it.

Kissing him tastes like sour gummy worms and chocolate and the satisfaction of finding a final resting place.

Kissing him is anger, spite, love.

Kissing him is the only thing that’s ever mattered and, maybe, that’s okay—

Steve startles. Keeps his lips perfectly still and Eddie thinks he’s really fucked this whole thing up, until he feels him break.

Until he feels him crack wide open like one of those novelty geodes Wayne used to bring back from his trips to mining country.

As the next episode begins and the cheesy theme song plays out in the background, Steve yanks Eddie towards him and sobs. They ground each other through twisted limbs, the rough meeting of lips, and the active avoidance of any moment outside of this.

They kiss and it’s both Heaven and Hell. It’s the promise of what could be and the mounting fear that the second they pull apart, the bonafide shelter they’ve created will crumble.

Steve whines openly. Sighs into Eddie’s mouth and slots a desperate knee between his thighs—a generous offering from a dead man walking.

Eddie grinds against it. Finally loses control. He rides Steve’s thigh in earnest—hips bumping, moans dripping from his lips like saccharine honey, cock throbbing and making a sticky mess in his boxers. Everything tastes like salt and sound and fury.

“Taste so good,” Steve licks over his mouth quickly, “Taste sweet. That part’s stuck with me—Eddie Munson’s real sweet.”

“You bit my tongue when we—”

“You probably deserved it,” Steve jokes and slaps his cheek playfully, “C’mon. Don’t stop. Kiss me, again. Want you to taste me like I taste you.”

He fucks his tongue into Steve’s mouth and the remembrance of a night he’s only been able to dream of, for the past five years, plays on.

He’s kissed Steve once before. Left a violet hickey on his neck. It was the end of June—concrete sizzled, mosquitoes swarmed, an ending should have been obvious, but it wasn’t.

They’d been scared. Afraid for the future. Afraid of how the past would follow them around in the shadow of tragedy. Afraid to press onwards, to lick over each other’s teeth, to make a mistake.

It’s different now.

Eddie doesn’t hold Steve like he’s fragile. He holds him like he believes he’s strong, because he is and he does. He’d have to be to start all over. To press restart in the middle of nowhere.

Steve’s hands roam his body ceaselessly. Wrinkle his clothes. Tug at his belt. He’s possessed by hope and the taboo Mirage and who can blame him? It’s gorgeous and awful.

“I haven’t touched anyone—” he cries, “I haven’t let anyone touch me since you kissed me on the night I left Hawkins. Remember? In my driveway–”

The confession sends a pang of agony racing through Eddie’s chest.

Nobody’s held him. Nobody’s kissed his neck and left behind a brutal memory. Nobody’s taken the time to wash the suds from his soft brown hair or dab the soap from his hazel eyes.

“Shh,” Eddie hushes him, laps at his tears and makes a split second decision, “I’ve never forgotten. How could I? I hardly ever think about anything else,” Steve whimpers from where he’s found a spot to rest his head in the crook of Eddie’s neck, “Shh, baby. Will you let me wash your hair? Will you let me help you clean off? Is that okay?”

Clinging to him and refusing to let go, Steve shudders and nods. Eddie knows this is significant for him—to relinquish the tired role of martyrdom and permit someone else to take care of him. To shoulder the responsibility with gentle hands.

Slack in his arms, Eddie carries him to the dim bathroom. The cartoon characters scramble around on screen—chasing each other around with hammers and wacky laughter.

When the water warms to the point of comfort, Eddie undresses the two of them in tandem.

First, Eddie’s shirt. Then, Steve’s. A breathy kiss in the interlude—they savor this practice. This delicate waltz. Their hands tremble. Steve’s shockingly sensitive. He breaks skin on Eddie’s shoulder when he circles his nipple and bites down just to tease.

“Nobody’s ever done that—”

“I don’t care about anyone else. No one. This is about me and you. Let me be the first. Don’t let there be anyone else. Me and you. Yeah?”

“Yes. Only you, Eds. No one else.”

“There’s my boy. My sweet, sweet boy.”

He cradles Steve’s sleepy face in his hands, pecks at the corners of his mouth as he helps him out of his classic Americana blue jeans. Levi’s or Lee. Brass buttons, deep pockets.

In the humid steam of the shower, they melt into each other. Eddie guides Steve to stand in front of him under the spray of the water and folds his arms around him. He strokes a hand over the flat plane of his stomach, toys with the pretty hair there, and sways with him to the tinny sound of the end credits. Conclusion. Finality. It is decidedly so.

He scrubs away the dirt, tears, grime, and misfortune with the prepackaged bar soap. Supplied by the manager at the front. Handed to him alongside the six pack and finicky roomkey. Steve lets Eddie rub out the knots in his shoulders. Thanks him unnecessarily as if this isn’t the greatest gift Eddie’s ever been given.

“Let’s do your hair, next,” Eddie presses lingering kisses to the column of his throat.

“I’d like that.”

The shampoo isn’t great. It’s in a miniature hotel bottle and opens with a snap. Smells like a pink petaled flower that would never survive this heat. Mildly delusional peonies with a whimsical flair.

“Tilt your head back. Rest on me,” Eddie whispers, flattening his palm over Steve’s heart—swearing an oath, “I’ve got you. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

He listens. Obeys readily. As if having waited his whole life to be instructed to do so.

“That feels nice,” he whines high in his throat while Eddie lathers the floral shampoo and works it through his hair, “Want more. Please, Eds. Please—more.”

“I’ll give you more, sweet boy,” he’s deliberate about the way he subtly scrapes against Steve’s scalp and tugs at the tendrils swooping around the nape of his pretty neck, “You’re so perfect,” he kisses his ear, nibbles on the lobe and revels in the resulting moan, “so kind, so smart, so lovable.”

Love—

Eddie wasn’t supposed to say love.

Shit.

He really wasn’t supposed to mention that.

“Fuck,” Steve sucks onto Eddie’s jaw—groaning and nipping along the full line of it, “Do you?”

“I’ve gotta rinse it,” he pretends to miss the question, “You can switch spots with me or–”

“Eddie,” Steve grinds his ass against Eddie’s dick and it’s no fucking accident, “I wanna come home. I wanna be yours. I don’t wanna be here anymore,” he turns so they’re face to face and Eddie sees Steve’s hard and leaking onto his hand where he’s lazily stroking himself as he crowds into Eddie’s space, “But, I need you to tell me. Do you love me? Do you love me the way I love you, because if you don’t—I can dry off, I can get my stuff, I can go back to the bar—”

“I love you—Jesus fucking Christ, Steve! Of course, I fucking love you! I’m not capable of loving anyone else! Don’t leave—”

“I won’t,” Steve caresses his cheek and wipes away his tears—the years of pent up heartache, “I love you.”

Breathless, Eddie’s back hits the cold tile wall and Steve’s fucking against him. Using the place where his hip meets his stomach to rub, press, and plead. Eddie grabs his hips, pulls him closer, gasps when he feels Steve spurt pre onto his pale skin.

“Say it again. Tell me why, so I believe it. So I know who to call when the voices in my head get too loud. So I can learn how to come home. Please, Eddie, please.”

Taking them both into his fist, Eddie pumps Steve’s dick alongside his own. Slow and steady. He thumbs the slit as Steve’s knees buckle. Grits his teeth and grins dumbly when his boy hisses at the heat and building friction.

“Honey, I dreamed of you. I ran after you a million times. I begged and prayed to whoever would listen. I’m nowhere near religious, but, fuck, I devoted everything in me to finding you,” he slots their lips together and feels Steve’s smile before he sees it, “You’re my home, Stevie. It’s empty without you. I’d rather die, than drive back alone.”

To have him like this is a million times better—a Goddamn miracle, compared to what Eddie’s envisioned night after night alone in his bed.

Moaning brokenly into his pillow as he chased after the punishing gossamer threads knotted in the hair of his phantom lover.

To untie him meant freedom and, at last, Eddie has the filthy pleasure of being the one to make Steve Harrington come undone.

“Gonna make me cum, Eds? Gonna let me be good for you?”

Steve’s thrashing wildly. Thrusting into Eddie’s fist and digging his nails into his back. Babbling sweetly about how badly he wants to shoot off over Eddie’s hands.

“Not yet, angel. I need something from you first,” he catches his breath, forces Steve’s hips to go still, and does his best to keep it together, “Promise me you’ll get in my van when we wake up tomorrow morning. Promise me you’ll forgive yourself.”

Steve’s quiet.

The water’s running cold—you get what you pay for.

The coyotes and cartoons fight for dominance. Lone rangers, lone wolves, trembling in the dust.

The dim bulb flickers—one, two, three; it’s fading fast—

In the pitch dark, Steve traces Eddie’s mouth with his fingertips, peels off his scars, draws whimsical shapes and crisscrossed stars with the very top of his tongue. An odd ritual and not a word to explain it.

As Steve finds the path to Eddie’s goriest scars—those that line his ribs—his curiosity gets the best of him.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Steve kisses the tops of his knees and that makes Eddie horny and madly in love. Even madder than he was with Steve’s cock in his fist.

“Not to me, no.”

His laughter is infectious. Eddie giggles—genuinely giggles like a blushing schoolgirl.

“I’m making a map,” Steve licks the head of Eddie’s cock and he shivers, “memorizing you, so I’ll always know the way back home if I get lost. It’s a promise.”

—

They stay up later than they should for a drive as long as the one they have ahead of them. But, it’s worth it.

Eddie cums down Steve’s throat in the shower. Steve thanks him. Licks up every last drop and kisses his knees like a forbidden secret.

Getting dressed isn’t an option. It never had a chance to be part of the agenda.

Steve falls apart in Eddie’s lap on the bed—fucking himself at his own pace. Deep and perfect. His moans belong on an album. Eddie tells him he’ll make him one some day. Burn a CD and terrorize the neighbors by blasting it in his car with all the windows rolled down.

