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flowercrowngods · 5 months

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who did this to you. part 2

🤍🌷 read part 1 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie

This is not happening. None of this is happening, he’s… He’s dreaming. He’s high. High as a kite somewhere where reality doesn’t matter, where it can’t fucking reach him and he’s— He’s not panicking behind the wheel with Steve Fucking Harrington bleeding against the passenger side window.

It’s not happening.

Because if it were happening, Eddie would simply throw up. He’d leave his van on the side of the road and run the fuck away. Away from Harrington and his trouble, away from his rattling breath that’s so loud and unsteady, Eddie doesn’t even dare to turn on any sort of music, even though he’s itching for it, his hands clenching and unclenching around the wheel until his knuckles go white.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles under his breath, barely aware of his surroundings at all, his eyes flitting from Harrington to the red stain against the window, back to the road and then down to the white-knuckled grip and the speckles of dried blood that is decidedly not his.

Lost in his panic and disbelief, Eddie almost runs a red light.

It’s harsh, the way he hits the brakes, and the sound Harrington makes is pathetic enough that Eddie feels like maybe this might actually be happening.

“Sorry,” he breathes, his voice no better than Steve’s — and he’s not the one with a concussion, a broken rib, and that… fucking fear. Of something. Or someone.

Who’s hurting you, Steve?

Jus’ everyone, sometimes. God you don’t… You don’t even know.

He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t wanna know. All he wants is for Harrington to stop fucking bleeding, to keep his eyes wide open and—

“Ed,” the boy says, wheezes, and it sounds like he wanted to say his full name, but had to swallow first. Blood, Eddie thinks. Don’t let it be blood. “Think I’m… ‘M gonna throw up.”

“Please don’t throw up,” Eddie says before he can stop himself, hating how small his voice sounds, how urgent — like that’s the thing to be urgent about. God, he’s such an ass, but he… If Harrington throws up, Eddie will lose it. He knows he will.

He chances a glance over at Steve, who has somehow managed to get his right arm tangled with the handle at the door, keeping himself upright and safe from Eddie’s rather frantic driving style. His head is drooping, moving this way and that against the red-stained glass, and he blinks unseeingly as blood begins to trickle down from his nose and temple again.

He’s making himself small, and Eddie wants to pull him upright and tell him to stay like that, tell him to stop looking so terrible, so horrible, so…

So much like Eddie’s fucking problem.

He hates it. Hates everything about that vision. Boys like Harrington shouldn’t look like this, shouldn’t hold themselves like this, shouldn’t… Shouldn’t have no one but Eddie to take them somewhere safe.

It’s just not tight.

“Don’ wanna throw up,” Steve says at last, the pause too long for Eddie’s liking, and he sounds so solemn about it, yet so helpless, and Eddie kinda wants to scream. Wants Harrington to scream. Anything to stay awake and maybe not ruin his car. Anything to not fucking die in it.

“Tell me something,” he says then, because he knows he has to keep Harrington awake and speaking. Just for another ten, fifteen minutes, he tells himself. “Anything, yeah? Tell me anything. Gotta keep you awake there, you hear me? Sounds great, right, staying awake?”

He’s rambling and he knows it, desperation shining through his words and the god-awful way his voice breaks a little. This is not about him, he knows it isn’t, but still he wants to punch himself, wants to pinch himself and stay fucking calm.

But who could stay calm in a situation like this? The silence is filled with the horrible wheezing and rattling of Harrington’s breath barely audible over the engine, and Eddie has to look over several times to make sure he’s still there, still with him, still alive. His panic spikes each time.

He’s just about to reach over and shake him a little, snap in front of his face to get him back, when—

“I don’t know what.”

It’s quiet, that voice, breathy and tiny and almost invisible, and Eddie wants to scream again.

Tell me why you’re so scared. Tell me why your old buddy did this to you. Hagan would never touch you, so why did he now? Tell me what happened to Hargrove. Tell me why you sound so fucking small.

“Tell me about your…” He fumbles for a moment, taking a sharp left and pretending not to hear the choked-off whimper. Focusing on good things. On normal things. “Your favourite person.”

Eddie cringes at himself the moment the words leave his mouth. Your favourite person? Really, Munson? He scrambles to find something better, something cooler, or maybe something easier like asking his favourite fucking colour, but the overthinking really doesn’t mix well with the already panicked state of his mind. And Eddie just blanks.

Beside him, though, Harrington sits up a little straighter, smearing more blood against his window in the process that Eddie pretends not to feel nauseous about.

God, he never did like blood.

“You wan’ me to tell you ‘bout Rob?”

“Sure, yeah,” Eddie says, a little too loud, a little too shrill, actually running a red light this time because he doesn’t want to brake again and hurt the boy some more. There’s no one around anyway. This is Hawkins. Fucking dead-end of a town. It doesn’t need red lights, or boys who look like Harrington. “Rob. Tell me ‘bout him, what’s he like? Favourite colour, all that shit.”

“Her.”

Eddie blinks, looking over to find Harrington looking at him — or trying to, his eyes still drooping and empty. But it’s a good sign. People don’t die when they look at you, right?

“What?”

“Her,” Harrington says again. “An’ blue. Deep ‘n’ dark blue. She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.”

Eddie doesn’t really listen, doesn’t really process what Steve is saying, already thinking of the next question just to keep him talking. But then he continues on his own.

“Mornin’ blue dep— de… makes her sad, though. So only dark blue. Says it’s why we’re friends. You’re so blue, Stevie. Got half’a my clothes, still, she does. All the blues.”

That's... really fucking endearing, actually.

And he says it with a half-smile, too, bloody and pathetic as it is. Like it’s a secret that only the two of them are in on, only Steve and Robin. It’s kind of sweet.

Not for the first time today does Eddie find himself wondering, Who the hell are you, Steve Harrington?

He exhales through his nose, ignoring the way he’s started to shake with all that panic that’s been sitting inside him for a little too long now with no way to let it out.

“Not much longer,” he mumbles under his breath again, or maybe he just thinks very hard. Maybe he doesn’t know where he is at all. It’s like he blanks every few seconds, too busy thinking and trying not to.

