Reminders For The Anxious/Depressed Creatives

He’s not entirely sure what wakes him, something between instinct, experience, and the dreadful gut-feeling that something is very, very wrong. A voice in the back of his head calls it the telltale sound of nightmare, of fear, of a child that seeks protection. That same voice wants to call it the sound of fatherhood, but it’s shut away before it becomes too loud every time.

Either way, they wake him. The groaning of the bed springs, the creaking of the floor board just behind the door before it opens with a squeak. And then the sound, barely there, of slow steps, old wool scraping over polished wood and worn carpet.

They come to a stop six paces before the couch.

Hopper counts to five before he turns to look which one of the kids it is.

Steve. Of course. El doesn’t come to him, not really. She goes to Steve if she can’t sleep, knowing he’ll be awake. The kid is always awake — and Hopper is almost glad for it, having heard his nightmares. For how quiet he is throughout the day, he sure doesn’t hold back at night.

El mentioned something a few days ago about visiting him in there to make it quiet, but they haven’t figured out how to do that yet. Steve mentioned something about sensory deprivation, but Hopper hasn’t gotten around to finding out more without being suspicious.

Really, the silence of the night should have been a dead giveaway that Steve wasn’t sleeping. It’s the third night, as far as Hopper knows. Three nights without sleep is grounds to worry, sure; but then the things he worries about are countless, so really it’s just one thing among many.

Steve rarely comes to see him, though. It must be really bad then. They made a deal after Christmas.

You come to me. Next time you wanna run, you come to me, understand that? I won’t pick you off the floor half frozen to death again next time, kid, so you got a problem, you come to me, alright?

Steve had only shrugged, and Hopper had wanted to punch him, to pull him in and hold him for a while and then shake him and command him to just fucking talk. He had pulled him in, clapped his shoulder and ruffled his hair before sending him to go eat his dinner.

And now there he is, standing in the middle of the cabin that seems to get tinier by the day, wringing his hands in the dark.

“What is it?” Hopper grunts as he sits up, wincing at how rough his voice sounds. Way to go getting him to talk, idiot.

“Uh…”

Hopper waits, but Steve doesn’t say anything more than that, and understanding dawns. The pit of dread grows, and Hopper sighs, leaning his head against the backrest of the couch.

“It’s Wednesday.”

Steve stares.

“Wednesday, February twenty-second.”

Steve stares, and Hopper hates this.

“It’s Wednesday, February twenty-second, 1984.”

Steve stares, but he inhales now. He breathes. He’s alive. Hopper wonders if he needs a reminder of that, too.

But then he nods, slowly, a little too long. Hopper doesn’t know what to do. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this. The urge to punch something is strong; but at least this time he doesn’t wanna punch the kid. He never actually wants to punch the kid.

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve says then, and it’s a whisper into the cold night that damn near breaks Hopper’s cold, tiny heart in two.

He’s struck by deja-vu. His daughter standing by his bed at night, her bunny clutched tightly to her chest, a sniffle interrupting the silence and waking him up. A nightmare woke her up, and the rain sounded scary, and she wanted to go back to sleep but she didn’t know how.

“I don’t know what to do, daddy.”

“Come here, that’s what you do.”

“Come here,” Hopper says, lifting his blanket in an invitation, and he wonders if Steve even sees it in the darkness. If he even has his eyes open. If his vision isn’t blurred with those silent tears he’s so good at hiding.

After a moment, silent steps approach him, and Hopper is surprised that he listened. The kid must really be tired, then. And scared. Shitless, probably.

But he comes. And he didn’t run. And he’s not freezing to death outside in his pyjamas.

It feels like a win. A heartbreaking, angry little win that leaves Hopper with the urge to burn this whole world to the ground and rip reality to shreds. But still, somehow, a win.

Steve will drop lore on Eddie in this ‘everybody knows this, catch up’ kinda way when it painfully clear that everybody absolutely did not know this.

Like, Eddie asks Steve to move his chair so he can slide passed him like three time in the middle of a party at the Byers and is being ignored. Finally, he’s like, “Ground control to Major Asshole. Can you hear me?”

Steve’s only notices him because he kicks his chair in the process and is like, “Oh, sorry, man. Gotta talk on my other side. I lost my hearing on this side.”

Which, great.

Eddie feels like an asshole but he can actually put that to the side because the whole table is just like, “…what? Since when?”

“Um…” Steve says, like. Yeah. This is common knowledge. “Two years ago?”

One time in the middle of the summer, Eddie is ogling the freckles across Steve’s shoulders at a pool party when Steve yawns. Eddie jokingly asks if teaching Robin to drive tired him out that much and Steve’s like, “Nah, I had a seizure this morning. Those tire me out for days. It’s so annoying.”

“Woah,” because Eddie didn’t even know that was something on their radar. Neither did Nancy judging by the whole plate of hotdogs she just dropped on the ground.

Steve causally mentioned that he didn’t have his appendix anymore a couple weeks after they closed the gate officially. Eddie asked when he had the surgery expecting an answer to be when he was a kid, but Steve gives him a weird look like, “Uh, couple weeks ago.”

“A couple - what?” Jonathan sputtered from across the room. “A couple weeks ago, we killed Vecna.”

“Yeahh???” Steve rolled his eyes. “And then I had my appendix taken out. That’s what happens when you’re stabbed.”

“You were stabbed?!?”

“C’mon, man. You were there. Keep up.”

Eddie is shut up mid-sentence by lips against his and, wow. Whoa. Steve Harrington kissing him right now and Eddie should definitely kiss back but, “You like guys? I’ve had a chance this whole time?”

“I’m literally bisexual.”

For a few weeks, Claudia thinks that she’s collecting her son from the hospital after he’s visited Max Mayfield.

Then she finds out that’s only partly the truth.

Usually Dustin’s already waiting in the parking lot for her, Steve by his side. They chat, Steve insisting that he could drive Dustin home, it’s no trouble, and Claudia thanks him for the offer, kindly refuses; the poor boy looks run ragged these days.

One day neither of them are there, so she heads inside. There’s still a long line at reception, the aftermath of the earthquake, so she finds a nurse in a corridor, describes Dustin—my boy, about this high, curly hair (smiles like the sun, she wants to add)—and the nurse smiles, says, “Follow me, ma’am.”

She has a passing thought that this isn’t the direction to Max’s room, but reasons that she must’ve been moved. The nurse leaves her at the door before being called away.

Claudia opens the door quietly.

It’s not Max who’s in the bed.

She recognises him from the posters—his eyes first, then his long hair. He’s holding a battered copy of The Hobbit, the spine broken, and he’s reading so softly that she can’t quite make out the words.

And there, lying so peacefully against Eddie Munson’s shoulder, is Dustin. He’s fast asleep.

Eddie’s got an arm around him, and he’s slowly running his fingers through Dustin’s hair the way she used to when he was little, to help him drift off.

He looks up from his book at the sound of her entering the room, and his face goes as white as the bedsheets.

She takes one step forward.

Eddie inhales, breath stuttering, and it’s a fragile, heartbreaking sound.

Dustin stirs. “Hmm? Wha’s wrong?” He lifts his head up from Eddie’s shoulder, and his eyes meet Claudia’s, and he’s suddenly wide awake, scrabbling upright. “Mom.”

Eddie’s mouth keeps moving, like he’s desperately searching for words. “I-I’m not—” His breathing catches again, eyes wide; Claudia realises, with a heavy heart, that he’s deeply afraid of her. “It’s just a stupid board game, I swear.”

“Mom,” Dustin says again. Pleading.

And of course, Claudia never once believed the frenzied cries about Satanic rituals. Still, throughout that awful Spring Break, knowing that her son was lying to her, all she could think was that she was once a teenager, too—remembered how easy it could be to get caught up in something scary, something beyond your control.

She looks into Eddie Munson’s eyes, and knows deep in her bones that she has nothing to fear from him.

She beckons Dustin over, hands him the car keys.

“There’s a pillow on your seat, hon,” she says softly, because there’s a sleepy haze returning to his eyes despite his obvious concern for Eddie.

Dustin blinks, so unsure.

She smiles reassuringly. It’s okay. I promise.

“Okay,” Dustin says slowly, and he looks back at Eddie, raising his eyebrows like he wants to convince him of something. “See you tomorrow, Eddie.”

Eddie nods, but doesn’t speak.

He lifts his hand in a weak wave as Dustin leaves. It’s shaking. Claudia sits down by the bed. Puts her hand in his.

Eddie stares at her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so sorry for what we did to you.”

Eddie shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You didn’t—” He clears his throat. “It wasn’t you.”

Claudia shakes her head, too, slowly—prays that he can really hear this. “No, no, please. Listen to me. I’m so sorry.”

It would be an easy thing to say, that the town of Hawkins wronged Eddie Munson. But that would make it sound so impersonal: like it was inevitable, just one of these tragic things that happened, nothing to be done about it. Like earthquakes.

But that wasn’t true. People were behind this, and Claudia knows that they are all the town, every single one of them. And what did it say about them, that the fear and mistrust and cruelty spread like wildfire? That not one adult in the town hall stood up, begged people to stop, to think again?

“Th-thank you,” Eddie says. It sounds so uncertain, almost like a question.

Claudia squeezes his hand. “You were with Dustin, weren’t you?” she asks. “When the earthquake…”

His hand is shaking again.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I-I’m sorry, I—” He swallows. “I didn’t want a-anything to happen to him.”

“Oh, honey.” She reaches out cautiously, and when he doesn’t freeze up, she cups his cheek; her heart breaks at the rough indent of a scar beneath her palm. “You’re not God.”

Eddie reaches up, pressing her hand further against his cheek. He’s crying.

Claudia wipes his tears away as much as she can. She keeps up a steady murmur: “Shh, shh. I know you kept him as safe as you could. I know, I know. Shh.”

When he starts to calm, she thanks him again, but for something lighter.

“Dusty… he was so nervous, starting high school. But his first day, when I picked him up, all he could talk about was getting invited to have lunch with… well, a club.” Claudia smiles. “Oh, he was talking a mile a minute, I could hardly keep up. But I… oh, Eddie, I understand now. That was you.”

Eddie grins back. His cheeks are still wet.

“I didn’t do much,” he says. “You’ve…” For a moment, his eyes fill up again, but they look like happy tears. “You’ve got some kid, Mrs Henderson. He’s—he’s a real gem.”

