#steve leach

[mariocki]

Butcher, Baker, Nightmare Maker (Night Warning, 1981)

"Why don't you stop tormenting her?"

"You talking to me, lady?"

"Yes."

"Don't."

[jadewritesficshere]

Steve thinks that a part of him may be a masochist. Sitting here week after week, hanging out with you. His second best friend (Robin would kill him if he didn't add the second). Sitting here trying not to look at you, trying not to lean over and kiss you senseless. Week after week, feeling the heat from your body as you sit next to each other on the couch watching movies. Steve can't make a move though, he knows this. You never would reciprocate his feelings. You have always helped him try and score dates, giving him pep talks. You never responded much to his flirting, a few times sure, but other times you just stared blankly at him.

Steve thinks it is a special form of torture when you lean your head against his shoulder. When your hand touches his, and your pinkies overlap. When you steal his jackets and he acts like he's frustrated, when really his heart is beating so fast he thinks he may die and his only thought is how beautiful you look wearing something of his. You're everything he wants but knows he never can have. He would rather sit with you a hundred times like this then confess and have you leave him. He'd rather you be close instead of having you become a stranger.

He wishes he had a chance with you, but not every wish is answered.

[comicwaren]

From Captain America: Unforgiven #001, “A Few Good Monsters”

Art by Sid Kotian and Edgar Delgado

Written by Tim Seeley

[graphicpolicy]

The Miracleman Omnibus, the Definitive Collection returns with a new printing

The Miracleman Omnibus, the Definitive Collection returns with a new printing #comics #comicbooks

Last month, Marvel honored the 40th anniversary of Miracleman’s transformative reinvention with the brand-new Miracleman Omnibus! This long-awaited omnibus collected the influential work on the character from all of its legendary creators such as Alan Davis, Garry Leach, John Totleben, and more. A hit with fans, this extraordinary omnibus will return with a second printing this March. This new…

[luveline]

OMG need to see more of Steve drawing reader in the zombie au!!!

steve zombie au —steve draws you all the time. fem

Sometimes, you collapse under the weight of it all. A lot of bad things have happened to you, and the world in this state is overwhelming. You used to wake in a soft, warm bed, spend days surrounded by loved ones, eating and drinking when you needed to, when you wanted to, with no worrying about where your next tube of toothpaste or toilet paper was going to come from. 

These days, you wake, and it's into a world where you've seen agony, and inhumanity, and it's hard. You're his sweetheart and he doesn't care, he'll take care of you for the rest of his life, but there's only so much he can do. 

“Sure you don't need anything else?” he whispers, pulling the linen blankets up to your chin. 

“M'sure. Thanks, Steve.” 

He feels bad touching you when you're squirming. “Yeah, no problem. I'm just gonna sit outside and read, okay? I'll be right there.” 

“Okay,” you mumble, pressing your face into your pillow. 

Steve grabs his rucksack and drags himself outside of the tent. From here, the sea of tents, he can see the fire in the centre of camp leaching smoke into the air, and he can hear the unmistakable hum of hundreds of people in one place. He figures it to be almost like an army base, and the small amount of military personnel only cements that. 

Robin's off somewhere. He misses her more and more lately, not sure where she is, but you've been sick this week. He has to stay close to home. She'll be back tonight for sure to see you both. And Eddie, your new (and, to Steve's reluctance, good) friend, popped by to see you both an hour ago. You weren't in the mood to talk and so he mostly talked to Steve about the next run for supplies. 

You're loved, but you're lonely. You lost everyone you knew. 

You need time to mourn now you're somewhere safe enough to do it. 

Steve rummages through his rucksack for his novel, but he doesn't want to read it without you. Between that and his sketchbook, he has very little to do. Still, you'd brought him those nice pencils and a new skinny sketchbook full of smooth paper, and there are pages yet to fill. 

It's all you. Every inch of space. Your unknowing smile as Eddie showed you how to make an origami crane, or your stomach in the dark as your t-shirt rode up in sleep. Your hands clasped around one of his, squeezing, and the figure of your crouched by the river watching tiny fish swim by. You're in lilac, and sepia, and green, green-green-green, the darkest green pencil he has in want of a black detailing your pupils and the seam of your lips over and over. 

He looks in through the tent door and sketches the curve of your hip under the blanket. He could likely draw you head to toe and inch by inch without reference, or he likes to think it, having seen it all a hundred times, maybe more. You sigh in your dozing and curl inwards, and he starts again. 

He notices when you start to cry because he's focused on your shoulders as they tremble. Steve folds the pen between leaves of paper and shoves it all back into his bag. To comfort you or let you cry? Sometimes people just want to be left alone. 

“Steve?” you ask through a little sniffle. 

“Yeah, honey, I'm here.” 

“Will you come in here?” 

He must be doing something right if you're calling him in when you need him. Finally, something right. Steve crawls into the tent and presses your shoulders against the tent flooring, shaking his head at you. “It's okay,” he says, enthusing his voice with a light amount of loving ridicule. “What are you crying for, huh? You're okay.” 

“Yeah, I'm okay,” you agree, snuffling as he touches your cheek. 

“You are. You're okay. You're beautiful.” He goes sticky like syrup, praising. “I'd write you love letters if I had a pen.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Just talking about how pretty you are would take up ten pages. I keep trying to get it down, you know? So when I'm gone, they'll know someone as pretty as you was walking around loving on some loser,” —you laugh wetly and distract him— “right? So why are you crying?” 

“Just don't feel well.” 

“I don't blame you,” he says, nudging a tear off of your cheek with his thumb. 

“But,” you say, smiling at him weakly, “I have to keep my head up. Yes?” 

“Yeah, honey.” He swallows a funny lump. “God, you're fucking everything when you smile.”

It's not that he doesn't care, he wants to hear it, but you just don't know how to tell him. How do you verbalise a mountain of grief? So he rescues you instead, flirts and soothes the wound with a warm smile. You respond to it as he'd hoped and perk up with a couple of carefully pressed kisses. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

“Were you drawing me, before?” 

“How'd you guess that?” 

“You were really quiet. It's like you go somewhere else.” 

“Nah. Just with you.” He clears his throat. “Did you… wanna see?” 

“Really?” 

Steve would write an itemised list of all his worst secrets if it meant you'd smile. A few pages of shoddy pencil sketches is nothing. 

