#kind of hurt/comfort

[justfranzz]

Gorgug Thistlespring was mad.

Well… mad was an understatement. He was furious, liquid fire shooting through his veins and filling him up, up, up, until he was sure he would spill over and slash and tear and claw the world apart.

But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

So he clenched his fists, and bit his tongue, and sang himself a little song. Because Gorgug Thistlespring was supposed to be kind, and gentle, and patient. His parents had told him that all his life, so he tried his best, he really did. But sometimes it was just… too much.

It scared him, sometimes, how angry he got.

When he was ten, before he had learned to turn the fire inside of him to steel, he beat a girl so badly she was hospitalized for a week. She had called him a mistake, a freak, had said his real parents didn’t love him, that they had abandoned him because he wasn't worth loving. It was stupid, but he was ten, and he didn’t know. He didn’t know.

His vision was red, and everything was on fire, and he was too hot, and the next thing he knew he was on the ground and she was under him, ribs fractured, arm broken in two places, blood gushing from her nose.

She looked terrified.

It scared Gorgug, how easy it had been, bones crunching under his touch and blood wetting his fists. He had barely even needed to try. He locked himself away in his room for a week afterwards, handcuffed his wrists together, threw up every time he remembered her bloody, terrified face.

His parents sang to him through the door, built silly little contraptions, tried to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. He knew, though, of course he knew. The walls in his home were paper thin. He heard Wilma crying in their bedroom every night; Digby’s sad, quiet attempts at comfort.

When Gorgug finally came out of his self-imposed prison, he felt as though some part of himself were permanently altered. He knew, now, that he was a monster. That he was dangerous.

He asked his parents to teach him how to channel his anger. It helped. Not enough, but it helped. So he sang his little songs, and ran laps around the city until he couldn’t feel his legs, and pounded hot metal into the shape of birds and rabbits and flowers and pretended it was a body he was hitting instead.

Still, he was angry.

He could feel it, always lurking just under the surface, simmering. A part of him wanted to do it again, to feel the adrenaline and the heat and the power. That part terrified him.

It got worse with puberty. His shoulders broadened, his teeth grew longer and sharper, he had shot up to six foot four by the time he was thirteen. Now everyone else could tell, just by looking at him, what he already knew. He was dangerous. He was frightening. He could hurt people.

(He was afraid that they could see the part of him that wanted to.)

Gorgug slouched, and talked as softly as he could, and made flowers, and hoped that maybe if he sang enough songs, the fire would go away. It never did.

His first party formed in middle school. They were his first real friends - a pretty water genasi druid named Chrystal, a human bard named Gabe, and a goblin cleric named Fingus. They only went on one mission. The first time they saw Gorgug go into a rage - mouth open in a snarl, that familiar fire lighting up his veins, greataxe raised and ready - they ran. The thug they had been chasing ran, too, a full adult elf scared of a twelve year old boy.

He was just too dangerous, too scary, too monstrous to be around. Gorgug knew this, so he hid. He took the angry, violent part of himself and locked it up in a heavy metal safe and shoved it into the deepest, darkest corner of his mind where no one could find it. He sat in the farthest corner of the room in class, he didn't touch his ax unless he had to, he wore the baggiest clothes he could find to cover up his bulky form. Gorgug hid, and he pretended he wasn't everything that made up him.

When he met the Bad Kids, things changed.

The Bad Kids were different. They didn’t flinch when he went into a rage, they didn’t care how easy it was for him to slice a person in half; they thought his strength was impressive, not threatening. They touched him like they weren’t afraid, holding his hand and throwing themselves around his shoulders and wrapping their arms around his massive torso, like they didn’t know he could crush them with his bare hands. Like they wouldn't care even if he did.

More than that, the Bad Kids were angry, and they weren’t afraid of it.

Fig was rage incarnate; she was openly, loudly, defiantly furious, and it wasn’t scary at all, not to Gorgug. It was beautiful. She wore her anger like a shield, so different from the way he hid it away. She punched people she didn’t like, and hit people in the head with her bass guitar, and yelled and cursed and smoked. She was angry, and she wanted everyone to know it, and more than that she wanted everyone to feel it.

Fabian was pissed off more often than not. Eventually, Gorgug learned that the boy was angry at himself, the heavy pressure of his father's expectations weighing down on him. He wanted to instill fear, to leave his enemies cowering at his feet. Fabian reveled in fear; used it to his advantage.

Kristen was frustrated at her ex-god, her parents, the role models she had depended on all of her life. She felt betrayed, and broken, and lost, and she showed it like it didn't matter, like she didn't care if everyone saw. Like she wanted to send a message, to tell a story to everyone who would listen. Like she was proud of it.

Adaine's anger was quiet, most of the time, like a refrigerator humming in the background; always there, but so subtle you tuned it out after a while. But when she was faced with the cruelty of her sister or her parents, she became an explosion, loud and bitter and fiery. Adaine had to work for her anger, refusing to rationalize and excuse away the things that had been done to her. She viewed her anger as an achievement, a marker of how far she had come.

Riz's fury was often backed by fear, but it was no less powerful for it. Riz wanted nothing more than to solve mysteries and protect his friends, and anyone who got in the way of either of those things risked meeting with the business end of a loaded pistol. His anger was the fire in the chamber of a gun, giving power to his desires. It was a way of showing his love, of how much his party meant to him.

The Bad Kids were angry, but they were kind. They were angry, but still they extended compassion wherever they could, and Gorgug learned for the first time that being angry didn't mean he couldn't be gentle. The Bad Kids were furious, and they were considerate, and they were passionate, and they cared, and none of those things canceled out the others.

Gorgug learned that it was okay to use his anger as a weapon, to slash and hit and break, but he also learned that he could be gentle in a way that didn't feel insincere. He learned to rest his head on Fig's shoulder, just enough pressure to show affection but not enough to hurt her. He learned to hold Fabian's hand in his without worrying he'd crush it, and that it was okay to squeeze a little. He learned to carry Riz on his shoulders, and spin around as fast as he could, goblin arms tight around his thick neck for balance. He learned how to make tea from Adaine, large hands delicately holding a porcelain cup with practiced care. He learned to wrap his long arms around Kristen when she hugged him, and that being surrounded by him wasn't scary for her, but comforting.

The Bad Kids healed something in him he didn't know was there anymore, and as Gorgug slowly unlocked the box he had shoved in the corner of his mind, he found that perhaps his rage had not been as monstrous as it had at first appeared.

Maybe he was just a high school boy, and sometimes high school boys were angry, and that was okay. Maybe anger was a tool, and it was okay to use it as long as he was gentle, too.

Gorgug was angry, and with time, he learned to be proud of it.

#my work #my writing #original story #original writing #gorgug thistlespring #fantasy high #gorgug fantasy high #gorgug fh #d20 #dimension 20 #dimension twenty #d20 fh #dimension 20 fantasy high #fh #kind of hurt/comfort #angst #just a bit

[inheartofwinter]

The Potion Master's Ingredient List

Side Story: Draught of Living Death

The first thing he sees is his mother’s smile.

“Good morning, love. Finally awake?” His mother’s hand gently combs through his black curls – the same hair as his mother’s.

He rubs his eyes, disbelieving. Why is she here? Isn’t she dead?

“What’s wrong? Does your head still ache?” His mother frowns.

Now that she mentioned it, he can indeed feel a migraine. His head is throbbing, but nothing a Headache Remedy can’t fix.

As if reading his thoughts, his mother smiles and Summons a blue vial. He blinks, surprised. Why is she doing this?

His mother shakes her head and laughs. “Don’t be so surprised. I know I can be a bit tough on you, but you’re my son. I don’t wish you unnecessary suffering.”

 He purses his lips. Sometimes he has to wonder what her definition of “necessary” is.

His mother sighs and pushes the vial into his hand. “Just take the potion and go downstairs when you’re ready. Your father is waiting for us to have breakfast together.”

“Breakfast together?” Now that is a word he hasn’t heard for a while.

“Things have finally settled at his work. He won’t need to leave so early in the morning anymore.” His mother’s smile is one of a smitten maiden in love. 

He envies his parents’ feelings for each other. They argue so often, yet always stick together against all hardship. He thinks those feelings make them miserable, but maybe it’s all in his head. He still doesn’t truly believe they love him, but their love for each other, on the other hand, he has never doubted.

 “Are you talking about me? You’re not badmouthing me, are you?” His father pops in from the open doorway. There’s an easy smile on his face which softens his sharp features. He hasn’t seen that expression of his father for ages.

“Not, but it would serve you right if we did,” says his mother. Her tone suggests she doesn’t mean it even a little.

His father scratches his head apologetically. “I know I hadn't been very attentive to you. It had been crazy, the things people kept saying to me. It was hard to maintain my position. I never meant to neglect you.” 

“What’s changed?” he asks. His throat is hoarse.

His father pulls both his mother and him into a hug. “Everything. After what happened, I realise I might not have time to make up for you later.”

His eyes suddenly become blurry. Next to him, his mother is sobbing. His father pats her back comfortingly.

Is this a dream? How long has he been waiting for this moment?

“It doesn’t matter”, he decides, basking in his family’s warmth. Who cares if it is a dream or reality?

For @microficmay Day 5 Prompt: Dreams & Reality. Rating: T. Who is the narrator depends on you. I didn't manage to incorporate Day 5 prompt with the next chapter of this fic, so I wrote a side story instead.

#microficmay2024 #microfic #snirius #snack #starprince #dream #reality #potions #the potion master's ingredient list #reconcilation #kind of hurt/comfort

[lazylittledragon]

i feel like social media has warped people’s perception of conflict in relationships by making you think that any minor fuck up is the end of the world and everyone is secretly a narcissist manipulator with sinister motives, because actually in real life you just say “i’m sorry, that was a bad thing, i shouldn’t have done that” and the other person says “thank you for apologising” and then that’s the end of it

#ramble #i hate that it took until my 20s to realise that i can’t go through my life just trying not to hurt people. because it will happen #it just does happen sometimes #and you have to drop out of the tiktok school of ‘i’m incapable of doing anything wrong ever and everyone else is the problem’ #and get comfortable with making mistakes and learning from them #you’re fine. it’s fine #disclaimer obviously this doesn’t mean you don’t have to try to be kind or considerate anymore as long as you apologise. use your brain

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

Obviously you might have varying opinions for specific fandoms but generally if you think across many of them which do you prefer?

