#and soft bed sharing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hitlikehammers · 8 days

Text

straw poll: How Many Times Can You Sleep In The Same Bed With A Guy Before It Starts To ✨Mean Something✨?

Because Steve's just there to be a good friend hold Eddie close through the night so Eddie knows what his breathing sounds like as he falls asleep help Eddie through the nightmares, right?(!??!)

or: just how many manners of sin does 'trauma' cover, exactly?

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< two: wash🚿

💤🪦 three: sleep 🌗 🛌

Eddie shoots up in his bed, less afraid of choking on his own heart for its pounding than he is for gnashing it apart with his teeth, it’s surged so high and he can’t breathe, he doesn’t know if he wants to because it’s dark and he can’t see and last thing he did see was, was—

“Ed,” and it’s murmured so close, and the bed dips quick as warmth envelops Eddie’s frame, as a hand grabs one wrist, both wrists and crushes them between two bodies to feel, feel—

“Eddie, breathe, breathe, shhh,” and oh: that’s what he’d seen, what he always sees now: the images he remembers, and the things he’s been told of his own near-demise, but it’s not his body; it’s never his body and more, and worse, they’re always too late and he’s being told to breathe but he can’t, he can’t breathe because they failed, he failed and Steve’s not breathing, he’ll never breathe again—

“Right here, Eds, I’m right here,” and one hand lets go of him and starts carefully wiping at Eddie’s face, drying his eyes so they can focus and recognize not just the touch and the scent and the heat but the sight of the body wrapped around him.

“I’m with you, you’re okay,” Steve breathes, he breathes and Eddie can feel it, he can feel it and it makes no sense but it’s clear and it’s deep and deliberate and, and—

“Breathe with me, come on, just breathe,” Steve coxes a little like soothing a wounded animal and…that’s apt, Eddie feels small and skittish and he needs the warmth and the dawning truth of Steve’s weight against his bones; “it’s okay, everyone’s okay,” and yes, yes, that’s important, that’s so important but it’s not enough, there’s still blood pumping like it wants to leap from his mouth as he gasps because he cannot fucking breathe until—

“I’m okay.”

Steve says it as just part of an ongoing litany of reassurance, hopes to calm Eddie into, y’know, the basic needs of human survival, heart and lungs remembering how to move right but—

Steve’s okay.

It’s like Eddie heart and lungs had an agenda; like maybe they didn’t want to move right if the dream—a dream, a dream, just a dream, Steve’s chest lifts against him, falls, lifts again, and again, and again, real—but maybe neither was really invested in survival, if it all hadn’t just been a dream.

“We’re okay, Eds,” and Eddie doesn’t mean to gasp, to half moan and half whimper in something wreathed in pure relief, doesn’t plan to burrow into Steve like he does as Steve presses closer, closer, so it’s only logical, only the reasonable thing when Steve’s lips move against Eddie’s skin at the hairline, at the temple when he speaks, he’s just that close, y’know—

“Swear,” Steve murmurs, and he crushes their hands a little closer between both their chests, and his face is still so close because of it—no other reason, it can’t be any other reason—that his lips drag when he breathes, when he fucking vows:

“I swear we’re okay.”

Eddie nods, just nods; Steve keeps him tucked under his chin, safe: he lifts with his breathing, his heartbeat’s right there, taunt but true, realand maybe Eddie nuzzles there a little, so fucking sue him.

It’s been like this, though. Lately. More than just lately; it’s been like this for a while. Steve had always been around for the nightmares, and he always came to ease Eddie through them but he ended up back on the couch if Wayne wasn’t there, or in the chair in the corner, or the sleeping bag they’d found and he’d set up on the floor before Eddie could protest—and he never wanted to push too hard because, because…

At least on the floor, Eddie could hear him breathe.

But then, then the nightmares stopped being highlight reels of reality; then they turned, and they’re focused on…variations on a theme.

A theme of losing one Steve Harrington.

And then Eddie grew clingy, without even meaning to, or planning to, and Steve never fought him. It took a couple weeks before Steve didn’t only come to him as soon as Eddie started gasping, screaming and then stayed with him through the night, no: then Steve just started coming with him to bed and opening his arms to roll into, to wake up shaking against.

It didn’t make the nightmares go away but it made them…bearable. Because proof of the lies in them was there waiting to wrap around him, if he wasn’t already buried in that warm, fuzzy, living chest.

Where Eddie’s pressed tight, now. And he…he couldn’t say what tips the scales. What changes things when nothing is different. Steve’s heartbeat’s a little faster, maybe Eddie’s gasping heavier, more of Steve in his lungs than usual. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Whatever the reason, Eddie lets his open lips drag along Steve’s collarbone. For proximity’s sake.

“Steve?”

And Eddie’s back to feel like his heart’s less a threat like the bat tails choking than it is for the biting in half where it’s caught on his tongue, like an offering, or else damnation.

Maybe both.

“Hmm?” Steve’s hum’s a little sleepy but he’s quick to maneuver them, to face Eddie and rove eyes over Eddie’s face with fully-wakeful care; concern.

Offering. His heart’s a manic wild thing thrashing on his tongue when he makes to speak but it’s…

It’s Steve’s. His heart is Steve’s and Eddie’s lost but in maybe the best most terrifying way imaginable; Eddie is beholden to Steve with all of him, and if the ungainly pulp shaking out of his ribs and up past his throat’s going to fall out with the words he has to whisper, well.

It’s Steve’s, and whether he feels anything at all in return, he’s been more than the word kind knows how to hold; maybe he’ll be gentle with it even in rejecting how it shakes, for him.

Kinda, just for him. Like this: just for him.

“What is this?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture or look anywhere but in Steve’s eyes but: their hands are still linked, and his fingers twitch without him meaning to move them at all but Steve.

Steve grips tighter. Steadies him with question; immediate.

“Trauma,” Steve huffs a little, humorless, but his breath’s so near, so warm: “or so they tell me.”

“No, I mean,” and Eddie’s shaking his head then because; “yeah, yes, definitely that, but,” and Eddie can be brave, he has to be brave because if he’s not brave this will maybe break him: the middle space without an answer, he needs some kind of answer—

“I mean this,” and now Eddie forces himself to tighten his fingers, and presses into Steve closer: Steve’s heart isn’t wild, but it’s not calm either. It’s not sleep-slow. It’s…untamed.

Eddie doesn’t know what it means.

But Steve looks at their hands, pulls Eddie’s fingertips through the curls on his chest, starts tracing Eddie’s nails from cuticle to tip.

“I’ve never been good with subtle,” Steve barely breathes, and his heart’s faster for it, where Eddie can feel; “or moving slow,” and then he laughs; it’s not humorous now either, more self deprecating, and Eddie…Eddie doesn’t like that.

Eddie loves this man too much.

“Kinda notorious for wearing my heart on my sleeve and all,” and Steve shrugs, only pauses the motions of their hands for half a breath, less than a heartbeat at the going pace. It feels too small for something so…significant.