Afterwards, they brush each other’s teeth and make a mess of the counter. Cackling like crazed animals because the light’s still fucked and Steve can’t find the toothpaste cap. They decide to leave it there—a piece of themselves for whoever rents the room next.

—

An hour into the drive, Eddie reaches for the map over Steve’s lap and looks at it for a moment before shrugging and throwing it out the window.

That gets Steve’s attention.

“What the fuck? Did you mean to do that? Was that on purpose? Tell me that wasn’t on purpose—”

“We don’t need it. I know where I’m going. I have everything I need right here with me,” he winks at Steve and steals a handful of gas station sunflower seeds.

“You’re such a sap,” Steve snorts, “I can’t believe you made me promise to come home with you and now, we don’t even know which direction leads to home.”

“I’m a romantic,” Eddie pats his thigh affectionately, “and, I may or may not have convinced Robin and Nance to fly out for a family road trip. We’re meeting them at the next rest stop. Nancy has another map. Hope that’s okay?”

“As long as you’re there. I’m there,” Steve takes his hand, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

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[atimeofyourlife]

Come one, come all to this tragic affair

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt: hurt/comfort (heavy on the hurt) | rated: m | wc: 1000 | cw: minor character death, car accidents, death of parents | tags: established steddie, emt steve, death of steve's parents This was the worst shift Steve had faced since starting his emt training. Facing down a car accident that included his parents' car. title from The End by MCR

Steve still felt a little out of place sitting in the passenger seat of the ambulance as it sped down the highway with the lights and sirens blaring. He was still in training, and every emergency seemed new. He knew this would be bad from the little he'd heard over the radio, a major car accident that sounded incredibly serious with multiple casualties.

He couldn't help swearing loudly as the ambulance slowed to a stop at the scene, instantly recognizing one of the cars.

"Most people save that until they know the status of everything." His mentor, John, responded as he moved to get out.

"No, it's just. The Mercedes. That's my parents' car." Steve replied hesitantly, unlatching his seat belt and reaching for the door.

"Stay in the truck for a minute." John said, climbing out and slamming the door, Steve watched as he made his way over to the police and other ambulances on scene.

Steve waited anxiously for John to return, watching as he spoke to another paramedic. He tried to get a gauge on what was being said, but their faces didn't give much away. He was terrified of what the outcome could be. When John returned to the ambulance, Steve could see from his face that it wasn't going to be good news.

"Harrington. I'm relieving you from duty."

"What-" Steve started to ask, but the words got stuck in his throat.

"It, it's not good news, kid. For the Mercedes, there's a male driver that's DOA. And a female passenger in critical condition. You should be with your mom, not worrying about duty. I'll walk you over, then I'll radio base to let them know what's going on."

"Oh." Steve felt numb as he climbed out of the cab. There were people scattered everywhere, working on the people that had been in the other cars. Near the crumpled shell of the Mercedes, a body was covered by a sheet and Steve knew that it was his father. A few feet away, laid his mother, covered in blood. "Mom." He gasped, hurrying to her side.

"Stevie?" She whispered, opening her eyes for barely a second.

"Yeah, Mom. I'm here." He rested his hand gently on her shoulder, keeping out the way of the paramedics as the worked on her.

Once his mom was stable enough to be moved, she was being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

"Harrington." John came jogging over. "I've spoken to base, you're signed off duty for at least a couple of weeks. Go with your mom, someone will catch up with you later."

Steve just nodded, before climbing into the back of the ambulance with his mom, taking her hand for comfort as the doors slammed.

At the hospital, Steve was directed into a side room to wait for updates as his mom was rushed into surgery. He knew it wasn't looking good. The paramedics that brought them in offered Steve their condolences before they had to leave to get back out. He knew he should phone Eddie, but he didn't know if he could find the words, at least until he knew.

After a couple of hours, Hopper walked into the room. Steve vaguely recalled noticing him at the scene, but his focus had been elsewhere.

"Any updates?" He asked, taking the seat next to Steve. Steve just shook his head, not wanting to talk.

It was only a few minutes later that a doctor walked in. Steve got to his feet, wanting to be ready for anything.

"I'm sorry, Mr Harrington. We tried everything we could, but your mother's injuries were too severe. We were unable to save her."

"Oh, I." Steve could feel himself crumbling, tears running down his face and his knees buckling. The only thing preventing him hitting the floor was Hopper darting forward to grab his shoulders.

"I've got you." Hopper wrapped him in a tight hug. "I've got you."

The rest of the day passed in a blur, Steve just moving on instinct following whatever Hopper or any of the hospital staff told him. It felt like he could blink and he would be in a different place, with different people. He'd never had a great relationship with either of his parents, but he just couldn't process that he'd lost them both in just a few hours. He felt like he was just seeing snapshots through someone else's eyes. He came back to himself when Hopper shook his shoulder, somehow he'd lost getting into the car and the drive home.

"Let's get you inside. D'you want me to explain it to Munson?" Hopper asked gently.

Steve just nodded as he got out and walked up to the small house he was renting with Eddie.

"Steve, is that you?" Eddie called as the door shut, stopping short when he saw Hopper. "What's going on?"

"We should probably sit down for this." Hopper replied.

Steve followed Eddie into the living room, curling into his side as they sat on the sofa, not caring about his bloody uniform or the fact he hadn't bothered to take off his boots.

"He responded to a major car accident. His parents were in one of the cars. Neither of them survived."

"Oh, Stevie." Eddie wrapped his arms tightly around Steve, feeling the tears start to soak into his shirt. "I've got you baby. I've got you."

"If you need anything, just let me know. And I'll check in everyday." Hopper said as he got to his feet.

"Yeah, thanks Hopper." Eddie replied, still holding Steve close.

"You need anything Stevie?" Eddie asked after Hopper left.

Steve shook his head. "Do I even get to be sad? I don't- I've barely seen or spoken to them for months. Why should I be allowed to be sad?"

"You can feel however you want. They were your parents and you loved them, you're allowed to grieve." Eddie murmured, running his fingers through Steve's hair. "And I'll be here through it all."

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Heeeeyyyyyy

Can you do the most fluff test cotton candy cloud ever with your angel and devil au? Like just the soft and cuddly cute side of them with readers problems like if she has a hard time doing normal things?It’s so cool and awesome I’ve read so many of you amazing hc’s and other story’s from it I LOVE ITTT

A/N: i wasn’t really sure what you meant by “hard time doing normal things” since that could be so many different things, literally anything could fall into that category depending on what you deem as normal and or important enough for the struggles with it became a negative thing. but I tried to make it vague enough to fit whatever you were thinking about, so i hope this is okay. 

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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“I’m sorry,” you blew another long exhale out through your tense and quivering lips. 

Each of the creatures at your side still clutched your hands tightly in theirs, “don’t apologise, it’s okay,” Steve reassured you softly, his free hand extending to wipe away the tears still clinging to your cheek, “we’ll stay right here for as long as you need, no rush at all.”

Shifting in his seat beside you on the bench, sloping back against it just like the trees around you lightly danced on the wind, Eddie subtly attempted to distract you, “so, tell me about that dance movie with the chick from Ferris Bueller.” 

Turning your head to glance at him with furrowed brows, “you want me to talk about the movie we watched literally last night?”

“Correction, rewatched, for maybe the fiftieth time, and yes,” he raised your hand up to his lips and pressed a gentle peck upon the knuckles, “I do wanna hear you talk about it. I never get sick of listening to you talk, no matter the subject,” genuineness shining through in his tone, “now, tell me about it.”

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble

[kennahjune]

Was having sad thoughts and thought about Steve and Eddie getting into a particularly bad argument and Eddie storming off without resolving it with Steve like they usually do.

The thing is, they’re both so careful about never leaving before an arguments done and fixed because they both know how that ends. Their parents are prime examples.

And then Eddie just leaves, like everyone else, and something snaps in Steve.

So he goes out by himself, probably all the way in Indy just for a new scene. He’s having fun— getting his mind off of Eddie and the argument and everything. And everyone’s actually kinda nice.

But there’s always one asshole who won’t lay off, right? And this dude just won’t take a fucking hint and then won’t take ‘no’.

So when Steve leaves the club, the douche follows and corners him and essentially it ends in another concussion for poor Stevie.

With this added concussion, Steve isn’t allowed to leave the hospital he’s brought to by a nice random man until someone is able to come and pick him up.

Steve actually spends a whole two days in that hospital because he refused to call Eddie. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he wasn’t entirely sure Eddie would come, and that would hurt more than any stupid concussion Steve could get.

But he relents eventually, and calls his boyfriend, who’s absolutely flabbergasted that Steve hadn’t called him sooner. Eddie’s there as soon as he can be, leaving work early and breaking every traffic law there is.

And then we get the awkward drive home and then the emotional make up because I don’t do hurt/no comfort.

[little-bumblebeeee]

Moonlight – part 5

Word count: 1.4k

Part 4 part 3 part 2 part 1

Angst angst angst angst

(Next chapter will be a Steve chapter!!!!)

Nothing happened of course. He just let Steve hang out at his place until he cooled down and Eddie sent him off back to Nancy. Back to Nancy. He can't help but feel a bitter hatred towards the girl despite her doing absolutely nothing to him. He knows it's just jealousy though, jealousy about a boy he'll never in a million years get.

Why does he keep doing this to himself? Wanting what he can't have. Fame, money, boys, a life in general.

Because he's Eddie Munson. The world has it out for him.

He stabs his pencil through the paper of his sketchbook, his blood going cold as he realizes he shouldn't have done that. The dragon on the page now has a gaping hole in it's chest, and while he could try to fix it, he doesn't want to fix things right now. Fixing needs effort, and he doesn't have that in him at the moment, not while he's sitting on his bed crying over a boy.

