#i think its winter leftovers but im not complaining

[kraniumet]

Lidl hot tip get JD gross creme brulee while it's hot 🔥

[hotluncheddie]

So very much on the same page, and I can’t stop thinking about it either. So, uh, here’s this? I guess?

- - - - -

Usually, Eddie sticks to ice cream. He can squirrel plenty away from his job at Scoops—it can’t be called stealing if they’re just going to throw it away. 

But the store has recently expanded into decadent brownie sundaes, and there are whole trays going to waste, and Eddie can’t stand it. 

So more often than not lately, at home, after dinner and after Wayne has gone to bed, he smokes up and brings out the latest shift’s stash of liberated baked goods along with the last scrapes from a handful of different ice cream tubs. A plate for the former, a bowl for the latter, and one big spoon. He indulges in his high and his sweet tooth at the same time, slipping into the pleasant, hazy space of bite after bite after bite. The way his teeth sink into fudge brownie, just this side of stale but he’s found he can’t taste that difference much if he just nukes them in the microwave real quick. The way they’re *warm* after the microwave, heating up his mouth after the ice cream, making the next spoonful melt across his tongue, the mix of dripping cream and firm chocolatey goodness filling his mouth, filling him up. The way, after a few minutes, he can unbutton his jeans and the zipper takes care of itself, easing down with the swell of his belly like a sigh of relief. Of letting go. 

In those moments, he lets himself think of Steve. The one kiss they’d shared before the government had hustled Eddie and Wayne away in the night, no warning to them or anyone else before it happened. He lets himself imagine that it’s Steve pulling the zipper down, letting him breathe, letting Eddie shape his own image now that he’s not allowed to grow his hair out anymore. 

He traces the stretch marks that accompany his scars—marks that he chose for himself, not that anyone ever sees. There’s really only one guy for him, and, well… Eddie’s never found out what the government goons told his old friends, the monster hunters *or* the Corroded Coffin guys, but he figures the only two possible options are “dead” or “ditched you.” No way to come back from that, either way. So he contents himself with the Steve in his imagination because the real one will never see him again, will never have an opinion on his new curves or the red lines decorating his belly and thighs, good or bad. He never has to worry about that. 

Eddie eats another brownie, followed quickly by another spoonful ice cream, lets it melt and mix in as he chews. He swallows, letting his still crumb-dusted hand trace lightly over the sliver of belly that peeks out beneath a t-shirt that used to hang off him. Shivers, because the skin there is getting so deliciously sensitive. 

There are a few more brownies to go, and more than enough ice cream to accompany them. He picks up another, still warm. (The nice thing about the weed is that it usually lets him power through without needing to get up for a second round in the microwave.) In his imagination, Steve reminds him that he’s earned this after all the shit he’s endured and helps him shift so his jeans zipper won’t pinch as he continues to relax. 

And Eddie takes another bite. 

anon... i think im in love with u... this is too much... i don't know what to say

i think i need to run around naked in the moonlight to deal with my feelings about this.

i love how u write

the brownie sundays were the higher ups idea to boost business during the holidays. remind people that ice-cream wasn't just a summer thing.

eddie wasn't complaining, until he had to make the thing and it took ages. oh well, works work, and while its decently popular there's always leftovers. leftovers with the shortest shelf life in the store.

the tail end of winter and soon to be end of the brownie special is what made eddie really check in with where his body was sitting, without the bliss filled haze of his evening routine. his nights spent indulging in his sweet tooth, in his fantasies of steve, in the feelings the two mixed together stirred in his gut. it's heady and addictive, eddie doesn't want to stop. but the waistband of his shorts was quickly loosing its battle agains the sensitive skin of his pink streaked and scarred, stomach and hips.

eddie huffed, just managing to make the flaps meet. he strokes his fingers lightly over the skin of his underbelly. shivers, at how much he's changed.

eddie seems to take more notice his body that shift. he feels the bite of the seatbelt once he gets into his van, different than before. there’s a cool gust of air on the underside of his stomach when he reaches up to grab something from the top shelf of the supply cupboard. while he’s on his break he feels, for the first time, how his belly has just started to sit in his lap, how his thighs spread and fill up the chair.

he planned, like he does some days, to not take back whatever leftover there are. resist and start fresh, turn over a new leaf. fit back into his shorts.

but there are two full trays of brownie about to go to waste. and a selection of tub dregs that almost fill up half way when piled together.

he stows it all safely in the passenger seat.

wayne’s out till late with some work buddies and eddie has tomorrow off. the place to himself. he sits at the little kitchen table still in his work clothes, makes himself dinner like normal. then sets the first heated up try of brownie in front of himself. he imagines steve on the other side of the table. how he might be asking about his day, eddie would like to know about his. would he hold eddies hand across the tabletop? probably, if he asked.