#my observation has been that I feel like there are two kinds of people and some strongly prefer modern AUs some prefer canon and there’s #nothing wrong with that this isn’t a condemnation it’s more curiosity bc while I read both I mainly prefer canon fics bc I like action andv #drama and hurt/comfort that you usually need the canon levels of violence for BUT I also can appreciate a nice modern au and think them FUN #polls #tumblr polls

[unpr0mpted]

blood, blood, gallons of the stuff ! a collection of icky, bloody prompts for those who like to choose violence. actions are reversible. general warning for blood, violence, murder, death.

𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

" that's a lot of blood. "

" it isn't mine. "

" what did you do ? "

[ sigh ] " what did you do ? "

" come on. have a taste. "

" holy shit, are you okay ? "

" it looks worse than it feels. "

" you should see the other guy. "

" it's a good look on you. you should get covered in blood more often. "

" lean on me. "

" oh my god. oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck ? is that what i fucking think it is ? "

" . . . gross. "

[ standing over a body ] " oops. "

" is that a fucking body ? "

" look, i'm sorry, okay ? "

" what the hell happened ? "

" before you say anything, it wasn't me. "

" at least it wasn't me this time. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you pretend it isn't. "

" look at me. this is who i am, no matter how much you wish it wasn't. "

" i'm not scared of you. "

" you don't scare me. "

" shut up and let me help you. "

" i got your shirt all bloody. "

" let's get you cleaned up. "

" that looks like it hurts. "

" i'm fine, just. . . give me a minute. "

" we are so fucked. "

" what the fuck is wrong with you ? "

" are you gonna help me clean it up or not ? "

" the fucker deserved it. "

" red looks good on you. "

" what the hell did you do ; tap - dance all over the body with ice - skates ? "

" what, did you run over the body with your car a couple times after ? "

" i. . . i didn't mean to. . . "

" sorry. fuck, i'm sorry. "

" this isn't what it looks like. "

" it was an accident. "

" motherfucker ran right into my knife, i swear. "

" people need to look both ways before crossing. . . bullets. "

" would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? "

" hey, look at me. i don't care. are you okay ? "

" they deserved it, right ? please tell me they deserved it. "

" you're bleeding. "

" what the fuck happened to you ? "

" you're getting blood on the carpet. "

" sit down before you fall down. "

" that looks like a you problem. "

𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :

sender spits out a mouthful of blood at receiver's feet

sender spits out a mouthful of blood on receiver

receiver finds sender covered in blood

sender tries desperately to stop receiver's bleeding

sender helps receiver clean up after a kill

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with a washcloth

sender wipes blood from receiver's face with their thumb

sender licks receiver's blood off a knife

sender licks receiver's blood off their thumb

sender lights up a cigarette a foot away from someone they killed before offering one to receiver

receiver finds sender stood over a body

sender stitches up receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender digs their finger into receiver's wound [ optional wound placement ]

sender frantically checks receiver for injuries under all the blood

sender guides receiver's bloody hands under a faucet / water source and begins washing them clean

sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood

sender tilts receiver's head back to staunch a nosebleed

sender draws a smiley face out of the blood they spilled :)

receiver finds sender cleaning up a kill in a daze

sender looks receiver in the eye as they shoot / stab / kill someone

sender ruffles receiver's hair, getting blood all over their hand

sender gets some of receiver's blood on them and makes a face

sender flicks blood at receiver to annoy them

sender stomps in a pool of blood to splash it on receiver

sender slips in their victim's blood but receiver steadies them before they can fall

sender steadies receiver when they slip in the blood sender spilled

receiver comes home to sender covered in blood and waiting for them with all the lights off

sender spits out a tooth and it hits receiver

sender tries to wipe blood off receiver but the blood on their hands just makes it worse

sender takes an injury meant for receiver

sender shows up on receiver's doorstep covered in blood

sender sits down quietly next to receiver after receiver kills someone

sender punches receiver in the mouth

receiver watches sender lick the blood off their fingers like its cheeto dust

sender helps receiver bury a body

sender hugs receiver just to get their victim's blood all over them <3

sender hugs receiver just to get their blood all over them <3

sender leans on receiver for support

sender kills someone to protect receiver

receiver finds sender in a frenzy maiming a body after they've already killed it

sender kills someone and the blood spatters on receiver

receiver finds sender desperately trying to wash the blood off of themself

sender kisses receiver to taste the blood on their busted lip

sender shoots / stabs receiver non - fatally as a warning

#roleplay starters #rp starters #rp meme #roleplay prompts #rp prompts #hurt/comfort prompts #violent prompts #blood // #horror prompts #violence // #cannibalism // #kind of? just in case

[lucy-moderatz]

Sentiment is the greatest weakness of all.

#tv: star trek: deep space nine #ds9edit #trekedit #julian bashir #elim garak #garashir #it's about the significant held glances #but honestly #everything about this episode #the context the setting the hurt/comfort #fandoms dream of this kind of thing #how incredibly straight said no one #things i made

[hajihiko]

Trust and belief and trust and belief and trust and belief and-

#Hajime hinata #Fuyuhiko kuzuryu #Sdr2 #Super danganronpa 2 #Danganronpa 2 #Danganronpa #Kuzuhina #God I'm so emotions these past days what is happening #Anyway here's comfort! For all the recent hurt hehe sry #Also I got inspired by my OWN art #From being papanorth. Which was specifically like ... different responses to different traumas #And a recent post about being patient and kind vs being passionate and reaffirming #An art #ANYWAY I have feelings and emotions sometimes! It's good times #It's a bit late but im posting anyway while my mood is high #Oh I forgot to include my own thoughts #Fuyuhiko is suspicious and assumes every unexpected touch is hostile. Except... hes learning not to. #Hajime has moments where he goes away for a bit and cant really engage with people. But... hes finding ways to ground himself as himself.

[hanafubukki]

Death.

That’s what would end this dream.

But it wasn’t fair, this was supposed to be a happy dream was it not?

But someone needed to die in order for Lilia to wake up.

In order for them to stop Malleus.

It would be cruel to have Mallenoa die in front of Lilia, in a dream that was supposed to end happily.

It would be too much if any of you were to cause such a demise.

But any other answer would be just as cruel.

The devoted son? No, that would break Lilia.

The overly loyal prodigee? No, that would add trauma and guilt for Lilia and might affect his relationship with Baul.

Grim had little to no ties with Lilia, his death would not cause him to wake up nor would you allow any harm to come to him.

…so that left only one answer.

Yours.

It would have to be the shock from your death that would awaken everyone from this dream.

Your hands shook.

Will this work?

And if it didn’t, what would happen to you? To the others? To Malleus?

As you stare at Mallenoa and the victorious fae army celebrating their win against the Knight of Dawn.

You had made a choice.

You breathed.

Deep breathes in.

Deep breaths out.

You swiftly turned.

I’m so sorry.

You knew your choice would bring pain to a number of people. Lilia and Malleus, who would lose a sister and mother respectively. They would also loose you if anything went wrong in this dream and reality.

Sebek, Silver, and Grim would feel devastated at not being able to stop you.

But this was the only way and the one least painful.

…you hoped.

You had never confessed your feelings to Lilia. You didn’t have the chance to, especially after he announced his departure.

And you couldn’t be selfish and weigh him down with your feelings.

But you hoped he cared enough about you that it would work. That the fleeing glances from General Lilia was an indicator of his feelings for you.

You allowed your self to be selfish just this once. You hoped that you would be enough to wake him up because anything else would be too painful.

If not, then at least it was just your death and the least painful of the four.

If this doesn’t work, I can at least keep Malleus company…despite his inky self and how awkward it might be.

By now, you can hear voices questioning what you were doing. You can hear the alarms in their voices as you near the edge of a cliff without any falter in your steps.

You turn around, there’s barely any space left between you and the air that would welcome you.

The others are in varying degrees of panic.

General Lilia had noticed the commotion by now, his eyes widening as he took in your form.

Good, he would be too far to get to you in time.

You smiled at them.

It will be alright.

…you fell back.

…only to wake up gasping back in Diasomnia’s lounge.

With several gasps echoing right after yours.

Part 2

#tw death #tw suicide implied #tw suicide #<- just in case #twst angst #first two tags implied since it is a dream world and not reality #Lilia Vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader #twst lilia vanrouge #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x you #hurt no comfort #kind of #open ending ish #hopefully ending #ambiguous ending

[isawjamfirst]

starting to have a thing for long-haired vash thanks to @avoidingavoidance ‘s Come and See fic

#listen no listen to me #these two have me in Shambles #post-julai tristamp vashwood is my exact kind of hurt/comfort #nightow im watching u #trigun stampede #vash the stampede #humanoid typhoon #nicholas d wolfwood #nicholas the punisher #tristamp wolfwood #tristamp vash #tristamp vashwood #trigun #trigun fanart

[farfromstrange]

Daddy Issues | Matt Murdock x Reader

Masterlist

Inspired by this song.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: There are some scars from our childhoods that just won't heal, like daddy issues will somehow always affect our relationships, especially with men. It's the trauma that makes us afraid. Matt Murdock is a considerate boyfriend and he hardly ever raises his voice, so when he lets his anger out on you, he triggers something in you that you have never told him about.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of child abuse, daddy issues (not the sexy kind), childhood trauma, yelling, crying, small injury (reader cuts her finger), not proofread

A/n: This is entirely self-indulgent. I won't tell you why exactly, but let's just say today was not a good day and I needed to write this to feel better. It helped, for the most part. If you have/had a father who yells a lot and likes to blame you for everything, this is for you. But also basically everyone who's afraid of men yelling at you because you've been traumatized before. This has not been proofread or beta-d. It’s just a silly little comfort fic.

