also here is a whole website that not only has a shit ton of adventures and such but lets you search for any item or npc or whatever and see their stats and info at your fingertips
1. Matters of the Heart by a_written_dream (@a-written-dream)
“You must find the person Arthur truly loves,” the Dragon says, and this time it’s Merlin who wants to laugh.
“Arthur doesn’t love anyone, not since Gwen,” he says, certain of it.
The air rumbles with the Dragon’s laughter. “It seems you do not know your prince quite as well as you thought, young warlock.”
-
A 2x10 Sweet Dreams rewrite. After the ordeal with Hengist, Gwen and Arthur decide they are better suited as friends. Arthur still gets enchanted to fall in love with Lady Vivian, Merlin still tries to save his royal ass, and True Loves’ Kiss is still the cure. But if Gwen isn’t Arthur’s true love, then who could it possibly be?
~~~
hmmm it’s really a mystery who arthur’s OTHER HALF is
2. Your Eyes Glow by Drifting_Stream
Arthur’s been acting strangely ever since he’d learned about Merlin’s magic, which he found completely understandable. But asking Merlin to use magic in front of him, when it so obviously made the king uncomfortable? Obviously, Arthur was disgusted by his magic, by him. That had to be it. Right?
~~~
damn it’s like obliviousness is contagious. first arthur doesn’t notice merlin doing magic right in front of him, and now merlin doesn’t noticed [redacted]
3. Next to You (It’s the Rule) by LunaMyLove
Arthur and Merlin have a special relationship. They always have, even when they were prince and servant. While many question it when first noticing, eventually it becomes an understanding in Camelot—and even among some other countries—that where there is Arthur, there is Merlin. And, where there is Merlin, there is Arthur.
Or
Arthur and Merlin’s relationship as witnessed and explained by others.
Also, or
Five times someone realizes that Merlin is the Queen, one time Merlin realizes it himself, and one time he owns it.
~~~
this is probably one of my all time fav fics. the humour is on point
He had found him near the lake, rinsing his face with fresh water. He approached slowly, then clasped his hands to his chest and rested one shoulder on the trunk of a tree.
"Unfortunately, idiocy cannot be eliminated with a little water, otherwise at this time you would be healed".
Arthur didn't even turn around. He had heard it coming, obviously.
"Do you speak from personal experience?"
Merlin snorted, smiling. He slowly approached the shore of the lake and sat down next to Arthur.
"You've been pretty quiet around the fire."
Arthur did not answer, unsure of what to say.
"Yet you know that thinking too much hurts you."
This time it was Arthur who snorted, hitting him with the shoulder to make him lose his balance.
"So?" urged Merlin after a moment's silence. "What's the problem?"
Arthur smiled without amusement. What was the problem? Good question. He didn't know that either.
"Does it have anything to do with my magic?"
It took Arthur a moment longer to understand that sentence. He turned to Merlin, his brow frowning.
"What?"
Merlin shrugged, a little uncomfortable.
"It's... It's been a while since I've noticed that... I don't know, you seem a bit tense when we talk about it and-"
"Merlin," Arthur interrupted him in a bored tone. "I have no problem with magic. Do I have to remind you that I lifted the ban and that we have been working with druids and Catha for almost a year to make Camelot a safe place for everyone?"
Merlin nodded absentmindedly. Then, keeping his gaze down on his hands, he murmured, "But I didn't ask you if you have second thoughts about magic, Arthur." He said in a subdued tone. "I asked you if you have any problems with my magic."
A surreal silence fell.
Merlin turned to look at Arthur and found him staring at him with confused eyes. "Why should I have trouble with your magic?"
"You tell me"
Arthur shook his head, exasperated.
"Well, if it’s not that what then? Do you think I haven't noticed that every time I talk about some... past adventures you react strangely? And don't even make me start about how you act with Lancel-"
Arthur rolled his eyes with a bored verse.
"This is exactly what I am talking about," Merlin exclaimed, waving his hand to emphasize Arthur's reaction. "What's your deal with Lancelot?"
Arthur gnashed his teeth. Lancelot here, Lancelot there. There was no talk of anything else.
"I have nothing against your precious Lancelot, don't worry." Arthur realized he looked petulant but at that moment he really didn't care.
Merlin frowned, confused. "My precious Lancelot? Arthur are you feeling good?"
The thing is that nothing is the same, not after Lambert pointed out, in a deeply impolite manner, that Jaskier, despite his best efforts, is Geralt's whore. But no, it couldn't be, could it? They have been together for over eight years now. Yes, they sort of broke up on the mountain but they're back together now, aren't they?
But the real problem here is not the years but the way Geralt treats their relationship. In fact, Lambert has helped him to open his eyes.
How he treats Yen and how he treats him.
The truth is that Jaskier has made peace with the fact that he'll always be second best. That Geralt lo... cares for him but not as he cares for her.
They say that the evil is in the details.
Geralt shows no affection to him outside the bedroom. Geralt is distant, and this has never bothered him, because he always thought that Geralt was like that with everyone else.
He never touches him, not a pat on the arm, not a caress on the cheek, just like he's doing it now with Yen. Geralt never looks at him like that, with so much fervor and devotion.
He doesn't even look at him like that in the bedroom, not even when the witcher is fucking into him and whispering how good he feels.
So Jaskier starts an experiment. He won't look for Geralt, he'll just wait and see.
And oh, how he observes the unspoken words of love that Geralt holds back everytime Yen is nearby. How he'll reach out to her, only to feel her, and the way he leans closer to smell her perfume, lilacs and gooseberries.
He wonders if Jaskies smells good to him.
Geralt catches him looking at them, a longing expression on his face surely, and sends him a quizzical look but Jaskier shrugs it off, as if his entire heart wasn't weeping.
And Jaskier is afraid to ask, first of all, Geralt has never reacted well to Jaskier's serious talks, so... yeah, he's afraid.
But of course, how could he be anything more than a bed warmer when it took him twelve years to get the witcher's attention. It only took Yen an hour for Geralt to fall head over heels in love with her.
Days passed and Jaskier stood staring at the ceiling of his bedroom waiting for Geralt, tears trickled down his pillow as he heard him pass towards Yen's room.
i had a worm wiggle it's way into my head when 'work song' came on on my way home today.
pairing: steddie | word count: 2,949 | rated: T
cw: major character death (no gore, nothing descriptive, though it's stated that Eddie was sick and getting weaker, then implied that he dies.)
Eddie Munson’s mother was a witch.
He didn’t know this until he was stricken with the same sickness that took her from him years and years before, but he knows now.
He knows from the small chest he found buried deep in his and his Uncle’s attic one day after learning of his ailment, and the handful of months he should expect to have left, from the local doctor.
The chest was brimming with scrolls, tomes, candles, stones, herbs, vials, even a small pewter cauldron.
“I shoulda known,” was all Wayne had said, heeding Eddie’s beckoning call that hazy afternoon.
Eddie sorted through everything he had found; spending hours every day flipping through each book and journal, deciphering his mother’s handwriting and the spells she had inscribed onto the pages.
He even started to try a few; his mother’s ‘powers’, per sae, had come from the earth around her, writing in the largest, most disheveled of the journals that all she had needed to do was to listen to Mother Earth herself, listen to what she had to tell her.
So, Eddie practiced.
Small things at first, like seamlessly re-attaching the snipped off head of a daisy back to it’s stem, snipping it off again only to regrow an identical one in it’s place. Even starting a broken branch of the pine outside the Munson home on it’s way to a new green version of what was lost.
Eddie counted himself very lucky that Wayne was not one to believe the church’s nearly unhinged ramblings about witchcraft being the work of the Devil, and let Eddie practice a couple of the other simpler things on him.
“Jus’ don’t go thinkin’ I’mma let you chop my head off, boy.”
Wayne’s body aching from following their ox around all day with the plow? “Here, drink this, it should help.” It did.
Couple of Wayne’s fingers get snapped under the same ox’s hoof? A little harder, but he managed; the digits sore and achy that night, but good as new come morning.
“There a hair spell in that book, Ed?” Wayne joked one morning over breakfast, a good three quarters of the way through the six months the doctor gave Eddie, and a couple after finding Maggie Munson’s secret.
“Hmmmm….I dunno Uncle Wayne,” Eddie flips through his journal absently, “I think a Get Your Hair Back spell is too close to a love charm to work right. You could end up with hair all over your body and not just on that beautiful, shiny, head o’yours.”
“Love spells are touchy,” Maggie’s journal had said, “There are a rumored few that work, but only for the truest forms. I’ve tried some simple potions and charms…Al still left..and if they didn’t work…” the rest was easily filled in.
“Oh yeah? Then how's about a Cure What Ails Ya spell? Got one’a those in that there book?”
“Why? You feeling sick, Wayne?” Eddie half-jokes, trying to veer away from having this conversation with Wayne again.
Wayne’s quiet as Eddie focuses intently on the book infront of him, trying, and failing, to scoop up a bite of egg onto his fork without looking away.
“Ed,” his uncle starts, soft and pleading once again, “Is there really nothin’ that can help ya?”
Eddie huffs, dropping his fork onto his plate and pushing it and the journal away from him. Definitely something a younger boy would do, not the nearly 25 he is now. “Why don’t you give them a look, huh? ‘Cause I already have.”
“Ed–”
He snaps his head up to glare at the older man. “What is it Wayne? What?” Eddie snatches the journal back up off the table without looking. “I’ve looked okay? Through Mom’s and through every damn book in that attic. And there was nothing. Nothing! You think she would’ve left if there was?” He stands sharply, knocking the small faded blue table away as he does. “Would’ve left m—”
His free hand wraps around his middle, nausea and the spins taking him for a ride a the sudden movement.
“Hey, Hey, sit back down son.” Wayne stands as well, coaxing him back into his chair.
The nausea spells have become more frequent, the dizziness even more so, as the months have worn on, so Wayne ties up Eddie’s hair (growing thinner by the day), walks the short few steps to the pitcher of water he’d pulled from the well that morning, and pours some into a bowl, grabbing a clean(-ish) rag on his way back.
Wayne smoothes the cool damp rag over Eddie’s face and neck, slowly and deliberately until the nauseous feeling passes.
“‘M sorry, Uncle Wayne, I know you’re just worried.”
“It’s alrigh’ boy, I shouldn’t’a pushed.”
“I’m still doing better than most,” Eddie says, voice tilting up at the end, “I think it’s ‘cause of the magic.”
“Thoughtcha said there wasn’t no cure in that book.” Wayne states, moving to empty the bowl.
“There’s not,” Eddie closes his eyes, relaxes back into his chair. “Doc thinks Ms. Wilson had the same as me and Ma, and you saw how quick it took her.”
“Mrs. Wilson was nearly 70, Ed.”
“Then how about that boy Carver? He was my age, and Doc gave him six when he came down with it too, was gone in two.”
Wayne shrugs, “The devil wanted him back sooner.”
