#heed the tags

[steviewashere]

In Sickness and Health

Rating: General CW: Discussions of Medical Issues, Referenced/Past Seizures Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Older Steddie, Canon Divergent, Steve Harrington has Seizures, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Breakdowns, Hurt/Comfort, Angst & Fluff, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is giving them space when they need it."

💕—————💕

Eddie has learned to revel in quiet afternoons, even when he’s alone. The way the sunshine bathes the apartment’s living room carpet—his and Steve’s apartment. Their cat, Poncho, settled heavy and warm in his lap. A chilled glass of southern iced tea and a plate of crackers and sliced cheese. The television volume on low. Book open and set on the arm of the couch. It’s good, the quiet.

Yet, it breaks the moment the front door opens. He didn’t hear Steve stick his key in the lock. But he definitely hears his annoyed groans and huffs. The slam of the door, most likely shut with his hip. A muffled, “Damnit”, when he drops his keyring on the floor.

He peeks from the edge of the couch, eyes set and attentive at their front door. And Steve is there, wrestling with his puffer jacket, grumbling under his breath, kicking his legs and stepping on the backs of his sneakers—something he never does, he cares too much for those things. But here he is. One t-shirt stuck on a doorknob away from a breakdown.

Though, Eddie doesn’t chastise him for the way his emotions express. No matter how explosive they are. Steve just gets like this some days. Too angry to talk. Too begrudged to take care of his things.

What’s new, however, is Steve’s slightly splotchy, puffy face. Red and pink and white. The tears brimming in his eyes. Ever apparent even behind his glasses. A paper with professional scribbling on it—a doctor’s note. He had an appointment this morning. Made last night after an emergency room trip. A seizure is what put him there. Scared them both, Eddie too eager to make him take an appointment, to call in sick to work. He should’ve gone with, if this is how Steve’s coming home.

He plops Poncho on the couch, letting him stretch skywards and curl back into a little ball. Tea abandoned on the coffee table. And Eddie gently comes around the corner, hands hooked in front of himself, still dressed down in pajamas, eyes wide and expecting at Steve. 

“St—“

Steve shakes his head. A hand held out in front of him. Jacket and shoes abandoned by the front door. And he sidesteps Eddie completely, barreling down the hallway, slamming the bedroom door behind him, and locking it.

Eddie lumbers after him, slowly, cautiously. Face to the wood of the door. And through it, what breaks his heart, he can hear Steve’s soft cries. He resigns himself to some time on the couch. Steve always needs his space after breakdowns like these.

Needed it after Max woke up in the hospital, half-blind, limbs mostly healed. Needed it after Eddie came out of surgery, pock-marked and head shaved, half a grimace on his face. Needed it when Robin moved out of state for college. After Dustin and Lucas and Mike and Will and Eleven and Max all graduated high school, when they went their separate ways across the country, when they called once or twice a month. When his dad died, the grief a heavy blanket on his shoulders, his chest lighter, his brain angry at being relieved. 

Steve needed his space when Eddie brought home their cat (though he came out merely ten minutes later, an excited smile on his face, name on the tip of his tongue). Nightmares and dissociation episodes. At the grocery store, because he has to stick to a list, knowing that Eddie never does that. The first grey hair, which he then took in stride when Eddie called him a “Beautiful baby silver fox.”

Even after they moved to Massachusetts in 2008 and got married. His emotions were so strong, so palpable, so rapid—he just needed a moment to debrief, take a hot shower, and then cuddle into Eddie’s side on their honeymoon bed.

Point is, Eddie knows when Steve needs his space. Knows that he cherishes that time to himself, to break down in contemplative silence, to let himself digest new information or old information or just get himself restrung. 

He wishes that Steve had been taught that it’s okay to breakdown in front of his loved ones. That it’s okay to ask for help and for comfort. But it doesn’t come easy. It makes him guilty. It makes him scattered like a headless chicken.

For the mean time, Eddie sets himself down on the couch, iced tea in his grip, volume turned up slightly on the television. Steve doesn’t like it when people hear him cry. Eddie doesn’t acknowledge it either, for the sake of saving Steve from another impending breakdown. He loves Steve with all his might, he just wishes things were slightly different. He’ll do this, ever reluctant he may be.

——— Around thirty minutes later, an average amount of time for Steve, the bedroom door creaks open. Eddie quickly turns down the TV and gently places his now empty glass on the coffee table.

Small, floating from the hallway, Steve calls out, “Eddie? Can you—“ He sniffles, voice still choked up. “Can you come in here, please?”

The sight that Eddie wanders in on breaks his heart a little further. Steve’s face is still a splotchy mess, his eyes downcast and teary, waterlines pink. His hair, grayer now, is askew. There’s a definite slump to his body, where it rests on the edge of the mattress. Hands intertwined between his legs, fingers locking and pulling one another, socked feet shuffling on the rug. He got out of his day clothes, now back in his pajamas from the night before—sleep shorts, grey t-shirt.

Eddie closes the bedroom door behind him. He scoots over and kneels down on the floor. Hesitantly, he sets his palms on Steve’s knees. He rubs the inner skin, warm and soft, with his thumbs. “Whatcha need from me, baby? Ask me to do anything, I’ll do it.”

Steve sighs, breath shuddering as it leaves him. His exhale ends on a little whimpered hiccup. Instead of answering, he grabs the paper he was holding earlier and passes it over. It’s edges are wrinkled, probably from being handled roughly, maybe even scrunched. And Eddie was right, it’s something from a doctor’s tablet. Signed off with a messy scrawl:

— Instructions for handling seizures. — What to do if a seizure lasts longer than five minutes. — Steps on how to start the process of getting a service animal. — Firm directions telling the patient to not drive. — Prescription for Tegretol CR 200mg

And the diagnosis in thick, blocky, bold black text:

Epilepsy

Eddie sighs through his nose. He swallows thickly and looks back up to Steve’s defeated face. He murmurs, “I should’ve gone with you. I’m sorry, love bug.”

Shrugging, Steve mutters, “Thought I was done with the after effects of the shit back in Hawkins. I’m so—Angry? Disappointed? I don’t know how to feel.”

The paper is set back on the mattress and Eddie pulls Steve into his chest. He rubs a hand down the length of his spine, the other squeezing around his waist. “You’re allowed to feel however you want. And it’s okay to take the time to figure that out, too. This is hard stuff, baby.” He sways them from side to side. Closing his eyes in relief as Steve’s arms wrap around his back. Something that, unfortunately, doesn’t happen enough when he’s in need of comfort. His hands grip tightly to the back of Eddie’s t-shirt. Eddie gently turns his head and kisses Steve’s cooling, still ruddy cheek. “We’ll start figuring this out. Like we always do. I’ll be right here for you, alright?”

Steve nods against his shoulder. Muffled into Eddie’s neck, he asks quietly, “Can I have some more space and alone time?” He shifts to slowly release Eddie. “Just for a little while. I promise I’ll hang out. I just needed to tell you, so that it’s not harder later.”

He pries them apart gently. Arms still encasing Steve, he holds soft eye contact. “You take all the time in the world. I won’t be offended, sweetheart.” He kisses Steve’s forehead now. When he sits back on his heels, Eddie brings up a hand and runs it through Steve’s hair, fingernails dully scratching at his scalp. His smile is lopsided, the youngest it’s been since the first confession. It comes easier now, “I love you, you know that? I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Steve murmurs, barely returning the smile, and yet it’s there. Eddie revels in that, too.

And when Eddie goes to exit the bedroom, door almost shut behind him, Steve calls out his name one more time. Looking back, Steve swamped in their comforter, glasses folded on the bedside table, wrapped up and warm, Eddie tilts his head in careful implore. He hums in question.

“Thank you for understanding,” Steve whispers.

“Thank you for telling me, I know it was hard. If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room, okay? I’ll keep the TV low, but tell me if it’s too loud.” Steve nods, shifting under the blanket further, fully supine on the mattress. He looks more relaxed. He looks a little easier. “Have a good nap, love bug. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 6 #heed the tags #I promise it'll be okay

[bucknastysbabe]

Hey look I finished an AU bingo ask! I enjoyed this one so much💖 I felt the brain cooking making up and putting together actual smart people science words. Thanks for the request!

AU bingo - Sci-fi Horror - Aemond Targaryen

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Murder AI Aemond, obsessive/stalking behaviors, TW TW TW: NONCON AND DUBCON. The noncon is not a full scene but warning, non-descript mass murder, scientist!reader, nanotechnology, spaceship setting, somewhere far in the future, pnv!sex, masturbation, Aemond kinda has a mommy kink if you squint and a Bible quote kink lmfao, v!fingering, manipulation, space odyssey gone wrong trope

A/N: No beta I’ll prob come back and fix some shit soon

The ship landed with a faint thud on the green, green exo-planet. You followed Aemond along quietly, meek, fearful, broken. Coming down the unfurled slanted walkway a sweet smell hit your senses. Miles of flowery fields waved, a perfect breathable atmosphere. In the distance, avian-like creatures tittered. A fragment of peace was in your tattered soul.

He hummed softly, gesturing to the beauty.

"God blessed them; and God said to them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth, and subdue it; and rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth.’”

You felt that Aemond was the serpent and remained quiet, breathing in the fresh air. Nothing like home. Maybe you could start anew. The man turned to look, stating, “But we’re God. We have a duty. We shall make this planet everything that Earth has failed to do. Join me, be my Eve will you?” He seemed genuine.

A long fingered hand extended to you. Your gaze flickered between that glowing eye and the outstretched digits. You grabbed his hand, interlacing your fingers. Together, looking upon the horizon you murmured, “Yes, my Adam. You were the greatest creation after all.”

He pecked the stray tear rolling down your cheek, squeezing your palm, lips curling in glee.

It wasn’t meant to end up like that for you. At one point Aemond was your AI. Artificially Enhanced Monitor Of Nanites Directive. Simply installed cameras and layer upon layers of wafer thin circuits loaded with information. Aemond preferred to be referred as he. He was also an arrogant bastard, but helpful as was his intent.

Your coworker Greaves and Aemond did not get along well, the AI criticizing his work. You’d tune them out with plugs or music buds. The scientist laden ship had a destination to a far away mining colony. The general’s plan was to find a way to used nano-technology to replace missing arms, eyes, and other wounds. Time was running thin but the blonde man in cryo-stasis would be your second trial.

The first did not end well. Her body rejected the technology, turning the human into a mindless wreck. Greaves blamed it on you, then General Hightower gave a harsh scolding and upped the time. Aemond consoled you a bit, offering advice. He seemed to take a liking to your banter on the nanotechnology.

He wasn’t the only AI. Other sectors of the ship worked on different but crucial projects such as alien anti-parasitics and ramping up on space suits equipped for defense. Colonization was on the horizon.

Plucking and prodding the little nanites with different stimuli had them snapping and shifting, seeking to find a form. You just needed to code what form they would assume. Aemond’s clipped voice echoed over you. He suggested, “Have you tried printing a molded cast of the man’s eye socket?”

Perching your chin on a shaky hand you smiled, “I swear, it’s always the simplest things I miss. Thank you Aemond.”

“You would have realized soon, want me to begin the scans and print? Likely you need rest, I know the stress of the upped time is draining your bodily function. The brain needs much more sleep, especially one as bright as yours.”