Tags: (people who answered the original idea and I think would enjoy this or asked to be tagged)

@igotanidea @lina-mar @redzie02 @hellskitchens-whore

[not my gif, credits to the owner mentioned under the gif]

In the heat of the moment, some people raise their voices. May it be a fight or a moment of excitement. When we get angry, we often resort to a louder volume and sometimes even verbal abuse. We say things we don’t mean. We wouldn’t be human if that didn’t happen sometimes, although most fights can be resolved by talking civilly. There is no point in screaming when talking like adults is a viable option that won’t hurt anyone. But it hardly ever happens, not when both parties are already worked up to the point of no return.

For you, there has not been a fight or discussion in your life that hasn’t resulted in a screaming match. Your parents often yelled at each other. You grew up like this, the voices of your fighting parents constantly in the back of your head until the day they divorced. And even after that, you figure you started hallucinating their fights whenever the world went quiet around you so you would have some noise in the back of your head.

Your father was the one who screamed the most. He yelled and scolded you whenever you didn’t act according to his standards or made even the smallest of mistakes, didn’t do something or just used the wrong tone with him, something that often didn’t sit right with him.

He always resorted to screaming. The context never really mattered, he just got louder, harsher and he used words that would confuse every kid and make their tiny brains overflow with the guilt they caused. And when you cried, he only waved it off because “there is no reason to cry, I’m just stating the facts”.

It traumatized you in a way many children who grew up in such families understand, and he made you believe that every man in your life has a reason to yell at you, to use you, to abuse you and constantly ask you for things even though you can’t possibly match up to all of their expectations.

You always expect to be yelled at by the men in your life. Even the smallest hint of the disappointment in someone’s voice makes you anxious and more often than not, you start to cry. It’s your defense mechanism. You’re fragile and you get scared easily. A switch gets flicked and you’re suddenly standing in the same house you grew up in, letting your father rain hell down on you because you were too scared to fight back.

The constant screaming made you scared of men, and it made you more careful with what you say or do around others. You tread carefully. You try to please and not to screw up too much, too scared of the consequences and possible negative reactions. In school, you used to do the same, always wanting to please the teachers and when they raised their voices, you often excused yourself and were left shaking and crying in the bathroom. 

Matt Murdock has always been a man with a heavy internal conflict, and that conflict resulted in anger issues and his ever-present catholic guilt. When you met him, he came across as attractive yet dominant, and that scared you a little until you talked for the first time in the middle of a cozy coffee shop and he showed how soft of a man he actually is. He keeps himself locked away and that might make him seem unapproachable, but he isn’t. He’s the kindest man you have ever met, and his heart is set right. Out of all the lovers you’ve had, he is truly the best and most considerate when it comes to your relationship.

He treats you like you’re the universe to him and when you fight, it’s more often bickering than it is an exchange of vulgarities and screams. He takes his anger out on punching bags, not you, and when he hurts someone, it’s often criminals who deserve his wrath. His life is complicated, but it’s easier with you in it. He feels alive, he’s told you, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world, so he always makes sure you’re taken care of and happy before he looks after himself.

There is, of course, the issue with his enhanced senses. He’s blind but his senses are enhanced to an extent that most blind people don’t have. You found out about that early on in your relationship, but there’s never been a doubt in your mind about the love you feel for him, so it was no hard choice to stay.

Though dating the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes with its collection of issues. More often than not you have to stitch him up or search him in dark alleys and trash cans because he keeps getting in trouble, and the worry often eats you alive. Still, you comfort him when he’s had a bad day, always, and you make him the spotlight of your life every time. In your mind, taking care of him comes first.

But Matt always gives back. It’s his Catholicism, you’re sure of that. He can’t take help. He has to be the one doing the work and moving mountains. He is God’s disciple and he feels responsible for his city and the people living in it. His blindness feels like a gift given to him by God to conquer all possible battles, and while you don’t really believe in God, you have accepted that part of him with open arms and more often than not join him in his faith because life with him is surely not the easiest.

When Matt Murdock feels overwhelmed, he tries not to show it. He’d rather lock himself away than burden you. He’d rather struggle on his own than put the people he loves in danger or hurt them with his personal struggles and the pain that consumes him.

Matt is patient and he doesn’t care if you screw up, even though you apologize profusely most of the time. He’s patient because we’re all human. We all screw up. That is the principle that he lives by and he makes you feel like you can be more of yourself around him. So after a year, there are no more reservations and you feel a lot more comfortable in your skin.

Until this day, he had never let his anger out on you, and he had never opened his mouth to yell at you in any way. Until that day.

He’s different when he comes home. He finds himself at his wit's end, and he has been ever since that godforsaken murder trial started. When he comes home, you don’t think much of his distance toward you, the denial of a proper kiss, and his grunts as he lowers himself on the couch instead of asking you about your day. You don’t think much until it all goes wrong, and you’re not even sure at what point it does or what you did to deserve this, but there has to be a reason because the man you’re seeing right now is not the Matt you usually get to see.

We all have bad days sometimes, others more often, but this seems deeper than just a bad day at the courthouse. This is not the face of an exhausted man after a long work day that just needs some kisses and maybe a blowjob, or to have sex with his girlfriend in all his dominant glory with aftercare to put the cherry on top. This is not Matt Murdock, this is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen that comes through the front door, tosses his cane into a corner, and then just falls on the couch like a wet sack of potatoes, his fists clenched as if he is ready to explode any second.

You’ve been taught to tread carefully, so you do. You approach him only slowly because you are worried, you always are. Perhaps it’s the line of questioning that has him exploding in no time.

“You okay?” you ask.

He props his feet up on the living room table and huffs. “Fine,” he says.

“You don’t look fine. Did something happen?”

You’ve brought him a glass of water, which he takes with a curt nod. Something is bothering him, but he won’t talk to you.

“Bad day at work?”

“It doesn’t matter now. I’m fine. I just want to forget that today ever happened.”

“You want some coffee?” you decide to ask instead.

“No,” he says.

His leg starts to bounce. It only does when he is agitated or overstimulated and is trying to deal with the world around him. 

“Do you want me to run you a bath?”

He sighs. “No.”

“We still have leftovers, maybe I could warm them up.”

His tone is harsher this time, “No!”

You blink, a little taken aback by the force in his voice and involuntarily, you start to shake.

“I just want to be alone,” he adds, softer this time. “Can you… you know what, I’m just gonna get changed.”

And like that, he is gone. He disappears into the bedroom and you’re left flabbergasted. You want to ask what’s wrong, but you’re scared. You’ve never been scared of him before. It’s not him, it’s his reaction, and so you retreat into the kitchen. 

Eventually, he comes out again, though he is still missing a shirt. “Have you seen my Columbia sweater?” he asks, the lights of the billboard reflecting off his marble skin. 

“It’s in the washer,” you tell him.

“Why?”

“Because it’s dirty. Matt, what is going on?” You place your mug down and look at him, eyes soft and full of concern.

He only rolls his. “I just want my sweater.” Grabbing the used shirt from the chair at the dinner table, he slips it on. It’s not the fabric he wanted and he tenses up, hating the new sensation already.

“Are you sure this is about your sweater? You’ve been on me ever since you got in.”

“Yes, because you keep asking useless questions.”

“Useless?” You scoff. “So my interest and worry for you are useless?” 

If there is one thing you have gotten good at it has to be defending yourself.

He brushes past you to get a beer from the fridge. “I told you, I’m fine.” He is good at brushing you off because he doesn’t like to admit when he feels weaker than usual.

“You don’t look fine.”

“Oh, my God, then stop fucking looking!”

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

He scoffs. “You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?”

“Everything.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“It’s not…” his chuckle is bitter. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. You’re gonna keep seeing problems where there are none, so talking to you makes no sense anyway.”

What did he just say? You are so confused and suddenly very angry that you forget you are holding a glass. You smash it down on the counter, and, as expected, it shatters into a million pieces. Most of them fall to the floor and right at his bare feet. His eyes darken.

Oh.

Now you are scared, and not in a way that resembles sexy foreplay. You are scared because he is turning into a stranger right before your eyes. Suddenly, all you can see is not your loving boyfriend Matt Murdock, you see the anger of both your father and your stepfather in his eyes and hear it in his voice and it instantly tells you, 'this is all your fault'.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I didn’t see…”

“One night,” he says. He moves out of the kitchen, trying not to step into the glass.

You follow him with wide eyes. “What’s that?” 

“One night,” he repeats his earlier statement. “That’s all I wanted. One fucking night where people don’t prod or- or want things from me. And what do you do? You keep talking and talking, and you don’t even care that I simply don’t want to talk.”

“Matt, that is not fair. I just wanted to-“ the tears start to prick in your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ.” And that’s where your strength stops and you retreat into your shell – the next words out of his mouth come so loud, you could have sworn they echoed off the brick walls and shot straight into your eardrums. “For once in your life, stop fucking apologizing!” 

His hand lifts, mostly to underline his words, and with the bottle in his hand he is suddenly so close, your eyes squeeze shut at the gush of wind. You flinch, your entire body caving in on itself. It’s not even intentional, you can’t help it. You’ve been conditioned to expect the worst when someone raises their hand, and Matt has never done it before. 

He realizes what it looks like the second your heart jumps and your blood rushes loudly in his ear. He can smell your sweat, the tears, and the fear that surrounds you. It’s your pheromones that change and something lingers in the air that makes him stop and think, what did I just do? 

He has been so in his head and the city has been loud for hours, he lost most of his patience at the courthouse, and then you’re there all caring and lovely and he can’t help but tell himself he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you. He just wants quiet and to be alone while at the same time, all he wants is you, but it’s too much. It’s all too much.

And now, as you flinch away from him and his booming voice, he snaps back to reality and realizes he made a mistake. He’s never experienced you like this before, and it scares him. 

“Did you just…” he begins, his voice soft and barely above a whisper.

He hears you fall to your knees, the taste of salt thick in the air and your breath shakes with every intake. You bite your lip and you collect the shards, trying to clean up your mess as if he would hate you if you didn’t. You whisper a silent, “Sorry.” And then he hears it. You’re sobbing, you try not to but you are, and it is his fault.