She laughs. “Oh, I know.”

It’s one of the many things she loves about Dustin: that he’s always been so unashamedly, so joyously himself.

And Eddie had clearly seen that in him, had taken him in and nurtured everything that made him so.

The door abruptly slams open.

Steve’s in the doorway; he must’ve been running, is still gasping for breath as he says, panicked, “Claudia, I can—”

“Steve,” Eddie says softly, and that’s all.

But it’s clearly enough, because Steve’s shoulders drop in relief, and then he’s shutting the door, coming to Eddie’s bedside like he belongs there, and Eddie’s smiling at him, so tenderly…

And oh, she was young, once. She knows what she’s looking at.

Of course, she doesn’t mention it, can still sense some residual anxiety radiating from them.

Instead she looks around the room, spots a pile of laundry in the corner. It’s been stuffed into a bag; she recognises that as belonging to Steve, but there’s some shirts in there that are definitely Eddie’s, entwined with Steve’s things.

She stands, but before she can even pick up the bag, it seems like Steve’s read her mind, because he’s stepping forward, stopping her with a touch to her forearm.

“Oh, you don’t have to—I’m taking care of it, Claudia.”

She pats his cheek, lingers there until he smiles. “I know, sweetheart. But… would you let me? It’s the least I can do.”

Eddie reaches up from the bed, squeezes Steve’s elbow. Steve sighs, briefly leaning into him.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s… thank you.”

“As long as you do one thing for me.”

“Of course,” Steve says immediately. “Anything.”

Claudia brings out a notepad and pen from her bag. “Write me a list? Anything you’d like, I’ll be shopping anyway.” She looks Steve in the eyes, adds firmly but with a smile, “It’s no trouble.”

Steve takes the notepad, twirls the pen hesitantly.

“Anything you’d like,” Claudia repeats. She glances at Eddie, says, “You know, if you want a different shampoo than what they have here, things like that, or—”

“Oh, uh, it’s okay,” Eddie says quickly. “Whatever’s on sale is—”

“I know, honey,” Claudia says patiently, “but what would you actually like?”

The last extended hospital stay she’d had was fifteen years ago; Dustin had been a preemie, and one of the few things that kept her calm was the familiar: scents, food, people…

Steve chuckles. “I’ve got it.” He writes on the notepad, and Eddie must be able to read it, because he suddenly turns a little pink.

“How did you know that?”

Steve shrugs, smiles. “I notice things.” He writes down just a couple more things, then hands the list back. “Thank you so much, Claudia.”

“Any time, sweetie, I mean it.” She hugs Steve goodbye, then reaches one last time for Eddie’s hand on the bedspread. “It was lovely to meet you, Eddie. Hope you can go home soon.”

“Yeah, me—me too. Thank you, Mrs Hend—” Steve squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie stops. Smiles. “Thank you, Claudia.”

She looks back once to shut the door behind her. Steve’s pulling up a chair, as close as he can get, and as the door closes, she hears him tut softly, gently swiping at the remaining trail of tears on Eddie’s face: “Hey, what—?”

They look like they belong together. Dustin’s boys.

Dustin’s asleep in the car, pillow pressed against the window. Claudia puts the bag of laundry in the trunk before quietly slipping into her seat.

Dustin wakes anyway as they drive out of the parking lot. “Eddie… okay?”

“He is, honey. Steve’s with him.”

“Mm… good.” There’s a pause, and Claudia thinks he’s fallen asleep again, but then he says, tentative, “Mom?”

“Yes, Dusty?”

“If I tell you something… d’you promise to keep it private?”

“As long as it’s not hurting anyone.”

“It’s not,” Dustin says firmly. “Um. Steve and Eddie, I think… I think they’re…”

Claudia smiles, nods encouragingly. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

Dustin hums in agreement. “They’ve not told me. Did I… do something wrong?”

“No, baby. You just keep doing what you’re doing.” Claudia feels a lump in her throat. “You’re a good friend.”

Dustin makes an uncertain noise.

“You are, baby. They love you very much, you know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Dustin sighs. “I know.” His eyes are closing.

“Sorry, baby, just before you sleep—are there any candies Steve and Eddie like?”

Dustin nods. “Eddie likes anything sweet. An’ Steve…” He yawns. “Anything w’peanut butter.”

“Great. Thank you, honey.”

Dustin’s already asleep.

Claudia knows that even with what she’s learned today, she still only has half a story, if that. That there’s something more to Dustin’s exhaustion, to just how Eddie ended up in a hospital bed.

Today, she’ll do all she can. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. Laundry and shopping, reading the brand of shampoo Steve wrote with a careful eye. She’ll fill her cart up with treats, things that won’t solve anything; they might make staying in that hospital room just a little easier, though. Make it feel a little warmer, a little more like home.

But first, she’ll take her boy home; she’ll park the car as close to the front door as she can get, and when he doesn’t stir, she’ll run a hand through his hair, gently put him to bed.

𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 [9.3k!!]; friends to lovers, forced proximity, mutual pining, kinda dialogue heavy, soft kisses, eventual smut, not much dirty talk bc they're really sweet about it, p in v (unprotected 😛) 18+! inspired by this beauty of a fic by @rebelfell

ALSO!! this is my submission for day one of @littlexdeaths twelve days of promptmas writing game!! 🫶🏻🎄

Your regularly scheduled movie night runs amuck when your friends ditch out because of the heavy snow. Everyone except Steve, that is. Trapped in your apartment during a freak blizzard, stuck together under a mountain of blankets with nowhere to go anytime soon, your night eventually leads to some confessions.

I don't proofread my work before posting, so please be forgiving of any mistakes.

"Can you let me in? S'fucking freezing out here".

Steve's shivering voice carries tacky through the tannoy, receiver pressed to your ear as you buzz him in to your apartment complex.

He's right, it was fucking freezing. It's not like you had left the safety of your small apartment today, but the snow had been falling heavy since around 5am. A particularly loud snow plough had awoken you in the early hours, not that it had been back around since, sheets of sparkling white caking the road outside. You didn't know where the sidewalk ended and the street began.

It had become something of a ritual, twice monthly movie nights where your friends flocked to your place on a Friday night with snacks galore in hand. It was cramped, delightful sure, but cramped. You, Robin, Steve, Nancy, Jonathon, Argyle, and Eddie, all crowded into your living room that barely had capacity to house but one visitor was something out of an SNL sketch. Your second-hand sofa wasn't big enough and despite the regularity of their company, you never quite had enough glasses to go around.

Sometimes the kids joined, sometimes they didn't. It was easier when they were absent, since space was scarce and Eddie could turn up proud as punch with an obscene amount of beers tucked tightly under his arms. Jonathon and Argyle never failed to provide generously fat pre-rolled joints of their precious Purple Palm Tree Delight. Even Nancy sometimes brought a couple bottles of wine to liven the party.

But Hawkins, Indiana had been under attack by a particularly intense snow storm the past week. Gradually with each passing day, you would receive phone calls that one of them couldn't make it, which in time lead to all but one cancelling on you. Firstly it was Jonathon and Nancy, explaining that Joyce would be frantic if either of them even attempted to trudge across town in this weather.

Argyle followed soon after, something about the biting chill giving him bad vibes. Eddie the next day, apologetically explaining that he didn't want to leave Wayne considering there was the promise of a blizzard on the horizon. Then Robin only this morning. She didn't even need to provide a reason, you let her off the hook regardless, the night was a total flop anyways.

You hadn't actually told Steve that the others had dipped, assuming that Robin would have filled him in. They were roommates after all, they shared everything with each other, and you had obviously wrongly supposed a cancelled movie night would've been included in that everything.

"Robin not tell you?" you huff at him with your arms folded, not with impatience or annoyance, more guilty with the knowledge that he had driven through mountainous reams of snowfall just to get here.

"Tell me what?" Steve glances up at you as he's dusting off his coat outside the door, melting pearlescent beads of remnant snowflakes twinkling at the tips of his hair.

"Everyone canceled," you shrug, a small tremble engulfing you as you face the icy breeze, and Steve easily picks up on the disappointment laced within the words. You had been in your comfy clothes all day, a cream long sleeved cotton shirt and some baby blue checkered pyjama bottoms, well accustomed to the snug safety of your apartment, so the bite of frost outside your front door was a bit of a shock.

His cheeks are speckled a deep candy floss blush, no doubt chilled to the bone considering the plummeting temperature outside, the tip of his nose that one shade darker.

Pretty, you think despite yourself, gaze lingering a little too long, the sensation of a heated flush spreading along your chest beneath your cotton lounge shirt.

"Haven't seen her," he shrugs back. "Since work closed until this weather lightens up, she sleeps like... all day," his eyes widen in a side glance, pausing the ruffling of his sleeves to affix his stare to you in emphasis. You chuckle, standing to the side where he shuffles past into the hallway to kick off his sneakers that were entirely inappropriate for this time of the season.

"Sorry, you travelled all this way in that shit just to go right back out there again," you cross your arms over yourself a second time, eyebrows furrowing, leaning slack against the radiator that buzzed with delightful warmth.

He eyes you then, confused, as he hangs his coat casually beside yours, clearly not in any rush the step back out into the barrage or sleet and powder white. Steve turns in your direction, his hand through his damp hair that flicks droplets of water onto the floor below him.

"You want me to go?" he responds flatly, a curious tilt of his head, and you immediately redden with panic. Jesus, did you just hurt his feelings? Was it wrong of you to presume he didn't want to stay? But why would he? The two of you never hang out alone.

"No, no. That's not what I meant at all" you assure him in a hurry, tripping over yourself with a small breathy chuckle following swiftly behind in an attempt you save yourself. Steve's lips tighten into a line, though the corners lift into the wisp of a smile nonetheless.

Your heartbeat thrums in your chest, right up into your throat so intensely you were sure that Steve could see your skin pulsing. Though he's just nodding in thought, training his gaze at anywhere but you, and you're both subdued into a terribly long beat of silence. Great, now we've fucked it. God, if you're listening, please let the ground swallow me whole.

Steve had been someone you admired from afar. Of course you considered him a friend, but that type of friend you only hung out with when others were around. You would be lying to yourself if you said that a crush wasn't mingling there at the depth of your belly, a feathered flutter of wings circling around your heart whenever he would beam all pearly white teeth and glossy lips.

