#avoidance core

[wildechildwrites]

Taken

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: brief discussion of kidnapping/implied harm, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, brief/implied ghost/soap/reader

No use of Y/N

Summary: You and Simon are having a quiet night in, watching whatever's on TV when a silly question of yours pulls a serious response from Simon

AO3: Taken

Taken is on tv, half way through, and you and Simon are halfway watching it, curled up together lazily after dinner, sleepy and content. The kitchen in your small flat is spotless, dishes dried and put away properly, Ghost's mask on the counter. The weekend offers an enticing gap of nothingness, no chores to be completed, no work to be done, no deployment in the near future. You're drifting, soothed by the steady thumping of Simon's heart, his muscular chest cushioning your head, strong arms wrapped loosely around you, his fingers tapping a familiar rhythm that you can't quite place, like an old song on the radio. His eyes are on the screen, but every so often he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

“What if someone took me?” You're sleep drunk, the words stumbling out before you've really considered them, the sound of violence and Liam Neeson's gravelly tones in the background, almost drowning you out.

Simon stiffens beneath you, arms tightening, and you squeak at the pressure, the sound of his heart louder in your ear. His voice is flat like a blade, careful ease slipping off of him like an ill fitting coat. "I would never–"

"I know," you cut him off, too tired to pick up on the tension, nuzzling deeper into him. "But what if someone did? Do you think–" you stifle a yawn. "Would you come find me?"

Simon sits up fully, and you let out a huff of complaint, looking up at him with a ready pout, but any trace of playful drowsiness is chased away by the somber look in his dark eyes.

He grabs your face with one hand, strong fingers digging into your chin, forcing all your attention on him. “I would never let anything happen to you.”

“Si–” you start, but he cuts you off with a fierce kiss, your face still held firmly in his grasp, his mouth hot against yours, hungry and demanding. You let yourself be pulled into the sudden rip current of intensity, digging your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, warmth curling low in your stomach.

Simon drags himself away from you slowly, his mouth trailing along your jaw, his voice like crushed velvet.

“If someone took you, or tried to, or even looked at you for too long,” he presses a worshipful kiss at the base of your throat, dragging his nose lightly up the side of your neck to place another kiss under your ear, just the smallest hint of his teeth nipping at the soft flesh.

“I'd gut ‘em. I'd cut off their fingers and make ‘em eat ‘em.”

“That's morbid, Si.” You murmur reproachfully, and he huffs a laugh, all gravel, warm against your skin, and you can’t suppress a shudder at the sensation.

Simon leans in to kiss you again, his hands wandering. One settles on your hip, anchoring you in place, thick fingers kneading into the soft flesh, the other dragging up under the loose tshirt you wear to cup your breast, rough thumb rolling over your nipple. You squirm in his lap, the hard line of his growing erection pressing against you, and he drags his hand from your breast down to your shorts, slipping inside. The angle isn’t perfect, but Simon’s undeterred, his palm pressing against your clit as he glides a finger along your folds, teasing at your entrance.

“So wet,” his voice is like distant thunder, rumbling softly in his chest. “She knows I’ll take care of ‘er.” He presses his mouth against yours again, swallowing the noise you make when he slides a thick finger inside of you, curling it to stroke the sensitive walls, his palm grinding firmly against your clit. Simon adds a second finger and you whimper into his mouth, walls fluttering around him. He’s still got his hand on your hip, holding you in place, keeping you steady as he fingers you. His cock is rock hard in his sweats, and you break the kiss, leaning your forehead against his.

“Simon please,” you pant, not caring how desperate you sound, consumed by the hungry look in his eyes. “‘I need you.”

Simon abruptly stops his movements, fingers still buried deep inside of you. His face is flushed, his chest heaving as he breathes, iron intensity unwavering.

“I’d never let anything happen to you. Say it.”

When you don’t immediately respond, he grinds his palm into your clit, the fingers on your hip digging in hard enough that you know you’ll have bruises. “Say. It.”

“Simon I know–” You start to say, and he pulls his fingers out of you. Before you can even complain about the sudden emptiness, he's flipped you both over, pinning you beneath him. You gasp out, eyes wide, heart hammering in your chest.

“Never let anything happen to you. Say it.” He demands, shoving his sweats down, just enough to free his cock. It presses up against his stomach, flushed deep red and leaking. You feel yourself clenching instinctively, eagerly pushing your shorts down.

“You’d never–” Simon slots himself against you, giving you no time to breathe before he's pressing the head of his cock inside of you. You're still soaking from his fingers, and he slides in, both of you moaning at the sensation of him filling you. He's so big, making you feel impossibly full, and he barely pulls out before grinding his dick back into you, unwilling to part from you even for his own pleasure, keeping you pinned with the sheer weight of him, content to buck against you, breathing heavily against your neck.

Simon's single mindedness is impossible to deter, and even as he groans, hips shuddering against yours, he's repeating himself, "I'd never let anything happen to you. Say it."

You're past the point of composure, his pelvis rubbing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars, his cock dragging against your walls deliciously with ever tiny motion. "You'd– nev–ah! Let– anything–” Simon sinks his teeth into your neck, and you cry out, clenching around him, your nails biting into his shoulders.

“If somethin’ happens to me,” he grunts, breathing heavily, finally drawing his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside of you. “Johnny'll take care of you. And he'd never let anything happen to you.”

"Johnny?" you gasp, and Simon surges forward, setting at a bruising pace that has you moaning, clenching around him with every thrust.

Simon speaks through the pleasure, swallowing his own moans, punctuating every thrust, his rhythm wild in a way that tells you he's going to cum soon. “Who's gonna take care of you?”