Before he can tell Harrington to talk some more about that girlfriend of his, there’s a pained, confused little whine that forcefully tears Eddie’s eyes from the street for a moment only to meet hazel eyes widened in confusion.

“Wh— Where… Where’re we going?”

Oh no.

“Why’m I in y—“

“You’re safe,” Eddie interrupts him, speaking slowly because suddenly his tongue is too big for his mouth, and not entirely sure if he’s reassuring Harrington or himself. “You’re hurt, okay? It’s bad, but it wasn’t me. I’m taking you to… to someone. My uncle Wayne, he’s— He knows about that kinda stuff. You were telling me about Rob. Remember her, Blue? How about you tell me some more, hm?”

Eddie’s voice is unsteady with worry and fear and panic, and he’s doing a piss-poor job at hiding it. The thing is, he’s going to cry. He’s actually, absolutely, no-doubt-about-it going to scream and cry and punch a fucking hole into something when this day is over, when his van is no longer bloody, and when Steve Harrington won’t have reason to look at him any longer.

Oh, how he wants to skip forward. Past the nausea, past the fear, past everything that’s happening right now. Maybe past the insomnia that will come with a day like this, too.

Past all of it.

Or better yet, travel back in time and never get to that fucking boat house.

But he can’t. So he breathes.

At first, through the ringing in his ears and the racing of his own heart so loud and so forceful he’s shaking with it, he worries that Steve’s gone silent again, that he’s gonna ask again, ask what happened, ask where he is, ask all the questions that make Eddie feel like he’s been doused in ice water because they’re questions that only get asked in stupid movies where terrible things happen to people.

But then he hears him mumbling something. Numbers.

“What’cha mumbling there, Blue?”

“‘S her number,” Steve says, his voice slurring again, worse than before, and Eddie hits the gas a little harder. “‘S jus’ her number. Robbie’s number.”

And he mumbles again. Over and over and over, until Eddie couldn’t forget it if he wanted to, ingrained into the frayed edges of his mind now.

He lets him ramble, lets him repeat the number until the words slur together and he can’t separate a four from a nine anymore. Each time Harrington hesitates, each time he stumbles over the words or forgets a digit, Eddie wants to punch the wheel.

He doesn’t. He only grips it tighter and counts down the turns he takes, the streets he passes, the fucking trees that are familiar, before, finally, the trailer park comes into view.

The sob Eddie lets out when, with shaking, trembling hands he pulls up to his home to find his uncle having a smoke outside is deafening to his ears after the quiet weakness of Harrington’s voice.

It startles him, makes him stop his rambles and sit up straighter when Eddie finally kills the engine. For a moment, without the steady, rolling hum, the car is filled with the small, tiny whines Steve makes on each exhale. Like it hurts to even breathe.

“Wha’s wrong?” He asks, but Eddie can’t really hear him. Can’t turn to him, can’t— “Eddie?”

He’s out of the car before he can take hold of another thought, stumbling out of his open door on legs that feel numb and heavy. The urge to cry is back again, the burning in his eyes only getting worse when Wayne takes in the dried blood on his clothes and hands with careful, calculated worry.

“Ed?”

“I didn’t know what— where—- I’m… Wayne, I’m sorry.”

“Slow down, kid,” Wayne says, raising his hands as if to calm a spooked deer. Like Eddie is the one who needs his help. And he is. He really, really is, and he shouldn’t be, because this isn’t about him, but—

Wayne grabs him by the shoulders to keep him still, and only now does Eddie realise he’s shaking again, restlessly moving his weight from one leg to the other. His uncle steadies him, gently pressing down on his shoulders to ground him, and Eddie nearly sobs again.

“Ed. Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Eddie scrambles to say, becoming aware of what this looks like, hiding his hands behind his back on instinct, like that’ll make Harrington’s blood disappear. “‘S not my blood, I didn’t do anything, I swear! I swear. It’s, uh. I just found him. In the boathouse, I found him, and he was… God, he looked so bad, okay, but he didn’t want the hospital, and he was, like, so scared of something, and we don’t even talk, we don’t even look at each other, but I just… I didn’t know what to do, and you know something about concussions and people who were beat to shit and, again, I’m—“

“Eddie,” Wayne says, his voice so calm but so assertive that Eddie shuts up immediately, gladly handing over to controls to his uncle now. “Who’s the kid?”

He nods towards Eddie’s van, where Harrington looks to be halfway unbuckled, but his eyes are closed and his face smushed against the door again, like he just gave up.

“Shit,” Eddie says, adrenaline and panic slowly falling from him with Wayne’s hand on his shoulder. He sags into his uncle and rubs at his face. “It’s Steve. Uh, Steve Harrington, I mean.”

“Okay,” Wayne says, and he’s so calm. So calm. Eddie feels like he’s about to fall apart, and Wayne is the only one keeping him together, with that’d steady, warm hand on his shoulder. “And you promise me he didn’t give you trouble? Or anyone else who’ll come finish what they started?”

Eddie shakes his head profusely, getting a little dizzy with it. “I promise I’m not in trouble. He said Hagan did this to him, was alone when I found him. No trouble, Wayne, I swear, I’m not like that, you know I’m not.”

“Okay,” Wayne says again, and Eddie wants to weep. “I know you’re not like that, but some people are, y’know? You did good, son. You did good. Now help me get him out of that car.”

It takes his uncle tugging him towards the van for Eddie to kick back into motion, nearly falling over his feet turning back around. It’s only Wayne’s “Easy” murmured under his breath that keeps the ground from opening up and swallowing him whole.

He climbs in on the driver’s side while Wayne rounds the car and gets to Harrington’s side.

“Hey there, Blue,” Eddie says, his voice shaking and the nickname slipping again — but it’s easier to call him that than his real name, it’s easier to pretend it’s literally anyone else in here with him, bleeding against his door.

It’s easier to pretend it’s not Harrington’s breath rattling the way it does, easier to pretend those pained groans so high in their cadence they can only count as whines don’t come from Hawkins High’s Golden Boy who graduated a few months ago and was supposed to be done with bullshit like this.