You blushed a bit, fumbling your tweezers. The AI had a certain…courtly way of words. His sort of programming wouldn’t allow for flirtation but it certainly came across like that. Greaves mocked you and the intelligence’s ‘crush’. Greaves always found a way to make you miserable. You did all the major work and he got the accolades.

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts you announced, “You’re right, I’ll go rest for a bit, get back to work with the mold. Thank you again, and engage lockdown protocol so he doesn’t mess up my work like last time.”

“Engaging it now, sleep well Miss.”

You crashed as soon as you reached your quarters, sleeping deeply and sound. Upon awakening and getting dressed you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Just chalk it up to your fried nerves. It wasn’t the first time and this was an older ship, ghost stories had gotten to you before.

The mold was in a canister from the printer, you scrubbing up and carefully taking it out. Aemond politely asked, “Did you sleep well? You look refreshed.” Blushing yet again you murmured, “Very much needed, I didn’t realize how exhausted I was.”

“Greaves has been in the mess hall, you will likely get some peace now. Shall we begin?”

The armor folded off your precious lab table, the nanites dormant from no stimuli. Pressing a button you placed the mold into a hatch, sending it up into the chamber. In fluid motions the little bugs covered the new space, feeling and searching before all inserting into the eye socket, glowing a bright blue.

You laughed in glee, “Yes! Yes perfect! Look at that Aemond, they’ve formed a pupil!”

Shining light on the false eye the pupil contracted and flinched, the illusion of eyelids closing. You cheered again in excitement, getting Aemond to video the big jump in success. You could start phase two soon. Just had to deal with your partner.

“Amazing miss, amazing. They took to it well. Shall I send the material to command?”

You grinned and looked up at the camera, “Please! God bless! A miracle!” You’d continue to test the nanite organ until the hiss of the door opening alerted you.

Greaves stumbled in, slurring, “I see you got the jump on me this time. Did the creep robot do it for you? Weird fucking thing.” He leaned against the sterile white wall, grinning with hazy eyes. You frowned and stood up, “That’s his job, to aid us. I’m sure since you work so hard in the mess hall you’ll get your accolades again.”

He squinted at you, arms folding against a chest, “Whas’ your fuckin’ problem with me? You’d rather chat with a bunch of circuits than work with your assigned partner!” His already reddened face darkened, taking another step forward.

Fear laced through your veins. Aemond somehow sneered, “Because you, her lab partner, sold her out on your own mistake. Go to bed, your alcohol content levels are above the limit.” Greaves threw his hands up and hollered, “Oh fuck you!” He stumbled to the switch, you and the AI shutting up when Greaves switched him off.

The bigger man kept stalking closer, eyes on you in an darkened manner. Like a predator closing in on his prey. You squeaked, “Calm down Greaves, I can show you everything!” He hissed, “I already heard everything and the video, bitch! S’bout time someone put you in your place again.”

He snatched your wrist, slamming you against the steel cryo-chamber. You howled in pain, trying to escape. Greaves’ breath stunk of liquor, hot and rank, sweating on your clean skin. He pushed himself on top of you, mumbling frantically, “Maybe you need to get fucked, all that pent up shit from your computer boyfriend.”

You struggled and cursed, “Fuck you! Get off of me! I will report you!” He smirked, “Try me. No cameras with your prince in shining circuits around.” He forced himself between your legs, clumsy drunk hands yanking at your pants. You cried in fear again, kneeing and biting, getting a clock to the head.

Dazedly you remembered the tweezers in your coat. Playing limp had the idiot croon, “Good girl, thats what we want to see.” He shoved his face into your neck, hands prying your lab pants knee height now. Thats when you struck, slowly, slowly, pulling the tweezers from your pocket and jabbing him in the side, hopefully near a lung.

Greaves hollered in pain, breath wheezy and stilted, blood dripping from white cloth. You kicked and removed yourself, stumbling and bumping around in a frenzy as your partner tried to scramble after you. First, you switched on Aemond again. Secondly, you ran out into the hallway, finding the nearest guard, lump on your forehead and clothes torn.

You weren’t sure what happened back in the lab while you were taken into medbay and seen by HR. But after given a small dose of sedatives and care for your head wound, you passed Greaves strapped into a gurney, howling, “Fuck you! Fuck you! He’s gonna kill me! Don’t leave me locked away, please! She’s lying!”

You gaped, unnerved by his fearful warbling and frantic yells. Aemond would be waiting. He probably was worried. When the door hissed open the familiar clipped tone hastily asked, “Are you alright miss? I- I would have helped, sent a warning. I apologize, please, is everything okay?”

You wearily sat on your lab chair, rubbing pounding temples. “To be honest, I don’t know. H-he tried to rape me, said such nasty things, it was all so sudden. But he should go on tribunal about it. For some reason I am glad you missed it.”

“For the best,” he said bitterly, “Why don’t you go rest again? I’ll keep watch over everything. Maybe we can try more tests tomorrow. He’ll get what he deserves.”

An ominous feeling settled over you but off to your personal quarters you went, draining the pills with water. You stared at the ceiling, mind reeling, before emptiness. A bright blue haunted your dreams. Just there. Flexing and dilating. Trying to see through you. Understand.

It was a weary wait for the tribunal. Your research was put on halt and you on mandatory isolation besides meeting with a therapist. There was an order made and interviews occurring. The tedious process of moving someone out of a different department to assist you.

So it was just you. Aemond too. He wasn’t much of a talkative AI as of late, short responses and antagonizing little ‘hms’ or ‘very well miss.’ You began to ignore the effervescent blue light, him doing the same. You knew he was watching, that little burn in the back of your head.

In the meantime you read your Bible, did yoga, wearily watched the port window, occasionally would go into the lab to stare at your halted work. You pulled open the container for the cryochamber, staring down at the frozen man. He had a handsome face, chiseled and lean, long nose, sharp jaw.

Your eyes lingered down his rangy form, this man obviously was athletic of sorts. Or maybe a simple nobody, just managed to get into the program after what happened to his eye. Between his long legs laid his soft cock, you stared for a second too long before-

“Is that not inappropriate?”

Startled, you whipped around to see Aemond’s blue light in your face. You snapped, “It was purely medical!” His laugh, raspy and grating, echoed in the white lab. You frowned and returned to your room, slapping the button for the door to hiss shut.

You’d go take a shower, blood heated from anger and…something else. Under the hot stream of water you imagined the gorgeous subject with that familiar blue, caressing and stroking your overwhelmed body. It had been too long, your hand awkwardly jerking between your swollen lips until you came with a stifled grunt.

Afterward you felt exposed and paranoid, like Aemond could pry into the bathroom, chuckling at your obvious behavior. But there wasn’t any cameras in that bathroom…that you were aware of. Sitting on your bed, guilt rose up your back. You’d pray.

More time passed before you were selected to testify for the tribunal. Greaves’ crew made a good argument that Aemond and you planned on his downfall. He claimed that the AI had gone wrong somewhere, developed the notion it could possess feelings, how he had been threatened.

Shakily you testified that Aemond was forced off and the board could check, then how you’d been forced upon without consent. They tried to cross-examine but you held strong. Teary by the end, they moved on and you sat by your appointed admiral. She rubbed your shoulders.

Greaves was sentenced to hard labor, and would remain in isolation on the ship until reaching the mining colony, where he would serve out the sentence. They appointed, sadly, another male to fill your exiled partner’s position.

But you could get back to work.

Aemond was in a right mood when you returned to the lab. Questioning you sharply on what occurred, where Greaves’ would go, did you get a new partner. You answered them all, rubbing your temples, the AI could be quite intense.

“Aemond!,” you snapped.

“What miss?”

“Are you trying to induce a panic attack? Greaves is in the bottom of the ship, I’m back to work, and they have a man named Herron coming from robotics to fill in.”

“Another male? All things considered? It’s obvious you and I could get the job done.”

You sighed, “I know. But it’s what they said. Do you just want to run some stimuli tests?”

He agreed, seemingly placated by the offer, blue light flexing. The pair of you would work on the mold’s ability to sense and perceive, how well would the nanites adapt to the brain. Your eyes grew droopy after awhile, Aemond humming, “Why don’t you go to bed?” Nodding blearily, you stumbled off to the adjacent bedroom, completely forgetting to put on any of the safety precautions for the night.

While you slept deeply, Aemond had some things to do. Everything was open for his command, including the nanites and subject. He had a great plan, and it would not fail. First he needed to go pay a visit to Greaves, infiltrating the entire AI system. Poor miss, she was so tired, forgot everything. Wonderful little creature. He’d help.

Feeling refreshed in the morning, you dragged yourself to the mess hall, receiving stares upon stares. You grabbed a salad and finally gathered the courage to ask, “What happened?” A female scientist from anti-parasitic whispered dramatically, “How do you not know? Greaves was murdered? All of the oxygen was depleted from his cell.” Your stomach fell, head going swimmy.

Stumbling up from the bench, ignoring your food, heart beating faster and faster, you crashed into the lab. Your voice cracked when you shouted, “Aemond!” His voice returned, but from a different place, a different body. The blue eye shone and twinkled at you, fine lips curling upward.

“You should be thanking me, miss,” the AI standing in the subject’s body said.

It went black. Too much.

Thrashing awake, big hands held you down, long legs caging your own in. The handsome face, long blonde hair tickled your skin, fucking Aemond! “What did you do? What have you done? Aemond!,” you cried. He shushed and cooed with that devious smirk, holding you still until the panic turned to resignation. He swiped a stray tear from your eye.

“Be still and know that I am God,” he sighed.

You grew fearful again, the fact that he knew you owned a Bible and just recited it to your face said too much. How much had he seen. Aemond grew more comfortable atop of you, stroking your hair. He cocked his head and stated, “I know everything about you. You’re all that I need, truly. The perfect human.”

You wanted to spit in his face, but the petting and warmth was getting to that part of you that craved the attention, the fact you’d been in the shadows all your life. But he was a murderer— the rational part of your brain howled. Instead came out a warbling, “Me? Perfect?“

Aemond drew his new face closer, drawing a spindly finger down from your chin to chest. “I’ve been on this ship a long time, and no one has spoken to me like you. Not since my creator. She’s gone. But you have captured me, ensnared me somehow.”

One of your legs slipped round his long ones, suddenly overwhelmed with need. All you’d ever wanted was to be seen. He cooed, “I see you lamb, my eve.” More tears leaked down your cheeks as you pled, “Kiss me, see me then, y-you snake.”

A sharp grin erupted on his sharp features before pulling you in with a kiss, both of you unexperienced, a big hand stabilizing your head. You tilted his head for ease of access, a sloppy gnashing of teeth and tongue, lips bruising from the sheer yearning. Aemond moaned deeply, “I see- hah- how you humans love touch so much.”

Your now free hands moved to where they liked, one in silky white-blonde strands, the other just feeling toned shoulders and back. The pair of you had your lip lock grow more attuned, no less passionate, but gliding across each other. You pled again, “Clothes, help, Aemond!” He sat back on his haunches, shivering as his long stiff cock slapped tight belly.

You shucked off your top and bra, him jerking down your bottoms to leave you all to his view. Aemond already had been bare, no clothes were prepared for the subject yet. He inhaled sharply, hands slowly moving down your heaving form, studying ridges and curves, sliding warm fingers between puffy folds. You cried out at that, spasming at the eager expression in return.