[ataliagold]

He Loves My Heart Shaped Sunglasses

For @astrangersummer week 11 prompt 'sunglasses.' Title from Every Man Has His Wish by Lana Del Ray.

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Rating: G

W/C: 939

Tags: Established Steddie, Steve has migraines, comfort, fluff, Eddie takes care of Steve, summer, Steve and Robin are soulmates

Summary: Steve's at a barbeque with his friends when he's hit with the painful consequences of too much sun.

___

Steve dreads summer, sometimes.

While there are parts of it he loves – long days by the pool with Robin and Eddie, the light hanging around for longer in the evenings but softer than the harsh light of midday, the kids biking everywhere so he didn’t have to chauffeur them around every damn day – he also hates other aspects of it.

The heat, for example, when it rises above pleasant into just uncomfortable and makes his head start to throb.

The noise of kids shrieking, of dogs barking at the park, of grills sizzling and music blasting from somewhere in the neighbourhood as everyone seemed to take advantage of the warmer weather all at once – it all added to the pain building behind his eyes.

But it was the bright sunlight that caused him the most grief sometimes, that made him squint and wince until pain lanced in his skull. Sunglasses helped a bit but he’d left them behind today - had only realized when he’d been most of the way here and he hadn’t wanted to turn around, hadn’t wanted to be late and worry Eddie because he could get through one damn day without them, right?

Now, he’s leant over the bench in the Munsons’ new and improved trailer, trying to let the coolness of the surface leach into his skin. He’s tempted to press his face to it too, try to stop the migraine building behind his eyes in its tracks.

He knows it won’t work.

Gripping the edge of the bench tight enough to make his fingers ache, he grinds his teeth, frustrated. Up until this point he’d been ok, had really thought he was going to get through this day without a migraine, but the temperature had climbed steadily after noon and that had been it.

Wayne’s grilling outside. Hopper is out there, the Byers and Max too, Eddie and Robin sipping drinks, the latter fanning herself with a book. Steve wishes he were out there too, wishes he could just sit outside and enjoy the summer without being crippled by the agony in his head again.

Footsteps behind him.

A warm hand on his waist, thumb slipping up under his t shirt and brushing over his hip.

“Sweetheart, you ok?” Eddie murmurs, and Steve huffs softly in response.

“Head hurts,” he manages, squeezing his eyes shut.

Eddie kisses the back of his neck gently. “You wanna lie down for a bit?” he whispers.

“No,” Steve grumbles, because he wants to be with his friends, wants to enjoy the day like everyone else.

Eddie waits, hums softly.

Steve caves. “Yes,” he mutters.

“Come on.” Eddie takes his hand, leads him down the narrow hallway into the bedroom that smelt vaguely of cigarette smoke and weed and Eddie.

Steve flops onto the bed, burrows immediately into familiar pillows, lets Eddie slip his shoes off and maneuver the t shirt from his back.

“I’ll be back,” he says, brushing gentle fingertips down Steve’s back before padding out of the room.

When he returns, it’s with water and the meds Steve always kept at the trailer, helping Steve swallow them down before tugging the curtain closed.

Steve sleeps for a short time, head throbbing dully when the painkillers blissfully kick in. He awakes feeling a little better, the migraine having been nipped in the bud before it could reach its peak.

He pads back down the hallway, rubbing at bleary eyes, heading towards the sound of soft laughter outside. The voices fall a little quieter when he steps sheepishly out the door, Eddie standing to guide him carefully to a chair.

“Sorry guys,” Steve croaks as he takes a seat.

Wayne waves his tongs in the air. “No problem, son. There’s plenty of food left over, you want somethin’? I can heat it back up for ya.”

Steve considers for a moment, judges the state of his still slightly-nauseous gut, and shakes his head. “Maybe in a little bit?” he settles on.

Robin’s sprawled out on the porch next to Max’s chair, and she smiles dopily at Steve.

“Dingus!” she slurs, and Steve shoots Eddie a side-eyed look. His boyfriend grins back at him.

Yeah, Robin’s a little drunk.

“Hey Robs,” Steve replies, giving her a tiny wave.

“Where’s your sunglasses?” Robin sits up, blinking slowly at him.

“Left them at home.”

She scuttles to her feet. “Borrow mine!” she announces, taking them off her head.

“Oh, that’s ok,” Steve says quickly, taking in the sight of the sunglasses now in her hand, the bold cherry-red heart-shaped frames surrounding large lenses. “You might need them.”

Robin scoffs. “Not as much as you. Take them.”

She holds them out, wiggling her hand at him.

“It’s fine, Robs.”

Robin slaps them into his hand firmly. “Take them.”

Steve swallows. Not one to argue with his tipsy and determined soulmate, Steve sighs and puts the sunglasses on.

Max erupts into laughter; even with her reduced eyesight she can’t miss the brightly-coloured accessory. Robin rounds on her, hissing something, but the seriousness is taken out of her words by the way she stumbles back to her seat again.

At least they were helping to reduce the light, Steve figures, leaning back in his chair and letting his eyes slip shut again. The warmth on his shoulders was nice, the conversation starting back up around him but at a low level, everyone present keeping their voices down for his sake.

Eddie scooches closer to him. Steve cracks an eye open, glancing at him.

___

“Like what you see?” he murmurs.

Eddie cackles, leans in close, and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Always, Stevie.”

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Hallooooooo I'm just here again to tell you how much I love your writing and the way you portray Bucky as one whiny bitch has got me gripping my sheets NGHGGGGG Absolutely fucking love him in Here Kitty Kitty!!!!!

But I've been suddenly hit by a massive Subby!Steve beam and he's an even bigger whiny bitch than Bucky soooo

I present to you- Haunted Steve Rogers :>

Here me out!!! I read a post about ghost fucking and I can't stop thinking about Fresh faced Steve in the twenty first century with Ghost!Bucky Barnes who died in the early 2000s. They never met as children and Steve is mortified to find himself being haunted by a particularly perverted and thirsty AF ghost

Just imagine Steve out in Public, maybe in a mall or inside a packed train and he's just minding his own business until he feels cold wispy hands start groping him. Shivers breaks out of his skin at the cold touch and his complaints dies a quiet death when said cold touches slip down his nether regions.

