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noobiestnoober · 3 months ago

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Bang Bang, Baby (Leon X Reader)

When Leon offers to teach you how to shoot, you expect a lesson in marksmanship—not butterflies, blushing, and flirty banter that leaves him more rattled than a T-Virus outbreak. In the middle of a quiet training session, tension simmers and laughter sparks, turning a simple field test into something much more intimate. And maybe, just maybe, you’re a little more dangerous to Leon Kennedy’s heart than any mission ever was.

The gun was heavier than you expected. It wasn’t like in the movies—where characters held them with easy confidence and fired without hesitation. No, this was real. Cold, solid, dangerous. The metal pressed into your palms, unyielding, making your fingers ache with the unfamiliar weight. You shifted your grip, heart racing, just as Leon’s voice broke through the stillness.

"Finger off the trigger until you're ready," Leon said gently, stepping behind you. His tone was patient, like he’d said this a hundred times, but there was something softer in the way he spoke to you. His hand hovered just above your shoulder, guiding without touching—always respectful, always careful. Yet his closeness wrapped around you like armor. You could feel the weight of his presence like a second skin. Protective. Comforting.

You glanced back at him, lips twitching upward. "Like this?"

The gravel beneath your boots crunched as you adjusted your stance. The summer air buzzed with cicadas and the faint smell of gunpowder. You were somewhere remote, quiet—one of Leon’s off-the-grid training spots. The kind only someone like him would know about. The world felt distant here, like you had slipped into a secret pocket of time.

He stepped in closer, and this time, his hands met yours. Warm, steady, grounding. Your fingers curled a little tighter around the grip as he guided you from behind, gently shifting your aim.

"You're doing great," he murmured, voice low and gravelly by your ear. "Try aiming a little lower. Just a hair. There—perfect. Now breathe in... hold it... and squeeze."

The shot rang out. You flinched slightly at the sound, but kept your posture. The target—an empty soda can balanced on a stump—spun off into the grass.

"Bullseye!" you gasped, bursting into a wide grin as you lowered the gun. Excitement rushed through you like a thrill you hadn’t expected. Your chest swelled with pride. "Leon, that was amazing! You're such a good teacher. Seriously. I actually hit something!"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then looked away, a deep flush creeping up from beneath his collar. "I—uh... thanks. Just... just doing my job."

"You're cute when you get all flustered," you said sweetly, tilting your head. You bit back a playful grin, watching his expression twitch like he was fighting the urge to smile.

He groaned softly, running a hand through his hair, his usual composure crumbling. "Don't say stuff like that when I'm trying to be professional."

You nudged him with your elbow. "Too late. You brought me out here to train, remember? You can’t expect me not to notice how hot you look holding a gun. All serious. All protective."

Leon’s ears turned red. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was grounding himself. "Lesson’s over. We’re going home."

You gasped dramatically, stepping in front of him. "Nooo! I was just getting good at this! I want to shoot at least two more cans!"

He sighed like a man who knew he’d already lost the argument. His shoulders dropped, but the smile pulling at his lips betrayed him. He looked at you—really looked—and you could see the fondness hiding behind his eyes. Like you were more than a trainee. More than a distraction.

He reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours so lightly it felt like a secret shared in silence. "Fine. One more round. But if you flirt again, I’m calling it."

You smirked, loading another round. "So… what happens if I shoot better than you next time?"

He raised an eyebrow, that confident edge slipping back into place. "Then you get to teach me. And I promise I’ll be a very flustered student."

"Oh, I’ll hold you to that," you replied, cocking the gun with mock seriousness. You added a playful wink. "Now step back, Agent Kennedy. Let the rookie show you how it’s done."

Leon chuckled under his breath, watching you take aim. And maybe—just maybe—he let you win the next round. Because when you turned around, grinning like you’d just conquered the world, his heart did something stupid. That blush? It only deepened. And for a moment, in that quiet field, all he could think was this: you were dangerous—but in the most beautiful way possible.