Eddie barks out a laugh, lifting his head to catch a glimpse of his Uncle’s ‘desperately-trying-to-hide-his-smile’ smile.
Wayne jokes, but Eddie’s been contemplating this for a while now. When he had hit his second month, he was about the same as he was, steadily growing weaker, as what was expected, but nothing like how Ms. Wilson and Jason had looked in theirs.
Hell, Jason had worked on the docks with Eddie since they were boys; both fit and lean, healthy young men with the musculature to show for their work.
That was when he’d found his mom’s books, and ever since, his health had slowed to a crawl.
“I think using mom’s magic is helping me.”
Wayne is quiet, cleaning their plates from the table and dumbing the leftover eggs out the window to the pigs.
“I think it’s your magic now, Eds.”
—---
And so it went.
Eddie’s given six months turned into a year, his magic growing from healing fingerbones, to mending their ox’s broken femur with ease.
His year didn’t come without worsening symptoms though, and his previously well filled out overalls hung loose around him, his calves barely filling out the tops of his boots tied all the way tight.
Wayne always kept the faith, so to speak, not a religious man by nature, but Eddie could hear him sometimes in the early morning and late night praying to “Whoever’s got their ears on up there,” to keep Eddie safe, to keep him in their sights when the time came.
Eddie had been doing work of his own, too. Writing down anything new he found out while sitting with the Earth, listening, watching….
Mother told him through the whispers of the trees, the soft humming of the grass, that he’d know when it was time.
And that time was within the next few days.
He felt it in his bones, he felt it in the air when Wayne passed him his birthday gift (a flaky scone with the biggest chunks of chocolate in town, an amazing treat he got once a year) on the morning of his 25th year, he felt it in the very ground he walked on…
He was ready, though he did harbor one regret. One thing he knew he missed out on.
He’d never fallen in love.
Over his last year, Eddie would sit with Mother; amongst the trees, lain back in the field of grass on the hill behind their house, and tell her about them.
The ‘they’ that he’d likely never meet, the they that would love him for nothing but his love in return.
Nothing was ever specific, only the vaguest feelings he’d get about them, about the way they’d love, the humor they’d possess, the love for Eddie’s stories they’d have.
And every time he’d speak of them, Eddie’d leave with something that he didn’t realize he had picked up until he was nearly back home.
A chain of daisies Wayne had plucked from atop his head when he sat down for dinner, a scrap of dark blue fabric he’d found walking through town, a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils, the tiny sun bleached skull of a bat.
And he’d write. Over and over, never quite getting it right, but there was something he knew he needed to get out of his very being before he left for good. Something that felt like a promise.
–
The morning came, and Eddie awoke to a silent house.
Wayne out on the fields already, most likely out helping the folks on either side of them with whatever they needed doing, with only the hens’ clucks and pigs’ snorts keeping him company with the calls from the birds in the trees.
Eddie got up, slow as slow could be, got himself into his clothes, shuffled down the hall to the kitchen to their small blue table, tore out a blank page of his mother’s notebook and wrote.
Pouring all of what remained within him, Eddie thought of the Earth, of his mom, of Uncle Wayne, and them. His unknown love.
-x-X-x-
Steve Harrington’s mother was not a witch.
But for the last few years, he’s had a suspicion that his Grandmother is.
Everyone says that their food tastes so good because “It’s made with love!”, but with Mama Harrington, it was real. The love and intent she imbued into her meals was there. And she could cure any ailment.
She would always go on and on about the importance of food, each recipe’s ingredients’ healing powers, and of the recipes and their stories that had been passed down through the years from her mother, and her mother’s mother, all the way to now, where they ended up in a cookbook that’d gone untouched since it was given to Steve’s mother in the late 60’s.
“A gift! Unused for so many years, Steven!”
“I know, Mama,” he nods again, dropping some green something into the pot of sauce bubbling on the stove. “Almost 25 years.”
“Aye! You have catching up to do.” she says, shaking a thick wooden spoon at him.
“Me?” he scoffs, “I don’t know the first thing about cooking, Mama!” Baking? He’d hold his own. Cooking? If his grandmother wasn’t there to help him of on the phone to guide him through a recipe? Kitchen would go up in flames.
“Bah! Watch closely, dear.” she says, shuffling to the pot that stands nearly as tall as her where it’s perched on the stovetop. “It is always your intent behind what you are cooking. You can make anything be anything as long as the intent is there.”
“Even eggs?”
She nods, her nearly fully white bun flopping back and forth on top of her head. “Even just eggs.”
“So if I want a carbonara to help get my friend a passing grade?” he asks, incredulous, but immediately thinking of Robin, who’s coming up on her finals in a couple months (for her doctorate! A PhD! Can you believe that!).
“The intent! Put it into the eggs, into the pasta, I don’t care! But make it for That!”
She throws a concerningly large handful of pepper into the pot on the stove, and gives it a stir.
“Now, this is my Mama’s recipe, and it will help your Pa’s back.”
“How so?”
“Because I told it to,” she growls, glaring at the pot and raising her spoon as if she was going to smack some sense into it.
“Alright, Mama,” Steve chuckles, “What do you need me to do?”
He spends the next hour helping his grandma roll out some of her premade dough for some fettuccine looking noodles, grabbing a wrapped up blob “from the top shelf, Steven. That’s the stuff I made for you.”.
He rolls, folds, and cuts it as he’s told, then goes to pick Robin up from campus while she finishes everything.
“It won’t take long now, dear, and you shouldn’t either.” Mama scolds, waving her spoon around once again.
“Got it, Mama, be back soon.” He slips on his shoes, looks in on his grandpa in the living room as he passes, grinning at the loud snores he hears from the direction of Pa’s recliner, and slips out the front door to his car.
In no time, he’s picked up Robin, stopped for a movie from Blockbuster, and is home to the smell of fresh bread.
“We’re home Mama!”
“I’m just setting the table, grab your Pa!”
“Come on Pa, Mama’s got some pasta for you.” Steve says, coaxing his grandfather out of the chair and into his slippers.
“Ah, perfect, my back’s been real achy lately.”
“That’s ‘cause you sleep in the recliner, Mr. Harrington.”
“How many times do we gotta tell you, Robin? Just call us Ma and Pa.”
Robin plops down in her designated spot across from Ma, “Hey, you should get used to it now; Once I finally get up the nerve to Chrissy out, she’ll come over here all “Mr. Harrington” this and “Mrs. Harrington” that.
“And how’s that coming, Bobs?” Steve asks her, sitting down beside his grandma and immediately passing the plate of bread across the table to Robin’s waiting hands.
She starts going off at a million miles a minute about her longest standing crush, while Steve shares a look with his grandma, both smirking conspiratorially as Robin takes a bite of the bread.
That’d been Steve’s suggestion, a bread imbued with luck.
It wasn’t a “Love Spell”, Mama said there was none in existence that were worth the pain. But the minimal luck that she had sown before into countless baked goods (especially near February), have had a surprisingly great track record.
With everyone but Steve.
She couldn’t quite figure out what it was that kept him from getting the benefits too, every time she had tried, they had tried, it was an astounding failure.
First with Tommy Hagan, the carrot cake cookies Steve had presented him with as a special birthday treat back in middle school ended with two missing front teeth and a broken arm.
Then again without even thinking about it, he’d added some luck and hope to homemade chicken pot pies he’d whipped up when he and Nancy were on the rocks.
It had somewhat worked with Billy Hargrove, but that one hadn’t even been intentional, and he shudders to think about it to this day.
“I don’t know my dearest, maybe it is because you are already tied to someone else?” She had said after her tried and true pot pie recipe failed.
“But it didn’t even work with the one I was already with!” he yelled, sighing deep and pinching the tears away from the bridge of his nose. “She jumped right into Byers’ arms.”
Mama had just given him a pitying look, which was worse, honestly.
Now, he stays far away from any of Mama’s lucky foods, especially with the weird twisting feeling he had gotten the few times he’d tried over the years after leaving Hawkins.
He and Robin came up to Indy for Robin to go to U of I, a year after she graduated, and when Steve was fired from the job that had been paying the majority of their apartment's rent when he was spotted kissing his then boyfriend by his manager….they came to live with Steve’s grandparents, taking to them both with open arms and hearts.
He comes back to the present when his third bite of pasta clears away the last of his headache.
Steve shoots his grandma a knowing look, which she ignores with a sip of wine.
–
They’re nearly finished with dinner when it happens.
Steve’s listening intently to a story Pa is telling them, something he’s sure he’s hears a dozen times before, when he absentmidedly picks up, then takes a bite of the bread Ma made for Robin.
It’s more than he’s ever felt before.
In the past, whenever Steve’s tried to gain some luck in love, he’s been inundated with flashes, feelings, words, a warmth in his bones that he’s wanted to hold onto forever.
The feelings grew stronger the older he got, and now, Steve finds himself sitting on a rolling grassy hill.
It’s not a flash of a vision like before, he’s sitting in the tall soft grass, and his hands are already making a chain of daisies. Nearly done, in fact.
He finishes it off, turns it around in his hands, then when he goes to put it on…
He’s back at the table with his family, the slice of bread in his hand, and Pa still telling his story.
Steve jumps up, startling the other three, and beelines it to the kitchen, flinging open drawers, searching for just a damn scrap of paper.
Mama follows him, “Steve, the bread?”
“I was on a hill, chaining daisies, and now I have to get these words out.” He probably doesn't make a lick of sense, but he doesn’t want to lose them.
Suddenly, a pad of paper and pen are passed into his line of sight. He snatches them up, and starts scribbling down as much as he can.
He and Mama stare down at the words on the page.
“Mama, what is this?”
She is silent for a handful of breaths.
“This is why the luck never worked.”
now with a part 2!
also: i don’t know the first thing about being a witch or anything of the sort, nor do i know anything but the basics about cooking; hope im not way way off on anything!!! this is all in fun 😅
enjoy, friends!! though it's significantly shorter than the first part
pairing: steddie | word count: 2,004 | rated: T
Mama thinks that Steve’s had a love spell on him this whole time.
“Since when?” He’d asked.
“I don’t know, my dear, maybe since before you were even born.”
“What?! How?! I thought you said there was no such thing as love spells!” He knows that’s not true.
“There are none that are worth the pain.” she repeats, trying to placate him.
“Yeah, well.” Steve huffs, dropping his hands to his hips and heaving a sigh.
“But there are some that are rumored to be true love spells, soulmate spells.” She continues on when she sees the look on his face. “Rumored, Steven, only ever rumors.”
“Okay, so what do the rumors have to say about them?”
“Every spell like that I’ve ever heard of of this nature is specific to each caster.”
“So I’ve had this spell on me for possibly my whole life, and there’s no way to know anything about it or about the caster.”
“...I’m sorry, honey.”
“Maybe there are clues in the words you have.” Robin cuts in, reaching for the notepad and sliding it in front of her.
Steve huffs, “I need to know the whole thing; there’s definitely words missing.”
“Should you eat more bread?” Robin asks, already sliding the previously abandoned plate of bread towards him.