"Eddie Munson, crying over a jock. What a twist, huh?" He comments bitterly to the ratty Garfield plush in front of him, slumped over from the lack of stuffing in one side, droopy eyes scratched to practically nothing. He still keeps it though, because he loves it.

Some things don't need to be fixed. They're lovable the way they are.

And yet nobody seems to love Eddie. Sure, his mom loved him, but that was when he was a kid, and he can't help but wonder if she would still love him if she was around today. Wayne too, but that's different, hard to see. He wants a different love, he wants Steve's love. He'll get rid of it soon. This stupid, horrible crush on a boy. A boy who's both a jock and a werewolf. God, what has his life become?

It's been a week since he stopped Steve from spraypainting all over town, and he can't help but realize.. he missed the full moon. Steve would've already turned back by now, all alone. It's fine. It's not like Steve needs him, and Eddie was wanting to distance himself from Steve. This is good for them both.

Yet guilt eats away at him, squeezing and twisting at his insides, making his lungs close up and his throat catch. He can hardly breathe, and it hurts. He feels like he should apologize, but he can't, it's not even necessary. Steve never needed Eddie there, not when he's been transforming all by himself for years and years already by the time Eddie found him.

He can't go to school. He can't even risk the chance of seeing Steve, can't even risk the chance of seeing this damn boy. It hurts. It's horrible, it's.. Eddie gets up, going out to the small kitchen as if his body is on autopilot. He opens the fridge and closes it a couple times, his brain empty from the lack of accomplishment of grabbing something from the barren shelves. He doesn't know what to do with himself. It's a feeling not unknown to him, but it's never been at the hands of a boy who looks both like a God and Just Some Dude. What is wrong with him? He's Eddie Munson, of all people he should be immune to Harrington's charms.

But he just isn't.

Nothing is working, either. Not food, not drawing, not his music, not D&D– hell, he even tried going on a walk. Nothing. Is. Working. He tried to lose himself in his interests, tried to let them consume him completely like they do when he doesn't want them to, but not even those want him now. His guitar isn't calling to him, neither are his books or the figurines that still need to be painted.

Eddie needs to talk to this boy. Even once. He doesn't care if he'll be rejected, he truly doesn't, he just.. needs to get this feeling out. Shoes on his feet, keys in his hand, he stills. He didn't even open the door yet.

He can't do this. He should be confident, but no, he's shaking like a leaf, his stomach churning. He doesn't even take his shoes off as he walks back to his room, slowly slipping into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. He doesnt like this feeling. He doesn't like when the only things beckoning him closer are the things that will hurt him most. How when he thought Steve was in danger he was so ready to leave, yet now he can't even open the front door?

There's something wrong with him. Always has been, always will be. If he's not killed or doesn't do it himself before he graduates he'll be driven out of this hellhole of a town, either going to jail and reuniting with his no-good dad or being completely alone for the rest of his life. People would talk and wonder. They'd discuss and gossip about Mr. Munson, the shut-in neighbor with a cat who nobody sees outside unless he's working or on his porch, the man who doesn't speak, the man who stays inside when he doesn't have errands, the man who drinks himself to bed every day. They'd wonder what happened to get him like that– if he had a wife who passed away or something.

He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face, attempting to swallow down the lump in his throat at the thought. He doesn't want that but it seems like the only future for him. The Garfield plush on his pillow that he found comfort in since he was a child now seems like it's mocking him, it's lazy eyed stare and wide sleepy smile staring him down.

That's when he hears the tapping on his window. There was knocking at his door earlier but he didn't bother to answer, knowing that if it was his uncle he wouldn't be knocking and would just come inside, not really caring about visitors.

He doesn't get out of bed, but he hears the window slide open, harsh sunlight burning his eyes as someone tumbles into his room, shoe covered feet landing on Eddie's carpeted floors.

And his voice.

"Eddie? What's going on? You weren't there.." Steve says quietly, hesitantly walking over to Eddie's bedside as if he was sick or something. He must look pathetic, buried under a thin blanket, clutching a stuffed animal, with his hair a mess and his eyes all puffy and red.

"You weren't there." Steve repeats. "I waited for you. All night. I don't even know what happened– I just know I woke up and I... I was covered in blood. I don't know what or who's blood it was– I'm freaking the fuck out!" He says, pacing Eddie's room. The boy jolts up, rubbing his eyes and throwing the blanket off. That's when he finally gets a good look at Steve. The tired eyes, his uncharacteristically sunken and pale skin, dried blood on his hands as if all he could do was try and wipe it off his skin with what he could find and shove some clothes on before going straight to Eddie.

"Shit shit shit, shit, shit! Okay.. okay, blood. You didn't kill someone, you couldn't have. You're not that kinda... person.. werewolf.. thing." Eddie says breathlessly, getting up out of bed and realizing that half of this blood is Steve's. The way it seeps through his blue sweater, creating a dark stain that just keeps spreading.

"I don't know what happened." Steve admits upon realizing what Eddie is looking at, lifting up his sweater to show a gaping hole in his abdomen, next to that patch of hair Eddie has dreamed about again and again.

"Holy shit.. Steve, you got shot*" He says in shock, but Steve doesn't even look surprised. He simply shoves his fingers into the wound and pulls out a bullet, wiping his hand on his sweater. "I'll be fine. It's not even close to the first time, I know how to handle it. You got a first aid kit or anything?"

Eddie blinks a few times.. sure, Steve is a werewolf, he's strong, he doesn't feel as much pain as a normal person. But he just pulled a bullet out of his flesh and asked Eddie if he had gauze with the normalcy of asking if it's cold out today, not to mention he didn't even notice the blood was his own.

Now all he has to do is keep it together when Steve pulls off his shirt to patch himself up.

Tag list: @manda-panda-monium @irregular-child @gregre369 @cartercaptainofthemoon @oatmilk-vampire @she-collects-smut @jhrc666 @fairytalesreality

Tag list IS currently open! ♡

[little-annie]

All I Want | Ch.1

Steddie Fic | Little_Annie | Ao3

---

It was good.

It was so fucking good.

Yeah, maybe their relationship was a secret. Maybe Uncle Wayne was the only one who knew they were together. Maybe they snuck into closets or empty rooms when they spent evenings with friends, snuck kisses in dark corners or when everyone's attention was focused elsewhere but they were still them. They were Steve and Eddie, Eddie and Steve, together and hopelessly in love. They were together and they had each other. Had each other in every beautifully intimate way possible.

They sang, they kissed, they cuddled, they made love.

They made breakfast, held hands under the table, washed each other's hair and whispered sweet nothings to one another when no one was around.

They were so fucking in love.

Until they weren't

Until the day Eddie woke up and remembered nothing of the last year of his life

Until the day Eddie woke up and remembered nothing of Steve. His Steve. The Steve that held his hand and cried his eyes out waiting for the moment that Eddie would wake up. His Steve that made him laugh and sing, made him feel like the luckiest, most loved man alive. His Steve that he spent evenings and weekends with, cuddled into god awful plaid sheets with whispers of the words 'I love you' falling from their lips.

Until the day Eddie woke up from his coma and had no idea why Steve "The King" "The Hair" Harrington was there with him and why the absolute fuck he kissed him and called him Eds on his return to the land of the living.

Their love was so strong, so powerful, so goddamn beautiful. But was it strong enough?

Steve's heart was so full. Full with everything Eddie. Full with eyes the colour of the earth, full with curls that perfectly wrapped around his fingers, full with a touch that made his soul melt and porcelain skin that blushed the prettiest shade of pink.

But

Steve's heart that was once so full shattered when the words, "Why the fuck are you here?" rasped from Eddie's dry throat.

It was like a bullet to the heart. Like a fucking Demogorgan reached in pulled the beating organ out of his chest and crushed it in its cold undead hands. Steve was suddenly so empty. So scared and so goddamn alone. Again.

"Son," Wayne had breathed calmly behind him, warning but also sadness in his tone, watching the one man his nephew loved so much crumble in front of him, reaching desperately for the hand Eddie wasn't willing to give.

Already verging on hysterics, Steve tried, he tried to take Eddie's hand, to call his name, but nothing less than a bark of an order came from the man he loved, "Get the fuck out of here Harrington!"

He fell back into Wayne in shock and the man continued to calmly speak, "They told us he could have memory loss kid. I'm sorry, but I think it's best that'cha leave. I'll call ya tonight when I know more, 'kay?"

Steve couldn't speak, silent tears running down his face, he gathered his things. Or thing. Everything he'd brought was Eddie's, or theirs. He had his jacket, the letterman jacket he didn't quite care for anymore but Eddie loved, or more loved to tease him in. He thought it'd lighten the mood when Eddie woke up, he thought it'd spark some fun loving banter between them. Everything else he left behind, the books, the blankets, the change of clothes ready for Eddie for when he woke up, his rings, his necklace, his leather bracelet and a journal Steve had written in on the days it felt especially hard to watch the love of his life breath through a machine and remain so terrifyingly still.

On his way out the door, Wayne had grabbed his shoulder and pulled him in for a hug, ever so quietly mumbling, "A love like yous had just doesn't die kid, it's still in there somewhere. It's still in him."

The words shattered Steve's heart even further. Though he wished they were true, there was no way of actually knowing. It was luck in the first place to find someone as incredible as Eddie to love him. He didn't know if he could get that lucky again.

Steve squeezed a little tighter and turned to leave, standing in the doorway, willing himself the confidence to not turn around

"Wayne," he whispered, not moving his attention from the hall he was now facing, the old man turned, tears in his eyes, looking back at Steve, "everything should be there for today," Steve struggled to speak, tears in his eyes and pain in his throat as he turned and pointed at the pile of belongings next to Eddie's bed, "just maybe… fuck, " he huffed quietly, "I don't think he should read the journal, that might freak him out, maybe hide it for now."