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a-most-beloved-fool · 2 months ago

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For the ask prompt game...

Spirk #17 to distract

"Report," Kirk ordered. The word buzzed low against Spock's ear, quiet and audibly tense.

"Less than two minutes until they reach our location, Captain," Spock replied promptly. "Commander Scott will need at least another eight before the transporter is operable again." His voice was equally hush, despite their perceived solitude. He had seen carelessness take far too many lives during his time in Starfleet; he would not allow it to take his captain as well - and, illogically, Spock could not quite dispense of the phantom sensation of eyes on the back of his neck.

"We'll need to bluff it," Kirk decided, looking grim.

His gaze was strangely intense against Spock, full of rioting emotion, and, almost, Spock wished to look away. He did not. Instead, he nodded, holding steady eye contact.

The odds, Spock knew, that Kirk's gambit - whatever it may be - would succeed were... poor. The guards had, after all, seen their faces. But Kirk would keep fighting right until the bitter end, and Spock, of course, would be right beside him.

Solemn, he vowed, "I shall follow your lead," though he knew Kirk would not have doubted it. Still, the unnecessary words were well worth the way the tension around Kirk's eyes melted away, the somber set of his mouth slipping instead into a golden-edged smile.

Almost wonderingly, a soft chuckle fell from those lips, incongruous in their surroundings and entirely treasured. "What would I do without you?" Kirk asked, reaching up to exert gentle pressure on Spock's bicep.

I pray you never need find out, Spock made to say, getting only so far as drawing in breath before the sound of distant footsteps drew them both from their quiet moment, snuffing the words before they could take shape. "Eighteen seconds," he said instead, after rapidly adjusting his calculations. Faster than anticipated.

Kirk nodded, some unreadable emotion hiding in the soft crease between his brows.

"Forgive me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said softly, and Spock did not have time to question what he meant before Kirk was pulling him down by his shirt, dragging their lips together with great urgency.

Quite suddenly, Spock found that his mind was entirely blank. Strange heat flickered through his whole form, and his universe narrowed to only Kirk, all soft and human-warm, who was pressed flush to his chest and kissing him.

One, then two seconds stuttered by in which Spock thought no thoughts at all, struck utterly motionless in the face of such unexpected attentions. He only felt, swept away by the sensation of pliant lips against his own and warm fingers stroking through his hair, gently mussing.

The very first thought to break to the surface was simply, Jim. A wave of emotion flooded in with it, astonishment and affection sweeping over him in such quantities that he felt nearly lightheaded.

The second was, We will be caught, and Spock jolted as something near to panic rose up inside his gullet, urging him to take Jim into his arms and run.

The third, however, was not his own; it was pressed into his katra from the outside by Jim's careful fingers, his clever mind slipping easily past Spock's shields. Play along, he said, projecting deliberate calm through their connection. Still, Jim was unpracticed in telepathic arts, and beneath that false serenity Spock could feel a tangle of guilt and determination, bitter and writhing.

The truth came to Spock in one fell swoop.

Jim's gambit... was this.

His lips and his hands, which pressed themselves so tenderly to Spock's skin, were not for him.

It was not love which had drawn his captain into his arms, but mere utility. Jim had realized what Spock had not: though they could not hide themselves, they could, perhaps, distract from themselves.

Two men attempting to look inconspicuous would only draw suspicion. Two men locked in a romantic embrace, however, may be overlooked - or even deliberately ignored. Few were comfortable with looking closely at the private passions of strangers, and fewer still would see reason to. Those searching for them, Spock hoped, would not. There would be no logic in halting an escape attempt solely for a kiss, after all.

Therefore, in order to escape unnoticed, they must be convincing.

They must seem, to any observers, to be completely and entirely immersed in one another, with no care for anything going on in their surroundings, and no fear of discovery.

Two lives, purchased with a kiss.

It was entirely logical, then, for Spock to part his lips, inviting Jim's tongue to dip inside of the wet cave of his mouth and meeting it with his own. If a groan rumbled deep within his chest, it could surely only help their cause; there was no need to swallow it down.