“You shouldn’t overwhelm yourself.” Mama says, pushing the plate back. “We don’t know if there’s a trigger to the spell, or if you and the caster’s paths will just cross one day, maybe they don’t even know they cast it.”
Steve blinks at her. “So I have a true love and they might not even want me?”
“No!” Robin belts out immediately.
“No, of course not,” Mama says, continuing on. “The one known thing about any spell like this is that they only work on those who are receptive to it.”
“So some weirdo can’t put you under their spell?”
“Yes, exactly Robin; Steve, whatever this is, whoever this was, they love you with all that they are. And you them.”
“I don’t even know who it is! How can I?”
Mama doesn’t have an answer besides saying “Your soul must know them already.”; Their conversation was over soon after that.
Steve spends the next couple days silent and brooding. He can’t stop thinking about how he’s what, marked to love someone he doesn’t even know? How’s that fair?
It could be any random person on the street that thought he was hot, some weird old guy or a lovesick middle schooler..He only just turned 25 the day before the bread incident, but he’s saddled with this huge unknown that isn’t going to get better any time soon?
Okay, apparently not just some weirdo according to Mama, but still. Un-fucking fair all the same.
He’s also pissed that he can’t give anyone all the baked goods he’s made within that time. Each and every one of them ending up with a sour aftertaste.
“Damn witch bullshit…” he grumbles to himself, only half serious, as he scrapes another batch of sour sugar cookies into the trash.
He’s salty, okay? Pun intended. If he hadn’t ever learned the truth about the powers over food his grandmother (and now him too, apparently) has, he could’ve just excused the batch after batch being off on bad butter, or old flour.. Something other than his mood being what’s ruining his cookies.
That’s what he’d done every other time something he’s made tasted off, now he knows it was him the whole time.
Mama comes in then, he doesn’t have to look up to know the look she’s giving him.
Steve leaves the bowl of leftover dough on the counter, mumbles out a “I gotta go.”, then tromps out the back door and into the woods behind his grandparents’ home.
He supposes it’s good that they live just outside the city, really, having the trees to escape under like this has helped him before, and he’s hoping will help him now.
Meandering through the underbrush, he strolls along until he reaches the small clearing he’d claimed for himself when he was what, 8? 9? Doesn’t matter. It’s his spot to get away from anything he needs to.
He sits down against the big oak at the edge of the clearing and tips his head back toward the sun filtering down on him through a gap in the canopy above him. He breathes in the fresh air, focuses on the warmth hitting his face, and just exists there for a while, slipping in and out of a soft snooze.
Suddenly, he’s shocked out of his dozing by the sound of twigs snapping underfoot.
If it were coming from behind him, he’d expect it’d be Robin coming to find him here, but it’s not. It’s coming from ahead of him across the clearing.
Steve stands and presses back into the trunk of the tree, wondering if there’s bears in these woods when a person stumbles through the tree line.
The man is thin, about Steve’s age if he were to guess, and covered in dirt, his light wash overalls and his boots are caked in it. His hair is long, pulled half-back away from his face and full of bracken from the forest.
He also seems to be in a daze, staring with dark eyes at Steve with an unfathomable expression.
It shifts soon after, though, warming into a watery smile. “I’ve come home to you.” he says, clear as day, then collapses onto the grass.
“Oh, shit!” Steve rushes forward, kneeling down beside the man and quickly checking him over for injuries.
Steve presses his fingers to the man's pulse confirm it's still there (it is) and there don’t seem to be any bruises or breaks in his limbs, so he goes to his head, feeling quickly under the tangles in his hair for any blood, any knots.
Nothing. There’s nothing apparently outwardly wrong with him.
“Hey, hey, wake up! You gotta stay with me, man.” he says, shaking him lightly.
The other man’s head lolls to the side and his eyes open a crack, his lips quirking up into a smile. “M’love…”
“What is your name?” Steve insists in a slow, clear voice.
Instead of answering, the man raises his hand slowly to cup Steve’s cheek. “...v’wait’d so long..” he slurs, then goes limp again, his hand dropping to his chest.
“Oh no you don’t,” Steve gets his feet under him and gathers the man up into his arms in a bridal carry. His steps falter when he feels how light the man is in his arms, how much more thin he is than how he’d looked.
Steve adjusts his hold on him, making sure not to let his head hang backward over his forearm, and rushes back toward the house.
“Mama!” he shouts as soon as he clears the treeline into the yard.
She’s at the back sliding door as soon as he is. “Steve, honey, what—”
He pushes past her, hurrying to the spare room on the first floor with her on his heels. “I found him wandering the woods, I couldn’t just–I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Mama.”
She gestures him forward to the bed, “Put him there, on top the covers,”
He does, setting him down as if he’s made of glass.
As soon as the man is out of his arms, Mama takes his place. “Nothing seems broken, but he’s so light, he needs food, he needs water, should I call 911? I don’t even know his na—” he rambles on, not even realizing he’d started to pace until his grandma stops him in his tracks.
“Steve, listen to me.” she says, pulling at his wrists gently, removing his hands from his hair. “He will be fine. Now, go get a bowl of warm water and a washcloth and come straight back here.”
He nods dazedly, stumbling backward out the doorway and spinning to the kitchen.
Steve slides to a stop on the tile floor in front of the kitchen sink at the same time Robin gets home from her classes that day.
“I have a date!”
Wait, he needs the bowl first. He scrambles to the opposite counter for the large mixing bowl Mama uses for her damn bread and fishes it out with a clatter of everything that that had been in front of it on the shelf tumbling out to the floor.
“Steve?”
Should he put soap in it?
“Steve!”
No, Mama just said ‘warm water’, not ‘warm soapy water’. He nods to himself and turns on the tap, reaching under the sink next for a washcloth.
“Steven Otis Harrington.”
“Oh, hey Robin, you’re home.” The bowl’s almost full.
“Steve.” She spins him to face her, holding tightly to his shoulders.
He tries to twist back around futilely, “The bowl–”
“Steve. What. Is. Happening.”
He blinks at her a couple times. “Robin!” He pulls her to him in a tight hug. “Holy shit, you’re not gonna believe–”
“Steve, the bowl?”
“Shit,” It’s nearly full when he shuts off the tap, so he dumps a bit out and picks it up with both hands, “C’mon, he’s this way.”
“He? Who’s he?”
“Dunno, I found him in the woods.”
“Aw, Steve, you can’t just take in any ol’ stray dog you happen to find out in the wood—-” Robin cuts herself off as they get to the bedroom door. “Ohhkay…so..not a dog.”
“He looks to be dehydrated, but I don’t think he has any injuries.” Mama says in lieu of a greeting when they return. Steve sits down on the opposite edge of the bed that she is, and carefully passes over the bowl of water without looking at her.
The stranger immediately takes in his attention. His soft features, dark brows…Steve starts to pull the bits of brush out of the man’s hair, untangling twigs, leaves, and he can already see one of those pesky prickle things twisted into the hair next to his ear.
Mama sets the bowl on the sidetable, and gets to work immediately, wiping the dirt and grime from the man’s face and arms. “Robin dear, can you grab one of those sports drinks Pa loves so much outta the fridge? And a bottle of water.”
“Of course!” she says, darting back into the kitchen.
“We’ll need to get some food in him too,”
“We should make him scones.” Steve states apropos of nothing. “With chocolate chunks.”
“Maybe after he’s a bit better, sweetie.” Mama scoffs, wringing out the washcloth. “He needs healthy fats first, butter, oatmeal, avocado, things like that.”
“I can do that!” Steve says, jumping up excitedly. His former task forgotten, he rushes out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, nearly bowling Robin over in the process.
He gets to work on simple eggs and toast for their houseguest, avoiding Mama’s lucky bread in favor of his own store-bought stuff for now, he can make him his own later.
As he scrambles the eggs, he focuses everything in him on the stranger, on getting him better, making him healthy again. He’s not exactly quite sure how to do what Mama does, but the sour cookie dough says he’ll do it without thinking about it…kinda.
Whatever.
All he knows is that he’s telling the fuck outta these eggs to make his love better. Make him whole again.. Make him—
Wait..
Did he just refer to the random man laid up in the other room as his love?
Is…
The fugue state he’d been in since first laying eyes on the man crackles away just long enough for him to think.
What did he say before he collapsed? "I've come home to you."?
That..sounds right....why is that so famili—
Steve's eyes leave the pan of eggs in front of him and snap immediately to the scrap of paper he'd scrambled for a few nights ago.
Is he…?
And of course, as if the words weren't already plastered permanently onto his grey matter, there they are, plain as day.
tagging those that were interested on the last part!!! @mugloversonly @kittydeadbones @maybequizas @queenie-ofthe-void @newtstabber @angeldreamsoffanfic @eyesofshinigami @sunflower-trashbaby @perseus-notjackson @kaspurrcat @quinns-shadowy-arts
also, idk if this counts for it, but one of february's songs for @steddiesongfics is work song! which is what this fic is based on! 😊😊
"Steve, I'm serious, you might absolutely hate Eddie."
Steve sighs and relaxes against their couch. This is the third time today that Robin has given him this warning. "I'm not going to terrorize him to the point that Chrissy breaks up with you."
Robin raises her eyebrows at him as if he would seriously do it. "You don't know Eddie though. He's... he's someone you would've hated in high school. He's loud, nerdy, dramatic, and he was in a band."
"Robin, he sounds just like you."
Robin's jaw drops. "Take it back."
Steve laughs, "Come on, he sounds great. I don't know why you and Chrissy think we'll hate each other."
"He was bullied in high school by jocks just like you, but he threw it right back at them," Robin says while pacing. "And Eddie to Chrissy is the equivalent of you to me - her platonic soulmate. If you two don't like each other, then I don't know what we'll do."
Steve stands up and grabs Robin by the shoulders, stopping her pacing. "It's going to be fine. If anything, we'll just make polite small talk any time we see each other. As far as I'm concerned, you like him and he's kind to you, so he's good on my list."
Robin nods but she doesn't look convinced.
"I just can't believe that you two waited a month to introduce us."
Robin sighs and walks away from him, brushing off imaginary dust on their couch and chair. "It'll be easier to explain when you meet him."
"When are they supposed to get here again?"
Robin glances at the clock and goes pale. The doorbell rings and Steve feels a sudden rush of nerves. He doesn't know why he's so nervous to meet this man. He really likes Chrissy, and he can't imagine her being best friends with someone he wouldn't like.
Robin takes a deep breath and looks Steve over for a second sighing as if disappointed in something.
"What?"
"Nothing," Robin says quickly and rushes to the front door. She pauses and looks over her shoulder. "Just please be nice."
Steve gives her a thumbs-up and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, waiting for this mystery man to appear.
The door opens and Steve spots Chrissy first, sporting a very nervous smile, and then the door opens all the way to reveal Eddie.