“Come on, up you get,” he tells him, not daring to raise his voice too much.

He looks so frail. Like he’s already broken. Or like he’s trying not to. Like he’s holding on.

Eddie pretends not to think that the hand he places on Steve’s cheek to gently pry him from the window is not the only thing keeping that boy together right now.

Harrington groans, whines, wheezes, but opens his eyes to meet Eddie’s. Jesus, we’re they this blown before? Or this swollen?

“Hey,” Eddie says, just to say something. Just so he won’t have to hold the boy’s face in silence, just so he won’t have to focus on all the blood. Just so he won’t have to hear more questions that people aren’t supposed to ask.

Steve opens his mouth, his breath coming out a little sharper, like he wants to say Hi rather than Where am I? or When will it stop hurting? Like he wants to say How can I help you help me?

Somehow, Eddie manages a smile.

Wayne chooses that moment to open the door — just unclicking it, not pulling yet; giving Eddie enough time to support Harrington, make sure he doesn’t fall.

“Careful,” he whispers, though whether it’s for Wayne, for Steve, or for himself, he can’t quite tell. Maybe it’s a plea to the rest of the world, and to anyone else who will listen.

Steve is still staring at him. That’s probably not a good sign. He leans back a little, turning Steve’s head to make him follow him. Slowly, of course. Gently. Eddie can’t remember ever having touched something like it was going to break if only he looked at it wrong, but somehow he’s hyper-aware of it now.

Because Harrington is staring at him. Entirely too still, like he has no strength, no coordination to do anything but stare. And yet Eddie is the one who, now that the adrenaline has fallen from him, now that he can let someone else take over, now that Harrington doesn’t need him anymore, finds himself unable to look away.

Because Steve is just a boy. And so is Eddie, who can feel Steve’s breath against his wrist. And maybe, out of the two of them, Eddie is the fragile one. The one about to break.

“Blue, you with me?”

Steve nods. Doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t move. Eddie swallows, briefly looking back down at Wayne to see if he’s ready. His uncle nods, ready to catch Harrington should he go down, and Eddie turns back to the boy who’s smeared with his own blood.

“I’m gonna take off your seatbelt now, yeah?” he tells him, not entirely recognising his voice anymore. “That man out there, that is Wayne. My uncle. He’s safe. He’ll take care of you, okay?”

“Safe,” Steve breathes, and that shouldn’t be the one thing he focuses on. It shouldn’t sound so unsure. So insecure. So hopeful, so relieved, so— Fucking earnest.

Swallowing all these thoughts, all this desperation and all those questions, Eddie reaches over Steve, one hand still supporting his head and feeling the overheated skin of Harrington’s cheek against his palm, the hint of stubble and the crust of dried blood. As if in slow motion, not daring to make a wrong move and hurt him more than he already does, Eddie frees him the rest of the way, letting the seatbelt slide into its hold behind his shoulder.

“Careful,” he says again, just to say anything, but he is careful, and his hold on Steve is steady.

“‘M careful. Not gonna break, Eddie.”

“I know.” But maybe I will.

“Good. ‘Cause… Don’ wanna break.”

Eddie smiles, despite everything. “You’re not gonna break, Blue. Wayne’ll catch you.”

Harrington loses his focus then, his eyes glazing over, but the small smile on his lips widens. “Blue. ‘S nice.”

Yeah, Eddie thinks. He kinda is.

Somehow, miraculously, they get Harrington out of the van and into the trailer. He throws up halfway to the doorstep, and Eddie curses under his breath while Wayne talks quietly, asking him yes and no questions that Eddie can’t really hear through the ringing in his ears — a strange mix of fear and relief, a panic not quite over, but soothed by his uncle’s familiar voice; even if it’s not directed at him.

“Don’t worry about it, kid, the next rain’ll take care of that. Stop apologising.”

It throws him then, rather suddenly and violently, watching Wayne supporting Harrington, watching the blood smeared boy with the swelling, angry red bruises in his face. Somehow it’s different, seeing him in his home.

This was always a safe space. Always void of everything terrible.

And now there’s a broken boy on his doorstep who’s not Eddie.

He remembers the fear, the panic, the plea for no hospital, Eddie. Can’t go there.

Why not? You need a doctor—

Monsters. Only monsters there.

It paralyses him and he stays where he is, holding the door with an arm that’s heavy like lead, standing on legs that begin to go numb again. He watches, but not really, as Wayne sits Harrington down on the living room couch, between magazines and brochures and some of Eddie’s calculus notes from last night that he was searching for a sketch of a monster he was so certain he’d drawn in the margins a few weeks back.

Now there’s blood on his calculus notes. And Eddie is helplessly keeping the door open as though he’s going to run away any second now. Letting in more trouble to join Harrington on his couch.

He should… He should close the door. Help. Run. Disappear.

“Ed,” Wayne calls, snapping him out of his stupor. “The first aid kit, please. A bottle of water. A clean, wet cloth. A blanket, too.”

Wayne talks him through it, takes it one step at a time, has Eddie bring him one after the other like he knows how much he’s keeping his nephew together by keeping him on the brink of usefulness.

Soon, Wayne has everything he needs, taking care of Harrington and his wounds, keeping him awake and talking so much better than Eddie did, even making him smile here and there, hiding his wince when the motion pulls on his split lip or the huffed breath sends a jolt of pain through his rib that Eddie is absolutely certain must be broken with the way he holds himself — with the way he lets Wayne hold him up.

Wayne is doing his thing and Eddie is hiding, gripping the kitchen counter like a vice, staring both unseeingly and hyper-vigilantly as exhaustion washes over him, dragging him under and draining him of more than adrenaline. He slumps against the cupboard behind him, rubbing at his face like that’ll make it all go away.

It’s not right. It’s not. This is Eddie’s home, it’s supposed to be safe, it’s not…

He breaks away, ripping his hands from the counter and all but stumbling outside, heaving a deep breath and giving in to the urge to cry. Tears spring to his eyes and he wipes them away angrily, because it’s dumb, it’s so stupid, it’s absolutely fucking insane that he should be so worked up when Harrington talked about dying earlier.

These things don’t happen. They don’t!