Something precious like that.

“Easy to get stomped on,” Eddie finds the words tumbling out, almost aggrieved; he heard the rumors, even among their friends, their family but faced with it so stark like this, naked chest to chest, it’s…unthinkable.

It hurts, just to think of.

“Yeah,” Steve exhales; fucking…Eddie thinks that sounds resigned: “I know.”

Eddie doesn’t expect the whine that escapes him, a little jagged on the frantic pulse he can feel all in his teeth; he doesn’t expect it, but it’s not big enough. It’s not deep enough for the ache in him at that…acceptance, that expectation of hurt.

“I didn’t,” Eddie starts, desperate for him to know; however this plays out, Steve cannot ever, ever believe his heart isn’t…isn’t the most invaluable gift in, in—

In any universe. Any dimension. Across any existence at all worth knowing.

He doesn’t think the words he knows could do the sentiment justice, though. And words, shit: he should be good with those but, even if he knew the right ones. Hell just fought up his still-pounding heart with a flail and that’s…

He grabs Steve's hand tighter, fit to break bones: the need unquestionable.

He hopes the want, the devotion in him translates just as clear.

And then, oh holy fuck—then.

Steve holds back just as hard.

“I wanted to try to keep the ball in your court,” Steve exhales, shaky; and Eddie knows, he knows they’re on the same page. Steve’s heart’s so fast. Eddie’s is faster.

“I told you,” Eddie starts, more like he’s trying to figure it all out for himself more than arguing anything but, how could Steve had thought Eddie didn’t, how could—

Why would anyone trust Eddie with any kind of sports-oriented ball—

“With the shower, and—“

“I’m not that guy anymore,” Steve barely whispers; “you might’ve had a crush on me then but now I’m,” Eddie feels Steve swallow; hears his heartbeat maybe skip; “I think, I mean, I hope I’m a different person.”

Eddie has to breathe at the notch in Steve’s throat for a couple seconds, maybe minutes; this…this sounds like…like maybe…

“And just because the ball’s in your court,” Steve’s pulse kicks up, and up, and—

“Didn’t mean my heart wasn’t still held out for the stomping,” and he’s twirling Eddie’s hair, he’s twirling his fingers through Eddie’s hair while he talks about the impossible possibility of, of what: Eddie…not wanting, of Eddie doing the stomping—

Eddie can barely swallow.

“You saying you wouldn’t help bathe all your friends in similar circumstances?” he mostly kinda squeaks; he can barely hear over the rush of his own blood.

“I’m saying not all of them,” there’s a little smile in Steve’s voice, but his pulse is still knocking against where Eddie pressed into his neck; “but I wouldn’t be risking my heart for it either way.”

And Eddie…Eddie thinks he’s maybe dying, for real this time. He thinks maybe he’s never felt alive before this moment, ever.

He blames the confusion, for not thinking through his next words.

“Would it be too not-slow,” Eddie mouths against the pulsepoint jumping at him, fit perfect to his lips; “or unsubtle, if I said I thought I was in love with you?”

He might not think the words through, but hell if he regrets them for a goddamn second.

Not when Steve doesn’t move to pull away, doesn’t let go at all, holds on tight—but the pulse against Eddie’s lips redefines what it means to hammer, to race.

Eddie starts thinking about turning, looking Steve in the eye and hoping to find what he…what he thinks he’ll find but there’s still a part of him that’s scared, that’s not brave, that’s…

But then Steve’s moving, raising up to meet Eddie’s gaze: so bright in the middle of the night, in the pitch dark. Lips open, breathing heavy, their chests still flush but now Steve’s reaching, framing Eddie’s face and just…looking.

Nah, no: staring.

“Steve?” Eddie thinks it’s more a matter of his lips moving than of sound coming out, especially as he tries to follow the pad of Steve’s thumb as it traces the corner of Eddie’s lips, careful, so careful, like Eddie’s glass and wonder all at once and—

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”

And then Steve’s leaning in, then Eddie’s learning that Steve tastes like leftover toothpaste and some kind of spice they hadn’t eaten, that Eddie doesn’t know: thinks, believes is what dawn tastes like, the breaking of day itself in Steve’s mouth, his veins.

They move slow, slick, tongues less exploring and more kinda worshipping; Eddie’s been kissed harder and faster and deeper for the technical definitions of any of the terms but he’s never felt so dizzy, so spun from the axis of his world, the line that splits his heart in halves; never like someone was tongue his soul out gentle to weigh and bathe in, like, adoration.

Eddie doesn’t have a word for how it steals his breath.

“Hey,” he tried to gasp anyway when they break apart for air; “hey, Stevie?”

“Hmm?” Steve hums, running the line of his nose up Eddie’s jaw, and Eddie throws his head back, shivers when Steve licks at the fading scars as he goes. When he makes it to kiss Eddie’s temple—because now he means to, or maybe he always did and, oh, oh shit, what if he always did—then he leans back and looks at Eddie, and there’s…

There’s so much in those eyes. It makes Eddie feel…almost-brave.

“What if I took the ‘think’ out?”

Steve tips his head, fucking adorable.

“Whatcha mean?”

Eddie swallows, and soaks up that gaze some more: almost-brave.

“I said I think I’m in love with you,” Eddie exhales; “what if I said that, but I took out the part where I say ‘think’?”

And oh wow: he’d thought, he’d known Steve was some inexplicable light before.

He’s putting their whole galaxy’s suns, every one of them Eddie doesn’t even know—the way his eyes shine and his smile beams puts every goddamn one of them to shame.

And Eddie doesn’t expect it, exactly, when Steve gathers his hands again and crushes them to his chest just to murmur low:

“Then I’d say this is yours to do with whatever you’d like,” and he moves Eddie’s palms to cup around the beat that’s still so fast and hard but not pulled taut anymore, closer to sugar high, or a rubber ball ricocheting around the ceiling just for the joy in it; “stomping included,” and he smiles for it like a joke but…but Eddie would never so—

He leans in and this time he captures the lips, and he presses hard, dares to nip at Steve’s lower lip and bite out:

“Never,” and he meets Steve’s eyes, watching them dilate impossibly in too little light and he just, he just…

He falls into Steve, presses his cheek close and, and feels him. Somehow all of it’s new.

“You okay?” Steve eventually asks, but doesn’t pull away, just slides a hand up the line of Eddie’s spine to steady, to keep him like there’s a question of Eddie going anywhere but here every again; and then just leans into Eddie’s cheek, magnetic-like.

And okay is such a foolish, insignificant word. Eddie could hold the weight of the earth ten times over, he feels strong enough; Eddie could swallow the stars and it wouldn’t matter because he has his own sun right in front of him.

Eddie doesn’t know if he understood the word happy before this moment, and every synonym for it that means the exact same thing’s a lot like okay: just too fucking small.

“Yeah,” Eddie answers, and breathes Steve in so deep his lungs kinda shake for it before he breathes back out; “yeah, sweetheart,” and fuck, fuck—Eddie Munson’s not just in love.

