hurt/comfort | mentions of anxiety and trauma | crossposted to twitter
"what's that?" eddie murmurs into the quiet darkness of their bedroom.
dread piles into steve's stomach. he wants to tug his sleeve over his hands so eddie can't see the writing on his palm anymore. wants to hide the pen marks by holding onto his hips instead.
"it's nothing," he whispers back, attaching his lips to the underside of eddie's jaw. he knows his boyfriend melts at the kisses he puts there. knows it will distract him from asking any more prying questions.
the ink is smudged, hardly legible anymore after a day at work. between washing his hands and shuffling papers and rubbing subconsciously at his palm when that certain type of anxiety knots into his gut, the pen marks from earlier are halfway to disappearing until he starts it all over again the next morning.
steve can't help it. he thought that moving in with eddie, having his support, would make it easier to cope with it all. thought that having someone else to help hold him accountable was the answer.
yet here he is, writing a list on his hand every morning, just to help him remember simple things.
he turns on the coffee pot in the morning, makes a note of it on his palm, crosses it out when he turns the pot off and tells himself over and over that it's actually off and he's not imagining it.
he locks the door and writes "LOCKED" in all caps so he doesn't come home halfway through the day to check and make sure it's actually locked.
he brushes his teeth, he feeds the dog, he puts his wallet in his briefcase, he closes the refrigerator door after breakfast and writes reminder after reminder on his palm in sticky black ink.
it helps, really it does, when steve's mind starts to wander in a boring meeting and he gets that hot rush of guilt of forgetting something burning through his veins. he'll look at his hand under the table and scan over the notes, find what's looking for, and try to breathe.
he'll read it over and over, the crossed out "coffee pot" or the "wallet in bag" or the "fed duke", until he feels like it sinks in, blinking back into real time to focus.
it's some strange mix of anxiety and lack of control and head trauma, robin thinks.
steve can't talk to a lot of people about it, embarrassed that he can't remember doing simple fucking tasks, but robin gets it. gets him. robin lets him swing his legs into her lap and pulls his hand up to her face so she can inspect the notes from the day to piece them all together.
it was her idea in the first place to write on his hand. she had suggested paper first but that was too easy to lose especially if he couldn't remember setting it down. she traces over the ink and lets him vent about feeling like a failure or stupid or some type of broken, reminding him gently that none of them got out hawkins without scars.
but steve hasn't let eddie see that yet, too afraid of breaking whatever they've made together, too afraid of scaring him off with his cracked brain and clenched jaw. too afraid of being built so wrong that he'll look like a once shiny penny covered in rust-colored problems.
so he digs his fingers into his palm, nails slicing into flesh & ink, and presses his lips fiercely into eddie's jaw to stop him from spilling any secrets. lets his tongue sneak out as an apology for not showing him his jagged edges. lets his teeth bite against the words he wants to say.
"baby," eddie whispers, his gentle callused hands trailing over steve's arms to settle on his clenched fist. he shakes his head against eddie's chin, bites at his neck again, ignores the way the love of his fucking life is trying to peel his fingers open to see it. see him.
steve feels raw, a live wire, one second away from snapping into sparks of electricity. he shakes his hand free and curls it around the small of eddie's back, tugging him closer, hiding his shame.
"it's nothing," he repeats, voice shaky and rough against eddie's skin.
if he just slots his leg right, if he just presses into eddie right, if he just tips his head and rolls his hips and plays his cards right, he can avoid all of this all together. he can take eddie's mind away from the writing on his hand and convince them both everything is okay.
but it's not that easy, it never is, because there fingers wrapping around his wrist at an awkward angle to pull his hand back and heat flares up in his cheeks. eddie's going to see, going to ask, going to figure out that steve is broken beyond repair and it's all thanks to one too many blows to the head & one too many times of fucking up & one too many times of leaving the goddamn door unlocked.
"i just-" he bites out, trying and failing to pull his arm out from eddie's grasp. maybe some part of him wants to come clean and get the inevitable over and done with. "-they're just some notes okay?"
and now eddie's looking between him and his palm with those eyes that hold love and the pity that he hates, so he blinks away, jolts to get his arm free again. he doesn't want pity, he doesn't want puppy dog eyes, he doesn't want the reminder that he can't-
but then there's lips pressing oh so gently to the hand he rubbed raw earlier when he could have sworn he didn't triple check that he paid the water bill. there's the flutter of eyelashes against his fingertips as eddie trails kisses over the thing that makes him feel less than.
steve doesn't fight to pull his arm back anymore. his shoulders drop, his muscles relax, and that ball of dread in the pit of his stomach eases away into something that feels more like acceptance.
"that's smart," eddie mutters against his palm. "to help you remember?"
and just like that, it isn't secret anymore. just like that eddie's peeled back the layers of bravado and nonchalance and seen steve for the mess he is.
he kisses the notes like it's the easiest thing to do and maybe for eddie it is. maybe taking a piece of steve's hurt is what they found each other for. maybe eddie was made to understand every inch of steve from the inside out like the way a vine instinctually knows to follow the sun.
steve resettles his face in eddie's neck, nods and breathes him in so he has him deep in his lungs. "it was robin's idea."
"she's smart too, then." eddie hums and drops steve's hand gently, letting it wind back around him so he can tangle his in steve's hair. "does it help?"
"yep," steve mumbles.
"how have i never noticed you scribbling on your hand everyday?" eddie asks with his lips pressed into the crown of steve's head.
"i didn't want you to see. i'm pretty good at hiding."
he can feel when eddie takes in a deep breath. feel when his chest expands and collapses before whispering "start adding 'eddie loves me' on there."
steve shakes his head with a small grin, his heart beat slowing from an anxious jack-rabbiting speed to something more eddie paced. "i never need a reminder of that one."
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Thinking about Bakugou having a problem with cumming in his sleep.
It only happens when he sleeps in the same bed as you. He wakes up and his pants are either wet or crusted depending on what time of night he apparently got off.
He was so confused the first time it happened, he thought he pissed himself at first glance. But after a quick check in the bathroom of your apartment, he realized it was a little less mortifying… in a way..?
He doesn’t know what causes it but it gets to the point where it’s every time y’all sleep in the same bed, even if its just a nap. He even started to avoid sleeping with you out of respect (and embarrassment).
But thats when it became a problem, when he stopped participating in naps and sleeping over. So you asked him one day:
“Hey, whats with you not sleeping over anymore?”
He immediately froze from what he was doing like a deer in headlights.
He didn’t immediately spit the truth out so you had to threaten him a little bit. A little manipulation never hurt anyone, right? But he finally spilled:
“I’ve been waking up with…”
“With what?”
“With my pants soaked with cum.”
It felt good but terrifying to finally tell you. He was scared you might call him a pervert, tell him it was over and there would be nothing he could do about it cause he was a pervert.
And just as he was about to apologize you spoke.
“Yeah, I know.”
He was now puzzled. You knew? All this time? It didn’t make sense! He made sure that you were asleep before he got up and changed his pants. Maybe you noticed how when you woke up his pants were always different? Or worse, you-
“You hump me every night until you cum, it wakes me up. I knew all along. If that’s what you’re worried about, just know that I don’t care. In fact, I like it. It’s my favorite part of you sleeping over.”
Was this relief he was feeling? Embarrassment? Shock? It was a little bit of everything.
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