Wayne nodded once in response, moving to squeeze Steve's arm as he quietly spoke, "I love ya son."

And if that didn't break Steve's heart even more.

—

The days had dragged into each other.

Wayne would call each evening when he got home from visiting Eddie; updating Steve on his condition. His mental health never being the topic of improvement unfortunately, but at least Steve knew he was doing better otherwise. His days were filled with worry and dread that he hadn't been able to visit since the morning Eddie woke up. Maybe he'd poke his head in when visiting Max, but it wasn't like he could go visit the guy as Dustin's friend alongside the curly haired pipsqueak because, like mentioned before, Eddie didn't remember the last year of his life.

That included the kids too.

Dustin was just as heartbroken as Steve, but it's not like Steve could show it, not in the way he felt really, he could mourn the loss as a friend but that's it. He and Eddie hadn't told anyone about their relationship, save Wayne, and he wasn't going to make it his business outing Eddie.

Mornings and nights Steve liked to think were the hardest, waking up and falling asleep alone, the absence of Eddie felt the richest then. But that's not to say every other waking minute was less difficult. Fuck, everything was difficult.

Brushing his teeth in the morning because he can picture Eddie behind him and the phantom feeling of a tattooed arm around his waist.

Doing laundry because he can still hear the whispers of Eddie's voice singing some made up song to him

Grocery shopping because he can hear Eddie's laugh and picture him on the end of the cart, weighing it down but with the biggest smile on his face as he throws some type of junk food in with their haul

Working at Family Video because there's no call coming through over his lunch break, no "Well hello there Stevie" or "Hey Baby" or a sing-songed "I love you Steve Harrington," on the other end of the line when he does pick up a call.

There's no Eddie bursting through his front door to tackle him into the couch and pepper him with kisses when he's just gotten home from work.

There's no Eddie pulling him into his arms after a bout of night terrors, pressing kisses to his head with whispered words of praise

There's no Eddie. Not for him anyways.

Some days Steve would join Wayne for supper or breakfast, depending on the man's work schedule.

At least he had Wayne.

At least Wayne cared and loved him.

At least Wayne still had Eddie.

Their time spent together would sometimes be in silence, occasionally accompanied by the local news or hum of the radio. Sometimes Wayne would pull Steve through the door and drag him out to go fishing or to a ball game in the city. Sometimes Steve was too late or too early to meet Wayne, so on those days he'd let himself in and find comfort in Eddie's bed with a book in hand, tears often times blurring the words past the point of recognition, before soon the exhaustion of grief would take over and lull Steve to sleep.

Many times did Wayne come home to find Steve curled up in Eddie's bed, tears staining the pillow in his tight grasp, book still held in hand as he quietly snored against the cotton fabric. It was common enough that Wayne didn't bat an eye, simply covering Steve with a blanket, setting an alarm for the morning in case the kid had to work the next day and shutting off the lights after gently ruffling his hair.

It was hard and lonely and some days debilitating.

Steve sometimes thought if Eddie was dead it'd be easier. He'd have at least loved Steve and would have at least loved him until the end. But everytime that thought occurs he hates himself a little more.

He didn't know what to do, it's not like he could barge into the hospital room and tell Eddie everything. How they fell in love, how the world nearly ended, how Steve carried him through the literal gates of hell and held his hand until the second he woke up.

He couldn't. Could he?

No

But that's not to say Steve didn't try to come up with some type of a plan.

[starrystevie]

hurt/comfort | mentions of anxiety and trauma | crossposted to twitter

"what's that?" eddie murmurs into the quiet darkness of their bedroom.

dread piles into steve's stomach. he wants to tug his sleeve over his hands so eddie can't see the writing on his palm anymore. wants to hide the pen marks by holding onto his hips instead.

"it's nothing," he whispers back, attaching his lips to the underside of eddie's jaw. he knows his boyfriend melts at the kisses he puts there. knows it will distract him from asking any more prying questions.

the ink is smudged, hardly legible anymore after a day at work. between washing his hands and shuffling papers and rubbing subconsciously at his palm when that certain type of anxiety knots into his gut, the pen marks from earlier are halfway to disappearing until he starts it all over again the next morning.

steve can't help it. he thought that moving in with eddie, having his support, would make it easier to cope with it all. thought that having someone else to help hold him accountable was the answer.

yet here he is, writing a list on his hand every morning, just to help him remember simple things.

he turns on the coffee pot in the morning, makes a note of it on his palm, crosses it out when he turns the pot off and tells himself over and over that it's actually off and he's not imagining it.

he locks the door and writes "LOCKED" in all caps so he doesn't come home halfway through the day to check and make sure it's actually locked.

he brushes his teeth, he feeds the dog, he puts his wallet in his briefcase, he closes the refrigerator door after breakfast and writes reminder after reminder on his palm in sticky black ink.

it helps, really it does, when steve's mind starts to wander in a boring meeting and he gets that hot rush of guilt of forgetting something burning through his veins. he'll look at his hand under the table and scan over the notes, find what's looking for, and try to breathe.

he'll read it over and over, the crossed out "coffee pot" or the "wallet in bag" or the "fed duke", until he feels like it sinks in, blinking back into real time to focus.

it's some strange mix of anxiety and lack of control and head trauma, robin thinks.

steve can't talk to a lot of people about it, embarrassed that he can't remember doing simple fucking tasks, but robin gets it. gets him. robin lets him swing his legs into her lap and pulls his hand up to her face so she can inspect the notes from the day to piece them all together.

it was her idea in the first place to write on his hand. she had suggested paper first but that was too easy to lose especially if he couldn't remember setting it down. she traces over the ink and lets him vent about feeling like a failure or stupid or some type of broken, reminding him gently that none of them got out hawkins without scars.

but steve hasn't let eddie see that yet, too afraid of breaking whatever they've made together, too afraid of scaring him off with his cracked brain and clenched jaw. too afraid of being built so wrong that he'll look like a once shiny penny covered in rust-colored problems.

so he digs his fingers into his palm, nails slicing into flesh & ink, and presses his lips fiercely into eddie's jaw to stop him from spilling any secrets. lets his tongue sneak out as an apology for not showing him his jagged edges. lets his teeth bite against the words he wants to say.

"baby," eddie whispers, his gentle callused hands trailing over steve's arms to settle on his clenched fist. he shakes his head against eddie's chin, bites at his neck again, ignores the way the love of his fucking life is trying to peel his fingers open to see it. see him.

steve feels raw, a live wire, one second away from snapping into sparks of electricity. he shakes his hand free and curls it around the small of eddie's back, tugging him closer, hiding his shame.

"it's nothing," he repeats, voice shaky and rough against eddie's skin.

if he just slots his leg right, if he just presses into eddie right, if he just tips his head and rolls his hips and plays his cards right, he can avoid all of this all together. he can take eddie's mind away from the writing on his hand and convince them both everything is okay.

but it's not that easy, it never is, because there fingers wrapping around his wrist at an awkward angle to pull his hand back and heat flares up in his cheeks. eddie's going to see, going to ask, going to figure out that steve is broken beyond repair and it's all thanks to one too many blows to the head & one too many times of fucking up & one too many times of leaving the goddamn door unlocked.

"i just-" he bites out, trying and failing to pull his arm out from eddie's grasp. maybe some part of him wants to come clean and get the inevitable over and done with. "-they're just some notes okay?"

and now eddie's looking between him and his palm with those eyes that hold love and the pity that he hates, so he blinks away, jolts to get his arm free again. he doesn't want pity, he doesn't want puppy dog eyes, he doesn't want the reminder that he can't-

but then there's lips pressing oh so gently to the hand he rubbed raw earlier when he could have sworn he didn't triple check that he paid the water bill. there's the flutter of eyelashes against his fingertips as eddie trails kisses over the thing that makes him feel less than.

steve doesn't fight to pull his arm back anymore. his shoulders drop, his muscles relax, and that ball of dread in the pit of his stomach eases away into something that feels more like acceptance.

"that's smart," eddie mutters against his palm. "to help you remember?"

and just like that, it isn't secret anymore. just like that eddie's peeled back the layers of bravado and nonchalance and seen steve for the mess he is.

he kisses the notes like it's the easiest thing to do and maybe for eddie it is. maybe taking a piece of steve's hurt is what they found each other for. maybe eddie was made to understand every inch of steve from the inside out like the way a vine instinctually knows to follow the sun.

steve resettles his face in eddie's neck, nods and breathes him in so he has him deep in his lungs. "it was robin's idea."

"she's smart too, then." eddie hums and drops steve's hand gently, letting it wind back around him so he can tangle his in steve's hair. "does it help?"

"yep," steve mumbles.

"how have i never noticed you scribbling on your hand everyday?" eddie asks with his lips pressed into the crown of steve's head.

"i didn't want you to see. i'm pretty good at hiding."

he can feel when eddie takes in a deep breath. feel when his chest expands and collapses before whispering "start adding 'eddie loves me' on there."

steve shakes his head with a small grin, his heart beat slowing from an anxious jack-rabbiting speed to something more eddie paced. "i never need a reminder of that one."

[moonstruckme]

Hi! You are such a good writer!! Totally fine if you don’t want to be write this because it can be triggering, but I was recently roofied (nothing happened physically but I did have to go to the hospital, I’m ok now) and it would be nice to see either a steddie or poly!marauders fic on how they would react to it happening to their girl. More focusing on the aftermath and mental issues… again if this is too trigger please don’t feel bad about not writing it. I would also just love a basic comfort fic <3

Oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry that happened to you. I've had it happen to a couple of my friends while we've been out (thankfully nothing happened with them either and we were able to get them home safe, but it's so terrifying regardless), and it's insane that it happens so frequently. I hope you're feeling better my love and are seeking any support you need <33

cw: non-consensual drug use, mentions of drinking, no sexual assault but general talk of rape culture

Steddie x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

No part of you is comfortable right now, but you’re trying to tell yourself it could be worse.

