#ficlet ask thing

[catgrandpa]

Gotham has always been weird, so when the groundskeeper at the cemetery noticed the Wayne kid’s plot was disturbed, he just chalked it up to more of the same ol’. Alright, so ‘disturbed’ may be a tad too light of a word, but what’s an empty grave in the grand scheme of Gotham? God knows in a city like this one, they could use all the burial room they could get. He figured he’d just jot it down on the website and hope nobody noticed for a while.

Too bad he didn’t account for the 13 year old boy in Bristol who periodically checks the cemetery’s website when he’s feeling particularly lonely.

Plot Removed.

Tim Drake stared at the two words under the heading for Jason Todd’s plot number. Removed? What do they mean ‘removed’? They can’t just remove a plot? That’s a person down there! That’s Robin down there! You can’t Remove Robin!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Assess the situation.

Robin has been dead for 5 months and 14 days. There is no reason for a grave to be removed that early, especially one of a member of such an affluential family. Chances are likely it’s a simple clerical issue. He can call first thing in the morning and make them aware of the mistake. He can have it all fixed in 5 hours.

Just a phone call.

In 5 hours.

…

Tim hates talking on the phone almost as much as he hates waiting.

Well it won’t be the first time he’s snuck out to head to Gotham proper at 1am. It can’t even really be considered sneaking out if there’s no one home to catch you.

Buses stop running at 2, so he layers a couple sweaters under his coat and grabs his best running sneakers so he can comfortably make the trek back.

Just a quick trip to settle his nerves. Maybe get a few shots in if he spots Batman, but really he just wants to see with his own two eyes that things are okay and Jason can rest.

It’s 1:37 by the time he gets to the headstone reading ‘Here Lies Jason Todd’ and the gaping, muddy pit in front of it.

This- This doesn’t make any sense. This is not removal. This is destruction. Desecration. Somebody did this. Somebody-

Assess the situation.

A hole in the ground, approximately 1.5 feet in diameter.

Mud and grass flung outward but with little force.

Large chunks of earth turned over and shoved away.

No signs of tool marks or clean lines of entry into the dirt.

Dragging claw marks.

Staggering, shuffled pairs of foot prints in the mud.

A trail of dirt.

Something… Something large clawed its way out of the ground here. Something large and bipedal and- and humanoid.

Tim refuses to jump to any conclusions he can see all the facts laid in front of him. He’s going to cautiously follow the trail and simply hope to any god listening that he isn’t the world’s first line of defense against the zombie apocalypse.

He’s been walking for 23 minutes and there’s good news and undecided news. Good news: he’s closing in on the target and the trail isn’t taking him out of the way so his trip home won’t be prolonged. Undecided news: The potential Zombie Robin is heading directly for Wayne Manor.

As zombie apocalypse news, this is very bad. From Tim’s collected observational evidence, his not-so-professional opinion is that Batman, faced with a horror movie level zombie of his dead son, would not respond well, and would likely not fight back.

In Batman and Robin news? Tim’s unsure. If Jason is simply back? What could that mean for them? Batman can have his Robin. He wouldn’t have to continue nearly killing others and himself every night in his grief. Jason could-

No. Stop. Do not jump to conclusions.

Hope only brings heartbreak.

What would Batman do? Get close and see if the target is a threat.

Target is male. Mid-teens. Dark hair. Pale skin. Leaning against surfaces as he walks. Appears injured and disoriented.

Minimal risk assessed. Approaching and attempting contact.

Target identity confirmed: Jason Todd.

“J-Jason?” It comes out as a croaked whisper. Jason shows no sign of acknowledgment.

Tim clears his throat, steps right in front of his path, and tries again.

“Jason. Jason, stop I want to help you.” Still nothing.

“Please, Jason. I can help, I promise I can help!”

Why isn’t this working?! Why can’t he just do something right for once?! He wants this to work, he wants to help Bruce, he wants to fix Batman, he wants to not be alone, he wants-

“Robin!”

Robin jerks to a stop.

Tim reached out his hand.

“Robin. Robin please, I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really scary, I’m really scared. But I just want to help you. Help you find Batman. Help you get home.”

Jason just stares at him. Of course he does. Of course it’s not going to work. Why did he even bother hoping he could help?

Hope only brings heartbreak.

His sight blurs as his eyes fill with tears and he starts to lower his outstretched hand.

His arm is slowed as a cold hand weakly grasps his own.

“Don’t… scared… Bat… help… Dad… help.”

A relieved sob tears out from Tim’s chest and he gathers himself together. He yanks his extra sweater off and gently pulls it over Jason’s cold shoulders. Jason lets Tim drag his arm over his shoulders to try and carry some of his weight.

“Okay, Robin. Yeah. Your dad will help us.”

Batman will solve everything once Tim gets Robin home.

[shushmal]

from @skepsiss: Steddie (obviously), prompt = one of them is trying to convince the other to go to the hospital for a minor thing (needs stitches from a fall, stomach bug).

"Stevie, please."

"Oh my god," Steve sighs, wrapping the gauze tight around his hand. It blooms red with blood. "It's fine, Ed."

"It really isn't." Eddie is a little pale when Steve looks up to glare at him. "Steve, please baby, I saw the bones in your hand."

"You're being dramatic."

"See," Eddie whines, high pitched and panicked. "I do understand why you're saying that. I know this is a case of boy who cried wolf. But I am begging you here. Please, let me drive you to the hospital."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "It wasn't that deep, I promise you."

"Steve."

"Ed—"

And then Eddie does this thing—where he pulls himself up to his full height, crowding up into Steve's space, until they're nose to nose, his eyes wide and intense—and it shuts Steve up every time. It's stupid, and horribly embarrassing, but it works and Eddie uses it to his advantage, pressing Steve into the edge of the counter and boxing him in, his hands tights against Steve's hips.

"Steve," he says, low and serious. "You can bitch at me all you want in the car, but I'm taking you to the hospital. Okay?"

"Okay," Steve says, against his will, face burning as Eddie pulls away. As soon as he has breathing room to think, he scowls at him. "But if I don't need stitches, you're on the hook to do dishes for the next month."

Eddie doesn't even grimace—he hates doing dishes—and gently starts herding Steve out the door. "You got it, honey," he says, distractedly. His face turns green when a line of blood drips down Steve's wrist from beneath the bandage. "Whatever you say."

Steve ends up getting 15 stitches. Eddie's stuck doing the dishes until it heals anyways.

[sidekick-hero]

I can't stop thinking of Eddie as Cyrano de Bergerac.

He's in the drama club, he's known for his way with words, his ability to bring whole worlds to life with them. Few people know that he also writes poetry, poems about love and loss, society and justice, whatever comes to his mind. Many of them are about a mysterious person with gold-flecked eyes and autumn hair, constellations on his skin, and the sun in his heart.

Eddie guards his notebook full of poems like a dragon guards his hoard of gold. And yet.

And yet Susie Bowers finds it where it fell out of his pocket when that asshole Tommy Hagan pushed him against the lockers. She reads it and realizes how devastatingly beautiful Eddie's words are.

It makes her think… think about her crush on Steve Harrington, the fallen king who is still the most eligible bachelor at Hawkins High. Especially since he refuses to just take girls home to fuck them. No, he wants to date. He wants to fall in love. It's catnip for everyone, but at the same time so frustrating because no girl has managed to catch his eye yet.

Maybe this little notebook is her ticket to a relationship with Steve Harrington.

She approaches Eddie and shows him the notebook, pulling it out of his reach as he attempts to grab it. She offers him a deal: she won't spread copies of all his cute little writings all over the school, exposing his deepest secrets for everyone to see and ridicule. In exchange, Eddie will help her sweet-talk Steve Harrington.

Eddie agrees and writes love letters to the boy he's been in love with ever since he found him drunk and depressed on the side of the road after his girlfriend dumped him. He had taken him home, listened to him ramble on about what he had done wrong, why no one would want to love him, and then put Steve to bed and watched him sleep until morning to make sure he was okay.

He left before Steve woke up, and the next time they saw each other at school, Steve didn't even look at him. It had broken his heart and inspired most of his poems, because nothing inspires like heartbreak.

And now Eddie can tell Steve all the things he thinks and feels about him - just to make it seem like it's written by Susie.

It seems to work, because Steve replies to her letters. His replies are simpler, less lyrical, but just as earnest. His words are sweet, and he's funny and thoughtful.

He's everything Eddie knew he was going to be. And Susie couldn't care less, she just wants to go out with him, have him take her home, have everyone know that she's Steve Harrington's girlfriend.

They go out. After a dozen letters, he gives in and asks her out.

Eddie cries himself to sleep that night.

Someone knocks on his bedroom window. Confused and a bit nervous, because he doesn't have only friends in this town, far from it, he goes to open it.

And finds Steve Harrington standing right outside his window.

"What -"

"Did you mean them?" Steve asks and he can't tell from his tone what he's thinking.

"What?"

"Your letters, did you mean what you wrote or did you just write down what you thought I wanted to hear so I'd go out with Susie?"

His tone doesn't really change, but Eddie can see his eyes shining in the dim light coming from his bedroom. He looks upset, and Eddie wants to fix it, but he doesn't know what answer would do that.

So he chooses the truth. "Yes. I meant every single word I wrote in those letters."

"Then why didn't you send them under your own name?" When did Steve get so close? And why is the window sill digging into his stomach?

At Steve's question, Eddie can't help but laugh bitterly. "Did you look at me, Steve? I'm the town freak! A fuckup. Trailer trash. A small-time drug dealer who failed his senior year. Why would anybody - why would you want to get love letters from me?"

Steve nods, not saying a word as he turns and walks away. And okay, he deserves it, he guesses. Hanging his head in defeat, he shuffles away from the window and face plants on his bed, letting fresh tears fall from his eyes.

Until there's another knock, this time at his front door.

He's out of bed in record time, almost breaking his neck in his haste to get to the door. It can't be - it's impossible that this is -

Steve is standing on his front porch, looking devastatingly handsome in his light-washed Levi's and red sweater. His date outfit.

He walks up to him before Eddie can say anything and cups his cheek.

"I've been looking at you, Eddie. All I've done since the night you brought me home and listened to me and took care of me, I've been looking at you. Looking and waiting. Hoping. Wanting you to give me a sign, any sign, that it wasn't just chivalry that made you do this, but the fact that you cared. About me. But you never did."

"Steve," Eddie whispers, but Steve isn't finished.

"And then I get these letters, and all the words, they sound like you. I couldn't be sure, not until I read the line, 'You deserve someone who wants to love you, all of you, the good and the bad and everything in between. I want to be that person. I want to love you.' You're the only one I've ever said that to. I knew it had to be you."

"But why? Why go out with Susie?"