You're so close it almost hurts, the tension twisting, every thrust hauling you towards the edge, your brain leaking out of your ears, so consumed by the feeling of Simon inside of you, on top of you, all around you. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Simon oh—” You clench around him with a sharp cry, body writhing in pleasure, your nails raking down Simon’s back.

Simon cums the same time as you do, his mouth on the crook of your neck, burying himself as deep as possible, cock twitching inside of you, warmth flooding your abdomen as he fills you. You’re both breathing heavy, bodies slick with sweat, and he presses a soft kiss to your bare skin. You know you both need a shower, but exhaustion is creeping back in, the comforting weight of Simon lulling you into a relaxed state, temporarily ignoring the mess you’ve made of the couch. Simon seems just as content to remain on top of you, weight carefully shifted so he doesn’t crush you.

“You made Johnny promise to take care of me?” You yawn, trailing your hand up to stroke at Simon’s hair. He grunts, nuzzling against you.

“Made ‘em all promise. Johnny's just the only one who'd be able to fuck you proper.” Simon's softening cock twitches, and you smack him lightly on the shoulder.

“You're a pervert.” You say accusingly, and he just lets out another rough laugh. The silence between you two is comfortable, content, and you let your eyes drift closed.

“You're the only one who I want taking care of me” you murmur, turning your head to kiss Simon gently. He hums in response, halfway to dreamland.

Bonus:

The pub is dimly lit, football match playing, the muted sound of conversation worming through the space. Ghost is in their usual spot, the first round of beers sitting ready, still foamy. Johnny's freshly showered, his mowhawk damp and unstyled, an easy smile on his face as he slides into the booth next to Simon.

“How’s the missus?” Johnny asks, his eyes twinkling, and Simon waits until he’s taking a swallow of beer to answer, his voice casual.

“Made her say your name while she came last night.”

Johnny chokes hard, beer shooting out of his nose, spraying the table. He spends the next five minutes coughing, throat burning, his face bright red, and his eyes full of tears.

Simon just sits quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

[lexus-k4]

"Nu-uh"

"... The fuck you mean nu-uh?!?!"

- - - - - - DP X DC IDEA/PROMPT

Danny- minding his own business as the ghost king looking to be in his mid twenties, despite being a good enough age to be considered an elderly of elderly civilians, because his status as a half a made him stop ageing physically when he reached his mid 20's. Now out grew his friends and families, and only has Dante(evil reformed Danny) and Ellie(Danielle, the clone) left as family. Also part one of the first hero's to ever exist before the JL even formed and before Batman and what not. And Vlad turned out not to be a half a just a human who was slowly turning more and more liminal till he died eventually too, he did have a longer life though.

Also Danny- reached his limit of being able to keep his sanity and live in Amity, so decidedly going on a world wide tour with Dan(Dante) and Ellie to visit all sorts of places. And also decidedly, staying in some places for a good few years because of their love for the place and finding something new to keep themselves sain.

Also, Also Danny- An extreme polyglot with his two only siblings left, who have the most widest and randonest set of skills from all of the world.

Dante- finding out he has a love for the arts, like painting, photography and fashion and is talented at them, but keeps the tough guy act out of habit and weirdness if he suddenly starts acting friendly.

Danielle- finding out her passion is for sports and sciences. Has the ability to apply for the Olympics in a few of her favourite sports but doesn't to not draw attention and has a masters in civil and mechanical engineering.

All three of them- a good amount of decades have passed after jazz and their friends died of natural causes (old age) and explored more of the world than one person can do in a life time, of course not paying for travel fees and taking advantage of their smarts to make fake identities, work and living visas and so on.

In gotham: Tim and Duke looking into a missing persons report filed for three siblings, for a certain super- superhero, because he is currently off world and bats left it to them.

Duke: uhhh, Tim?

Tim busy looking at his phone doom scrolling waiting for facial recognition to finish loading: hmm?

Duke: what did you say the siblings names were again?

Tim: uhh. Registered as Dante, Daniel and Danielle- Wise, born in California moved to metropolis when they gained emancipation from their parents Jacqueline and Malcom Wise because of neglect who died when the youngest child turned 20, 5 years after their emancipation. Why?

Duke: .... Uhh, well. I don't know what's happening, but the face rec is done. And. Well... There is like a 100 different results. All the same face and first names just different surnames and different origins on nationality?

Tim finally looking up: huh?

Tim and Duke doing more research.

Tim: okay. So what have we got so far?

Duke: we know that their names are most likely Dante, Daniel and Danielle, they each have about 5 different identities each. All following a similar story of either dead parents, emancipation, orphans or something to excuse guardianships. All three are extremely smart AND talented- which might I add is unfair- but all that spans across every identity. The only identity that is inconsistent is the one dated back to being , possibly their original identities as Fentons, the children of The DR's. Fenton. Who died a good long time ago along with their oldest daughter Jazzmin Fenton.

Tim: okay... So... Immortals maybe?

Dake: maybe? We need to tell Bruce. And Clark.

Tim and Duke- reporting their findings to Bruce and Clark respectively. Continuing their search when suddenly getting a ping that there is a new identity under the similar faces.

The 3 siblings in gotham:

Danny: okay. So. New life. What are the plans?

Dan: I'mma work in Fashion. Make some money. And a photography gig on the side.

Ellie: I'mma apply for gotham U. I hear they have a great stem coars and excellent sports facilities. And I saw a cute cat cafe down the street, might apply to work there.

Danny: okay, okay. Solid. I might go for gotham U too. Probably gonna try the Aerospace engineering coarse, I hear gotham has great engineering classes and the sylibus has updated since I last checked. And might apply for work at a enrichment center. Been meaning to get some more exercise lately.