Just Steve Rogers trying to keep quiet while Bucky molests him, squeezing and stroking his cock while he shakes with pleasure, barely standing and absolutely sweating under his clothing. He's pleading quietly, curling into himself and straining at the effort to not make a noise because Buck! We're in public! Not here please-

Just Steve Rogers trying to listen to a conversation happening in front of him while there's fingers stuck up his ass, cold and opening him roughly. The way his voice would hitch and a gasp leaves him once in while and him shakily telling the person in front of him that he's alright and that he's totally listening as if his prostate isn't being abused.

Just Steve Rogers in a meeting, continuously shifting in his seat. To other people, he's too pent up to sit still properly. The truth? He's got ghost! Bucky's dick buried in his ass, grinding into him and filling him up to the point he thinks he might choke on it. Steve can't beg, can't moan, can't even move because how the fuck is he gonna explain that he's being fucked by a ghostly being in the middle of a meeting?

The risk of being caught riles him up as much as Ghost!Bucky whispering filthy things in his ears like yeah you like that? Look at you, filthy as fuck and taking this dick up your tight ass- You're that desperate Stevie? That you'll have a ghost fucking you everywhere and anytime you want? Come on, open your eyes and look at all of these people in front of you, not knowing that Captain America's gagging for some ghost dick to screw him 24/7! How would they react knowing you're getting filled right now huh, practically a slut for it-

Imagine the mess on Steve's side, how he can go so many times even after coming!!! Just Bucky wringing one orgasm after another while he desperately fights for composure, barely standing and not making a sound, boxers absolutely drenched with his own release-

Or how easy just Bucky slips into him (magical ghost powers Ajdheje), accosting him and groping him wherever whenever he likes, leaching off Steve's warmth and life!! ACKKKKKK AIDHSIRJEORJFJ HEEHEHEHEHEH

-🫠🫠

"Here Kitty Kitty Kitty"

I'm glad you enjoyed whiny Bucky, lmao. He's a favorite for suuure 😏

And as for the idea of ghost!Bucky with freshly thawed Steve, I--

Holy fuck, I have seen some ghost-fucker content here and there (much with public stuff which is fun 🥴) but I haven't ever considered that with stucky and... I'm obsessed (possessed perhaps, lmao).

I'm especially obsessed with thrill seeker ghost!Bucky and stuttering, subby Steve, though. Goddamn.

I am enthralled with what you wrote! I have to say, though, my immediate thought--my immediate mental image, really--with this pairing was Steve with his leanly muscular, fawn-clumsy legs spread wide on his bed in the middle of the night, hips up, back arched, seemingly all alone and exposed. Moonbeams slip through his curtains into the room, lighting him up, dragging across his flushed, pale skin like a spotlight. His bare, shaven face is pressed hard into his white sheets--contrasting gorgeously, blank sheets, and the blood-hot flush painted with so much pigment, thick and wet, across his face. He's blushing from high on his cheeks all the way up to the hot shells of his ears. And for the most part, other than his quivering, open mouth and his heaving chest--face down, ass up--he's perfectly still. Debauched and statuesque in the middle of the night.

He should be chilled with the night air caressing his skin, but he isn't. He's burning up. The phantom hands on his skin are freezing but he's alive with flames, they're licking and scorching his skin, leaving him gasping, his hands scrunching the sheets into a wrinkled mess, fisting the fabric right by his head, both trying to hide the dirty ecstasy written over his pretty face in vain as Bucky's fucks him and just trying to have something, anything, to hold onto as his world is torn apart from overwhelming, crashing waves of pleasure.

Too much. Too good.

He can't see Bucky, but, oh, god, can he feel him.

Touching him. Fucking him. Groping him. Making handprints and bruises and bite marks appear on his warm, pink skin out of thin air.

He can hear him, too, whispering to him, fuck, he can almost feel it on the back of his neck, but he can't really. Of course not. Bucky isn't breathing down on him. He can't. He's just playing with him, drawing his pleasure out, pushing his nerves to the brink--Steve doesn't know what's hot and what's cold is anymore, Steve doesn't know what's real and what isn't, Steve doesn't know anything but pleasure like he's never felt before, given to him in the middle of the night when he's alone save for Bucky who makes him feel more alive than anyone else with a beating heart in their solid chest could.

(If anyone else were to walk in, though, god, it'd be a show. Steve writhing on his sheets without any influence. Completely stripped bare, exposed, and untouched..? Except, anyone can see the fingertip indents in his thighs as Bucky gropes him, anyone can see the wet, hot, open gape of his hole as Bucky fucks him, taking him from behind, anyone can see the tremble in his muscles as he crumbles under the influence of the unseen, anyone can see sweat glistening on his skin, anyone can see his fever, pink all over, anyone can see how much he loves it, his face twisted up in pleasure, lips hanging open, taking it like a good little slut. So desperate for dick he'll get it anywhere, anytime. He can't live without dick.)

Anyway--

I fucking love your idea. I love the thought of public ghost play, too!! I was just immediately on the bewitching hour, haunting ghost fucking vibe, lol.

I can just imagine Bucky always messing with Steve at the worst times, and when Steve tries to talk sense into Bucky behind closed doors, well, he just ends up a pile of mush as Bucky continues so there's not really any talking. What? They're in private now, isn't this what Steve wants? Isn't this what he was asking for?

Jesus.

They're trouble. They're both so hungry for touch, and they find it so easily in each other that no one else understands. It's kinky as fuck and it's sweet as fuck. I love it!!

Thank you for this! 😘

[yourfavoritewitchbitch]

Warnings: Minimal use of Y/N. Angst. Pining. Heartbreak. Hurt/No Comfort. Brief mention of sex, not explicit. Pregnancy mentioned (not the reader).

Word Count: 2.7K

Regret. It takes root in your bones and leaches out when you are at your most vulnerable and unsuspecting. Deadly, all consuming. How different life could be from one single decision.

Every now and then, you catch your mind wandering back to those blissful days, so many years ago. You try stifle those thoughts back down as swiftly as they come. But today, was different. Memories so vivid, it’s all you can think of. Harsh reminders of a life that could have been.

You were back in your hometown to take care of some loose ends after your mother had moved, in the process of selling your childhood home. It had been 10 years since you had left this town in the rearview, along with the boy that you had loved.

As you were packing up the rest of the house you began rummaging through an old stack of papers forgotten long ago. And there it was, among photos and mementos of the past. Just an inconspicuous piece of folded paper that no one else would pass a second glance.

 Pausing a moment, finger hovering lightly before finally letting it trace the edges that time had worn.