“Did you think I was gonna hit you?” he asks, dreading the answer.

You sniffle, not answering.

You flinched, he heard it, and not because you were surprised. You are scared, he knows. 

He slowly approaches the kitchen. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

“I just gotta clean this up,” you whimper and you brush the glass together with shaky hands. The tears are running down your cheeks in thick streams and your teeth have gnawed your bottom lip bloody, your throat dry with the denied sobs.

“I just gotta clean this up and then I can make you dinner or something. I don’t… I can fix this. I’ll fix this. I’m sorry.”

It’s your fault, you tell yourself. You pushed him. You deserve this. He worked hard the entire day and you annoyed him. He has every right to do this. In your head, at least. It makes all sense in your head while in reality, Matt has never been more shocked to read your body language than he is now.

He slowly kneels in front of you. “Answer me this,” he says, “did you flinch because you thought I was gonna hit you or because I yelled?”

You shrug, unable to look at him. One of the shards slides across your finger and you hiss, the smallest cut forming and causing blood to pool out of your skin. Still, you don’t stop. You need to clean this up before he gets even angrier at you. In your state, you don’t realize his voice has softened and he no longer stares at you with those blacked-out eyes. He looks sympathetic, almost, but most of all the guilt has spread throughout his features and his heart. He is aching to touch you, but you are scared and shaking and he doesn’t want to hurt you any further than he already has.

He had been so ignorant that he didn’t see the signs before.

“Why are you crying?” he asks again.

You wipe your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you. It’s my fault,” you say. “I’ll clean this up, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Hey.”

“No, I gotta-”

“Stop.” His hand is on your arm then. “You cut yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” it’s a mantra you’ve taught yourself to say in the hopes you could somehow fix this before it’s too late.

But it’s not too late. When you finally look up, he’s smiling softly, and his thumb is stroking over your skin in circles. 

“I’m sorry,” it’s his turn to say it. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. None of this is your fault. I was so caught up in my own shit, I… God, I would never hit you. I just- I didn’t think when I raised my hand. I didn’t think what it might look like to you. And I didn’t think when I yelled because I… in my head, I wasn’t thinking.”

Your facade cracks even more to the point you are seethrough and your defenses have fallen completely. You’re a snotty mess, shaking violently in his grasp. 

“I’m trying, I swear I’m trying to be better. Just don’t be angry with me,” your voice is bordering on helpless little sobs, your lips turned downward and God, you are shaking so badly, you haven’t done so since the last fight with your father when you were a teenager. 

Matt’s face softens even more, but there is a pain in there too. He takes a paper towel to wrap around your injured finger and he holds your hand, not sure if he is allowed to touch anywhere else, but he wants you to know he is here and he is going nowhere. He is neither mad nor is he going to break up with you. You try to tell yourself that, but it’s hard with the demon in your head whispering all those awful things into your ear, reminding you that everything bad that happens can only be your fault and that there is no use for you but to destroy and disappoint. But you don’t want to disappoint, you want him to be proud of you. You want him to hold you and tell you everything is alright. But you’re scared and you feel so stupidly guilty for something you can’t even put a finger on. Your bleeding finger.

“Angry with you?” he says. “No.” Matt chuckles, but it’s broken and almost whiny as he does so. “I’m not angry at you, bug. Of course not. I was just angry with the world. I was angry at everything else, but not you. I’m not angry at you. I couldn’t possibly be. I’m sorry, it wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you. I realize that now. And the glass…” he forces you away from the chaos gently, helping you stand up without hurting yourself further. “It’s just glass,” he tells you. “I’ll clean it up. There’s nothing bad about breaking something.”

“But the mess,” you say. 

“Fuck the mess. The whole apartment’s a mess.”

“I’m so sorry! I can clean it. I can clean up, I promise. I just… I’m so sorry, Matt.”

“Stop apologizing, baby, please. The mess doesn’t matter. The apartment doesn’t matter, and the glass does not fucking matter. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything but try to help. I had no right to yell at you. And my hand… I would never hit you. Never.” He squeezes your hand. “I love you.”

You hiccup, whimpering when he pulls you away from the glass on the floor and pulls you into his arms. His chin rests on the crown of your head and you mold into him, the tears taking on new speed and wetting through his shirt. He strokes your back, not sure what else to do, and his lips find your temple. “God, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that, none of that.”

You cling tighter to him. 

He keeps asking himself the same question over and over again. “Who hurt you?” he asks. It’s a valid question. A fear like that doesn’t just stem from nothing. Something happened in the past to have traumatized you this badly. 

Your breathing eventually slows down, as do your tears, and you look up at him through swollen eyes. His white shirt is wet now, but he doesn’t care, he only hugs you back to his chest. “My father used to yell at me whenever I did something wrong,” you tell him, your voice muffled through his chest, but he understands every word. 

His grip tightens. “Did he hit you?”

“Sometimes, but… I remember that one time I forgot to clean up after myself and he just… he…” The lack of oxygen makes you shudder and you hiccup again, nails digging into his back. “I’m sorry, he just… yelled at me. Sometimes, he’d slap me, but only sometimes. He’d threaten most of the time, but he didn’t do it often. And I mean, I was a hard kid to raise, I-“

“No, don’t blame yourself,” he is quick to cut you off. “You were a kid.”

You shudder again. “Well, I… you know, he blamed me for the smallest of things, so I got used to apologizing and trying to please everyone, but I can’t always do that. I try to fix things, but it doesn’t always work. He used to yell at me every damn time and I just… I get scared. I don’t like it when people raise their voices. It makes me feel so guilty and now I even broke a glass. That’s my fault. I shouldn’t have… you had a bad day, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cry like this. I swear I’m not a baby.”

You move away to rub your eyes. He grabs your face, smoothing the pads of his thumbs over your wet cheeks. The heat has pooled under the skin in an upset blush. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “It’s okay to cry. If I’d known, baby, I…” Matt can only shake his head in disbelief.

He loves you more than anything and to see you hurting because of something another man did to you, a man who is supposed to protect you, makes him feel all kinds of things, but none of them positive. 

But his anger doesn’t matter. This is about you. He has to take care of you now, not himself, and definitely not your father. It’s just you on his mind.

You choke on nothing. “He told me I have no reason to cry because he’s just stating facts.”

Matt clicks his tongue. “No, don’t ever think that again. You have every right to cry when you feel the need to.”

“It makes me weak,” you say.

“Your father’s wrong. You’re the strongest person I know,” he says. “And the fact that he yelled at you and blamed you for things that were out of your control… no one has the right to treat you like that, not even your parents, and he should have never even thought about raising his hand against you. That’s abuse. I can’t believe- fuck! Do you understand that it wasn’t your fault? That he had no right to do that?”

“Yes, but… it happened. Maybe I deserved some of those slaps. I mean you… I- I don’t know. It happened, we can’t change it. And who knows, maybe he was right.”

“Stop it! That’s not true and you know it.”

“I know, but-“

“No buts, sweetheart. I would never raise my hand against you, I promise. I’m not like your father. No one should be like him. You deserve so much better.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” you sniffle, “it was just instinct.”

“Shh,” Matt kisses you gently, “I know. It’s like me dodging punches in a fight. It’s a defense mechanism. Your father, I… you’ve never said anything. I would’ve never suspected this.”

“‘Cause I didn’t think it was important. This never happened before. You never yelled before.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. You should have told me,” he says. “It’s important to me. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. I want you to feel comfortable around me, not scared.”

You nod. “And I am, really, it’s just… I thought I did something wrong.”

His smile is soft when he leans in to kiss you again, tasting the tears on your lips. “You didn’t. I let my anger out on you for no reason. You didn’t deserve that. It won’t happen again, I promise,” and he dives right back in. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, relaxing in his arms as his lips move against yours with sweet precision, making you feel lightheaded. He scared you, that much is true, but it was neither you nor his fault and you realize that now, safe in his arms as he proves his devotion to you with a single breath into your mouth. With his gentle touch around your waist he promises never to hurt you, never to let his anger out on you again, and he promises that he will drive himself to hell personally if he ever scares you like that again because he couldn’t forgive himself if anything happened to you because of him. He couldn’t live with himself if he broke your heart or triggered the trauma you brought into the relationship from your broken childhood, and he promises that he will never leave you, never put you second and always hold you when times get hard because people screw up, bad things happen, and you might be at fault sometimes, but so is he and there is no reason to be put down for being human. He wants to teach you that, he wants to help you heal yourself, and you have never felt more in love than at that moment, losing yourself in his lips, eyes and arms.

He breaks the kiss, moving on to your forehead. “If there is anything else I need to know,” he breathes hotly against your already heated skin, and the exhaustion slowly starts to seep into your bones as the shakes and tension subside from your bones, “please tell me before I make another mistake that might trigger you.”

You take in a deep breath, shaking your head. “There is not much else. My childhood wasn’t the best, but that’s okay,” you say. 

He brushes his knuckles over your cheekbone. “Bad enough. Promise you’ll tell me if something else might come up?” He resembles a puppy as he tries to meet your eyes, but he fails miserably.

So you promise him, “Okay.”

“Can you forgive me for yelling?”

Your tears have finally come to a halt. “Yes,” you say. 

“Thank you.”

Your eyes fall on the mess on the kitchen floor again and you go to grab the broom. Matt’s arm around your frame stop you and he gently pushes you out of the kitchen. “Let me clean it up,” he says. “Put a bandaid on your finger and then go lie down. I’ll deal with it.”

“No, I broke it. Please, Matt, let me do this.”

“Not everything is your fault, sweetheart. Besides, you already cut yourself once and with how you’re shaking, the next time you accidentally cut yourself I’m sure you’re gonna cause more damage.”

“But I-”

“Go to bed,” he insists, “I’ll be there in a second and then we’ll cuddle so you know I’m serious when I say that I love you more than life itself.”

The weight and guilt fall off your heart. “I love you,” you tell him. “More than life itself, too.”

It’s not a lie. If there is anything or anyone you love, it’s him, and you’ve never been this in love with anyone before. It’s sickening to the point it hurts, but the pain is sweet and it’s all worth it because with Matt, you can be yourself. 