And holy shit. With all the warnings, it never crossed Steve's mind that the man could be so damn hot. He's wearing a black t-shirt with some band on it that Steve doesn't know but the short sleeves show off a few tattoos that make him curious about how many he may be hiding under the rest of his clothes. He tries not to let his eyes wander for too long, so he doesn't dare stare for any longer, glancing back up at Eddie's face in hopes that he hasn’t been caught.
He feels his heart speed up a little bit as he finds Eddie looking him up and down quickly before shooting him a small smile. And god, he has dimples.
Steve smiles back at him and walks to the front door. He bends down to pull Chrissy into a hug first before pulling away to hold a hand out to Eddie. He takes it, and Steve's eyes catch on his rings quickly. He wonders if the whole tough exterior was built to protect him while simultaneously drawing attention. "Hey, I'm Steve."
"Eddie," he says back. And his damn voice goes straight through him.
"Oh shoot, I forgot to grab something from the store before we got here," Chrissy says. "Robin, will you come with me to get it?"
"I can-" Eddie starts to say, but Robin's already grabbing Chrissy's hand and pulling her out the front door.
It closes loudly and Steve winces at the noise.
Eddie turns to him and awkwardly smiles. "So..."
"So," Steve says, noticing the hesitation coming from Eddie. He wonders... "Can I just come out and ask if you've been getting the same warning that we might hate each other?"
"Yes!" Eddie says and lets out a deep breath. "And did they seriously just leave us alone thinking that?"
"They're lucky if we don't kill each other."
"If? Don't you mean 'when?'" Eddie asks with a teasing smile.
Steve laughs loudly and asks, "Do you want a beer or something?"
"God, I would love a beer."
Steve smiles and walks off to the fridge, grabbing two and gesturing Eddie over to the living room. They both sit on the couch a comfortable distance away from each other, and Steve ignores the itch to move closer. "So, I heard that you were in a band."
"And I heard you were a former jock."
Steve snorts and waggles his fingers at him. "Your worst nightmare."
Eddie dramatically leans away from him with a hand over his heart. "Good heavens, you're absolutely repulsive."
Steve finds himself laughing again. He has no idea why Robin thought he would ever hate this guy.
"So," Eddie says with a small smile, "What are you doing now, former jock? Chrissy hasn’t mentioned you being in any of her classes or hanging around the college, so I’m assuming you don’t go there."
Steve runs a hand through his hair and leans back against the couch. "No, college isn’t for me. I'm working in sales at my dad's company. Specifically, as a car salesman." Eddie immediately cringes and Steve sighs, "Trust me. I know. But I'm absolutely horrible at my job. I can never bullshit someone. If they tell me what they're looking for, I'm giving them exactly that and not some overpriced bullshit."
Eddie raises his eyebrows. "But you're still selling cars, so it sounds like you're doing your job."
"Not the way my dad wants me to," Steve complains.
"So, why don't you do something else?" Eddie asks point blank.
Steve's a little taken aback by the bluntness, but he appreciates it. He shrugs. "I got horrible grades in high school to the point that I couldn't get into even the easiest colleges. Working with my dad just seemed like the only option."
"For a while I was thinking about working at the plant with my uncle because high school was terrible for me. I managed to fail my senior year twice before graduating."
"So, what are you doing now?" Steve asks, curious about what other options there are.
Eddie leans back against the couch and takes a long swig of his beer. Steve tries not to focus on the tendons in his neck as he swallows. "I had this moment after I graduated where I suddenly realized that my creative outlets suddenly vanished. My band had to take a break because everyone but Gareth graduated and Jeff and Grant were going to college, and I could no longer run Hellfire Club which got rid of my Dungeons and Dragons outlet. And for some reason, I was struck with this great idea to write a novel."
He shifts, crossing his legs under himself and looking off in the distance with a sad smile. "I just sat down and wrote and wrote. It's like the words were pouring out of me, and I couldn't stop them. God, I barely slept." He pauses as if he's reliving the moment. "Then, I had this extremely rough draft of this book, and I started calling publishers and I went to the first one who would take me. But they read it and told me it would be better as a children's story."
Steve can't help but interject, "That's just one person's opinion though."
Eddie nods and drinks more of his beer. "Yes, but they offered to actually look at it and publish it once I simplified it."
"Did you do it?"
Eddie nods. "Yeah, and I mean, it brought in a decent amount of money that I've been cruising on, but I don't know. There were so many things I wanted to expand on. I was aiming for a whole book series."
Steve turns to him and sits crisscrossed. "So, what's the children's book about?"
Eddie sighs, "You're going to find it so dumb."
"Try me."
Eddie puts his beer down on the coffee table and leans in to Steve. "So, it takes inspiration from Dungeons and Dragons. And it's about this boy who has never felt like he's fit in. For some reason, he's always been disliked by people or shunned for being different. Then, he comes across this monster, one that he's heard terrifying stories about from all these different adventurers. But instead of attacking it, he tries a different approach and finds that he can befriend the monster, and he ends up naming him Dart and they travel together. And for once he doesn't feel alone."
Steve's jaw drops as Eddie continues to describe the story, feeling frozen in place.
"Then, they come across more creatures, and they find they're all evil because they're always under attack. And yes, some are just pure evil, but it doesn't define the whole species. Then, the story gets really cheesy..." Eddie trails off with a groan. "God, this is embarrassing."
Steve finally finds his voice and continues for him, "Then, he's practically hunted by the town who assumes he's evil because he's with all these monsters which they think he must have some sort of dark control over. But then when an even bigger monster comes and threatens to destroy the whole town, they turn to him for help. The boy becomes a hero, but he goes back with the rest of the monsters who always accepted him for who he was."
Eddie's eyes become considerably wider by the end of Steve's narration. "How do you...?"
Steve grabs his hand and pulls him to his room, opens the door, and goes through the small stack of books on the bottom shelf of his nightstand. He pulls out Eddie's book and holds it up. "You're Eddie Munson?"
Eddie nods, totally bewildered.
"Holy shit," Steve says with a big smile, "Dustin loves this book!"
"Dustin?"
"One of the kids I used to babysit, he's in high school now, but he went on about this book for weeks. He loves Dungeons and Dragons, and as soon as I saw it, I bought it for him. He thought it was some kind of joke because it's a children's book, but he read it and developed so many theories about it. He made all his friends buy it because he thinks it could change the whole universe of Dungeons and Dragons. Shit, you’re like a legend to him."
Eddie's mouth just opens and closes. "I- I don't know what to say."
"Could you possibly meet him sometime? No pressure at all, but he'd love you."
"Yeah! Definitely," Eddie says and excitedly bounces a bit. "God, I've never met a fan before."
"I have to warn you that he may be a bit much, and I don't think he would ever leave you alone after this. But it would make his entire year, maybe even his whole life."
Eddie just smiles widely and nods. "Yeah! Yeah, I mean, I can also be a lot, so I'm ready. Just let me know when."
Steve smiles and shakes his head. "This is so cool. And thank you, really, this means the world to me."
"Same here," Eddie says.
The two let the excitement bubble down a bit, but the smiles don't leave their faces. Eddie glances around though and asks, "No offense, but why is your room so..."
"Empty?" Steve fills in for him. Eddie nods. "Well, my parents didn't really let me decorate my room, and I've just never really known what I wanted to do with my own place. So, I've kind of put it on the back burner. Plus, I spend most of my time in Robin's room or in the living room."
Eddie looks around and shakes his head. "My room is covered in shit. It's like I never have enough wall space or floor space for everything I want."
"I can see why Robin and Chrissy thought we wouldn't like each other," Steve says, sitting on his bed covered in a plain blue comforter and patting the empty space next to him.
Eddie follows the cue and sits down. "That all feels like surface-level bullshit."
"I think they're so blinded by their love for each other that they couldn't think beyond it. I know Robin's scared shitless of messing things up."
"God, so is Chrissy. I swore that even if you were the biggest asshole I was going to pretend to like you. Luckily, you're making it easy."
Steve feels the tips of his ears turning red. "Same here."
Eddie smiles at him, and Steve feels so enamored by him that he can't help but ask, "So, what about you?"
"What about me?"
"Are you seeing anyone?" Steve asks, hoping he doesn’t come off as too forward.
Eddie shrugs and looks down at his hands. "Sort of," he says and looks back at Steve. "I'm bisexual, so it's a little harder for me sometimes."
Bisexual. The label that Steve has personally struggled with for years.
"Shit, don't tell me your biphobic."
Steve snaps out of his mini panic and asks, "What?"
"You practically grimaced when I said bisexual. Or are you someone who is only okay with girls being in relationships but not guys?"
"No! No," Steve insists. He takes a deep breath. He's not sure what it is about Eddie that makes him feel so at ease, but he confesses, "It's just that... I think that I'm also bisexual. I don't know though. I know I've had feelings for guys and felt attraction, but I can't picture myself dating a guy. But I feel so horrible admitting that. Maybe I'm just a coward."
Eddie's expression shifts from guarded to sympathetic quickly. "Who can blame you though? The world sometimes just... sucks. But here's something that kind of blew my mind when learning about bisexuality - you can still have preferences. Like, for me, I have a preference towards men, but I can't deny that some girls I've had feelings for. Even Chrissy once upon a time, but I quickly realized how much better things were platonically. You can always have a preference for women; it doesn't have to be half and half."
It's like something finally clicks in Steve's head. He breathes a sigh of relief. "Where have you been all my life?" he asks somewhat dramatically.
Eddie laughs, "Being kept away by Robin and Chrissy."
Steve smiles and traces their conversation back a bit. He lands on a question and asks, "So, how are you sort of dating someone?"
Eddie groans and runs his hands over his face. "There's this guy I've been somewhat hooking up with at this bar. And he's just perfect, you know?"
"Oh no," Steve says, feeling the familiar phrase wash over him.
"What?"
Steve really looks at Eddie, accessing him fully before declaring, "You're a romanticizer."
Eddie scoffs. "How did you arrive at that conclusion?"
"'He's just perfect,'" Steve mimics him. "It's the dead giveaway. Plus, I am too. It gets me in trouble a lot. But I hate seeing it in other people. Like there's this asshole I work with that my dad loves but I absolutely despise. His name is Collin, and he's constantly bragging about all these women he has practically begging at his feet for his attention and shit. Then, at these work parties, Collin's wife will always just go on about how perfect her husband is. God, it kills me because she's so blind to it all. I would tell her, but my dad would kill me if I did anything that potentially would affect Collin working for him."
Steve sighs and clutches Eddie's book closer to his chest, not noticing until now how he's been unconsciously using it as a source of comfort. "Anyways, I just hate seeing people love blindly."
"I've done the same thing," Eddie admits, "But this time it feels different."
"Ten bucks he sucks."
This startles a laugh out of Eddie, but he sticks his hand out. "You're on." They shake on it quickly. "So, what about you? Are you currently romanticizing anyone?"
Steve smiles sadly. "Not at the moment, but feel free to call me out on it when I do."
"Looking forward to it," Eddie says with a smile. "Now tell me, do you have to wear those awful polos to do sales?"