Eddie Munson is loved in return. Eddie Munson loves, and is loved back. That’s…that’s just…

“I’ve never been better.”

>>> four: play 🎶🎧🎹

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson

divider credits here & here

👾 title credit here

💫 ao3 link here

104 notes · View notes

dribs-and-drabbles · 6 months

Text

The Thai 🤝🏽 Taiwanese Communal Wardrobe item #2

Bed Friend ep 10:

Kiseki: Dear to Me ep 4 & 5:

Anti Reset ep 7:

For @respectthepetty 💛

+ Bonus not in a series but...Topten Supakorn at the Pit Babe fanmeet in Tokyo

173 notes · View notes

homerforsure · 3 months

Note

Buddie first time sharing a bed as a couple? If the inspiration hits?

-@try-set-me-on-fire

Hey! I did this!

It's also inspired by another Six Days of Buddie piece from @andavs (This one!) and it's a little bit... all over the place? But I think it turned out cozy and soft and heaped with love which feels pretty Buddie to me.

sleep safe and warm

2k. Rated T. On AO3 at the link above and also below if you prefer

Mostly Buck takes the golden retriever comments in stride. His teammates find them funnier than he does, but there’s such genuine warmth and fondness in the jokes that he’s perfectly happy to enjoy the metaphorical ear scratches rather than get offended at the comparison.

Tonight though he’s on the verge of a serious case of the zoomies. He wants to bounce around in circles on Eddie’s bed, rolling onto his back and rubbing his body all over the sheets until his scent is as deeply embedded there as Eddie’s own. Maybe if he could bark, he’d have a way to express some of the boundless joy that’s been building all day in his chest.

He’s sleeping with Eddie tonight.

Not like that. They’ve already done that in the twelve weeks since Eddie took Buck’s face in trembling hands and kissed him like it was what he’d want to do if they only had one minute left on Earth. They’ve done it upside down and backwards and sideways and one time at a particular incline that gave Buck a glimpse of God.

Although that did take longer than Buck would have expected. They may have started slow and careful in the beginning, both of them half afraid they’d shatter the dream by grabbing it too tightly, but once they got used to touching each other, it was hard to keep the spark from erupting into flame with each brush of their lips. But keep the inferno at bay they did, ripping away from each other at the last minute even when doing so started feeling like ripping off a part of their own bodies.

Buck’s fear went from familiar–what if he wasn’t good enough, what if he couldn't satisfy Eddie in all the ways he needed to be satisfied–to newer and more terrifying possibilities. What if Eddie didn’t want to have sex with him? What if what Buck had thought of as the beginning of the rest of his life was only the beginning of a failed experiment. That fear built until it was more unbearable than the permanent case of blue balls he’d come down with.

“Why?” he’d asked–pleaded really–with an almost pathetic whine when Eddie ended a scorching kiss by pulling away from Buck on the couch to stare into his eyes while he caught his breath and then said, “I should go.”

His legs tightened around Eddie’s waist almost of their own accord and Buck wasn’t proud of it. He didn’t want any of the things he wanted from Eddie–with Eddie–to come with pressure or ultimatums or anything other than the same longing that was turning his own blood to fire whenever they were alone together. But he wanted. He wanted so badly he couldn’t think straight and he couldn’t keep letting it go this far only to find out they weren’t racing for the same finish line. He had to know what Eddie wanted from him–from them.

Pain flashed across Eddie’s face so close to Buck’s own that he could see every sharp facet of it, but it didn’t give him any more understanding.

“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time.

“No, I am,” Buck insisted. “I want you to stay, but you-you-you should go if- You don’t owe me anything, okay? I just- Am I… Am I doing something wrong? Do you not want-”

It was still a little too vulnerable maybe, a little too needy; his legs still didn’t untangle themselves from around Eddie. It was the best Buck could do.

Eddie didn’t make any move to pull away though. He stayed braced above Buck with that pained, half-tormented look on his face and it gave Buck more hope than it had any right too.

“I want to stay,” he said, finally. “I want everything.”

Carefully, gently, Buck asked, “Okay. So- so why are you talking about leaving?”

Holding Buck’s gaze, Eddie seemed to turn over the question in his head before making a frustrated sound and ducking his head. He kissed over Buck’s bare chest, his collarbone, like he was seeking answers in his skin and Buck dared to bring his hand up to Eddie’s head, not with any pressure to hold him where he was, but with what he hoped was reassurance.

“I love you,” Eddie said.

A shiver coursed through Buck as he answered, “I know. I love you too.”

“And this is it. This is…There’s no going back. And I’m afraid- I’m afraid.”

He sighed heavily and pressed another kiss to Buck’s shoulder, trying to tell him without words that the fear was his own, that it wasn’t about Buck or the ways that Buck might fail. And Buck understood that unspoken reassurance so easily and clearly that it made him smile in spite of it all. “You think we can go back now?” he asked lightly, his fingers scratching on Eddie’s scalp.

Eddie huffed a laugh into Buck’s throat the way Buck was hoping he would and Buck felt the shake of his head.

“Me either,” he said. “And I’m scared too, but I don’t- Eddie, I don’t want to go back. You- You’re already inside me in every way that matters and I’m- Sex is just… more. It’s more of that. It’s more of you. And I can’t really be scared of that.”

“Christ. How can I not fuck you after that?” Eddie asked. As he lifted his head again, his smile was teasing, but his eyes were filled with so much softness and so much love that Buck’s cock throbbed in his jeans against Eddie’s thigh and they both melted into laughter.

It hadn’t happened that night. Laughing gave way to kissing gave way to whispering in the dark, exchanging fears and together transforming them into hope. The next time they fell together, a few days later, they didn’t break apart.

They hadn’t been able to stay in bed that afternoon, however, and since then, their schedules and circumstances had seemed to conspire against them, keeping Buck from the one place he wanted to be more than anything. But tonight it’s happening.

In the bathroom, Eddie is brushing his teeth like Buck did just moments ago and the sound of the running water almost gives him butterflies in his stomach.

With a grin on his face that he can’t suppress, Buck crosses the room to the side of the bed he knows is about to be his and makes sure his phone charger is plugged into the wall behind the side table. He changed his clothes already, soft shorts, soft shirt, warm socks so there’s nothing left to do but pull back the covers.

Sliding into the fresh sheets almost feels like a sigh. They’re cool on his bare legs but the comforter is heavy enough that he knows it’ll start trapping the warmth of his body in a few minutes. The warmth of their bodies. Buck’s been on his own for a while now and he’s never really stopped missing that sensation of having another person beside him. It’s a different kind of pleasure than sex, intimate and vulnerable in its own way, and comforting. The sound of easy breath in the dark and weight of another body settles him like nothing else does.

He can still hear Eddie moving around the house, peeking in on Christopher and checking the locks on the doors, and Buck finds himself, like he does in most moments where he has to wait, with his phone in his hand and a question typed into the search bar.