Your breath hitched as you picked it up and gently unfolded the tender, yellowed page. The once vibrant black ink had now faded into a dull, muted version. A series of numbers, along with the words Call me, Steve. The number had once been ingrained into your mind, now just a faded memory much like this ink.

Staring in silence for a moment wondering how it had even survived. But then again, after recent events maybe this was just fates way of trying to tie up its own loose ends to gain some sense of closure.

You foolishly decide to pick up the phone and start to dial but pause. There was no reason to believe he would still be there.

Maybe that’s why you did it. That last thread that bound you to him could be cut. No way to reach out. A finite resolution.

You began dialing again, growing more anxious with each press. Bringing the phone to your ear, you twirled the cord with your free hand.

Instantly your mind transported to that night you had first called him feeling the exact same way.

It rang out, the shrill tone startling you. What am I thinking? RING. He’s not there! RING.

“Hello?” a groggy, sleep ladened all too familiar voice jolted your attention. Your throat grew tight as your mouth suddenly went dry. You cursed yourself for calling so late. Of course, he had been sleeping.

“St… Steve?” you managed to squeak out, barely a whisper.

Silence. Heavy between you.

“Steve?” asking again, more clearly. A tad more forceful than you intended.

Somewhere deep down, you felt like he knew exactly who it was the first time you spoke. Another pause that felt like an eternity. Suddenly you became aware that he must be experiencing that rush of memories only a voice from the not-so-distant past could usher forth.

He spoke your name. “Is… Is that really you?” asking in a low breathless tone.

“It’s me.” Sighing, suddenly all too aware you hadn’t given thought to what you were going to say. You never imagined making it this far. You knew all about his life and accomplishments after you had parted ways but wonder how much he knows about the life you’ve lived. Has he even thought of you?  

“I uh, I found that note from when you worked at Scoops. The one you had written your number on when I went to bug you. Somehow, I still had it. I didn’t really expect you to still be at your parent’s old place,” huffing a small chuckle. “The curiosity was just too much, I guess.”

“Yeah,” matching your chuckle you could hear the smile in his tone, and it instantly soothed your nerves. He knew exactly what note you were talking about but decided against mentioning it.

“I didn’t really have the heart to sell it. Too many good memories here,” Too many good memories with you is what he wanted to say. He’s standing there with sleep mussed hair, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, lean torso on display leaning against the wall where the phone had always been hung.

He started in with the small talk that you would use on an acquaintance, not someone who you once knew every detail about. Funny how time and distance will do that.

You were now just strangers with memories. You thought you’d have all the time in the world. Just two kids in love. Time with him had gone in the blink of an eye all to brief and swift.

You were friends in school, and you had always looked at him with hearts in your eyes, but he never showed any romantic interest, so you gradually decided to let that little crush on ‘King Steve’ flame out or so you thought.

Both of you had just graduated from Hawkins High in ‘85 and he was working at Scoops with low aspirations and down on his luck.

Then he saw you a couple of weeks later. The warmth your smile radiated made his heart skip a beat.

It was like something had just clicked and he saw you in a whole new light. Had he really been this blind to miss what was right in front of him?

You knew he had gotten the job at Scoops so you went to pester him more than anything. Much to your shock, he flirted with you. Or at least tried to. He became flustered as his cheeks turned the prettiest shade of pink when you flirted back.

His sweet caramel eyes glimmered when he smiled back. He really was the most beautiful boy you had ever seen.

He slipped you the paper with his number, “Call me sometime.” His lips were so perfectly pouted when he spoke. You were still enamored. You’d never admit it, but you already had his number from a group project you had worked on together.

You couldn’t hide the blush that crept its way up your neck and rested on the apples of your cheeks when your fingertips brushed his.

“Sure Stevie.” He was a goner when that nickname left your lips.

You had called him later that night and had your first date that week, along with your first kiss. You were inseparable the rest of the Summer.

The first time you made love, he took his time and savored every moment. Much different from the other boys you had been with.

Whispering sweet praises in your ear in between soft kisses as you fell apart beneath him. A gentleman through and through. Helping you finish before even thinking about himself.

In the quiet aftermath, you shared your deepest secrets and darkest fears.

He fell hard for you. He had never wanted something so bad in his miserable existence. He wanted nothing more than to give you the world.

That fall, you started college in Indianapolis. You would visit Hawkins on the weekends or Steve would make the trek up to stay with you in your dorm a day or two at a time.

It went on like that until the following Summer. You thought you’d have more time. More time for this love to flourish.

You were offered an early internship in New York that would also pay for the rest of your degree if you stayed at an in-state school.  

Steve had finally quit scoops to pursue his own dreams. Though if he were being honest with himself, he only wanted to better himself to be able to give you everything you deserved. He enrolled in Hawkins Community College to improve his core grades and the following semester he would transfer to Indianapolis to finish his degree and eventually take over his family’s firm.

You realized then that you were on 2 very different paths, but you pushed the thought down, if only to shield your own heart for a short time longer.  

Your tiny car filled to the brim with everything you owned, you looked at Steve and tried not to cry. He looked as though he were trying to hold back his own tears. You hugged him close; his warmth enveloping you. You pressed your face to his chest and inhaled his scent trying to commit it to memory. Laundry detergent, his woodsy cologne, something inherently Steve. Your tears welled as you just held each other for a few more moments.

“I love you Stevie,” you spoke into his chest.

“I love you too baby.” He kissed the top of your head, as a tear streamed down his face.

He knew you were destined for something bigger than him. He knew in the quiet of this moment, as you were both silently saying your goodbyes in your own way. He just wanted to hold you a little longer. A little more time to hold on to his hope that he could keep you forever.

At first it was hard, you called each other all the time but you both eventually made friends. Time away got easier, it hurt less. You both seemed to be happy, or at the very least content. He never wanted to undermine your happiness whatsoever.

That’s when halfway through your first semester, he decided to make the drive up to surprise you. He had gone to your dorm, but you weren’t there. If by some stroke of fate, he noticed you sitting at the coffee shop on campus across the street as he stared from his place on the sidewalk.

Time seemed to slow, people passing by but there you were so engrossed in the conversation you were having with your group that he hadn’t wanted to disturb you. You laughed, loud and clear with a wide smile. He hadn’t seen you like that in ages, and it made his heart ache with want. He wanted you to look at him like that, to see you smile up at him with those beautiful sparkling eyes that he missed deeply.

In that moment he realized that you were happy. You didn't need him the way he needed you. He wanted to be selfish and keep you all to himself, but he walked away before you ever saw him. He decided to let you go, and let you thrive without him.