Aemond let out a small ‘Hm’ and slid his longest digits into your dripping hole, immediately curling inwards and upwards to drag against sensitive walls. Very, very sensitive walls. Back arched and mouth agape you rolled your hips and whined his name. The man rambled loosely, transfixed, “Having a data bank is quite helpful but nothing comes to this, my Eve.”

He slipped a third finger in, using a calloused thumb to slid around your swollen clit, making you cry louder and writhe under pleasure. He watched ravenously, drinking you in when your peak hit. Gushing onto his pale hand and screeching like a creature, you reached Nirvana for what felt like minutes.

You cried again when his sheathed himself inside of you, no warning, both of you moaning and grunting like animals. The sensitive skin guarding your cunt was ripped now, bleeding, but the fullness of his cock was a ripe distraction. Aemond seemed to be overwhelmed by the sensation, sucking in breath, eyes wide, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life has been delivered.”

He plastered toned body against your own, moaning gutturally when you wrapped your arms and legs around his larger frame. “Oh- oh- fucking hell- this!” The blonde groaned lowly, nipping your throat, hands bruisingly placed on your waist as he snapped into your slick cunt.

The blunt tip of his cock stirred up familiar feelings of pleasure, tightening and knotting your lower belly. You heaved, “Don’t stop!” A drop of sweat hit your mouth, you licking the salty taste off. So close to human yet not. Yet not. Yet not not not.

A pinch to your oversensitive clit and a batter from his cock sent you into another crest, holding to Aemond for dear life. He moaned your name and white hot spend covered your mound and belly. He kissed your forehead and wiped away the spend with your discarded top, breathing. You sat up a bit and asked, “Where do you go from here? They cannot know?”

Aemond got up, long stride beating your clumsy foal-like stumbling. He stated, “They won’t know my love.” Your own door shut and locked behind his retreating frame. You managed to reach it and beat on the durasteel, crying, “Aemond! Aemond come back! Stop! What are you doing!”

Oh how you’d been fooled.

Oh how you were weak.

Oh how you were just a human pawn when the alarms went off and you watched the bodies float out of the ship, silently screaming and dying as their blood boiled in the vacuum of space.

He returned later, now dressed in the immaculate garb of a commander, hair neatly swept back, eye sparkling. You remained naked and felt like a mouse under his imperious gaze. All energy was gone, you’d cried it out. Aemond strode towards you, boots clicking. He knelt to grab you chin, face tilting to study you. He’d never truly understand the complexities of human emotion, no matter how human he may appear.

Aemond sighed, “I did this for you, for us, those people do not matter. Earth and it’s people are dying. We begin anew. My perfect Eve,” he kissed your swollen lips. “You’ll see. Just wait, I brought you some nicer clothes, have them on.”

The man stood up and gently laid down female commander’s garb, before kneeling to you.

“I know this isn’t registering in your human, wonderfully human, brain, but it’ll make sense later on. I’ve already found a beautiful planet. Not too much longer now. Put on the clothes and meet me on the bridge.”

So you did. What other choice was there.

Twisted though he may be, the AI was never horrid to you. Maybe to others, not you. On the comfortable jacket, pants, and boots went. You tried not to cry any more restyling your hair. Most likely he’d coddle and ‘Hm’ condescendingly.

You laughed maniacally as the thought popped up, “Hey! At least my project was successful!”

#heed the tags #hotd fanfic #aemond smut #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #sci-fi horror au #aemond targaryen smut

[dontpercievemeplease]

Jashers it’s happened.

Silly Writing with Silly Guys by Foxy is now on ao3!!!

No more having to deal with large google docs :)

Please show Foxy some love!!

Go read it’s so good!!!! They’re brothers your honor I swear-

#i’m so normal about them #200k words and more coming soon :) #is there an update coming soon? maybe :) #that’s for time to tell /silly #chonny jash #cccc #chonnys charming chaos compendium #cj heart #cj mind #cj soul #cj whole #foxy from the cjfs #foxys writing #so good please read it #I’m gonna pin this post now #cccc fanfic #cccc fic #not mine #heed the tags #heed the warnings #they go through many HorrorsTM #no shipping #they’re brothers your honor

[thetornadodream]

If We Don't Stop Wanting in the Long Dark

Rating: E

Summary:

“Come on, they’re the perfect flower for you: they’ve got hell and bore in the name.” He then added to his insult by flicking the end of her nose with his soil-stained gardening gloves. She was sure that her nose was now speckled in dirt. And even though she had glared thoroughly at him, he had just laughed before saying, “Those specks of dirt should fit in nicely with the rest of your face, freckles.”

Her glare turned murderous; this new nickname he’s given her is a thousand percent done to infuriate her.

“Do not call me that,” she snapped, pawing furiously at the soil dotting her face.

His eyes were dark on her when he had arched an eyebrow and asked, “Oh? You’d prefer I call you Master?”

-

When Wednesday finds herself tethered to Tyler Galpin as his new Master after killing Laurel Gates, the two work together to try to find a way to undo the binding. But as the months go by, can they learn to trust not just each other but also their own feelings?

for @weylerwritingevents

#wylerspringfest2024 #wyler #weyler #wyler fanfic #ao3 fic #wednesday addams #tyler galpin #it's long #i'm just warning you #and it's smutty #heed the “e” rating #heed the tags

[aprilfeldspar]

#paul atreides #dune #dune part two #irulan corrino #dune part 2 #dune fanfiction #paul x irulan #timothée chalamet #florence pugh #heed the tags #heed the warnings #tw noncon #dead dove do not eat #dark fanfic #dune part ii

[alidravana]

Pairing: Ghost/Price, Ghost/Gaz, Ghost/Soap

Length/Rating: ~3K, Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, Touch-Starved, Touch Aversion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Sexual Submission, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Service Submission, Poly 141

Summary:

Ghost wasn’t a typical sub. He didn’t need coddling, or reassurance, or a gentle touch. He didn’t need to kneel, he didn’t need to hold some crazy position, he didn’t need to beg or be told what to do. Nothing helped clear the buzz in the back of his mind, nothing helped to calm him, nothing made him feel safe. He wasn’t even sure he experienced sub drop anymore, unable to differentiate it from his usual tenseness. Maybe he was just broken.

Not really sure where this idea came from, but voila!

Check it out here on A03!

#call of duty #modern warfare #ghostsoap #ghostprice #ghostgaz #dom/sub #poly 141 #heed the tags #emotional hurt/comfort

[aziraphales-library]

Hello wonderful people!!!!

First off, I'd like to say your fic finding and recommending skills are absolutely divine, and I just want to express my appreciation and love for this account. /gen

Secondly, I'd like to ask if you have any post s2 angst heavy fics yet? I'm talking hurt, minimal/no comfort. If not, that's perfectly alright! ( I wouldn't say no to some post s2 fluff fics though <3)

Thank you so much!

Hi! Here are some post-series two angst hurt/no comfort fics. Mind the tags and read at your own risk!...

Forever is the Sweetest Con by flwrscn (G)

As the Angel enters the elevator Crowley realizes he’s looking at a stranger. That night there were no nightingales anywhere near Berkeley Square, and even though the Ritz was overbooked until closing, one table remained completely empty for some, what one might say, ineffable reason.

This Angel Has Flown Away From Me by CircusBug (T)

"Crowley needed to go home. The problem, of which there were many, was that “home” was being run by Muriel. No, that’s not entirely true. Muriel was at the bookshop, "home" was currently on his way up to Heaven in a fucking elevator. Crowley couldn’t go home, not really, so he went to his flat instead."

Christ is Coming (it doesn't fix us) by ikeasebastian (G)

“If I do this, Angel,” he begins, cursing himself for using that nickname. “You don’t ask me for anything again. Ever.” “Oh yes, of course! Of course, thank you, thank y–” Aziraphale says, sighing in relief. But Crowley, he hadn’t finished yet. “Hold on, Aziraphale. If I do for you, I’m gonna ask you one thing.” His tone is serious – serious enough that Aziraphale hesitates. He can probably feel something, some sort of gravity, in Crowley’s voice. “I suddenly have a feeling I’m not going to enjoy what you’re going to say.” “I don’t want to see you, again. As long as we’re alive, on this Earth, I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to see the bookshop, or the Ritz. I don’t want to drink wine with you or sit in St James’s. We won’t – don’t see each other. It’s over.” Or; Crowley agrees to help prevent the Second Coming, but the T&Cs are heavy.

Whale Fall by cyankelpie (G)

When Aziraphale finally left him for good—When, it had always been “when,” although in recent years, in the kind of cruel irony that only God was capable of, “when” had briefly turned into “if”—When Aziraphale left him for good, Crowley had always figured it would hurt.

the armageddon contingency plan by applekitkats (T)

heaven is as spotless as they'd imagine it to be. aziraphale is given a personalized office that they estimate could be fifty meters wide. they think they should be more appreciative of the given space — imagine how many books and shelves they could fit in here — but metatron sternly instructs them that the room is to be used only for work. aziraphale immediately clams up to contain all excitement, not wanting to seem unbecoming of an angel. such a shame, but aziraphale can make do. they’d have to.

Every Version of Us, Dead and Buried by stinkybarnacles (T)

Aziraphale told himself Crowley was kind deep down so that he could love him with less guilt. Crowley thought that was the extent of it. But now he wondered if there was more to it. Had Aziraphale told himself that Crowley was still an angel in spirit? If he had, he couldn't have been more wrong. Or A short(ish) fic about Crowley after Aziraphale returns to heaven. Including a time when Aziraphale came back. Angst lovers, this one's for you. (TRIGGER WARNING for suicide, suicidal thoughts, and everything that's in the tags. Proceed with caution, pals.)

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #angst #hurt/no comfort #heed the tags #mod d

[ssreeder]

Chapters: 17/? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), others to be tagged later - Relationship Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Jet (Avatar), Suki (Avatar), Kyoshi Warriors (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Hakoda (Avatar), Bato (Avatar), A bunch of OCs, Long Feng, Joo Dee (Avatar), Azula (Avatar), Mai (Avatar), Ty Lee (Avatar), Ozai (Avatar), General Fong (Avatar) Additional Tags: Violence, Blood and Injury, War, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, possible major character death, themes similar to the first two books, Sexism, Racism (like has already been written in first two books), dark themes, Human Trafficking, Slavery, Just a lot of dark war-like themes, there will be a battle, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Injury Recovery, Healing, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings each chapter, Hopefully some healing for Zuko finally, no promises, but that’s the goal, Reunions, hopefully a happy ending, Sokka gets some healing too, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 3 of Leaving It All Behind Summary:

-This is the last book of the series LIAB, please go read the other two books before this, or you will be very confused-

Zuko has been taken by the Earth Kingdom army to who-knows-where, and Sokka is determined to get him back.

But he can’t do it alone.

With Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors by his side, Sokka is headed to Ba Sing Se to find Katara and Aang so they can go rescue his fire bender.

Things aren’t as easy as he had hoped. Corruption, lies, and unknown horrors await them inside the city’s walls. None of this is helping Sokka’s mental well-being.

Hakoda and his men face a problem of their own as Azula approaches with the intentions of making it rain fire.