Everyone but him seemed to know it, sense it, as if cupid had physically manifested themselves and shot you square in your left ass cheek. Maybe that was why Robin didn't tell him, knowing in her plotting mind that Steve would for sure turn up at your door anyways. Robin knew Steve as well as she knew herself, souls connected at the heart, and you could picture the evil smirk on her face when the lightbulb moment hit.

Steve was kind of the blueprint, not just in your book, clearly. You knew how popular he was with the ladies, and goddamn you couldn't blame them. Angled jaw and olive skin, constellations of espresso freckles that complimented him so nicely. He was also so kind, goofy and silly, bitchy when he wanted to be but mostly raw sugar and candy apple sweetness.

But it was Steve. And you were you. The feeling would not be mutual, as much as your heart swelled at the thought of any maybe's, you had come to terms with that. It was easier that way.

"Well, I brought these," He fills the suffocating gap and you're snapped from your enraptured trance, digging into a blue plastic bag that was swinging from his wrist. You're watching him fumble, a deep crease between his brows and he's frowning. At least you can stare at him that little bit longer.

Steve eventually pulls out two boxes of Nerds, shaking them enticingly in your direction. There's that flutter again, seduced by his natural charm even when he wasn't trying. "I know they're your favourite. Watermelon and cherry, right?".

You were taken aback for a moment, you didn't even know that Steve payed so much attention to you, especially to the things you like. You're a little puzzled but you take them from his grasp with grace nonetheless, your fingertips brush faintly, noting the breath that hitches at the back of your throat that you force yourself to ignore.

"Right. Thanks". Your heartbeat pumps violently beneath the skin of your cheeks that were now a fiery shade of red. You probably sound a tad ungrateful right now, but the tips of your ears were burning and your mouth had run dry and you couldn't help it when the radiator was this hot at your back.

"No problem. Oh and this too". It sounds like he didn't notice your tone, either that or he chose to not pay it much mind. He's handing you a VHS tape then, surely one he had taken from work without hiring it out as he was supposed to. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. You hadn't seem it, four years late to the hype, but this works for you.

You smile back at him, those growing embers of fondness stoke a little wilder in your tummy, and Steve returns the grin just as kindly. The small pause of discomfort fizzled out as quickly as it came, no longer looming when Steve's eyes lifted with affection, platonically of course, glinting handsomely at the corners.

"Perfect. Come in, make yourself at home". You're ushering him inside, socked feet pattering down the hallway with Steve following a pace behind. He knew your apartment like the back of his hand, which wasn't exactly hard. If your group had an assigned headquarters, it would be your place that only had two windows and a bathroom so miniature you could barely take a shower in it.

Your evening set in motion like clockwork. Steve was busying himself with setting up the VHS player, proudly stationing your couch cushions just right on each end, a generous selection of candy littering your coffee table.

Nerds, red vines, milk duds, and cherry sours. The only thing missing was popcorn, which you were hastily shoving into your microwave that would pick and choose when to work. Thankfully, it was on your side tonight. It must have known you were a nervous wreck as it was, which feels dumb to think of in the moment afterwards.

"Uh... No alcohol tonight, though. That okay?" you call to Steve through the walkway after searching through the fridge, twinging with guilt again when you pull out a half empty bottle of cherry soda, as if it was difficult for him to hear you from the next room.

"You think I need alcohol to have a good time with you?" Steve chirps, a cocky eyebrow quirking as he appears through the kitchen doorway, and damn him you were scorching something sickening again.

Steve had turned up in some well fitting grey sweats and a navy blue-black sweater, with some mismatched socks to complete. An attire you couldn't miss when you first opened the door to him merely fifteen minutes earlier. You try not to stare, honestly you do. But those sweats fit him so well in all the right places and he was leaning so slack against the door frame, sleeves shifted up a quarter with his arms criss crossed. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

"I didn't mean it like that," you have to turn away from him before the staring became too apparent, focusing your attention on the dwindling pop pop popping in the microwave. "You warmed up enough yet?", you ask in desperation to change the topic.

It was only half a lie, that you didn't mean it in that way. The majority of social situations you had experienced with Steve involved alcohol; hangouts, parties, afternoons lounging around at community pool, that one summer where you all took a spontaneous day trip to Michigan City beach.

Where a set of sunburst hazelnut eyes peered at you fondly over the lip of a beer bottle, cheesy grin dripping in admiration that you had only taken in chaste. Steve had let it linger too, comfortable enough in your presence around friends, observing your doting smile and sing-songy laugh. But the thought of being alone with you made his heart skip, enjoying your company at arms length because of course he didn't like you like that, right?

Of course you wouldn't feel the same even if he did... right?

"I don't know, have I?" he's trialing, voice carrying closer the longer he speaks, and with your back turned, head bubbling over in thought and vulnerable to his actions, Steve presses the frozen back of his hand to the nape of your neck. His fingers hook absentmindedly beneath the collar of your shirt, and you yelp loud in response to his icy touch.

"You jerk!" A shrill floods his ears as you jump away from him, mouth agape and hands flying to swat him away. Steve is laughing, really laughing, and it's so chocolatey rich and sickly sweet and fucking intoxicating.

"Jesus christ, your hands are purple," you announce when you calm, discreet alarm hidden beneath your swift once over of him, chuckling with half the heart since your spine had ricocheted in a white-hot tremor. You reach for him then and he lets you, stepping into his space to encompass all eight fingers and two thumbs around his.

Steve watches you with a kind of intensity you weren't used to, the soft swipe of your fingertips kindling where you were burning, ice to your fire.

You nibble at your bottom lip, the corner of it dipping where you're gnawing at the skin on the inside. A tender dip atop the bridge of your nose, and Steve could count every blemish, every freckle, and every smile line this close up.

You couldn't look at him, losing your nerve at the mere thought of meeting his honeysuckle gaze, and he's thankful for it. Because now he can stare a little longer at you, too.

"Anyway..." you trail off distractedly, a brief glance up at Steve then back to your intertwined hands again. He clears his throat, a harsh swallow then he’s dropping away from where you linked. The room was colder when he took one step back into his own space, purposefully creating that distance.

"Popcorn?" he adds with a breath of finality and a small smile, mentally challenging himself to pay no mind to the lingering warmth of your touch. He shoos you out of the kitchen once you nod, eyes a little sparkly and rounded at the edges.

Steve finishes up in the kitchen as you collect an extra blanket from your bedroom, grabbing two full glasses he had filled with a generous helping of ice and soda in each on your way past again.

Dimming the lights in the living room like you do every movie night, you stand back to admire the sheer cosiness of it all with the snow flurrying down through the window above the television.

It still felt strange, collapsing onto the couch as Steve follows shortly after with a rather large bowl cupped in both hands, towering with buttery popcorn. Though you relax a little in each other's company rather swiftly, cosying a respectable width apart with the bowl secured between the side of your thigh and his.

You settle back into the couch once the movie develops full swing, revelling in the opportunity to steal greedy glances at Steve from the corner of your eye. Mocha blemishes and eyes flashing sparkly with the reflection of the television screen. Your gaze flits to where his silken lips stretch wide absentmindedly, chitters of laughter through his teeth and huffs through his nose.

You don't think you have ever watched him this long, especially not in in the security of nobody else clocking your ogling. Your head lolls back, attention flicking back to the movie when he would readjust or reach for more popcorn.

You didn't stare at him too long, just in calculated intervals. But you revel in him despite yourself; his left arm is stretched along the top of the sofa, fingertips a mere inch or so from the tilt of your scalp in his direction, thighs spread wide beneath the blanket, taking up far too much room, and the back of your neck prickles with some sort of ferocious heat.

You concentrate on the movie again, the possibility of Steve catching you mouth parted and lids heavy, blatantly undressing him with your eyes made your stomach twist. He's just a friend.

Neither of you had said a word in about 40 minutes, not that you had to. The silence was comfortable enough and the copious amount of snacks before you kept your hands occupied.

Though Steve snook at few peaks your way too, soft features and fluttering lashes, fingers twitching when he studies the strands of hair that illuminate silver and blue. He knows he shouldn't, and he curses himself as he surveys the cushioned push and pull of your lips as you chew on a red vine.

Another couple minutes pass, reaching into the bowl beside you to grab a fistful of popcorn, fully engrossed in the flicking scenes in front of you at this point. Steve's hand was digging into the pile too, though his movements considerably slow when his fingertips brush with yours.

You pull back with a clipped "Oop", darting a glance that meets his, and you blush where he pales. Steve's skin is alight, all firing nerve endings and dancing senses.

You're leaning forward then to grab a sweating glass of soda from the coffee table, shuffling to the edge of the couch and shifting yourself unintentionally further into his space. The plush of your hip nudges a fraction into his kneecap, enough for you to both notice, but neither of you move away this time.

You picture Robin beaming down at the scene, the air electric and thick with an unspoken eagerness to be close, so close, closer. Whether this was a wicked plan or not, you knew that the rest of your group would be sighing in relief that the two of you were even just alone together, for goodness sake. Because if you both stewed long enough in this growing familiarity, this growing fondness, face to face with temptation, maybe then these seemingly unrequited feelings would come to a head. At last.

50 minutes in and Steve knows the scene that's about to flash up, literally, because who doesn't pause Fast Times at 53 minutes and 5 seconds? The pool scene. Red bikinis, dripping wet hair and bare tanned skin, you can't look away. Your eyes are fixated on the screen but Steve's are glued to your face, noticing the way your lips part wet at the centre and you grip your glass that tiny bit tighter.

Though as fate allows, it never reaches the crescendo, the iconic segment coming to a close and just as Phoebe Cates goes to undo the front of her bikini top, the screen cuts to black. The lights do the same, no warning, just complete darkness with the only saving grace being the amber streams of light cutting through your window from the street lamps outside.

"What?!" you exhale harder than you meant to, glancing up at the ceiling where the filament of the bulb still glows bronze at the centre as it dies out. Steve rests his head back, a short laugh rattling in his chest in disbelief.

"Goddamn, haven't seen a tit in at least 6 months and this is how I'm treated?" he's rubbing the space between his eyebrows, harshly wiping his palm down the centre of his face and stalling over his mouth.

"Fuck, sorry," you heard him but weren't exactly listening, though you're apologising and he's confused by it, knees knocking with his when you shimmy forward and stand with purpose.

"This happened before?" Steve asks gently without judgement, trained on your movements as you pace over to the light switch to flick it up and down once, twice, three times, to no avail.