You two never officially broke up. You just drifted further apart. The phone calls became fewer and fewer until one day they just stopped. Weeks turned into months that eventually turned into the years that divided you now.

There were times the phone would ring, but your greeting was met with silence on the other end before the line went dead. Somehow you knew it was always Steve. His way of checking on you without encroaching your life.

You realized he’s still talking, as was the way with your relationship, he usually had more to say. He goes into elaborate detail of his life. And then, the small hope that flutters and blooms within you suddenly shatters.

“So, then Shelia, my fiancé is just overjoyed. We’re having a boy.” His words knock the wind out of you.

The words “fiancé, we’re having a boy” are suddenly on repeat in your mind.  

Steve Harrington was engaged, and she was pregnant with their first child.

Suddenly all those little fleeting thoughts of “What If” faded. Possibilities slipping through your fingers as the breeze carries them out just beyond your reach.

You shouldn’t have called, realizing it much too late. You wanted those feelings and needs that could no longer be reciprocated.

Catching one more glimpse of what you once had, of what you might have had.  

But what you didn’t realize is that this call also dredged up those old regrets on his end as well. The roots that laid barren under his skin, now tricking out with every beat of his heart pushing through his chest.

The life he could have had with you flooded his mind as you picked up the conversation, congratulating him.

There was no doubt you would have already been married, with a couple of kids. Probably another on the way much like now. He loved his fiancé but she wasn’t you. She could never be you.

He was over the moon at the prospect of becoming a father, but more than anything he had wanted to share that with you. The proverbial white picket fence dream.

A piece of his heart would always belong to you no matter how much had changed or how much time had passed. He was content with his life, but he feared he would never be truly happy.

“Yeah, ugh, thanks.” He replied once he came back to his senses.

“I’m really happy for you, Stevie.”

Stevie. His heart melted just like it did the first time you said it. No one else ever called him that, if they did, he would tell them he hated it. It was something only ever reserved for your use. In truth, he just hated hearing it come from anyone that wasn’t you.

“Coming back to Hawkins anytime soon? I mean, I know you’re living it up in New York, but I would love to see you. For old time’s sake.”

For old time’s sake. The words tumbled around your brain for a moment. You weren’t sure how to respond. You hadn’t told anyone that you were visiting, just to make your exit easier once everything was finalized.

“No,” you lied. “Steve, I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry.”

“Y/N, I…”

“Don’t,” you blurted out, as if you could read his mind. Breath coming out a little shaky. You felt tears prickle the corners of your eyes.

“Whatever you were going to say, don’t.” You took a deep breath, clutching the receiver, holding it tightly to your chest before raising it back you to your ear. “Please.”

You couldn’t bear the thought of what feelings were still there, just lingering below the surface waiting to be exposed to the light of day once more. You couldn’t let him do it to himself.

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have called.” You went to hang up phone.

“No!” he all but shouted. “Listen, I… I never stopped loving you. I miss you every fucking day. The only goddamn reason I stopped calling was because I thought you were better off without me. You were doing so well without me. You didn’t need me. I didn’t want to mess that up for you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stifle your sobs. Not wanting him to hear how much those words affected you.

“Steve,” you sniffled, but continued, you couldn’t stop the now free flowing tears no matter how much you willed them away.

“It’s too late. I waited too long. You… you’re engaged. She’s having your baby for Christ’s sake. Stop and listen to yourself. You sound like a goddamn idiot right now. You can’t throw that away for me. I can’t mess this up for you.”

“I…,” he hesitated.

“No. You loved me once upon a time. You don’t love me now. It’s all in the past. You really can’t sit there and tell me that you still have the same feelings you did ten years ago. We don’t even know each other anymore.”

“Tell me why you really called then?” he asked softly, holding the bridge of his nose, breathing out slowly. Holding himself back. He wasn’t an idiot. You both knew where this conversation as headed the moment he picked up.

“Tell me you didn’t call because you still have feelings for me. Tell me you don’t love me. Tell me you don’t feel the same way. Talking to you now as if time hasn’t even passed.” A brief pause.

"Tell me goddamnit. Tell me so you can finally put me out of my misery. Please.” He sounded just as desperate for closure as you thought you were.

“I can’t,” You hung up the receiver before letting him respond.

You close your eyes for a moment and let those memories wash over you. But this is where those memories and feelings belong. In the past. If only things were different.

When life hands you something that is undeniably true, hold onto it. Sometimes you only get one chance, and then you’re only left with regret.

You take the note, still clutched in your hand and let it slip. You watch it slowly float into the bin below. Slowly exhaling, letting yourself let go of the past and letting go of the man that you still undeniably loved.

[momotonescreaming]

i have no idea how many asks you still have for it but i am NOT risking it SO just one more Vamp Steve pretty pretty pleeeeeease 🥺🥺🥺💕💕💕

I had actually finished all my asks before you sent this one, so lucky you! (ignore how late this is please lmaooo)

Sun-kissed, beautifully tan skin melting away to reveal the pale, pallid skin of a corpse. Blotchy, and mostly sort of grey. Eddie absently wonders if he was that tan in life, of that was just another lie. A projection, to make people like him more. Sinking in just slightly at the hollow of his cheeks, accentuating his cheekbones, his jaw. Around his eyes as well, making them almost hollow looking at a glance, deepening his under eye bags. Colour leached from them, as if the whites of his eyes are draining away his irises. At least the suit remains the same, Eddie will give the vamp that. He can afford real designer clothes, and doesn’t just glamour whatever cheap knock-off shit they can find. With a club like this — he guesses he can afford it. Can afford to send some lackey out during the day to go shopping for him.

[yxlenas]

PLEASE SHOW ME MORE KAS!NANCY I’M FERAL OVER HER

Shit-” Steve barks. The plate is replaced with the trash can. Nancy gags, retches, and pukes up bile that looks…darker than it should. Steve’s eyes go wide.

“It’s probably because we were patrolling near a rift,” Robin says anxiously at the sight of dark bile, “I bet we both inhaled a lot of that crap.”

Steve takes the trash can and rinses it out. Robin is quiet. She slides onto the basement sofa and lets Nancy lean against her. Nancy is frustrated. It’s like every second she can feel strength slowly leaching out of her battered, miserable body, and there’s no rhyme or reason behind it. Her head throbs in time to her heartbeat, a regular dehydration induced headache. She buries her face in Robin’s shoulder.