he digs in, alternating between gooey chocolate and cool ice cream. without the haze of weed he feel the full force of its sweetness. halfway through he shifts, feels how the desert sits in his stomach. feels, more intensely than this morning, the pinch of his shorts. he attempts getting a finger between the waistband and the underside of his hip, but there no hope of getting it in. he takes another few bites of brownie, then ice cream, then brownie and walks his fingers lightly down the swell of his gut. he shivers, wonders what steve would say looking at him now, whether his eyes would darken, whether he would walk his own fingers across eddies stomach.

he signs again, brownie finished.

getting up, eddie loads up the microwave with the next batch and heads to his room to make this evening feel a bit more normal again.

spliff dangling from his lips he looks at himself in the mirror, undoing the button on his uniform and watching the zipper pull apart on its own. he lights up and pulls at his shorts, fascinated by the red lines left by his waistband. he traces them idly and inhales deep. his eyes roaming his now full stomach, pushing out agains the fabric, how the indent of his belly button is just visible. he traces that too, skims his fingers upward, over his nipple and bigger pec, up to take the splif from him mouth and exhale.

would anyone from hawkins still recognise him like this? he likes to think they would. his hairs shorter but he didn't have to dye it. same eyes, same mouth, his cheeks look a little rounder but, same face. same face that steve kissed, once, might kiss again, given the chance.

eddie would, given the chance.

he's starting to feels the blunt, hears the microwave beep. good, he's craving ice cream.

[vicekings]

Blind Eye Blaze

Brynden/Ben fic i promised lol. ~1750 words, nothing really explicit about it.

if you’ve got eye issues and struggle with reading it on my theme, here’s a link to the google doc copy of it

dunno if im gonna put it on ao3 yet we’ll see.

note: bryn’s just gonna be referred to as the Playa for most of the fic, but it is 100% bryn lol. takes place during sr1 after Ben is rescued from the VK coup and up until the boat explosion. 

The “Playa’s” apartment was comfortable, if not exactly homey. It was quiet most of the time, with the owner absent and Ben left alone. It felt much more like an abandoned military outpost than an apartment. The place felt… empty.

Ben vaguely wondered how the Playa trusted him purely on Julius’s word (if he even did trust him, really) enough to leave him alone in the apartment. Trusted him enough to let Ben take his bed and sleep on the couch instead, at least. Trusted him not to leave, as the lock on the door had been broken long before Ben took up residency and remained broken even now. The Playa didn't have much in the apartment worth stealing, he supposed.

He supposed, and didn't complain. The Playa made him breakfast. The Playa made sure the bathroom door locked. The Playa gave him his space. The Playa brought back takeout and didn't interrupt him.

He was good.

“The best friend I've had in long damn while.” Ben had said over lukewarm chicken fried rice one evening.

“And I don't even know your goddamn name.”

The Playa smirked and cocked his head aside, silver eyes twinkling in the dim light. As per usual, he offered no reply. He poked at his food.

---

Ben found the Playa’s leftovers in the fridge the next morning; barely touched. The styrofoam box sat right beside the almost-empty bottle of scotch. On the shelf above sat Ben’s lunch, with a note from the playa in deceptively elegant script, asking him to put the clothes in the wash and letting him know that the “lift” was out. There was money on the counter for Ben to buy pizza with. If he wanted delivery, he'd have to go downstairs and pick it up.

Judging from the increasing cracks in the windows and the Playa’s already proven cooking proficiency, Ben figured the money could be better used on other things.

He bought pizza anyways. They shared it over the last dregs of scotch and shitty beer.

“If you didn't waste cash on pizza and booze, you might be able to afford to fix those windows.” Ben said casually, just barely watching the shitty hallmark movie on the old box TV.  

The Playa snorted.

The woman in the movie grew visibly angry. “This is not a home!” She snapped. “This is not my home!” Her fiery red hair was whipped around by the fierce winds of winter.

Ben didn't quite know why, but he chuckled. The Playa did too.

“Her dye job is almost as bad as yours.” Ben laughed.

Something sparked in the Playa's eyes. It almost looked like fear. The glimmer of it lasted a breath, then left as fast as it had come. Had Ben been looking, he might've noticed. When he finally did look up, the Playa had pulled his hood up over his greasy black locks. Ben stomped down the whim to ask him when the last time he had showered was.

---

The Playa showered the next day, though Ben suspected he wouldn't have if not for the sudden and overwhelming smell of gasoline and rotting fish that lingered on him and his clothing. When the playa emerged from the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel, his greasy black hair had changed back to a blood red. So blood red that Ben had felt a brief moment of panic smack into him like a train at the sight of it. Only when the Playa shook out his shaggy mop of hair did Ben feel his heart rate drift back to normal.

“You'll need a new dye kit.” Ben observed.

The Playa glanced up at him with the eyes of a kicked puppy and then nodded cautiously.

“Relax, Lisbeth Salander. I won't tell anyone your dirty little secret.” Ben chuckled.