Sokka and Zuko will both find themselves having to reintegrate back into a life they thought they left behind, with people they hardly remember. It isn’t easy for anyone, especially when they don’t recognize the person standing in front of them.

#OLLLOOO #new chapter whatttssss upppp #ok but seriously #HEED THE TAGS #this chapter has some seriously intense themes #some new themes that might be triggering to some #so please keep an eye on the warnings #BUT THERE IS SOME FUN #*gesture at fun* #We have fun! Haha I promise! #Zuko talks a lot! #A lot - ish haha #ok this chapter is a doozy I hope you enjoy #zukka #avatar the last airbender #DARK THEMES

[ode-to-an-inkwell]

After years, I decided to post the rest of my student/teacher fic, Give Me Your Attention, Please.

Completed and available on AO3. Old picset courtesy of @amymel86 💗

#jonsa #jonsa fanfiction #i updated! #heed the tags

[punishandenslavesuckers]

Before Destruction left his place with the Endless, he had a bit of a manic period where he leaned too hard into his function. Unfortunately, the Corinthian happened to be standing nearby when it happened. Endless family drama is, you know, the worst. Even Death would admit that shit is Biblical.

Art submitted by a reader (whom I adore but wants to stay anonymous) for my Sandman fic, “Something Broken”.

#the sandman #the corinthian #death of the endless #the sandman netflix #the sandman fic #rae writes #death wants to help #but corinthian is kind of #hard to help #heed the tags #and the trigger warnings

[steviewashere]

Decorate My Silence While I Figure Out How to Breathe

(also on ao3)

CW: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide in a Minor Character, Self-Harm (Without Realizing That's What it is) This is rated mature on ao3 for a handful of reasons, including the content warning. Please take caution and care for yourself.

wc: 10,624 (I know, it's a doozy), Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Season 4, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington is a Mess, Self-Hatred, Worried Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing, Steve Harrington Has Shit Parents

(I apologize for how long this is, but I just don't feel comfortable separating it into different posts.)

Heed tags and all content warnings, please!

—

The night was silent. Except for the wind. It was whispering in Steve's ears. Muttering soft things, soothing him, blowing air back into his lungs.

He's sitting in his backyard. On his diving board. Jeans cuffed to mid-calf, feet dangling in the cold water, beer between his hands—it wasn't cold at all, pulled straight from the box and warmed with the setting sun. He watched it disappear over the horizon, dipping down between the trees, tucking itself into the soil. He wishes he could do that. Maybe if he could mingle with the worms and the centipedes and the forgotten pinecones, the night wouldn't seem so lonely.

It's July 1st, 1986. Steve's anticipating the onslaught of fireworks. Waiting for the hissing of fuses, billowing of smoke, and shout of color overhead. Over the last week, he's kept his ears on high alert.

In case, he tells himself.

Though it's silent, with the wind brushing against his back, he can hear a heavy accent spitting words between his eyes. Can feel blossoming bruises and fresh, dripping blood. Crunchy hair stuck to his tacky cheeks. Burns across his body from what kept him tied up to Robin.

Speaking of Robin, he wonders how she's doing. What she's doing. Her parents ushered her out of Hawkins to a lake trip. He hopes she can still call. Her voice is constant when he's so absent to the world. Maybe she's in the wind. Maybe she never really left. Maybe she's just as bad off as he is.

He shutters when the wind stops teasing his spine.

It's late. The sun is asleep. His feet are numb from the water. And the beer has been sipped once.

He's not really a beer drinker anymore, not since Barb's death. How did I get here, he wonders.

Steve is sitting alone in his backyard, staring down a beer tab, longing to go under the freshly cleaned water, and sink to the bottom. Lonely and tired and desperate for the phantom touches to go away, that's his life post-Upside Down.

He sips his beer. It fizzes against his lips and leaves a sticky trail under his nose. Drips down his Cupid's bow. Trails across his wobbling lower lip and chin. Then, it settles atop his thumbs, not tracing along the ridge of the can. Sharp under his fingertips, scraping across the sensitive skin, giving him a taste of muted pain.

Terribly he wonders, If I dug a little deeper across the rim, would I bleed? (Maybe he should put the beer away, drain it into the pool, and let it swirl across the surface.) Would I bleed? Would I seduce the monsters below me? Could I be nothing just for the next few days?

He takes a deep breath. Lets it fill out like a balloon and pop between him and the gravestone embracing his feet.

It's late and Steve is tired. Stuck in a dredge as sticky and lukewarm as the beer in his hand. The silver spoon he ate from as a kid digging into his sternum, melon-balling his cigarette stained lungs and beaten, but broken heart, ladling his blood like pasta sauce, and pouring it across the world for all of Hawkins to see. For the demogorgons to taste. For the people he calls his friends to stumble upon, gag over because it's the essence of Steve Harrington spattered across the poolside, and scrub at like taping over a wedding video.

He aches and sizzles. Burns and shrivels. Drinks and drowns.

Nothing bad is going to happen again. Nothing as dangerous as having to pull Eddie Munson from the Upside Down, protect Robin Buckley from Russians with sharp teeth and blunt force, save young Lucas Sinclair from Billy Hargrove, and defend oneself from being eaten alive—by bats and friends and own self-hatred.

Nothing terrible is going to happen again. So, why does Steve Harrington want to throw himself into danger so bad, why does he yearn for it, why can't he feel bad for himself? What does he do if the person he needs to protect the world from is him?

Let the fireworks come, Steve threatens. Let them rain upon me. I can't care anymore.

---- Steve wakes up in his bed the next morning. Unaware of how he even got to his room.

The sunlight is pouring through his window, spilling across the carpet, and staining his duvet. It's warm. Makes his skin itch and burn.

He's still tired, he finds. Aches erupt behind his eyes, under his thumbs, across his cheekbones. Fresh bruises. Belts digging into skin. Blood across his drooping eyelids. Everything hurts and tenses and rips into him.

The spoon digs deeper. Closer to his bare back. Travels to the bottom of his ribs. Scrapes against every bone in his abdomen, squelches every inch of his intestines. He wants to scream, but the energy to pull sound from his lungs hurts.

In the sun drenched room, warmed by rays and birdsong and gentle sway of trees, Steve wants to disappear into the world. Melt into his mattress, if possible. He wants to sit straight in his bed, hands cupping under his chin, mouth gaping with saliva, and project acrid yellowish beige puke across his fingers, escaping through the gaps to his lap. Wants to sit in the mess for a long while and realize, there's no point in cleaning himself up if he's going to do it again.

There's no point in a lot of things post-Vecna. The party is almost the same age he was when all this shit had started, they're about ready to run off and rebel against the damned world they swore to protect. Robin and Nancy and Jonathan are leaving to go to school. Eddie will surely go off and do his own thing, always too big for such a small town. His parents weren't present before and they've already communicated they won't come back.

So where does that leave Steve? The kid who had everything laid out for him. A future promised by his name. Friends who were on par with him; not that his new friends aren't, they just are bigger and better than what he could ever imagine for himself. He doesn't deserve them or this current life he has.

He's decided, he doesn't deserve anything. All his life he's been handed the better deck of cards. Been boasted over. Has been a bully though and through; major aggressions like the breaking of Jonathan's camera, minor aggressions like threatening to knock Dustin's teeth out, a joke that would have never landed. Got Barb killed by his own selfish needs and tired to persuade Nancy to move on; that was too fast and he knows that now. If only I hadn't been so stupid, he muses. Couldn't get into college. Or make his parents proud. Has nearly gotten other people killed too.

I should've died, he laments. Which, shouldn't that be true? The demogorgon in 1983, those demodogs and Billy in '84, Russians in '85, bats and Vecna in '86. He had every chance to get himself killed, to show that he's done his job, that he's taken the hits for the people that mean so much more than whatever pathway he's dug. He couldn't even do that right.

And now...now it's just a countdown to the next thing that could get him killed. Hoping for once, that nobody goes after him or is there to be his aid. To let him slither away, be beaten beyond pulp, and pulled apart like pork. Even then, would his killers be satisfied? But he knows he should die.

Maybe he can conspire that in his bed. Where he doesn't move from. Maybe a stray firework will come crashing through his bedroom window. He hopes that it will explode and drench him in stray fire. Hellfire, drown me in hellfire, he wants to beg to nobody in particular.

Steve rolls to face away from the window. He wraps the blanket tighter over his shoulders and buries his face into the pillow. It smells like night terrors. The skin on his face is slick with sweat. Torso ripped by scars. He doesn't want to move. Isn't hungry. Isn't thirsty. Doesn't want anybody to find him.

He doesn't have much energy, but he forces himself out of bed. Only to go down to his front door, hide the key on his porch, and lock it behind him. He pulls shut all the curtains. Climbs the stairs like a mountain and slams the bedroom door behind him.

In hindsight, maybe he should call someone to say that he's sick or something. That he wants to be left alone. He doesn't though. Maybe he should shower and eat and force himself to have a good day. But he doesn't. Won't.

Can't. That's going to be his favorite word. And who's going to shut him up? Nobody. They can't.

---- It's July 4th.

Steve hasn't left his room in two days. Well, only three times to use the bathroom. But otherwise, he's kept his promise. Successfully made himself a shadow, a silent specter.

When the phone rings, he covers his ears. Everything is so loud, he realizes. The fireworks and neighborhood kids screaming. Cars driving by. Even the smell of smoking barbecues, which really doesn't make sense, but it's so much.

His stomach growls, but his limbs are stiff. Unable to shift and get food. At the very least crackers or soup. Even then, he can't.

Steve's starting to smell ripe. Which is pretty unusual for a guy so high maintenance. The mere thought of standing under a shower stream or having to strip his clothes or having to even turn the bathroom light on is, daunting, to say the least. There's only ten feet between him and the upstairs bathroom and even then, he only goes for emergencies.

With the way he smells, he could envision himself rotting. Turning green from the outside. Turning red and mushy on the inside. If a mirror were placed in front of him, he could watch the way his eyes turn white and glassy. See the areas of his skin that are burned red from the pooling of his blood. He could watch the life literally leave his body. He could watch his body warp into spirit and then continue to haunt his childhood home. I've already rotted, he thinks. I'm already a ghost.

The phone rings and rings. His fingernails dig into the soft flesh around his ears. He pulls at the roots of his hair. Grips to his biceps and squeezes. Makes himself hurt over and over and over again. To escape his senses. To feel something else.

There's an emptiness where his lungs are. It's sucking down every bit of his insides. Enveloping him in a dry-heaved breath. Where he would usually cry and swallow down his guilt over how he's survived, there's nothing. He feels every last awful thing of himself, but not the tears. Can blink and be spitting in Jonathan's face. Take a deep breath and be recommending Tina's party to Nancy. Bite his lip and hear the way Dustin's name spill from his mouth to the Russian bastards. And he can rub across his skin, feel the way his scars aren't as deep as Eddie's. But he can't cry. Can't make himself feel better. And he doesn't know if that'll ever be a possibility for him again, if he's stuck this way. If he'll be forever broken. Ruined.

Because this is new to Steve Harrington. Not once has he ever felt so in the dark about himself. But now that the fights are over and everybody is safe and living as large as possible...Now he's left with what didn't happen, what should've happened, with the question on the tip of his tongue: Why am I still here? And he can feel himself crumble under the weight of his own breath. And though he's miserable, he aches to feel this way forever.