"Because I had to be absolutely sure that it wasn't Susie. And after ten minutes with her, I was. I drove around until I couldn't… I had to talk to you. To see if you mean it. If you want to love me."

Eddie kisses him.

There's nothing else on his mind but the need to finally kiss the boy he's been in love with for almost a year.

Steve kisses him back, soft, tender, then deeper, dirtier.

When they pull apart, both gasping, Eddie leans in closer because his next words are meant for him and Steve and no one else.

"I want to love you long after my body crumbles to dust and my soul finds yours in the afterlife. I want to love you as the ocean does the moon, forever bound, forever following its call, until the end of time."

[diazsdimples]

Buddie + "I love you, but I've never been this angry with anyone than I am with you right now" or smth like that

"I love you, but I've never been this angry with anyone like I am with you right now," Eddie fumes as he checks over Buck's injuries.

They're fairly minor - a split lip and a cut above his left eyebrow that slopes into his birthmark, and there's a few scrapes on his forearm, but that doesn't stop the anger, the fear that's bubbling in Eddie's stomach right now.

"C'mon Eds, I'm fine," Buck mumbles as he tries to dodge Eddie's fussing hands. His head throbs at the sharp movement and he winces. " 'S just a scratch."

"It's seven scratches," Eddie counters as he finishes the catalogue of Buck's injuries. "And you've probably got a concussion."

Eddie pinches between his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. It's not like this is a surprise; Buck's never been one to think through his actions to the logical conclusion, being more of the "act first, think later" type, but Eddie wishes that for once, the man would engage his brain before throwing himself headfirst into a burning building, chasing after a drunk driver on a tiny bicycle, or climbing a tree to fish out the frisbee Christopher had lost moments earlier.

Buck pushes himself up onto his elbows, surveying the broken twigs and leaves that litter the ground around him. The branch that had snapped beneath his weight lies about a foot to his left, and Eddie can see the porous insides, the wood rotten and crumbling. It's any wonder Buck tumbled out of the tree like a kitten learning to climb - that branch would have given way the second he put his weight on it.

"Probably should have checked the branches as I was coming down," Buck says with a strained chucked, his attempt at lightening the mood with humour falling flat when Eddie doesn't respond, his jaw ticking cause yeah, Buck really fucking should have been more careful.

Buck's face falls as he sees Eddie's tight expression.

"A-are you really that mad at me?"

Eddie softens. He's not mad, exactly. His fear and panic often manifests itself as anger, and when Buck had come barrelling out of that tree, crashing to the ground with enough force it could have registered on the Richter Scale, his heart had leapt to his throat.

"I'm not mad," he says gently, and the tension in Buck's shoulders disappears. He reaches out to touch Buck's face, thumb stroking over a thankfully unscathed cheekbone. "I just...you scared me, that's all."

Eddie can feel the weight of Buck's stare, can hear his heartbeat loud in his ears, and then Buck is smiling softly, the look on his face so gentle that it takes Eddie's breath away.

"You don't have to worry about me," he reassures Eddie, turning his face into his boyfriend's hand and kissing his palm.

Eddie can't help the disbelieving snort that leaves his mouth.

"Buck, you choked on bread so hard you nearly died, you've been crushed under a ladder truck, you had a pulmonary embolism and then got washed up by a tsunami, and you've been struck by lightening. You get into trouble more often than not."

Buck laughs, the sound warm and sweet, and Eddie wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him better, to seal up his wounds with his lips, to kiss away the pain and promise to always be there with him when he hurts.

"Well, when you put it like that..."

Buck's eyes sparkle and his lips are so soft, and Eddie doesn't have it in him to stop himself anymore.

The kiss is light and barely there, but Buck's lips are so warm and pliant against his own, and his heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. He can feel the stubble on Buck's chin against his skin, can smell the sharp scent of the lemon bodywash Buck loves to use, and when Buck sighs against him, Eddie feels it down to his toes. There's a slight wince as Eddie presses over the cut on Buck's lip and he pulls away, resting their foreheads together.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again, licking his lips. He tastes the slightest tang of metal - blood, from Buck's lip - and it sets his teeth on edge.

"Baby, I'm fine. Promise."

Buck leans forward and presses another, far gentler kiss to Eddie's lips.

"Now, can you help me up, please? It's cold down here."

Eddie rolls his eyes but complies nonetheless. He takes Buck's wrist and hauls him to his feet, and is about to drag him inside when Buck sways against him, the blood draining from his face so fast Eddie's surprised he doesn't pass out immediately.

"Sweetheart? Are you okay?" he asks, grasping Buck under the arm as he swallows thickly, his knuckles turning white as he clings onto Eddie's forearm.

"You know what?" Buck says as he suppresses a gag, "M-maybe I should go get checked out."

"You think? C'mon, let's get you in the car."

Eddie at least has the common sense to grab an ice cream container before he ushers Buck out the front door, making fast tracks towards the ER.

[steddieasitgoes]

When The Buzzer Sounds | A Steddie Big Bang Fic | Coming Soon

Written by: Steddieasitgoes | Art by: @hellfiredemon

Steve's so engrossed in his conversation with Eddie he doesn’t notice the change in music or the enthusiastic cheers of the people around him as they shift their gaze from the court up to the giant Jumbotron above. In fact, it isn’t until Robin is jabbing her own boney elbow into his ribs does he stop talking to asses what the hell is going on. A move he immediately regrets when he realizes what has nearly 20,000 eyes focused on the oversized screens.  The Kiss Cam.  The cameraman stands a few yards away from them, feet solidly on the court with no urgency to move on until he gets what he wants. This isn’t the first time this has happened to them. And it certainly won’t be the last. Whenever they’re in public they’re always SteveandRobin so inseparable they must be dating.  He’s prepared to see his and Robin’s freckled face projected up on the Jumbotron. To give into the routine they have down pact — Robin’s playful retching, Steve’s bewildered shake of his head, the two of them both mouthing “we’re siblings” because it works better than trying to explain their platonic soulmate-ism to a stadium that can’t hear them. Though, maybe this time Robin will go off script and announce that she’s a lesbian — if only because a familiar blonde has returned to the court.  But it’s not their freckled faces that grace him when he looks up. It’s his face, yes. Perfectly combed and styled hair, a smattering of moles, and hazel eyes a little wider than usual staring back at him. But it’s the face to his left that shocks him. Unruly curls frame a pale face. Big, wild, brown eyes stare at him in bewilderment like a deer in headlights.  Shit.  “Um, Steve?” Tearing his eyes away from the Jumbotron is an arduous (another win for Robin’s word of the day calendar) battle Steve almost loses. Not because he’s not strong enough, but because the thought of meeting Eddie’s bewildered eyes head-on is enough to send him running. Still, he does just that, schooling his face in something that, he hopes, resembles a neutral expression.  “Don’t worry, they’ll move on,” Steve says, only half believing the words himself. His first-hand experience with the kiss cam says the exact opposite, but he’s not about to tell Eddie that especially when his words have him nodding in relief and sinking back into the black leather seat. The camera is still pointed at them when he looks away from Eddie. Their faces are still projected onto the massive screens and the stadium of onlookers starts a mix of chants and boos — encouragement and disappointment that they’re not participating in the time-honored, tradition. At least everyone in his row is silent, not even Dustin makes a move to join the onslaught of harassment from strangers which is further proof of what a colossal mess they’ve found themselves in. 

Or:

The year is 1998 and Lucas is set to make his NBA debut. Nothing is going to keep Steve from being there to witness this monumental moment. Eddie apparently shares the same sentiment and the two find themselves in the same place at the same time for the first time since they blurred the lines of their once-solid friendship four years ago at Dustin's wedding.

Surprisingly, Steve and Eddie manage to fall back into their friendship easily. That is until their playful conversation at half-time gets interpreted as flirting and the two find themselves the latest victims in the dreaded Kiss Cam tradition. With a stadium watching and his own desire taking over, Steve must decide if kissing Eddie "for the bit" is worth jeopardizing their rekindled friendship.

Who knows, maybe a peer-pressured kiss will be the spark to get them to talk about that night four years ago when everything changed.

Project #009 for @steddiebang2024 | 15K Expected Word Count | Mature

[setmeatopthepyre]

Pole [@118dailydrabble day 10] [bucktommy | 118 words]

so @sugarpenchant sent me this post and said "there's a bucktommy au in this somewhere I'm sure of it" and then we got to chatting about post-breakup tommy deciding to straight up run to the ends of the earth to distance himself, and, well...

-

It starts as a joke, is the thing.

More accurately, it starts with Lucy dragging him to a cocktail bar, and Tommy moping into his third Sidecar (“Please tell me that's some sort of gay army euphemism”) while he contemplates, for the millionth time, calling Evan.

“So.” Lucy covers his phone with a menu. “Holiday plans?”

“Does researching 'most remote places on earth to wallow' count?”

She sips her Old Fashioned thoughtfully. “Well, if you really wanna get out of cell range, my buddy says they always need pilots in Antarctica.”

It's a joke. No one spontaneously decides to spend the holidays at the South pole.

Two weeks later, his paperwork is filed and he's on his way.

[silverskye13]

rns angst prompt: something to do with evil beesuma and helsknight? And argument? A particularly bad fight? Maybe this was when hk wasn’t champion yet?

The Champion didn't like him. Of that much, Helsknight was certain. Which was a shame, because if Helsknight were being completely honest, he would have to say he looked up to the Champion. Sure Evil Beesuma was sharp and prideful, and seemed to walk around with a permanent chip on his shoulder, but he was also the brother of the man who ruled hels. It was a long, dark shadow to live under, yet he somehow still managed to burst out of it like a second sun rising. When people talked about him, they didn't talk about his brother. They talked about him. His strength. His perseverance. The fact that he built himself from nothing, with no help from Evil X. All his success, he earned himself. It was magnificent. His fights were legendary, all form and poise and bloodless efficiency. Mechanical. Perfect.

[It was a shame, too, that Helsknight was admiring that perfection from the ground.]

Helsknight's mouth tasted like blood. His head swam. There was an ache so deep in his teeth, he wondered if his jaw was broken. Above him, the hels ceiling shifted with phosphorescent colors as stars receded from his vision. Helsknight groaned and slowly, painstakingly, he turned onto his side and spat.

"Alright," Helsknight said raggedly, "give me a few minutes."

The showrunner coaching him relayed his request to the metal goliath standing over him. Evil Beesuma made a loud buzzing noise that Helsknight had come to associate with contempt. On his shadow on the sand, Helsknight watched him sign a dismissive motion, and while he couldn't hear what was said, the intention seemed obvious.

"Give the fool a few minutes. It won't change anything."