“Stop fucking crying,” Eddie grumbles, sniffling and wiping away more tears as he closes his eyes against the afternoon sun. “Get a grip, Munson, Jesus Christ, there’s no reason to cry you big fuckin’ baby.”

Nobody’s there to contradict him. Nobody’s there to make it worse. So he lets his eyes sting for a while, lets his lips wobble, his jaw clenched shut, the balls of his hands pressing into his eyes, breathing deliberately.

In. Hold. Out. Hold.

He doesn’t even scream. Doesn’t punch the still bloody side of his van, doesn’t run into the woods and disappear into the void.

He simply breathes. Tries not to think about boys dying in mall fires, and even less so about boys beaten and abandoned in boat houses.

Doesn’t think about fucking Hawkins in Bumfuck-Indiana and the cursed way it has, driving its people mad.

Doesn’t think about, They said my brain is hurt, Eddie. Doesn’t think about the Monsters Harrington mentioned. Doesn’t think about Blue, doesn’t think about I’m tired, Eddie. Don’t wanna hurt anymore.

Doesn’t think about blue, blue, blue.

He’s shaking when he comes back inside. He’s shaking when Harrington meets his eyes, looking a little clearer now, the blood washed away and everything bandaged a lot better than Eddie managed. He’a bundled in Eddie’s blanket. It’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong.

Eddie can’t move, and neither does Steve.

“Steve,” Wayne says, waiting until those eyes tear themselves away from Eddie and back to him, though Eddie sees them fill with such trepidation, he almost asks what’s wrong. “I won’t hear a no on this, and I won’t let you go home. I’m taking you to the hospital. Especially if you tell me your head was hurt like this before, more times than one.”

“Three,” Blue breathes, a little dazed still. Not magically healed, not even from Wayne. Another thing that doesn’t feel right.

“Three times,” Wayne says, nodding, like he’s encouraging Steve to continue.

“But I don’t want a hospital.” Again with that tiny fucking voice. Like the Monsters are hiding under hospital beds.

“I know, son,” Wayne sighs, tugging the blanket a little tighter around Steve, and Eddie’s eyes begin to sting again when he notices the tone Wayne uses. When he realises. When he remembers.

”I want my mom.“

”I know, son. But she’s not coming. Your mama is gone, Ed, and this is your home now. Think we can make that work, hm? You and I?”

Eddie had never felt so lost as he did then, clutching his blanket to his chest, burying his face in the wet fabric even as this man — his uncle — tugs it tighter around him. Like he is fine with Eddie wanting to hide as long as he doesn’t run away.

He had shrugged, then, even though we wanted to shake his head, tell him no, tell him he wanted his mama.

”I’m scared, uncle Wayne.”

And Wayne had smiled a little, and nodded. “Then we do it scared, Eddie.”

Actually, Eddie feels like he never stopped doing it scared.

And now there is Steve, who Eddie never believed knew what being scared felt like. It’s dumb, of course, because even Harrington is just a boy, but he was always untouchable to Eddie. They never talked. They never existed in the same space together, not in a good way and not in a bad way. Their worlds just never aligned, never collided, never coexisted.

And now…

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, okay? There’s a doctor, Doctor Clarke. Like— Yeah, like your science teacher, remember him? ‘S got a brother who’s just as much of a genius, and just as kind. He’ll take a look at you, yeah? Make sure your brain isn’t too hurt, clean your wounds, give you something for the pain. He won’t, uh. He won’t hurt you, kid. Whatever’s got you so scared, Dr Clarke will be nice to you. Especially when I’m there with ya, I’m an old pal of his. And I will be. Won’t let you outta my sight until you’re well enough to run away from me, you hear me, kid?”

Eddie’s hands are hurting, his fingertips raw from where he’s been biting his nails while Wayne talks Blue through what’s going to happen — and he wonders, with the way Steve’s eyes are glued to Wayne, if he ever had anyone talking him through shit like this.

“Okay,” Harrington breathes at last, still sounding way too small. “But. I’m…”

“Scared anyway?” Wayne offers. Steve nods. You’re so blue, Stevie. “Then we do it scared anyway.”

And they do. Wayne goes to get the car so Steve won’t have to walk too far, leaving Eddie alone with him for a brief moment.

He watches, from his place in the kitchen, how Steve’s face falls into a look of utter exhaustion and tiredness; the adrenaline washing from him just the same. Eddie wants to reach out. Wants to say something, break the spell of tension and silence and I know we don’t talk, but I’m glad you’re doing a little better. I’m glad you’ll go see a doctor. I’m glad you haven’t died, I guess. Do you really think you will? Are you really so scared of that?

But Eddie keeps biting his nails, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, blanket around his shoulders. And they don’t talk.

“Thank you.”

Eddie perks up, not entirely sure he didn’t imagine the words — but Harrington moved slightly, his eyes still closed but his face now turned towards Eddie.

“For, uh. This.”

“I didn’t do shit, Blue,” Eddie says. “That was all Wayne. All I did was freak out, I promise.”

Harrington shakes his head, though, slowly. “Mh-mm.”

Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, because there is no room for discussion here. They don’t talk. And he doesn’t want the bubble to burst with insecurity and sourness.

“Thank you,” he says again, and he sounds final about it. It makes Eddie wonder what he’s like, really like, when he doesn’t consist of pain and nausea and disorientation.

He has a feeling that, despite everything, despite Monsters under hospital beds and torture in boathouses and mall fires that kill teenagers, Blue Harrington might be someone good to talk to. Compassionate as shit, even when all he wants to do is pass out.

“You’re welcome,” Eddie rasps, pretending that his eyes don’t sting.

He wraps his arms around his chest like he’s hugging himself, or like he’s holding himself back. From reaching out, from asking, from telling, from talking.��

Unwittingly, even with his eyes closed, Steve mirrors him, and Eddie wonders if he, too, it holding himself back, or just curling in on himself some more even though it must hurt, feeling so small.

Maybe that’s what fear of death does to a nineteen year-old. It’s so fucked up. Eddie wants to scream again.