"Once," you glower, immediately grumpy and frustrated. "And my dumbass landlord never got the backup generator fixed either, so I doubt that'll save us". Steve grins at the way your expression crumples, petulant and stroppy but he wants to iron the creases out with his thumbs.

"You're laughing" you tell him pointedly, hands on your hips and one brow raised in a terrible display of sternness. Steve holds up his hands in surrender, voice as smooth as silk, "I would never laugh at you".

You believe him and feel your shoulders relax, running your hands over your face amidst a heavy sigh as you collapse back on the couch with him again. "Sorry that this has been a lame movie night," you're apologising once more and Steve is already sick of it, not in a irritated way, he just doesn't like the fact that you're clearly stressed.

"What?" Steve turns himself toward you, left leg triangled underneath him. You're pouting, shiny bottom lip pressed forward with your arms crossed over yourself. "No it's not. Honestly, I don't know why we don't hang out more."

"We hang out all the time, Steve" you remind him.

He rolls his eyes, head craning around and back onto his shoulders without any meanness in it, and you know him well enough to realise there was no intended hostility. "Yeah, but I mean... like, just the two of us," he corrects as if his initial intent was obvious, hands gesturing between the two of you.

Your hand reaches up to scratch at your cheek, concealing your giddy expression from him, skin warmer than the baking sun during mid July. God, your heart was in your throat. Just chill out.

"Did you only choose Fast Times so you could see a fucking tit?" you direct the conversation elsewhere before the iron grip of nerves rusts you beyond compare, like tin in a rainstorm. Your arms are still folded, the corners of your mouth twitched upwards in feigned disgust.

"Listen, I know that's on brand for me. But it was the first thing I saw on the shelf before I closed up the other day, okay?". Liar.

His cheeks are painted beetroot, that kind of dusting of deep rouge he got whilst four beers deep, a look you were familiar with at least two friends apart with music or blurred chatter overtaking any opportunity to absorb the sheer handsomeness of him.

Your skin prickles all over and the hairs on your arms stand on end, whether that be from the quickly dwindling heat in the cramped space, or from feeling like a organism under Steve's microscope, you weren't sure. Probably both. Definitely both.

Frost had now crystallised and diamond-dotted around the corners of the window, not helping any that it was merely single-paned. So the heat that did collect declined twice as fast.

"Okay, slick. I'll let you off easy," you prod, matching his eye-roll, nails scraping up and under your sleeves in an attempt to smooth out the goosebumps taking over. Steve follows your hands, a dip in his expression, a very illustrated sort of look.

"You cold?" he asks, then continues before you could answer, "You not got any candles or something?".

Your eyes light up at first, back straightening when you realise that you in fact do have some candles, ones you had collected over the years from birthdays and Christmas gifts. Though the hope is short lived, slumping back down even further into the cushions when you remember, "Fuck, I don't have a light though".

"I have some matches in my car," Steve sticks a thumb to the door, and the way you beam up at him from your turtled position has him heating up from the inside out.

"Wait there, I'll be right back," he's stumbling up off the couch, trudging down the hallway with a purpose, completely skipping his coat. He was a man on a mission.

It was the couple minutes that you were alone where you could finally fucking breathe. An ant under a magnifying glass being singed till your antennas smoked this entire time. It wasn't awkward, it was something in-between, like you couldn't exhale all the way out but also couldn't inhale all the way in either.

Two flights of stairs separate your front doorway and the complex lobby, therefore you were unable to hear Steve barging himself into an extremely stiff, absolutely without a doubt, frozen solid plexiglass. The at least two feet of snow that had collected in a pile-up right outside was no help either.

So Steve trudges back upstairs where you wait for him criss-cross applesauce, just as he had asked, chin ducked to his chest and hands running across his clammy face. Sweaty and exacerbated, he breaks the news that you were positively, doubtlessly, maybe or maybe not unfortunately, snowed in. Together. Trapped. With Steve. Alone.

"So what now?" you ask him when your face drops, no electricity and no heat with no way to get out of the building made your heart leap up into your throat for all of the wrong reasons.

"We uhhhh, we wait," Steve declares with a flair of certainty, trying to offer that sense of security you were gasping for in that moment. Though you didn't quite like that answer, no offence to him of course but you just couldn't accept waiting. So you hop up off the couch and call your landlord so that he could get his sorry ass up and actually call a goddamn snowplough or something.

"No answer. Of course he doesn't fucking answer," the last two words are accentuated by a pitiful slam of the receiver into the wall beside your telephone, a tilt into the more dramatic side but Steve kept his mouth firmly closed with that one. It was well past nine o'clock at night at this point, so neither of you expected to be able to leave until the early hours of the morning at the very least.

How utterly unfortunate.

You position yourself closer to Steve this time, swallowing over the nerves that wad up good and tight in your throat. He's sitting spread eagle as per usual, head leaning into the heel of his palm where his elbow is propped up on the arm of the couch, the other crossed over his lap.

"It's cold," you tell him bluntly as you bite the bullet and cosy yourself into his side, head on his shoulder, softening when he's peering down at you a little too skittishly. "Too close?" you question, then you're lifting your head up, a small gut punch when he doesn't respond immediately but it was one that you could probably manage.

"No! No, you're fine," Steve rushes to say and you were glad of it, unsure you could take the sting of rejection now that it didn't come, not when you had been shoulder to shoulder all evening.

You slip into silence then, one where neither of you were compelled to fill the gap.

His head is dizzy with you when you ease into him, floating into a dreamlike place when the smell of you overwhelms him. Vanilla and honey, a buttermilk richness that makes him want to press his nose into your hair. He won't though, that'd be weird. Since you were friends and all.

You could smell him too, bergamot and sage. Masculine and expensive, a scent you had picked up on before, but not one that filled your nostrils and sent you dumb with every inhale. Steve could undoubtably say that your breathing had changed, deepened. His mouth perks up into a faint smile.

Just friends.

Explicitly friends, even when Steve's hot palm skates over the back of your hand, fingers splaying out and catching at your wrist. Your pulse ramps up and you gawk up at him doe-eyed and pliant. He's swift with it, ensuring that you weren't caressing him in any way, just a quick slip up the shirt where your skin meets the forest of chest hair.

Steve must feel the bob of your throat as you swallow, because the sensation of his heart clattering under his ribs vibrates your nerves. "This too much? Sorry, I shouldn't've-" he grips your hand again but you resist him, pads of your fingers anchoring into his thatch of hair.

"No, no, it's okay. I'm fine with it if you are," You whisper to him in earnest, as if sharing a secret, scooting your head down so the shell of your ear closes right over where his heart sits. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Each beat comes in rapid succession, especially so when your fingertips flex inattentively against his balmy skin.

"You're so warm," you mutter tenderly into the sanctuary that was his sweater, and Steve's breath almost hitches. Your voice is caramel smooth, comforting like a hot bath after a long day, as soft as feather-down pillows and fresh cotton sheets.

"And your hands aren't so purple anymore," you're thinking out loud at this point but Steve is listening, extending his arm you were leaning on once more so that you dropped into his side, head cradled at the dip where his armpit begins.

"Think you've helped me warm up just fine," he's speaking low, the verbalisation mulling over his tongue and purring at the back of his throat. It was enough to make you tremble, the deepness of it when he shushes to match you.

Despite the tip of your nose numbing from the chill, the intimacy of your circumstance cancelled out any bitter altitude. Never in a million years did you think you would be cuddling up to Steve Harrington like this. The Steve Harrington you admired from at least six feet away, the Steve Harrington that you were only in the presence of, at the very least, in the company of his shadow, Robin.

"It's late," you comment after a few minutes, charting the rise and fall of his chest, the steadiness of his heart that fell back into a somewhat regular pace once he acclimated to the weight of your palm.

"You wanna head to bed? I can sleep out here," he's asking with sincerity, but you wish he wouldn't. Steve huffs out a laugh through the nose that strokes at the climbing butterflies begging to fly out from that space between the cage of your ribs and the plummet of your stomach.

You shake your head, eyebrows dipping with two harsh tucks of skin that he has to hold back a laugh against, forced to restrain himself when all he wanted was to keep you this close for as long as humanly possible.

"Steve?" the mutter of his name climbs higher at the end.

"Hm?"

"You really think we should hang out more?" your voice errs on the side of doubt, as if you didn't believe him the first time round, and Steve takes in a stunted breath as he mulls over the question.

He stills for a moment, then takes a more even inhale through his parted lips, and you can hear the grin that accompanies his answer. "Duh. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it".

You perk your head up to peek at him for the first time in a little while, chin prodding sharp into his breastbone but he doesn't say, not when you're so wide-eyed and breathtakingly beautiful in a way that would put Gia Carangi to shame.

"You're full of shit," you're chuckling and Steve wants to swallow every breeze of it, the whites of your teeth twinkling and eyes shining twice as bright. He can't fasten his attention to one specific part of your face, flitting down to the pull of your lips, watching the rosy hue flood over your cheeks, back up again to where you peer at him almost expectantly.

Your stares interlocked then, his golden gaze outpouring with the heat of a bonfire, pressed this close you could both feel the kick up of your hearts. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Quadruple the speed as before and double the ferocity, your ears burned with it. Neither of you made a move to look away, not a chance.

"I uhm... I really wanna do something right now, but-" Steve cuts himself short when you stretch your neck up toward him, moving up as he's leaning down. Jesus christ, you feel sick with the nerves. Sick with the intimacy of him, sick with the scorching brush of his fingers behind your ear along the curve of your neck.

"It's okay," you're mumbling, the wash of your permission running over his lips that were so close you could already taste him. Steve's mouth twists up at the corners, the satin stroke of where he's teasing you with the promise of a kiss he's not giving you just yet.

But only for a couple seconds, unable to hold back for long when you suck in a desperate sort of noise, and your grip solidifies at his chest to the point where your nails are casting crescent moons in his skin.

The seal of your lips is courteous, joint satisfied and relieved exhales a tsunami over the flesh of your cheeks and lower jaw. It's nothing more than one long press, nothing too crazy, an ebbing wave of give and take.

"Sorry..." he mutters when you part, merely an inch or so, and you're almost compelled to punch him. The main thing you had been doing all evening was apologising to each other.

"Why are you sorry?" you're whispering and he's desperate to kiss you again, longing to erase that hint of disappointment in your eyes that squashes your pretty features.