The showrunner helped Helsknight stagger to his feet, and together they limped to the stone bench in the practice arena. The broken nose and busted jaw were not the only hurts this particular bout had earned Helsknight. There was a wicked gash on his hip that was bleeding pretty badly, and he had a collection of bruises on his arms and chest that ached deep in his muscles.

"Listen Hels," the showrunner sighed, handing him a health potion.

"Helsknight."

"Whatever. Listen, I know you did well in the starter bracket--"

"Undefeated," Helsknight hummed, licking blood off his lips. It took him a few tries to get the potion uncapped, but when he managed it, he tossed it back. It warmed him all the way down his throat, and as the pain eased away from him, he felt tense muscles relax.

[Gods alive these things were good.]

"And I know you showed promise in the championship tryouts--"

Promise. He'd won eight out of ten of his matches. To get a sponsor, most only needed to win half. Helsknight didn't know who his sponsor was yet, but he knew there was a waiting list involved. A waiting list for him. A waiting list of people who hoped to outbid each other just to buy his gear, and sit in his box, and maybe shake his bloody hand after the match. It was ridiculous.

"But maybe going after the Champion is a little much for you still, yeah?" The showrunner asked pleadingly. "You're clearly outmatched, and a bad starting round can end your career if you're not... Mindful."

The showrunner did not say, if you lose your temper in front of the stands. The showrunner did not say, if Evil Beesuma wipes the floor with you, and it's a bad fight. He did not have to say these things. Helsknight was very well aware.

"We have two weeks before the match." Helsknight said steadfastly. "That's two weeks to prove I can take him."

The showrunner hissed out a long breath and pinched the space between his eyes. "Aren't you tired of getting your ass kicked?"

Anger, hot and quick, flickered to life in Helsknight's chest. It must have showed in his eyes, because the showrunner took a step back, hands raised in exasperation.

"Fine. Far be it from me to keep you from breaking all the bones in your body. Champion." He signed to Evil Beesuma, who had by now cleaned the blood off his knuckles, and retrieved a new sword to practice with. His other one had grown dull against Helsknight's armor and blade. "He still wants to train. Would you--"

Evil Beesuma buzzed something. It was a loud, long, grating note, nearly a roar. The lights of his eyes were narrowed in a glare, all four fists clenched. There was vicious humor there, and no small amount of loathing.

Helsknight didn't blame him. He was a threat to the Champion. The showrunner couldn't tell. It wasn't his job to tell. But Evil Beesuma knew, in the same bone-deep way Helsknight knew, that Helsknight was learning. Perfecting.

When they had started, Helsknight had lasted, oh, about half a minute. Compensating for Evil Beesuma's multiple arms was, unfortunately, the least of his problems. It was the efficiency of movement, calculated dancer-like grace, that was the real trouble. It was the fact that every swing of his sword was always just as strong as the last. No room for error in mechanics. Once a pattern was recognized, it took a fluke to flaw it, and Evil Beesuma was just person enough to compensate for flukes where computer efficiency failed.

But Helsknight was efficient too. He was not the perfect brawler. He was not the perfect gladiator. But he was the perfect knight. At least, he was the perfect knight by his Hermit's standards. His perfection included strength of arms, and a cunning blade, and a thirst for battle that could not be slaked. It apparently also included the ability to adapt and learn. And Helsknight was certainly learning, and learning well.

Two and a half minutes that last round had lasted. Two and a half minutes of dodging, and parrying, and figuring out what hurts he could fight through and what he couldn't. Two and a half minutes of pain tolerance, and the limits of adrenaline, and muscle memory. Two and a half minutes of learning what made a perfect warrior perfect, and adapting it into something he could achieve.

And he would achieve it. Like the sun rising. Like a wave devours a cliff. Helsknight would learn. It was only a matter of time.

Helsknight got to his feet. He took a moment to drink some water, and rinse his mouth, and wash the drying blood from beneath his nose. He made sure the buckles on his gauntlets were tight, and checked the guard on his sword.

Helsknight and the Champion met again on the sand. They were vicious; limbs and teeth and steel. Helsknight imagined someday he would go deaf from the ringing of metal. Someday. Today though, he was going to lose to the Champion again. It would take less than two and a half minutes. Even if the health potion revitalized his muscles, it didn't take the weariness out of his mind.

The Champion got him in a headlock. The movement was so baffling, Helsknight didn't even know how he'd managed it. He'd simply twisted, and what once had been freedom, and the shiver of stung nerves as blade met blade, turned into a vice around his neck and arms tangled in his, holding him still.

[Cheating. Helsknight thought scathingly. That's cheating.]

It was cheating for a knight. There was a certain amount of honor and decorum he was held to that the Champion was not.

The Champion was a brawler. He hadn't spawned into this world strong and implacable, a diamond and netherite wall. He had built himself this way, piece by piece and code by code. It was admirable. Enviable. He turned Helsknight feeble with flippant assuredness, and Helsknight had started strong. It was part of why Helsknight admired him. The Champion had achieved his greatness by building himself into something better.

It hadn't made him kind, and that too, Helsknight envied in its own way. The Champion was a weapon that was blunt and unyielding as a club, and he broke people precisely. He did not grieve his actions. He took pride in their efficiency, no matter how ugly it was. That was the nature of violence.

Evil Beesuma held him still, choking, until stars devoured his vision and novaed black. It was not a slow squeeze. There was no threat of slowly strangled air or struggle to wrench his arms into place. Evil Beesuma had closed on him like a bear trap, and did not release his iron jaws until Helsknight was sure he intended to suffocate him to death.

Helsknight awoke on the sand, gasping like a hooked fish, his throat refusing to open completely even when freed. It hurt. His lungs burned, and his throat was bruised, and the simple action of swallowing was thick and unbearable. He tried to turn onto his side, to help his damaged muscles move, but the Champion landed a foot in the center of his chest, pinning him on his back. Evil Beesuma looked down at him, arms crossed over his bent knee as he leaned his weight down on Helsknight. For someone already struggling to breathe, it was a cruelty. Helsknight felt his chest fall when his breath was squeezed out of him, and he felt every muscle in his chest protest as it struggled to rise against the weight.

"I ought to kill you," the Champion said, his voice a bored drone that seemed to leap into Helsknight's head when their eyes met. "You seem to think some passing skill with a blade entitles you to something. It doesn't. I don't owe you anything, knight."

Helsknight gripped at the Champion's ankle, a new burst of adrenaline spiking him as fear at his situation sank in. Stars, slow pinpricks, were gathering on the edges of his vision again. His entire world narrowed to the effort of breathing. The Champion reached down, and doing so pressed what was left of the air out of Helsknight's lungs. Cold metal splayed against the side of Helsknight's face as the Champion forced him to meet his eyes.

"You are a waste of my time," Evil Beesuma said, cold and inflectionless. The contempt of someone convinced they were watching someone far beneath them try to struggle upwards.

Helsknight realized he was scared. It surged to him through the stars devouring his sight again, followed swiftly by the darkness beyond. He was scared. Scared and cornered. Cornered. And angry. Rage filled the gaps in his lungs, consumed the stars in his vision. The world in front of him went briefly red, consumed by the determination to be spiteful and petty, and to make the Champion think twice before belittling him like this again.

Helsknight punched Evil Beesuma as hard as he could in the knee, the only thing he could really reach. His gauntlet saved him the sharpness of the metal around the Champion's legs, but he felt his knuckles break. He also felt the Champion's leg slip away from him. He fell like a tree, landing halfway on Helsknight's legs.

Helsknight gasped in a breath of air so deep he had to cough it all back out again. Everything about him to do with air and breathing rioted, tangled with the wash of nausea that came in the aftermath of adrenaline, and he nearly gagged. Helsknight tried to stand, made it halfway to his knees, when a shove to his side sent him back over again. Helsknight braced himself as best he could, waiting for some show of cruelty. He glared up at the Champion in ragged defiance, trying to find his breath.

The Champion was laughing at him. Elated. Surprised. Wholly unbothered. Helsknight had probably broken his hand on Evil Beesuma's knee, and it had all the effects of a bird landing.

"I'll give you one thing knight, you've got some fire," the Champion laughed, his voice cloyed with the derisive affection one might reserve for an arrogant child. "But you need to learn when a fight is lost." He made a dismissive motion with his hand, sweeping the idea of Helsknight aside. "Try me again in a few months, when you've figured out how to bend iron."

The Champion turned away from him. He was leaving. The tide of Helsknight's rage at the dismissal surged him to his feet. He reached for the dagger on his belt, determined to do something, anything, to chip away at that iron wall. Just a scratch would do. Proof the Champion was fallible. Mortal. Beatable.

He threw the dagger.

Later, months later, when Helsknight and EB were friends, EB would teach Helsknight how to properly throw a knife. It would be a game they played fondly, friendly competition, where they could get fierce safely. Where they learned how to challenge each other to be better. Now though, Helsknight didn't know how to throw a knife. He still felt vindicated though, when the handle hit Evil Beesuma squarely in the back of the head.

The Champion stopped in his tracks, turned with red eyed fury on the impudent knight. Helsknight's lip curled in a sneer. He moved his hands rapidly, in the only sign language he knew.

[He had meant for it to be a good thing, learning sign. Helsknight knew the Champion had a sizable crowd of deaf and mute fans; people who saw in him a brighter future, where they were seen and understood and appreciated equally. A world where people listened to them. Helsknight thought it was unfair then, that only the Champion bothered to incorporate sign into his sets. They should be able to hear the Champion's challenger without the help of an interpreter. And, just like they did, Evil Beesuma deserved to be met where he was, with words he could follow easily. He shouldn't have to memorize stage directions, and distant indecipherable mumbling, just because his challenger was lazy.]

[The showrunner Helsknight had been assigned told him it was a bad idea. He said he would be learning a language just to insult it's Champion with it. Helsknight had argued Evil Beesuma was the Colosseum's darling. For all his prideful shortcomings in the privacy of the cells, outwardly, as much as he could be to a crowd of thousands, he was just and strong and kind. If Helsknight was going to depose him, he was destined to be the heel anyway.]

[When Helsknight had told the Champion what he wanted to do, Evil Beesuma had actually considered his challenge. It was probably the only reason he'd humored him this long.]

[Helsknight really was stupid when he was angry.]

"Pride comes before the fall," Helsknight signed, and then he shouted, because Evil Beesuma was looking at him, and he didn't know the signs for his next words: "You absolute piece of shit!"

It was not his brightest moment.

It wasn't Evil Beesuma's either.

The Champion's eyes reddened and narrowed with anger. His hand flew to his sword, and he lanced forward in a flickering of color.

Helsknight respawned in his room in the cells, gasping in sucking breaths around a hole in his throat that was no longer there. He was still angry. Angrier, now that he'd faced a terror of respawn, and it had shaken him far more than he thought it would. When he rolled off his bed, his hands were shuddering, his nerves jangled. His only sword and armor were in the training yard, and he bolted for them. He shoved past gladiators in his way, pounded up the stairs, tore through the mess hall. When he burst onto the sand, Evil Beesuma was waiting for him, all wrath and stung pride.