She’s half asleep against the warmth and softness of Robin when the basement door slams open in the way that only Mike can slam a door open. It makes a stab of pain shoot through her eyeball and she groans, cuddling closer to Robin absently. Her brother yells her name. It hurts.

[comicwaren]

From Spider-Man: Unforgiven #001, “Horror Stuff”

Art by Sid Kotian and Edgar Delgado

Written by Tim Seeley

[stevecoven]

Steve has had a really tough day at work, what would Murph do to cheer him up when he comes home? (As a fic prompt or if you just wanna answer!)

(this is a first draft of something longer that I was already working on, so this might get expanded out at a later date! tysm for the prompt 💛💜)

"Oh, dude, you look rancid."

Steve was not about to disagree. A solid inch of mud caked his body below the knees and past the elbows, and there were streaks and spots of it almost everywhere else. His work shirt was filthy and soaked through from exertion, and there were pale track marks through the dirt on his face where he sweated it away.

"I feel rancid," he said, wincing at the bright light of his own sitting room as he came in from the dark outside and heaved the heavy front door shut. Every muscle and bone in his body had something to complain about. His toes were numb, his fingers were burning, and his trusty leather jacket felt like it weighed a ton sitting on his aching shoulders.

Murph put down their book and pulled themselves up from their slouched position on the couch, pulling the knitted blanket off their legs.

“Dinner’s almost ready. I made a start as soon as I got your message.” They patted a hand against their chest and then stretched their arms out towards him, a well-understood gesture of c’mere.

Steve’s boots were left on the doormat and his muddy jacket slumped onto the floor. His sore and blistered feet managed to get him the short distance across the room to the couch, and then gave up completely as he pitched forward, collapsing into Murph’s embrace like a sack of bricks. They made a loud oof sound as all the air was pushed out of them by the impact and they toppled back into their horizontal position among the cushions, Steve clamped around their torso.

“I regret this immediately,” Murph wheezed, with the last scrap of breath in their lungs, as they tried to rearrange their boyfriend into a slightly less crushing position. “Augh, you’re all dirty and cold and…so moist. What have you been doing, swimming in clay?” Steve didn’t answer, just pressed himself as tightly as he could against Murph’s body, trying to leach as much body warmth from them as he could. His ears were pressed flat against his skull, a clear indicator of his mood. Murph pantomimed noises of disgust, but they still planted a big kiss on his grimy forehead and pulled him in close with their strong, warm arms nonetheless. The blanket was pulled back over to cover Steve in a tight cocoon, and long slender fingers ran through his hair. 

“You weren’t kidding about it being a rough day, huh?” Murph’s voice was quiet and comforting. “You wanna talk about it?” 

Absolutely not. Steve buried his face in Murph’s shirt. A disgruntled grumble came from somewhere under the fabric.

“Mmmmmmrrghghhhhughhh.”

He’d been in a foul mood for almost the entire day, and he didn’t want to bring that home with him and dump it all on Murph. He just wanted to rest, and be warm, and not think about having to go back and do it all again tomorrow. Besides, he was too exhausted to manage full sentences right now.

“That bad, huh?”

One hand rubbed wide, slow circles over his back, pressing gently in just the right places to untangle the knots in his shoulder muscles. The other hand cupped his chin, thumb lazily stroking the soft divet of skin just behind his ear. Steve hummed in appreciation and sank into the warm, cosy feeling, forgetting just for a moment just how sore and gross and cranky he was. He wiggled his way up Murph’s reclined torso to achieve a better cuddle, making sure to lay his head on the correct side so he didn’t jab their eye out with his horn. He was just getting comfy, the tension finally melting from his aching bones, when the soothing circles suddenly stopped. He made another grumbling noise, but it came out more like a disappointed whine.

“NoOOooOo,” he burbled. He craned his neck and shoved his face back into their retreating hand, demanding to be petted more. Murph laughed and gave him one last really good scrunch behind the ears.

“Nuh-uh buddy, you can’t get too comfy. I gotta get up and finish the soup.” Murph put a hand in his armpit in an attempt to lift him up and ease themself out from underneath him, but Steve retaliated by taking all the weight off his limbs and pressing his entire body weight down on them. He wasn’t about to let them stop making a fuss of him just like that. Murph flopped back down onto the couch, completely pinned under his stubbornness. 

 “Would you rather be grouchy and hungry this evening?” 

They said it with all the severity and harshness of a pre-school teacher trying to coax a toddler into taking a nap. Steve knew he was acting in an appropriately childish manner.

“...no.”

“Then you gotta let me up, sweetheart. Go put some clean clothes on, yeah? Then once we’ve eaten I’ll run you a nice hot bath. I’ll even let you use the fancy bubbles. That sound good?”

Steve had to agree, that did sound pretty good.

“...yeah, okay.”

When Murph hoisted him up this time he didn’t put up a fight. They kissed his grubby face, their lips a bloom of warmth against his winter-bitten skin, and carefully peeled themselves away from his embrace. As they stood up they looked down at themselves, and the huge, dirty, Steve-shaped stain that had formed across their shirt and trousers.

“Y’know what,” they said, “maybe I’ll run that bath for both of us.”

Steve’s ears perked up a little. That sounded even better.

[luveline]

if you’re ever in the mood to write for kbd again i’d love to ask for an argument fic! i’m a huge hurt/comfort fan and i feel like the arguments you write always feel so realistic and healthy(?) in a way? ily

thank you for your request! im glad u like how i write arguments bcos i find it so difficult, I hope this fills your hurt/comfort needs! kbd | dad!steve x mom!reader

You're tapping your foot on the kitchen floor, annoyed and upset and not sure if you should say anything about it. 

Dove said her first words today. And you found out through Avery, who sits on the kitchen table in front of you with her legs dancing over the edge, clearly unhappy that you're unhappy, her hands stroking your cheeks affectionately. She's only six. You feel terrible that she can tell you're upset. 

"Mom, how can I make you happy?" she asks.

It's something you've said to her a thousand times. She cries, and she's finally at the age where you can ask her what solution she needs. 

You love her, but your patience isn't very strong today. You remove her hands from your face gently and give her a weak smile. 

"I just need to talk to daddy, that's all." 

"I'll go get him!" she says, clambering onto your legs and down onto the ground. 