"I dunno," his laugh has an edge to it, shy, and you never thought the boy had any capability of being shy of all things.

"You don't want to do it again?" you squint at him, loaded with insincere scrutiny that has his fingers clasping fully to the back of your neck to reel you right back in. A breathy laugh escapes him, his intent as clear as the blooming sunrise shedding light upon a tangerine coloured sky.

The second bump of your lips has more purpose behind it, teetering on the edge of unforgiving, brimming with unspoken truths and wordless confessions. You heave through the nose at this harsher descent onto one another, slipping your hand from under his shirt to bury your nails into the mess of hair behind his ear instead.

He really tastes you then when you open up to him with a muted smack of your lips, artificial cherries and candied watermelon. You can taste him too, lingering milk chocolate and sickly sweet berries. The sweep of his tongue over yours crack fireworks behind your eyes, nothing too hot and heavy just yet, still gentlemanly in his approach, knowing you can cut this short whenever you wanted.

You push yourself up after a minute of wet sloven kisses, begrudgingly having to separate yourselves so that you can shift onto your knees. Steve is watching, grilling you with the fire of his blown out pupils.

The timidness remains deep within the barren of your chest, swallowed by your determination to bring to life all of these wants and desires that had loomed over you for as long as you had known him. Of course the fear is still seated within you, especially when it comes to Steve. Because it's Steve. Handsome, charming, just out of reach Steve who carried a torch for you at the back of a crowd.

He's contemplating you as you move, not entirely certain of where to look; your dreamy expression, already swollen lips that are now twice as inviting, the warm spread of your doughy thighs as you position yourself over him.

He decides then to spread his palms over the fall of your waist, fingers binding to the hills of flesh hidden beneath cotton. You encapsulate his face in your hands, thumbing over his cheekbones, burning up again when his tongue dips out to wet his bottom lip.

Slick, pink and polished with your mixed fervour, noses bumping somewhat clumsy when you take this time to just drink each other in for a second. You chased where he dipped, the curve of your lower lip skating up over his cupid's bow.

It was deafeningly quiet without the blare of the movie in the background, sounds of dreamy sighs and lovesick panting permeating the air and drowning out the whistling howl of the blizzard wind. You were smothered under the safety of the night, cast in raven shadows and the silvery glows of the moon being your only witness.

You can feel it, the growing tent of him under those goddamn grey sweats. You test the waters, weighting yourself down further to nudge your centre right over his lap. Steve's mouth dries up almost immediately at the contact, fingers digging into you with a sudden cruelty and it is the first time you hear him moan.

God, you wish you could capture it on tape, and you choke on a breath when he does it. The richness of it, testosterone and roughness that demands you to press down on him again. Steve rolls his hips as you squirm above him, gasping into his waiting mouth as you ramp each other up into one giant needy mess.

"You're on fire. You wanna stop?" His question comes to you through the thick smog of want eventually, noticing that he's pulled back to inspect you like a bird with a broken wing, palm cupping the underside of your jaw, tipping your head from side to side as your bated breaths mingle into a simultaneous heave.

"You just made a noise like that and you're asking if I wanna stop?"

He swallows, swears at himself then his lashes are fluttering when he meets your eye. He's stumbling over a response, totally disbelieving that he's finally in this situation in the first place. So many fantasies and wet dreams come to life at long last.

"I don't want you to think-" almost combusting when you lean forward again and tread your lips along his jawline. "Fuck- that I just came here to, to..." he whines into your hair as he succumbs to the slide of your teeth at his pulse point, arms wrapping around your back now to force you closer into him.

"Shut up, I don't think that," you display your honesty with a feathery kinder press of your mouth to the bulge of a vein in his throat. Steve releases a pleased sort of sound, grateful and comforted in the clarity that you wanted this just as much as he did.

"But if you don't want to anymore then that's okay," you're sad when you murmur it into his collar, not in a pressuring manner, and Steve knows you well enough to realise you would never pressure him.

His hands are searching for your face, revealing you from your hiding place of the clammy skin of his neck. Your forehead shines from the outpouring of sheer want and need, shining eyes glazed over and gem-like.

He traces the outer corner of your lip with his thumb, dipping into the crease when you part them slightly for him. He tugs lightly at the pillow of your lower lip, focusing entirely on the way it bounces back and leaves a sheen on his thumb in it's wake.

"Shut up," his abdomen shakes with laughter when he tugs you back to him, and a wrecked sigh overcomes you when your hot mouths meet again. You lick over his tongue with urgency, wild strands of his har wadded up in your fists so tight it almost hurts.

Steve shifts beneath you, arms cascading up and around you, fingers tracing down the curve of your spine and back up again. The delicate touch of skin on skin juxtaposed the meanness of his kisses, noses bruised in a crush together, not even leaning back when you close and part your lips over and over again.

It was like a well oiled machine, accustomed automatically to the seam of his mouth and where you slot perfectly against him. You rock your hips over him again and wish that you could drag this out further, but the way that he's stuttering under you, his movements becoming messier and less calculated, you had to tear his clothes off and get this done with before you both erupted.

You were the first to tug off your shirt, escalating this further and curse you, your hands are shaking as you do so. Steve's ministrations follow your lead, large hot hands spreading flat to take in this new exposed skin.

He treads over the pillow of soft tummy, revels in the feel of the cushion of fat over your ribs under his thumbs, up further until his knuckles are brushing at the underside of your breasts. He hadn't even looked, his eyes are squeezed firmly closed and his features overcome with a look of pure anguish.

Because it was almost too much; the see-saw of your hips over where he was straining in his pants, the softness and heat of your tongue in his mouth, the furnace of your skin in this freezing room, and those fucking sick sounds you were making. You were breaking his will, crumbling chalk beneath your fingers.

"Jesus christ" Steve groans into your open mouth, and you finally pull back so he can eat up your naked torso, feasting on your mouthwatering form. That's it, he's died and gone to heaven. There's no way that this was real.

You’ve seen a tit now, haven’t you, Harrington? You keep that one to yourself, he didn’t need to be embarrassed about it.

But damn you it is real, made even more apparent when you take his hands in yours and guide him to the perk of your breasts. He stills there for a moment, mouth agape and hips grinding up into you without meaning to.

You push his mess of hair away from his face, heart skipping a beat of two, lurching up into your throat when he beams up at you. Full ear to ear grin, teeth and all, large hands kneading into you. Another shift underneath you and your eyes are rolling back, cotton on cotton, the height of your clit prodding right over the grooves of his tip.

Steve slouches from the back of the couch, burying his face into the glossy juncture of your neck, you have to glue your nails into the nape of his hairline to trap him there.

You can't remember the last time you had been kissed like this, or ever in fact, greedy and harsh yet he was only give give give.

He's clumsy as he fondles you, suffocated under the bareness of you but it still wasn't quite enough. His tongue works over where your artery is screaming for him, groaning and tilting your head to the side to jam his mouth even further into you. You arch your back when his teeth ghost over you, not fully biting, just there to tease and make you want him more.

"Steve. Take this off, for fuck sake" you're mewling a plea, scampering to hook your fingers under the hem of his sweater. Steve is more than compliant, anything for you to keep sighing his name just like that. He's chuckling at your urgency, cock kicking up to meet your centre for another countless time. He needs to get these fucking sweats off like five minutes ago.

Your hands are trembling twice as hard as you undress him, and Steve takes laces your fingers in his once he's shirtless.

"It's okay," he soothes, rich and buttery smooth and your heart lurches up into your throat again. "You're okay," he tugs your interlocked hands up to his mouth, stippling one two three kisses across every knuckle and back again. He tucks your fists into his chest, that same soft thatch on full display and you never could have guessed that he was this hairy. It was a pleasant surprise.

"You wanna lay down? Hm?" he's cooing at you, forehead to forehead, but you don't feel chastised by it. You nod, nose bumping with his when you go to tease his lips again. A flush strikes you right from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes when Steve shimmies to the edge of the couch, grip strong as he holds you to him, not once hit with a falling sensation when you glides you to the side to settle you on your back.

He's on top of you then, crowding into your space and you're struggling for breath. He's so close and you still can't quite believe it. Can't believe that he feels this way, can't believe you're about to fuck on the couch where you've spent countless evenings admiring him like a lovesick puppy dog.

"If you wanna stop, you can tell me, 'kay?" your chest concaves and you could actually cry right now, the sweetness of him, so tentative and gentle and alluring.

"'Kay" you mirror back, swaddling his hair in your fist again as you tug him down to your waiting mouth, "Same goes for you". Your knees spread wide to allow him access, lowering himself onto you further, abdomen pinning to yours.

The sweep of his cock hiccups a gasp in your chest that Steve devours in earnest, lips enclosing around your tongue and he sucks. You keen something vicious, any remnants of self control now shattered glass beneath your feet. Steve moans twice as loud, abandoning pleasantries when you're mewling so good for him.

He releases you with a sickly pop, not even giving you a beat to recover before he's kissing you deeply again. Steve rocks the length of his cock along your clothed slit, and when you look down between your sandwiched bodies, there's a darkened patch of grey where he's beading with want.

"Steve, please, just -" but he's already fumbling for your pyjama bottoms, manhandling your hips up without you even needing to do anything. His stare bores into you when he slots his fingers beneath the elastic waistband, honey molten eyes replaced by a marbled inky black.

You whimper at the sight of him, lustful and without restraint, a demeanour you couldn't even conjure up in your daydreams with your hand tucked between your legs. You couldn't get enough of it.

Steve peels back your bottoms and panties in tow, achingly slow and methodical. He breaks eye contact to peak down at where you're fully exposed to him, an etch crumpling between his brows when he Ooh's out loud. You could scream you were so pent up.

"Look at you," he purrs, and your stomach twists with an aching need. He takes your ankle in his hand to pry one leg up and out, your lips blossoming open with the stickiness of your arousal.

"So fucking ready, huh?" he drags his pointer finger over your slit, spreading the mess you had already made of yourself. But you don't let him play for long, you can't, beckoning him up with a curve of your two fingers.

Then you're swallowing each others sounds for another time, Steve's biceps are tensing as he scoops one arm under you, arching your back and bearing your chest to smoosh into his. He's all over you all at once, the underside of his cock rutting through the seeping folds of your cunt.