This disguise would, Spock observed as Jim's tongue flicked gently at his mouth, be far easier to maintain than it had any right to be.

It was a terribly simple matter for a man in love to behave as though he were a man in love.

The difficult part, then, would be remembering that it was a ruse. Already, heat bubbled deep within Spock, aching want suffusing his every neuron. Every faint brush of flesh sent golden tendrils of telepathic energy sparking across his skin, and it was all Spock could manage to hold himself back from pressing hungry fingers to Jim's meldpoints and sinking into that wonderfully enticing mind.

Instead, Spock slipped a hand beneath the hem of Jim's shirt, rucking up the cloth until he was tracing patterns across a smooth expanse of golden skin. He flexed his hand, allowing his nails to scratch carefully along Jim's spine, and did not permit himself to consider reaching upwards, to Jim's face - or worse: downwards, beyond the waistband of his pants.

He wondered if Jim would have chosen this, had he known how very much Spock wanted.

Perhaps it was selfish of Spock to allow it.

Still, he could not force himself away - not when Jim's life was at stake. The kiss was his lifeline, and so the kiss must remain.

The touch of their minds, however, did nothing to aid Jim. It was solely for Spock's benefit, taken from Jim without his knowledge or intent.

That, Spock could end.

If Jim was to unknowingly place himself into the hands of someone who wanted more than he would wish to give, then Spock would take it upon himself to be his protector - even if the one he must protect against was himself.

And so, Spock opened himself to every offered touch, and girded his mind against every stray thought, until not a single wisp of golden energy could find its way past his defenses.

When Jim's thigh nudged its way between Spock's legs, Spock spread his stance wider, allowing him to press closer, and did not let himself feel. His hands grasped and squeezed at the soft flesh beneath them, drawing quiet gasps from a pink-flushed throat, and no pleasant hum buzzed against his fingertips, carrying with it the flavor of human emotion. Jim nipped at his lips and pet at his hair, and Spock pressed every scrap of yearning deep down within himself to where they couldn't emerge.

Eyes closed and spirit aching, Spock kissed him.

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from this ask game

#WOW i have been slow about writing these again! um. sorry? it has been More Than A Month. (barely)#i also went waaaaay overboard again. someday i will learn how to be chill about things but today is evidently not that day.#this is perhaps not the INTENDED direction of the prompt (sorry) but it is in fact a distraction. just. not for either of them!#well. one Could argue that spock is getting quite distracted indeed. but that was somewhat incidental. Not Kirk's Intent.#star trek #star trek tos #tos #spirk #james t kirk #spock #k/s #ficlet #ask game #btw kirk is totally sitting there like 'i know spock can feel how in love with him i am. i hope i didn't destroy our friendship by saving #him but even at that cost it would be worth it. he can hate me as long as he's *alive* but also i don't want him to hate me :( .'#mutual idiocy as always!#i have two others to finish and (forgive me) i will try to be more normal about them and NOT make them anywhere near this long haha oops #because yeah this was. a bit unintentional length-wise. i got a little scrap of an idea and then it fucking BIT me and ran off #and i ever foolish decided to chase it #i... might? put this up on ao3 at some point? i DO think i'm more satisfied with it than i am with colorblind but.#i am shrimply a bit sad that i haven't actually finished any of my longer wips first. too slow and too distractable!#it's saurrr sad that my longest complete fic is less than 8000 words when i have MORE THAN ONE in-progress wip w/ more words than that.

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sincerely-sofie · 3 months ago

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I'm coining a new ship dynamic.

Toxic shared redemption arc.

"You tried to drag me to hell with you, to make me lose myself and all of my virtue that made me into who I am. You wanted to laugh at my tears. You wanted me to suffer like you do. All of that, and like a fool, I loved you still. You nearly got what you dreamed of, but I resisted. I fought. I gnawed through the strings attached to my heart. I clawed my way back up and seized happiness in my teeth, drank it up like a man lost in a desert, and I'll never let you take it from me. I'll never look back. I'm happy now. Yet like a fool, I miss the familiar anger, the sorrow, the hate. Like a fool, I miss you. Like a fool, I love you still."