Dan: okay. Ellie, what's the status on money?

Ellie: still got money left over from the inheritance from Vlad and our parents. Like, I mean, they got a lot from their patents. And they had a lot of them too. Besides we keep applying for jobs so we keep earning too.

Danny: okay then. Here's to our new life as Nightingales.

Some times in the future after Tim and Duke got some of the Bat family involved and tracked down the siblings. Who quite obviously could tell they were there, cornering them on a roof.

Red Robin: so. The Nightingales. Mind telling us why you guys have about 6 different identities?

Signal: first your children of doctors. Then your British, then your from the baltics with a english mother. The list goes on.

Ellie: I don't know what your talking about but that ain't us. We're just 3 orphaned kids who are living quite well in life and-

RedHood: orphaned or without a guardian like the other 5 times, and have degrees in God knows how many subjects.

Dan: ... (Whisper shouting) I told you we should've changed the story. And out looks.

Batman: look, we don't want trouble, we just wanna talk. And maybe we can figure out something so that-

Danny devoid of sleep because he developed an addiction to the coffee from the place Ellie now works at: NU-UH!

Stunned silence.

Dan and Ellie holding laughter in.

Nightwing snickering in the back with RedHood turning away trying to calm down and not laugh.

Oracle listening in: The fuck does he Mean 'NU-UH'?!?!

Batman just tired from all this shit:the fuck you mean Nu-uh?!

Danny crossing his arms pulling a face and changing his voice to 'duh' sound: Nu-uh.

Shenanigans ensue with all the bats and birds in either stunned silence or uncontrollable laughter. Dan and Ellie recovering in half laughs dragging Danny away and escaping the scene.

They get chaced down almost every other night by the bats and birds, finding one way or another to get the word 'Nu-uh' in before Batman can even speak.

---

Batman: look, er just want to-

Dan, Danny and Ellie pulling out a sign from seemingly nowhere whith the word 'Nu-uh' written in bold colourful bubble writing on it. Then escaping after handing it to Batman.

---

Nightwing: please. We just want to talk-

The 3 siblings stood Silently listening.

Nightwing: I... Huh?

Dan: go on. We're listening.

Nightwing: but... I... Where is....

Radhood: what this birdbrain is trying to say, is, are you not gonna find a way to say your catchphrase before disappearing?

Ellie: nah. We ran out of unique ideas on how to deliver the message. The glitter bomb was my favorite.

Dan: the paint bomb was mine.

Danny: I'm still embarrassed at the fact that that was what my sleep deprived brain said. But the writing with knocked out criminals was my favorite.

Dan: heh, that was my idea.

Ellie: the glitter and paint was my idea.

RedHood: holy fuck... I guess we should just be glad their not villains.... If they were wed be doomed...

Dan: uhh.... Wellll.....

Signal: what's that meant to mean. Your not villains. Right? Please. Don't tell me you are. Why. God why can things just be simple. FOR ONCE! PLEASE!

Ellie: no. Not villains. Not really. But Dan, is a reformed villain. But that was like. Decades ago. So your fine.

Dan: besides. I only became evil because my mind got infected by a creepy old fruit loop.

Danny, Ellie and Dan all simultaneously shivering in disgust: ugh...

. . .

Red Robin: ... I'm too tired for this. I need a coffee...

. . .

Batman: how would you kids like to live in a mansion? Or maybe become vigilantes?

All the bats and birds other than Batman groan simultaneously with some muttering about adoption obsessions.

Dan:...

Danny:...

Ellie:...

. . .

Dan: FRUITLOOP!

Danny: FRUITLOOP!

Ellie: FRUITLOOP!

[melancholyangel333]

everytime i want a bf i just remember that i actually have to talk to him

[infiniteglitterfall]

This is so cool and interesting

In what they called an “archaeological Hanukkah miracle,” a University of Haifa team discovered on Friday a rare hoard of some 160 coins, dating from the Hasmonean period, during a dig in the Jordan Valley, the university said Sunday.

The coins were discovered in what is thought to have been a roadside station, on what was then a main road along Nahal Tirzah that ascended to the Alexandrion Fortress, also known as Sarbata, north of Jericho in what is now the West Bank.

The coins were dated by experts to the reign of “King Alexander Jannaeus, whose Hebrew name was Jonathan… He reigned from 104–76 BCE. He was the son of Johanan Hyrcanus, [and] the grandson of Simon the Hasmonean (brother of Judah Maccabee),” the statement said, noting that the Alexandrion Fortress, near where the coins were discovered, was built by Jannaeus. ...The students and volunteer excavators were very excited to find such a Hasmonean hoard, especially during the Hanukkah holiday,” the researchers said. Dr. Yoav Farhi, part of the research team and an expert on ancient coins, had arrived on Friday at the dig site with a pack of “Hannukah Gelt,” the chocolate coins covered in gold foil that are a ubiquitous feature of the holiday, explained Dr. Shay Bar of the University of Haifa’s Zinman Institute of Archaeology.

Farhi passed them out to the staff and said, “This is so that we will find some coins today, and four or five hours later, the coins were found,” Bar said on Sunday, speaking to The Times of Israel....

This style of coin dates from 80/79 BCE and is extremely rare, the researchers said, who added that the cache is also one of the largest collections of ancient coins ever discovered in the Holy Land. According to Bar, in addition to the collection of 160 coins, other Hasmonean period coins were also discovered during the excavation, bringing the total number of coins found at the site to over 200.