The past matters just a little less with someone who loves you right by your side, and he would never give up on you like everyone else did before him. 

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #daredevil #daredevil x reader #gender neutral reader #matt murdock imagines #marvel #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock angst #mentions of child abuse #hurt/comfort #matt murdock fic #daredevil fic #daddy issues (but not the sexy kind)

[arthursfuckinghat]

"I was gonna say you're like a son to me.. but you're more than that."

"It ain't that complicated!"

How quickly that shoulder pat of comfort turned into a condescending one.

#he makes me feel so emo #this life was never meant for you but your fate was forced #the way dutch (and hosea) talks to arthur like he's stupid will never sit right with me #like they've been by his side over 20 years they KNOW he isn't stupid because if he was he would have been gone a long time ago #not only is arthur incredibly emotionally smart but he's a trained conman vault breaker gunslinger horse rider you name it #the fact that his own adoptive parents break him down like that hurts #it's a manipulation tactic on dutch's end - break your victims self esteem to make them chase your praise and approval #hosea I believe has just gone along with that kind of attitude but in a different way he just likes to jest lightheartedly #arthur doesn't see the difference though and it's understandable but he takes it to heart #the worst part is that hosea sees through his tough guy act and has called arthur out on it #his act is a defence mechanism to protect himself from being too vulnerable - in arthur's mind #and it isn't a sudden thing it's very likely something that has built over the years given the life he has lived #and hosea notices he knows this #but they still jab at arthur #oh it hurts #is he your son dutch? or is he your guard dog? your personal workhorse? #playing through the second time is opening my eyes more and more #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #mick squeaks #mick rants #mick gifs #arthur morgan #dutch van der linde #liveblogging #you guys gotta understand - arthur seeks and longs for dutch's approval he'll never say it but it's the key motive behind his loyalty #and arthur *rejects* dutch's comfort #he doesn't *want* dutch to pat him on the shoulder because he knows dutch is digging them an even deeper hole #he doesn't want that touch he craves #it's so insanely monumental for such a small scene because it shows us how arthur feels without telling us

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I'm sorry I let down my guard.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #xue yang #xiao xingchen #God DAMN this scene was brutal. Season 2 episode 2 is almost nothing but misery and anguish #Helena by Nickle Creek does not quite fit the comic's vibe but it is absolutely a Xue Yang song so I linked it. #The change from “Helena don't walk away...(gentle)” to “HELENA. DON'T WALK AWAY (threat)” is fantastic. #And “Don't waste your pretty sympathy - I'll always be just fine”. Xue Yang core. #Okay now for the real meat. Disclaimer first: *I really like XY.* I think he's a great character. I think his actions consistently- #come from a place of deep trauma. While his reactions and actions put him in a villainous role he is still human about his hurt #and what I'm about to say is NOT intended to be a statement of causality or villianize a group of misunderstood people. #So with that said...Man oh man does Xue Yang have a lot of BPD traits. More that just 'character who is chronically manipulative'. #The impulsivity and emotional reactions and seeking stability makes him feel like he needs that control. What other choice is there? #The part that really gets me is how he *wants* to be safe and happy. But his past experiences tell him how thats impossible #He's the kind of person who goes 'if you don't like me then you better hate me for something substantial". All (pos) or All (neg) #''Love me entirely or Hate me. But don't you dare leave me or forget about me.'' #Not at all comfortable saying 'BPD coded'. Im not a psychiatrist. Just that he has TRAITS. Feel free to disagree or add your thoughts. #ppl with bpd also are not a monolith and everyone has very different experiences. Xue yang is very complex. People more so.

[scealaiscoite]

appreciating physical traits prompts ˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🐚 ꒱

— counting their freckles

— playing with their hair

— tracing over scars

— laying their head down on the other’s stomach

— massaging their shoulders

— pressing kisses to their hips

— tracing the curves of their torso

— pulling them in by their love handles

— keeping a guiding hand on the small of their back

— cupping their jaw

— studying their birthmark(s)

— letting the other rest their feet in their lap

— tracing the notches of their spine

— laying on their chest

— squeezing their thigh

#soooooo incredibly soft for these kinds of shows of affection 😩😩 #prompts #fluff prompts #otp prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing #rp meme #fluff rp meme #soft prompts #fluff writing prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #action prompts #romantic prompts #hurt/comfort prompts #hurt comfort prompts

[twstjam]

Book 7 Spoilers ahead!!!

hmmmmm Lilia x Reader where you're a member of the Silver Owls but you have no loyalty to them so you betray them by secretly playing spy for the fae in exchange for peace, quiet, and safety if you help them win. The fae don't really trust you, especially Lilia, but he knows opportunity when he sees one. They just have to be careful about how much they trust you.

Because of the nature of your agreement you end up meeting up and exchanging letters with the Phantom General of the Briar fae a lot to relay information. At first it's just that and your meetings are all really just pure business, but then Lilia complains about Princess Malenoa and everyone pushing jobs onto him. This spurs you on to complain about Henrik and how all he does is order people around and lounge around all day. The two of you end up bonding over your demanding and tiring jobs and gradually grow closer each letter.

Aside from exchanging information, the two of you begin to exchange stories and tales and knowledge. You begin to know each other on different facets that no one else knows and confide in each other your deepest thoughts, fears, and insecurities. The two of you have a lot in common and understand each other so well that it just makes it so easy and natural and comfortable to be open like this. No one else have ever made either of you feel safe enough to share your most deepest secrets (not even Malenoa and Revan in Lilia's case. They're his best friends but they're also his superiors. There's just some things he can't talk about with them.) so it's so nice to finally find someone that does.

The two of you fall slowly, but you fall hard.

Neither of you admit this to each other of course. A war is no time for something as silly and trivial as love and romance and you both know that neither of you have time for a relationship. So you both pine and yearn in silence, either from your fortresses miles away from each other, or several feet apart on the rare occasions you meet up in person—so close yet still so far.

In one of your letters you relay to Lilia your worry that someone might be catching on. Lilia's heart twists in fear and his mind races with paranoid thoughts and possibilities. He doesn't show any concern in his response aside from acknowledging your worry, but he does tell you to be careful. He reasons that it would be unfortunate for the fae if their most valuable informant were to be discovered. (he activated tsundere mode to cope)

He sends the letter and goes about his duties. Days pass. Weeks. He realises during some off-time that he hasn't heard from you in a while. More time passes. No sign of a response from you.

Lilia says to himself that it's fine. It's nothing. It's no big deal. You're probably just occupied, or finally realised how dangerous it was to keep associating with the enemy. It's fine. The fae forces have managed before without your assistance. It's fine it's fine it's fine

he's not fine

(Part 2)

#twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge #book 7 spoilers #twst book 7 spoilers #lilia vanrouge x you #lilia vanrouge x reader #twisted wonderland imagines #there're so many possibilities for what happens next #you're either straight up dead (either by your own doing or execution) #lilia either never finds out about this or finds your body later on (depending on what kind of angst you prefer) #or you're still alive but in hiding because you got discovered and lilia finds you later on #OR lilia somehow hears about you being discovered and comes to your rescue in the nick of time #and we get some hurt/comfort as he takes you into the safety of fae territory and treats your injuries

[asherthehimbo]

Outliving the stars | Choi San

synopsis: You've always felt a part of you was missing, the desire for something greater only being lessened when you were gazing at the stars. You know you lost something, someone, you just dont remember what, who. Maybe the astrology major your friend sent you on a blind date with has the answers.

Pairing: Choi San x Male!reader

Info: one shot, words(2.1K),

Trope: reincarnation, Immortal x mortal, hurt/comfort

Warnings: mentions of nightmares, anxiety, topic of death, suggestive jokes, it's said they have sex but no actual smut, injuries, birthmarks shaped like scars, insecurity, self scrutinizing, social anxiety, overthinking, talks of past lives

Song inspo: Burn out the stars - Bryce savage

It was at times like these that you wished you could punch your best friend. Wooyoung was sweet, but you swear he had it out for you, sending you out on a blind date with nothing but a first name. Now you were standing at the planetarium entrance like an idiot waiting for someone you didn't even know.

Wooyoung had pesterd you for three weeks until you finally gave in. He kept trying to set you up with one of his classmates, and you were too tired to register what you were agreeing to. "Come on [Name], you can't keep being hung up on some mystery guy from your dreams. San, on the other hand is perfect, broad shoulders, an astrology major, rich, handsome face, smooth voice and he's kind" Wooyoung rambled on as you were sitting in your dorm, trying to finish the economics paper you had that was due on Friday.

"Do you want me to go out with this guy, or do you want to do so yourself?" You asked him, only receiving a pillow to your face as a response. Sighing, you looked at Wooyoung, who was taking up your entire bed. "If I go on this date, would you let me finish my paper in silence?"

Wooyoung immediately jumped up from the bed. "YES, OKAY YAY!I'm gonna go tell San you agreed! Oh! This is gonna be so much fun! SATURDAY 1PM SHARP, " Wooyoung shouted while jumping around before sharply turning on his heel to sprint out of the room, leaving with a shout of "WEAR THOSE CUTE JEANS I BOUGHT YOU!"

You only sighed, turning back to your paper and relishing in the silence.

You did, in fact, end up wearing the jeans he bought you, black baggy jeans with white stars splattered on them, matched with your red converse, and a red hoodie.

You did not want to be here, it was cold, people were staring (probably because of the scar on your face, a voice in your head told you, you ignored it) and you were craving a strawberry refresher. You guess arriving an hour early wasn't the best course of action, but you were up early, not being able to sleep the night before.

Dreams of your faceless lover had once again plagued your mind. It had been a common occurrence ever since you turned 10. You would be cuddled up in the arms of a man you could not remember, but you knew him. In a soft grass field he would be holding you tightly, you would both be watching the stars, you listening as he points out different constellations, these dreams were safe, they made you feel at ease.

But all too often, these dreams would evolve into nightmares, the same 7 scenes playing out. Your therapist had said it must have been a physiological way to deal with your own insecurities. The birthmarks that littered your skin had always looked like scars. You remember talking to her when you were 12. She said it was your brain trying to justify the marks, trying to create a story for them.