By the time Eddie appears in the doorway, he’s engrossed and he misses the soft smile that’s sent his way. But as Eddie gets closer, the floor creaks and Buck looks up in time to watch him strip off his shirt and dig around in his drawer for a different one. It brings to mind the first time Buck saw him do that motion, the first time he saw Eddie at all, and he could laugh at what the expression on that Buck’s face would be if he could tell him that the envy and fear he felt in that moment would collapse so quickly into admiration and then grow into love.

That Buck didn’t even know that love could feel like this: as comfortable as an old sweatshirt, stolen just because it’s been loved so thoroughly by the one you love, as safe as a solid platform overlooking a breathtaking view. He’d probably be flexing now, making sure Eddie didn’t regret his invitation, because he couldn’t comprehend that he didn’t need to. Buck was so glad for all the versions of himself that he’d finally brought them here.

Dropping his worn clothes into the hamper and, after a thought, picking up Buck’s from where they’ve been kicked into the corner and dropping them inside too, Eddie asks, “Do you want the other blanket?”

“No, this is good.”

“Good. Cause I left it in the living room and that’s a long walk.”

He slaps the overhead light off as a punctuation to the joke but Buck can feel his teasing smile even before his eyes adjust to the newly dim space. The floor creaks again as Eddie passes over the worn spot and then he’s pulling back the covers on his side of the bed, sending tingles sprinting up and down Buck’s legs.

The bed dips and cooler air sneaks in. Eddie slides in past the invisible center line of the bed and puts a warm hand on Buck’s thigh. “All good?” he whispers against Buck’s throat, mouthing kisses up his neck and down his jaw until Buck finally turns his head away from the article he’s reading and tilts his head to let the kisses land on his lips.

“Perfect.”

“Good,” Eddie smiles against his mouth and kisses him one last time, “Good night.”

“Night.”

Eddie snuggles down onto the mattress, not bothering to scoot back over to the other side of the bed and a contented sigh escapes into the dark.

“Did you know Ben Franklin and John Adams slept together once?” Buck asks.

After a beat, Eddie asks, “Which John Adams?”

“I don’t- Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know. Why are you reading about Ben Franklin’s sex life?”

“They didn’t have sex. I mean, maybe they did, the article doesn’t say. But they slept together like in a hotel because back in the day people didn’t really sleep by themselves as much. Even when beds were invented, you know, the whole family just piled in like, like puppies. The twin bed thing didn’t happen until later.”

“I bet George Washington got his own room,” Eddie mumbles.

“Probably.”

“What about Franklin and Adams? Did one of them get morning wood and make it awkward?”

“Uh, it says they fought about whether to keep the window open or closed all night.”

“If it smelled as bad as the bunkroom in August, I’d vote for open.”

“When Bobby makes that really garlicky sauce,” Buck snorts.

“Oh god. You know he only does that because he gets his own room.”

“Of course he does.”

Buck smiles down at Eddie and then scrolls back through the article. “And did you know that “hit the hay” actually comes from people shoving hay in like a sack and-”

“Buck,” Eddie says. “I love you. And if this is your idea of a bedtime story, it’s very very effective.”

“Right,” Buck laughs. He clicks off his phone, setting it on the side table, and the room goes fully dark.

As he snuggles down into the blankets, Eddie makes room for him, scooting just enough so that Buck has room to lay down and roll over without risking a fall to the floor. Then he throws an arm over Buck’s waist and it’s Buck’s turn to sigh as he snuggles in closer.

“We’re not inviting anyone else in here,” Eddie says. “I don’t care if they are a founding father.”

Eddie’s t-shirt is soft under Buck’s fingers when he says, “No. Not sharing.”

“And we’re not doing twin beds either. You’re going to stay right here.”

His lips brush Buck’s forehead and every part of him that wasn’t already melted into calm settles now. Their bodies are warming the blankets. Eddie’s arm is a comforting weight on his body, like a harness attached to a lifeline. With his hand on Eddie’s chest, Buck can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart and he moves to put his head there instead. Both of them drape over each other and tangle together and Buck is never ever going to be able to sleep as well any other way.

“Even if Bobby makes garlic sauce?” he whispers.

“Well. Maybe we’ll open a window.”

#buddie fic #eddie x buck #911 fic #911 fanfic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #sharing a bed #soft boys in love #allison writes

129 notes · View notes

rigatoniiiiiiii · 1 year

Note

forgiv me :'] i jus wanted to ask again becaus i rly lov ur art style its so satisfying to look at :'>

u don hav to do this

tco x tdl ;w;

Quiet moments

#i think about how them sharing a bed and a house and being eachother’s for 7 years #i think about their soft moments soooo often #they should have more of them #animation vs minecraft #animator vs animation #avm #ava #alan becker #tdl x tco #ava tdl #ava the dark lord #ava tco #ava the chosen one #chodark #pastart

432 notes · View notes

wangxianficrecs · 18 days

Text

💙 your heart is mine to fortify by sunflowersfield

💙🔒 your heart is mine to fortify

by sunflowersfield

G, 2k, Wangxian

Summary: A few mornings later, Wei Ying stares up at his ceiling and listens to the wind blowing through the willow tree outside his window. It is 4:15 a.m. and he is wide awake once more. For a while, the howling wind is the only sound he hears, and then, there is movement from somewhere below him. The opening and closing of cabinet doors. Light footsteps tapping on a hardwood floor. The clanging of metal against glass. Lan Zhan has arrived at the bakery. Wei Ying allows himself to be swept away by the symphony of sounds that Lan Zhan unknowingly creates as he begins his day. His breathing slows, and his body relaxes bit by bit. He imagines that he is listening to a lullaby written just for him. And just like a lullaby, the symphony guides him back to sleep. Or: Wei Ying lives in the apartment above Lan Zhan's bakery. Or part 2: Wei Ying learns how to accept Lan Zhan's help. Kay's comments: Everybody wake up, AO3 user sunflowersfield has dropped another soft banger. This was incredibly soft, with Wangxian meeting and immediately both falling for each other and you can just tell with both of them and Lan Wangji makes such a perfect baker! The early hours and the routines and the cuteness of his creations with which he spoils Wei Wuxian - perfection. And I love how they both look out for each other and make space for each other in their lives. Excerpt: Wei Ying has lived above the bakery for nearly two years, but Lan Zhan has only owned it for three months. Wei Ying noticed him for the first time on a Saturday morning. The sun was bright that day, but there was a chill in the air. He was returning from the store, carrying three bags of groceries in each hand and eagerly awaiting the warmth of his apartment. He did not have time to stop. And yet, two things caught his eye: a brand new sign above the bakery door and a glimpse of someone new standing behind the front counter. Someone he felt drawn to. Wei Ying had rushed up the stairs to his apartment and unpacked his groceries as quickly as possible. When he was finished, he ran back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. He waited patiently as a mother exited the bakery with a stroller, and he reached out to hold the door for her. Then, he walked inside. "Hi,” he said, and the man behind the counter looked up. "Hello,” the man responded, meeting his gaze. And that was how it all began.

pov wei wuxian, modern setting, modern no magic, bakery, meet-cute, first meetings, getting to know each other, stranges to lovers, falling in love, developing relationship, soft lan wangji/wei wuxian, getting together, neurodiversity, jiang family dynamics, insomnia, anxiety, mental health issues, sharing a bed, happy ending, mutual pining, domestic fluff, slice of life

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

45 notes · View notes

rockingrobin69 · 7 months

Text

Seriously, though

“Here,” with a giant heave, “just a little—c’mon, Potter,” pulling the arm slung around Draco’s shoulder tighter. “It’s just a bit further, you twat.”