"I do, but I'll have you know that I actually like those awful polos."
Eddie stands up and gasps, "I'm appalled. Please don't tell me you have more than five in your closet."
"I have way more than five. I actually almost wore one today, but I went with my comfort sweater instead."
Eddie walks slowly toward his closet door. "Is this where the source of disaster is?"
Steve raises his eyebrows and nods.
"May I?" Eddie asks with his hand on the knob.
"Prepare yourself."
Eddie takes a dramatic deep breath to gather himself before swinging the door open dramatically and yelling, "It's worse than I thought!"
"You haven't even looked through it!"
"I saw more than two collared shirts," Eddie says in horror. "Steve, I've decided that Robin and Chrissy are absolutely correct, and there's no way I could ever like you."
Steve laughs, but is interrupted by Chrissy and Robin suddenly barging into the room yelling, "What happened?"
Eddie and Steve look at them and laugh.
"We didn't hear you come in," Eddie says.
"We wanted to check the atmosphere as it was, but we heard you say the thing about not liking Steve and we thought..." Chrissy trails off.
Steve finds Robin staring at him while looking worried. "Steve, are you okay?"
Steve frowns. "Yeah, I'm fine, why?"
"You're holding your comfort book."
Steve flushes red and puts his head in his hands.
"His what?" Chrissy and Eddie ask.
"His comfort book. He reads it or makes me read it whenever he's sick, has a bad day, or misses Dustin."
"Robin," Steve groans, embarrassed by his secret being revealed.
The mattress shifts beside him and Steve glances toward the source, finding Eddie amusedly smiling down at him. "So, you're also a fan."
"Wait, what am I missing?" Robin asks.
"Eddie wrote that book," Chrissy answers and crosses her arms, "But he also tells no one about it."
Robin's jaw drops, but Steve ignores it to smile at Eddie. "Aw, so tell me, why me?"
A small blush appears on Eddie's cheeks. "And why me about your..." he trails off, looking nervously toward Chrissy.
Steve glances at Robin who looks at him, gesturing to explain. "I told him I was bisexual."
Robin's jaw drops again. She and Chrissy exchange a look of bewilderment.
Steve throws an arm around Eddie's shoulders and says, "Looks like you two were very wrong."
"And we're very upset that you kept us away from this beautiful friendship for so long."
"Very upset," Steve agrees.
"Oh god, I think we've created a monster," Robin says.
Chrissy just giggles.
“I don’t know, I kind of like the monsters Eddie creates,” Steve comments.
Eddie laughs and Steve looks at him fondly. He doesn’t think that Robin has ever been so wrong about something because there’s no way Steve could ever dislike Eddie.
Part Two :)
Welcome to my new series! :))) I have so many shenanigans planned. And I’m doing a tag list! Just ask me and you’ll be tagged <3
5 times Steve absolutely didn't have a bisexual meltdown (And one time he did)
AO3
Rating: M
Words: 4081
Pairing: Hellcheerington (Steve/Eddie/Chrissy)
Series: Hellcheerington 5+1
Summary:
After walking in on Eddie and Chrissy having sex one too many times, Steve starts having some realizations.
He really tries not to, though.
a 5+1 fic
1.
Steve has a system.
It basically goes like this: Shit happens, and you deal with it. Later, preferably before the literal emotional breakdown, you set some time aside to go over your feelings about it. You take them out of their box, rotate them around until they start to make a little more sense, and then you put them right back in.
Robin calls this his “feelings time.” It's accurate enough. No matter what you call it, though, it is the only system he's come up with that actually stops the Big Panic (TM), so he's sticking to it.
Which is why he's currently standing in front of his bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, Facing His Feelings. It's only been a few hours since the Cake Incident, and his thoughts are definitely in need of some rotation.
TURN OFF YOUR OTHER PHONE AND DO NOT TURN IT ON AGAIN UNTIL YOU ARE ALONE AND SAFE BECAUSE THE ALARM WILL COME THROUGH AS SOON AS THAT PHONE IS POWERED ON.
AGAIN I REPEAT:
OCTOBER 4, 2023
THE ALARM WILL COME THROUGH AS SOON AS THAT PHONE IS POWERED BACK ON.
SO ONLY POWER IT BACK ON WHEN IT IS SAFE TO DO SO.
OCTOBER 4, 2023
If this doesn't make sense, then good news it's not for or about you but still reblog it because you never know who may need to know this.
trans!soap going on a mission with the reader who keeps praising him (good boy, nice work, well done, etc) and he gets so needy that he ends up begging to be fucked afterwards? 👀
radio waves
Trans!John “Soap” MacTavish x Male Reader
Warnings: NSFW, I didn’t intend for this to get this long, mentions of reader & Soap killing people, teasing, praise kink, brief fingering, fucking.
Note: I did try and proofread this but I’m tired and wanted to get this out, so let me know if anything doesn’t make sense!
It’s a dangerous game sending you and Soap out on missions alone together - you’re efficient, reliable, a rock solid team, if what you spout to one another over the comm channel is ignored.
After a mission where Gaz accompanied the two of you he swore never again, stating it was like “third wheeling on the world’s most fucked up date.” Price turns a blind eye to it, you got results and always returned with only minor injuries, that was enough justification to keep sending you out together.
This time it was a simple clear and sweep, you were perched up high on overwatch, firmly tucked behind your sniper scope, taking care of any stragglers and making sure no one snuck up behind Soap as he moved from building to building, taking out enemy combatants as he came across them.
He lived up to his call sign, clearing each building easily, putting on a masterclass of all his abilities. You watched as he stepped out of a door, pausing to lift his hand to his radio, and his voice soon filtered through. “All clear, moving to the next one.”
You clicked yours on in time for Soap to hear your acknowledging hum, “Nice work Johnny.” Your praise did something to him, a faint shiver rattling down his spine. He concealed it well, body barely shifting on its spot as he felt arousal stirring in the pit of his gut.
He murmured a quick “Thanks,” before he was off again, this time crossing the run down street to another building, until your voice broke through the temporary silence.
“Two coming up ahead of you Soap. I’ll take left, you take right.” You watched as he ducked behind some nearby cover, radio clicking to life once he was settled.
“Copy.” It was quick, quiet, all the confirmation you needed.
“On my count. 3… 2… 1… now.” With a simple pull of the trigger you watched as both bodies dropped simultaneously, waiting for a few seconds to make sure nobody heard. When only silence remained you spoke again, “Good boy.”
Soap’s face begins to heat up, a warmth spreading throughout his entire body at your words, and he wonders if you’re doing it on purpose. He doesn’t respond this time, waiting for you to clear him to move again.
He ducks into another building, the last one, and just as effectively as the previous ones he’s stepping out a few minutes later, speaking into his radio. “All clear, heading back to the hideout.” Adrenaline and arousal mixed to create a fucked up cocktail in his gut, and Soap was soaked between his thighs.
“Copy. Nice work Soap, heading back as well. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He struggled to contain the whine in the back of his throat, a few minutes was too long, his feet carrying him faster than needed back to relative safety.
He arrived first, calling for exfil before placing his weapons down as he impatiently waited for you. He paced, too amped up to sit still, his mind wandering at your praise.
His fingers unconsciously drifted down his chest and down his pants, breathy moans slipping from his mouth as he teased his folds, already too far to resist the temptation to not go any further. He pushed two fingers inside, cunt slick enough to easily accept them. His hips bucked as he curled them, desperately seeking friction, but they weren’t enough, he still felt empty, needed your voice purring honeyed words in his ears.
Just as he was contemplating slipping a third one inside your voice came through on his nearby radio. “Approaching now Johnny.”
He withdrew his fingers, hastily wiping them on his shirt, and you’d barely shut the door before Soap was on you, crowding you against it. “You bastard, you were doing it on purpose weren’t you?”
You blinked at him, confusion settling in your eyes. “Doing what?”
“Everything you were saying, trying to get under my skin.” His breathing had picked up, his face flush, and he was standing so close you could feel him pressing against your bulky tac vest.
Reality hit you, and Soap exhaled as you leaned your sniper up against the wall and raised your hand to cup his cheek, Soap already nuzzling into the contact. “Is that it? A few words got you all worked up?”
He nods, peering at you with blue eyes almost swallowed by his blown pupils. “Need you to fuck me.”
“How far out is exfil?” You questioned, the rational part of your brain fighting against your desire to turn him around and bend him over.
It took Soap a few moments to think, brain struggling to come up with a response other than ‘it doesn’t matter.’ “We have to leave in 30 minutes.”
You tsked, thumb swiping across his bottom lip and pulling it down. “I don’t think that’s enough time baby.” With how worked up he was you doubted Soap would be happy with just once or twice, always wanting more when he gets this desperate, and if you showed up to exfil late, with a Soap who could barely stand, you doubt Price would be happy with either of you.
He shakes his head, eyes glossy and wide, pleading. “I can’t wait, I need you to fuck me.” He takes your hand by the wrist, pulling it down until it’s in his pants and you’re cupping his cunt through his boxers, able to feel the large damp spot that’s formed. His breathy sigh makes your cock twitch, and you know you’re fighting a losing battle.
Bastard has you wrapped around his finger.
He moans when you press your fingers against his clothed pussy, forehead falling to rest against you. “You that desperate? Need me to fuck you?”
Soap nods this time, mouth parting in a gasp when you move your hand under the final layer of his boxers, fingers ghosting against his puffy clit as they travel down until you sink two inside. “So wet for me already Johnny.”
He whines against you, hips trying to roll with your movements as you slowly pull your fingers out, just to push them back in at the same pace. “Please, please, need your cock.”
You’re already short on time, that deadline gradually creeping up on you, so in one final motion you make a show of withdrawing your fingers and placing them in your mouth, suckling his arousal off them only to hear Soap swallowing heavily, his hands tightening in their grip on your arms. Once they’re sufficiently clean you pop them out of your mouth and place your hands on Soap’s hips, walking him backwards to the nearest flat surface.
Spinning him around you push at his back until his top half is lying flat, wasting little time in pulling his pants and boxers down to mid-thigh. You groan at what you see, his pussy and inner thighs shining, and Soap whimpers when you use your thumb to spread him open, watching as his hole clenches around nothing.
His breath hitches when he hears the clanking of your belt unbuckling, and you take the time to spit on your hand and give your hard cock a few pumps, spreading the makeshift lube over your shaft. With one hand on the small of his back you hold Soap in place, stopping his attempts to slam back against you as soon as he feels your cock against his folds.
Gradually you push forward, groaning in sync with each other as his cunt parts for your cock, gummy walls sucking you in. Inch by inch you push inside, all movement coming to a stop when you bottom out, Soap’s tight heat pulsing around you as he starts to fight against your hold, impatience resurfacing. “Please move,” he begs, body moving in search of any friction.
One hand smooths through his mohawk, attempting to steady him. “I will baby, just be patient.” Slowly you pull your hips back, withdrawing until just your head is inside and then pushing forward, Soap keening as his pussy stretches around you. “That’s it, good boy.”
