Offering
written for ‘rest’ wc: 387 | rated: G | cw: discussions of weight | tags: fluff, hurt/comfort
@steddiemicrofic
I blame @hotluncheddie for putting the chubby!Steve worm in my brain that I never want to leave (also pls check out their chubby!steve works they are everything)
~~~
Rest had never been part of his schedule.
Before, it was dawn time runs and morning laps, gym class and evening practices, nighttime games and weekend lifting. It was measured portions and his mother’s echoing voice on protein carbs fats. It was his father’s voice on colleges and scholarships. Because after his grades, his body is what he could offer them.
Then the world threatened to end. Anxiety dissolved his appetite. He ran laps to know he could get to the kids quickly. Lifted weights to know he could carry them out of danger. Trained so he could be the tank they all needed. Because after his concussions, his body is what he could offer them.
And then the world didn’t end. And Vecna was dead. And the gates were sealed. And Eddie was there.
And Steve- rested.
It became visible. In the swell of his thighs, the give of his arms. The way his jawline softened. How his waist thickened. How he could no longer see the definition of his stomach or of his arms, now he could only see the dark red lightning bolts showing the expansions of his skin.
But Eddie likes to trace the lines, with his fingers and with his tongue. Likes to bite at the soft flesh of Steve’s inner thighs and wrap his fingers around the spill of his stomach. Likes to bury his face in between Steve’s pecs and feel his skin against his cheeks. Likes to circle his arms around Steve’s middle and dig his fingers into the softness of his back.
But he isn’t an offering. Not to Eddie. Eddie, who kisses him on his temples when he makes him laugh. Who curls up next to him when the Pacers play. Who cards his fingers through Steve’s unstyled hair and grins when Steve wears his glasses.
“I love you.” Eddie whispers, with his eyes closed. His face pressed into Steve’s pillow. His fingers scratching lazily against Steve's scalp.
“I love you!” Eddie shouts, eyes bright under the neon lights, the club music thundering in their ears, his fingers squeezing into the flesh of Steve’s hips.
“I love you.” Eddie reminds him. When Steve has a migraine, and when he drops off Eddie’s lunch.
“I love you.” Eddie says, when Steve can offer everything, or nothing at all.