You don't really like the idea of summoning him for a scolding, and you've been with him long enough to know how to navigate a disagreement without a fuss. But you aren't perfect, and neither is he. When he arrives in the kitchen with a broken baby doll in his hands, he looks so comely, so homespun, and you're still mad. 

"Why didn't you tell me Dove said her first words?" 

His eyes light up, but he swiftly fixes his expression into a more neutral one. "I– sorry, yeah, she said daddy." He grins like he can't help it. He probably can't. "Oh, you should've heard it, she couldn't have sounded less excited to say it, what a doll." 

"But why didn't you tell me?" 

Steve seems to clock where this is heading, then, and puts the doll down on the kitchen counter. "It slipped my mind." 

"Really? Her very first words slipped your mind? Like, that's not extremely important to you?" 

"Of course it's important to me." Steve's eyes narrow, and his eyebrows start to rise. It's not an angry look nor is it cruel, but it rubs you the wrong way. It's sceptical. "But I'm busy all of the time. Which you know."

You're getting more and more irate. It's not his fault, but it feels like his fault in the moment, and you don't like how he's talking to you, and your head hurts. 

"I didn't say you're not busy, but I still think you should've told me when I came in."

"I just– I don't know, I had to give Bethie a bath, and then Dove was fussing. And now her doll's broken. I was busy." 

You sigh. "Sometimes," you say, more depressed than mad, "you act like they're not even mine. You act like they're just your girls. I'm their mom." 

"Do I do that?" he asks, incredulity leaching into his words.

"Steve, you should've told me straight away. She's my baby, I should've found out from you, and not Avery, like an afterthought." 

"I told you, I forgot." 

"I don't care if you forgot– actually, I do, because that's the problem. You shouldn't forget to tell me when my own daughter starts talking–" 

"You're acting like I chose not to tell you. I wasn't not going to tell you, but I have other things on mind! I have a lot to do, in case you forgot!" 

"Like I'm not busy too?" you ask. "Like I don't work all day every day to come home to you. To make sure there's a home to come home to." 

"You're throwing that in my face?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No! No, I'm just saying that I'm busy too, you're not the only one who has to do things, Steve, but the difference is that I would never forget to tell you something like that!" 

"Maybe if you were home, you wouldn't need to shout at me about it. You feel guilty and you're taking it out on me." 

You don't see red or anything so aggressive —no. You just feel like he's slapped you, like he's reached right into the centre of your chest and said the thing that's going to hurt you the most. 

You don't want to cry. You know how it looks, like you're losing, so you're crying, so he'll feel sorry and make you feel better. Steve has known you and loved you for years and he knows the look on your face before tears have even welled up. You twist away from him and cover your face with your hands, your skin hot as a burning hearth. 

And the tears are pathetic. Sniffling, quiet, high-pitched in the back of your throat. It's not fair. It's not fair, you want to stay home too, you want to see their first moments, and you don't get to do it and he's shouting at you and you just want to shrink into nothing right then and there. You're tired, and you're embarrassed at yourself for speaking to him like that. He doesn't deserve it.

"Honey," Steve says, all malice gone. "Honey, don't. It's okay." 

"I'm fine." 

"No, it's okay," he says, putting his hand on your shoulder. 

"Ignore me," you say, "I'm not crying to– I'm just mad." 

"Don't cry," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your crown. "Don't. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry." 

Love is so unfortunate, sometimes. He's the only one who you want comfort from, but you're so mad at him. Even if he's right. The anger is as illogical as the love; you want him to go away and you need him to rub your back as you snuffle. 

"It's not fair, Steve. You can't just say that."

"I know. I'm sorry. I know you can't be home. I know I'm the lucky one. I know how much you've given away to let me have what I want," he says, moving so he's face to face with you. 

"Now you'll think I'm crying just to be the one upset," you say with a sob. 

"Only a little bit." He laughs fondly at your frown. "I'm kidding!"

You cry so much he has to wrap his arms around you to keep you together. It's not his fault, but suddenly everything breaks the surface, how guilty you feel for missing out, how annoyed you are at him for knowing that and still giving you a hard time, how annoyed you are at yourself for shouting at him over something he can't control. You cry because you miss the girls, you miss him, and you're tired. There's hundreds of tiny reasons. 

Steve sounds a little emotional himself when he says, "God, I'm sorry." His cheek pressed hard to your ear, his hug tightening. "I'm a dick, making you cry." 

"I'm a dick. I'm sorry," you say, head heavy, tears slowed. 

"It's okay. I know why you're upset. I promise I know. I shouldn't have got so defensive… but I really did forget, honey. I'm sorry, but I did." 

"I know. I'm sorry for being a bitch about it." 

He laughs and pulls back to cup your cheek. "You are not a bitch. You got upset, you're not the antichrist." 

You sniff. Steve pulls the corner of your mouth into an uneven smile and then, slowly, leans in to dot a kiss there. When he moves back, his face is slack. An unhappiness lingers in his lips and his eyes where they're trained on your tacky cheek. 

He moves in for a second kiss. This one is firmer, longer, and you reciprocate with relief. 

"Do you really think that? That I act like they're just my girls?" he asks when he pulls away. 

You duck your head so you don't have to look at him, or face the mean things you'd said. Not just mean, either, but the things you're embarrassed to have thought. 

"Not really. Sometimes I feel like…" You don't want to say it aloud. You rub the skin of his wrist in a fidget. 

"Go on," he says. 

"I worry I'm not choosing the right thing. I would never ask you to give this up… I really wouldn't. But I worry I'll regret not being here."  

Steve wraps his hands in your t-shirt and pulls it toward him. You're becoming more and more intertwined as the conversation progresses, your faces much too close. 

"We've always said," he says slowly, "that you could change your mind. That you could come home, and that I would work. We've always said that. You don't have to be afraid to tell me you've been thinking about it." 

"I haven't." You sniff. "I don't even think I could do it." 

"Are you kidding?" Steve asks. 

A rogue tear races down your cheek. If you speak, you'll sob, so you shake your head and hold onto his wrist for dear life. 

"You're the best mom they ever made," he says, easing closer still, his face imploring, pleading with you, "why would you ever think you can't do it? It’s different to when you’re home, being alone with them, it's fucking hard, and I think you'd struggle to get used to it at first because I still struggle now, but you could do it. I know you could. You could stay at home and look after them if you want to, I want you to do that if it's what you need." 

"This is silly," you say. 

"It's not silly." 