He kisses at your jaw, murmuring curses and sweet nothings into your blazing skin as he travels down to suck on your neck. There's those teeth he had promised earlier, bruising a spot right beneath your earlobe ivy and plum. He laves over the area in apology, hot mouth softening the blow.

You hiss through the teeth and sway yourself back and forth to meet him, the tip of his cock probing into your aching clit with each overwhelming sweep.

He wanted to love on you more, take his sweet time with you, but the way you were near ripping his hair from the roots and sobbing his name, he was nearing his end much quicker than he intended.

"You ready?" he asks wholeheartedly, waiting on your reply before he did anything else.

"Yeah. Please," your eyes are wet and glassy when they sear into his, and he wasn't a man that would deny the pleas of a beautiful woman.

"Okay, baby. I got you," there was that gentleness again, that practiced well-polished dance of sweet and sour. Rough around the edges with a caramelised sugary centre. Steve grasps himself at the base, angling your hips up so that your opening meets his tip.

The first push of his length into you was easy, of course it was, you were dripping like a fucking faucet. You open up to him no problem, and it only took two thrusts before he bottomed out completely.

You're suspended in time then, the falling snow coming to a halt, the stars cease their twinkling, just so you can bask in this ultimate intimacy for as long as possible. Sucking in his exhale, foreheads leaning together, all either of you can do is just stare and smile.

The kindness resumes, still unmoving, Steve descends his lips back onto yours and the world begins to turn again. "Okay?" he whispers against your lips.

"Okay"

Then you squeeze your gummy walls around him and his angelic exterior shatters a little. Steve plants his hands on either side of your head before he's moving again, dragging his entire length out before sliding right back in to the hilt.

You gasp when he knocks his weight into you right at the end of his thrust, your body prodding upwards into the arm of the couch. It wasn't mean, or cruel, just pleading, carving the shape of himself so he fit perfectly and then some.

"More," you plead, unable to catch the breath it takes to tell him what you want and Steve doesn't half oblige. Your mewling spurs him on, retreating half as much this time but he ruts back into you twice as fast.

He pants out your name, eyes saucered and bottom lashes kissing the skin beneath. One leg is hiked up over the back of the couch, the back of your other knee resting in the crook of Steve's elbow where he's spreading you wide.

It was downright pornographic, the way you opened up for him without shame, but he adjusts his angle the faintest amount and then he's hitting that spot that erupts white light behind your eyes.

Steve mouth drops open when you squeal. "There?" he accentuates with a particularly hard snap of his hips and you almost black out. Tears brim at your waterline, stuffed to the brink of him, overrun with the sensation of having Steve fucking Harrington everywhere. He's watching you like you've hung the moon, tongue drawn between his teeth as he charts every reaction you bestow on him.

If he weaves his fingers with yours again, what would you do? You're grasping onto him as if you would fall into the abyss if you let go, is what you did.

If he bent your leg up that little bit higher and slowed his rhythm, what would you do? You cry his name and crush his fingers between yours until they're contusing indigo, is what you did.

He committed it all to memory, condemning your body to scripture that he would keep under lock and key, tucked snugly into the corner of his mind that he would dig out another time. Maybe even add another page or two, if you'd let him. Please, God, will you let him?

Steve kisses you firmly, with a finality that tells you the end was in sight. With you way you rotate your lap against him, chasing your high, head fuzzy and drifting into a euphoric peak that Steve is climbing to right along with you.

"You feel so, fuck, so good" he praises, pinching the tip of your chin, thumb swiping along your bottom lip. You have half a mind to take it into your mouth, though you can't help but be a little selfish when you can taste your orgasm on the horizon. You just needed one final push.

"I'm really close," you admit, releasing one of his hands to snake your fingers down where your middles meet. Steve's brain completely shuts down as he follows your movement, straightening his back so he has a better view of where you're rubbing tight circles into the bead of your clit.

He's ignited with a new sense of determination, your moans becoming a quiet mess of jumbled pleas and his name, cascading as fluidly as a waterfall. Steve is one for eye contact, you note, pocketing that confidential piece of him just for you.

Your stomach is billowing with pleasure, knot tightening and you swear you can feel Steve's cock swell inside you the closer you get to the edge.

"You gonna cum? Please cum, i'm right fucking there. Goddammit" he's seething through his teeth, another snap of his hips, a second third and fourth, so deep that it aches all the way into your chest. Your fingers are furious the way you tune yourself with the pace he had set, less forgiving and drowned in pure animalistic need.

His name slips off your tongue in prayer, kicking up at the last letters when you fall over that edge for him, exactly in tune to the final drives of his cock, scoring the throbbing veins of his shaft into the grip of your walls.

Steve slows as you both unravel, buried deep where his head nuzzles to the opening of your womb. You close those few inches where his lips sat just out of reach from yours, throaty moans echoing into open mouths, so sloppy that your teeth clack together.

"You are fucking insane," Steve chuckles when he stops twitching, his release already dripping around the base of his cock that's still seated inside you. You kiss him in turn, that wash of shyness overtaking you once more when the buzzing in your head starts to die down.

Steve goes to shift backwards because he knows you're ruining the couch right now, but you make a sort of pathetic sound from the overstimulation, and he settles right back down over you.

You didn't really care about the sore ache in your legs, or the cold globules of cum that were gliding down your ass onto the material below you. You just wanted to lay here with him for a little longer.

When it was all said and done, the rise and fall of your chests steadying, the gravity of the situation catching up with you in the post-coital haze, Steve buries his nose into your hair, lax fingers twirling three quarter circles into your bare shoulder.

He's still hovering over you as his hushes absorb into your scalp, his next words soak into your skin so they can live and breathe as a part of you. Seeping into your pores, coagulating with the warmth of your blood that rushes in and out of your heart.

"I really like you" he confesses, mouth curled into a giddy grin and you can feel it.

"I couldn't tell," you grin when he does, adding, "I really like you too, Steve".

"I'm glad we got snowed in together", he presses a small kiss to your temple and you beckon him down so he's laying on top of you full weight, the shake in his forearms subsiding when he does.

You expect the skin over your ribs to unfold and stitch back together again, sealing him with you for good. Now wouldn't that be lovely.

"Me too"

The flurry slows outside the window, a closing curtain on your first night together, one of many, the sky swirling with amber and lavender hues.

The morning came much sooner than you expected.

holy fuck i'm so sorry this took longer than intended. but ahhh!!!! I loved writing this, II can't tell you how many hours i've put into this, I just have very limited time :( hope you enjoyed regardless <3

gonna tag a couple peeps who have been waiting for this 🫶🏻 @losingmygrasponreality @professionalpromqueen

Marineford goes from extremely tragic to hilarious if you think of it like a DnD complain.

Ace’s player and Luffy’s player are actual brothers.

Ace started playing in late high school / freshman year of collage his first campaign was with the spade pirates but the group fell apart because the other players got job/ went to different schools / just life.

But Ace loved his character and wanted to keep playing. His friend, who played Masked Deuce, wanted to keep playing as well but wanted his character to be more combated focused. So he created the character of Marcos. (Both doctors and first mates, both friends with Ace) They got some new friends and kept playing in the same world just with a new crew

Whitebeard’s player is definitely Marco’s players actual dad. They need another player and Whitebeard loves his son and was like “I’ll play!” He either knows nothing about the game or has been playing since the 80’s and is the most knowledgeable person at the table. There is no in between.

The DM is probably Shanks or Rayleigh. I like to think it’s Shanks and his level 20 character he’s had for years just pops up occasionally to solve problem that the party needs help with.

Anyhow Luffy has heard Ace talk about DnD for years but he doesn’t have any friends to play with. So when he goes to college it’s like his number one goal.

Make friends,

make friends play DnD.

(We will talk about the Strawhats chaos later)

So everything’s going great. Ace visited Luffy and joined in on a few of their sessions. Still plays Ace, he loves this character, he’s played him for like four years now. But he gets to know Luffy’s friends and joins them for a bit in Alabasta.

He goes back to his complain and tells the whole group about Luffy (he has been for years but now he can talk about Luffy’s complain) and everyone wants him to bring Luffy around to play with them.

But then tragedy. The whitebeards have to disband, most of them are graduating, Marco’s player is going to med school it’s just going to be a long time before they can all sit down and play again.

So they decided to go out with a bang!

The Dm has Ace get captured and they plan this elaborate jail break for the party. But it just so happens Luffy is going to be on break at the same time as their last few sessions. And wouldn’t it be great if he joined them!

So the Dm (they are Dming both games god bless them) has the strawhats split up (they are all going on break and it’s a fun story reason for why they all won’t be together) then he pulls Luffy aside and is like, how do you feel about playing with your brother’s group? Luffy’s pumped he’s never been so excited.

So Luffy does all of impel down. Ace is there cheering him on and having fun role play at the same time. His friend Jinbei had wanted to try playing for a while so they gave him a character card and him and Luffy escaped Jail together.

But then we get to the actual Marineford season. It last for hours. There’s combat. There’s roll play. What none of the players knew, was that Whitebeard had approached the Dm about his character dying in combat protecting his kids. (He wanted this to be a memorable session for his son and his friends, they all cried, they loved it)

But then Ace get caught up in it all (this was not planed) and ends up getting his character killed. The table is in shock. There is no way that just happened!

Luffy is sobbing. His brother just sacrificed the character he had played for four years to save his character. He knows how much Ace means to his brother. He’s an actual reck. He had loved Ace to.

Ace’s player is upset, he did love that character, but it’s part of the game. It happens. He’s more upset about how hard Luffy’s taking it.

After the session the two brothers are hanging out. Luffy is apologizing for getting Ace killed and his brother, who’s played for years, and wants to make his brother laugh, says no worries want to help me make a new character?

So they spend the break writing a new character and working them into Ace and Luffy’s back story.

Later when the strawhats are all back together (breaking the news to them that Ace’s character had died was wild!) they are playing and making their way to Dressrosa. A new friend, Law, has joined them. And he is being so serious about his character’s serious back story.

Then Ace’s player roles in like “can I join for a session or two?” All the Strawhats are thrilled, they had a great time playing with him during the Alabasta arc. The Dm says sure and asks about his character.

The two brother’s just smirk at each other and the player introduces his new character: Sabo

They explain the back story, this is Luffy’s OTHER big brother. The strawhats are dying. Law is over them, this is serious! The Dm is just exasperated “you don’t have the Mera Mera fruit.” He’s trying to drive home that this is a different character. Ace/Sabo’s player agrees and they start playing.