Potter’s smile was smeared all across his face, unbearable at such a close distance. “You’re so strong,” he said, twattily. Draco resisted the urge to push him off.

“You’re making it so much harder than,” short on breath for laughing. “Come on, you big lug. There’s a warm bed waiting for you just the other side of this corridor.”

“How do you know it’s warm?” Potter asked. “Did you try it?”

“Of course. Nothing but the best at Chez Malfoy. See, if you were a normal house guest and not a silly goose—”

“Am not a goose,” indignantly. “Silly, maybe.”

Draco stopped them both halfway through the corridor. “Maybe?”

“Maybe. I’ll give you somewhat silly, on occasion.”

Eyebrow hiking: “On occasion.”

“And only somewhat.”

This grin-thing his face was trying to pull was achey around the corners. “You mean,” Draco said, “that cursing yourself with jelly-legs and getting your own flat flooded with patchouli was not an entirely silly thing to do. Only somewhat silly.”

“Certainly an occasion,” Potter said, and his eyes sparkled. “Thanks for having me, by the way.”

“Oh, sure. What else could one do when the Chosen Git wakes them up in the middle of the night in uproarious fits of laughter? It’s no problem, I mean,” when the smile on Potter’s face dimmed. “I’m happy to have you here. As long as you need.”

They both swallowed at the same time. It was quiet, middle of the night, just them here. Holding each other and standing very close. In his house coat, and his red-red cheeks, Draco felt miserably naked, too obvious.

Then Potter’s legs started twitching again, and he started laughing, again, this helpless, raw sound, and Draco was helpless too. To it, to him. With his shoulders and colourful socks and the strands of his hair that kept catching his eye.

“Here,” Draco realised he was saying, only after he brushed a few of those away. Gulped loudly. “Let’s—come on, let’s get you to that blasted bedroom.”

Potter echoed his swallow. His nervousness, for some reason. “What’s that door over there?” pointing at the nearest one.

“That one’s mine.”

“Oh.” Sucking in his bottom lip in a truly unfair display. “What if,” he started, shook his head, nodded, “wouldn’t it be easier if—”

“I’m not giving you my bed,” Draco heard himself say with pure shock, instead of, for example, “yes, of course, anything you’d like, forever actually.”

“I’m not asking you to, git. I meant, maybe we could share.”

“Share…” comprehension, rather than dawning, sank. “Share my bed?”

“God, you can be so thick,” and why did Potter sound fond? “Had to curse my own legs and still you continue to—”

“I’m the thick one, when you cursed your—wait, what?”

“Will you just,” laughing, “Malfoy, shut up, for the love of god, and take me to bed already?”

His heart splattered against his ribcage. “Take you to bed. Yes, I can do that.”

To the… guestroom, right? That’s what they were talking about.

“Malfoy,” again in that inexplicable tone, the one that went soft and low instead of—instead—“I was serious. About sharing. I’ve been serious about if for quite some time.”

The heat in his cheeks and the frenzy in his chest: “Yes?” meaning, really? Meaning, me?

“Yes.”

Melting a little, “It is closer. My bed, I mean. And, the sheets are clean.”

“Always prepared at Chez Malfoy.”

“Shut up, you absolute goose.” Nearly brave enough for a smile, tilting his head towards his room. Bursting when Potter, eyes twinkling, nodded.

He was taking the silly goose to bed. How… fortunate, really, that he opened the door. That Potter’s legs were still dancing, that the other, nearer guestroom for some reason didn’t come to mind. That Potter was serious, he said, had been for a while now, and that Draco was too, entirely too serious for him. Almost too serious to laugh when Potter’s right foot sent in a truly spectacular jig: almost.

They laughed together. Twats. Even the bedroom door laughed with them as it closed. Then the hinges of the bed as they gingerly climbed on. Then the birds in the morning, when they woke up, still holding each other’s hand.

(Hi, so, I might be doing a bit of flufftober? Grab a link to AO3 if you want to keep up with the sporadic posting schedule. Love and soft to us all).

Freely Given and Entirely True - Robin's 2023 flufftober collection

#drarry fic #not a round number of words!#this year: no self-imposed rules. nothing harsh. just flow #oh oh the fic! tags about the fic! right;#mutual pining and they're idiots #nothing happens and in the end they share a bed #and hold hands #very soft and very very silly.#flufftober2023 #prompt: “I've got you”#why am i obsessed with silly geese. literally cannot stop writing them #rockingrobin69

112 notes · View notes

neverevan · 4 months

Text

Snippet Sunday 🎿

I was tagged by @daffi-990 @jamespearce9-1-1 @hippolotamus and @jeeyuns thank you my dears 💛

Since the ski fic is getting posted a few days before Christmas (the plan is Thursday but we'll see how editing goes) here's just one more snippet until then. 🫶

Eddie was pulled from his thoughts by a pair of ocean blue eyes blinking at him sluggishly. “Hey,” Buck croaked, his voice thick with sleep. “Morning,” Eddie whispered back softly. He could get used to this, he really could; waking up in the same bed as Buck, having Buck’s face be the first thing he sees in the morning, maybe even sharing a few lazy morning breath kisses or sleepy blowjobs if they felt like it… That’d be nice. “What time‘s it?” Buck rubbed at his face in a halfhearted attempt of becoming more alert. Eddie smiled at him and unable to resist the urge, he ran his fingers through Buck’s messy curls, swiping them away from his forehead. “Almost six.” “That’s early.” Buck mumbled with a quiet grunt, letting his eyes flutter shut with Eddie’s touch. It would’ve been so easy to just lean in and plant a kiss onto his lips. So, so easy. “Yeah… you can go back to sleep if you want, I’ll wake you up before seven.” Eddie murmured, his fingers still tracking over Buck’s scalp, now without the pretense of fixing his hair and just for the feel of it. “Nhm ’s okay,” Buck shook his head, pressing his cheek deeper into the pillow — and consequently his head into Eddie’s palm. “I’ll be up in a minute. Just… stay.” And Eddie’s hand went still and Buck’s eyes flew open and suddenly everything came into sharp focus. This was the moment they both had to decide what they wanted and Eddie was just about to open his mouth — though he was still unsure of what would come out of it — when they heard a quiet knock at the door.

