kafkian
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‘Hey, do you ever think about it?’ Steve asked on impulse, turning back to Eddie. He knew his voice had gone weird and intense, but he couldn’t stop it. ‘You know. It.’
Eddie’s eyes widened. He pointed at his chest. ‘Moi? Do I ever think about, like –’ he dropped his voice to theatrical levels even though they were alone in the store – ‘the terrifying mirror version of this town that exists right underneath our feet? The one full of fucking monsters that nearly ripped my guts out and caused the apocalypse?’
‘Yeah,’ Steve persisted.
Eddie studied his face for a second then straightened up a little, sticking his hands in his pockets. His voice was flat. ‘Yes, I think about it, Steve. Obviously. I think about it all the time.’
Steve leaned forward, intent. Eddie’s eyes flitted to his mouth for a second, startled, then back up to his eyes. ‘Do you have, like. Nightmares about it?’
Eddie went quiet again, staring at him. ‘Which part?’ he asked eventually.
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Post-Season 4. Vecna is dead, Max is in a coma, Eddie is out of the hospital and Steve is out of excuses to go and talk to him. Luckily, Eddie never lets social conventions get in the way of satisfying his curiosity.
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‘Proud owner of twenty years pent-up hormones and counting.’ Eddie sighed, looking up at the sky and muttering something under his breath that Steve didn’t catch.
Steve was so surprised he stopped walking. ‘What?’
Eddie loudly didn't say anything, continuing on their route. When Steve caught up to him, he was bright red in the face.
‘No way,’ Steve said, stunned. ‘You’re a virgin?’
Eddie rolled his eyes. ‘Shut up, man.’
‘No, I didn’t mean – just. Really?’ Steve asked. ‘You've really never ...?’
‘I run a DnD group, got held back in school twice, and live in a trailer with my uncle,’ Eddie said flatly. ‘What part of that screams dick magnet to you?’
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Being on the Revenge was like being cocooned in Stede’s zealously theatrical yet heartfelt personality at all times – smothered in frills and truffles and tiny little pots of something called 'moisturiser' that Ed absolutely did not understand, but really did appear to do wonders for his perpetually wind chafed cheeks – and if it was like that, then being in the auxiliary wardrobe was like being in the absolute heart of him, cuddling up to the veins and vessels that made his blood pump around. Stede was still here, even when Ed was alone.
So if that was the case, that quiet voice deep in the depths of Ed wondered tentatively, what if – what if Stede found him here, all cozied up like this? What if Stede liked it, that Ed came here alone, and what if he – what if he decided to touch Ed, really touch him, right here amid the racks of finery?
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In which Ed tries on some clothes, learns a few things about living in the lap of luxury, and makes fantasy into reality.
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‘Do you really think you need it?’ Dennis talks over him, too loud. He stops right after, a look on his face like that wasn’t exactly what he meant to say. ‘I mean, like. Grindr. Do you really use it that much?’
‘You just told me I was using it too much,’ Mac points out, mystified.
Dennis bites his lip again. Mac wishes he’d stop doing that; it makes it so hard to concentrate on what he’s saying. Is he making his eyes big like that on purpose? Focus, Mac, for fuck’s sake.
‘Yeah,’ Dennis hedges. ‘I just meant, you know. Do you really need it anymore? Like,’ he surges past the question, twisting his hands in front of him like a child caught mid-fuck up. Mac could tell him he doesn’t need to be concerned; he has no idea what Dennis’s game is here.
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5 times Mac is oblivious + 1 time Dennis is.
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Maybe it doesn’t count if Dennis doesn’t look at Mac when he says it – if Dennis buries his face in Mac’s neck, where the scent of his sweat and his nerves is strongest, where he needs to get it right. Dennis can feel it, humming under Mac’s skin. He’s almost as tense as Dennis. Or maybe it’s not fair to treat it like a competition when Mac’s the one who brought this to him in the first place, the one who makes it okay.
Whatever. Dennis is still going to win.
‘Love your pussy,’ Mac murmurs, and Dennis twitches, fingers digging into the back of Mac’s neck.
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In his peripheral vision, Benton reaches out a hand to Carter. “You okay?”
Carter’s handle on his own zen washes away in a flood of heat. He has no control over his body—rage stabs him like an epidural, and he slaps Benton’s hand away.
Suddenly, Carter is sweating. It’s forty and windy, and Carter is out on his ass on the sidewalk, and his tongue is dry, and his palms are weak, and his sinuses are stinging with the effort to hold himself together, and he’s sweating, beads of it fresh on his forehead, and he’s gulping down breaths to stay steady.
“What,” spits Carter, “like you care?”
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“This okay?” Wilson asks, drawing away belatedly, flushed and frantic, out of control like he always gets when sex is involved. It’s hard to focus on anything but House’s slack mouth, lips kissed pink and swollen, gleaming with saliva.
House’s eyes track over Wilson’s face and the silence stretches between them for just long enough that Wilson gets nervous, before House says, “Of course,” like it’s Wilson who was stupid for asking.
Sometimes you're entrenched in a yearslong psychosexually obsessive situationship with someone that prevents both of you from developing deep and meaningful connections with anyone else and you think you're "best friends."
Bookmarked by kafkian
23 Jul 2025
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Seeing him like this: Buck on top of him, mile-long legs splayed out over his lap. Straddling him with his hands planted on Eddie’s shoulders, sweat shining on his face, sheets bunching up around both of them.
At some point in the watching, sitting up, hand pressed low on Buck’s back to keep him held close, mesmerized.
Bookmarked by kafkian
27 Apr 2025
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Eddie and Chris come home on a Thursday night in early June.
Bookmarked by kafkian
16 Apr 2025
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Eddie's the star pitcher of the 118's intramural softball team. Buck is the assistant coach who has a few pointers for him.
Bookmarked by kafkian
15 Apr 2025