He at least had the grace to let Helsknight grab his sword.

The moment their swords crossed again, Helsknight knew something was wrong. It took a few minutes for that wrongness to bash its way past his fury, but in a bone-deep way, he noticed it. Evil Beesuma was moving too slowly. Inefficiently. There was a jerkiness to his movements that hadn't been there before. Imperfection. A crack in the iron wall.

At first, Helsknight chalked it up to a loss of composure. He'd managed to piss the Champion off, and so his poise was slipping. Helsknight didn't lose his composure in quite the same way when he was angry and fighting. He slipped deep into muscle memory, and turned into a creature of reactions and instinct, all conscious thought fled in the wake of emotion and brute strength. It had won him more than one match. He was ready for it to win him this.

Helsknight slammed his blade into the Champion's near the hilt, and Evil Beesuma, strong as a hoglin with hands like vices, didn't drop it, but he backpedaled. It was not the appropriate response to what Helsknight had done. Imperfect. The wrongness Helsknight's conscious brain noticed needled at him again. He lifted his sword into a guard position and waited.

[He will spring for me, Helsknight thought. He is stronger, and his skills are more finely tuned. He works best when he overwhelms.]

The Champion did not spring forward. He took a step back instead, and seemed to catch his breath. The Champion was made of metal and redstone. He did not breathe. He did not bleed. And from what Helsknight could tell, nothing on him was broken. Helsknight wasn't strong enough, harmful enough, good enough, to break the Champion. He wasn't even sure he'd hit him once.

Helsknight narrowed his eyes, and let out a long slow breath, and dragged his anger down, called it to heel.

"Champion Beesuma," Helsknight asked, trying not to grind his teeth, trying not to be spiteful. He was a knight. He needed to act like one. "Are you well?"

Evil Beesuma laughed. It was a haughty thing, meant for bravado, but it too sounded off. Shaken. Yes, something was wrong. The Champion looked down to one of his hands, which Helsknight realized was shaking. Evil Beesuma blinked down at it. His sword lowered, and then dropped from his grasp. His sword hand, too, was shaking. He said something, speaking to himself, soft inflection. A question. The Champion wasn't looking at him, so Helsknight couldn't decipher the words, but the tone was dread.

Not here. Not now.

Helsknight sheathed his sword. He held out a hand, trying to show he meant no harm. "Champion?"

Evil Beesuma, the Champion of the Colosseum, collapsed. It happened so slowly, he almost seemed to fold in on himself. Not a swoon. Not a faint. Just a slow sink first to his knees, and then to the ground. The only sign the movement wasn't intentional was from the continued shaking in his hands, and the way the bright screen that made his face flickered and jolted through expressions, breaking into off-color pixels.

Helsknight's first worry, as he sank down beside him, was that in his anger he'd broken something irreparable. He didn't think he had, but he knew the Champion was different than a regular helsmet. More fragile, in odd ways. Redstone and mechanical pieces, much like his armor and weapons, didn't mend on respawn. The soul of a person did, the bits that made them work, but a broken ax didn't regain durability just because you died holding it. Evil Beesuma was subject to that; his mechanical parts more often than not needed mended and replaced after heavy matches. He had a small fleet of drones to help with this, little bee-shaped helpers who flew around him when he went about his business. But whatever was going wrong with him now seemed to infect them too. The two or three that had even managed to flit over to him flew in dizzy, decaying circles overhead, bumping into each other. One, simply dropped out of the sky.

"Champion, can you speak?" Helsknight asked as calmly as he could, trying to meet the Champion's eye, but finding it hard to know where to look when the screen was glitching so badly. "Can you tell me what's wrong, or how I can help you?"

[If he could help at all, besides simply holding the Champion's hand and saying useless platitudes about how all things pass.]

The showrunner, who had until that point, apparently, been content to watch them kill each other, materialized at his side in a rush.

"You can't help him," he said nervously. "I'm surprised you've never seen this before. It's--" he looked away and cleared his throat. "The Champion isn't well."

Helsknight blinked. His first instinct was to snap yes, of course he isn't well. He just blacked out, or fell into whatever equivalent an android could have for a seizure. Obviously he wasn't well. Then the statement sank in, the implication beneath digging hooks in.

The Champion was dying.

Helsknight, very stupidly, found himself on the verge of asking why. Why him? Why now? Why this? Why like this? Helsknight had only seen someone on the verge once before, the Universe temporarily dithering over someone's mortality. It had been when he was still a squire, and one of the knights had... It wasn't a fit exactly. They'd been training, and she became lightheaded and shaky, and had a hard time breathing. At the time, Helsknight thought it was heat stroke, or maybe that she'd overexerted herself. When she sat down to cool off, she'd fallen asleep.

It had taken her three days to wake, and when she did, she was quiet, and meek, and scared.

Helsknight sighed, and he swore. "How long has this been happening?"

"Last I heard it'd only happened once," the showrunner answered skeptically. "Then again, he hadn't wanted anyone to know."

"Well. They're going to know now," Helsknight said grimly. "Make yourself useful and get me a strength potion." Then he snapped, when the showrunner blinked at him in exasperation, "Unless you'd like to carry him down to his cell yourself?"

They scampered off. Helsknight sighed again, running a hand through his hair. Respawn had done him one good turn at least; he wouldn't have to take any armor off before trying to drag the Champion downstairs.

"Alright then," Helsknight grunted as he got his arm beneath Evil Beesuma's shoulders and started lifting him. He was heavy and unwieldy, with too many limbs that were all too long. The Champion was taller than Helsknight by just enough that it made a difference when trying to carry him.

It was hard work getting the Champion downstairs. It was even harder work trying to be discreet about it. People saw him. Helsknight couldn't help that. But he at least stuck to the less traveled stairways, so news would travel slower. When he finally made it down the long, loud hall to Evil Beesuma's cell, he was relieved and grateful. He deposited the Champion into his bed, and arranged his limbs into a position that seemed comfortable. Then, not entirely sure what to do, Helsknight left.

It took the Champion a day and a half to wake. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't very long. Helsknight had heard of helsmets nearer to death falling asleep for days or weeks. The idea was terrifying to Helsknight, that he might, out on the streets one day, simply pass out and never wake again, smothered in the jaws of the Universe. This was not nearly so dramatic, Evil Beesuma might really have only suffered a handful of the episodes.

But it was enough time that people noticed, and they talked. They talked about whether the Champion was fit to fight. They talked about whether they would risk killing him. Some people were even so bold as to talk about him like he was dead already. They talked about what his statue would look like in the Colosseum hall. What they would do if he perished before a new Champion could be made. It made Helsknight angry hearing it. When he stumbled into those conversations, he found himself glowering and looming until the discussion broke off.

The day after Evil Beesuma woke, Helsknight gathered his courage and visited him. The Champion didn't like him, probably wouldn't appreciate him coming. Helsknight didn't blame him. It would sting someone's pride to act so high, and so cruel, and so triumphant, only to be felled a moment later by the hels equivalent of a lightning strike.

Evil Beesuma was alone when Helsknight entered his cell. He was sitting on his bed, face held in his hands, papers spread out on the sheets beside him. Helsknight caught a glance of a missive with the Colosseum seal on it.

"Your sponsor is concerned that, should you die in your next match--"

Helsknight averted his eyes quickly. He quietly backed out of the room, awkwardly considered his options. He thought, probably, the Champion might appreciate the chance to save some face around someone he didn't like. He sighed.

[Respect the honor of your fellow helsmet, he repeated to himself, trying not to feel ridiculous.]

Helsknight retreated up the hall a ways, and then made his footsteps loud when he came back again. He knocked obnoxiously on a few doors, and asked loudly and stupidly for directions to the Champion's cell. The walls in the cells were thin. He was easy to hear, even if the Champion couldn't catch the words. He would at least know someone was coming.

Sure enough, this time when he answered, Evil Beesuma was standing. The missives were collected in a neat, face-down pile on the bed. A dozen of his little buzzing drones hovered around his shoulders, scanning and doing maintenance. He had put on a practiced air of disdain and unconcern. Good. He didn't know his moment of despair had been witnessed.

"What are you here for?" Evil Beesuma demanded, all four of his arms crossed.

Helsknight briefly considered the best way to be respectful. He decided the best thing he could do was treat the Champion like nothing had changed. Enough people were treating him like he was fragile.

"I came to ask if you were well," Helsknight said simply, and when he was met with stony silence, begrudgingly added, "and I came to apologize for losing my temper."

Evil Beesuma side-eyed one of his drones, as though they were passing secret messages between each other. Helsknight thought it was a handy little trick to make people feel scrutinized. It added to the Champion's air of skepticism and disdain.

[Don't get angry, he hissed at himself, when the burn of emotion flickered in his stomach. Don't get angry.]

"Generally speaking, my Order is against outbursts like that," Helsknight continued, valiantly pretending he was unphased. "And it was arrogance on my part. I'm well aware I'm beneath your skill, and you offered me a kindness in using your time to train me."

Briefly, Helsknight considered kneeling. It would be a very knightly thing to do. He also thought his pride would eat him alive if he did it. He was still a bit too resentful of that foot planted on his chest, squeezing the life out of him. Helsknight settled on a small, stuff bow. It made Evil Beesuma laugh, a sharp derisive noise. Helsknight stubbornly ignored the thorn of anger pressing deeper into his side.

"I humbly ask you continue training me," Helsknight said, "and you consider accepting my challenge for the Championship."

"If you think just because you carried me down here I owe you something, I don't," Evil Beesuma said sharply.

"I don't think you owe me anything," Helsknight said, trying to keep both hands on his patience. "I'm asking politely for your time."

"And why in hels should I give it to you?" The Champion stepped towards him, towering. Anger, and the soft touch of nervousness, pulled a little harder against Helsknight's restraint. He wasn't used to being intimidated. He decided immediately he didn't like it. "As you've clearly noticed, I have little enough of it to go around. What makes you think you deserve it?"

"Because I'm a knight."

"Because you're a knight?" Evil Beesuma laughed. "Am I supposed to be impressed because you walk around in a fancy cape all day?"

Helsknight scowled. He clenched his fists at his sides, and for a long, cold moment, considered punching the Champion as hard as he could in the face. It probably wouldn't do anything besides wound his own knuckles, but gods alive it would feel great. And then he would wash his hands of the stupid gladiator, and all his spiteful, biting pride.

[Saint help me. Saint keep my temper somewhere else.]

"Being a knight means I will treat you with honor and respect, Champion," Helsknight said, trying to keep the aggravated growl out of his voice. "No matter what state you're in when the fighting starts."