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @nmcggg @thewolvesof1998 @watchyourbuck @theotherbuckley @fortheloveofbuddie @ladydorian05

#I will make them share a bed anytime I can justify it and even when I can't idc #this fic is so mushy no one's gonna believe I wrote it lmao #they are soft and very much in love and it's time they pull their shit together and do something about it #well unless they get interrupted of course #also please note that this is pre-editing so it's still a little choppy #hopefully it'll get better by the posting date 🫡#buddie #911 #wip #the ski fic

52 notes · View notes

sootyfeathers · 1 month

Link

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Nanami Kento/Reader, Nanami Kento/You Characters: Nanami Kento, Reader Additional Tags: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Bodyguard, Soft Nanami Kento, Protective Nanami Kento, nanami is the greenest flag that ever did wave, Bathing/Washing, Sharing a Bed, Sharing Clothes, Literal Sleeping Together, Panic Attacks, it’s 2am still time for one more bad writing decision, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, First Kiss Summary:

Cold, rain soaked, and stranded at a park, you suffered a panic attack alone and needed someone to help you. Who else could you call other than your former bodyguard and First Grade Sorcerer, Nanami Kento? Fear and shame kept you from reaching out to him, but in a turn of events, it seems he was thinking of you as well. A night of some much-needed comfort follows.

#FINALLY FINISHED #dies #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #sharing a bed #panic attack #soft nanami #fanfiction #fanfic #comfort fic

29 notes · View notes

jimmyspades · 1 month

Text

#his happy handsome smile :)#james spader #alan shore #boston legal #*#going to bed early tonight bc this week is so busy love u <3 #i'm going to a concert and one of the band's songs is such an alan song to me. do you think they'll play the alan song for me... 👉👈#do you think alan likes concerts. in that one ep he mentioned radiohead which was so crazy I can't believe he knows what music is #I think he sort of implied he'd BEEN to a radiohead show wtf...#so much of alan we don't get to see... like when he said he has season tickets to bruins games. wtf you love hockey? who are you #and james loves live music SO much I think alan would have to too. I just realized this scene he's watching a band play LMAO #for once my tags are relevant to the actual post... in a roundabout way...#anyway. i'd go to concerts with him i actually can't even imagine what he'd be like but the thought makes me wanna cry. allie bear #and hockey games. hold his hand when i'm cold sharing popcorn and soft pretzels. he probably has a jersey... he gets so into it silly guy

24 notes · View notes

hitlikehammers · 5 days

Text

time for that age old question: is love enough to beat back the apocalypse?

Because Steve's right there to protect everybody like the self-sacrificing asshole he is help Eddie make the music he's not strong enough for yet help them all put Vecna in the ground for good this time, right?(!??!)

or: what's the song for your walkman, baby? does it even matter?

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< three: sleep 🌗

🎧 🎹 four: play 🎶 🛡️

To tell the whole truth of it: it comes too quickly—Vecna’s last stand. Of course it does.

But probably, if he’s being fair: they’d never have been really ready. Not for this, and so maybe it’s best that they’re not fully healed, not at full strength when it all comes to a head, not least because that means Vecna and his petal-toothed brigade aren’t at full strength either. And that choice, for their side, is sloppy; the Party stands on the right-side-up against the attack because they have to. Vecna makes his move because—or else, Eddie’s fairly sure—because the sadistic ballsac is losing his fucking mind.

Which is terrifying, sure, but fuck if it doesn’t help their cause.

It’s actually over pretty quick, even compared to Spring Break which, while it felt like a lifetime for how much it changed Eddie’s own, it’s only been those handful of days—but it’s kinda like the grand finale at a fireworks show: everything all at once then, done. In the everything’s though: he might not like it, but Eddie’s not so foolish as to believe he’s not still too tender, still too deep in healing the finer points of being gnawed alive to be anything but a burden in the thick of it. He refuses to be sidelined, though, and he thinks it says a lot for the long-term health of this glorious impossible thing he’s…building? Yeah, he, umm, he, Eddie Munson, is building a real goddamn thing where he doesn’t even just let someone into his heart and treasures them there, no, he’s building a thing where he gives his heart and gets on new and soft and trembling in kind and they both get to work at the treasuring of something more precious than just their own vulnerable insides, but yeah, yeah:

Eddie thinks it bodes really fucking well for the hopes he has that lean hard toward forever, already, in Eddie’s chest at least when Steve looks his way as they’re planning the teams and he locks eyes with Eddie and Eddie doesn’t even get his mouth open to breathe, to plead don’t cut me out, don’t send me to Wayne to be ‘safe’ or ‘out of harm’s way’ or whatever, don’t leave me so fucking far from you my heart hurts just because it’s beating in the middle space unmoored and shaking around all bruised up with it for not knowing and I know I can’t do what everyone else can but it’ll be bad enough not being next to you please don’t push me far enough that I won’t know the moment you’re safe, just—

Steve meets his eyes, and Eddie’s breath catches before his heart trips, and then Steve speaks up—and he doesn’t, not all that often when the nerdiest among them are shoring up the battle plans—but he watches Eddie without blinking when he pipes up:

“Eddie’s on medical and audio, with Erica and Jon.”

And maybe it’s his tone—this almost wholly novel thing in Steve that’s steely and unquestionable but no one pushes, they nod and get back to work, totally seamless and, and…yeah. That’s all Eddie wanted. Best he could hope for. Just outside the gate they go through. Close enough to hold a hand on the way down, and reach for purchase on the journey back.

Steve swallows hard, and nods at Eddie before he looks away and starts gearing up, twirls his fucking nailbat so it catches the sunlight even thought the metal’s mostly rusted, now and just…Eddie hadn’t needed to say a word. And Steve wanted to send him to safety, the way his throat had bobbed made it real clear there was something heavy he’s held back but: he’d said what he said. He’d laid the line in Eddie’s favor. Eddie wants to hold him, wants to pull him close and feel him breathe, and—

Yeah. Eddie kinda feels like the way it goes is a really good sign for their future as a couple. A couple. Them. Together.

With an always on the other side of all of this that could be kinda fucking magnificent, maybe. Given the chance.

Point being: Eddie gets himself set up with at least a full ambulance’s supplies for first aid, definitely not acquired legally, and a stereo set up he really wishes someone had been kind enough to outfit him with in not-the-apocalypse, holy shit is it gorgeous, but since the strength in his hands is still a work-in-progress, he’s gotta be ready to crank up the noise as a distraction from arm’s-length. It’s actually driving him fucking crazy—or, was; it was, pre-active return to the regularly scheduled world ending—the whole not being able to make music, to translate the noise in his head into sounds on the strings but even that, even that’s been tolerable, survivable because of Steve—who he loves, he gets to love Steve Harrington holy fuck—but Steve’s not just there to be everything and more than the air Eddie goddamn breathes, to become the music just by existing, nope, he one ups that shit: he asked Eddie if it’d be enough to learn the chords he needs. So Eddie could match the words with the notes right, so Steve could be a—

“—kinda piss-poor substitute but,” Steve had shrugged for it with a crooked grin; “but even a bad translator gets a message across, and you’d know when it’s wrong so we can figure out how to fix it and—“

And Eddie’d grabbed Steve’s chin and yanked his mouth close to fucking consume that man like a soul goddamn starved.