You believed her. After all, she knew better, but these dreams just felt so real, so vivid. You would hear your own heartbeat slow down and hear the cries of your mystery lover as he holds onto you. You could feel the tears dripping from his face onto yours. No matter what turn these nightmares had, they always ended with you dying in his arms.

You guess Wooyoung had been right in his concern, as your best friend he knew first hand the effect these dreams had on you. The nights you wake up gasping for air, vomiting out your dinner, clawing at your neck because something in your throat is burning. The times you're awake while your consciousness is still trapped in whatever nightmare you were experiencing. He had been there since the age of 10, he had been there.

You rubbed together the two sleeves of your hoodie, starting to feel more uncomfortable as time passed by. People were walking past, laughing, and giggling at one another. You wondered what was so funny, what were they all laughing at? Were they laughing at you? no, you didn't do anything funny, did you? oh, it's your face, right? Your face is funny, it's ugly, creepy, the scar covering your eye, one you did not deserve. A mutated freak born with scars that were not earned a fake, a- "[Name]?" A hand on your shoulder disrupts your anxiety fueled thoughts.

You turn around to find a black haired man, he's a little shorter than you, although his shoulders are broad. Jawline sharp, eyes as soft as a warm blanket on a winter's night, despite the intimidating structure of the man, his eyes, his smile, his dimples, he seems inviting, familiar almost.

He stands smiling at you, the arm he used to grab your attention is hovering awkwardly in the air, his cheeks are flushed, a pink matching one of the familiar drinks in his hand. "Umm, I'm San? your date. " he seems unsure of himself, but you find it cute, having to suppress a giggle so as to not make him feel bad.

You give him a small smile as you mentally thank Wooyoung for choosing someone good looking,"Nice to meet you, San." You nod your head at him as you shift your weight between your feet. You're being so awkward right now, but something tells you that San doesn't mind.

Despite your lack of social skills, the interaction itself does not seem awkward. Although you can feel something straining it, you brush it off to first date jitters. "Oh!um I also got us some drinks, Wooyoung said you liked strawberry refreshes, although I don't know if he was messing with me. He has a tendency to do that lately, but um drink?" San asks as he lifts up the hand, holding two drinks questioningly. His shoulders seem to tense as he awaits your reaction.

"Woo didn't lie, I do like Strawberry refreshers, thank you" you nod your head at him, his shoulders relax as he lets out a breath of relief, he picks up the pink drink from the holder in his hand and gives it to you. Your fingers touch for a moment as you take the drink from him and you jump back a little, San doesn't seem all that surprised, but he chuckles "Static electricity's a bitch, huh?"

You don't think that's how it works, but you laugh along nonetheless. It's weird as you walk with San into the planetarium. You don't like new people, don't feel comfortable around them, yet with San, it's different. You feel safe with him. He feels so familiar.

You spend the day following San around the planetarium, he excitedly points out constellations, and you swear the fake stars above your head shine dimmer than the light in Sans eyes. Somewhere along the line, your hand had been intertwined with his, as a precaution to not lose one another, you told yourself.

The date ends when the sky outside matches the one in the planetarium, a dark purple background with little specks of light twinkling above you both. The date lasted the whole day and you were having so much fun you didn't even realize, Wooyoungs gonna kill you for not telling him how everything went immediately but you can't find it in yourself to care about the headache your best friend will inevitably give you tomorrow morning.

That night, you sit on your bed, smiling down at the goodnight text from San, despite him having wished you a goodnight merely a few hours before when he walked you to your dorm. That night is the first night you sleep peacefully, no dreams of your mystery lover, no dieing, no waking up in a cold sweat despite it being winter. Nothing

Instead that night you sleep, cuddled up with the tiny red star plushie that San won for you at one of the planetarium games, you named her 'astéri' the greek word for star. Also, the exact name you put as your contact for the man who won her for you.

Your relationship with San had been a fast development, one date, then two, then you start eating lunch together, he starts walking you to classes, he joins your friends and you on movie nights, he plays games with Yunho. San becomes a part of your life faster than you can imagine, and you don't even care.

It's on your hundred day anniversary, a hundred days of dates and hangouts, and obviously being together despite no official title, that San officially asks you to be his boyfriend.

It's an emotional ordeal. He made a picnic in his backyard, creating a fort where you could both lay down and watch the stars on the soft grass. It's summer now, much hotter than when you first met, you wear a red tank top. San has expressed his love for your collarbones before, and thinking back to the moment makes you blush.

He was a bit tipsy when he blurted it out, face flushed pink given the alcohol of the drinking game he had played with your friends earlier, the room was hot, filled with college boys and liquor, so of course you took off your jacket, San had started cheering, then giggling, talking about how much he liked your neck, your collarbones. You don't know if he remembers this moment, you hope he doesn't, it would save you the embarrassment.

San presents you with a necklace on the night of his confession, a black leather strap threaded through a red star that's rimmed with silver. On the back of the necklace, the name 'astéri' is carved, under it lies numbers which look like coordinates. You don't ask.

San slips the necklace around your neck, fingers trailing dangerously slow along your shoulders. You were scared at first, you liked San, loved him, as much as you trusted him, you were scared of what his reaction would be.

He may have seen you in strappy clothing before, but he's never seen the extent to which your birthmarks your scars cover your body. The worst of them were located on your waist.

Despite your hesitance, the way San looks at you after you agree to be his, after you agree to let him be yours, it makes you want to kiss him, let him embrace every part of you and let you do the same to him.

He looks at you like you yourself were the star and who were you to deny a mortal access to a celestial entity?

That night, you learn the true extent of San's love for you, the way he trails his fingers overy every inch of your skin, extra soft kisses placed on the marks littering your body, he's gentle almost as if he knows the phantom pains they bring you, despite you never having told him.

That night you and San become, you and San, under the stars. On the soft blanket he laid out in his backyard as the warm wind of summer nips at your exposed skin.

It's when you're lying down, breathless, in between San's arms that he starts talking, answering your question from earlier that night. The numbers on the back of the necklace, the coordinates, are of a star San bought in your name. He literally bought you a star and named it 'astéri'.

"You deserve the whole galaxy, and yet I do not have the power to retrieve it for you. This way, you can have a piece of the outer world, and it can have a piece of you"

You don't think you've ever felt so loved in your life. You had fallen for San so quickly, so hard. It's hard to imagine a time when he wasn't in your life, despite the fact that you hadn't known him long, everything with him just felt so right.

You were sure you were meant to be with San in every lifetime, meant to spend every moment of your life with him. When you told him this, it had been the first time you ever saw him cry, genuinely cry. It was as if your words affected him more than you knew. You're sure they did.

That's one thing you never did understand about San, he has told you everything about himself, but you still felt as if something was missing, a piece of information locked away, it was like he was guarding it, scared you would find out. He thought he hid it well, but you prided yourself on knowing people, knowing your boyfriend. You trusted him. He would tell you when he was ready.

You and San would watch the stars burn out together, watch the world fall in each others arms, protected by a love so pure that the only thing left in the universe would be you and San

Taglist: @xavi-in-kpopland @itsvxlentine @liyatime @hetalia-pol @mommahwa1117

Home page | Ateez masterlist

#kpop x male reader #ateez #college au! #choi san #choi san x reader #choi san x male reader #mortal x immortal #hurt/comfort #ateez angst #angst with a happy ending #kind of #soulmate au kind of? #ateez x male reader #ateez fluff #ateez fic #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez written fic #san choi #Spotify #asher 🌑 speaks #The amount of star references in this fic😭 #please tell me if u find any spelling errors I wrote this on my phone

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when your boyfriend accidentally overhears you spilling all your (very misplaced) insecurities about him leaving you for the white-picket-fence love he ‘deserves’

aka: CONCLUSION ☄️ hold me oh so close (you’re the sanctuary) 2/2 (and still 100% for @pearynice on her birthday🎉)

✨previously: “I just gotta believe that loving, even for just a short time’s worth it, when it feels like this,” and Eddie does believe that. Deep down, even if it’s alongside doubting and hurting. Eddie believes it, else he’d have run ages ago. Loving Steve Harrington is worth it. “Ed,” Wayne starts his tone a little off, a little…probably tied up in the something Eddie doesn’t have a clue as to what he nudging at, still, but whatever it’s— Eddie thinks he about shoots his head up through the ceiling of the trailer—which would be a goddamn shame because again: new trailer, still a draft, doesn’t need a hole—when he hears the clatter of something heavy not more than ten paces behind him. Which places it still in the kitchen, where he is but only just. Eddie whirls, heart pounding, ready for the worst— And his eyes lock with Steve’s. Steve, who it appears has placed one of his mother’s fancy-ass pie plates covered in aluminum foil near the phone in the corner by the door. Which he’d have opened, y’know, with his key. Because they lock the doors now, still, just in case. But Steve has his own key, and— Oh. Oh, that might have been what Wayne was nudging toward.

“You,” Eddie barely breathes out, and if his heart was pounding for fear a second ago it’s…it’s doing a thing he’s pretty sure isn’t normal, maybe is wholly unprecedented in all of human history of some shit, and he, he—

“Unintentional,” Steve grins a little sheepish at the plate he’d set on the counter, clocking that’s how he’d given himself away, why Eddie was panting a little for the adrenaline rush and the also not just or even primarily about the adrenaline rush; “but like—“

But like then Wayne’s scraping his chair against the linoleum instead of his spoon against his mug, standing up and dropping both into the sink before he clasps Eddie’s shoulder, squeezes, then crosses over toward Steve, does the same and asks low don’t eat it all without me, yeah? and Steve laughs, matches the fondness Wayne aims at him as he lobs back like we’d start without you and Wayne hums his approval before grabbing his truck keys, muttering something about needing cigs—which Eddie’s knows damn well he doesn’t—and then he glances at Eddie with that look, and, and…

Oh, Jesus.