The Champion narrowed his eyes at him.

Helsknight took that as a... positive sign.

"The showrunners aren't going to want to risk you in the Colosseum now," Helsknight said quietly. "Your fellow fighters will be tempted to stay their hands, to take it easy on you, because they're scared they'll be the ones to kill you."

"And you're not?" Evil Beesuma snorted skeptically. "I suppose you'll take pride in being the one that finally kills me."

"Don't insult me, Champion!" Helsknight snapped fiercely, taking an angry step forward, so they were chest to chest. "I would never take joy in something like that. Losing you would be a greater sin to this world than anything my winning would gain. People look up to you. They aspire to be like you -- at least the kind show you put on for the crowd."

Evil Beesuma made an uncomfortable noise, guilty.

[Good, he should be, for how he'd been acting.]

"And despite your ruthlessness teaching me," Helsknight said, trying again to regain control of his emotions, at least enough to keep from yelling quite so vehemently, "I respect you. For your strength, and perseverance, and what you've built. You have a legacy here. Something you are rightly proud of."

Helsknight huffed out a tense breath through his nose. "I think it would be a shame to be robbed of that legacy, and the vindication of the works of your hands, because someone else is too scared to accept your challenge. You should have the choice to fight, and keep fighting. Not to rot at the top because ambition fails. If I were in your place, I would hope someone would offer me the same."

Helsknight stepped back from the Champion, breathing intentional, slow breaths through his nose. Embarrassment was starting to chase him, the feeling of stupidity at his fervency, and his vulnerability. Evil Beesuma's gaze slid away from him, some of his previous spite and fire gone. At the very least, he didn't loom threateningly anymore.

Helsknight sighed. Perhaps... A tactical retreat was best. Before he opened his mouth and said some other ridiculous thing. He offered the Champion another stiff bow, silently dismissing himself. Just before he crossed the threshold, buzzing filtered towards him, low and weary. Helsknight turned to look at him.

"Tomorrow, first thing in the morning," the Champion said quietly. Then, with a bit more of his former bite, "Bring your dagger. That throw was trash."

Helsknight nodded. He exited into the hallway, wandering with ever quickening steps back to the stairs that would take him to his cell. Halfway up the stairs he sighed, and stopped, and leaned his forehead against the wall. His hands were shaking.

"If I'm the one who kills the Champion, they'll hate me," he whispered to himself. Between hels and his Hermit, and the spiteful Champion below, he supposed he would have to get used to being hated.

"Nowhere in your tenets does it say you need to be loved," Helsknight murmured. He sighed again, and ascended the steps.

[Some things were more important than his image anyway.]

[riality-check]

#42 with any ship you want for the “100 ways to say I love you” prompts?

VERY late but here we go!

42. "Is this okay?"

The weirdest thing about Steve Harrington is that he's weird.

Since the spring break from hell, Eddie has learned that he's been a bit of a dick. For all his railing against stereotyping and conformity, he subscribed to a lot of it under the logic of shielding his little sheep. He's had his assumptions proven wrong again and again since by people like Better Wheeler and Better Sinclair and Steve, and he thinks he's probably a better person for it.

His personal growth isn't the point, however monumental.

He's grown past the point of thinking Steve was just another brainless, clone-like jock, but he's still learning new things about him.

Like, Steve is really loud sometimes. He talks to himself like he forgets that other people can hear him, and one time he started singing "Hammer to Fall" before he realized that the D&D session in the next room over quieted down specifically to hear him. It's more common when they're at his house than anywhere else, but it still happens.

And Steve is a really good cook, but he makes the strangest things. He can make delicious meals out of the most random ingredient combinations - Sinclair and Henderson have, indeed, put this particular skill to the test time and time again - but when Eddie asked if he could make chocolate chip cookies, he looked at him like he had three heads.

But the weirdest thing about Steve, by far, is his thing with touch.

He oscillates wildly between being the clingiest motherfucker on the planet and actively avoiding all human contact. Sometimes, Eddie can see the switch happen in real time, can see how he seeks out contact from Buckley one moment and freezes at a hug from Henderson in the next.

It's weird. Steve Harrington is weird.

But, while Eddie is a touchy guy, he's not a dick. So, he's come up with a new catchphrase, at this point, around Steve.

"Is this okay?" Eddie asks, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"Is this okay?" he asks, grabbing for Steve's hand.

"Is this okay?" he asks, kicking his feet up into his lap.

Steve says "yes" most of the time, and when he says "no," Eddie calmly moves away.

It's that simple, because Eddie isn't a dick.

He's not the only one who does this. Buckley, Better Wheeler, Better Sinclair, and Henderson all do the same thing. They all check first, albeit in different ways.

But Eddie starts to notice a pattern. Soon, he becomes the person Steve asks the most often.

He lightly shuts it down the first time it happens. Tells Steve he doesn't need to ask. Eddie has always been touchy, practically hanging off of all the friends who are okay with him using them like personal jungle gyms.

Steve shrugs, plays it off the way he plays off everything because he's still cool, just not an asshole. But Eddie can see the relief in his face.

There's nothing special about this time. Steve curls into his side without asking, without preamble, as has become more common, while they engage in the weekly pastime of watching a tape Steve "borrowed" from work.

Robin is usually there with them, but she and Nancy finally figured their shit out. They're off doing god knows what.

Probably each other, Steve suggested dryly when Eddie brought it up, causing him to spray Coke out of his nose right when the movie started.

But now? Westley isn't dead, and as he's threatening Humperdinck, Steve whispers, "Is this okay?"

Eddie turns to the side just in time for their lips to meet softly.

And that's when he realizes that months and months of "is this okay" and gentle touches have been his own personal "as you wish."

He's been in love with Steve Harrington for months.

And he thinks that this kiss, and the next, and the next, and the next, are more perfect than anything Westley and Buttercup could ever dream of.

Prompts here.

[aesthetictarlos]

another bucktommy prompt – this one specifically because i looove how big and strong they both are: character a is having both hands full with bags (maybe from a shopping trip?) and character b says "let me hold that", referring to the bags. character a misunderstands, thinking character b wants to hold hands, so they promptly switch all bags to one hand and take hold of character b's hand. you decide who is who is this scenario!

Thank you for this prompt, I loved it! ❤️

Buck greets the young girl behind the counter and follows his boyfriend outside, putting his card back into the wallet. They're hosting a 118 hang out at Tommy's place - their place now, actually, which is why they're the hosts - and they've bought tons of food and beverage.

Tommy's hands are both full with bags and they've parked away from the grocery shop's entrance since the parking lot was packed, but as much as Buck's enjoying the view of his boyfriend's muscles bulging as he effortlessly carries the bags, he wants to help.

"Let me hold that," he says after he's pocketed his wallet and his hands are free.

Tommy glances at him and smoothly shifts the three bags he's carrying on his left hand to his right one, lacing his fingers with Buck, leaving him speechless because damn, his boyfriend is really a beast.

Buck stares in awe as Tommy keeps walking like he's not carrying five heavy bags on one hand, and suddenly his throat goes dry. "I– I meant let me hold some of the bags, you really are something else. Fuck, you're so strong."

Tommy giggles, ducking his head. "Oh, sorry for the misunderstanding, but I really wanted to hold your hand."

Buck swats his bicep, and right after they finish loading their groceries in the car, he pushes his boyfriend against the side door and kisses him stupid, his fingers digging in his ripped arms and squeezing.

(Yeah, he has a thing with Tommy's muscles, sue him.)

[skibasyndrome]

Wilmon💜

"Do you think they heard that?"

cw: slightly nsfw, tent shenanigans. again, a throat... sounds.... 👀 if voice kink is a thing then Wille might have a light not so light case of it

"Do you think they heard that?" Simon's whisper is hoarse, the nervous giggle he follows it up with breathless, and Wille is once again overcome with affection. He can't help but start drawing a small pattern onto the skin of Simon's still quickly rising and falling chest. So warm under Wille's fingertips, so beautifully pliable. Wille never wants the moment to end and shifts to pull Simon even closer, one hand on his hips, one on his chest. Simon must be scared he's pulling away, because with an arm shooting behind him he's grabbing a hold of Wille's waist. "Stay," he pleads, so small and quiet that Wille can barely reconcile it with the loud moans of just a few moments ago. Wille presses closer, always closer, because he could never deny Simon a wish, let alone one so sweet and soft and breathtakingly earnest. There's a small groan when they shift closer, but Simon soon settles against Wille, on him, still around him. Wille wants to drink in every little sound that leaves his beautiful mouth. "I think we'll be fine," Wille says, instead of answering the question, and presses a kiss against the side of Simon's neck. Realistically, if they are still awake, Ayub and Rosh probably heard something. He hopes they didn't, but it's quiet out in the woods at this time of night. And Simon's never been particularly great at keeping it down, one of those many things about him that Wille loves, cherishes even, wouldn't want to change a thing about. But it really isn't all that convenient when they're somewhere with people just a wall away. And especially if the wall in question only consists of tent fabric. Simon throws his head back against Wille, damp curls dragging over Wille's cheek, and quietly groans again. "I'm sorry...," he mumbles, and presses his warm cheek against Wille's. "Sorry for... being a lot..." And that? Simon thinking he's wrong for not holding back? Wrong for gifting his sweet sounds to Wille? For letting Wille hear that voice in all its facets? That just won't do. Like by its own volition, his hand starts trailing upwards, away from the center of Simon's chest and towards his neck. He can hear Simon's breath hitch when his fingers first make contact with his Adam's apple. Can feel it move under the pads of his fingers. "Don't be sorry," Wille whispers into their quiet little space. "Please, don't be sorry, baby." He shifts his hand, extends his fingers, fits them around Simon's neck. There's no pressure there, no grip, he just cradles the column of Simon's throat in his palm. Cradles it like it's the most precious thing about him, it might as well be, hopes Simon can feel a fraction of his adoration through the soft touch. "No?," Simon whispers, almost imperceptibly moving back against Wille, trying to get ever so slightly closer, settling into the hold Wille has on him. "No," Wille whispers back. The sudden shift in atmosphere is letting a new heat course through him, one that he's sure Simon must feel as well. "You liked it?" Simon asks, voice low, but oh, Wille can feel the vibrations of his throat against his palm, feels like he's not only caressing his skin, but caressing his voice as well. He hums, deep in his throat, tightens his grip, just so, just a little, just enough for Simon to notice and feel that Wille loved it, that Wille loves him, that Wille loves that voice and all the ways in which it drives him crazy. Simon's moan tells him that he feels it, that he knows.

sdafghdflkghfdgl WELL HELLO! Don't ask, I guess I'm still firmly in camping redemption land, hehe. I hope you enjoyed this and I wanna thank you for the awesome prompt!!!! 💜💜💜

Send me "Wilmon" + a sentence and I'll wrie you 5(+) more!