“I’d be a shit teacher,” Eddie had mouthed against Steve’s lips after they were sucked well-swollen; “if I still can’t lift the fucking neck for more than a minute,” but Steve had heard none of it, just shot right back:

“You don’t think we’ve beat steeper odds than that?”

And in the face of that raised brow, those red lips parted, that pulse in that neck still a little bit visible like a tease: the fuck was Eddie supposed to do but dive back in and love on the man who’d somehow agreed to be his, and to claim Eddie of all people in turn?

Which is a whole other reason why everything’s gonna be fine: Steve’s gonna make music with him. Steve’s gonna be Eddie’s muse and the vessel for what he inspires. It’s gonna be like Greek fucking poetry, except it’s gonna be them.

So Eddie’s all stocked up, s’got everyone’s floaty-bone-breaky songs queued up on blast for immediate deployment as necessary, and Steve’s the last to go through—he always is, in Eddie’s experience, waits for everyone to be safely accounted for before he spares a thought for himself and it might kill Eddie one day but not fucking today, because it’s gonna be fine—

“Eddie.”

It feels a little like history repeating itself, the way Steve huddles him in a little. Henderson’s through, with Lucas and Hopper and the weird stray Russian, but it’s not like history repeating, because Eddie’s got different words to see him off with; so fucking different.

“Last time I didn’t have,” and Steve reaches, cups Eddie’s cheek, drags down to press on his chest as his voice strains hard: “and it almost killed me,” and Steve usually pinches between his eyes to keep his feelings in check but instead of using his free hand to hold back the tears he reaches for Eddie’s and laces their fingers as his voice cracks and he chokes out:

“Please,” and it’s for everything. For all the almosts from last time; for all the possibilities rife this time. For all the hopes Eddie thinks they share beyond how this shakes out.

“Exceptionally underqualified field med,” Eddie breathes, and squeezes Steve’s hand so, so hard like a promise, because it is; “exceptionally overqualified DJ,” and Steve chuckles, wet but real and it’s enough, because:

“I got it, Stevie,” Eddie bends his forehead to Steve’s to say better than with words that he’s not in this to be a hero, he’ll be right here the whole time, but that doesn’t mean he…that doesn’t mean he can help but to ask this time:

“Just,” and the breath in him punches out unexpectedly as he damn-near begs:

“Only bring me back the little things, yeah? That I know how to fix?”

And they both hear what’s said underneath it:

Don’t turn around and die down there, and kill me in kind..

And—if anyone’s keeping track—they turn out not to need it but: the way the kiss is a wholeass wartime farewell, man.

And then: Eddie waits, and fucks with the speakers for less than an hour before the earth shakes, and his heart drops, but then he hears it.

The fucking whooping of those shitheads echoing through the cracks.

And then he sees it, runs, grabs the first hand that’s clinging to the rope this time and pulls with strength he doesn’t have, is probably more a hindrance than a help but he steadies them each back on the ground and hugs them so tight, kisses more than one of them on the head or the cheek as he doesn’t pretend not to be sobbing through the laughter because they did it, they fucking did it, somehow it’s over and he loves these people and he’s so fucking happy they’re alive and safe and here and—

And the person he loves more, loves most, brings up the rear, a little bloodied, a little scratched up, dingy with the fucking air down there but smiling and Eddie…

Eddie falls into him so fucking hard they both hit the ground and just, just grab onto one another. Just hold and breathe and catch lips every few seconds like an afterthought because they feel each other’s heartbeat where their chests are pressed tight and it’s, they’re…

Steve’s got four broken fingers across both hands. None in a row. He’s basically giving a Vulcan salute by default for how they’re taped.

Eddie loves him so goddamn much it hurts.

And Eddie’d obviously known—once things start to settle in the days that’ve followed—that teaching Steve guitar with those Spock-y hands was on the back burner, but he does ask Steve to sit, and to rest, and to help hum back the tunes in Eddie’s head while Eddie jots lyrics with a hand that’s still shaky but steadying out more every day, and it’s kind of perfect, and Steve adds some things into the melodies either on purpose or by accident but they’re better for it every time and—

Muse and vessel, man. The light of Eddie’s whole goddamn life.

With fucking Vulcan hands still, though, so: excuse Eddie for being…bewildered when his boyfriend—boyfriend, that’s his boyfriend—but his taped-up-healing-Vulcan-handed boyfriend is propping the front door open and lugging in a long, not-recovery-friendly thing that looks close to dropping on his toes and—

“The fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks with a little more panic in his voice than he’d hoped for as he rushes as best he can to where Steve’s kicking the door shut behind him, fluttering his hands around uselessly as Steve maneuvers past him, leans across for a peck at the corner of Eddie’s mouth and calls—“It’s fine, it weighs, like, nothing”—over his shoulder as he settles the, the thing down on the coffee table in the living room they’ve started actually using for, y’know.

Living.

Eddie follows him in, though, because of course, he’s half-a-dog on that man’s heels, whole-caught-in-the-gravity-of-his-everything: but Eddie follows as Steve tosses himself backward with something in his hand, rolls and rucks up his fucking absurd Hawking Middle tee across the sweet curve of his hips, the way the soft give of skin tempts Eddie to run his tongue over the trail of almost-curls, like baby-curls where they lead under the waist of his jeans: Eddie would happily volunteer to survive on the taste of that musky-delicate space until the end of goddamn time—

But then Steve’s huffing a breathless ha from behind a chair where he’d been stretched to reach and a light catches Eddie’s eye from his periphery where he’d been staring unblinking just at Steve: the big long black thing on the coffee table. It takes a genuine concerted effort not to keep at the Steve-staring—not an uncommon state of Eddie’s existence, in all fairness—and check what’s glowing on the table: something turned on. Was plugged in, right, that’s what had Steve rolling on the floor without Eddie on top of or being deliciously pinned down by him.

The something being the big long black thing that Eddie takes in for the whole of it, now: a keyboard.

“Jon picked it up for me second-hand from the place next to Fox Photo when he drove down for his camera, and Rob vouched that it’s a good brand and like, really good condition,” Steve’s raised up on his knees, now with his hands braces on his thighs as Eddie studies the keys, fingers the ends of a every few of the naturals.

“Rob helped with those, too, so I’d know the right, like, chords,” and yeah: they’re stupa of masking tape stuck to the keys with letters in blue, black, and red pen, alternating so they don’t get mixed up, some with and arrow, Eddie assumes, to indicate a sharp.