...The site includes a mikvah (ritual bath), a cistern for storing water, and other buildings. It’s likely that the room where the coins were discovered was used as a kitchen or for food preparation, Bar said. “We discovered a Hasmonean site, on the ascent to Sarbata… It’s very Jewish. It’s important because this site was active for a limited period. The moment we have these coins, dating to the time of Alexander Jannaeus, with all the other finds there… it gives us a very exact time capsule, which doesn’t always happen in archaeology,” Bar said.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 225

Klarion is EXCITED. He's absolutely DELIGHTED even, unable to sit still as he flits from place to place. His baby cousin! Is! Visiting! Which OBVIOUSLY means he, as the older one, must make sure the main places are still standing so he can show his itty bitty baby cousin EVERYTHING! After all, he's never gotten to be the older one! He's always been the youngest in the family! But now he has an itty bitty toddler cousin- form recently shifted to match- to teach the ways of Chaos to! He's so EXCITED!

The League and heroes on the other hand, are Very concerned about Why the Witch Boy has been spotted in practically every major city in the US in the last few days. What is he planning?!

[drenched-in-sunlight]

621 with huge assets. that’s it that’s the post.

[fairysted]

everyone say hello to mr. frogert !! ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა

[ruporas]

that one trope for high school au... (ID in alt)

[crunchyspaghetti]

I’m so interested to know how other people perceive the team and Daisy’s arc in the beginning of season 4. I feel like I’ve seen a lot more of the “I’ll never forgive the team for how they treated her in S4” sentiment recently, which is interesting because I’ve never taken that perception away from that storyline at all.

Did the team say or do hurtful things? Yes, for sure. (I usually see the aforementioned comment on videos on that one scene with Daisy, Mack and Fitz)

But does Daisy also do and say hurtful things? I honestly think so.

That’s what makes that part of the season so phenomenal to watch, story wise. There is not black and white, good or bad, there just is. That is the reality of grief, that is the reality of mental health struggles, that is life.

There are no “right” answers when coping with the impossible, honestly. I think there are healthy and unhealthy ways to handle things, sure, but it’s not really a moral issue, on its face.

I mean, between the team and Daisy there are some rough interactions. Fitz is certainly a little hypocritical when he’s criticizing how Daisy handles things, given that he wouldn’t have reacted well if it had been Jemma. But He has been there for Daisy, up until this point at least, with Ward, her powers, they’ve been through a tremendous amount together. He feels abandoned and, yeah, he’s expressing it in a less than ideal way. But he cares. You know he cares about her. He and Mack wouldn’t be so angry if they didn’t care.

Mack is upset when he finds out Yo-Yo’s stealing the bone pills for her because 1) he’s been lied to for months, and 2) more importantly, it makes it seem that Daisy doesn’t trust him enough to directly come to him for help. That’s the thing. He would’ve helped her, probably given her anything she needed medically. She never needed to get Yo-Yo to steal any of it. It’s frustrating, it hurts. Mack is genuinely a deeply loving person, you know it’s killing him to not be able to get through to her.

Everyone on that team wants to help her, more than anything. They are begging her to let them in. I mean, lest we forget Coulson gave up his fucking job, in part, to keep chasing any lead he has on her.

When blaming the team for the rockiness at the beginning of season 4, you’re completely ignoring the fact that Daisy is actively running from them the entire time. She doesn’t want them to find her, and I really get it, honestly I do. I deal with things the way she does, radio silence, isolation, running away, being avoidant, self destruction, etc, etc.

Who could blame her, honestly? The anger and the self hatred and the guilt and the grief. Lord knows I’d take off, shut myself out. How do you even begin to manage that kind of pain, especially when it’s still fresh?

Well, you manage it any way that you can. For Daisy that means trying to atone for all of the pain she caused, which, are also things that caused her pain. Especially at the beginning of the season, it doesn’t matter how much she’s told that she is forgiven. Lincoln was at peace with his decision to sacrifice himself, Mack forgave her for hurting him while she was under the influence of Hive. Nobody is directly blaming her, except for herself. To try to heal from the pain she is in, would mean being able to extend herself grace, mercy. The only person who needs to forgive her, is herself. And she just- can’t.

She believes that all she does is hurt the people around her, which is what she is grasping onto to justify hurting herself. The hard truth of living that way is that when you’re stuck in your own, self harm, self hatred, shame-spiral is that you are the only person who can break out of it.

That’s a huge part about what I love about the storytelling of this arc. It’s genuinely some of the best mental health representation I’ve seen in a show like this.

Obviously, mental illness is not your fault. Being stuck in a bad place is not your fault. Daisy is not at fault for her grief. Her descent into isolation and a self-hatred, suicidal, shame-spiral does not in any way mean that she is a bad person. But there’s only so much another person can do when it comes to a battle that is completely contained within your own brain.

The team never stopped caring about her. Coulson, May, and Yo-Yo, specifically, never gave up on her. That’s important. She would’ve most likely been dead if they had stopped giving a shit about her. That’s significant.

But they’re not mind readers.

To go back to the scene with Mack and Fitz too. I think that scene is really important because it’s Daisy being confronted with the reality that her actions, her running away, isolating herself, really is hurting the people that love and care about her. She runs away to protect them from that very reality, of course, but how could they know that?

She doesn’t want them to care, and she hopes that if she just pushes them hard enough, if she bares her metaphorical fangs, they’ll stop. She’s accepted being alone, she’s accepted her own self destruction, because even if it hurts them at first, even if she’s absolutely miserable, they’ll be safe. Inside, she’s unwilling to admit that she needs them, and she’s acting in a way that allows her to avoid the cognitive dissonance of her actions (i.e. yo-yo stealing the pills they’d willingly give her if she asked).