[steviesbicrisis]

I was hallucinating a few hours ago due to lack of sleep bUT-

Thinking about Steve who's confident in his bisexuality, told the kids that he likes both and that's okay because he knows they need, trying to flirt with Eddie who is in denial bc it has to be a joke, right? Harrington, the straightest man alive? Steve lady's man Harrington? Nah, it's only on his mind. Meanwhile Steve is getting more and more sad thinking he's being rejected.

Now, think about the Hellfire members knowing that Eddie's a crush on Steve because he talks about it CONSTANTLY and be sad because "he doesn't have a fat chance in hell". They're also very protective of him so if anyone new in the club is being homophobic, they just throw them out.

So one day Steve is in the Hellfire to wait for the kids and flirt a little, telling himself that "this is the last time, you'll get a GRIP and MOVE THE FUCK ON!" is what he tells to himself. He tries a little and drops after a while, so in the break time the old members tell him that he needs to leave, because they won't allow anyone doing that to Eddie, as in: they think Steve knows that Eddie's gay and likes him so he's flirting with him in a mocking way.

So he leaves.

And when everyone (Eddie + the kids) is asking where is Steve, they say that he was being homophobic, an automat answer and they quickly try to cover up because they don't want to do that to Eddie, but Dustin immediately response was:

"how can Steve be homophobic if he's bi?"

And the world freaking EXPLOSES!

not the steddie hallucinations LMAO

Thank you for sending me this ask because I'm president of "Steve is a confident disaster Bisexual" and I'm making t-shirts for club members as we speak.

Anyways, I think Steve would be extremely confident in his sexuality to the point where he just likes whoever and goes for it (with the right precautions of course). When Eddie comes out to him and the rest of their group, Steve doesn't even think about coming out to him as well because he's been out to the group for so long he just assumes that everyone close to him knows.

So when he realizes he likes Eddie and flirts with him, he doesn't know what to take from his reactions: he doesn't look annoyed or uninterested (think about the girls he would flirt with at Scoops) but he doesn't respond either, which is weird for someone like Eddie, who engages flirty banters even with plants.

Let's add to the mix that Steve's love life has been a mess recently, how many times can you be rejected before you think there's something wrong with you?

That's why he decides to go all in one last time and then leave Eddie alone, but even the worst scenarios in his head did not prepare him for Eddie's friends telling him off on his behalf.

Steve's head is a mess but most of it all, he's ashamed. He thinks he must've been so annoying and oblivious to Eddie's disinterest that the guy had to ask his friends to put Steve in his place for him.

So he finds himself in the school's parking lot, sitting on the hood of his car and mentally counting how much money he and Robin will need to move to another country (because not even the most embarrassing moment of his life will make him go anywhere without her), completely unaware of the chaos inside the Hellfire room.

Eddie isn't in a better mental state than Steve, so he's letting the kids and the band do the talk for him.

"What do you mean he's bisexual? of course he isn't, he's Steve Harrington!" Gareth exclaims, voicing out one of Eddie's many thoughts.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? do you need a special license for that?" Mike huffs, crossing his arms.

Jeff steps in to defend his friend "Of course not! But he's king Steve! And he's constantly picking on Eddie, you heard him!"

"Picking on him? Even a child could see that he has been throwing hints at Eddie for weeks now! What are you, five?"

Erica's words put an end to the discussion, silence falls down abruptly.

Eddie jumps up off his throne and follows wherever Steve had disappeared before, distantly hearing his friends muttered apologies.

He sighs in relief when he sees Steve hasn't left yet.

The car is parked the opposite way of the entrance, so Eddie can only see Steve's back, but he can tell he's gesturing and, when he's close enough, he can hear him talk.

"You can never take a hint, can you? This is so stupid, how can you go around saying you got game when you can't even tell if someone's interested in you? Harrington charm my ass" Steve's hands are all up in the air and Eddie realizes he's gesturing similar to how Eddie does on a daily basis.

It's cute.

"Please leave the Harrington charm out of this" Eddie interjects, making Steve jump in surprise.

He looks like a deer caught by car lights, but he hides it quickly behind a smirk that Eddie refers to - at least in his head - as bitchy Steve "so, no more sending your gang after me? are you worried they didn't do a good job? or am I forbidden to stay even in the parking lot? I'll let you know that I-"

Eddie loves mean girl Steve, but he has no time for him now, so he interrupts "Go on a date with me."

Steve's raised eyebrow and incredulous look tell him that he doesn't take him seriously in the slightest.

"I said, go on a date with me" he repeats.

"I heard you the first time" Steve's voice is close to a whisper "I just think you must've hit your head on your way here."

"You're the one always taking hits on the head, not me" Eddie takes a step closer to him.

Steve steps back "well, there's a first time for everyone" he says, looking away.

Eddie moves close again, his face only a few inches from Steve's "I don't hear an answer."

Steve's eyes flicker on Eddie's lips for half a second, "I didn't hear a question" he bites back.

Eddie smirks and, under Steve's shocked look, jumps on his car.

"Eddie, what the fuck? get down of my car!" he's trying to maintain a firm tone but Eddie can tell he's amused by his antics. Eddie couldn't ask for anything better.

He looks around the parking lot to make sure they're alone, then loudly enounces "Steve Fucking Harrington-"

"Don't say it like it's my middle name!"

Eddie ignores him "- king of the school grounds, best Scoops Ahoy model-"

"what does that even mean-"

"Worst employee that family video has ever had, Faberge Organics favorite costumer-"

"I told you that in confidence."

"Would you do this humble commoner kneeling at your presence" he kneels down theatrically as he says so "the honor of accompanying him for an evening of frivolous romantic shit that society expects you to do when you find a respectable partner?"

“If I say yes will you get down?”

Eddie moves his weight from one foot to the other, making the car under him bounce “I might consider it.”

Steve lifts his arms, apprehensively “Okay, yes fine! Now please get down-”

Eddie jumps down, right into Steve’s arms.

———

All the hellfire club members decide to stop spying on them and get back inside when Eddie’s highly entertaining antics turn into a gross make out session.

“So” Dustin elbows Gareth’s side “does that look homophobic to you?”

[youchangedmedestiel]

Dean is sitting next to Cas on the dinner bench they picked up to eat after wrapping up their case with Sam.

He doesn't know what is happening to him tonight, but it's like his body wants to melt with Cas's. He wants to lean against him, he wants to touch him. He also wants Cas to touch him, and melt under that soft and comforting touch.

It's like every cell of his body is calling for Cas's. And when their elbows touch because Cas leans his back against the bench backrest and Dean shifts a little, Dean feels the serotonine spreading in his whole body.

That brush is barely perceptible, though Dean thinks Cas is sending him some signs to cuddle up against him. And Dean wants it. Oh yes, he wants it so bad that he needs it. He'd like to take Cas's hand in his. He'd like to cup his jaw and kiss him softly. He'd like Cas to hold him tight. He'd like to pet Cas's hair or have Cas pet his. Cas could be so submissive under Dean's stroke. Or Cas could be so dominant that Dean would do whatever he wants, he could even sink down on his knees under the table and take him in his mouth while Cas's firm hand would grab his hair.

Dean would moan at that and Cas would come in his mouth, groaning and holding him tighter.

Dean needs this so bad, but instead a brush of his arm against Cas's will have to be enough.

[shushmal]

you ask for ficlet prompts, and a prompt you shall receive:

merman Steve please and thank you 🙏

blows you a kiss, i would do anything for you also im mixing a lot of lore here im so sorry

He grew up lonely. Nereides live solitary lives mostly, only gathering when called, when there is need. He spent many years roaming and exploring deep oceans, only seeing his kind in passing moments of trade and exchange. It is a very lonely life, and he never understands why he was so different from the resst, when all of his kind are perfectly happy in their solitude.

The ocean is vast, and there aren't many nereides in this part of the world. But there are a lot of humans—humans who are never alone, he finds, always accompanied by others in their boats and their swims.

He loves to watch them. They are fascinating, these land people who throw themselves into the ocean with excitement and joy and curiosity. He watches from a distance, filled with longing and envy, as these creatures leave the safety of their home to touch the sea.

It's how he finds Dustin, as its little body struggles as a rip tide pulls it from the shores. He knows he shouldn't, knows how dangerous humans are, but still, he rushes to it as the tiny thing wanes, stills, and brings it to the surface.

They float there together, the human and the nereid, just above the water, the human gasping for breath, trembling against him, until finally it speaks. Or screeches really. "HOLY SHIT!"

He doesn't understand the words, but he understands the meaning. "Holy shit," he says back to the human, because he's kind of feeling the same way.

The human begins to babble a whole lot of other things, and he has no idea what any of it means. He knows a little of human speech, things overheard, but he knows none of these words. This goes on for a long time, the two of them floating in the water alone, until finally the human points at itself and says, "Dustin."

"Dustin," he repeats.

"Dustin!" the human says again, gesturing at itself.

Ah, this is a Dustin. "Dustin," he says, agreeing, and uses his free hand to pat the human's head. Dustin then points, its little finger wagging in his face.

"You?"

"You?"

The Dustin says something again, but he doesn't understand it, distracted by a human boat shooting across the water towards them now. The Dustin is saying a lot of things still, but it's quickly approaching.

"Good-bye," he says to the Dustin, hoping that's the correct word. He ducks under the water and releases it, waiting a moment to make sure it floats, before darting back into the depths—only so far as to not be seen from the surface, even when the little human sticks its head underwater and looks around. Soon, the boat is beside it, and the Dustin is pulled from the sea.

He tries not to be sad about it. Dustin was wiggly and warm, and it was nice to hear it talk so loudly and so much. Nereides rarely speak like humans do, and he wishes that Dustin could teach him a few more of his words.

"Holy shit," he says, alone in the water, and decides to come back again tomorrow. Maybe he can see Dustin again.

[cantgetworsethanthistbh]

Don’t know if you’re still taking prompts but if you are you should totally write about ford eating out fem!stan for the first time plz🙏

hey anon! sorry i took a really long ass while to respond to this since i couldnt think of any specific scenarios to write this prompt of that wasn't just, you know, the prompt— but it finally hit me like a truck today! and also cuz i was sick and doing this in between homework djdndhdsn

anyway, VERY explicit under this read more, since i got SO carried away, hope you dont mind its the geezers pre-weirdmageddon in this one AND that you dont mind a little sex pollen also ty ty ty so much for your fem!stan request i love it when people enable me dhdndhdbdu also sorry to everyone who exoected a "read more" but tumblr hides my stuff when i do that so heres the warning, please scroll if thats not your thing

~~

"Constance, get down!"