Outside, he hears a car door fall shut just before Wayne reappears in the door, giving Eddie some kind of meaningful look that he wouldn’t mind deciphering on any other day, but today he fears he needs words.

“I don’t know how long this’ll take. Will you be okay, Ed?”

“Will I be— Yes! I’m not the one with the concussion, man, of course I’ll be—“

It’s a bluff, comes too fast, and Wayne sees right through it before Eddie even realises it, and he steps closer. A warm hand on his shoulder. His eyes stinging again.

“You did good, kid. Everything will be fine. But it might take a while. It’s fine if you need to go somewhere, just… Don’t drive. Call Jeff if you need someone, just. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t get behind the wheel. Deal?”

Eddie swallows hard, hit by another desperate, aching wave of I wanna go back in time and skip this day. A wave of tired exhaustion and wondering, aimlessly, just who the fuck Steve Harrington really is.

“Deal,” he says, and Wayne pulls him into a hug.

Eddie follows them outside then, trailing behind them like a lost little puppy, helping Harrington into Wayne’s car. His movements are still slugged and a little disoriented, so Eddie decides to lean in again and fasten his seatbelt.

“Careful,” he mumbles, allowing the boy a moment’s warning, a moment to adjust before the weight settles on his chest.

Dejá-vù hits him and makes him pause, with Harrington staring at him again.

“I’m careful,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into a little smile.

More lucid than earlier, and Eddie thinks it that which takes his breath away for a moment.

“Not gonna break, Eddie.”

“I know,” he says, still not moving back, instead reaching up to tighten the blanket around his shoulders even though the seatbelt is already there to hold it in place. “You’re not gonna break, Blue.”

The smile on those lips is genuine now, gentle enough to not be ruined by the blood crusting them.

“Thanks. Again.” And then, when Eddie finally pulls away to close the door and tell Wayne to drive safely, “I really do like that name.”

It soothes the urge to scream.

Eddie closes the door as gently as he can — which isn’t much, because the car is old and not exactly smooth.

“I’ll see you later,” he tells Wayne. Promises. To stay out of trouble, to stick around, to not run away for a while again, to stay out of his car.

Wayne nods, a faint smile on his lips.

“Later, Ed.”

And then they’re gone, and Eddie is untethered again. Wonders, for a few seconds every now and then if it really happened, if this is real.

But it did. And it is.

And after sitting on the steps for a while, having a smoke and staring at where Wayne’s car disappeared ten, twenty, forty minutes ago, Eddie heads inside.

He has a phone call to make.

🤍🌷 tagging: @theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 (a thousand percent sure i missed some but oh well such is the 3am disease)

addendum 22 jan 24: onwards to part 3

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington whump #this is so long i am SORRY #i hope tagging y'all was okay (and equally i'm hoping i missed nobody but also it is 3am)#who did this to you #most of y'all will know most of the beginning already maybe i should have split it up but i wanted y'all to have Something New too #and then the Something New got out of hand and oh well :(#dio words

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killjoy-prince · 2 months

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House M.D. but it's when Wilson says House's name

#house md #james wilson #prince's talk tag #finally!!! it's done! this and the house version took almost two weeks to do #first off thank you to the clinic-duty team on livejournal for making the transcripts for these episodes #because this video would be near impossible to make without their clear transcripts. I hope y'all are doing well #ive been reading a lot of fics with these two and i see how the authors have the characters refer to each other in their fics #and that got me wondering how much do they say each other's name in the show and how do they refer to each other #since this is the wilson video ill put his stats here #s1 was 11 times s2 was 18 s3 was 45 s4 was 32 s5 was 41 s6 was 60 s7 was 47 and s8 was 48 #in total he says his name 302 times. Mostly refers to him just by House #the only time I've heard him say his first name its when he's being professional or when he's really angry (and that one time he proposed)#and even then it's always the full name not just the first name #the only instance I've seen him use just his first name was on that note he put on House's xmas gift that we see in season 5 #and as much as I wanted to put that moment in here he never actually says the contents of the note out loud so i had to leave it out #but what surprised me was he says House's name more than House says his name #especially when the earlier seasons didn't have him say his name as much

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joyfuladorable · 1 year

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Of Darkness and Light by Bayluff

It was running. It was running from him. Surging forward, he snagged the shadow of his prey, and slowly crawled up, sliding up a leg, up a strangehardback and finally, into the back of the neck.

Mikey suddenly stopped, shuddering, his breath hitching loudly. Leonardo immediately stopped and looked back. "Mikey? Mike what's wrong?" He questioned, concerned his feeling had been right.

"N-Nothing." Michelangelo said after a pause. "I just got real cold for a second." He laughed. "It's gone now."

My angst gremlin heart was appeased by this fic, lol. But also! I was cooing over all the comfort Mikey got while he was having a Bad Time (tm). ALSO, please don't tag this as ship in anyway. That's insta-block behavior.

Less eye-straining first image ^^

#tmnt #tmnt mikey #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2k3 #tmnt leo #tmnt donnie #tmnt raph #tmnt splinter #fic fanart #my art #had to make that note about ships just to be safe cuz like #y'all do you but leave me Out Of It #and tag your stuff properly #anyways FAMBLYYY #this fic is kinda cheesy but it does give that good good hurt/comfort content #also *salutes the author* couldn't find their social media (if they have one) so hope you're doing well wherever you are #and also yes I will be doing fic fanart regardless of when a fic was posted #if it activates my art brain it's been Chosen

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viperwhispered · 18 days

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Too Hard

Woop part 2 of the trip inside Jamil's head. Part 1 here.

The next time Jamil caught sight of you on campus, his first instinct was to turn around on his heel.

What a stupid thought to have because of you.

Besides, that would only make him more conspicuous, not less.

So, when your eyes met his, Jamil gave you a short nod in greeting. He would’ve left it at that and kept on his way, had you not walked up to him.

“Hi Jamil! How’s it going?” you said with that impossibly disarming smile of yours.

Why was it so difficult to look at you like he normally would? You had no right to make him feel so stiff, so unnatural.

On autopilot, Jamil exchanged a few pleasantries with you - those lessons from his parents had been instilled too deep in him for him to falter too badly in a simple exchange such as this. Still, Jamil quickly excused himself by telling you he still had to find Kalim before his next class.