But the fact that she’s hurting them doesn’t push them away. It just makes everything hurt more for everyone. She wants to embody that hurt, she’s cannibalizing her self to try to take on that pain but it doesn’t make anything better.

This storyline is not a case of right and wrong, if anything it’s an antithesis to it. It’s about how the ambiguity of life and grief and mental health are like tangled strings, messy and knotted, it’s about the love and effort and dedication it takes to hang on to/fight your way back to the people that love you, it’s about the strength it takes to carry on and forgive yourself, and, as May tells Daisy once she comes back, it’s about that: “you can’t choose who cares about you”.

[hitlikehammers]

AVOIDANCE: the only real solution to all of Eddie’s your falling-in-love problems!

(0 out of 10 participants in this approach have proven its INeffectiveness; talk to your ✨love interest✨today to avoid this heartbreaking waste of your energy!)

It’s not like they were bosom buddies for years and years. A week at the outset, a couple months since, and now they’re all back in their own homes living their own lives and Eddie can avoid the way he’s most definitely, one-hundred-percent certainly in love with Steve Harrington. Very effectively.  By simply avoiding Steve Harrington. 

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, eddie munson and his newfound obsession/unprecedebtedly-close-to-love feelings for steve harrington, answer: avoid steve harrington like the plague, excellent and emotionally-mature ways of dealing with your problems! /s, primary hiccup in existing plan: forgetting steve harrington doesn’t take well to failure, (oops), miscommunication, boys so dumb, confessions, hint of angst (because eddie is a very silly boy with very silly ideas sometimes), self-confident!steve, steve harrington facing the issues head-on, feelings confessions, peak eddie dramatics, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day fifteen: “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”―Jane Austen, Emma

True fact: Eddie thought he was playing things cool. Thought he was totally copacetic, in, you know, keeping it all subtle. He can do subtle, y’know: being loud and proud, shouting on tabletops and shit, screaming at drunks—that was a choice, not a…a rule. He’s a freak, he’s an outcast, he’s a weird-ass motherfucker: he’d have had far more brushes with his actual-factual demise in this podunk town if he was literally incapable of blending in with the background, and not just kinda sickened by the concept, let alone the effort involved to appease fucking…normies.

So yeah, he’d…he’d thought he was flying under the radar. And anyway; why the fuck would Steve Harrington even notice eddies absence in his day-to-day? They were apocalypse ‘friends’. Hospital buddies at best.

They’re back in the real world now.

Eddie supposed Vecna or whatever the fuck his name is will come crawling back in the foreseeable future, but brighter minds than his are preparing for that shit. The sheepies will let him know if they need his assistance—pending what that assistance may or may not be worth dependent on how far along his PT journey he stands at that point.

But it’s not like they were glued to the hip. It’s not like they were bosom buddies for years and years. A week at the outset, a couple months since, and now they’re all back in their own homes living their own lives and Eddie can avoid the way he’s most definitely, one-hundred-percent certainly in love with Steve Harrington. Very effectively.

By simply avoiding Steve Harrington.

It’s kind of a foolproof plan, really. He starts wrapping Hellfire earlier, tells the little shitheads he’s gotta run, Wayne needs a hand with a revolving door of household projects now that they’ve got their own place with more than one bedroom. Gotta mount that hangers for that ball cap collection just right, you know, yadda yadda.

He thinks they gave up being suspicious without a week or two, now just hit him with annoyed eye rolls. God bless the scourge of self-centred teenage bitchiness playing directly into eddies hand.

What he failed to account for, however, about eleven weeks into his up-to-now flawless scheme, was…well. The leading man himself.

Showing the fuck up at Eddie’s door, which Eddie answered for once like a fool and now can’t back out of cleanly because there’s no truck in the drive—it’s clear he’s here on his own.

Motherfucker.

One thing can be said for the plan, in terms of like, general side quest observations—absence definitely made the heart grow fonder. Or at least didn’t contribute at all to the opposite. Which Eddie hadn’t been entirely sure was possible, because the speed and strength of how he fell with every fucking cell in him had honestly terrified the shit out of him on its own. But after avoiding Steve, nodding at best if he canoed paths and sneaking away when the man called out like he was gonna snake through a crowd at any of the number of the family dinners for interdimensional-trauma-survivors-anonymous that Eddie couldn’t weasel out of: it’d been clear pretty fucking quick.

The almost-indefensibly-absurd affection he’d developed for the King of Hawkins—it wasn’t just reign over the high school if the parents were so charmed, if the fucking hospital has cowed into acting and quick when they tried to hesitate in treating an accused murderer, as Eddie’d been regaled with by everyone but Steve, who shrugged his kinda crucial role in saving Eddie’s ass with a shrug and of course, man, like there was ever even a question—but his indefensibly overwhelming and absurd infatuation that spent every month expanding further to try and crack his fucking ribs, well.

It was chronic, at best. He wasn’t gonna shake it…any time soon.

Any time soon.

So: best to at least keep the catalyst at bay, stop it from causing the condition to worsen.

He’d made the mistake of thinking it couldn’t get worse already. Learn from your mistakes, and all the shit.

So what if it’s been months now and not only has the malady of being ass-over-nipple in-fucking-love persisted, but got so much fucking worse? Deeper? More, when that shit should have even been possible?

No. He just has to be persistent. Keep at the plan. Eventually, it’ll die off. It’ll whither and blow away. It’ll fucking fade—

He does, however, fail to calculate all contingencies.

Namely Steve Harrington’s incapacity to accept defeat.

He’s also too fucking scatterbrained to check the door before opening it when there’s a knock, just after Wayne’s left for his shift. When Eddie has no excuse to slam it back shut on the exceptionally exquisite face waiting when the hinges swing open.