The IV in your arm is itchy, your head is starting to hurt, you feel cold and exposed in the outfit you’d worn to the bar, and your throat is sore from forcing yourself to be sick repeatedly on the curb. 

You want to cry, but you’re not sure you’ve got the energy left to do it. 

It turns out you do, though, because as soon as the nurse pulls back the curtain to let Steve and Eddie into the little area you’ve been given, your cheeks wet themselves with tears. 

“Hey,” Eddie coos, nearly picking you up off the bed in his eagerness to have you in his arms. “Hey, baby, how ya doing?”

“Hey,” you try to say back, but the sound is garbled by a sob. You’re trembling again. You thought you’d gotten past that. 

Steve crouches by your bed, eye-to-eye with you as he smoothes some sticky pieces of hair away from your face. You’re not sure if they’re wet with sweat or vomit or something else. You try to stop it, but another sob escapes you, your chest like a cracked shell Eddie’s trying to hold together with his hands on your back. You appreciate it, but it’s a feeble attempt. You’re crying like a child now, shoulders shaking, face hot with tears as you cover it with your hand embarrassedly. 

“Take it easy, you’re alright,” Steve says, then hesitates, giving you a once-over. “You’re okay, aren’t you? I know you said on the phone nothing happened, but…”

You shake your head, sniffling but trying to pull yourself together. “It didn’t.”

Eddie lets you go, and Steve rolls his eyes as you scooch over to make room for him on the tiny bed. “What happened then, sweet thing?” he asks gently.

Any composure you’d worked up crumples, and a whimpering sound tears from the back of your throat in your efforts to keep from bursting into tears again. 

“Give her a minute,” Steve murmurs, rubbing your back with slow, long strokes. He takes your IV tube in his hand, carefully working it out from under where you’d accidentally sat on top of it. “It’s okay, honey, take your time.” 

The frightening part of it is, you’ve already forgotten most of it. Your friends had to be the ones to tell you that you’d been with them the whole time, that no one had left you alone and nothing had happened. That you’d scraped your knees on the sidewalk outside, not in some dark alleyway, and that they’d been the ones to drive you to the hospital, not some random guy once he’d finished with you. 

You shudder, and Eddie mistakes it for a shiver, taking off his jacket to drape it over your shoulders. “Thanks,” you say. The smile he gives you in return is far from happy, but it’s something. 

“I don’t remember everything,” you warn them, and some of the blood leaves Eddie’s face as Steve’s mouth flattens stoically, nodding for you to go on. You force yourself to take a deep breath. “Um, I know I’d had a couple drinks, but I was feeling fine, and then I had one more and everything started to seem off within like, twenty minutes? I couldn’t really walk, and I could barely talk, and that’s not what three drinks do to me, you know?”

You look to Steve for confirmation, and he squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “Right. We’ve seen you after a few drinks, honey. That doesn’t add up.” 

You nod, feeling a bit more sure of yourself. “Yeah. Anyway, then Ananya said I told her I felt weird, and she took me outside to get some air and I made myself throw up outside the bar. And I guess I got everything out of my system, because when I got here they said—” You clear your throat, fighting against the blockage there. “They said it could have gotten a lot worse if I hadn’t.” 

Eddie rests his head on your shoulder with a sigh, hair tickling your neck. “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry. Do you have any idea who might’ve done it?”

You shrug with the other shoulder, and Eddie intertwines his fingers with yours comfortingly. “I mean, a group of guys bought that third round for me and my friends, so it could’ve been them. But then it’s weird that I’m the only one who got roofied, right?” Eddie’s hand tightens on yours, and something hardens in Steve’s eyes. “Could’ve been the bartender, too, I guess. I was paying attention to my drink, and they’re the only ones who had their hands on it, but…” you shrug again. “No proof, and no way to know for sure.” 

Steve’s voice is low, but soft for your benefit, when he asks, “You sure you don’t want to try to do anything about it?”

That’s one thing you’ve had all night to mull over, the one thought you forced your unnaturally sluggish brain to work through. You shake your head. “I think I’m gonna call the bar tomorrow and tell them what happened just in case it was their bartender, but right now I just want to go home.” 

Eddie makes a sympathetic sound, turning his head to nuzzle at your neck affectionately. Steve reaches over to pat his leg, smiling at the both of you. “I asked the nurse on our way in, she said you’re free to go as soon as your IV is done,” he promises. “She said you’ll have a hangover from whatever they gave you, too, so I’m thinking we can pick up some gatorade and stuff on our way home and have a chill day on the couch, sound good?”

You give him a tired smile, and he cups your face in his palm, a slight crease forming between his brows as he assesses your red-rimmed eyes, the circles beneath them. “My head is already kind of hurting,” you admit, “so that sounds perfect.” 

He hums. “We’ve probably got a little while until they can unhook you,” he says, eyeing your IV bag. “Wanna try and sleep?”

You hesitate, recalling with abrupt clarity the scrape of pavement under your knees, the lights going by your window on the way to the hospital, the mantra that had played in your head over and over again: don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep. But Eddie’s head is a reassuring weight on your shoulder, and Steve begins stroking his thumb under your aching eyes as he waits for you to answer. You’re nowhere safer than with them beside you. “You’ll stay with me?” you ask quietly. 

Eddie scoffs, his breath tickling the underside of your chin. “Sweetheart, you scared the shit out of us tonight; we’re never letting you out of our sight again.”

[theshippirate22]

so i started a fic for this a while ago and it got lost in my wips but then @henderdads posted this and i got right back on my bullshit to finish it! also on ao3 tw: panic attack

November 1985-

Steve had a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel of the Beemer while he stared out at the theater ahead of him.

Just looking at it, just thinking about what he was about to do, made his skin crawl. He felt guilty and dirty and miserable, but he didn’t really have any other choice. 

Okay, that was a lie. There were definitely a million other things he could be doing. He really needed to clean his room, he was falling desperately behind on movies Robin said he needed to see, and he was supposed to be writing an essay to help him get into Ohio State. There were tapes to be listened to, people to check on, God, his car needed an oil change.

But here he was, anyway, neglecting all of it. 

The dashboard clock switched to 11:35 and his stomach burned. He’d gotten himself so freaked out, he was going to throw up in the gutter and drive home before anything even happened. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of what waited for him. The dark, cold, empty house, his relentless nightmares, and his sleepless night.

11:40. His hands were getting cold against the wheel, but he still didn’t will himself into the warm oasis that was the theater. Not yet. He still had time. 

He felt like an addict, lying to his friends and family before relapsing back into heroin. He knew it wasn’t like that, that if they knew, all he’d get was funny looks and maybe a snarky comment directed at his intelligence (or lack thereof), but that didn’t make it any better. He still hated himself. 

He’d promised to give this up a long time ago, to abandon the lifestyle entirely. Actually, he had turned into something of a doormat at this point- always driving the kids places and covering any of Robin’s shifts when she bailed and offering his house and money up to whoever took advantage of it- because anything he did that didn’t help somebody else felt selfish. He wasn’t allowed to be selfish anymore. He had to repent for when he was selfish.

11:45. Steve groaned softly and got out of the car, attacked by the cold air as it seemed to soak through his sweatshirt. 

Way to put the guilt into guilty pleasure, moron, he thought to himself, pushing through the doors to the theater. His inner monologue was starting to sound more and more condescending. 

The teenager at the counter glared up at him through her eyelashes, popping a bubble with her gum decisively, clearly annoyed to be running midnight showings at a shitty theater. He slid a five-dollar bill across the counter to her and took a deep breath before forcing out the words.

“Rocky IV, please.”

She looked at him like he was stupid, and he was about ready to run back to his car and pretend none of this had ever happened. This was just another stupid nightmare to haunt him while he tried to sleep. 

She handed him a ticket, the bright red DRAGO VS. BALBOA staring up at him-mocking him really- and passed over his change without saying anything at all. 

Okay, that was the hard part. That was the part that made him interact with someone, a live actual person, made him admit his sin out loud, make it real and out there.

As soon as the ticket was in his hand and he was walking to the specified theater, he could breathe again. The guilt still writhed heavily in his stomach, but he could fight down the nausea enough to function. Half his brain, the half that had been in control for a good while now, was screaming at him that this was wrong, he was sick and twisted for wanting this, while the other half kept reminding him softly that it was just a movie. No one had to know about it. It would help him tonight- maybe he could get some sleep when he got home- and then it could disappear forever, and he would never think of it again. 

It’s just a movie. 

Steve was ten when the original came out. His dad had paid for him and Tommy H. to go one Saturday and God, they loved it. They’d gotten in a playfight in the parking lot waiting for Tommy’s mom to pick them up, mimicking the final match between Rocky and Apollo (Steve was Apollo every time they played; Tommy refused to be anything less than the hero, even if technically he was the loser) and Tommy had accidentally knocked him in the face and made his nose bleed. That might’ve been one of the best days of Steve’s childhood if he thought about it.

Three years later, he and Tommy went back and saw Rocky II the first night it was out, and watching Rocky win lit something in Steve on fire, and he convinced himself he could do anything, like how Rocky could still get up even when Apollo had beat him to shit. 

Steve got into his first fistfight that summer. He lost, because he had never actually fought before, and his punches were loose and messy, but he didn’t even care, staring up at Jack Donahue through a black eye, because Rocky lost his first fight against Apollo, but he won the second, so next time Steve would win. 