Jamil didn’t miss the way your smile faltered. Had you hoped to get something out of him?

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you two later, then.”

Something about that irked him, though Jamil did not allow himself to dwell on it further.

His heart really had no business still racing as it did when he walked away, unaware of the frown on his face.

Just act normal. That’s all he needed to do.

After all, he had no time for dwelling in silly fancies.

If Jamil had been acutely aware of you before, it only seemed to worsen now that he was making a conscious effort to not act any differently with you. In fact, the harder he tried to keep you out, the more you invaded his thoughts, unsettling him.

The most innocuous words from you looped in his mind, and even the simplest actions caught his eye. For goodness's sake, he’d found himself staring at you while you were queueing up in the cafeteria the other day, not even doing anything other than standing around and looking bored!

For once, Jamil found himself grateful for all his duties. At least they provided him with something else to occupy himself with.

After all, if he was busy enough, it was difficult to think about those bright eyes of yours, your sweet laugh, or the way you bit your lip while thinking.

Still, sometimes it felt like no matter which way he turned, you were there, ready to throw him off-kilter. Not like it was his fault that often the most convenient route to class intersected with your daily routines. Or that your face seemed to jump out from any crowd, catching his attention.

Which certainly did not help his basketball performance. Jamil certainly did not recall you having such an interest in sports before, yet suddenly you were always there, distracting him. What had changed?

Could you possibly-

Jamil scoffed to himself, forcing his thoughts back on track for the nth time that day.

He picked up the tray of food and started taking it to Kalim. After dinner, he’d need to help Kalim with his homework, there were some housewarden tasks that would need dealing with, not to mention the preparations for the next-

Jamil froze in his tracks.

The voice he heard was quiet, but it was unmistakably you.

Really, it should not have come as such a surprise to him. You had become a rather frequent visitor to Scarabia, and Kalim often invited you to stay for meals. In fact, Jamil had started planning the dorm’s meal prep with your tastes and dietary restrictions in mind, just in case.

Jamil rounded the corner with strange exhilaration, his heart fluttering needlessly.

Yet, his mood evaporated when he saw you.

Why did you stop talking and look so guilty as soon as you caught sight of Jamil?

Jamil knew that look you gave to Kalim, had used it himself a thousand times. The one telling Kalim to keep quiet about something.

What could there possibly be that you would be comfortable sharing with Kalim, but not with him? That would give Kalim reason to sit so close to you, a comforting hand on your shoulder?

Jamil's mind raced with possibilities, yet could not settle for any single explanation.

He’d have to ask Kalim about it later.

Jamil gave you a short, polite greeting, his eyes lingering on you in an attempt to read what you were hiding.

“If I’d known you were coming over, I would’ve prepared something for you to eat as well,” Jamil said, already thinking about which parts of the dorm’s dinner to spruce up for you.

“Oh, no need, just figured I’d pop by. I’ll get out of your hair soon enough,” you said, something sheepish about your expression.

As expected, Kalim asked you to stay and dine with them, and with just a bit more persuasion you agreed - though not before telling Jamil that he should join you too and have himself a breather.

And since Kalim agreed with you, Jamil soon found himself sharing a meal with you and Kalim. Yet, even as he sat down with the food, his mind raced.

Had you been getting particularly close to Kalim lately? But surely Jamil would’ve noticed such a thing. Maybe someone from the dorm had been giving you trouble? But if that was the case, then surely you could let Jamil know about it, too. Unless for some reason you did not want to? But if it was something that concerned Kalim, then sooner or later it was bound to concern Jamil, too.

All the while, Kalim was talking to you about this and that, the latest topic being the animals kept on the Asim estate.

“I’ve got some pictures, let me show you!” Kalim said with an excited grin.

Only, a thorough patting of his pockets and a look around confirmed that Kalim’s phone was nowhere to be seen.

Jamil pinched the bridge of his nose. Where had Kalim left it this time?

Before Jamil even had the chance to say that he would handle it, Kalim sprinted off. Jamil hesitated for a moment, automatically halfway up from his seat, before he decided that leaving a guest unattended would be a worse offense than not helping out his master.

Jamil slumped back down with a sigh, mentally tracing the path Kalim took today, trying to recall the last time he saw Kalim handle his phone.

“Breathe. He’ll manage,” you said. There was the faintest of smiles on your lips, and Jamil could not decide if it was knowing or amused. Perhaps both.

Somehow, despite his frustration, Jamil’s own lips wanted to curl up too.

“Hmm. Maybe he will.”

Sure, Jamil could’ve called Kalim’s phone, to make it easier to find, but it was not that urgent, was it?

Jamil took another bite of his food, keeping an eye on you from the corner of his eye.

How was his mind so empty and so buzzing at the same time?

“You know-”

“So-”

You looked at each other, both just as surprised that the other had spoken up at the same time.

Even your surprised look was so-

“You first,” Jamil said. The way you bit your lip... Jamil had to raise a cup to his lips, slowly sipping his drink.

“Just… Feels like it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen you be still, you know. Or exchanged more than two words with you,” you said. You were attempting a light, joking tone, yet it was quite clear there was more to it.

“You say that like it would be unusual for me to be busy.”

He was not prepared for the way your soft sigh tugged at his heartstrings.

“No. It is not.”

You were both quiet after, poking at your meals. Normally, Jamil would’ve cherished such a moment of peace, yet this particular silence between you two was decidedly awkward.

Where was your usual chatter? Why weren’t you looking at him like you usually did?

“If you’re worried about me, don’t. I’m fine,” Jamil said, some softness creeping into his tone despite his best intentions.

“That's what Kalim said too,” you said. Yet the way you looked at Jamil made it clear you were still skeptical.

Wait.

Had you clammed up earlier because it had been Jamil you had been talking about with Kalim? That Kalim had comforted you about?

The thought twisted his stomach into knots.