Except the Dm loves to troll and brings in the Mera Mera fruit. And everyone already knows what’s about to happen.

Sabo eats the fruit and his player yells “thank god” throws Sabo character sheet to the side. And before anyone can ask why he pulls back out Ace’s character sheet crosses off Ace’s name and writes Sabo next to it (he also raises his intelligence stat)

Character name: Ace Sabo

“I’m back baby!”

I just love that anytime he pops in him and Luffy just say the most ridiculous things about their back stories.

“Remember how Ace had a tattoo of his name spelled wrong to show that he’s not book smart. Well that was a lie. He did it to represent Ace, Sabo, Crybaby, and Edward Newgate.” Ace/Sabo’s player says with Luffy nodding aggressively besides him.

Whitebeard player find out. Finds it all hilarious and is flattered Ace/Sabo’s player brought his character into their nonsense.

Every now and then Marco and Ace/Sabo will come play at the same time and Marco always ends up calling Sabo Ace for the whole session.

Steddie comfort read rec list part 2

i asked y'all to tell me your most re-read fics and there were too many to include in one list, so (throws confetti) more fic for you! [part 1 here][part 3 in progress]

a map of everyone who loves you by phonemicengineer T | 7k | recced by @flintandfuss

a mess of holy things by ghosttotheparty E | 138k | recced by @kissthegypsy

Anywhere, Anytime by AidaRonan (@aidaronan) M | 6k | recced by @flintandfuss

Are You Dumb Enough Yet, Princess? by BatsBratsandBarbedwire (@batsbratsandbarbedwire) E | 5k | recced by @gothwifehotchner

Crazier Shit Has Happened, Little Bird by BatsBratsandBarbedwire (@batsbratsandbarbedwire) E | 97k | recced by @prettymoongirly and @gothwifehotchner

Do You Mind? (will you mind?) by GreenQueenofClubs E | 44k | recced by @teddywesworl

dogfish by greatunironic (@greatunironic) T | 26k | recced by @cashewnutofdoom

He Knows Only Two Stories by teddywesworl (@teddywesworl) E | 19k | recced by @carbonbased000

Hello, I'm Sorry, I Lost Myself (I Think I Thought You Were Someone Else) by DiscoSuperFly E | 67k | recced by @kultiras-fic-recs

I Am Not The Sun by beetlesandstars (@beetlesandstarss) M | 6k | recced by @kas-eddie-munson

lightning strikes; you're in love by rosterroo T | 90k | recced by @kultiras-fic-recs

Maybe 10% Better by BilbosMom M | 38k | recced by @flintandfuss

Of Space and Time by Appledagger (@appledaggerst) M | 56k | recced by @steddiecameraroll

Play On by little_murmaider G | 1.6k | recced by @flintandfuss

reach out, touch faith by occasional_loverboy (@occasionaloverboy) E | 9k | recced by @postmodernau

Shot Right Through by entanglednow (@entanglednow) E | 5k | recced by @queenie-ofthe-void

Sleight of Hand by smithereen (@flieslikeamoron) E | 143k | recced by @onirislanding and @teddywesworl

Star of the Masquerade by glorious_spoon (@glorious-spoon) M | 65k | recced by @rosyhoneydew

Steddie Amnesia Verse by purpleweekend E | 167k | recced by @kissthegypsy

The Great Scavenger Hunt of 1986 and podfic by wynnyfryd T | 8k | recced by @messessentialist

the most remarkable thing about you standing in the doorway is that it’s you by greatunironic (@greatunironic) E | 35k | recced by @batsbratsandbarbedwire

The Rush of Thunder (That Brings You Under) by callmejude (@callmejude) E | 125k | recced by @onirislanding

the shame is on the other side by scoops_ahoy M | 18k | recced by @kas-eddie-munson

took you for a working boy by pukner (@pukner) M | 44k | recced by @paperbackribs

We are Stardust, We are Golden by idiopathic smile and podfic by Itty_Bitty_Blondie M | 26k | recced by @messessentialist and @onirislanding

We Should Just Kiss (Like Real People Do) by Oonionchiver E | 88k | recced by @kissthegypsy

you must have known for a long time (the shape of things to come) by bramble_berries (@bramble-berries) E | 32k | recced by @queenie-ofthe-void

hooray

Jealousy Looks Different On You

[Part One] ✨ [You Are Here] ✨ [Part Three]

Steve can be a jealous man. He can be.

Just not in the same way that Eddie seems to thrive on it. Steve doesn't have a right to jealousy outside a relationship, so even if he feels jealous, he'll never act on it.

He thought it was just one of the many ways Eddie and he were incompatible romantically.

It was the same song and dance when they'd go out. Eddie would drag someone onto the dance floor and spend most of the dance making eyes at Steve until his catch of the night got jealous enough to pull Eddie out of eyesight.

Steve is used to that. That's the routine.

Except.

Well, except Eddie's broken the routine now, hasn't he?

Flipped the entire script by saying the things Steve has wanted to hear for years. I wouldn’t have rejected you and Jesus, Steve, you’re the only one I’ve really wanted.

Steve knows Eddie well enough to know that Eddie believes he's telling the truth or believes he really does want what he's saying to be the truth.

And now, sitting in silence in the back of a taxi that Eddie's gotten them, Steve can't bring himself to hope about it. Eddie's not a liar, as far as Steve knows, but that doesn't mean he actually wants Steve. Not for real. Not in the long run.

Steve can't give Eddie all the things Eddie seems to enjoy most. He's heard enough about Eddie's sex life to know they aren't super compatible in that department. And as far as he knows, Eddie's never even had a relationship. Just one-night stands and friends with benefits situations, which, y'know, Steve's not judging him about because Steve had all that once, too.

And maybe it's shitty of him to think but because Eddie's never been in a long-term monogamous relationship, Steve's not sure that one between them will work.

Okay. It's a lot shitty for him to think.

There's no real basis for Steve to think this other than that everything Steve wants out of a relationship, Eddie's shown him he wants the exact opposite.

Maybe Steve's just thinking shitty thoughts because it's easier than hoping that this might work.

The ride to the apartment is awkward only for Steve. They can't exactly talk about liking each other romantically in the back of a taxi where a stranger can clearly hear them, so they don't. Instead, Eddie chats up the cabbie about everything and anything that comes to his mind and Steve sits with just his thoughts.

Which are not being kind.

God, he's kind of a shitty person, isn't he?

Steve lets them both into the apartment and it feels different now. It's not like Eddie's never been in Steve's apartment. Hell, he's been sleeping in his old room for this whole 'break from the LA stress' he's taken. Has been here three days already, so this isn't even the first time this week that Steve's let them both into the apartment.

It's just different now that Eddie knows. Steve's been living his life with the assumption that Eddie knew but now he knows and everything is different.

"You, uh, want a beer?" Steve asks as he toes off his shoes, stalling because he doesn't know how to start this conversation. Isn't even sure he wants to because having this conversation means there is no going back. He won't be able to unsay these things, Eddie won't be able to unhear them. It'll be out there. All his hurt and love and fear and hope.

"Steve," is all Eddie says, in a tone that says 'we need to talk'.

So, Steve swallows thickly, nods, and heads for the living room. It's so stupid but he suddenly feels exposed, so he picks up a throw pillow from the couch before he plops onto it. He turns completely sideways, back to the armrest of the couch and legs crossed, pillow in his lap to act as a barrier of some sort. Something to feel less exposed.

Eddie takes longer to join him because, unlike Steve, he'd gotten completely done up for the bar and that includes full lace up combat boots that he can't easily slip out of.

Eddie finally joins him in the living room, pausing when he sees Steve before he moves to sit on the couch, one leg folded under him and the other on the floor. He leaves a respectable foot of distance between them and Steve's not sure if he's disappointed by that or not.

There is a tense silence that falls on them, neither brave enough to really begin the conversation that could be the end of everything.

"Steve, I- I don't even know where to start, man," Eddie finally says, running a hand through his hair.

"Me either," Steve says, looking down and picking at the pillow. "You were the one who said we needed to talk."

"Because we do?" Eddie sounds confused. "I, fuck man, I basically accused you of being in love with me and you confirmed it. We gotta talk about that."

Steve frowns because he doesn't agree. They don't have to talk about it. As far as Steve was concerned, they've been successfully not talking about it for years. Nothing has really changed from Steve's perspective. "What's there to talk about?"

"That you love me! And that I was, am, in love with you, too! That feels like a big deal!" Eddie cries, voice not loud enough to bother the neighbors yet but he can easily get that way. "You- why don't you seem as happy about this as I am?"

"Because I'm not," Steve says, stern and biting as he finally looks up from the pillow. "How am I supposed to be happy about this? This is going to change everything between us. Everything! And I've been- I've made peace with how this wasn't- with how things were between us."

Eddie stares back at him, eyes wide and mouth agape in his shock. It takes him a moment to recover. "I don't... understand. Why, why aren't you happy? Of course this will change things between us, but you make it sound like it'll be for the worse? I thought-"

"What? You thought you'd tell me you love me too and I'd jump into your arms?"

"Well, kinda," Eddie starts, but Steve doesn't want to hear it.

"I can't! Eddie, I can't. I'm not- I-I get that you, that you've just realized I loved you, but I've been living with the assumption that you already knew. I thought you knew for years. And now you're sitting here, telling me that you've felt the same. What, this whole time?"

"Yes! For longer, probably!" Eddie argues back, anger and hurt mixing on his face. "I've never known you to not go after the person you want, so why did you say anything sooner?"

"Why didn't you!?" Steve shouts, feeling the heat of tears in his eyes. He throws the pillow at Eddie and jumps from the couch to pace the living room. "We lived together for years! And I watched as you brought home guy after guy after guy. I listened as you waxed poetry about the perfect man for you; a fellow metalhead who would want to go to concerts with you, someone who'd play DnD with you and enjoyed your other nerd things, and-and-and," Steve stutters over the word, fighting back making a sobbing sound because it's one thing to let Eddie see his tears; it's an entirely different thing to let him hear the whole sob-fest Steve's fight back. "And a laundry list of all the kinks they have to b-be into so you don't get bored. I- God, you'd laid out your incredibly long list of standards that I didn't fit before I'd even realized I liked men. That I liked you! Why would I even try when I already knew I'd never measure up?"