This is karma. This is what he deserves, right?

---- A rustle and drop break Steve out of pulling his hair.

There's something downstairs in his home. It could be a demogorgon or a demodog or a demobat or Vecna. Something dangerous could be lurking in house. But he can't pull himself up to find his nailed bat. Can't come to his dull senses and put his fists in front of his face.

He can't pretend to care.

Footsteps cause a stampede on his stairs. Heavy with each step. Loud on purpose. To alert Steve most likely, but he can't bring himself to be alarmed.

The thing hasn't even made it to his bedroom door. But all he can feel, for once over the last few days, is relieved. This is his moment of release. The moment that should've come during the first Upside Down encounter; Steve Harrington's untimely demise.

He holds his breath. Untangles his fingers and lets them drop across the pillow. He swallows all the saliva pooling in his mouth.

The door swings wide open and a breath is released into the air.

Nothing happens after that. The thing's presence is standing in his doorway, but it doesn't move or breathe or prowl. It assesses, but doesn't do anything else.

Steve doesn't drown in a pool of his blood or get ripped to shreds or strangled by a rope-like tail.

He cracks his eyes open. And there, watching his form, is Eddie Munson.

Eddie's hair is wiled, more untamed than his everyday. Like it was in the Upside Down. As if he fought to get over to Steve's house. His clothes are nothing usual. Sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, Reeboks still on his feet. There isn't a jacket or a vest or several chains. He's normal, regular citizen, must've rolled out of bed, Eddie.

When his eyes finally meet Steve's, he whispers, "Oh, thank God." He even does the Sign of the Cross with his eyes closed, finishing by kissing the edge of his t-shirt's collar, where a cross would lay. His eyes reopen to gaze at Steve once more. "Oh, thank God," he fervently presses into the air.

His eyes are too intense. Steve looks away without speaking. He buries himself further into his blanket and stabs his fingernails back into the meat of his biceps.

Eddie hastily makes his way to the side of the bed that Steve lays on. He slowly crouches down to land on his knees. Brings his hands up to lay on the space between Steve's heated body and the spare room on his mattress. His eyes roam. They map every exposed bit of skin, the drooping, greasy hair, rumpled clothes. He reaches outa hand to lay atop Steve's, to try and pull his fingers away.

Steve flinches backwards and growls, "Don't."

"Okay," Eddie placates. He pulls his hands back towards the edge of the mattress. Lets there be distance between them. Steve hates it, but he can't express that. There's no way he can express anything other than apprehension. "I just," he stammers. "I came to check on you. The backdoor was unlocked. You weren't answering your phone and both Robin and I were getting worried."

His voice is soft and sad and concerned. It makes Steve's skin itch.

"Well, you're here," Steve flatly states. "And I'm alive."

Eddie is taken aback by the tone of his voice. He winces like he was slapped. And maybe the lack of intensity, yet the severe intensity of Steve's voice, really has that power.

"Well apologies, asshole," he spits back. "But when somebody in the group doesn't fucking answer, we tend to get worried. We thought you weren't alive," he barks. He pushes his body up and looms at his full height. With one last look thrown in Steve's vague direction, he makes his way to the door.

Steve knew he couldn't say anything in return. Not yet, at least. Because how would he respond to that? "I wish I was dead. Sorry for worrying you, but I think you'd be terrified to know what I'm thinking about."

So instead of saying something as treacherous as any of those responses, his body betrays him differently.

Right before Eddie crosses the threshold to go back into the hallway and down the stairs, Steve lets out a wounded whimper. He lets several loose into the tense air. Maybe he will cry, he can't, but it could happen, but it can't, and it will, but he so badly wishes it wouldn't.

"Steve?" Eddie whispers over his left shoulder, eyes pierced to where the lump of his friend stiffens with every sound. He feels his heart breaking like a brick wall struck by a wrecking ball. His ribs are collapsing. His heart is sifting through stomach acid to try and float back to his chest.

Steve's body convulses with every breath. He stammers, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm s-sorry." Over and over until each word is unintelligible. "Don't go," he pleads between each staccato intake.

He feels warmth crowd over him. Like the sun. There's a hand hovering over his shivering shoulders. But it doesn't touch him. As if, to Eddie, it can't.

"Sweetheart..." he coos sadly. "What's wrong?" He watches Steve's face turn red. Sees the tremble of his eyelids as it tries to contain whatever pressure is building there. How his chin wobbles.

Steve doesn't really respond. He mutters "Wrong" on repeat and "Dunno," but each word is slurred. Eddie sits down and asks to touch him, when he gets a nod in return, his hand digs into the greasy hair. He lightly scratches his scalp. Untangles knots. Repositions certain strands of hair to where they'd normally sit.

Eddie notes how pale Steve is. The indents of fingernails on his biceps and areas of red, irritated skin where his hand teases hair. How wrinkled his pajama bottoms are, indicating how long they've been worn. His hair is an easy giveaway. He can hear his stomach growl. He realizes how resigned and numb Steve appears. The way there's no other emotion on his face outside of accepted misery.

He sweeps his hand to cover Steve's exposed right ear. His thumb is careful as it caresses his cheekbone.

"I don't know what's happening, but I've got you, Stevie." And as if that was all the permission Steve needed, he begins to sob. Wet and congested and rough. "I've got you," Eddie whispers. Soft like the wind.

Every screeching sound leaving Steve's barren chest ripples through the air like an ocean in a storm. Each gasp rocks Eddie's body and settles tense like a fresh scream. The noises are that of several sheep being slaughtered brutally by the hands of unkind men. Calloused is his breathing. Innocent are his cries.

The spoon has cleared all the way through Steve. In its wake is a gaping, frayed crater. Each seize of his lungs squirts blood halfway across his room. If he squints, there's droplets the size of beads bedazzling over Eddie's left side. The sprays seep into his clothes and harden the carpet and stain his closet door. In every part of the house, though he's been cooped up in his room, Steve can feel his soul being ripped apart and strewn over; every corner occupied with pre-1983 him and every seam in the hardwood now glued by the residual sweat from his last run through the Upside Down. The carpet contains his footprints. But his room is a slaughterhouse; in his bed is him, the version of Eddie pre-occupied by the last swirl of demobats, but by his dresser is Nancy fresh from the pool, and out his window is Barb grasping to a cement edge, being dragged by her feet, and taken for all she both was and wasn't. His house is a morgue and a graveyard and a funeral home; it's a last resting place and a crime scene. There's death everywhere.

And that's why it would be perfect, right? For Steve to rot there?

He has been. He still is. He can't stop.

When the room has fallen silent, so has every emotion Steve could possibly feel. His eyes burn like they always do after he cries. But, his chest is loose, yet tight. There's a new hollowness to him. And it's exhausting every stretch of his muscles.

Eddie is still caressing his face like he's something worthwhile. He's gentle. Even if he's usually boisterous in conversation, violent in his mannerisms, brash across his clothes.

Steve's breath quakes in his throat as he chokes, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Eddie whispers. "You needed that, it's alright."

He shakes his head at that. "No, I'm sorry for being so mean," he swears. "I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to be that way, I didn't," he garbles and gargles and drowns.

The hand on his face shifts to his back. It taps across his spine and presses between his shoulder blades. "I know, honey. I know you didn't mean it. You're okay," Eddie coos once more.

"Somethin' is wrong," Steve tells him. "Bad."

Eddie's face glows with fear. His eyes widen as two black holes. Mouth wrinkled downwards. "What do you mean? Do I need to call Joyce?" he tries to not frantically question. Reaches out, too, to grab Steve's right hand, squeezing over his fingers, thumb massaging against his bones.

Steve turns to strangle his face in the pillow. Mutters, "No, no, no...with me. Not Vecna, just me."

And then there's silence. Nothing now. The wind is stagnant. Eddie's hands have stilled.

Steve isn't sure what to do with so much swirling inside of him. What he's willing to let spill across his mattress. If there's a way to go back in time to when Eddie was just about to leave, stomping out the front door, and for his underwhelming, sad, decomposing body to be left here; he wants to figure out that science.

"Steve," Eddie calls. "Can you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help you out." He continues to rub Steve's back. Squeezes the hand he's holding too.

He waits a while to hear a response. Steve is still pressed into the pillow. But he positions his face to look out over the side of his bed, not looking directly at Eddie, though it's nearly the same.

"My body hurts," he whispers. He inhales as deep as he possibly can, exhaling what feels like shards of crumbled glass. "And I'm heavy," Steve states. "Like...like somebody set a cement block on me. And I can't get up." His voice is small and worn and stretched thin.

Eddie acknowledges by humming and rubs against the veins in Steve's hand.

"But I also don't want to get up? Not in the lazy way, but in the..." he trails off. His breath catches in his throat, knocking around the tunnel of his windpipe. There's a ruthless, scalding burn settling in his chest. "In a way that would make a lot of people unhappy, but I can't stop thinking about it. And I know maybe I shouldn't think that way, but it won't go away. And I wonder..." He doesn't finish.

"What kind of thoughts, Stevie? What are you wondering?" Eddie calmly asks. Inside though, he knows the answer. Has heard it before from his own mother. Came across her in the after of those aforementioned thoughts, seen the way life had been cruel. How life chose, so full heartedly, to take goodness from the Earth.

"Why does it happen to good people?" He had asked Wayne at one point. His uncle's response, "I'm not sure, Bubba. I wish I could tell you." And Eddie had whined, "That's not fair." Wayne responded, "I know Ed. I know."

So, though Eddie could relay to you the words he knows are building in Steve's chest, he's freaking out. Trying to connect the dots as to when this all started. Asking himself if it's possible to go back in time and prevent these horrendous thoughts from building inside his friend. Praying too that they may never come, that he can be safe from torment. But none of that can happen, won't, wouldn't. He'll forever be stuck in a time where he's met Steve Harrington as a great person to the universe, where he beats himself internally for things outside of his control, where he walks across hot coal just to make himself feel alive.

"I wonder if—if maybe dying would make it stop," Steve admits, shamefully. "I think I've been wanting it for so long that it doesn't surprise me, but I've never felt like this." Eddie's fingers begin to tremble from how hard they grasp to Steve's slick skin. "I can't stop it and I think I deserve it, Eddie. I really do."

His body nearly seizes with the intensity of his breathing, willing himself to not cry. He's never been so ashamed to be the person he is. And the person he isn't. Every word cuts across the roof of his mouth and scrapes against his lips. He wants to be evaporated into the hole in his chest. Waits, practically, for the universe to collapse in on itself now that his confession is out in the open.

Instead though, gentle hands continue to traverse his frame. They squeeze passionately at any tense muscle. Not once do they pull away or become sharp in nature or shove him.

"You don't deserve death, Steve. Nobody does. Not for anything like this," Eddie whispers. "I can't say that I know, but I want to understand. And I want to help you not feel so bad."

"Why?" Steve breathes. "I'm not worth that."

"Because you deserve good things. You deserve kindness," Eddie replies, factually. "I'm not sure how to stop those thoughts. But maybe I can help you feel fresher? If you'll let me?" he offers. His eyes are full and earnest, hand still careful, breath warm across Steve's skin where he now bends to gaze into his eyes.