He moans, back arching as he falls onto his forearms, attempting to support himself. You lean over him as best you can in your bulky gear, pressing yourself into his back so you can kiss at his neck, purring praises into his ear. “Always feel so good around me Johnny, shit.” You start to pick up your pace once he’s adjusted, the room filling with the sounds of wet smacking as your skin connects with his.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he chants, pussy clenching around you at feeling so full, feeling you press deep inside with each thrust. Soap lets out a wail of pleasure as you adjust your stance, pushing yourself up slightly to plant your hands either side of his head, hips snapping into his roughly, the new angle letting you fuck into him harsher, deeper.
“Christ Johnny, got me feeling close already.” Your orgasm was approaching faster than usual, maybe praising Soap had more of an effect on you than you thought.
He vigorously nods, words tumbling out quick, stuttered. “M-me too, clo… close.” The fire in his belly is fully ablaze, threatening to explode any second, and when you reach around with one hand, rubbing tight circles on his clit, his legs almost give out underneath him.
“Doin’ so good for me Johnny, always so good, so perfect.” You mindlessly babble, taking full advantage of the effects your words have on him.
Soap cums with a hoarse cry, your cock bullying the bundle of nerves inside enough to tip him over the edge. A burst of slick gushes out around your cock, splashing against your thighs as his body trembles, sparks of pleasure shooting through his veins. The rhythmic tensing of his cunt is almost enough to pull you over the edge as well, your thrusts growing sloppy and frantic as you chase your high. You have just enough awareness to remind yourself to not cum inside.
Soap becomes painfully aware of how empty he feels as you hastily pull out, furiously pumping your cock with your hand until you’re cresting the edge, cumming over his lower back and painting his skin with ropes of white. He whines in place, still attempting to rock back against you as your cock twitches, milking yourself dry above him. “Fuck, fuck, I’ll cum in you next time, I promise,” you groan, tugging yourself into near overstimulation as you empty your balls.
He turns his head, eyes blown and filled with confusion. As the waves of pleasure wash away you see him looking at you for an explanation - Soap prefers it when you cum inside, you do too, but with little time left until exfil and a lengthy flight ahead of you, you’d rather face his complaints now then when you’re stuck on a plane and he can feel your cum slowly trickling out between his legs, unable to do anything about it.
You explain as such to him, and despite Soap knowing you’re right he still finds himself disappointed, remaining in place as you tuck yourself back in and clean away the cum with a wipe you had tucked away, it wasn’t its intended purpose but it’ll do. Pulling down his shirt Soap leans back up, groaning in discomfort as his body feels the strain of being stuck in one position for so long. He redresses as well, straightening his clothes out and making himself look as if he hasn’t just been fucked during a mission.
The high of adrenaline and his orgasm fizzles away, and you find yourself drifting towards him. He turns to face you, eyes soft and you lean in, capturing his lips in a much gentler kiss, this one slow, calm, one filled with the unsaid ‘I’m glad you’re ok.’
You’d rather do anything else than pull away, but with those 30 minutes almost up you do, breaking the kiss and trying your best to ignore the whine of discontent Soap emits. Lightly chuckling, you press one more kiss against his lips, “We can continue when we get back to base.”
Soap sighs, a teasing smile appearing across his mouth. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Wayne is sick and they don't have the money for the treatment he needs. Eddie, desperate and spread thin between school, a part time job, and dealing, spots Steve outside of a gay club and opts for blackmail. Steve, who has heard about Wayne through Dustin... just sort of lets him.
I started writing this while Ao3 is down. Haven't quite finished it yet, but I've got 6.7k written so far, so I should be able to do daily posts for at least a while!
Now also posted on Ao3.
Quick note, if it helps anyone who might be hit too close to home by Wayne's serious but relatively brief health scare. First, he's going to be fine. I love Wayne, I wouldn't do that to him. Second, Dustin's mind goes straight to cancer when he hears that it's serious serious, but Wayne's illness is never specified. The only symptoms described are basically a cough and general weakness/fatigue.
1.
Dustin is really upset one day after school, the day he tells Steve about his dad.
Steve had never asked, alright? It was family shit, and that kind of thing was. . . . Well, not sacred, he can’t even think that and keep a straight face, but definitely private. There could’ve been any number of reasons why Mr. Henderson wasn’t around.
Turns out it was cancer.
And . . . it’s not insensitive to wonder, right? Steve doesn't know if it’s an anniversary or if someone’s been giving him shit at school about not having a dad or something. So, after a few bumbling questions about why this is upsetting him now, an explanation comes tumbling out.
The leader or president or whatever of the nerd club Dustin joined at the start of the year had to cancel their game this week. “Eddie never cancels, Steve,” Dustin insists, eyes red from crying and voice gone all squeaky. “And we were giving him shit about it, we all were, even the upperclassmen guys, and he. . . he j-just broke, Steve. Said his uncle is r-really sick, bad sick, and I know what that means. They don’t have the money for treatment. He’s Eddie’s only family, and he’s probably going t-to. . . .”
Steve regrets dropping Robin off at her house first today. She might not know what to say either, but at least they’d be in this together. “Dust, that’s. . . . That’s awful.”
Turns out he doesn’t have to say anything else, because Dustin thumps against him and bawls his eyes out.
2.
“It was awful, Robs,” Steve says, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he talks into the phone. “I haven’t seen him like that since after Starcourt, when we had to tell him about Hop.”
Robin’s wince is audible in her reply. “Yeah, that's. . . . That’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah.” He heaves a sigh, hoping it’ll get some of the constricted feeling out of his chest. It doesn’t.
“Steve? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” It’s just, he hates it. Hated it then and hates it now, because both times there’s no way for him to jump between Dustin and this thing. “Everything was starting to sort of feel okay again, and then suddenly there's Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson and his uncle, who I’ve never even seen in my life—”
“It’s not about the Munsons, Steve,” Robin says gently. “You and Dustin have that ‘you die I die’ thing. He’s like your kid brother who annoys the shit out of you, but you love him to death anyway. And right now he’s sad but you can’t do anything to help.”
Lifting his face from his hand, Steve looks around the room. He’s on the big comfortable couch in his big fucking house with too many rooms, all empty except for this one. His parents are never home, always away on business trips that got way more frequent after Barbara Holland disappeared from a party he’d hosted. They send money—not an allowance, not since he didn’t get into any of the colleges he’d applied to. But the utility bills are always paid up, and a gardener still comes around to do lawn maintenance every other week.
He wonders how the cost of maintaining a house they don’t live in compares to the cost of whatever kind of treatment Munson’s uncle needs.
Doesn’t let himself wonder if it would make a difference, but he knows that treatments don’t always work. It hadn’t, apparently, for Dustin’s dad.
“Yeah,” Steve agrees heavily. “I know.”
3.
The nice thing about being done with high school and working weekends at a shitty retail job is, Steve can do whatever he wants on some weekdays. As long as he doesn’t have a shift that starts before noon the next day, anyway. Which he doesn’t.
So, a few days after Dustin’s revelations, Steve drives up to the nearest outskirts of Indy. Eventually he ends up in one of those clubs that he and Robin have been researching how to find.
He tells himself that he’s scoping it out before he brings her, but he wants to get lost for a while. Empty his head out of things he can’t do a damn thing about—the Upside Down, the monsters, the Russians, the Munsons, the memories of Dustin crying and, just for funsies, of Nancy calling him bullshit. Because that’s always somewhere in the mix, these days.
Fill it back up with music and movement. Not with drinks, because he still has to get himself back to Hawkins in one piece.
He goes and he dances and he sweats. Sometimes guys dance with him, and Steve goes with it. Who cares? No one knows him here, it doesn’t mean anything.
Turns out, it does mean something after all.
When Steve finally stumbles his way out of the club, he finds none other than Eddie Munson sitting on the hood of the Beemer he’s been buying off of his parents in installments. (Their idea. It’s a ‘pay for it or lose it’ kind of deal.)
The buzzing under his sweat-tacky skin—satisfaction at successfully getting out of his head—fizzles out. He keeps walking and stops when he draws even with the car.
Eddie Munson, looking tired and prickling with restless energy, and exhales a cloud of smoke and vapor into the chilly air. “Hey, man. What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”
How the boys react to their new ally who is more adamant on wearing their mask than Ghost himself.
Characters: Captain John Price, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
GN!Reader w/ no physical descriptions (except shorter than Ghost)
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 3.1 (~0.8 each)
Warning: Canon-Typical Violence, Mentions of Reader potentially having insecurities, Not Proof Read
A/N: You know what maybe I want to be the badass masked character 😤
Captain John Price
The captain is thorough, and he immediately knew something was up when he looked up your file only to be greeted with no photo. He’s honestly a little peeved that his rank doesn’t grant him this confidential information, he’s known Simon before he took up the mask so this is the first time he’s genuinely had a faceless ally
But ultimately, as long as he can trust that you’ll be following orders, he doesn’t care if you have a mask or not. But his concern is only that for a fellow soldier
It takes a little longer for him to warm up to you - facial expressions tell a lot about someone’s character. He’s a bit prickly around you, he learns about you indirectly with how you interact with the rest of the 141
But over time there’s a shift. He can’t pinpoint when exactly but the sight of your mask relaxes him. After days separated on a mission, high stakes and adrenaline has Price snapping his head at the faintest of foreign sounds. But upon the familiar sight of your signature mask, he feels at ease
Price is fiercely protective of you and your mask. He likens it to his hat, only far more important - that mask is part of your identity and he knows just how important a soldier’s psyche is. If the enemy manages to take off your mask, he’ll stop at nothing to get it back on your behalf, even if you reluctantly tell him to abandon it
If he can’t salvage your mask, Price has now made it a habit to carry a balaclava for you in one of his pockets. If that’s not available, he’ll even offer you his hat, tipping it down far enough to obscure your eyes
Off duty he finds himself staring at your visage more these days. Looking at how the mask curves over your features, or the small slivers of skin that reveal themselves. He catches himself before you notice but he’s still disappointed in himself, he feels like a Victorian-era prude hyperventilating at the sight of an ankle
“Looking fresh, sergeant.”
You let out an audible chortle at Price’s words. The last mission was a success but at great costs, one of them being your mask damaged beyond repair during melee combat. Your face still wasn’t revealed, but slashes against fabric embedded with dirt and ash have made your signature mask look unrecognisable. Immediately upon returning to base and after debriefing, you were out of commission until you could don a new mask.
Price would be lying if said he didn’t miss your presence for the last few days, hiding away from the rest of the soldiers in base. He has no doubt you’ve still maintained your training and visiting the infirmary for mandatory checkups, but he’s gotten far too used to you being at his beck and call. The famed sight of your mask is no longer in his periphery, giving a nod of approval (not that he ever needed your approval, but he does enjoy your attention).
And now here you are with a new mask, the highlights glowing under the overhead lights and the darks swallowing up the lightwaves like an animal starved. Your updated look had you noticeably confident, shoulders square and head tall.