The Playa cracked a smile, and pointed towards the first aid kit on the counter. Ben handed it over, noticing the gash on the Playa’s stomach for the first time as he did so.

---

If Julius was going to send Ben to the doghouse for weeks over a little bullet wound, then of course it made sense he'd send the Playa back too for the knife wound. Ben never considered that the Playa might've made the choice on his own. This was, after all, the man who had taken on a daredevil mission to save a gang leader with only a motorbike and a handgun. He had to be advised once in awhile.

While the Playa was in the bathroom re-dyeing his hair, his cell phone lit up with a text.

Julius: Where are you?

Five minutes later, the Playa’s cell phone rang. Ben picked up.

“He's recovering, Jules. Give him a day. Yeah, knife wound, I think. He's fine. I'll let him know you called.”

This was also the man who had thrown him on Johnny Gat’s desk and successfully patched him up on his own, no hospital required. Perhaps he didn't need advice after all.

---

Ben's newest friendship was built on beer and shitty Hallmark movies. He supposed there were worse ways to make friends. He supposed that spicing things up and watching melodramatic hospital shows with his new friend counted as developing their relationship. For two days while the Playa rested, that’s all the two of them did.

That's all Ben did.

The Playa read, mostly when Ben was asleep. Ben wasn't sure the Playa slept at all, but then again Ben wasn't sure about much when it came to the Playa. What he did know was that when he woke up, the bookmark had gotten closer to the end of the novel.

When the Playa left again, his copy of Dorian Gray was tucked neatly on the DVD shelf filled mostly with other tattered books.

---

Ben woke up shaking. He hadn't done that in a long time. As he caught his breath, the warm hand against his back almost made him lose it again.

The Playa looked him with concern in his eyes. “We can start tomorrow.” He said, in the gravelly tone that was rarely heard and barely sounded right on his tongue. “You've healed up enough.”

“What about you?” Ben asked, still shuddering.

Snorting, the Playa shrugged. He offered up the glass of water from the end table.

---

On the last night Ben spent at the Playa’s apartment, they had homemade pasta and cheap boxed wine. Ben went to bed early, only feeling slightly guilty that he had displaced the Playa from his bed for three weeks.

With the sound of spraying water from the shower came the rise of a soft voice. At 2:01 in the morning, unable to sleep and sparking with nerves, Ben pondered the irony of a man who never spoke but sounded like an absolute angel when he sang.  

---

Standing at the shattered glass and looking down, Ben felt a sigh settle in his soul. With Tanya fell his empire. With his car Kingdom Come burned.

The Playa placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. Ben always forgot how tall he was until the Playa stood directly behind him, at perfect height for Ben to tuck his head against his collarbone. Ben stepped away, and fished his keys from his pocket.

“I don't have much use for it now. Get her patched up, send her to the dump, I don't really give a damn.” Ben shrugged. “Thanks, Playa. For everything.”

“I'll get her fixed.” The Playa replied, the gravelly wrong-voice dropped and replaced with a distinctly smoother and much more Irish voice.

“And it’s Brynden. The name.”

Ben paused until the silence between them became as awkward as a middle school dance.

“... What the fuck kind of name is Brynden?”

The Playa’s silver eyes glinted with the reflection of the fire. He offered a grin. “‘S my name.” He said.

“... Oh.”

“And-” the Pl- Brynden dug into his jean pockets and pulled out his own key. “Something in return. In case you ever need to lay low again. Don't be a stranger.”

Ben cocked his head aside. “So now you get the lock fixed?”

Brynden shrugged. “Until it breaks again. Best of luck to ya, Mr King. It was a pleasure.”

He trotted off into the night, carrying himself much more regally than usually.

---

No one else knew his name. The papers called him a gang member. The ladies at the coffee shop called him “a handsome devil, likely not so much though after that.” Ben called him Brynden, and Brynden was as good as dead.

Ben choked on his coffee and spat it out against the paper. He had to toss it out and nab a new one. A new one confirming he hadn't been seeing things. There on the front cover, a story that froze Ben to the core.

Alderman Hughes Dead In Tragic Boat Accident. Full story on page 4.

Brynden was a second thought, a barely mentioned nobody who died and was in critical care in the Stilwater Prison. He was the probable perpetrator, caught in his own plot.

But his grainy little picture, said to have come from a “friend” showed unmistakable silver eyes and a trademark horrendous dye job.

Ben threw the newspaper in the nearest trash bin.

---

The Playa's apartment sat as still as it had in all the time Ben had stayed there; the eerie quiet of the rooms even more noticeable with the lack of the Playa’s presence.

The lack of Brynden’s presence.

Ben exhaled shakily and sat back on the worn leather couch. He shook his head and took in the empty living room, ran his eyes over the box TV and the cracks in the walls and the books-

One was missing from the shelf. The others had slipped down in its absence. Ben found the missing text in the kitchenette, bookmarked and already gathering dust.

On the bookmarked page, a passage from a poem was highlighted in neon yellow.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.