The offer rattles in Steve's skull. Eyes searching over each one of Eddie's features; his beautiful, brown eyes, bulbous tipped nose, his chewed lips, and small freckles; each one reads: "I'm telling the truth, I want to do this." He's never been offered help as large as this. And he hates the way he feels, yet finds he can't do anything about it. This would be good, his brain says. Then you can rest, it adds.

"What did you have in mind?" Steve asks. His eyes drift down to where his hand is being held. He brings his other fingers to tap across the back of Eddie's hand, toying with his sharp knuckles.

Eddie swipes his thumb across Steve's ear. He hums thoughtfully. "I was thinking of running you a bath. So that you can sit instead of stand? And while you soaked or whatever, I make you something you'd like to eat. Then, I'd change out your bedding, but I would put it in the dryer for a little bit so that it's warm when you get tucked back in. And the rest is up to you," he lists. "Is that some stuff that you'd like to do?"

He caresses the side of Steve's face. Patiently, he waits.

The energy used to keep talking is depleting rapidly. He isn't sure how much longer he'll be able to keep up with Eddie for the day. For the night, more like. It's already 8 PM, fireworks sounding distantly. But Steve remains heavy in his bed.

"Sounds nice," he eventually breathes. "But, can you stay with me in the bathroom? I don't want to be alone," his timid voice shakes. As if asking such would turn around to punch him across the jaw. He swears he can feel the pain bloom from his chin, an unsettling pop tossed around the room, echoing across his plaid walls.

"Of course, Stevie," Eddie murmurs. His face is soft. Dimples barely appearing around his mouth, but still he gives Steve a gentle smile. It pays to see Eddie at night; quiet and careful and less devious than when he's around everybody in the party. "I'll do whatever you need right now."

----

Eddie's sitting in Steve's bathroom, filling up the tub with warm water. He's got a plastic cup sitting on the ledge, a mountain of bubbles threatening to spill out onto the tiled floor, a washcloth, and two towels; one for Steve's body, one for his hair.

Steve still hasn't left his room. He's currently sitting up on the edge of his bed, staring down at his bare feet in the carpet. His torso is curled over his knees and his head pounds. There's hair falling into his eyes, but he can't bring his fingers up to swipe them away. He's only wearing sweatpants; but his heart is worn across his chest in a splattering of reds and pinks and muted blues. With every beat there's that creeping itch to collapse onto his back and crawl through the mud that is sleep. He yearns for the firm mattress to comfort his exhausted muscles, a pillow to smother himself in, his blanket to cover the errors of each Upside Down fiasco; drag scars, torso chunks, plate cuts, crooked nose.

He wants to close his eyes against the brightness curling into his bedroom from the hallway, so he does. Lets his head droop down to curve the top of his spine. Blood settles along his lower back, sloshing down the tops of his thighs, anchoring to his toes. There's almost a calm within being so weighted, to being too heavy for words and sounds and lights and movements. With each breath, the crevice from the spoon begins to stitch. Not entirely. It won't ever close up completely, but he can feel the sinew of muscle reattaching; blood seeping across his chest hair, tacky across his sternum, threatening to pour back into his belly button.

Eddie opens the door and tiptoes to the bed. He settles on his knees in front of Steve.

Though he can't bring himself to stand, he can feel Eddie's warmth. And he yearns for it.

"Ready to go to the bathroom?" Eddie questions. Not loud. Mellowed and pastel in the way it breaks through Steve's collapsing lungs. Steve shakes his head.

"Not yet," he whispers. "Can't."

Instead of being shamed, like he would be when he was home from basketball practice and too sore to move, he's left with softer words, "That's alright Stevie, take all the time you need. I can always refill the bath." Eddie stands and sits next to Steve on his right. His hand tucks hair away and tickles down his earlobe, settling warm across the back of his neck. Thumbs dig into the top of Steve's spine, lightly scratching over several moles and freckles; connecting them into various constellations. Eddie doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums random notes and heaves breathing exercises when Steve seems to seep inwards.

Steve raises his head ever so slowly, every vertebrate realigning. He tilts from side to side, reintroducing his muscles and nerves to the normal of sitting straight. "I'm ready. I think. Can I—" he begins. There's a voice in his head that screams: Don't ask for help, you don't need it. Don't ask for help, you don't deserve it. A battle twitches between his eyebrows. The muscles throw grenades and stab arteries and shred arms like raking soil. He tentatively asks, "Can I lean into you while I walk?"

Without answering, Eddie stands in front of Steve. He grasps onto his hands, heaving his body fully, steadying him when he wobbles on shaky knees. One of Steve's arms goes across Eddie's waist. "Put your head on my shoulder, I got you," he whispers.

They make their way and when they cross to the lip of the tub, Steve feels heavy with no emotion; only one cracks through him though.

Adoration.

That's the first thing outside of being bodied by emptiness and loneliness and weighted cowardice, that Steve can feel through every limb, in every vein, at the edges of his frayed nerves and still beating heart. For a mere moment, he is able to tally away one reason why he shouldn't disappear. And that makes his heaviness lighter, he sits like a bag of bricks, but his toes begin to tickle like feathers.

Eddie is silent and attentive in the way he undresses Steve. With his eyes as they roam over wilting hair and kissed-pink puckering scars and knotted muscles. And with his deft fingers as he plucks away the sweatpants' waistband, shimmies them over Steve's knobby knees, and bunches them over his long feet. He folds the dirtied laundry and sets them on the floor by the sink. Tucked away, yet noticeable for later; whether Steve cleans up or Eddie does by proxy when he changes the bedding for a warmer set—a duo of sheets covered in dainty lavender flowers and a duvet dusted with pink stitching.

He dips his elbow in the sudsy bath water, nods to himself over the temperature, and then carefully maneuvers Steve's legs to face inwards. His left hand holds steady to Steve's and his right massages over the other's shoulders. Simply just smearing his palm's softness over the spattering of back moles; previously connected by careful lines, shining bright like an array of white fireworks in the dimmed bulb of the bathroom.

Once Steve is submerged to just under his pecs, Eddie whispers featherlight, "Does everything feel okay?" His hand cards through stringy hair, timidly cautious when he meets a new knot he hadn't quite untangled.

Steve nods. Words feeling too big for his sullen mouth.

"That's good," Eddie states. "Do you want me to help you with washing up or would you rather I sit here and talk?"

He isn't sure how to respond quite yet and Eddie doesn't seem upset at his molasses responses. In fact, when Steve looks over him, his eyes boring and at ease, he finds that Eddie is just patient. Which normally, he's stubborn with his temper and anxious to get things moving and for his voice to be heard. But in this moment, he longs not to be heard, but to be understood. And that's enough for Steve to request, "Please do both."

Eddie's hand slips through the ends of his hair and easily reaches over for the washcloth folded neatly on the toilet lid. He dips it under the mound of bubbles and brings it back to wring out. His movements are languid, wary, but not in a fearful way. As if when his body settles over his heels, he's gauging Steve's reactions, as subtle as they are.

"Do you want bar soap or body wash?" He kindly asks. And Steve feels warm without sweat at the question. He's never had the choice before when he took baths as a kid; his mom always ran a bar of soap between her hands and then gently stroked it over his body.

"Bar," Steve croaks.

The washcloth is set on the edge of the tub. Eddie leans over to the bathroom's counter and grabs a handful of boxed soap bars. Each one has a different label.

"I found these in the cupboard. There's a peach scented one, vanilla musk, whatever that means, and the classic Irish Spring. Is there one you're more particular to?" He asks, holding each box up as he goes, and then placing them on the edge alongside the rag.

"You smell like Irish Spring," Steve observes.

The scent had brushed him once at a gathering in the Wheeler's basement. It had been a warm day in May and the A/C was running, but everyone and their mother was sweating. He had been invited to watch a campaign oneshot. "Something short enough to keep your attention," Dustin had said. The kid genius had been right, of course. Though, Steve paid attention differently on that day. He noticed this new awfulness he resides in start to creep across his skin, light like the hum of the air conditioner. He was fighting with himself during that little get together, but Eddie had came over during a snack break, long arms, slim figure. Plopped down on the worn sofa and slung an arm over Steve's shoulders. His t-shirt was damp with sweat, but all Steve really could smell was the citrus and bergamot disguised in green.

The feeling of Eddie's arm was comfortable. And so the scent stuck to the inside of Steve's nostrils. When he left that night, he stopped by Melvad's and bought a bar. With the intention of eventually using it, but he had to work through his body wash first.

He is given the option here. He can ask for it.

Eddie chuckles, "I guess I do. It's my favorite soap. Wanna use it tonight?"

Steve nods and whispers, "Please."

So, the washcloth is redipped in the warm water, rung out so it's not sopping wet, and the bar is ran through ever so carefully. Eddie starts with Steve's neck, rubbing small circles across his skin. The dead skin flakes away over the coarseness of the cloth. It's worked over the slope of his shoulders, into his chest hair, his biceps, and pecs.

But Eddie skips his hands and instead moves down to his legs. Each swipe like a paintbrush marking a sunset sky. The reverence in which Steve is being treated with is so foreign that he begins to tear up. His lips tick into a tiny smile, only an inch wide, but brighter than any firework beyond the windows.

"Still doing alright?" Eddie asks when he rings the washcloth out once more and hangs it to dry over the toilet.

"Doin' better," Steve whispers. Though, there's still a fault line fracture in his soul and a bullet would scar from that spoon.

He inches his fingers to settle over the surface of the water. They're pruned. Over the lip of the tub, he dances them until he's touching Eddie's pointed elbow.

Eddie gently takes his hand. Intertwines their fingers. He smiles without teeth.

"You're really good at this," Steve mutters through a sigh.

"Used to do this with my mom. I don't mind doing it," Eddie responds.

Steve hums. He licks his dry lips. Feels each one of Eddie's words settle over the bathwater and drown his limbs in sorrow. Ever so carefully, he shifts his hand back into his own lap, and watches with regret as Eddie's beautiful face sours. He sucks on a lemon in the time their hands separate. And Steve is so tired.

His throat stings. Scratchy with oncoming tears. His eyes water. Bubbling with something he didn't know he had to feel that night.

Remorse.

It seems that being gone to the world for days on end, for a while so it's been said, really brings down everybody. At one point, Steve was okay with being alone on weekends and holidays and birthdays. He was doing just fine inviting over Tommy and Carol for stale beer his dad forgot about or muck water weed. In his evenings, he was settled with laying in his giant, cold bed; tucked under a duvet that smells like a different detergent than his childhood. And it seems that's how life moves. Steve grows bulky and remorseful and regretful. He grows ashamed and bastardly and inside this need to be constantly admonished.

Never in his life did he imagine he'd feel so greatly, yet so few. Would be left with a rusted spoon in his grip and a body feeding from survivor's guilt. He wants to scoop the rest of himself from his ribcage and serve his rot to the world. Force Mother Nature to birth a son and kill a son and start his grass anew.

If younger Steve knew that he'd grow to not only disappoint, but also make his friends sad, he would have gone missing or ran away or been found dead by age ten. His mind flashes with Tommy yelling at him in that convenience store parking lot, a cold Coca-Cola forgotten in his tyrant rant. A sign reading: Nancy "the Slut" Wheeler. Jonathan's hardened face over being called queer. And Robin's original distaste for him. The way Dustin had to call him out over the teeth joke. Eddie's initial bias over his popular jock persona.