VS.

"You were the one who got away, and yet I'm happy you're gone. You were so easy to manipulate I almost felt guilty (I didn't feel guilty. I don't feel guilty. I never will. You can't make me). You were so fun to play with and laugh at your tears that I found myself crying with something other than mirth. But you were the one who got away, and now you're back, wreathed in gold and light and halos, descended to hell in all your glory, and you want to take me home with you. You tell me I'm more than what I am (I know I'm nothing. Stop making me think otherwise). You tell me I'm worth something more than dust underfoot (I know I'm less than worthless. Stop making me hope otherwise). You tell me you forgive me (I don't feel guilty. Don't make me feel guilty). I hate you. I always hated you. Stop making me realize I never hated you and only ever despised what I saw in the mirror."

#An angel whose vengeance is mercy and a demon whose love is hatred.#trying to drag someone to hell only for them to come back better for it and looking to extend you the mercy you never offered them #ouaouaoughghhhh #shipping dynamics #ship dynamics #ship ideas #web-weaving #writing #writing ideas #writing concepts #writing prompt #writing prompt(s)#character dynamics #shipping #stuff by sofie

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hitlikehammers · 4 months ago

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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.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #post s4 #fluff #boys being absurd #(mostly just eddie)#unnecessary drama and angsting #(again: it’s eddie)#feelings confessions #getting together #eddie munsons’s A+++ plan to solve all his problems: AVOIDANCE! 🎉#problem being: falling in love with steve harrington #solution: avoiding steve harrington post-vecna at all costs #it’s FOOLPROOF #/s #(also: eddie is a first class fool so—this was fucked from the start)#SUCH EXTENSIVE DRAMATICS THOUGH #KING OF DRAMA!EDDIE #eddie putting some of his weirder knowledge-dumping skills on display #but steve’s unfazed; he knows his royal drama well #self confident steve harrington #(that boy didn’t take that you rule/you suck board in stride by NOT being a self-assured queen bitch at his core mmkay?)#stranger things #steddielovemonth #prompt: if I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more #hitlikehammers v words #hitlikehammers writes

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cvntoid · 3 months ago

Note

letting roman pretend you’re dead while he uses you as he pleases will always be on my mind. even naughtier if he’s an actual mortician 😳

He’s not in the family trade - not technically. Not really. Not… in the same way.

If he focuses on his family business being a right-wing news conglomerate and media/entertainment monopoly, then, no, he’s not. If he’s thinking strictly in the business of causing death, well… that’s a different story. He may not contribute to causing those deaths - no, definitely not. But death is his livelihood, day in, day out, as a mortician. And is there maybe a little give-and-take in his mind, justifying the way he benefits from his family name by actively trying to care for the dead and show them respect in some small way? Or is this all a carefully crafted ruse so he can play God in his own fucked-up little world, just him, just a bunch of semi-pliant, quiet bodies on slabs, all the tools and power in his hands?

Maybe that’s food for thought on a different day.

He skates his fingers down your shaking, cold body. Roman leaves his heater off almost always, even in the brutal winter, opting instead to bundle up in layers, in blankets when he can get away with it. He likes it cold. Likes feeling cold fingers and toes, likes it when you press them against his legs when you sleep over, when you spider your freezing fingers over his ribs. Makes him hard, unbelievably so. Aching.

Taking ice baths isn’t something you like doing. It hurts, it makes you panic and makes your lungs close up, and Roman’s there to keep you down by the shoulders when you struggle to stay in all that freezing water. He won’t let you up, even when you beg, even when you start doing those embarrassing, hiccuping sobs. Please let me out please let me out please it hurts please I can’t I can’t I can’t. Please. Please Roman please. You think every single time it’s not going to be as bad, that you’ll get used to it, and you never do. It doesn’t feel nice. It makes you want to escape, but Roman’s eyes get all glassy and focused and his pupils expand and it makes him so fucking hard, so weirdly intense, and nobody’s ever done this to you before. It’s fucked up. It’s just… part of the game. So he holds you down, forcefully, calmly. He never says much - he shushes you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he forces you to stay in the bath, til you’re skin’s glowing red and shaking, til your nipples are so fucking hard it’s painful.