He's pacing still. Movement helps him push the urge to cry down and makes the tears dry up. It takes him a while to realize that there's been no answer from Eddie. So, Steve finally gets his emotions under control and turns to look at the couch, to see Eddie's response.

He's not expecting to see tears falling down Eddie's own cheeks and wearing a face of heartbreak and regret.

⚠️ Warning there is some violence in this so if you’re not comfortable please don’t read.

One day, Eddie Munson and his friends hatched a plan to toilet paper Steve's house. As they were about to drive away, Eddie suddenly remembered something. "Shit, I forgot the eggs!" he exclaimed, jumping into the backseat to grab them.

He threw the eggs with precision, but his aim was off. Steve unaware of the impending attack, opened the front door just as the egg hurtled towards him. It splattered squarely in his face.

Eddie's friends erupted into howls of laughter as Eddie yelled, "Drive, drive!" His friends scrambled to get back into the car, speeding away from the scene.

Steve stormed out of his house, furious. "My dad is going to kill me!" he yelled, egg still dripping from his face.

Tommy stood beside him, seething. "We have to get that freak," he growled.

Seeking revenge, Steve and Tommy headed to Eddie's trailer. Steve thought they'd just return the favor, throwing eggs and toilet paper. But Tommy had other plans.

As they approached the trailer, Tommy started vandalizing it, smashing windows and causing chaos. Steve was horrified. "Tommy, stop! You're going too far!"

But Tommy wouldn't listen.

The next day, Eddie seethed with anger at school. "I know it was you, Harrington," he spat. But without proof, he couldn't do anything.

Steve just shrugged. "You started it."

Eddie vowed to take Steve down, and the prank war escalated. Each tried to outdo the other. Their rivalry turned in a chaotic confrontation at a school event. In the heat of the moment, they found themselves locked in a storage room together.

Steve glared at Eddie, furious. "Have you had enough, Munson?"

Eddie shrugged, a hint of innocence on his face. "I didn't know it would escalate this far."

As they stood there, locked in the storage room, Steve's expression softened. "There has to be something I can do to make it right."

Eddie's eyes narrowed. "Pay me back."

Steve hesitated. "I don't have the money."

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about? You're rich."

Steve corrected him. "My parents are. Not me."

Eddie's gaze locked onto Steve's, a sly smile spreading across his face. "There's something you can do," he said, his voice low and suggestive.

Steve's eyes widened in alarm. "Like hell I'm not doing that! What's wrong with you?"

Eddie chuckled, holding up his hands in defense. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Harrington. I just need you to pick something up for me."

Steve banged on the door of Eddie's trailer, and Eddie answered with a mouthful of cereal. "You got it," he mumbled.

Steve barged in, slamming the bag of drugs onto the kitchen counter. "Drugs?!" he exclaimed, outraged.

Eddie's eyes sparkled with mischief . "Well, I couldn't go myself. It's too shady."

Steve's face turned red with anger. "Yeah, no shit it's shady! I'm picking up drugs, and you told me it was candy."

Eddie shrugged, still chewing his cereal. "Yeah, and you were stupid enough to believe me."

Steve's voice rose in indignation. "Eddie, what if I was caught? Huh?!"

Eddie's grin was unrepentant. "You said you'd do anything to pay me back, right?"

Steve's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, but not this, man."

Eddie shrugged. "Yeah, well, I need a few more pickups."

Steve's face fell. "What are you talking about? I thought this was it."

Eddie settled into the couch, lighting a cigarette as he gazed out the shattered window now duck taped. You smashed my van windows and my trailer. Do you know how much money that's going to cost me?" He turned to Steve, his eyes stern.

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry."

Eddie's voice was laced with a mix of anger . "Yeah, well, sorry isn't going to fix it." He took a long drag on his cigarette, his eyes never leaving Steve's face.

Steve's voice was curt, resignation etched on his face. "Fine."

As the days passed, Steve continued to make pickups and drop offs for Eddie. He arrived at Eddie’s place, knocking on the door. An older man answered, eyeing Steve warily.

“We don't want what you're selling," the man growled.

Eddie appeared behind him, “Uncle Wayne it’s for me,” taking Steve's hand and dragging him inside. Steve felt a shiver run down his spine at the touch.

Eddie closed the bedroom door, his expression stern. "I told you six o'clock on the dot, not four hours later."

Steve explained, "Yeah, well, my tire blew .

Eddie cut him off, his voice curt. "I don't care about your life story, man. Just give it here."

He grabbed Steve's backpack, dumping its contents onto the floor. “So that’s your uncle,” he asked already knowing the answer.

Eddie's silence was palpable before he replied, "Yeah."

Steve asked, "Does he know?" Eddie's laughter was low and husky. "Yeah, no. He would kill you from where you're standing."

Steve felt a pang of guilt at that. Eddie handed Steve his backpack. "You can leave now."

As Steve walked out, Eddie's uncle stopped him at the front door. "You Ed's friend?" he asked, glancing back at Eddie's closed bedroom door.

Steve hesitated, feeling uneasy about the lie. "Yeah."

The older man's expression turned sad. "I guess you've seen what those punks did to our trailer."

Steve offered a sympathetic apology. "Yeah, I'm sorry, sir."

Wayne raised an eyebrow. "You've got nothing to be sorry about, boy. It wasn't your doing."

Steve gulped, feeling a sense of relief that he didn’t suspect him.

Wayne's expression softened. "Be good to my boy, will you? He might seem tough, but he's really a good kid. Doesn't have many friends."

Steve stuttered, "Y-yeah..." He quickly added, "Hey, I actually got to get home for dinner, but it was nice talking to you."

He hastily walked out to his car, smacking his hands on the steering wheel in frustration. He layed his head on it,taking a deep breath. "I’m such an asshole," he whispered to himself.

Steve arrived at a secluded house, getting lost a couple of times before finally finding it. A burly man answered the door, eyeing him suspiciously. "Eddie?" he questioned.

"No, Steve," he replied.

The man raised an eyebrow, opening the door wider to let Steve in. Steve sat on the leather couch, taking in the scene before him. Men lounged in the living room, drinking and all over them. Steve's gaze landed on one man with a gun holstered at his hip. A shiver ran down Steve's spine as he thought,

He's going to kill Eddie when he sees him."

The man who let him in disappeared, replaced by a taller, skinnier guy who looked annoyed. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Steve stuttered, "Uh, Steve. I'm here to pick up for Eddie."

The burly man sat down beside Steve, making him squirm uncomfortably. The skinny man sat on the other side, shoving a picture of a younger guy into Steve's face. "You know this man, huh?"

Steve shook his head, "N-no, I uh..." he stuttered.

The skinny man leaned in, his voice menacing. "Come on, kid."

"No, I don't, sir," Steve squeaked out, his voice trembling.

The two men exchanged a glance. "What do you want to do, Rich?" the burly man asked.

Rich's eyes blazed with fury as he turned to Steve. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he sneered. "What's your name again, Steve?" Steve nodded nervously.

Rich's smile twisted into a snarl. "Yeah, well, Steve, I'm going to lock you in that basement," he pointed to a door, "and tie you up. Then I'll pistol whip you until Eddie boy gets here."

Steve's eyes widened in terror. "Wait, no, please!" he begged.

The burly man grabbed Steve by the shoulders, dragging him away.

Meanwhile, Eddie answered a phone call in the kitchen. "Steve, are you coming or what?" he asked.

A menacing voice replied, "Not Steve."

Eddie's tone turned icy. "Where is Steve?" he demanded.

Eddie arrived, a hand gun concealed in his boot. He had been warned if the cops showed up, Steve would be killed. As he entered, a man announced, "Rich, the kid's here."

The man proceeded to pat Eddie down, discovering the small handgun. "What, you thought you'd come in here guns blazing?" he sneered.

Rich walked in, laughing. "Look at this, thinks he's some kind of hero." His amusement was laced with menace, and Eddie's eyes narrowed, his grip on his composure tightening.

Rich gestured to the couch, and Eddie sat, his eyes scanning the room for Steve. "Where's Steve?" he grunted.

Rich sat down in a chair, positioning it so that his legs were in front , "Steve's here, but don't you worry about that," Rich said, his voice dripping with malice. "I have some questions for you."

He leaned forward, shoving a picture in Eddie's face. "You recognize this man?" he demanded.

Eddie's gaze dropped to the photo, and his expression faltered. It was Rick. He was confused why would Rich want Rick?

"Yeah, I know him," Eddie said, his voice neutral. "So what?"

Rich's expression twisted into a mocking grin. "So what? Rick, that son of a bitch, sped off with my money, that's what."

Eddie shook his head, his eyes locked on Rich. "I don't know where he is, honest."

Rich's face darkened, and he backhanded Eddie, who felt a searing pain as his cheek throbbed. His lip began to bleed, but he kept his face neutral, refusing to give Rich the satisfaction of a reaction.

Rich's voice dropped to a menacing growl. "How about one of my men starts beating the shit out of that kid downstairs? Will that help you remember?"

Eddie's composure cracked, and panic etched his face as he glanced at the basement door. "I really don't know," he said, his voice laced with desperation. "I couldn't get ahold of him last night, and he's not at his place. I even went to one of his hideouts looking for him. I don't know, really."

Rich's fist connected with Eddie's nose, the crunching sound echoing through the whole house. "Fuck," Eddie groaned, clutching his shattered nose.

Downstairs, Steve's he hears Eddie's anguished cry. He was bleeding from his own head wound, but his concern for Eddie distracted him from his own pain. "Eddie!" he shouted, his voice hoarse from the gag.

Eddie's battered body was dragged downstairs, and he landed with a thud beside Steve in the basement. Steve's eyes widened as he took in Eddie's injuries, and he gasped in horror

Eddie's eyes fluttered closed, and he passed out from the pain. Steve was left alone, his own injuries momentarily forgotten as he gazed at Eddie's broken form.

When Steve woke up from the sound of Eddie's labored breathing. With a surge of adrenaline, Steve struggled to sit up, wincing in pain. He gently turned Eddie onto his back, assessing the damage.

With a deep breath, Steve began to tend to Eddie's wounds, using his shirt to try to stop the bleeding as he held the shirt to him , Steve's fear and anxiety gave way to a sense of determination. He would get Eddie out of there, no matter what it took.

I love this, but I won’t be continuing it, but if someone wants it, please message me.