He went to Rocky III on a date in 1982 (still waiting to win that second fight, although now it was really Fight 8 or 9 because he’d gotten his ass kicked a good number of times since Jack Donahue). The girl he was with got bored halfway through the movie, climbed into his lap and convinced him to make out instead, but he kept getting distracted by Clubber Lang, and Apollo’s training advice, and Rocky and Andrian’s big house and their happy family, glancing over her shoulder absently as she trailed her mouth up his neck. There wasn’t a second date with her. He didn’t even remember her name. 

He remembered what color dress Adrian wore to the final fight, though. 

He hadn’t watched any of them since September of ‘84 when he’d rented all of them and binge-watched them one night, mostly to remind himself that Billy Hargrove was just a watered-down Clubber Lang who came to steal his title and insult his (nonexistent) wife and mess up his life. Rocky beat Clubber Lang. Steve would beat Billy.

Within the next few weeks, however, Billy ended up on the ever-growing list of people who had whipped Steve, his Heavyweight-Champion-Of-the-World belt that manifested itself as King Steve of Hawkins High was stripped from him, and he’d started his proverbial pilgrimage to salvation. 

He didn’t get to like Rocky anymore. King Steve liked Rocky. Just Steve didn’t have any reason for that luxury. Rocky was athletic, and mindless, and masculine, everything that everyone hated about King Steve, so Just Steve didn’t get it anymore. 

It’s just a fucking movie.��He reminded himself. No one has to know.

They had unfinished business anyway, Rocky and him. Maybe it was fate, or some shit that IV should come out like five months after Steve did get his first win against the Russian soldier.

Hey, old friend. I did it. I won. I got back up. I won. 

We won, Rocky. 

Steve hid in the back of the theater, in the dark, where no one would recognize him. There were only maybe a dozen other people in there anyway, but in the dark, he could relax. 

He almost felt safe, even, when the opening montage started. There was something so familiar about it, like returning to the house you lived in as a child, but the same sort of estrangement from time. Watching Rocky best Clubber again, knowing Rocky would win, was such a comfortable thing. God, these movies were so good. 

He almost didn’t feel like such an asshole anymore. 

Rocky was a dad now, you know. Had been since the second one technically, but only now was the kid old enough to have a personality. Watching him with his son was maybe when the six-nugget thing really solidified for Steve. He wanted that, he wanted the house and the kid and sparring with Apollo-the friend who knew- and Adrian. 

God, he wanted someone to love him the way Adrian loved.

She was always just there, in the very best sort of way. As if at any moment, Rocky could look over and she would be there, grinning at him, helping him back up, fixing things. And she would shake her head and laugh at her moronic boxer husband and still sing with him when he started up out of tune and flush when he flirted with her. 

The reminder of the slump in Steve’s love life manifested itself as a sort of sad aching in his stomach. He redirected his attention out of his thoughts and back to the movie. 

The plot was a little mindless; he’d admit it. It was basically the same premise as the last one: Some Big-Bad-Boxer popping up out of nowhere to whip Rocky’s ass just enough in the first half to build a vague sense of suspense as to whether he was going to win the final fight or not, but the only difference now was that he was sparring against Communism or something as a metaphor for the mini-Red Scare happening. 

Steve didn’t mind. He knew enough Russians to be pretty psyched about Stallone wailing on them for a few hours. 

It’s Apollo Creed, however, who first takes his place across the ring from Ivan Drago. Steve was fine. He was well aware of the fact that whatever happened during this fight would mean absolutely nothing in comparison to whatever happens at the end, except maybe deciding the intensity of the training montage (That was the other thing; Survivor was doing a bunch of the music, how could Steve miss out on that?)

Apollo put on a show, with dancers and lights and that stupid flag robe he’d had in the first one, so this would be good. Mediocre writing, good entertainment. 

“You will lose,” Drago growled. 

They danced around each other in the ring. Apollo threw a good number of jabs in the beginning. It felt good. Steve almost smiled. 

But something happened when Drago started fighting back. Apollo stumbled against the ropes, dripping sweat; Rocky yelled something. Steve missed it- he could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears, suddenly a little too aware of his clothes and where they clung to him. 

Drago kept fighting. He punched and punched, each one landing hard and solid against Apollo, against flesh, in a rapid thunk, thunk, thunk. 

Steve’s hands started to shake. 

Apollo leaned back against the corner post as the bell rings-end of the first round- looking dazed and far away. 

Rocky begged. “I gotta stop you. This fight’s finished.”

Apollo’s answer thudded through Steve’s head. “Promise you won’t stop this fight. You don’t stop this fight.”

Bell. Second round. Apollo looked stoned, tripping over his own feet as he tried to dance. Steve knew the feeling. Then Drago had him in a corner and it won’t stop, fists pounding against him again and again. Sweat flew off Apollo’s head and fell against the mat like rain. He doesn’t go down. 

There was so much blood. Steve couldn’t breathe. He felt the adrenaline in his sweaty, trembling hands, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t movie excitement, it felt real. 

Apollo fell back against the ropes, their support being his only saving grace. His wife screamed from the audience “Stop the fight!” but they won’t, the Russian won’t stop, the fight is still going. 

Steve must have started hallucinating. For a moment, all he could hear was his own breath, exhausted and wheezy with pain. 

“Scoops... I... I work... Scoops...”

Robin is screaming, sobbing, wailing, voice pounding through his aching head. “Stop it! Stop hurting him!”

A final blow to the jaw. Apollo swung backwards toward the horrified faces of the audience, then lunged forward in depletion. There was blood in his teeth and on his face and staining the white rags and his eye was swollen shut. And the Russian’s wife smiled. 

The doctor grinned, white teeth glimmering against the dark beard. He demands something in Russian, and Steve doesn’t understand, but he wants to, he wants to make it go away. 

The soldier leans in a final time, delivering a solid blow to his temple. 

Steve’s sight fizzles in and out like a kaleidoscope as he falls.

His head hits the concrete floor, and he feels it, the burning pain at the back of his head, seeping up through his brain until his sight goes black. 

Apollo was on the floor. His body seized with fatigue and Rocky grabbed him, cradling him in his lap, and he was screaming, crying out for something, and the Russian was still talking but all that gets through to Steve is the grating accent and the fear. 

“What did you do to him?!” Robin screams, pulling his weak body towards her with bound hands. “Steve, wake up! Steve, oh my God, wake up, Steve!”

It felt like someone had shoved cotton in his ears. He couldn’t hear anything but his own pulse and his own breath, but somehow, Drago’s last couple words made it through.

“If he dies, he dies.” 

Steve got to his feet before he realized he was doing it. His legs were moving, and he wasn’t telling them where to go, but they knew somehow. All he was aware of was the nausea sweeping through him like a tidal wave and the trembling, paranoid fear taking over his entire body. 

“Who do you work for?!”

“Scoops Ahoy. The ice cream place.”

Thud. His face burned. 

“Who do you work for?!”

“Scoops!”

His head flew to the side, pulling something in his neck and shooting white-hot pain down his spine. 

“Hit him again.”

Steve collapsed against the bathroom floor. He didn’t even have it in him to make it to a stall and lock himself in; he just melted there against the wall. 

Sweat dripped down his forehead and his back, drenching him. He couldn’t breathe; his sweatshirt was too tight around his throat and his jeans were touching too much of his thighs and he couldn’t get his chest to move. 

Every muscle in his body was too tight to move. Maybe he was having a seizure or a heart attack, but it didn’t even matter, because his head ached around a phantom black eye and a scar on his temple that had taken much too long to heal. His eyes felt massive and dry, like if he didn’t get air soon, they were going to pop out of his head. 

He knew he needed to breathe, get the air in and out in a timely manner, but every time he tried to open his mouth, he would just wheeze out “Scoops,” or “Robin!” 

The Russians killed Apollo. He was laying on the floor next to him and Robin, in those stupid Americano shorts that were the same color as Steve’s uniform, and Steve knows they’re coming for him next. He played Apollo with Tommy; he is Apollo and he’s about to receive the same fate. 

He watched the door to the bathroom in terror like Dolph Lundgren was going to storm through at any moment to try and fight him next. Steve couldn’t win. He wouldn’t win. Not against a Russian, not against Drago. 

They were going to kill him. Drago was coming, and as soon as he found him, he was going to beat him to death just like Apollo. 

Maybe Steve was sobbing. That would explain the burning in his throat and the noise making his head throb. He couldn’t stop it though; he couldn’t seem to control anything except to pull his knees to his chest and curl in on himself to try and protect his head and his ribs. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there, suffocating, shaking, anxious hands tearing through the hair at the back of his head, partially to cover his neck, partially to pull at the roots of his hair until he felt something other than fear. Eventually, he stopped crying, the tears were gone, but he still couldn’t breathe, and his whole face felt clogged up with whatever was left of his sobs. 

That only made him panic more, realizing he wasn’t getting any air, and his hands moved down his neck to claw away at his throat and open something up. His nails were dull and harsh, tearing up the skin as he pawed at his Adam’s apple, hyperventilating so loudly, it filled up all his senses so that was all he could hear for a good long while.

“Hey... You alright?” 

The voice felt far away and soft like it was spoken by someone who had never experienced the harshness of sensation. God? Steve thought stupidly, carefully acknowledging that to be the first thought he’d had in a long while that wasn’t about his own demise via Russian cruelty. 

“Harrington. Can you hear me?”

Steve forced his head up, pupils blown wide with adrenaline, glancing skittishly from wall to wall, trying to remember where he was. 

“Right here. You’re okay. Try and breathe for me, Harrington.”

Steve’s shallow breaths continued, hands trailing back up to pull his hair again. He didn’t get there, however, because warm hands clamped softly around his wrists and pulled them away. “Careful. Don’t hurt yourself, honey.”

Steve could see his hands, when he moved his fingers a little bit so he could comprehend that they were his, then followed up the foreign hands- now gripping higher up on his forearm to keep him from falling backward- along pale arms and black sleeves, then up along the corner of a tattoo peeking from underneath the collar of the shirt. Higher up, face-to-face with him, although he hadn’t actually seen it until now, was a tangle of messy curly hair and choppy bangs framing the darkest brown eyes he’d ever seen.