“Thanks, Captain.”
He can hear your smile and he ends up sitting next to you. Did he need to sit so close? No, but he acts as though his thigh brushing against yours was pure coincidence.
“What are you going to do with the old one?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, giving a light pat to a pocket in your cargo pants that your past mask currently resides in. “I know there’s a lot of memories in this… it’s my first mask… but I don’t know what to do with it.”
“I’ll keep it.”
You look at him. Price now has the uncanny ability to read your mood purely through your body language. From the speed at which you turn your head, the inclination of the neck, how your shoulders slant, he’s surprised that such a vicious soldier can act so endearingly in these moments.
“For what?”
“Safekeeping,” he says simply. “I’m proud of my soldiers, sergeant - want to remember their accomplishments.”
You shrug in agreement and fish your mask out of your pocket. You don’t need to know how much Price truly values you, how having your mask will be like having a part of you by his side to motivate him when he’s working alone.
Simon “Ghost” Riley
You’ve got a mask? Cool, so does he. Simon really doesn’t care when he first met you. He offers a simple nod of acknowledgement to you and then it’s all mission talk. If anything, the mask makes him respect you more, like him it’s always the masked ones who’ve seen shit and can get shit done
Even before you two became friends, you two were often paired together for operations. Perhaps it was just assumed the two masked people were on the same wavelength and to be fair, they were right. It didn’t take long for Ghost to admire your prowess on the battlefield
However as the two of you start to get closer, Simon gets a bit of a eureka moment. So this is how all his allies feel when trying to get along with a masked figure, unable to see any of their expressions. Oh how the tables have turned. It’s not daunting for him, more just amusing
He knows the struggles of having a mask so he helps out where he can. He reminds you if it’s been some time since you last washed your mask (advice he does not follow himself) and he’ll offer you some of his obsidian powder he uses to obscure any uncovered patches of skin
Price often has the two of you accompany him for interrogations, he calls it “mask pressure”. There’s nothing more terrifying to a target than having two imposing faceless figures standing on either side of them, unreadable and unpredictable
It’s clear you don’t want to show your face to anyone and Simon doesn’t question it. His natural curiosity is not worth your comfort and he makes that clear. If on the rare occasion you catch him without a mask, he’ll sometimes put it back on so that you don’t have to be the only one with their face covered
If your mask is ever compromised, Simon covers you with his hulking figure. No one dares get on the bad side of Ghost who shoots the most terrifying glares towards anyone looking in his - and consequently your - way. He stands in front of you, back rigid and shoulders square, his posture only slacking if he feels you hold onto his back, seeking comfort
A few weeks ago, when left in a briefing, you finally noticed Simon was staring at you from across the room. He had been staring for a good while now, but you - ever the diligent soldier - were distracted discussing tactics with a corporal. So there he was, standing and observing in the corner of the room - his “observing” being drinking the sight of you. And that was when he noticed, among all the glory that was you, that your mask was slightly off alignment. Cue his eyes being trained on your head for you to get the idea that something was wrong.
When your head stayed still - probably challenging his gaze - he tried to change tactics. He added the occasional upward jerk of the head - miming an attempt to shake the mask back in place - but your head only tilted in confusion. You still could not figure out what he was doing.
Eventually he gave up and walked up to you. He lifted a tentative hand, silently asking for permission and you nodded. He pinched at the fabric on the side of your face.
“Your mask’s slippin’,” he said gruffly. It wasn’t the end of the world, only a small adjustment that only someone as observant as him could notice. Still, he felt satisfied at your heavy exhale, you must’ve noticed it’s a little easier to breathe with everything in alignment now.
“Thanks.”
Today, Simon finds your gaze trained on him, head following whenever he moves across the room. You used to stare when you first met, you probably found him intimidating and he doesn’t blame you. He thought you’d be over that though, you two were closer than that. At least he hoped.
“Penny for your thoughts?” He eventually asks and that spurs you into action.
Standing in front of him, you reach up, your hand grabbing the top half of the skull that overlays his balaclava. Your thumb lightly hooks into the skull’s eye socket - a little close to Simon’s actual eye but he trusts you. He feels you tug upwards, and Simon now realises that the skull had been sinking down his face, the peripheral around his brow no longer obscured. He’ll need to reapply the glue for the mask later.
“We really need a hand sign for this,” you mutter.
And so you two make one. It’s discreet, a closed fist with a thumb poking out, dragged from the jawline up to the hairline. The rest of the 141 just look at the two of you in confusion whenever you use it though, your little secret.
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish
Johnny’s generally a good judge of character. Although it’s a little uncanny being unable to see your features, he’s used to it because of Simon. One conversation is all he needs to reach a conclusion as to what type of person you are and now he treats you as if you’re good friends
Yes, he is curious about what you look like under the mask. He used to make comments about it occasionally until he caught you on a bad day
“C’mon Sarge, just a peek.”
“Not happening, Johnny.”
“What, you ugly?”
“… that’s not for you to speculate, MacTavish.”
“Shit, sorry. I- I’d never think that of you, or care. I know you’re a looker.”
And Johnny stands by his statement. Even if he’s never seen your face he quickly developed a little crush on you. How you conduct yourself in battle has him watching you with stars in his eyes and he just knows you’ll take his breath away if you ever show your face
When Johnny’s bored, he likes doodling your mask and potential alternative designs in his journal which he’ll show you sometimes. He’s not an artist but he gets the idea across. He’s created a “happy” design, an “angry” one, and the “when I see Soap” design which is just your standard mask with a whole lot of shoddily drawn love hearts on it (you haven't seen that design yet)
He’s genuinely surprised at how determined you are at keeping your mask on in all circumstances - you’re worse than Simon at this point - but he’ll never ask because he doesn’t want to potentially open up old wounds. Despite his curiosity for what you could look like, Johnny will never invade your privacy and ensures no one else does either. If you’re in your room he’ll knock once, twice, thrice, until he’s absolutely sure you’re ready for him to enter
If something goes wrong and your mask falls off he’s looking away and shoving everyone else to look away as well. He’s like a guard dog, shouting and name-shaming anyone who dares look in your direction. No one except other members of the 141 will be able to approach you until you’re covered
Was it smart to have you and Soap - combined to be the most disruptive and obnoxious soldiers on the field - alone to handle a stealth mission that was off the books? No, but you sure as hell weren’t going to disappoint Price or Laswell. The objective was clear and the rules of engagement were even clearer; under no circumstance can the enemy know you’re from 141.
“We’re gonna need to cover our faces,” Johnny mutters absentmindedly beside you. You pull your binoculars down to send him an incredulous look and he chuckles. “I need to cover my face.”
“You got a mask?”
There’s a pause and Johnny’s looking at you, eyes glinting in that familiar mischief. That was never good news.
“You bet.”
You offer a tentative nod of encouragement before lifting your binoculars back up to observe the target site. You hear the repeated shuffles of fabric against fabric and clothes sliding against skin. It’s prolonged, you swear it’s enough time for Johnny to change his entire uniform. His breaths become muted, mouth now covered until it eventually falls to complete silence. It’s unnerving, the designated demolitions expert is not known for his silence, and you have to look back at him yet again.
Of course you expected Johnny to be wearing a mask, but it was the mask itself that took you by surprise.
“Is that… mine?”
“Was yours.”
You squint and somewhere in the depths of your mind, you vaguely recall Soap asking if he could have one of your spare masks back at the base. You humoured him, and said your wardrobe was his.
That was your first mistake.
You figured he was just going to take the piss, wear your mask to scare some privates around the base. You didn’t think he’d actually wear it on a mission. It was unexpected, but it felt like an honour. How he was so willing to identify with you in some of the most dangerous of situations.
But your silence has Johnny getting fidgety. He’s already reaching up to pull the mask off.
“I have a normal balaclava. If you don’t like this I can-”
“Wear it.”
You can’t see Johnny’s face but you see him pull his head back in surprise. Then he smiles, one so wide, expanding his cheeks you can see it stretch your mask. In that moment you’re glad your mask obscures your features as you feel yourself grin at his own joy.
“We’re a team, aye?”
“You bet.”
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick
Kyle’s may be close to Simon but he's not entirely used to masked allies. When you first arrived he shot Captain Price a cautious look, a silent conversation between them finished by Price’s definitive nod. Eventually he relents and puts up with you
Subconsciously, without seeing your face he ends up reducing you to a weapon. He respects you like a soldier, a robot. His language is restrained, only issuing orders and you recite them back
It’s only when another soldier cracks a joke on the mission and you laugh does it flick a switch in Kyle’s mind. You weren’t all orders, you weren’t a machine, you were a human (with a damn nice voice might he add). He feels terrible for reducing you to a tool simply because he can’t see your face but he’ll make up for it now
He becomes a bit of a menace in the sparse quiet moments of a mission. He makes the occasional one liner about how you wear the mask so others aren’t distracted by your good looks, but then changes the topic so quickly you’re not even sure he said it
Yes, Kyle’s a little obsessed with your voice. He can’t see you and he doesn’t have the experience like Price or Simon to read body language accurately. Instead, he can read your mood near perfectly with the inflections in your voice (which is arguably more impressive). While he doesn’t want you to ever be upset or angry, sometimes how you taunt the enemy has a shiver running down his spine
Because your mouth is blocked by a mask, many allies don’t offer you food or drinks. Not Kyle though, if he’s grabbed refreshments, he always ensures he has extra for you. At first he just gives them to you and then leaves. But when you said it was okay for him to stay - trusting him enough to just look away when you lift you mask - Kyle’s heart soared
If anything happens to reveal your face, Kyle is immediately by your side. He pulls you close to provide comfort, while also guiding your head into his neck or shoulder to block anyone from seeing you. Another member of the 141 will find a solution to cover your face, you are Kyle’s first priority and he’ll gladly hold you all day
After a long mission, you and Kyle are finally safe upon reaching exfil. Sitting on a helicopter Kyle slumps against his seat, and you do the same beside him. Although he could finally relax, he feels absolutely filthy, swamped in his own sweat under multiple layers. Dirt and mud caked his boots and crept all the way up to his thighs. Some even sneaked up into under his tactical vest.
He spares a look and sometimes he thinks you can’t possibly be human. The heat is suffocating enough without a mask, Kyle has long forgone his signature cap to let his head breathe. If your body language was any indicator, you weren’t handling the sweltering heat of the helicopter engine or Al Mazrah’s temperament. Your chest notably heaving under the weight of your tactical gear, breaths so laboured it sent the fabric around your mouth pulling and billowing with each inhale and exhale.
There isn’t much Kyle can do for comfort, but he tries. He shifts a little closer to you. Your head shifts to look at him, the movement was far too slow, like your head was too heavy and his heart tugs a little.
With one hand, Kyle gently tilts your face up to him. With the other he lightly pinches the fabric of your mask at the junction between your jawline and ear. Teasing it between his fingers, when he pulls his hand away there’s gunk on his fingertips. Dust, dirt and as he squints at your mask he realises that some of the stains are likely the dried blood of an unidentified enemy.