Exquisite, but looking…pinched. Sour.

Pissed the fuck off.

And worst of all of it—because so far the list only server to underscore that unfortunate state of being fucking beautiful, on every possible level—but worst of it all, because it’s worst on its own but also because it twists, distorts all the beauty, and it’s so clearly Eddie’s fault because Steve is standing right here, and not elsewhere, after all this time.

Looking hurt, under everything else.

“I’m done with this, yeah?”

Eddie could run. He’d only make it to his room; Steve would probably be able to break down the door and get to him before he could slither through the window and run, but he’s still not 100%, right, he’s physically at a disadvantage anyway, it’s not even gonna be a question—

Steve’s got him cornered.

So he just stands. Blinks.

Doesn’t…know what Steve’s ‘done with’, but he feels his literally twist, wring like a dishrag, when he figures out the most likely answer is just:

 Eddie.

Even trying to keep the maximum distance, he either knows, and hates it, hates him, or…

He doesn’t know, and doesn’t need to. He just is over Eddie and his bullshit.

It’s in the heart-piercing distraction of either and both possibilities that Steve pushes past him into the front hall.

“What the fuck is your problem, man?”

Steve crosses his arms as the door latches closed, caging them in.

Eddie’s heart starts kicking hard, which is painful. He assumes that’s because it’s been pierced by the hurt still on Steve’s face.

“I thought we were, like, that at least we were friends?”

He says it like he also has maybe had thoughts like there’s something else they were, or could have been. That by association and context would be somewhere more than friends?

Eddie’s pieced-through heart switches to a double-thumping sort of thing that’s really just as confused as the rest of him.

Hurts like a motherfucker, too.

“Did I do something?”

Steve asks, finally sounds more defeated than any of the other things Eddie can pick up in how he holds his body, and honestly that’s what breaks Eddie’s resolve, of everything; after everything. After holding out this long and failing for the entire fucking effort, after hurting Steve, the last thing he could ever want, probably the main underlying reason he’s been running from him the whole goddamn time—to not hurt him.

He’s suck a fuck up. He’s such a fucking fuck up.

“You know how sunflowers grow?”

Steve startles a little, grows the slightest bit.

“They find the sun, and the grow toward it,” and Eddie’s not stupid enough to think the whole disaster that’s unfolding in front of him, from his own chest, his own fucking mouth—he’s aware.

He can’t do nothing, but he also doesn’t think he can sugarcoat this in a way that goes down easier; sand the rough edges to make it make better sense.

He has to wrench it raw and bloody from his ribs, caught on the jagged bone like the messy fuck he is.

“You were the sun,” Eddie finally says it out loud, and his voice is so small and wondering, he can’t hide it. “You were the sun and I woke up broken, I had to grow back so much and I did, because I had the tools,” he swallows, takes a shaky breath:

“I had the sun right next to me, to do all the growing toward. To…rebuild around.”

Eddie’s always been a weirdo, and outcast—he’s spent a lot of time in libraries; often hiding.

But he’s read a lot of random shit. And enough of it’s stuck to make some sense of this fucking mess.

Steve’s face gives nothing away. It’s usually so…so generous with its feeling, even if there are some feelings Eddie knows Steve’s careful to never let show.

But in the now, he just stares.

“Otters,���Eddie blurts out, fingers twitching, wrists shaking; “they hold hands when they sleep,” and he looks up for a second before looking away again, pulse a mullet in his throat.

“I used to hold onto your hand when I fell asleep in the hospital,” and he says it like it’s a secret, a confession, even though of all people, of course Steve already fucking knows. The part he doesn’t, though:

“I still reach, and how fucked that? Like I deserve it as a rule, like it’s mine.”

Like you’re mine.

He can’t say it. But he doesn’t have it. It rings out on its own.

“But then there are the trees that shoot up all tangled,” Eddie can’t remember what they’re called; “where the trunks split off into one another, or they’re so braided up together the share their bark, whole pieces left Bernal’s, naked but the other tree covers it, makes it strong and safe but only so long as they’re literally fused together indefinitely,” and Eddie hopes that one…that one explains itself.

He pauses, waits for any reaction.

No dice.

“Bats sleep in pitcher plants.”

That at least gets the slightest lift of the chin. Probably because it’s weird, and also…bats.

Right. So Eddie’s gonna have to spell it all out.

Which he kinda knew. The examples are fucking weird. But they’re…they’re true. They’re where he is.

“If I get too fucking close, I will destroy you,” Eddie says, because that’s the fear, right—or no.

That’s the fucking truth. Eddie always ends up with the tatters of the things he loves the most.

“I’ll take too much, I’ll take everything,” Eddie confesses, pleads in his tone to be seen, which Steve’s always been weirdly good at, and understood—the bigger gamble.

“There won’t be any stoplights, there won’t be a barrier or a boundary where I’ll know I’ve gone too far because I won’t even think of what that fucking is, what it could be to even watch for, like the barebones idea of ‘too far’, let alone what it looks like, I won’t,” and his breath runs out, so he gasps, and he thinks he sees Steve move to reach, to help, to steady.

He thinks.

It’s probably just wishful thinking.