The door’s barely closed behind Wayne before Eddie turns in his chair, knows his knees aren’t gonna hold him just now if he stands, there’s this under-the-skin kinda trembling he can feel that might be his heartbeat or might be his bones quaking apart because, like, Wayne had been looking at him the whole time like that and—

“How long have you been standing there?” Eddie barely squeaks out, it’d be a weirdly humiliating sound either way but it’s not because Eddie can barely process anything over the raucous thunder of his own goddamn pulse because how long has Steve been standing there and, and—

How much did Steve hear?

“Long enough,” Steve finally answers after spending a little time playing with his lips between his teeth in a way that normally drives Eddie a little crazy, but right now he’s a little too nauseated for it to hit.

“Longer than I’d have liked, because the things I heard,” Steve’s voice cracks as he shakes his head, and he looks so crushed, so pained and Eddie feels both sensations wash over him and settle in deep and at ten times the intensity, the weight because Eddie’s caused it. Eddie’s own words fucking made this and he—

“But it was at least as long as I needed, so that I could hear ‘em,” and Steve’s crossing to him, now, crouching a little so grip Eddie at the forearms; “because I needed to hear them.”

Eddie turns, hides his face which makes him feel sick because this is Steve, there are no moments he doesn’t want to see him, to drink him in, to refresh the permanent etching of the whole of him on the insides of Eddie’s eyelids, the ephemeral tangle of Eddie soul so he’ll remember for always what this felt like, what love can be.

For when it’s gone.

“Eddie,” Steve reaches, gathers Eddie’s hands so strong, but sure and so gentle, like he wants to…preserve. So as to keep.

Eddie barely keeps down the seizing tremble to sob, but the cost of doing so cuddles in his stomach to the point where it settles even worse.

“Babe, I needed to hear it,” Steve’s hands tighten on him, thumb stroking back and forth against the pulse in Eddie's wrist; “but now I need you to hear this, okay? Really hear it, please,” he brings Eddie’s hands closer so one of his own can hold both of Eddie’s so he has one free to grasp Eddie’s chin and lift it up, catch his eyes:

“Can you do that for me?”

And that’s the silver bullet: there’s nothing Eddie wouldn’t do for this man.

So he nods. And if a tear he didn’t notice falls when he blinks, Steve’s hand darts immediately to wipe it clear.

“You still think I want a Nancy,” Steve breathes, a lament and a realization rolled into one, that clenches tight in Eddie’s chest.

“You still think it, don’t you, still have this idea of what that was and what that meant, when the real-life Nancy wasn’t even this idea you have of a Nancy and, and then fuck, then the reality of it, like when me and her were anything?” Steve huffs something…bitter out, not toward Eddie and that’s the thing, isn’t it: Steve and Eddie aren’t perfect, and they fight loud and hard sometimes but they’re never bitter, they don’t swipe dirty.

They love—

“God, we were stupid,” Steve shakes his head and oh, well, yeah, maybe Eddie was stupid to fall so far and so deep fucking knowing the lines and limits and flipping them all off nonetheless but—

Then he looks, and Steve’s regretful. Nostalgic in that way where you think of a thing from the past for the lessons you learned for it, the ones you’re grateful for.

And oh.

Oh, Steve didn’t mean them, he meant himself, and…and her.

“You still think that,” Steve bends his chin to press lips where his thumbs have been, and to hold, and to speak against the delicate skin: “after everything.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s not disappointment. Eddie feels both, though: from himself, toward himself.

“Steve,” Eddie doesn’t mean it to come out like a moan. He swears. He swears he doesn’t mean it.

And yet.

“Come here,” Steve’s springing to his height and drawing Eddie first against his middle, tight to the low-center of his chest where the pulse of him echoes like a bell to toll and the he sinks into the comfort in that sound runs through him like cool rain for just an instant before hands are lifting, guiding him to stand and he stumbles a little but he goes nowhere, because Steve won’t let him, won’t ever let him.

All that perfectly placed trust in this man, never proven wrong.

“Will you come here?” Steve murmurs, watches Eddie’s feet and glances up through his lashes to his eyes, down and back, down and back as he leads them to the couch; knows this space like his own, like his home and that shivers through Eddie’s body—it feels right. Like it could’ve been forever, in another world.

But in this world? Steve asks if Eddie will come with him.

“Always.”

Forever the answer. And so he does.

Steve pulls him close, so close, almost in his lap as he curls against Eddie and gathers his hands again, squeezes to conduct his attention—like it could ever stray.

“I need you to listen to me,” Steve breathes so close to Eddie’s ear, hit on his neck; “I need you to listen, and believe me when I say it.”

All Eddie has in him just that moment is to nod, but fuck, does he nod, nods until Steve kisses the side of his head and tucks him under his chin, where Eddie can feel his blood move along by accident.

But it doesn’t feel like an accident.

“I used to think I fucked up with Nancy,” Steve’s saying, and Eddie can hear it as a whisper as well as he can feel it rumble under Steve’s throat; “and I did, but it was like,” he swallows hard, and Eddie feels that too; “it felt like I was the only guilty one, like I had take to all the blame, that it meant,” and Steve’s breath catches, he tenses, his heart trips a little, speeds a little and Eddie can’t not kills at the swell of his Adams’s apple, then the bump of his pulse, to nuzzle the tip of his nose in between, and Steve’s hand threads in Eddie hair: holds him near.

So fucking near.

“That it meant I was the problem, that I was built wrong,” and Eddie sucks in a breath that hurts but not nearly as much as those words, the implication that Steve ever; “that I was like my parents,” and no, fucking no: Steve is ten times most people in the whole world but in comparison to his fucking parents? Jesus fuck, numbers don’t go high enough to compare how much he outstrips them—

“That my love was only ever gonna be bullshit.”

And Eddie can’t help it. He whimpers when he wants to be still, be quiet and let Steve say what he needs to, let him ease Eddie down gently and make the end of this feel softer than it should, than it will with time but with a kindness no one in the world would ever show Eddie Munson—he wants to respect Steve’s space to say his piece but bullshit—Eddie’s come to trust and care for Nancy Wheeler, wonder of wonders, but fuck if he isn’t tempted to slash her tires and shred her drafts right before her deadlines for at least…ever. For fucking ever, because that’s not even in the same reality of enough of a punishment for saying, for doing what she did to this man’s precious fucking heart and if anyone here is bullshit, she’s—

He doesn’t realize how heavy his breathing has gotten, or how tunneled his vision, until Steve reaches a palm out and cradles his neck: an anchor. He’s quiet, and breathes like a light in the dark to follow home until Eddie can see straighter.

He is such…such goodness that it’s hard to do anything but reorientate the whole of him just…just to Steve.

“And I wondered, for a little while, if I put Nancy on this pedestal?” Steve speaks so soft, pressed now against Eddie’s brow, forehead to forehead. “Like she was something better, above me, and could…balance me out. Make the wrongness better. Worthwhile.”

Impossible. Impossible because she couldn’t, she’s not sufficient. Impossible because there’s no wrongness in Steve Harrington. Impossible because Steve’s more often than not the most, if not the only, worthwhile anything Eddie sometimes knows at all.

“But the reality,” and Steve’s tone, it’s…it’s different now. More…sure, maybe; “the real truth,” and yes, yeah, more sure, it’s a certain thing: “is we were stupid kids who saw horrible things, and we were hurting,” and Steve’s head turns just enough to brush lips against Eddie’s temple before bowing back against Eddie’s forehead, both of them breathing the other’s breath now.

Unbearably intimate. It always is but…but like this—

“Sometimes you lash out when you’re hurting,” Steve says simply, leans trusting into Eddie as he does, so forgiving of things that scarred him so deep; “sometimes hurting back, whatever way you can, is the only thing you’ve got.”

Eddie almost can’t comprehend it; is almost infuriated by its dismissal. But there’s…finality that feels like comfort.

Eddie doesn’t understand why, though, or, or how.

“And she was never, above me,” there’s this almost-smile in Steve’s voice then; “her love wasn’t better than my love,” and that’s the true thing, the most true thing maybe, the thing Eddie knew all along without a single shred of doubt:

“And my love didn’t need to be evened out. It was fine. I was fine.”

Then the pièce de résistance:

“My love’s enough just as it is.”

And Eddie wants simultaneous contractions, so deep and so much he can feel them tearing apart something vital in his chest: because he wants to rail, wants to push back on it because that’s not true, that’s too small: Steve’s love is perfection. Steve’s love is the only evidence Eddie’s ever seen that there might be a benevolent god in the universe somewhere, to allow for the tingly giddy joy that floods him under the warm beat of Steve’s love and if Eddie gets that from this love, limited-time-only though it’s offer might be, then Jesus H. Christ, Steve’s love? Enough?

That’s a fucking insult of the kinds Eddie’ll go account a hill tall enough to die on in defense of that love’s—this man’s—impossible, ineffable worth.

“Especially now,” Steve’s easing Eddie’s grip on him finger by finger—he must have grasped hard, squeezed so so tight when Steve shortchanged anything about himself as only just enough but it s a soft loosening, and he’s not letting go in the slightest, and his lips are set soft with a curve at the corners like maybe he knows that underneath Eddie’s indignation, he’s fucking proud of Steve for getting this far, for making progress that big: the know it clear enough to say it like the foundation fact it is when it took so long to unwrite the lies of a lifetime: yes.

Fuck yes, Eddie is proud of the man he loves who is more than fucking enough, who deserves the whole world.

And Eddie’s not the whole fucking world; Steve deserve so much mo—

“Because now,” Steve’s speaking again, and Eddie promised to listen, to believe like either was ever in question, like the cells in Eddie’s body don’t reorient themselves specifically to be near Steve, to cluster closer to Steve to soak in all of Steve—

“Now, this time, it’s this, this totally sincere thing, it’s this wholly honest, this absolutely genuine, like, timed in the rhythm of your heartbeat kinda thing I’ve never felt before and,” Steve rambles a little but it’s so earnest, so heartfelt where Eddie, or Robin—often their ramblings are just tangled-up tangents but this, from Steve: this is intention atop intention, a mountain of certainties vying for dominance to get the first foot out his mouth and into the world to make itself known.