“Adrian?” He choked out. Relief surged through him at the recognition, despite the nagging at the back of his mind that that actually couldn’t be Adrian, because Adrian was here with him, and she was gonna take care of him and fix things like she did for Rocky. “Adrian...”

“Sure.” She mumbled. “Deep breaths, Harrington. Like you’re swimming.” She took a few exaggerated deep breaths for him to mirror, and he nodded weakly, trying to force his lungs to expand entirely. 

For a few seconds-or minutes; time really had no meaning for Steve anymore- this went on, Adrian taking one breath and Steve copying until he could do it on his own. She loosened her grip on his arms, eventually dropping them completely. “There you go. Feeling okay?”

Steve hesitated while he assessed. His scalp burned from tugging on his hair, and he was sure he’d scratched his throat up pretty bad, but his hands weren’t shaking nearly as much as they had been a minute ago, and he could unclench his jaw finally- he hadn’t realized it had been so tight; the tension was probably the root cause of the headache- so yeah, he decided. “Better.”

“You ever had a panic attack before?”

He shook his head, choosing not to speak again because of the pathetic gravelly sound of his voice and blinking quickly to fight off the next wave of tears- exhausted ones this time.

“Pretty scary, huh? But it’s okay, it’s not forever. It always goes away. You’re safe, okay?”

He nodded weakly, gazing off over her shoulder to be sure the Russians weren’t coming. God, he was going to have to protect her if Drago came. He could fight, he could protect her...

“You aren’t quite back, are you, Harrington?”

Steve startled, darting his glance back toward her. “My...” He choked out, frustrated that his voice didn’t sound right yet; still too wet and broken to be his own. “My name is Steve.”

Adrian chuckled softly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know who you are, Steve. I’m glad you know.” She brushed a stray piece of hair from his eyes. “Can you tell me where we are?”

“Bathroom,” Steve mumbled. “Starcourt.”

“Starcourt? Like the mall? No, it burned down months ago. Remember?”

Steve swallowed hard, staring at the tile. It wasn’t like Starcourt’s- instead of red, green, and orange, this was green, blue, and black. It wasn’t Starcourt. Starcourt was over. Gone. He took a deep breath. “ShowTimez. Theater.”

“Hey, there you go.” She shifted her knees out from under her- it was painful to kneel for so long- and settled cross-legged across from him. “Do you... do you know who I am?”

“Adrian,” Steve whispered quickly. 

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, almost disappearing under dark bangs. “Like from the movie? Gee, thanks, Harrington, you know how to woo a guy.” She tore her sight away, almost blushing, and continued self-consciously. “Not quite. You... you probably don’t know who I am. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Steve felt bad for getting it wrong. And if it wasn’t Adrian... who cared enough to be so gentle with him? Panic started to fill up inside him again. Who had caught him? Who knew he was here, worse, who had seen him crying? He looked back up, trying to reassess, figure out the right answer. 

Upon better inspection, it very much wasn’t Adrian. Besides the hair and the eyes, they didn’t look at all similar. Actually, it was a man, which should’ve been his first assumption given that he was on the floor of the men’s bathroom, but he also forgot his own name for a second there, so he would let it go. He had thick, steel rings that Steve couldn’t coherently recognize into any shapes yet, and tattoos on his arms that Steve hadn’t noticed in his first sweep either. But the face was familiar. Tommy had hated him, loved to pick on him in high school. Maybe Steve had had gym with him junior year. But really, Steve knew him because he was always in the background of whatever place he was driving Dustin to. The party joined Hellfire in September; Steve had been seeing this guy vaguely for months. The name was slow coming to him- everything felt lagged- but eventually, he managed, “Munson. Eddie.”

He grinned. “Yeah! See, I knew I wasn’t that forgettable. Go ahead and call me Talia Shire though, that’s the best name I’ve been called in a while.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth twitched. Maybe it wasn’t Adrian, who he knew he could trust- She's not real, moron, he reminded quickly- but Eddie was harmless. Dustin talked about the guy so much, it was like Steve already knew him anyway. 

God, Dustin. What if Eddie told Hellfire and the kids found out he’d been here, and worse, that he’d freaked out? He didn’t know if he could handle it if the kids ever found out he wasn’t as strong as he pretended.

“You can’t tell Dustin.” Steve blurted out. 

“What?”

“He can’t know I was here, that I was...” He struggled for the words.

Eddie nodded softly. “Yeah. Okay. I won’t tell him.” He lowered his voice as he said it like it was already a secret. “What the little shit doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Steve nodded haphazardly to communicate that he agreed, but he just felt like he looked stupid.

“Hey, uh, do me a favor, and don’t tell the kids you saw me here, either, actually.” Eddie continued. “It goes against my code and everything to watch...” He trailed off, suddenly aware of his audience and needing to watch himself.

“Sports movies.” Steve finished. Eddie grimaced, so he added, “Yeah, no, I get it.”

Eddie nodded, forcing a smile, but it was still tainted with guilt like he’d said something wrong.

Steve was quick to stifle the awkwardness. “How come Rocky makes the cut then?”

“Oh, I don’t really know.” His shoulders relaxed a little and he admitted, “I rented the first one on accident. I was looking for Rocky Horror Picture Show, and the tape said Rocky and I’m a fucking moron, and thought they were the same thing because whoever labeled the tape didn’t bother to write the whole thing, and then I’d already paid for it so I just... watched it and... kinda got sucked in. I love a good suave-athlete-falls-for-a-freak plot.”

Steve grinned. “Me too! I only cared about the boxing when I was younger, but now...”

Eddie tipped his head and stared at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

Eddie shook his head dismissively, tentative smile pulling at the side of his mouth, mumbling, “Never would’ve guessed.”

Steve felt horribly seen, like he’d said too much, flush creeping up his face, and he reached up to pull on the hair at the back of his neck again. But Eddie just laughed softly and pushed himself over next to Steve, leaning back against the wall and brushing his shoulder.

“Are you going to be okay to drive home?”

He nodded, starting to shift to his numb, tingly feet, stumbling and having to prop himself on the wall. “Yeah, I should probably go.”

“Hey.” Eddie grabbed his wrist, softly; he could pull away if he really wanted to. “Calm down, give it a minute. You just started breathing again, let’s make sure you’re good to go.”

So Steve didn’t pull away. He slumped back against the tile, legs sprawled forward to get the blood flowing again. 

“Does your head hurt?” 

Steve glanced over. “What?”

“Just... uh,” He shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to find a different way to address what he was thinking of. “You were pulling your hair. I wondered if maybe you... you know, what? It doesn’t matter.” He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little white bottle of Advil. “If you want some.”

“Why do you have that?” Steve chuckled softly, taking it from him thankfully. “I mean, I’ve heard your drug-dealer reputation; I just didn’t realize this is what they meant.”

“Har har.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “It’s for Sinclair actually. He’s been-”

“Bitching about his ankle? Yeah, I keep telling him I’ll wrap it for him but he’s-”

“Being a shithead about the whole thing. He’s gonna drive me to do something drastic.”

“Seriously!” Steve cried. “I’ll hold him down, you can punch.”

Eddie laughed, a real, actual laugh and Steve thought he was going to have no choice but to implode. He was so pretty; he understood the Adrian-mistaking suddenly. 

Steve wanted to say something, wanted to make him laugh like that again, but before he could grasp anything, the door shoved open and shattered their perfect privacy. 

It was the bubblegum girl from the front desk. She popped the wad of pink obnoxiously, huffing out “Dude, the movie’s been over for like twenty minutes. We’re closing.”

Steve and Eddie shared a conspiratorial Ah-shit-we’re-in-trouble look, before getting to their feet. Steve was still holding the Advil bottle, somewhat uselessly because he’d forgotten he had it. He popped it open and swallowed a few, handing it back to Eddie who banished it back to his pocket.

Bubblegum Girl stared them down the whole way out into the lobby, the pair of them giggling as they went, until eventually they stepped into the cold darkness outside the theater, and the spell was broken. Here they were again, in real life, where things were not so great as that bathroom floor or the world within Rocky.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Eddie asked softly like he was afraid something had changed the second they’d passed through the doors.

Steve nodded vaguely. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.”

He shot him a peculiar look and turned off towards where he was inevitably parked, calling out, “Stay safe, Harrington.”

Steve laughed out loud.

March 1986-

Steve hovered over Eddie, who was sitting on Steve’s bathroom counter with his legs over the side, cleaning up the blood on his face with antiseptic wipes Nancy had pulled out of nowhere. His stitches were soft and pliable still, and Steve hated how bulky and thick his fingers were for a moment because if they were small and slim it would force him to be gentler.

Eddie cried out as he brushed over the top of the gash and Steve cringed, yanking his hands back softly to avoid hurting him anymore. 

“Sorry,” Steve murmured. 

He was afraid to reach back to finish the job- Eddie was in enough pain as it was- so he stood there, watching him for any more signs of discomfort.

Eddie lifted his head languidly, glancing at the slash of bright red on Steve’s forehead, the angry crimson chain around his neck. He tentatively traced his fingertips along his skin, not along the scab, but just below it, and Steve hummed out a low sound in relief. 

“You alright there, Balboa?”

It came out a little more slurred than he would’ve liked, but he was on a good deal of narcotics for God’s sake, and it must’ve delivered itself well enough because Steve offered him a small smile. 

“Feel like a large wound,” he offered in his best Stallone accent.

Eddie laughed, and it hurt like a mother on his broken ribs and the stitches in his side, so it quickly delved into a whine, and Steve instantly reached out even if there was nothing he could do. 

He caught his hand, pulled it into his lap, just to hold it there. Steve didn’t say anything.