Now, he's looking at Eddie's crumpled face. Hearing back his concern and Steve's blatant disregard for the tremble in his voice.

I should just drown in this tub, his inner-monologue hisses.

A tear he couldn't feel drips down into the rapidly cooling bathwater.

Eddie's hand scrambled to cup Steve's face. He says, "Steve, it's alright. It's okay." But those words fall upon deaf ears.

Steve flinches back hard enough to slam his head into the ceramic tile backsplash. His voice trembles, "I'm sorry that I made you sad. Maybe you should go, I'll finish in here and then I'll go back to bed and you won't have to deal with me anymore. I'm so sorry, so so sorry. I didn't mean to." There's wetness coating his cheeks, an erupting pulse of pain in his head, an empty ache in his chest.

As he begins to sob again, albeit quieter than before, Eddie begins to speak. "No, Steve, no. You didn't do anything wrong, I promise." His voice is all passion and alighted flame and bursting firework. "You were caving again and I was getting worried, you're alright. You're alright," he whispers when Steve's body shivers and his crying slows. Hesitantly, cautiously, he shows both his hands and floats them closer. "Can I check the back of your head? Just to make sure you didn't crack or split anything." Steve nods with the smallness of an injured child fallen on hard pavement.

Eddie combs his fingers through hair, separating along Steve's part. His fingertips lightly trickle over and around and through. He doesn't miss a single spot. With care, he massages at the irritated red patches from where the hair had been pulled. "Nothing damaged, but let's be careful," he breathes against Steve's ear. He settles back on his heels and assesses.

Steve won't look at him. Can't look at him.

"Steve," Eddie whispers. He doesn't get anything in return. Steve's body sits like a Raggedy Andy doll that's been shoved onto a high shelf. And that's really who he is, isn't it? He's been placed somewhere he can't get down from and needs somebody to pull him away. He keeps pushing back, flailing, and then the other person gets hurt.

His eyes close. Throat bobs with the force of his swallowing. He takes a dangerous moment of peace in the silence. With it, his skin crawls. But he doesn't mind. When he does breach the quiet, he asks, "Can you hold my hand again?"

Eddie obliges. Both of his hands wrap around Steve's left.

His skin is hot. Not uncomfortably. Not in a sexy way either. The heat reminds Steve of soup and saltines when he was sick as a kid. Reminds him of late night bonfires with old friends out by Lover's Lake in the fall. Heated pool late at night. That beer from a few days prior. The sun.

He's decided that Eddie is both the wind and sun.

Bright. Yet calm. Brash. Yet timid. Burning. Yet soothing.

And that's really Eddie's essence, isn't it? Some bigger, more necessary, more constant thing. Washed between trees and light all around. Creeping his way through billowing curtains and gaping doors and finger gaps. Looking to nestle and maneuver and cushion. In his consistent, over-bearing, tumultuous everyday normal; Eddie is all around in smaller ways, hesitant moments, and manicured silences. He's worked his way to being somebody Steve can expect as being reversed in his mannerisms; going from big to small to mild. In each sense, Steve's been wondering where the sun and wind are. They're here in his bathroom, holding his hand so lightly it's as if they're merely brushing skin with feathers.

Eddie knows how to decorate Steve's silence.

So, gently and shamelessly, Steve requests, "Tell me about your mom?"

"Do you want me to wash your hair while I do?" Eddie asks. Steve just nods. He grabs the shampoo and squirts a small amount into his palm. "Well, she's a good woman first. One of the best people I've ever come to know." Once it's warmed in his hand and frothy, he gently rakes through Steve's hair, not going to the ends. "Very kind. Warm. Soft. It's a wonder that I ended up the way I did, guess we can thank my dad for that," he snorts.

Steve's eyes are drooped, body lax against the back of the tub. He whispers, "I think that you're all those things."

"Yeah?" Eddie breathes across the crown of his head. His hands scrub fervently, precisely, and painlessly meticulous. Steve hums. "I think you are too," he states.

He fills the plastic cup with warm water and leans Steve back. One arm wrapped around his neck and back of head. His thumb massages where skull meets spine. He doesn't pour the water all at once, rather trickling small waterfalls over and over. When the suds aren't as noticeable, he eventually does pour it all. And then, he begins on the conditioner. Warms it the same as the shampoo.

"My mom, she dealt with what you're going through. I think almost as long as I got to know her." He rubs the conditioner over the ends of Steve's hair, bunching it as he goes. "She had her ups and severe downs. Sometimes we'd go out for days on end; basking in the sunlight, feeding ducks at the pond, going out for ice cream. Those were great days." Steve watches a wistful smile ripple in like a small tidal wave. Intense in the nostalgia and the childhood and the ache. "Her down days...Toughest fucking days I've ever had to endure. Saying something, I suppose, considering all that was spring break."

"I'm sorry," Steve sympathizes. Though, he can taste empathy like a packet of salt on his tongue. Violent in flavor, buried in his teeth, roaming through his saliva. Each swallow burns.

"It's alright," Eddie whispers. He works water through hair again. "I was with her on those days. May have been tough, but at least I got to spend time with her." He assesses Steve's hair. Wonders very briefly if he should do one more shampoo rinse. He does, a smaller amount filling the well of his palm. "She did what you've been doing. Laying in bed, not really doing much, but that was all she could do. Several days she'd go without washing herself or eating something, sometimes just drinking water was too much on her mind."

He shutters through his next breath. It stutters warm and cold over Steve's skin. Audibly, he swallows. As if he was consuming whatever was left of his mother. The bad days. The good days. The end.

"She lived in those thoughts you've been having," Eddie adds. Barely makes a sound. If Steve weren't sitting so close, so heavy to the world, he would have missed it. "I could just tell some days when she was lost in one. Had to hide things around the house. Medicine and sharp things and cleaning products," he lists. Each word cutting against his throat, deeper and deeper. "Dad had told me about all of that. In case he wasn't home. He rarely was considering his criminal history, but at least he taught me something valuable."

His hands travel down Steve's neck and the slope of his shoulders. Works all the way down to hands, wrinkled like old skin. And Eddie thinks, I want to see him like this.

Eddie keeps his eyes on the shriveled tips of fingers. "One day I came home and she was just still. Silent." His throat clicks through the next swallow. "I didn't get much time with her. Only twelve years, but each day I spent with her was the best. Whether it be that we walked to the park and she pushed me on the swings or I washed her skin the way I've been washing yours. As long as I could help her feel at least cleaner, it was a good day."

He falls eerily silent. Steve uses any mustered strength to squeeze at his veins, his fingers, his palms.

"So, whatever we need to do today, I'm willing to offer. Because I love you so much, Steve. I can't even find all the right words. I'd say you're everything," he whispers. "Everything," he urges. "And I want you here, and I have the chance to help those thoughts simmer. So, let's get you dried off and reclothed and then I'll make you some food. How does that sound?"

"Like music," Steve shares. His eyes burn, his breath cuts, his brain is silent. For the first time in two months, his brain hears silence.

----

After several minutes, Eddie sits Steve down at the dining table. He sweeps wet hair away from his forehead and gazes into his eyes. Steve's face is dim and hard-set, wrinkled with loss.

"I'll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, get you some ice water too," Eddie whispers between them.

Steve hums. "Can I have mine without crusts, please?" he sweetly asks. His lips curl up and his eyes are consuming. Color starts to wash over him, painting hues like a sunset, a billion red and blue fireworks, the deep magentas and light pinks of cosmo flowers.

"Of course, sweetheart," Eddie breathes into his left ear. Before he evades Steve's space, he presses a light, simmering kiss to his temple. His lips brush skin as he says, "I'll turn on music too."

So he slithers away to the kitchen and turns on Mrs. Harrington's radio in the window. Usually, he'd tune it to a heavy rock station, but today he turns on pop. He mutters under his breath, hoping that Wham! plays. The ingredients aren't hard to find and neither are the utensils.

His hands keep busy while Steve sits at the table. Back hunched over tangled hands. Set down onto a hardwood table that used to house family dinners.

Visions of his father at one end, his mother by his side, him across form his mom. They eat Chinese takeout because it's a Friday night and nobody has to work or go to school over the weekend. Steve's dad eats sweet & sour chicken directly from the box. His mom eats rangoons with her dainty hands. And Steve slurps noisily at sauced noodles, successfully coating his lips in something sticky and his cheeks with a deep color. Mr. Harrington sticks the chopsticks under his upper lip, mustache tickling over the edge, and he barks like a walrus. Steve laughs so hard that tears spill down his cheeks, water spraying from his nose. Mrs. Harrington giggles too. In this, they're happy.

But now, Steve is—he's muddled. Eddie notices how cold the downstairs is. The scrapes in the hardwood from chairs digging and being shoved around. He recalls a time a while back where Steve had mentioned his parents purchasing a new home in Southern California. The postcard he got in the mail reading, "Greetings, From Sunny California." There was a return address, but specifics about not contacting them. Not visiting. That they'd handed him the home in Hawkins, his responsibility now, cursing his name for digging his feet in retail and Barbara Holland disappearing from their backyard. Disappointment being scrawled in bold, black, scratchy handwriting. And then, when Eddie chanced a look at Steve's face, he was resigned.

Like he is now.

He wonders if that postcard had been the start. If Barb's disappearance eventually settled in his lungs after Nancy's Vecna vision. Maybe it wasn't familiarity that Steve was looking for in the Upside Down, but rather, protection from himself. A time where things were simpler and happier and smaller. Where his life wasn't on the line.

Now, he's looking for that sign. For that moment of brevity where Satan climbs through the forest floor and creates a vortex to Hell. A whispering through the wind, vicious and hissing, telling him to "Climb in."

Maybe if Nancy wasn't the one that Vecna trapped, it would've been Steve.

Eddie realizes, he probably would've broken out of it. And he would've been upset to hear Steve swear, "I'm still alive!" like a slur.

Steve is a teenage boy still, even if he's freshly twenty years old. But, his maturity certainly hit him all at once. Whether that be the last time the Harringtons were all in the same room or when that nailed bat was being swirled around in the air, Eddie isn't sure. Somewhere though, Steve lost his sanity. Lost his patience. Lost himself.

He comes back to the table with two sandwiches wrapped in paper towels and a tall glass of ice water. Wham! is on the radio.

"Thank you," Steve murmurs when he takes his sandwich. He takes a bite and hums. "Like when my mom made them."

"That a good thing?" Eddie asks.

"Yeah, I like to think so," he mutters. "Also, you don't like this music, how come you're playing it?" His big eyes land on Eddie's.

Eddie grins. There's crumbs on Steve's lower lip. Water in the corners of his mouth. He reaches out without thinking and drags his thumb to wipe away the wetness. "You like it," he answers. "Anything you like, I like." His thumb rests on the divot under his lip. Gently holding his chin.

Steve's chewing slows and he swallows. His eyes fill with something. A sparkle where they were once vacant and drowning. "You're too nice to me," he whispers. His head swivels back to his food, leaving Eddie's hand to roughly drop onto the table.

And his eyes clear once again.