Hasdhfsdf the way I fought with that last scene I swear. I don't even want to know how many versions I went through, trying to figure out how to say what I wanted without rubbing it into your face or making it too veiled. The joys of trying to convey things through a limited pov. Hopefully it came out reasonably balanced in the end. Rip to all those sentences that were lovely on their own but didn’t work for the whole. Hopefully I can rehome y’all one day. I do have thoughts for part 3 and part x (might be some chapters between those two as well, who knows at this point), so maybe we'll see those at some point, too. Tag list: @colliope @crystallizsch @diodellet @jamilsimpno69 @jamilvapologist @twstgo If you'd like to be tagged for future works, let me know! (Just be aware that sometimes I do also write nsfw, though you can certainly ask to be tagged only for particular kinds of works.)

#twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twisted wonderland x reader #jamil viper x reader #ner writes #jamil definitely knows how to deal with his feels #also writing this is making me wonder how aware jamil is of his inner versus outer life #like he’s very aware of how he comes across because that’s what he’s been told to watch out for #but how well has he truly learned to understand himself and his own feelings wants etc?#(I mean as you can tell I’m assuming not very well)#originally this went to more of a “jamil hears just the wrong part of the conversation” route but #a) I kinda hate that trope especially when it’s dragged on beyond belief and #b) Kalim maybe doesn’t want to spill anyone’s secrets but he really is such an open book especially with Jamil so #also it’s not like jamil needs the extra help to catastrophize he already does that well enough on his own 🙃#tho then I went a little too far in the other direction and had to pull back #but let's just hope I didn't edit this to death by now #also also: since I seem to have a bit of a naming theme going on for this series #if I were to be the sort to go for the angst route what part would definitely be titled Too Late or something along those lines #also x3 but loved folks commenting on that part about reader being inoffensive in the first part #I certainly had fun writing that line #(and in general extra love to everyone who leaves comments on tags replies wherever always great to read those)#(and in general chat with y'all)

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pushing500 · 1 month

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After fleeing from Monster's Basin to a new settlement by a river in a temperate forest, Buckeye and Magic Man's sapling child is safely planted. Now we can breathe easy as we build a new home for ourselves from the ground up.

First things first, our beloved T'au baby is now our beloved T'au adult! Happy birthday Pro!!

She has matured with the 'heavy sleeper' trait, which means she can now share a room with restless, nyctophobic Bella without issue. As soon as we can, we'll get Euclid to make some proper T'au fatigues and armour. I am going to enjoy drawing tall, lanky, air-caste T'au shenanigans.

The first two randomly generated names for the settlement were "Isk", which sounded too much like "Ick", and "Wessleton", which made me think of that annoying guy from Disney's 'Frozen'.

Fortunately, the third option was "Loyalty's Meander," which was very nice and thematic. After all, loyalty drove us to abandon Monster's Basin and come here, and the new settlement is set on a pretty meandering river—it's the perfect name!

First | Next | Previous

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crabsnpersimmons · 2 months

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Y'ALL HAVE ME LIKE

I DON'T KNOW WHAT I DID

BUT Y'ALL HAVE BEEN SO SWEET

I'M SORRY IT'S TAKING ME SO LONG TO REPLY

I WANNA DRAW THINGS BACK

AND I WILL

after my exam tomorrow :')

#i am overwhelmed y'all #my heart is so full #wish me all the broken legs for tomorrow :')#this second course is MASSIVE #there's just so many terms and acts and dates and formulas to rememberrrrr #like i swear they made this course 4 TIMES BIGGER THAN THE FIRST ONE just to weed out the weak #and i am not weak #i meant what i said when i said i was speedrunning this program #we have 2 years to complete it #and i'm trying to finish it in 5 months #but like #once i'm done #i have so much to unleash #i wanna draw more art for the hairdresser AU and start working on the fic #and draw more raincoat chibi DCA and maybe do a comic of their backstory?#and there's so many memes i wanna draw #and i have a new au i've been cooking up #it will most likely be a fic that's a series of oneshots (with some art but mostly a fic)#it's another slice of life au and very self-indulgent #but i hope it'll be a treat for some of you as well #might post a few crumbs of it sometime soon #it's been on the backburner of my mind for a while now

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gerbits · 2 months

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hi hello i haven't logged into this account in what feels like a decade

#back on my bg3 shit as if it ever stopped #so i have been hanging out on the other blog mostly!!#and you know.....with all these bugs......kinda glad!!#having conflicted feelings about the sims lately and i'm just.....idk #i really want to get back to posting someday but right now i'm very salty #SO i'm putting my time and effort into other things for the time being #anyway hope y'all are well :3

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pickleking8 · 3 months

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Tw: mentions of bleeding out, vivisection/lab table, blood, death, and shattered glass.

Ok so I went to this random indoor pool today and for some reason my first thought was "This would be a great place for Danny to bleed out in!" My reasoning is as follows:

The entire pool was made of metal. Like lab-table metal, shiny steel or something. When you jumped on it it clanged and you could feel the vibrations all throughout the pool.

The pool was lit green. So now, we have lab-table metal bathed in green.

The ceiling was glass, and it was night, so as you lie on your back floating, you can see the dark sky.

When you're in the pool, alone, you can hear everything, the quiet swishes as you move your arms and legs, your joints popping, your breathing, and nothing else.

Bright fluorescent indoor lights on the edges of the ceiling (outside of the glass bits)

Together, we have a vast expanse that's incredibly peaceful (lots of time for "I'm almost dead" thoughts), practically tailored to remind Danny of whatever vivisection he just went through, but also perfectly tailored to allow Danny to look at the stars. Plus blood-red will contrast the pool's green, and blood mixes in very cool-looking ways with water. Additionally, shattered glass from the ceiling Danny probably just fell through would also reflect beautifully, perfect shards for Danny to, idk, view his old life in/reminisce/be forced to confront his reflection as he dies. And finally! The obvious stuff one could do with the concept of sinking as one bleeds (I'm thinking bubbles, if that makes any sense).

Anyway, in conclusion, there should be more fics where people find Danny bleeding out in a pool.