"Wha—"

It was too late. Cloud of pink glitter exploded in her face and sent her into a coughing fit so hard her lungs shook in her ribcage. She drops to the floor and hears Ford's "Constance!"

Then she hears him fire his space gun. Just out of her periphery was chunks of blue goo that would be a fucking bitch to clean out of the walls and carpet, but la di da, there it was. There isn't a second to groan about that or the way her breathing turned heavy when Ford runs to her side, grabbing at her arm and forcing her to her back.

"Constance, are you okay?"

"Stanford..." Stan wheezes, turning her head into a hafl glare. "What... the HELL was that...?"

Ford's eyes narrow, inspecting her face, before his thumb brushes against her cheek. Stan shivers, a full body quake and confusion over taking her while Ford inspects his thumb. From down here, Stan can only stare because what else can she do when she's down, dizzy with virtigo from whatever magical poison that got sprayed across her face.

From down here, Stan feels the heat from Ford's grip, the pads of his fingers and the large mass of his palm against the bare skin of her arm, tickling the nerves underneath into sending sparks that go through her body and meet at the coil of her stomach. Even Ford's knee, under all that cloth and was much father from her face than Stan seems to think it is, illicited some deep, twisted something in Stan again she hasn't felt in a while.

"Ford?"

Ford's eyes snap back to her, blown and widened with alarm. Suddenly, he grabs her arm again, slips it over his shoulders, the other encircling her back. Stan thinks, alright, he's going to help me up, before a squawk rips from her throat when his arm loops under the back of her knees and lifts her to the air.

"What are you—?!"

"No time to explain, let's go," Ford says with all the urgency of a man on a mission. Carrying her out of their fairy-thing-guts covered living room with way too much ease, he sprints into the giftshop, ignoring Stan's confusion and dragging her into the basement.

It doesn't take a too long to find herself sitting on Ford's desk, trying to pump the breaks on the now doubled speed of her heart and the vibrations that run through out her body, working its ways to adjust to the surrounding. When Ford plopped her down and breathed the same air she did for less than a second, she felt it— ignition to an burnt out furnace suddenly bursting to new life. there was so much heat simmering through her veins, her nerves, every god damn thing was way too much to handle.

She's hot. Ford's desk and the glass plane behind her was cold, cold to a chill, and her thighs clench and rub together, onto the desk, aching for that rub of friction because she needed something hot, hot now, just as hot as her. Her mouth was dry, all the spit went on her tongue to her lips. Things— way too many things jumble in Stan's head, ranging from what the fuck is happening to holy shit, when did Sixer get that strong.

What stood out the most through was her brother saying he messed around with fucking nymphs, and all morning he's been hunted down by them. The one dead by their living room? A fucking nymph-assassin.

"Sixer, what the hell?" She pants, and oh God, she's panting? When the hell did that happen? Stan sucks in a breath again when Ford turns from rummaging through his stuff again to finally throw her a glance. Red hot heat crawls up her neck and she bites down on her lip when his eyes zero in on her squirming, her thighs. Stan might've thought she saw his jaw flex but, fuck if she wasn't also just going delirious.

"Why the hell were you messing around with those things in the first place?"

"I needed something from them, Constance," Ford answers measuredly, and Stan hears another racket from him looking for some goddamn thing through out his mess. "I've made an ammicable deal with them in the past, and now they're pushing for more. That's out of my control."

"I bet you backed out of that deal," Stan accuses, because it was pretty clear to them that Ford wasn't a god damn master of trickery or whatever. "What, you tried to swindle them for more of this fuck-powder? You know they sell viagra at the store?"

"That wasn't what I dealed with them for," Ford mutters lowly and, damn, if it were any other time, Stan would make fun of him. Stan would tease him, laugh at the embarrassed pout on his face, the bright red flush over his cheeks and ears. But she can't, not when Ford's back was what she's staring at, the broad, plane of his back and wide slopes of his shoulders, hidden under that stupid trenchcoat and sweater combo.

Where they could be ripped off and Stan could see all the things she never would have imagined her cute, nerdy but unappreciatedly handsome brother growing into if not for the one perk of getting shoved into a portal to whole universes of things trying to kill him. When she couldn't imagine him getting any hotter than he already—

They're back, those stupid god damn fantasies. They came at night, they came in the morning. They came whenever she and Ford would pass each other in the hall in their mutual agreement of no-talking, and his shadow almost engulfs her completely nowadays, and all she thinks is how stupid this whole avoiding each other thing is and they could be siblings as thick as thieves again.

Or even better— Ford could shove her into the wall and kiss her until she can't breathe. He could let her push that coat of his shoulders and sweater off his back so Stan's hands could crawl up them again. He could bite her neck, unbutton her blouse and pants, put one of those big palms to use and grope and squeeze around her tits, put those extra fingers to use and slip them into her pants, underwear, her, while Stan barely holds herself together biting at the firm skin on his shoulder.

Put that smartass mouth to use and say "Thank you, Stan" or "You're so good for me, Stan."

Get on his knees and put that mouth to even better use if he'd just shove down her pants, place his hands on her hips, nose against her bush and his mouth on her—

It takes a second too long to realize, but it happened. one hand slid between her legs, pushed the fabric of her boxers away to brush at her wet and even more senstive pussy. A second too long to stop that haggard mewl that came out of her lips.

A second too long to see that Ford finally turned back with a jar in way too tightly gripping hand, staring slack jawed at Stan behind his glasses.

Fucking great.

"Constance," Ford breathes shakily, and no, this can't happen. Their relationship can't get any worse, and sure Stan is gross for thinking about her brother that way, but she can't help that they're coming at the worst time, when she can't hide in her room far, far away from the basement and ride on her fingers to quiet cries of Ford's name.

"G-God, don't be so dramatic about it!" She says, sweat prickling at her neck. "You-you've seen me change and get naked before! This isn't that different!" Because there wasn't totally a difference between getting used to changing infront of your brother when you could barely live in one small space together when you were kids to touching yourself to them, right infront of them.

Right?

Man, she's such a sucker.

Shame is mixing with her already sizzling skin, and she needs to go. Take that jar-of-something to her room and figure it out on her own because obviously, Ford already wanted nothing to do with her and would want it even less now. Goddamn it, this would be so much easier if Ford didn't have eyes that were identical to hers, but wore it with that cutting stare that tore through her. Since they were teens and she was in denial about getting off to her twin brother who stared a little too hard— or even since forever.

Or at least if she wasn't still so hot and bothered thinking about him where she thinks she might've already came to his god damn desk.

Stan starts pushing herself off of it, face sweaty and pink. "F-Fine, I'll go. Just gimme that antedote and I'll—"

Ford closes the gap quicker than a lightning bolt, the jar already rolling on the floor and Stanford's mouth already crushed against hers, all hungry and desperate like he couldn't physically hold himself down anymore and their glasses knocking askew. He's nudging himself between her knees, his hands onto the fat on her hips, and shit, did he just moan? From just kissing her? Oh damn.

"Nevermind that. I think I have a better antedote," Ford says against her lips. "I'd like to test it out."

"Just fuck me already, Sixer, oh my God."

Stanford lights up, smiles like he won the damn lottery or fifty research grants or whatever. He dives right back in, kissing Stan, and sinking twelve nails into her hips as he drags them together. Stan groans, feeling the already hard tent go even harder against her, and her skin is on fire again, but this time melting the frigid parts of nerves into a liquid heat that's flowing directly down into her stomach, warming her up inside. Ford's hands move quick, from pushing the straps of her tank top down until she feels breeze touch her nipples to taking no sensitive measures to tugging and eventually ripping her boxers off her. Ford pulls away, and drags is mouth onto her neck then chest and Stan finally gets to put her hands on his shoulders, how big and strong he's gotten. One goes through his half greyed hair, and even when he was a teen she loved the dark, curly mop she'd pull into a noogie, but now it just makes him look better.

It makes her so mad, specially with what a grade A dick he's been. But she can't be that mad when Ford reaches her boob and takes a nipple into his mouth, nipping then sucking hard. "Shit—" Stan hisses, and there's nothing more to say than that.

"Fuck, Stan," Ford mutters against her skin, his breath tickling with the wetness on her nipple. "You drive me crazy."

"You're the one who fucked– ah– with Nymphs," She points out, and yeah maybe she could be a little jealous about that, but it dissapates when his fingers make their way into the warm, wetness of her pussy, just as special as Stan imagined it'd be. "Were– hh– they g-good lays, at least?"

"Not what I dealed with them for," Ford repeats, like that answers anything, and sinks loudly onto his chair, right between Stan's knees. His eyes drag down slowly on Stan, from her definitely fucked up hair, to half down tank top and tits hanging out, to right between her legs, and if Stan wasn't full on blushing then, well she sure was now. For a second it looks like he considers taking off his glasses, before deciding against it. Nerd.

Hooking the back of her knees over his shoulders, he smirks up at her again with that tear-her-apart stare again. "I doubt they'd ever taste this good."

Before Stan could respond to that, Ford's face goes between her thighs and his mouth is on her. If Stan thought she almost came earlier, then she's holding on for dear life when Ford's tongue laps at the outside before sinking deeper into her, sending shockwaves through out Stan. Moaning against her like he's the one getting head, like he's getting off from the taste of her on him alone. The flat of his tongue pushes against tight muscle, the heat almost pulsing, and making the wetness there grow more and more

Fuck, just Holy shit, how did he get this—

"Oh!" Stan gasps, one hand finding her own breast and the other on his desk, barely feeling the cold anymore with the clashing heat taking up her whole body, and all she can really feel is Ford's nose bumping against her bush when he only lets up for his teeth to graze against the nub of her clit while his fingers take over below. Stretching her out with his big, thick fingers, just so he could watch her like some pervy, old—

Then he sucks gently on it, and Stan is seeing white.

"Shit– Ford, I'm–"

"Just let it out, Stan," He says, still mostly against her. "You've been so good this whole time.

Thick thighs closing around Ford's head, that's what does her in. Of course it is. Her mind completely blanks out, turning to the white static on TV for a few moments until she realizes she's riding the rest of her orgasm on Ford's mouth at the end of it, while he laps it up like he'd die if he doesn't, like he's the cursed one.

Stan could barely register the murmurred whispers of her name and the movements of his arm from under the desk she's on until he's letting out a shuddering breath, forehead against her belly. Stan couldn't help the grin lighting up her face then.

Great, at least she's not the only one.

Just like that, the heat... doesn't really leave. Just wrapped around her cozily like the trenchcoat Ford threw over her when he finally stands up, only to drag Stan back on his lap. She's not getting used to that thirty years long honed strength anytime soon.

"Suppose I have a new more effective measures now," Ford says, lips finding Stan's, and she could taste herself on there, passed like a secret.