“Steve.”

“Hmm...”

Eddie let go. Took Steve’s face carefully in his hands, even though the stretch sent pain shooting through his torso. “I understand now. Everything. Robin told me about the Russians.”

Steve swallowed thickly, head dipping almost in shame, as if it was too much to meet Eddie’s eyes and risk finding his pity there.

Eddie just tipped his head back up gently. “If I had known... I... I wouldn’t have let you go home alone that night. That’s... that’s not what Adrian does.”

Steve tipped his head just a little like he didn’t quite understand the sentiment.

Eddie swallowed. “I’m gonna kiss you now. You ain’t gotta kiss me back.”

He properly grinned this time, leaning in to meet him halfway, hands placed carefully on Eddie’s knees as he pulled in his face. 

And he did kiss back. What can he say? He loves a good suave-athlete-falls-for-a-freak plot.

[infinite-orangepeel]

Without realizing, almost like a magnetic pull, his eyes land on Steve.

Steve, who is staring straight back at him with a look Eddie can only describe as a mix of anger and lust. A silent warning.

Eddie feels himself grow hot under Steve’s gaze.

So he does the only thing he can think of—slowly, never once breaking eye contact, he lifts the apple to his mouth, and takes a huge bite. His teeth tear through the red skin, the juice dripping down his chin and wrist. He chews slowly, deliberately, before swallowing the fruit.

Steve’s eyes are heavy-lidded as he stares at Eddie like a man possessed. Eddie’s head reels from the power he holds. Steve Harrington, wrapped around his finger. It gives him a thought. One he should definitely not give into. But Eddie likes to play with fire, always has.

He sets the apple down on the table, his hand now covered in sticky juice. He licks his fingers one by one, pushing them into his mouth in the dirtiest way he can. He imagines getting down on his knees for Steve—the pretty noises he’d make.

Eddie wants him.

Badly.

He knows he’s being unfair, cruel even. But Steve can’t tear his eyes away. So Eddie takes his fingers out of his mouth and smiles, pausing one last time to lick a long stripe up the side of his wrist.

All at once, he sees Steve’s expression change like he’s been punched in the gut. He looks around frantically, like he’s trying to see if anyone noticed their interaction. Nobody even bats an eye. They’re all too absorbed in eating and enjoying their lunch-time conversations. It’s almost like Steve and Eddie slipped into some space between dimensions—a stolen moment in time. Just for them. Or at least that’s what Eddie is thinking.

Steve clearly has other thoughts, as he stands suddenly, snatching his tray from the table. He gives Eddie a withering glare and turns, dumping the entire tray and its contents into the trash.

Eddie feels his stomach turn as Steve runs from the room. He wants desperately to run after him. To take his hand and tell him everything is ok.

But he stays—frozen to his seat, spit drying on his hand, and shame taking root in his body.

EXCERPT FROM: BLUE ON BLUE (linked below)

currently co-writing this with maya (@itssteddietime) & it would mean the world to us if you’d take a second to check out the first two chapters 🩵

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[atimeofyourlife]

I love you though you hurt me so (I'm gonna pack my things and go)

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt: proposal | rated: t | wc: 921 | tags: failed proposal, break up, angst, hurt/no comfort Steve had never wanted anything to do with the public eye, but Eddie kept pushing him further and further. The proposal was the breaking point. title from tainted love by soft cell

The proposal was the breaking point. After years together, it was the final nail in the coffin, the end of the relationship.

Steve had always been uncomfortable with the thought of having any of his life displayed for the public to see. He just wanted a calm life working as a teacher, or about as calm as working with kids could be. It was part of the reason that made him unsure of the relationship when Eddie first started talking about trying to break into the music scene, to try to make it big. He didn't want to be hounded because of who he interacted with, he didn't want his every move to be plastered all over every gossip magazine. Eddie convinced him to stay together by promising that he would be kept out of the public eye, out of public knowledge. That he would be protected in every way.

But that didn't last. As the band got bigger and bigger, Eddie started pushing for Steve to do more and more alongside him. To be at more gigs, to attend events and red carpets. He didn't keep the promise of total anonymity, instead gushing to interviewers about Steve. Talking about how they met, Steve being a teacher, Steve's hobbies and past. All things he wanted to keep private. He would get kids and their parents asking him questions about the band, trying to use him for access to the band, for tickets, merch, meet and greets. It made him feel like his life was spinning out of control, all because Eddie couldn't keep Steve private.

The proposal was Steve's worst nightmare. He'd brought up to Eddie multiple times that he wanted to be less in the public eye, he wanted his privacy back. Eddie would agree, and it would get better for a while, but then it would slowly return to the same thing. And they hadn't even talked about the possibility of marriage, Steve not feeling ready for it, knowing that it would be a big affair. That there would be photographers at every point, all details being recorded for the world to see, and the guest list would be far out of his control.  The closest they'd gotten to talking about it was Steve telling Eddie that he hated the idea of a public proposal, wanting something small and private and personal instead.

Eddie went overboard. It was one of the few times Steve was attending a gig, watching from the side of the stage. It was going fairly normally, playing the set list, pausing at times to chat with the crowd. But then Eddie went off script, and the band all seemed in on it.

"Now, I'm going to do something a bit out of the ordinary. I've spoken so many times about the love of my life, my wonderful Stevie. He's here tonight, and I want him to join us on stage for a moment."

Steve froze, not sure how to avoid this. It was something he'd never agreed to, not that Eddie had paid attention to anything Steve didn't agree to. Before he could react, the other members of the band had grabbed him and dragged him on stage. He felt massively overwhelmed by the bright lights and the amount of people staring at him.

"Steve, you are the most important person in my life, I have never met anyone who gets me the way you do. I'm so in love with you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Steven Harrington, will you marry me?" Eddie got down on one knee, and pulled out an extravagant ring.

Steve was stunned, unable to take anything in. He was vaguely aware of a microphone being shoved in his face. He opened and closed his mouth several times, feeling totally speechless. This was the worst possible way Eddie could have done this, absolutely against everything he could have wanted.

"No." Steve managed to get out, his voice projected through the speakers. There was a moment of silence, able to hear a pin drop. Then everyone started murmuring. Eddie looked confused, as did the rest of the band.

"Stevie-" Eddie whispered, away from the mic.

"Eddie, I can't. This isn't what I want. This isn't me." Steve replied quietly, before fleeing the stage. Everything felt mixed up, and he knew it was over.

He did hang around, waiting for Eddie and the band to get off stage. Wanting to clear everything up. To deal with it in private. Most of the band just filed away when they saw him, leaving him and Eddie alone.

"What the hell was that about?" Eddie burst out.

"That's exactly what I wanted to ask you." Steve shot back. "You know I want to keep things private. I keep trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. But then you go and do that."

"Well excuse me for wanting to share how much I love you with the world."

"Do you really love me? Because if you did you wouldn't keep forcing me into positions I don't want to be in. You would have respected my wish of being anonymous. But you didn't. You never have." Steve replied, trying to fight back the emotion.

"Sorry for wanting to show off my love."

"It's not enough, Eddie. I. It's over. I'll be out of the apartment by the time you're done with this tour." Steve said, turning and walking away, heading to the parking lot for the cab he'd called.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Good morning! I hope you’re doing well today 🖤💜

It’s been a really crappy day. If I could, I’d like to request a little hurt/comfort from Angel Steve and Devil Eddie.

I was thinking something like Reader’s dad gets some bad news from his doctor, and Reader doesn’t take it well but keeps it together until they get home. Steve and Eddie are hurt by it too since they basically know your parents even though they’ve never interacted. They gently pick Reader up, carry them to the bedroom, where they help you change as best they can into comfortable pajamas.

Then the three of them curl up together in bed with Reader in the middle. Steve and Eddie bring out their tent Ickes then, but this time they intertwine with each other and wrap the three of you in a snug cocoon, where you all hold each other and take turns sniffling (yes, even Eddie, though he claims a piece of Steve’s hair got in his eye).

Thank you for reading and considering my request! 🖤💜

a/n: I've wanted to write this request since it first came to me back in april...

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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Tender tears rolled down your cheeks every time you blinked up at the lattice-like cocoon the entities at your side had weaved around you with their juxtaposing tendrils. Feeling a gentle touch wipe a few sombre beads away, it seemed like an impossible task to look back into Steve’s eyes as he uttered, “hey, it’s all gonna be okay.”

Nestled in on your other side, tightly clasping your trembling palm, you heard the familiar demonic voice pipe up, “you don’t know that…”

“Eddie!” Steve’s head elevated briefly to cast a piercing glare at the creature over your shoulder, “read the fucking room!” settling back down, he cupped your face in each of his cautious hands, “sweetheart, you’re-…” he let out an agonising sigh, “I’m so sorry…”

Sensing a thumb swipe over your palm, Eddie’s forlorn timbre soon found your ears once more as he thought out loud, “objectively speaking I can make incredible things come to fruition, we both can, but I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like this before, so useless, so powerless…”

Limp fingers slowly curling around his grasp in a wobbly hold, you finally whispered hoarsely, “you’re already doing enough just by being here.” 

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble

[mcdynamite]

My first full-length Steddie fic, posted on AO3 about a week ago! Please check it out if you’re interested!

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington's Parents, Robin Buckley, The Party (Stranger Things) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Post-Vecna (Stranger Things), Steve Harrington-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, (kind of), Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Steve Harrington Has Head Trauma, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Soft Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, (and he gets one), Misunderstandings, First Kiss, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love Summary:

"It’s not ideal, keeping these recurrent headaches a secret from all of his friends, and sure, Steve's had his fair share of days where he’s been forced to just work through the pain, but he’s making it work. He’s managing.

He’s fine."

In which Steve Harrington is determined to suffer his migraines in silence, alone, and Eddie Munson is determined not to let him.