#tw vivisection #tw death #tw blood #tw bleeding out #tw shattered glass #danny phantom #idk guys this came mostly from little snippets of some really cool scenes that came to me #y'all should have seen the pool it was just so perfect #this started kind of dark and got darker but ah well #there's just so much potential I couldn't stop thinking about it #Idk if I'm properly sharing my vision but i hope i am because it's a really cool vision #perhaps I shall write it #anyway let me know what you think :)

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nguyenfinity · 4 months

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I am so late to this trend hjbvjhfbjvhfv but I started this in October and I just now got around to finishing it 😭

But yaaaay Miku !!

#project voltage #hatsune miku #miku #pokemon #pokemon miku #froslass #d. did you know. froslass is my favorite pokemon #did you know #had i not gotten horribly distracted this would've been done yesterday #like this as a whole would've taken me 2 days tops my attention span has just gotten worse #i also wanna draw the new jun but like. it's 5:02 AM as i type this and i've been getting out of bed past 3 PM recently #5 PM sometimes even #winter break things yeah #hope y'all are doing well tho o7

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stacytea · 4 months

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My dearest fellow russingon shippers! Today at school I've realized that what we all deserve is a fic about Fingon and Maedhros eating żurek on a cold autumn day in Himring. Just two of them having a nice warm soup for dinner.

#that's it that's the post #for these of you who aren't from poland please check out żurek #it's like the best soup ever #silmarillion #the silmarillion #russingon #maedhros #fingon #żurek #żurek my love #himring #they deserve to have żurek in himring #also everyone deserves to have żurek I hope y'all get to eat żurek #this is a żurek appreciation post #a well deserved appreciation post

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blindmagdalena · 1 year

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❛ i realized what was the matter, what had always been the matter — i was deeply and incurably in love with her. ❜ 👉🏻👈🏻

Anonymous asked: Hi :D can i have a ❛ i’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me. i love you. ❜ with a pining homelander? :D AO3 Link. Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us; stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any of the above. People come and go. It's the nature of the business. He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity, where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason… He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That catches you off guard. You stare at him for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. Why would he bother?

He hums. "You've been styling me for awhile," he notes, tone contemplative.

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. You're fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

To Homelander, that sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals.

From that day forward, it's like you suddenly exist to him.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, which comes as something of a surprise to you. He never initiates.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with a smile that catches his eye.

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what that may be, though.

Homelander waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You laugh, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. "I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. He likes that you never let any of that sticky crap get on his face. You always take care of him, taking all these little measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never complained. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone.

More and more, he starts looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life has become a comforting ritual. The two of you chat easily, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike, and in turn he learns about you, and the life you live beyond the time he spends with you. It’s nothing extraordinary, not like his, but it's yours.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him?

Days turn to weeks, and weeks to months. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread, he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks.

On those days, he misses your laugh. He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the corporate, unfeeling reality of his day to day life.

On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before you’re even gone.

Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little… nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him.

Pausing just outside the door, Homelander takes in a steadying breath. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Collecting himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together , he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room. “Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the room. His brows pinch. He knows he isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue. You’ve never been late.

Unable to settle, Homelander paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such a silly, obvious thing to have, despite the fact he’s never needed it. He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens, and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut sharply short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is not you.

“Good morning!” The woman greets him, chirpy and fake, grating in Homelander’s ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger comes in an unreasonable surge. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders.

The woman hesitates in the doorway, her friendly demeanor flipped immediately to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–”

“Where is my stylist?” Homelander interrupts her, stepping close, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!”

“I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–”

Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall before crumpling to the floor like a sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him?

“Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.” ~~~~~~

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he IS The Homelander, and they inevitably let him through.

You’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown when he steps in. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight.

“H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks, and his vision flickers. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure.

You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–”

“You’re fine,” he breathes, more to himself than to you, though his relief is palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth.

Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter, what has always been the matter– he is deeply and incurably in love with you.

“Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. It would make you laugh if he didn’t look worried sick.

“No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think… I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them.

Your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches in your lungs. The bewildered confession utterly paralyzes you.

Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. “I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks a little delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him .

The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to.You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service, and is that not love in its purest form?

And yet, you don’t look to share his elation.

You feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, tingling all over with pure shock. You’re not sure if you’re lightheaded because of his words, or because you’ve forgotten how to breathe properly. Either way, you manage to suck in a shaky breath, blinking several times.

Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping slightly. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy?

“I…” You don’t know what to say. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves to convince yourself that this is actually happening. Maybe the accident was worse than you thought, and you’re hallucinating. “I never… I never would have thought, or even dreamed, in a million years… You would love me back.”

Like a dying flame stoked back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his fading smile broadening once more. “I was worried when you were late,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s near enough that you can smell the ozone lingering on his skin from the way he tore through the sky to reach you. He huffs a laugh that feels warm on your lips. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you, like they could replace you that easily. I almost tore her head off,” he muses quietly.

Your brows furrow. “Wait, what?” He almost did what now?

“I’m gonna kiss you,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

You shiver with it, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.”

Homelander’s lips are unbelievably soft against yours. You can’t help but melt completely against him, relaxing fully into his grip. Maybe it’s the pain meds, but you feel like you’re flying. Your stomach is doing backflips while his lips move against yours, gentle and exploratory, learning the feel of you.

When the two of you break apart, you exhale, laughing breathlessly. You move your hands to touch his face. You’ve seen it countless times, been close enough to kiss it a dozen more, but the barrier of reality has always been a thick wall from it. You scarcely let yourself fantasize about it, let alone come anywhere close to acting on such thoughts.

Glancing up, you cannot help but laugh more earnestly at the wild splay of his hair. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, pushing both of your hands into his hair to smooth it down, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles so wide and boyishly, you can’t help but kiss him again.

“I’m not out of my mind on pain meds right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, kissing you gentler than you thought possible. “You’ll be seeing a whole lot more of me from now on.”

Maybe you’ll send flowers to the guy that rear-ended you this morning. You’re pretty sure he changed your life forever.

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #i hope y'all like this one!! i saw the two and just felt like they would work so well together #thanks for sending them!!!#my writing #darling anon #ask and you shall receive #lord this turned out so freaking long #i CANNOT proofread to save my life but let me know if there's some glaring error lmao #fluff #all of a sudden there you are

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