8 Works by beholder
Listing Works
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Steve wakes to the grinding of Eddie’s key in the lock and the muffled cursing of the man himself through the wood, keeps his eyes shut and lets himself drift until Eddie’s standing between the couch and the coffee table. His socks aren’t matching, his nightmarishly bony ankles are disproportionately bare and Steve loves him.
“This all for me sweetheart?” Eddie says softly, gestures at Steve laid out on the couch like he’s a banquet and not an exhausted 20-year old fusing with his living room furniture at an atomic level.
Steve’s voice is rough with sleep when he answers, hooking a finger into Eddie’s belt loop without sitting up and pulling Eddie forward ever so slightly. “Y’want it t’be?”
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“Look, normally I’m smoother than this,” Steve feeds his laughter into Eddie's mouth, catching his lips with an echoing smile. “It’s just, there’s this guy that I’m trying to impress and I keep getting distracted.”
“Oh yeah? Anybody I know?” Eddie breathes out.
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Eddie Munson comes back from the dead in a meadow on a Tuesday afternoon, not that he would know that it's a Tuesday or what time it is but he does feel shockingly alive and that's something.
The ground here is bursting with wildflowers, a breeze rustling through them while Eddie sits up as best he can. A few feet away there's a line scored deep into the earth and beyond it the flowers are all dead, all greyed husks of once living things.
Oh, he thinks, a little hysterically, like me.
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Eddie hands clench on his own thigh, shaking a little when Steve presses teeth against his neck hard enough to bruise. He draws his fingertips over Eddie’s hipbone, pressing the heat of his palm over the jut of it, playing with the worn elastic of his boxers before pressing a loud smacking kiss to his skin, shifting off the couch with purpose.
He lets out a chuckle that curves into a moan when Steve’s knees meet the carpet between his legs.
“Well hey sweetheart,” Eddie slings a leg jokingly over Steve’s right shoulder, his eyes soft. ”See somethin’ you like?” His voice is rough from the smoke and the laughter and Steve is so fucking in love with him it burns.
“Yeah, I do,” he says simply, earnestly.
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He inhales and gestures vaguely to his own chest after finding no artful way to ask. “Are those, uh. New?”
Eddie freezes for a moment then immediately throws back his head and cackles.
“Oh Stevie,” he bats his eyelashes. “You trying to sneak a peek at the goods man? Not gonna wait until the second date to ask to take my top off?”
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Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine by beholder
Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)
10 Apr 2022
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It is not a fragile association made. Not a seashell cupped in the hands of some pining widow on the shore. It is the stink of blood, the bitter salt of waves, the grit of leather.
They are younger here, far more limber and far less graying. Far crueler.
Based on the headcanon that Ed gave Izzy his star tattoo earlier in their buccaneering careers.
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They make their way out of the house on Neibolt street like river water, impossible to catch with the rush of it, filtering between falling rocks and rotting wood like it’s second nature to navigate catastrophe.
The bones of the structure collapse around them like a monster of myth but they’ve escaped the jaws and the teeth and the labyrinth again and they’ve done it together, so they run.
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It's been four hours since the collapse of the house on Neibolt street and Richie is left to grapple with his grief in the shadows of the kissing bridge.