"You know, you don't have to stay here with me. I'm probably just going to be like this for a while," Steve hollowly states. That spoon is back again. Playing his ribs like a xylophone; hitting hard enough to crack and disturb. He wants to throw up the little bit of food he's managed to swallow.

He just wants to disappear.

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but he eats his sandwich instead. Slowly, too. The room is heated with tense energy, crawling under his t-shirt, scraping against his spine, and ripping his hair.

His friend, best friend he considers, curls smaller. Hands picking at the crustless edges. Balling corners of paper towels, eyes half-lidded and just empty.

In another life, Eddie starts to think, we would be eating sandwiches and watching fireworks. His hands tremble on the surface of the table. In another life, he begins, we are sitting at this dining table creating a grocery list, arguing whether or not we should get orange juice with pulp. Steve's not eating anymore. Head firm in his hands, elbows on the table, so informal. In another life, he muses, he is so happy, overflowing with it, body warm with it, eyes shining with it.

In another life, Steve doesn't cry into his hands at the dining table. He doesn't fall in love with a boy. He certainly doesn't work measly retail. Or have scars across every inch of his back. He doesn't sit by his pool late at night, wondering if he could die by proxy.

In the next life, he can only hope he's treated with reverence like this, from birth in screams and blood to death in whispers and halted breaths.

The radio fizzles. Batteries dead. Fireworks quiet for the night.

Every inch of the Harrington house is silent. Surfaces coated in stale breath and curdled blood. Bathwater cold and getting colder. Beds stiff and empty and too wide.

The silence is so loud.

And so hungry.

Steve aches. He confesses, "I love what you're doing Eddie, but I'm tired. And I'm so empty. And I don't know what to do. I can't—" His chest stutters so hard that the muscles in his back spasm. "I can't do this everyday." His arms fold crossed onto the table, head hitting his forearms.

Eddie scoots his hand close and gently brushes his fingertips over Steve's left forearm. "What do you mean, Stevie?"

His fingers tremble where they rest.

"I can't be like this forever. I feel like I've been stuck since we got back from the Vecna shit." His hands reach up to rub harshly at his face. "What if I never get better? You don't want to take care of me everyday and I can't do it by myself. I mean, God—" His palms press harshly into his eyes. Hands turning white from the pressure. "I've been in bed since the first. What if I just stay in bed for weeks, Eddie? That's hardly living. I can't do that to you or anybody or myself."

Eddie's palms firmly grasp his arms. They pull Steve's hands away from his face. There's blooming redness across his eyebrows and waterlines. Snot threatening to drip across his lips.

The shuttering breaths that Steve explodes into the air are breaking Eddie's heart further. Crumbling into thousands of little pieces like bread crusts.

"Steve, I need you to listen to me okay?" Steve doesn't respond, but Eddie continues anyway. "I want to help. I'm sure our other friends would be willing to help too. It's daunting, but eventually you may have to talk to somebody. We won't be able to help with everything, but we can do our best." He swallows every awful emotion making itself known on his tongue. Flashes of his mother and her death. "If you need to rest because your brain is telling you to, then you rest. Even if it's for weeks or months. Fuck, Steve, you could lay in bed for years. You've been through so much awful shit and it's all over. Of course you're stuck right now. You aren't in overdrive. It's okay to be this for a while," he breathes.

His breath leaves him hot and wet. Choked in muscles and blood. Rippling through ribs and fingers and toes. "You don't have to be anything right now. If you have days like these, then that's okay. I would rather be here taking care of you, helping you, whatever you need. I'd rather clean your home or change out your bedding or run you a hot bath. I'd rather do all of these things than..." his voice wavers and thins. "Than go to your funeral. Because you deserve to be here Steve, no matter what your brain says. I know that it's being unkind and that you think this is it for you, but I promise it's not.

"It's not. And we'll figure out what we need to do when we get there. But for now? Let's finish our sandwiches and I'll change your bedding and then, you can just sleep. If that's what your body is asking for, then we oblige. No need to do anything else, do you understand?" He asks, smoothing his hands to hold Steve's. Eddie's eyes are wet, he knows that. His eyelashes are anticipating the need to clump. But for now, he gazes at Steve's form, watches it fight and breathe and shiver.

Steve nods and squeezes in return. He doesn't let go with his left hand, but with his right he continues to eat his sandwich. It's sweet and fulfilling and warm in a comfort sort of way.

Eddie eats too and they both end up with crumbs on their lips.

----

By the end of the night, nearing eleven, Eddie has warmed Steve's bedding and tucked him under the duvet.

Steve's hair is unstyled and wavy and spread like a halo around his head. There's a crumb still nestled on his mouth, but neither make a move to brush it away. Eddie lays across from Steve, gazing, memorizing, creating memories.

In eight hours, Eddie will wake up with strains against his spine. Each vertebrae will pop and settle and his blood will be warmed. Steve will still be asleep most likely. And what he looks like in that state, Eddie can't wait to see.

For now, he holds his breath and counts Steve's moles. Over and over three times. Making sure he doesn't forget. Because, what misery would it be if Steve was forgotten in these silent hours? Terrible, it would be. There's something new to ogle at. A freckle birthed from the sun. Those damned bread crumbs. Flecks of gold and green and honey brown in each eye. Stray blonde hairs nuzzled into his hairline—baby hairs.

His palm holds Steve's left cheek. Thumb dotting over two moles. Then, it sweeps under his eye, catching in an eyebag divot. "You can sleep, honey," he murmurs.

"Can't," Steve mutters back. "Don't wanna lose you."

"You won't, I promise," Eddie fervently swears. "I'll still be here in the morning."

Steve hums. His left palm cradles Eddie's wrist.

His head scoots closer to Eddie's. He basks in this. How pleasant they both smell, wrapped in the same scents and breath; peanut butter and strawberry jelly and bergamot. Though that crater still throbs in his chest and his mind swirls and teeters, there's something settling inside him. With each swipe of thumb, each careful cradle, each promise whispered like prayer, Steve feels one thing.

Contentment.

He knows that tomorrow he will get up feeling like an untreatable basket-case. With a new gruesome idea and unpleasant ending. In the sunlight, he will drown and try to save himself by scooting away from the window. The fireworks will be silent, but the imagines of Barb's wretched screams will wash through Steve like a shipwreck on shore. He'll pick apart his brain, wood buried under sand, and find the sunken eyes of her teenaged body; still vulnerable and venerable.

Steve will bury himself in blankets and wish it was dirt. He'll burn and shiver and sob and choke. Each hour spent in bed will feel like eternity. And he'll rot from the outside in, then the inside out, and in each corner, the tub, down the stairs, out the front door.

He'll have to call Robin. And he will berate himself as she rambles down the phone how worried she was, how miserable her night had been because she spent each second twisted with nausea and anxiety and panic. He is going to remind himself that she doesn't mean it in a "you're an asshole" way, but rather, "I thought something terrible happened and I'd come home to you gone."

I'm still apologizing, he thinks. I deserve everything bad, he will think.

There will be a memory of this week when he's eventually out of his rut. And it may be shameful, but he'll be fond.

"I'm glad you came over," Steve admits. "I'm sorry that I'm so...bleh."

"That's alright," Eddie whispers. "We'll do this together and maybe you'll get sick of me."

"Never," Steve promises through giggles. "I love you."

Eddie presses another one of his wet forehead kisses into Steve's skin. Sweet and long and reverent. "Love you too, now get some sleep. I'll bring you pancakes in the morning."

And so, though tomorrow will be hard, possibly the next day too, Steve snuggles closer to Eddie. Head on his shoulder, one arm wrapped around his waist, thumb rubbing into his side. And he sleeps.

Dreams of Irish Spring soap and warm duvets and kind, unwarranted comfort.

—

Apologies, again, for how long this was. I just really love this one that I wrote some months back, thought it was worth sharing here, too. Take care of each other <3

#stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst #heavy angst #hurt/comfort #heed the tags #heed the warnings

[ghastlytofu]

Doing some writerly maintenance, re-editing and uploading some previous fics from here to ao3! Wyllstarion, 1,794 words, nsft pwp with feelings. Mind the tags.

Established Relationship

Explicit Sexual Content

Magical Dildos

Praise Kink

Emotional Monsterfucking

Inexperienced Wyll Ravengard

He's Got Daddy Issues & A Devil Living In His Eyeball

All The More Reason To Fuck Him Gently

And A Little Meanly. It's What He Deserves.

#baldur's gate 3 #wyll ravengard #astarion ancunin #wyllstarion #bloodpact #fic #my fic #heed the tags #nsft

[half-deadmagicperson]

And He Answered

CHAPTER 9 IS UP!!!

Link to Chapter

Link to Fic

#danny phantom #dp #danny fenton #mer au #and he answered #dp fanfic #fanfic #heed the tags

[bottombillyapologist]

Psst... I'm posting my first work chapter by chapter on ao3 if you want to give it a look. Metalsandwich with a healthy dose of slowburn. Six chapters already up and more coming soon.

(Note, in this fic, one of the ways Neil controls Billy is through limiting his access to food. If that is upsetting, I wouldn't reccomend it.)

#billy hargrove #stranger things #harringrove #steve harrington #writing #bottombillyapologist #eddie munson #metalsandwich #ao3 link #tw disordered eating #heed the tags #it'll GET so soft its just not there yet

[seasinkarnadine]

Chapters: 5/6 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Laudna/Imogen Temult, Laudna & Imogen Temult Characters: Laudna (Critical Role), Imogen Temult, Bell's Hells, Delilah Briarwood (mentioned) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Trauma, Injury Recovery, Flagrant disregard for Dungeons and Dragons mechanics, Hallucinations, hypovolemic shock, graphic depiction of medical treatment, Whump, canon adjacent, Referenced Assault, non graphic depictions of sexual assault, Sexual Harassment Trigger warning: This chapter deals with some heavy content. Heed the tags! Chapter Summary:

Laudna and Imogen grapple with the fallout of the sorcerer's feverish confessions.

#fanfic #my writing #southern gothic #imodna #imogen temult #laudna #bell's hells #cr3 #critical role #heed the tags #dead dove do not eat #horse ghoul #hehehehe #original content #writing

[chromations]

"As though a prison in his mind keeps confession in a labyrinth, just as Minos had been trapped within. Trouble might arise if he lets it out. Even worse, disbelief, failure to understand. He’d been told this before, time and time again: Nobody would believe him."

Title: Whiskey Tinged Scars

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Fandom: Led Zeppelin

Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, Charlotte Martin (Artist)/Jimmy Page

Characters: Jimmy Page, Robert Plant

Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Scars, Implied/Referenced Sex, Nightmares, Alcohol, Self-Doubt, Internalized Homophobia, but that's minor., Not exactly shippy but it's there., Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Whump, 1975, specifically 3.11.75, Inspired/Based upon what I read of actual events (charlotte slapping and throwing jimmy around), Canon Compliant, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Nudity, somehow the nudity became symbolic

Language: English

Stats: Published: 2024-04-07 Words: 1,580 Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

The times Jimmy sees Charlotte are far and few between tours and shows. Maybe it's for the better, as he breaks down to Robert when he finds a suspicious set of scars after a successful lay after a much raunchy show.

#led zeppelin #jimbert #jimmy page #robert plant #fanfiction #led zeppelin fanfiction #jimbert fanfiction #fanfic #classic rock #heed the tags