"I've made this all about me. I was angry at you and now you're comforting me." You stroke his cheek with your knuckle. "I'm the one who should be comforting you. You race after the kids all day and then the wife comes home and grabs you by the ear."

"I think I'd kinda like it if you did," he says. 

You both laugh. 

"I'm sorry," you say. 

Steve nods. "Yeah, me too." 

You bite back everything that's hurting. It's only a temporary pain. You'll figure out what you want, and you have your best friend in the world kneeling in front of you, willing to do anything if it'll help. 

"I should be nicer to you," you murmur. 

"You're plenty nice. But if you're still feeling guilty, I'd die for a kiss, sweetheart." 

You wipe your face with your sleeves, wet cheeks, snotty nose, and brush your hair away so you look like someone worth kissing. "Do I look okay?" 

"You look beautiful," Steve says fondly, leaning in for a kiss. His hands bracelet your wrists. "So pretty," he says between kisses. 

"Don't," you chastise lightly, "this is why I keep getting knocked up." 

"In that case," he says against your lips. He deepens the kiss against your charmed laughter, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you still in the face of his ardency. 

You part before things can get heated and he lets you apologise again, though he insists it isn't necessary, your arms over his shoulders, your nose in his hair. He's always been so good like that —Steve doesn't hold a grudge with you (though others may not be so lucky). He stands you up, brushes you down, even wipes your cheeks with a washcloth. It's why you could never send him to work. He's a caretaker down to the bone. 

Bethie, sweet girl as she is, appears as he's wiping your puffy eyes. She's almost three and a half, and she's the cutest girl in existence if Steve is to be believed. He visibly softens at her entrance alone. 

"Hello, Bethie-baby," he says, "we were wondering where you were. Did you finish your crackers?" 

She's a daddy's girl and she always has been, so it surprises you when she pretty much ignores him and holds her hands up to you. You pick her up, let her settle against your chest. 

"Hey, Beth." 

"Missed you," she says. 

"Oh, you did?" you ask, overjoyed. You sniffle the last of your upset away and lock it down tight. 

She's a quiet baby. You worried she had developmental issues at first (which wouldn't have mattered in terms of love, but worried all the same), though these days your theory is that she doesn't want to speak very much. She likes to communicate in other ways, namely affection, and her face brushes yours as she hugs you. 

You pat her back like she knows she likes. Steve smiles at you from over his shoulders. You wear twin expressions —I'm sorry, I love you, isn't she lovely?

[susandsnell]

am i allowed to ask the lesbian for the most fuckable phantoms. in ur lesbian opinion!!

You absolutely are allowed, my opinions on men are more objectively correct (see: Jonathan Crane Both Had And Never Had Hoes).

So, in no particular order (these will mostly be stage actors):

Hugh Panaro. Yes, I'm biased because he's the one I saw, but the man's orchestrated suaveness juxtaposed with his truly unhinged supervillainy is, to my mind, the core Phantom ethos. He's sexy because he's performing sex appeal while also being absolutely sinister and unsure of how real relationships work. And that voice? Talk about smooth! All makes him super fuckable imo.

Davis Gaines. One suave mofo. His cautiousness balanced with the yearning for Christine, and that richer, deeper tone...pure sex!

Norm Lewis. Handsomest Phantom, brings the DILF factor best voice on Broadway, my favourite musical theatre performer ever. Listen to that voice. It's pure gold. And he brings such a tragedy to the role that just couples the commanding aura with this underlying sensitivity, and you really buy the seduction with him.

Steve Barton, may he rest in peace, had a voice of pure obsidian and a presence that left you literally breathless. Every role he's ever played he's rocked, and this is no different. Most seductive Phantom by far.

Anthony Warlow is so sexy he was able to make freaking Jekyll & Hyde sexy, and his Phantom is no different. Of course he's making the list.

Non-musical Phantoms who are sexy: Charles Dance from the miniseries, Winslow Leach when he's all Darth Vadered up, and ykw? I'm giving one to Englund even though he's an unforgivable slasher.

Happy haunts babe!

[stregoniconiconii]

them going to the bathroom together is honestly peak girl bestieism but it probably gets them weird looks in social setting when Robin is like hey I gotta pee and Steve is immediately standing up to follow her and that is funny to me <3

this is why they're pro gender neutral bathrooms btw. like yes the gender binary is bullshit and they don't subscribe to that ideology but also the weird looks they get when Steve gets caught in the girls bathroom or robin gets caught in the boys bathroom is sooo not fun altho they do have fun basically trying to gaslight any ppl that catch them into thinking they're in the wrong bathroom the other option is a dramatic goodbye when they get to the bathroom doors and have to leach each other

[kleenexwoman]

WIPs/Upcoming Projects

🌧️ 💧

🌧️

“Clara,” Doc says, “they think that I’m dead around here. If I show up with a wife, two children, and Alan Turing… Questions will start to be asked.”

“I really don’t need to come if my company isn’t appropriate,” Alan says. “I’m happy to sit in the train and drink tea. Catch up on some reading.”

“No, I mean.” Marty sighs. He can feel the disappointment leaching into his blood, slowing his muscles, draining his energy. “No, Doc’s right. Jennifer’s the only person who knows anything about what happened. And even she doesn’t really know all of it. I mean, I keep trying to explain, but–”

“Marty.” Doc detaches from Alan long enough to place his hands on Marty’s shoulders, then hug him. “It’s all right. I’d like to come see you. I simply don’t know how I’m going to explain my sudden reappearance or my family to your parents.”

💧

<i>Back to the tied-up fantasy again, Steve working another finger inside him, blue eyes dark with lust and face screwed up in disgust. His mouth is open, lips red and swollen, hair sweat-dark over his forehead. He’s laser-focused on pushing inside Bucky, opening him up, claiming him.

It’s vivid. He can almost feel the uneven press of fingers inside him, the transition from a sense of vague fullness to the urgency of flesh molding into skin, the rim of the door into his body tight like a drum.

“The look on your face.” Steve chuckles above him. “Yeah, this is really happening. Your best friend from high school has you tied up with his fingers inside you. Ever thought this would happen? Ever thought you would be in this position? I’m gonna keep you here, Buck, I’m gonna keep you–”

Steve pushes into him fast, teeth gritted, coring him out in one hard thrust.

“Mine,” he pants, “all mine, do whatever I want with you, make you beg, make you scream, make you mine–”

I swear I'm working on this one, just very slowly