He has a special table. A special room, in fact. It’s small, empty, just… that fucking table, some sleek metal cabinets, a rolling metal tray. A small freezer with a lock. Slick and minimalistic. A slab, you might call it.

And so he has you lie on the slab, cold and shaking, all the fight gone out of you. The game, the game. Staring up blankly at the ceiling while he runs his hands over your body, sometimes with latex gloves and sometimes without. It depends. This time he traces that black latex across your collarbones, traces a line down your sternum, down, down, so slowly, dipping into your navel before coming to a stop where you pubic hair begins, the shape of a long 'Y'. His shaky breath. The hint of a moan he swallows back. He slowly removes your jewelry, all of it.

“This is where you’d be cut open, if you needed an autopsy. I wonder how it would have happened - naturally? Some kind of accident, maybe…? Partied too hard, overdosed. Maybe… mmm, maybe taken to a secret place, used, strangled. Stabbed. I wonder what you’d prefer, hmm?”

No answer. Words aren’t allowed in this game, only his own. His breath hitches in his throat as he comes back up to touch your throat, practically shuddering.

“Wouldn’t blame somebody for wanting to own you like that. Wanting to immortalize you - the last thing you experience as a person, yeah? Your last desperate breaths, reduced to that and that only - their property, all theirs...” Roman reaches down to smooth a hand over his aching cock- fuck. He hisses and grinds against his own palm like that while you tremble on the table and stare up at the empty ceiling, a low pulse in your cunt as you lie exposed and vulnerable. “But that’s not my job. My job is to make your pretty, pretty body ready. After all that, you come to me, and I…”

Roman dances his fingertips up to your throat, pressing his fingers lovingly over your pulse. He strokes you there so lovingly, pressing to find your beating, racing pulse. The feeling of the glove is slick and makes you bite back a moan, taking a slow, gentle breath to steady yourself. God, you’re fucking wet. You can feel that pulse all through your core, so hot and racing inside where you’re so cold outside. Roman slides his free hand down and tucks those gloved fingers between the lips of your cunt, stroking at your clit, both hands mimicking each other. He waits to see if you can keep playing - it’s important not to react. You close your eyes, then, breathing slowly through your nose. It’s hard not to grind or buck your hips or even twitch them just a little, but you manage - you’ve had so much practice with him. He breathes a little laugh and hums, pressing harder against that butterfly-wing flutter under the thin flesh above your carotid, your jugular.

“Cut you here - just to get into the artery. Gotta bleed you dry, fill up all those gorgeous veins of yours with embalming chemicals. Gotta keep this body intact and prepared as long as possible, right? Keep it pretty. And, you know, sweetheart, I gotta - mmmmm, I’d massage every single inch of you. You’d come in stiff, but I’d rub you pliant again. Every inch, every limb, all mine. I’d know every single part of you, touch it, take care of it. You wouldn’t be you, of course… you’d just be mine. My own doll. But even in death, I’d treat you with care, precision, and - you know," he moans, "lips are still soft. They can be made to feel natural as ever, did you know that?”

Roman leans down, and you can feel his body heat as he brushes his lips against yours. You don’t react as he kisses you so tenderly, staying limp and slightly parted for him. He moans openly now, licking at them, pressing kiss after heated kiss against your motionless mouth. His fingers find a new home inside your cunt, where your muscles involuntarily retract against him there, where he massages your g-spot so tenderly you could cry. Staying motionless this long makes your heart beat out of your chest. It’s almost claustrophobic, and is this really what it feels like? A little, in some way? Motionless, at the mercy of your environment, unable to speak or move or provide any input?