She's not getting used with this affection either, but Stan wants to see Ford try.

They stay a couple of moments there basking in this glow, until Stan peers up again, scratching the back of her neck when realization hits her.

"Hey, Sixer... you're the one cleaning that carpet upstairs, right?"

[diazsdimples]

hi! if you're still doing them from the make 'em swoon prompts: pulling them on their lap + bucktommy pleasee <3

Hey! I sure am! Enjoy!

Tommy was early. Tommy was early for their date and Buck was stressing.

They'd organised for Tommy to come over at 6pm, and Buck was going to stun him with his culinary prowess and cook them dinner, after they'd snacked on some of the chips and beer Buck had fished out of his pantry.

Buck had been prepping for dinner all afternoon, getting the chicken marinading nice and early and chopping the vegetables so all he'd have to do was throw them in the pan and sauté them while Tommy waited. He'd been so busy doing that that he'd completely lost track of time, and now it's 5:55pm, he's not put any of the snacks out and Tommy is fucking early.

"Hey," Buck greets Tommy as he pulls the door open, sounding extremely flustered.

"Hey yourself," Tommy says, slipping in through the door. He snakes an arm around Buck's waist and pulls him close, pressing a soft but sweet kiss to his lips. "How are you doing?"

"Better, now," Buck says, letting out a breathy sigh as he lets himself melt into Tommy's embrace. "You're early."

"Yeah," Tommy shrugs, a small, almost apologetic smile on his lips. "I got excited. Can I help with anything?"

"No, no, I got it. Go sit down," Buck says with a wave of his hand, directing Tommy to the couch he'd finally picked out a few weeks back. "Make yourself at home."

Tommy gives him a little salute before turning and walking off, and Buck lets himself admire his ass for a moment, biting his lip before he shakes his head and turns his attention back to the kitchen.

Buck flies around like a man on fire as he rushes to get the chips, dip, and beer onto the coffee table. Tommy watches him with a half amused smile playing across his lips as Buck trips over his feet and knocks over a cup. He's dimly aware of Tommy asking questions or making conversation as he hurries around, but he doesn't really reply, too focused on getting everything perfect and the way it should have been before Tommy arrived.

Buck has just placed down two bottles of beer on the coffee table and is about to rush off to grab napkins when Tommy stops him with an arm around his waist, and pulls Buck into his lap.

Buck sits down heavily, letting out a small squeak of surprise, and squirms to get out of Tommy's grasp.

"Hey, Evan, slow down a second," Tommy laughs good-naturedly as he rubs soothing circles into Buck's arm.

"But I-" Buck begins, gesturing helplessly towards the kitchen, where their dinner lays, waiting to be cooked. "I've gotta make dinner!"

"Dinner can wait," Tommy replies, tightening his grip around Buck's waist. He nuzzles at Buck's jaw, pressing a light kiss right the hinge. "Been wanting to hold you all day."

Buck lets out a breathy sigh, tilting his head slightly, and his eyes flutter closed.

"Really?" He murmurs, allowing himself to relax and cuddle further into Tommy's arms.

"Yeah," Tommy smiles, placing another kiss to the underside of Buck's jaw. He slides a hand up Buck's chest, cupping his cheek and pulling him closer until their lips are barely brushing. "Missed you, baby."

Buck's lips twitch up into a smile as his eyes slowly flicker open. He reaches a hand up to tangle in the hair at the nape of Tommy's neck, and pulls him in for a searing kiss.

The angle is a little awkward, with Buck having to lean down and twist his torso, but neither of them seem to care, both content to let themselves melt into the kiss. Tommy's hands roam along the planes of Buck's back, scratching with his blunt nails, and Buck's fingers shivers as the sensation sends zings of electricity down his spine and straight to his slowly-hardening cock.

When they pull away, they're both breathless, panting lightly into each other's mouths. Buck leans his forehead against Tommy's, letting his eyes drift shut and his breathing even out.

"I missed you, too," He murmurs, running his hand through the hairs at the back of Tommy's neck. "You sure you're not hungry right now?"

"Oh I'm hungry alright," Tommy replies, his voice deep and husky, and he reels Buck back in for another bruising kiss, their teeth clicking and lips moving in tandem as they each fight for dominance.

Yeah, Buck thinks they probably won't be eating for a while.

Make 'em swoon prompts!!

Tagging some Bucktommy friends (I think?)

@theotherbuckley @bidisasterevankinard @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @loveyouanyway

@wikiangela @jesuisici33 @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @neverevan (lmk if Bucktommy isn't actually something you vibe with and I shall not tag)

[metalhoops]

Steve and Eddie: Alternative ‘First’ meeting part 2.

Read Part 1 Here

Eddie Munson never expected Steve to be his friend. He kept waiting for the former king to realise how different their two worlds were. When that day came, he hoped Steve could look back on his time spent with the strange Metalhead with affection.

Several months had passed since the two had their first encounter in the woods outside the trailer park, and he hadn’t scared Steve away yet. Eddie found the boy following at his side every other day when he wasn’t at work. He was loyal as a golden retriever and strangely, almost as happy. When he and Steve run into each other for the first time since Steve’s graduation, one thing was clear: Steve wasn’t happy. 

Now, most days, he appeared more happy than not. Yet, he was still distant. There were things he was keeping close to his chest, but Eddie didn’t feel like he was close enough to push. 

Eddie kept waiting for the moment he’d chase Steve away. He talked the guy’s ear off about Hellfire, now that the school year was back in full swing. They’d both agreed to keep Steve’s flock of wayward children in the dark about their friendship, lest they think Steve was using Eddie to keep an eye on them, ever the babysitter. Steve listened attentively. 

He invited Steve around to watch obscure B-grade, horror schlockfests. There was no way he enjoyed it, but Steve stayed. He jumped at all the right times and laughed at all the wrong ones, just like Eddie. Steve was too good to be true. One day, something had to give. 

When they drove together, Eddie played the music too loud and performed air guitar solos at stoplights. He’d even gone so far as to serenade Steve with KISS songs as the guy helped him put together a dinner that wasn’t from a microwave container. 

He’d expected Steve to roll his eyes and call him a nerd, which admittedly he did. However, right after, he’d equipped himself with a wooden spoon and performed an equally cheesy rendition of a Bob Seger song. 

Hell, once his parents were out of town and they’d stayed the night at Steve’s he’d shown Eddie his best impression of Tom Cruise in Risky Business, complete with high socks, a poorly buttoned button-down, and too-short, shorts. Eddie was so gone for Steve Harrington, and it was horrible because he knew something was going to go wrong.

He was sick of waiting for it to happen. The two had been friends for months, and Eddie was sick of holding his breath, with each passing day knowing that the hurt would be all the greater as his attachment to Steve grew. 

Steve’s parents were out of town, which always made for a more relaxed Steve. He’d invited Eddie to stay the night at his place for the first time. Eddie realised what had to happen next as Steve invited him to crash with him in his bed. 

This was the thing that would finally scare Steve away. This was the thing that would get Steve to finally give up his reformed jock status and call him a freak. He couldn’t share a bed with Steve without him knowing, it wasn’t fair. 

“I kinda like taking the side next to the door. You mind taking the window side?” Steve asked so casually it made Eddie’s heart ache. 

He found it hard to swallow as he bit the bullet and told Steve the thing he’d been dancing around for months. 

“I’m gay, Steve.” He wished he’d been more eloquent, but he hadn’t. He spoke to the shitty plaid wallpaper, his words running together. 

When he finally looked, he found Steve sitting on the bed, his wide eyes looking equal parts alarmed and confused. He wasn’t cursing at Eddie or chasing the guy out of his house, so far, it was going better than he’d expected. 

“Uh... thanks for telling me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you steal my side of the bed,” Steve finally replied. Eddie was goddamn floored. 

“You heard me, right?” Eddie repeated. There was no way in hell this wasn’t the thing that chased Steve away. 

“Roger Dodger. Loud and clear. You don’t like boobs,” Steve paraphrased as he wriggled under the covers. Eddie let out a sound between a snort and a sob because, holy shit, Steve didn’t care. He was also an absolute idiot, but that was expected.

“And you’re still cool with me sleeping with you?” Eddie asked. 

“I don’t like to sleep alone much, anymore,” Steve spoke with a vague shrug of his shoulders. There it was again, the uneasy sense he got that Steve wasn’t telling him something important. 

Eddie didn’t pry, because Steve hadn’t pushed when he’d just goddamn come out to him. Eddie slipped beneath the covers, closest to the window and lay beside Steve until the man fell asleep. Eddie couldn’t sleep, his head still reeling. 

After an hour, he felt Steve twitch at his side and mumble something incoherent. Eddie stayed still, thinking the moment would pass, quick and painless as a sun shower. Instead, Steve started to thrash. Eddie sat up in bed, flicked on the lights, and gazed down at the former king’s pinched brows. It was hard to believe this was the same boy who’d stalked the halls of Hawkins High, looking seemingly untouchable from Eddie’s ranks amongst the outcasts and common folk. 

“Stevie?” Eddie breathed, placing a hand on Steve’s shoulder in an attempt to wake him. 

The other man’s body stilled beneath his hand, and his face remained contorted. In his sleep, he crept closer to Eddie, curling his body around him. He had no idea what the hell to do. Steve hating to sleep alone made more sense. 

“It’s okay, Harrington. I got you. You’re okay,” Eddie mumbled, taking a risk and leaning down to card his hands through the man’s hair. 

Eddie sat there for another half-hour, muttering quiet nothings until he stilled and slept peacefully. 

When morning finally came and the two found themselves dancing around each other in the Harrington’s oversized kitchen, Eddie decided to broach the subject. Steve kept setting off alarm bells in his head, and he had no idea how to quiet them on his own. 

“Steve, I know I’m a shitty listener because I love to hear the sound of my own voice, but you know, if you ever need to talk about anything, I’m here, right?” 

Steve stepped back from the kitchen cabinet to get a better look at Eddie, his face the picture of conflict. He kept looking as though he were seconds from telling Eddie something before going dead quiet. Finally, he spoke.

“I don’t think I’m entirely straight.” 

That hadn’t been what he was fishing for, but holy shit. 

To make matters worse, Steve was sending him all the right goddamn cues. His eyes flickered to Eddie’s lips, then back to his face. He chewed on his bottom lip and ran his fingers through his carefully styled hair. Screw it. 

Eddie crossed the space between them and smash their lips together, pushing Steve’s back against the cabinet. It was a car crash kind of desperation. Limbs and lips everywhere. Steve ended up on the countertop, his legs wrapped around Eddie’s hips, hands in his hair. Eddie’s head was a chorus of holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. 

Eddie Munson never expected Steve to be his friend, but the one thing he’d never expected to ruin their friendship was a kiss. 

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