“I won’t stop holding on just when I’m sleeping, I’ll,” Eddie licks his lips, because now…now he’sstarting to hurt, closer to what it felt like with teeth ripping his flesh than anything has felt, than any loss has threatened. He has to clear his throat, because otherwise the rest will just spill out like a sob:

“I’ll tear your bark so you bleed, and you’re exposed and you die off slow, because I was selfish, so selfish, I held to close, I fucking…” eddies voice cracks; his eyes fucking burn; “because I fucking demanded the whole of you, and damn the cost because I couldn’t process an end, why would I stop doing to even think to be logical and careful when an end to you was, is, well, fuck,” he huffs, and a tear spills out white hot down his cheek;

“It’s incomprehensible, because that would be the end of everything, that was made real fucking clear for me with the bats, both times,” and Eddie means that—he’s had time to think through the origin of his aching and it was early, it was any hint of being in the world without this person in it, too; “and the end of everything, well,” he shakes his head, some of his hair sticking in the single trail of salt on his skin:

“Tied up in you, so tight we couldn’t physically untangle?” His voice drops to a whisper, and he knows his smile has to look sad, but he means this is the deepest places his heart even holds:

“What better way to go?”

He maybes watches Steve’s throat bobbing. Maybe.

Probably not.

So Eddie just sighs. Because…none of that matters. None of that matters in the face of the core truth:

“Those pitcher plants dissolve things inside them, it’s how they eat,” he half-recites, retreating into those deep-heart places, where the feeling is most saturated, but hard to find, somewhere to hide as he whispers, cowers in himself as he flats his own flesh:

“I’ll leech from you for wanting too much just the same. I’ll fucking destroy you, Stevie,” he moans, feels his arms wrap around his chest, protective. Trembling.

“I’ll love you so hard I’ll suffocate you, I’ll tear you to pieces trying to get closer, trying to hold the heart of you closer to mine,” he doesn’t even make a conscious decision to press a palm over his flailing heart where his arm already holds, hugs himself so fucking tight. His lungs are sore. It’s tight, trying to breathe.

“It’s not an overstatement, though, the other plants, the flowers,” Eddie feels overwhelmed, suddenly, with a need to make clear that there’s only one person at fault for this, and it’s him—Steve didn’t deserve to get hurt. Eddie should have found a better way to keep him safe—from Eddie��from the very start. Because—

“You are my sun,” Eddie makes himself look up, look at Steve. “I didn’t realize how little I was growing even before spring break. I didn’t notice, how fucking thriving wasn’t even in my goddamn vocabulary, until there was you.” His breathing shudders again, followed by the rest of him:

“I turn toward you as a rule,” because here’s the thing. All these weeks and months.

Eddie’s been shrivelling. Eddie spends his nights dreaming of sunlight.

It’s inescapable.

He was going to have to find a more sustainable compromise soon, anyway. Might as well…lay it all out now.

He’s already ripped off his bark. He’s already prepared to dissolve in the acid, to burn for what it means to have left the feeling grow so big.

“I hope,” he coughs, starts slow, formal-like: “I hope you can do me the favor of just,” he has to clear his throat again; fuck, it’s hard; “politely ignoring that part. Like, even at a distance, it’s not something I can seem to stop.”

He was aiming for apologetic for that last bit, honest.

He fucking fails spectacularly, so. That’s cool.

“I swear, I won’t bother you,” he tries to convey how he’s sorry, for all of it, save for the core of the loving, because he as granted. A taste, no matter how it’s fallen to ruin; he’s selfish that way anyhow, to have seen some of the sun versus darkness alone for always.

Still:

“I won’t come near, I’ll do what I’ve been doing but better, I’ll be better, I’ll try harder, it will—“

Eddie thinks maybe he’s finally died. Of heartbreak, of whatever the Upside Down did to him. Of living without his sun for a long.

Any. All of the above.

Because the next thing he knows is pressure. Heat.

On his lips.

He barely processes responding before its town away: of course death wouldn’t be a reward. Not for him.

“Are you fucking telling me,” a voice bites out close enough to Eddie’s lips that he can feel how sharp they cut:

“That you have been avoiding me, running awayfrom me,” and Eddie knows that voice—

“Breaking my heart,” and fuck, fuck Eddie knows he knows that voice because when it’s hurting—and those words are irate and disbelieving and they’re hurt—

“Because you’re fucking scared of loving me too hard?”

And Eddie pulls back, opens his eyes: Steve.

Steve’s eyes are fucking vibrant with feeling, so many feelings. He’s…he doesn’t think he’s dead, because a lot of those feelings are ones Eddie’s not familiar with, and how would he know to place them there if he’s never known them at all?

He doesn’t know of it’s better or worse, to not be dead right now.

Because he just apparently got to feel Steve’s lips on his lips.

But then:

“Because that’s what you’re saying, right” Steve raises a brow, demands in posture as much as in tone:

“You’re in love with me.”

And then on the flip side of being alive-or-dead: he has to deal with the consequences of spelling out the answer to…that.

Which he’s apparently broken Steve’s heart over handling…the only way he could figure out. And still fucking it up.

“That sounds less than what it feels like,” Eddie whispers; it’s the only thing he can latch on to.

Steve’s eyes narrow at him, contemplate him.

“And you think me, of all people,” Steve finally asks, slow, his tone wrenchingly deliberate; “that Iwouldn’t meet someone loving that big and that much,” “and he huffs, shakes his head in searing disbelief Eddie almost wishes he could flinch from, but it’s so warm, it’s his sun:

“That that wouldn’t feel like there actually was a heaven, and I’d died and somehow made it there?”

Eddie’s breath catches, then stops entirely. He can’t seem to properly suck in another one because…

“That finding that wouldn’t feel like I’d won the lottery, like I’d figured out what it meant when people talk about a blessing, and all that shit?”

Because what…what it almost sounds like Steve is saying can’t actually be—

“That finding it, with you,” and oh, oh Steve is a lot closer than he was last Eddie processed the world around him, his chest is grazing Eddie’s chest when he seems to have no trouble breathing, just is doing it really deep and reallt fast—

“That it’d be anything less than a gift,” Steve murmurs half against Eddie’s lips; “a dream come to life?”