“My love was always enough, but,” Eddie doesn’t like the ‘but’ on instinct, must scrunch his face or fail to catch a little whine for it because Steve’s hand in his own—still there, still there—but Steve’s still-there hand knows immediately to strokes Eddie’s knuckles, to soothe and to ground because Steve does love him in his way for as long as he’s willing, as long as he wants and it’s perfection, so far exceeding enough.

“But this is different from that other love,” Steve’s speaking it low, like the sound waves at that pitch will sync with something elemental inside Eddie’s DNA, inside the cadence of his blood—like he’d want that for some reason, like he does want that, here and now:

“Because it’s so much bigger, and stronger, and real in this whole new way,” and Steve’s lifting Eddie’s hand to his lips, doesn’t have to look to know the way anymore, presses them dead center to the middle and oh, oh it’s everything, Eddie melts a little and his heart’s still pounding almost painfully but it’s singing a little, forever weak and willfully so for Steve, Steve’s touch, Steve’s love—whatever kind, for however long, this real and tangible thing Eddie can see and feel that’s more than he never dared to conceive of, to think he could hold and—

“I love you, Eds.”

And Eddie’s brain does him the courtesy of stopping before his heart does. Y’know: undercuts the capacity to panic where your blood stops pumping and it’s all just white noise inside the whole of you. Because your brain’s already offline anyway.

Helpful little trick of timing, really.

“I thought maybe it was too soon, and I was waiting to say it until you were ready, maybe,” Steve’s looking at him with this potent swirling mixture of apprehension and hope but all of it bundled up in that patent resolve of his, the thing that slays the monsters and corrals the children and reached that first time cup Eddie’s jaw and draw him all the way in; “maybe in case it ended up that you never were ready, but fuck,” and Steve’s breath huffs out of him like something pushes it, like something’s swelling up inside and squeezing on his organs, making the basic necessities of living a struggle and Eddie feels included to reach, to help and soothe but Steve might still look a little hesitant, but, but—

More than anything, the hope’s shining bright enough in the cracks to start winning out.

“Fuck,” Steve exhales with maybe the last of what’s left of his oxygen before he lifts his gaze and goddamn if those eyes are big enough, golden enough and swimming full enough to drown Eddie by default in something so much bigger than what he understand even the concept of love to be but it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense, Eddie isn’t the dream, he’s not what’s Steve waiting on, but Steve’s hands aren’t just on his anymore, Steve’s hands are tangling with his hands and drawing Eddie’s up under his chin and Eddie can feel him breathing, thinks maybe he can feel his pulse against the skin but it’s hard to tell when Eddie’s own is such a riotous thing, and—

“If I was ever waiting for love, the real thing, the thing right here,” and he squeezes Eddie’s hands tighter, almost nonsensical; “right here,” and he kisses the pads of Eddie’s fingers and holds there close, long and warm like there’s something magnetic there, something worth staying to savor before he leans, holds eddies hands in the bare space between them as his gaze meets Eddie’s and locks there: Eddie couldn’t look away if he tries and then Steve breathes—

“It’s you.”

And Eddie must have heard wrong, same as his lungs, which tighten up to stalling, to causing real goddamn pain behind his bounding heart now because that’s not right, that’s not right—

“Up and down, through and through, forever and,” and Steve’s breath catches, and his eyes fly to Eddie’s, wide not like he surprises himself but like he’s unsure of something, when Eddie’s unsure he’s not fucking dreaming, or maybe goddamn dead and this is his afterlife, his undeserved reward; “umm,” and Steve licks his lips, but never wavers from looking at Eddie like hes the center of the universe, and more than that: some universe Steve wants:

“Always,” he breathes; “forever and always.”

Then he cups both of Eddie’s cheeks and and frames his face, cradles him like he’s dear beyond reason, like every word he said is law and love and light:

“It’s you.”

Eddie cannot fucking breathe.

“So, yeah,” Steve huffs, breathless himself; “that’s, umm,” and he pulls back a little, enough to run a shaky hand through his hair for nerves, and Eddie’s wants to stop him, wants to catch him and bring that hand to his lips but he’s frozen, he’s shaken, he’s stunned because he’s been so sure, he’d been so sure there was an expiration date but Steve had never spoken of one before, then here he’s said always and forever, over and again and both words, every time, were truths where Eddie’s knows Steve’s tells for anything less—these were truths but Eddie’d been sure—

“Guess that’s me pulling my heart out, too,” and Steve gestures between them, chest to chest and Eddie shudders, feels the motion move in his blood somehow: facts. Truths. This man, right here, being brave—having heard Eddie’s words he thought were confessions aimed elsewhere and not shying from them, put handing them back, offering his heart now and how, fucking, fucking how—

“And you can do whatever with it,” Steve sounds sure of that too, almost resigned but mostly resolute; “but Eddie?”

And then he smiles. Soft. Warm. With so much love.

“That’s been true from the start.”

That—

You can do whatever with it.

Like…as if Eddie’s had that heart from—

“Because it took like a second to know it was yours,” Steve spells it out plain, like he knows Eddie will struggle to take it it; he grabs Eddie’s hand and flattens it to his chest, lets him feel the frantic flutter as he exhales fierce:

“That I was yours.”

And between the words, and the certitude; the passion and the pulsing heart under his palm—all of Eddie’s conviction that that this was slowly creeping toward and end, it just…it’s like he held it in that hand.

And the steadfast pump of Steve’s heart breaks it to dust, banished far to nothing.

Eddie’s breath comes back in an incredulous laugh that’s no without tears.

“Mine?” he breathes, hand still on Steve’s heart, eyes trained on Steve’s own, unblinking. Still so close to disbelief.

“Yours,” Steve nods, covers his hand again and presses in. “All of it. Long as you want it.”

“Always,” Eddie answers almost before the last word fades; “always,” and it’s in claiming forever on offer beyond all imagining that it starts to register, to bleed into him full as he chokes out: “I never could have,” then he shakes his head, stacks another hand to Steve’s chest, needs the grounding. The assurance.

And then—

“Mine?”

Steve’s voice is small, but he’s leaning to Eddie’s pulse at his jaw, just the brush of his lips and Eddie shivers, but he turns a hand to drag Steve’s own to his heart, too, because good fucking god—

“Oh fuck,” Eddie breathes, arranges Steve’s fingers to every points around the beating so it’s complete, and fucking proprietary:

“Only yours,” he vows, wholly and complete; “past the day I goddamn die, Stevie,” and he means it, he means it: “only ever been yours.”

And it’s true, and not only because Eddie didn’t really understand love before loving Steve taught him. It’s that, but then: somehow beyond the size of words—it’s also more.

And when Steve leans to kiss him full on the lips, nothing they haven’t spent these last months doing every goddamn day, more chaste even than they’ve been for ages: it doesn’t shift the plates of the planet, or the motions of the tides.

It shifts the way the solar system rotates, the way the universe expands.

Steve tastes like what it means to be alive.

And they stay that way, they lower onto the cushions of the sofa and hold so fucking close, kiss so fucking sure like promises and their celebrations, their renewals and their rebirthings all in one. They kiss until air becomes meaningless, until their lungs burn as much as their eyes, until kisses tears away is commonplace and then spent entire, the moment held close and ushered through as a softness, a commitment to come another unwavering, and then they’re getting the, their breathing is calm and their bodies are pressed like they were made to mould into one perfect shape. They smile stupid at one another, the relief eclipsed in pure fucking joy, now, as Steve nips around Eddie’s face, down how next, to his collarbones: playful. As Eddie twists the soft strands of Steve’s hair and caresses beneath where they fall when he lets go, they start again.

“What kinda pie did you bring?” Eddie asks idly after minutes, probably not hours—they’re still alone and yeah, Wayne knew what he was doing when he left but it’s his day off. And he does love Steve’s baking.

Gets to love Steve’s baking now forever, and Eddie’s not settled enough to resist burying the full width of his grin in Steve’s shoulder for it: another forever-privilege he’s still acclimating to the marvel of.

“Apple,” Steve answers, stretching his neck back so Eddie can fit more fully, more close. “Wayne just said pie, but, I know the deer got your tree,” which they definitely did, the cute little woodland-terrorists, Eddie bought them a salt lick and everything to try and sway their violence. No dice.

“We should look at what it takes for a fence, man,” Steve muses before he reaches, grabs Eddie’s hand to pull it to his lips for a kiss so he can keep Eddie’s face burrowed safe in his neck but still love on him this way all the same as he adds with a knowing grin in his tone, tangible where Eddie’s hand lingers on his lips:

“Plus I know apple’s your favorite.”

And Eddie, he can’t help it, it’s all so fucking much so he, he kinda has to—

He giggles. He giggles, and he tucks himself a little lower, straight to Steve’s chest so tight and he wraps his arms around this man he gets to love, and love with everything, with no end in the cards at all, not ever: he laughs as Steve wraps his arms around him in kind without hesitation, fits around him with no intention of sifting anytime soon, because, because…

An apple pie life. A picket fence love.

Eddie’s heart cartwheels in his chest and he pulls Steve closer, wills him to feel it too, to know what it holds.

All that it holds.

Steve’s arms find some magic way to hold him tighter in kind, like he wants his chest pressed into Eddie’s to share permanent real estate, to meld into one single beating-breathing symphony and…yeah.

Yeah: Steve fucking knows how far this goes, can’t see the end either.

And he somehow wants that, relishes it, smiles so fucking blinding when the lift their heads again and kisses even fucking deeper right up until they hear the gravel rumble and the engine cut and it’s time to slice the goddamn pie, and brew another pot of coffee to go with it, and, and…

And talk about how hard it might be—or how amazing, maybe, even—to put up a fucking fence around an apple tree for the long haul.

also on ao3 🖤

✨permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #hurt/comfort #fluff #established relationship #but the kind where eddie still thinks steve's still waiting on something better #except steve definitely overheard eddie talking that nonsense and is here to fix it now #good uncle wayne #established steddie #heavy leaning into the COMFORT part of the hurt/comfort tag here #they're gonna build a fucking fence okay? #apple pies forever #stranger things #gift fic #pearynice