You almost gasp as he leaves your side to bring it out - a glass toy, kept in a special freezer where he keeps many these things. Long, smooth, so fucking cold as he slides it against your willing flesh. You’re wet. It slips over your lips, over your clit, chilling your core before he finally works it slowly in and out of you. It’s not for your pleasure; it’s to keep you as cold as he can get you, even inside. He must be close. If you dared open your eyes, you know you’d see him fisting his cock in the other hand, and if you listen you can hear it - his accelerated breaths, hitched and soft, the wet, fleshy sound of him jerking himself off as he stares at you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, trailing his fingers down your belly. He stops above your navel again, pressing against your skin. “And - a-and here,” he gasps, “slice you open. Just a little, honey. Just enough to work the trocar inside. Slide it nice and slow, gotta - ohh, gotta aspirate you. Gotta disinfect those soft organs, make sure they - they keep.”

He works the toy in and out of you, slowly, grinding it against that spot. Fuck, oh fuck - he makes it so fucking hard on you, but you’re playing along so nicely. His breathing; you could cum from that alone, cunt throbbing as he stokes that secret little fire in your guts, so bright and alive where everything else feels so cold.

“Stitch you back up nice and fuckin’ tight. Wash your body. Perfect, so fucking still and perfect for me. The ultimate act of worship, you know that? Being the one to completely and utterly take you, to prepare you from the inside out, all for me. All mine, just mine alone, nothing else but your quiet, pliant body under mine, all fuckin’ clean and limp and serene.”

Roman pulls the toy out a little too quickly, but you’re prepared for this part. He grunts as he digs his hands gingerly into the flesh of your hips, your waist, slowly pulling you down the table until your legs hang limply off the edge, bent, dangling. Lifeless. He lowers the table with a pedal and he’s got your pretty pussy scooted at the edge, thighs spread, and he can’t wait any more. Gasping for breath, he lines his cock up and slowly pushes himself inside. He takes his time here, working himself in and out inch by agonizing inch, moaning so loudly you think he might blow his load right away. But he’s patient. He’s careful, he’s focused. He finally works himself all the way inside and you can’t help it - you have to peek as he runs his hands over your body. He’s got his head thrown back, black gloves crawling over your belly, digging into the meat of your inner thigh as he fully seats himself inside and releases the most erotic groan you’ve ever heard in your life. Before he can lower his head again, you close your eyes, still, being nothing for him. Being meat. Being dead.

He continues like this, thrusting into your lifeless, useless body - your corpse - and he whines. He gasps and worships you, squeezing the pliant flesh over your hips, thighs, belly, breasts, reaching up to hook his fingers sooo softly between your lips against your limp tongue, rubbing it just a little, the edges of your teeth against his skin. It's here that he shudders and fucks harder, meaner. It's always the last moment that it happens.

Roman, your living, breathing god, fucking his cock deeper and deeper, daring you to make a noise. Dead girls can't say no. Dead girls won't struggle, won't let him do what he needs to do. And you don't. It doesn't matter that it hurts, that it's hard to stay so slack and unresponsive when you're this close to cumming, but you do. One of your legs hinges a little funny and it hurts, a cramp starts burning in your hip, but you ignore it.

"Oh - oh fuck - yeah, you... mmm, mine, mine, mine..." Roman's hips stutter with his moans and he's filling you up, big cock pulsing into you, filling you with his molten cum, spurting life into your (dead) body. He works quickly - he pulls out barely after his orgasm, shoving his fingers back into you as he fastens his lips over your clit. Licking, moaning, lapping, fucking himself knuckle-deep to bring you off.

And you do. Fuck, yeah, you do - finally then, spine arching up, like you're coming back. Moaning. Whining, clutching the edge of the cold table, coming undone on his tongue before his dick's done twitching.

Roman laps at you way past your orgasm - he likes you like that. Slow, pathetic, barely moving. A victim to his pleasure. It's proof- look how much you like it, look how much he owns you. You want to be his dead little girl. You want it.

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