And Steve’s eyes flick up, and it’s when they land on Eddie’s and see him that his lungs shiver and he chokes out the only word he thinks his every molecule knows by heart:

“Steve?”

And Steve doesn’t move, neither. Loser nor farther away.

Doesn’t look away; doesn’t blink.

Just asks:

“Do you love me?”

And something in Eddie unfreezes, some string holding him up, holding him back snaps free and he just grabs Steve’s hand and presses it to his chest, like he needs to be tethered now that the string in him’s been cut, and the touch, this touch: Steve is really all he’s been wanting to keep him.

To keep him at all.

And maybe this is the one shot he gets.

But Steve, Steve said…

He presses Steve’s hand to his chest a little harder, because he’s bathed in the sun again. Their hands are linked, and they’re not asleep. He’s peeled off all the pretense, he’s as bare and vulnerable as he can possibly get. His heart’s beating into Steve palm. Eddie will happily fucking drown in this, dissolve and be…

He’s already consumed.

How is it any different, save that maybe, just maybe, beyond all odds and against everything he’s feared—

“More than I can hold in here,” Eddie scarcely finds the air to breathe; “more than I can say.”

“Then share it,” Steve says, the assuredness, the rightness in his gravity that’s always been at his core radiating forth and warming Eddie in a way he’s never known to feel before.

“Let me know it, let that feeling not be alone anymore,” and the words hold more than their syllables, by so much; “let it out to see the sun,” and then Steve’s flipping their hands so eddies the one caught agains this chest, but he’s always pulling them close enough that Steve’s knuckles are still catching the drum of Eddie’s pulse. It feels…

Eddie didn’t know what to expect, to let the feeling be felt beyond his own chest.

It’s breathtaking in a new way. It’s…

“Let it meet its match here, in how I feel,” Steve doesn’t suggest, just speaks, instructs, leads with a match to what Eddie feels, has been drowning in, save where it stole his air it’s breathing into him; where it took his light it’s reinventing the sun as Steve murmurs close, so close to his lips:

“Let it see how it was killing me all this time without you,” and Eddie whimpers for the cost of what he’s done, what he felt so sure he had to do—

“Let the feeling inside here,” and he presses his touch back to Eddie’s chest just a little bit firmer; “know how much sharing it’s like stitching my broken heart back to rights.”

Eddie’s exhales shakes so fucking hard; he can’t be this lucky. It can’t…he can’t…

But his heart’s beating so hard, so fast, so free.

So fucking alive.

“You can’t say it, big enough?” Steve pushes, his breath so goddamn warm, his lashes so thick, Eddie wants to feel them on his skin like a blessing, a sacrament:

“You can’t say it? Then show me, instead.”

And Steve looks up at him before he grabs around the back of Eddie’s neck, pulls him close enough that speaking rubs their lips together, more combative than affectionate but still undeniably intimate as Steve growls:

“Fucking months, Eddie, Jesus,” and his grip is firm, but there’s no force, Eddie could pull back, Eddie could try to run, and fail, but how could he, how could he ever—

His hand’s crushed to Steve’s chest. The same wild thrum he feels in his veins is there.

Let it meet its match.

“Make up for it,” Steve’s breath trembles on Eddie’s lips, taunts him, begs him, asks so many questions.

Eddie flips their hands one more time, presses Steve’s hand to his heartbeat with nothing less than desperation until his ribs goddamn creak, and then he leans, makes the pressure bigger—

Meets the feeling in Steve with all the feeling in him with their lips on each other like they mean it this time, ready to dissolve in it. To grow themselves to protect around the soft parts. To keep their hands entwined for always.

To come alive inside this sun.

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divider credit here

[whereistim]

[a-man-in-the-crowd]

yk the fact will is kind've monty's conscience and his whole thing being that no one notices him is probably symbolic of sumn

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt in Memes 8

[akard-kiwi-ao3]

I doubt anyone would care, but have you ever thought about Shedletsky and Telamon from Blocktales too hard?

You ever noticed that Shedletsky simply states how unfortunate things are. You ever noticed how...silent he is? About the mortality? The deaths? The fact that the son of a friend of his is in the hospital? The fact that Cruel King died?

If he truly is Telamon, it's obvious that he feels empathy. Guilt, even. Kitchen Wizard was an obvious example.

So if he's capable of feeling empathy. Of guilt. Then isn't the silence telling? Chilling even? Not because he is inhumane. But because of the sheer emotions he's hiding?

Tell me. If your negligence caused you to be unable to move, and leave you vulnerable to an attack you couldn't handle.

If your negligence caused your friends to suffer.

If your negligence forced you to bear an identity you swore to leave years ago, only to return to it because it's your only option to help, then find the pain of your memories unbearable to the point where you bury your previous identity again...

only to realize that not only is it for naught, but someone else achieved what you could've done in a way that nearly ended it all...that nearly ended them, even...

Then tell me, what is even stronger? The guilt? Or his self-hatred? Which one will reach him first?

You never know. Not if he keeps his emotions to himself. Not if he's too prideful to ever admit his flaws, despite the fact that he fooled several with his "oafish" facade that he has kept for years. A facade that he kept for far too long, and suffered the consequences for it.

I doubt anyone would ever ask, anyways. After all, you've suffered enough.

The swords should not affect the creator, right? So why? Why did he abandon them in the first place? Why spread them so far apart and leave yourself defenseless when he could handle them in the first place?

Bear that grin, Shedletsky. Oafish, mortal Shedletsky. That facade is all you've ever known.

[bpderanged]

I'm far from healed, but at least none of my problems involve men.