The hand he’s resting on your chin is about to pull away until he notices how you’re resting your head on it. He can’t see your face but he has no doubt that your eyes are near shut, almost drifting off to dreamland. He occupies himself by gently brushing away loose debris off your mask which has you relaxing further into his touch.
“We gotta wash this,” he murmurs defeatedly.
“... yeah, we do,” you grumble, voice thick with fatigue. Kyle does not stop his ministrations - even pulling some fluff off of the cotton of your mask. It does little to actually clean your mask - at this rate it’s going to need pure bleach to clean it - but he can’t bring himself to stop. Not when you trust him this much, leaning into his touch, entrusting him to be the respite from your mission.
Part Three of Six of Meddling ;). Part One. Part Two. AO3 Link.
Nancy drives the four of them to whatever mystery location as Steve has a minor freak out in the backseat because it’s finally hitting him that he kissed Eddie. And Eddie kissed him back. And that’s not something he wants to just breeze over and pretend never happened.
How will things ever be the same after this?
Steve runs a hand through his hair as reality hits a little too hard.
“You okay?” Eddie whispers as his hand moves to rest on Steve’s knee.
Steve glances down at the hand and squeezes it once before he replies, “Yeah.” But he knows his smile is a little too forced based on the way Eddie’s staring back at him with concern.
The car slows to a halt.
“We’re here!”
Steve glances out the window, and it suddenly hits him. They’ve taken them to the bar where they first met.
“Throwback,” Eddie breathes out.
It had been a while since they had been back there. Things had changed over the past three years, and they had found a new bar with better acoustics for Eddie to play at when he isn’t hogging the small stage at the café where he works.
Still, sometimes Steve misses the place where some of his best memories had formed.
Once they get inside, nostalgia hits Steve in a way that’s almost bittersweet. Eddie must be feeling the same way based on the low whistle he lets out next to him as they look around. Nothing has really changed since they were last here.
“We’re going to grab a table away from you guys but remember to take pictures and just text whenever you want to head out. But this is our lunch plan so eat up,” Robin says with a big smile before grabbing Nancy’s hand and pulling her to a far corner spot.
“I’m kind of relieved that they’re not sitting with us,” Eddie admits as he and Steve walk to the opposite part of the somewhat dead bar. “Can’t wait to get that camera out of my face. I just hope they don’t try to sneak pictures of us while we’re eating.”
Steve snorts. That sounds exactly like something Robin would do, so he does his best to find a booth where he can’t see the girls and vice versa. He eventually points at one and sits across from Eddie, and the sight of him thoroughly distracts him from any thoughts about Nancy or Robin.
Eddie pulls out his phone and sets it down on the table. He taps on it once and asks, “What if we only did a cheesy picture of each other before we eat, with our food, and a quick selfie after we finish? Then we can just live in the moment and enjoy this.”
Steve sticks out his hand for Eddie to shake. “Deal.”
Eddie grabs his hand and presses a quick kiss against the back of it. “Deal,” he agrees with a wink.
A blush starts to creep up on Steve’s face, so he ducks his head and grabs his phone – but he knows he’s not being subtle about trying to hide his face. As a new means of distraction, he hits the camera icon and quickly snaps a picture of Eddie without warning. “Pre-date picture done.” Oh, why did he have to call it a date?
Eddie luckily brushes off his little blunder and scoffs, “No, you have to redo that. You gave me no warning!”
Steve just laughs as Eddie pouts. Next thing he knows, Eddie’s phone is coming up and snapping a picture of him. Steve freezes. “Hey, that’s unfair.”
Eddie snorts and presses on the picture. He frowns at it before turning his phone around. “Why do you always have to be so photogenic?”
The picture is... very telling of everything Steve is feeling. He can practically see the joy and love radiating off himself in a way he hasn’t seen before. It’s terrifying.
Eddie turns the phone back and clicks around a few times before proudly smiling and turning his phone off.
“What?” Steve asks suspiciously.
“Oh, nothing. But could you check the time on my phone?” Eddie asks, sliding it over.
It’s a weird request, but Steve goes through with it, tapping on the screen. “It’s...” he trails off before he sees the time.
His smiling face stares back at him as it covers the lock screen on Eddie’s phone. He glances up at Eddie who watches him somewhat anticipatorily. Steve doesn’t say anything, but he unlocks his own phone and immediately changes his lock screen to the picture he took of Eddie.
It’s cuter than Steve thought it would be considering that he took Eddie off guard. He isn’t looking at the camera. Instead, he’s smiling softly at Steve with his dimples on full display. The only thing wrong with it is that it’s a little bit blurry, but he thinks it adds to Eddie’s general vibe.
It’s the perfect lock screen really although he thinks Robin and Dustin might kill him for kicking them off it.
It’s worth it.
As Steve slides his phone to Eddie, a waiter comes by and introduces himself, “Hi, I’m Tony, I’ll be your waiter today. And the ladies over in the corner told me you two were celebrating an anniversary today?”
Oh, no. Even from a distance, the two are meddling as much as they can. Steve is about to say no when Eddie replies, “Yes, it’s been three years since we first met in this very bar, and two years since we started dating.” He leans in toward the waiter all conspiratorially and stage whispers, “Give it a year, and I’ll probably be back to propose to him right here.”
Steve chokes on his saliva.
“Sorry, babe, did I say that too loud?” Eddie asks with a big smile. He turns back to the waiter. “He’s always telling me that I don’t know how to whisper.”
It’s true, but Steve can’t say very much as he keeps coughing.
“We’ll get two waters please,” Eddie says, starting to sound a bit concerned.
The waiter must be too because before Steve knows it, a glass of water is being placed in front of him and he’s chugging it down. Gosh, he wishes this were a beer.
Eventually, the coughing dies down, and Steve shoots an apologetic look at the waiter. He just smiles back and politely asks, “Do you know what you want to order?”
Steve shakes his head and swipes the water off his mouth. “Haven’t looked at the menu yet, we were too busy... reminiscing.” Since when is he playing along with the lie?
“No worries. You two take your time and happy anniversary.” The waiter quickly dismisses himself, and Steve is left to stare at Eddie.
“Why would you do that?”
Eddie throws his hands up. “One, this is great practice for faking a relationship, lets us establish some backstory. And most importantly, two, celebrating an anniversary means a free dessert.”
“We’re at a bar, not a Chili’s.”
“There’s still the potential!” Eddie argues back. “Please, Steve, my love, my sweetheart, my muffin-”
“Please never call me your muffin ever again,” Steve says, cringing.
Eddie sighs but then a mischievous grin slowly appears on his face. This can’t be good. “I promise not to call you that if you pretend to be my boyfriend of two years during this lunch.”
The payoff is quite great, but he can’t let Eddie know that, So, Steve takes his time rolling his eyes and pretending to weigh the pros and cons of it all while Eddie shakes the table with how hard he’s bouncing his leg.
Steve reaches under the table and grabs his knee to still it. “You have yet another deal. But you have to stop shaking the table, too.”
“Sorry,” Eddie apologizes bashfully. He quickly moves on when he realizes Steve’s phone is still on the table and taps on the screen. He smiles at it and pushes the phone back. “Not as bad as I thought.”
“Not bad? It’s perfect,” Steve scoffs as he grabs one of the menus at the end of the table.
He doesn’t get a response, but Eddie is smiling at his menu when Steve glances up.
Eventually, they put in their food order and chat about random things just to catch up a bit although Steve talks to Eddie every day – usually in person but occasionally over text.
Then, Eddie randomly throws out the question, “So, are you seeing anyone?”
Steve swallows hard and shakes his head. “No, are you?”
“No,” Eddie replies.
Steve tries and fails to hide a smile. They both know if they started dating someone the other would be one of the first to know, but it’s cute that Eddie asked.
Their food comes out, and their conversation halts for a bit while they eat. But the relationship conversation plays over and over again in Steve’s head until Eddie interrupts his thoughts. “Man, I can’t believe it’s only been three years since I met you.”
Steve laughs and finishes chewing his fry. “It feels like I’ve known you longer.”
“Technically you have, if you count all the times Dustin mentioned my name before we met.”
“Could’ve met sooner if I hadn’t been so afraid that you would be a weird nerd,” Steve teases him.
“Hey, you know I’m both of those things, so don’t say it like it’s an insult,” Eddie says with a smile.
“Well, I didn’t think those two things could be hot together, so excuse me for assuming,” Steve replies while shoving a fry into his mouth.
Eddie leans forward. “You think I’m hot?” he asks as if he’s teasing him, but Steve can hear a bit of the uncertainty in his tone, so instead of shaming himself for admitting it he shrugs.
“Always have.”
Eddie stares at him for a few seconds before he clears his throat and changes the subject, “You should’ve worn the yellow sweater.”
The comment startles a laugh out of Steve. “Of course you would bring that up. I’ve never understood your obsession with the thing.”
“Well, there’s a reason I brought it up now.”
“Oh really,” Steve says raising his eyebrows, not ready for whatever line Eddie has prepared. “And why’s that?”
“It’s what you were wearing when we first met,” Eddie says as if it’s nothing.
It takes Steve entirely off guard. His stomach does a little flip. “You remember what I was wearing after all this time?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says but quickly moves on to ask, “Speaking of that night, what happened to that girl you were with?” He looks away as he asks the question, taking one of Steve’s fries but still not looking him in the eye as he eats it.
Steve tries to shake off the little piece of information Eddie just gave up as thinks back. He shrugs. “Nothing happened there. I was actually on a date with her that night. She left after we met. Told me I should go out with you instead since I hadn’t paid her any attention since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
Eddie glances back up at him, holding so much intensity in his gaze. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”
“Because I didn’t think I had a chance and didn’t want to risk getting my heart broken.”
Eddie stares at him, and Steve thinks that they both feel it. All the time they lost that they could’ve potentially spent together if Steve would’ve said something three years ago. But maybe Eddie is thinking something entirely different.
“Steve-”
“Hi, I hope everything is tasting alright. Also, I have a dessert on the house for you two. Happy anniversary, and I hope to see you two next year,” the waiter says as he slides the check on the table. Steve swears that he has the same bad timing as Robin and glares at the man as he turns his back.
“Steve-” Eddie tries again, but then, speak of the devil, Robin is suddenly scooting into the booth next to him and making grabby hands at the dessert.
“I love free dessert,” she says. “Thanks for going through with it. I thought it would be good practice.” It’s a clear lie based on the way she’s staring at the chocolate cake.
Nancy gives Steve an apologetic smile as Robin steals his spoon and digs in.
Steve shoots Eddie a look trying to convey, we’ll talk later.
He gets a sad smile in response, then they both pick up their forks and take a bite of the cake. Steve can barely enjoy it as he knows that the fate of his and Eddie’s relationship might rely on their next conversation. But Nancy and Robin also won’t leave them alone.