“I only remember like half of one song from when my parents thought it would look good to have me take piano lessons,” Steve huffs in whole-ass judgment; “my mom wanted the endorsement of the guy who was stepping down from city council, and his wife taught private lessons, so, y’know,” Steve rolls his eyes; “super convenient leading up to the election.”

“What song?”

Steve blinks, tips his head in askance for what Eddie recognizes very clearly as something closer to a croak than a question, his throat all tight. He tries to cough, to clear it.

“What song do you remember?”

Steve snorts at that, leans back on his palms, and fuck is he beautiful.

“Clair de Lune,” Steve grins crooked; “the one song I was allowed to pick, instead of just being assigned.”

“Why’d you pick it?” Not that Eddie doesn’t like it or anything. It’s more that…he knew Steve could more than just drum fingers on keys, if only just, and that a baby grand used to sit in the corner where there’s a stereo cabinet now, but.

But: see, there’s like a whole half of his heart that’s dedicated to collecting new knowledge about everything Steve: his favorite food when he was 12 versus the now. How his favorite color became his favorite color. The story behind all the polos. The nitty-gritties about why he’s in a big-ass house alone for approximately 360 days a year, and how long it’s been that way. Eddie’s whole heart is basically Steve’s but every day that half overflows a little, and Eddie’s only keeping it relegated to parts filled with Steve-lore so he can feel the collection break containment every other day, this grand and joyous bursting under his ribs as everything spills over again, and again, and again until it’s all just Steve, and his heart has to burst or stretch, or both.

Eddie thinks both will be amazing.

And right now, in the interest of building toward that amazing-both: he wants to know why Debussy.

Steve chuckles to himself—better music than any dead French guy by a country mile—and eyes Eddie almost slyly.

“Do you remember Claire Reynolds?”

Vaguely. Like, very vaguely. He remembers…uneven pigtails. Very actual-cult-like vibes about her family as a vague impression and now that he’s bringing it to mind he feels a new wave of indignation: those Children-of-the-Corn motherfuckers were just fine but Eddie liked a board game and he was probably a murderer.

“When we were in like, first grade,” Steve’s continuing on; “she asked me every, single, day, to come over and see her sheep.” Steve looks up at Eddie and bites his lower lip, lets his gaze dance and lets Eddie fall into it for a few dazed seconds before he spells it out.

“She had these crazy eyes about it, it was kinda unsettling,” Steve nudges, but Eddie’s doesn’t get it until:

“And it’s not like I do now, because obviously I don’t, but I definitely didn’t speak a lick of French when I was eight.”

It takes Eddie a hot second before he snorts hard enough to hurt:

Claire, da Loon.

“I was eight,” Steve protests Eddie’s laughter halfheartedly even as he joins in, reaches to slap at Eddie’s upper arm which honestly: just makes him laugh harder.

“Anyway,” Steve fights through the last of the chuckling as it peters out between them, drags himself to sitting next to the coffee table and taps his hand to the top of the keyboard.

“I know it’s not the same as learning guitar to help, and I can probably only get the top and bottom notes with these,” he lifts his Vulcan-fingers his a shrug; “but I was hoping that’d be better than nothing?”

And, like, how Eddie was talking about his heart having to swell, for all the things he gets to tuck inside of it that come with loving Steve Harrington?

He might crack a rib, just now, because—

“This is for me?”

Steve purses his lips, lifts a brow:

“Well, technically it’s for me,” steve singles his fingers, which looks absurd with the splints; “but yeah. To help you get the songs out. I mean, once these are free again, you can help me with the guitar like we talked about, until you’re—“

And Eddie cannot be blamed, see: he cannot be fucking blamed for tackling Steve to the floor and kissing him hard enough to bruise because…

“You got hurt,” Eddie half-breathes between kisses; “you got hurt and I was so afraid I was gonna lose you,” and Eddie reaches for those taped fingers and kisses them, too: so gentle and Steve’s expression softens so quick:

“I was scared, too,” he whispers between them, cups Eddie’s face with his unloaded hand; “you were as safe as I could make you within the fucking city limits but I was still so goddamn scared.”

Cue more rib-cracking for the heart-swelling, because Jesus fucking Christ.

“And you,” Eddie exhales, slow and shaky; “you’re hurt, but you went and got,” he nods to the keyboard;

“I know it’s not ideal,” Steve’s quick to, to what, apologize? For being insane and perfect and—

“Shut up,” Eddie says, voice low and watery and he’s still kissing at Steve’s fingers, holding his wrist delicate but also like a lifeline.

“You’re hurt,” Eddie maybe kinda moans it because he hates it, as much as he’s so fucking grateful that’s it’s just this, no worse than this; “and you still—”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

And that…that’s one thing Eddie’s learned beyond reproach; that even to his detriment, Steve keeps his goddamn promises.

And he’d promised to help Eddie get his words out, to place the lyrics to the notes and help unclutter his brain so he didn’t lose his mind.

Holy fucking hell.

“Steve,” Eddie starts, shakes his head, needs to find the right words. “You’re alive,” the most important thing. “You are healing,” another most important thing, for Eddie to oversee and make sure of, even as Steve keeps an eye on the last lingering threads of the long haul on Eddie’s road to recovery in kind, his beloved mother hen.

“This is,” and he runs his fingers too light to draw sounds across the keys, hopes he sounds as awed and grateful as he feels; “but you, you’ve gotta test, you have to,” and Eddie shakes his head and lifts his eyes to just fucking ask it:

“Why?”

And Steve: Steve just studies his face for a few seconds, reads what he needs before he smiles kinda exasperated, mostly fond and answers so simply, while also breaking a few more of Eddie’s ribs when he just says:

“Because I love you.”

And Eddie’s heart’s not so overfull yet of all of Steve, it’s not fair that it just bursts right then and there, Eddie propelled into Steve’s arms to kiss him deep this time, like he’s searching out Steve’s soul to taste and maybe he is, save that he needs his heart to not have exploded for feeling if he’s going to keep the memory of it safe in his chest for always, he needs to patch his heart back up first but he’s too distracted, too drowned in the way love actually fucking feels, fucking shifts his cells around and makes a new version of him, lets his heart grow bigger except it went and blasted apart with the unprecedented immensity of loving and—

And then Eddie’s got Steve’s taped up hands on both his cheeks, and he remembers that night, in the shower, where Steve ripped the seams from his shirt so taking it off wouldn’t hurt him; notices how Steve is wearing that same fucking shirt in this very moment, all in one piece, like it never split apart in the first place.

Master seamstress, tried and tested and true; truer than anything.

So Eddie just dives back in and kisses with everything in him, thinks maybe when Steve tastes the pieces of Eddie’s blowout heart under his tongue while Eddie goes diving for the sweet lick of Steve’s soul:

Eddie thinks Steve’s mouth might know how to stitch up torn things, too. Especially the kinds that are ripped at their seams wholly for the sake of loving that fucking hard.

divider credits here & here

👾 title credit here

💫 ao3 link here

67 notes · View notes