eddiethehunted
pathetic bisexual guy enthusiast
ali ♡ 27 ♡ he/she/they ♡ 18+ ♡ still a steddie endgame truther, let me be delusional in peace ♡ zoology major
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I love fics from Eddie's POV, where he thinks Steve is the epitome of heterosexuality so therefore, everything he does must be what straight people are supposed to do. Meanwhile, Steve is acting very obviously gay. Dramatic irony, babeee
#steve making a point to look at eddie while he insists to robin that yeah actually he doesn’t have a gag reflex#while he shoves a popsicle obscenely far into his mouth#and robin stares at him like she’s trying to figure out how to kill him#and eddie’s like 😒 everything’s a competition to these straight jocks… they always have to be better at everything 🙄#later steve will say ‘was that not obvious enough?’ and robin will say ‘no it was too obvious. eddie is just stupid.’#eddie is off lamenting about how such a nonexistent gag reflex is wasted on a straight man#the mental gymnastics he has to go through to see steve making eye contact with him and deepthroating a popsicle and conclude#that it’s a heterosexual thing to do#join the mental gymnastics olympics why don’t you.#anyway . i’ll shut up now
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okay but where is the will they/won’t they steddie modern au in which steve is a swiftie and eddie (lovingly) teases him for it and eddie gets the guy by surprise performing hey stephen with corroded coffin
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“stupid fucking tv show” we all say as we continue to dedicate a whole blog to it
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rewatching s4 is killing me eddie is so embarrassing omg 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 i love when a guy is a loser and cringe . my fail loser boy.
#why are u doing all that baby#i love him#FUCK!!!!!!!!!#sucks that he’s dead! oh well#he’s alive to me
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Saw someone mention how Steve tends to get defensive when he's anxious and it stuck with me, so here's my take on the "Steve breaks a dish and has a panic attack about it" trope
cw: descriptions of nonstandard panic attack, implied/referenced child abuse
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The distinct sound of shattering porcelain is followed by a vehemently hissed, “shit,” and then silence.
“Steve?” Eddie calls from the couch into the kitchen. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Steve calls back, but his voice sounds tight in the way it does when something definitely isn’t okay.
Eddie pushes himself up and moves to the doorway, looking in to see what the trouble is. The kitchen of the house he and Wayne had been “gifted” by the government isn’t exactly huge, and he has a straight line of sight to where Steve is standing by the sink, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and to the red and white shards of porcelain on the floor by his feet.
“Hey,” Eddie says, but Steve doesn’t look up; if anything, his posture only gets tenser. “You’re not cut or anything, are you?”
“No,” Steve says, and his tone is still a little off, but he doesn’t sound like he’s lying.
“What was that, anyway?” Eddie asks.
Finally, Steve takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes, looking down at the mess on the laminate. “Mug.”
As soon as he says it, Eddie recognizes the colors for what the design must have been. “Shit, the Campbell’s one?”
Steve doesn’t say a word, just gives one sharp nod.
Eddie sucks a hiss of breath in through his teeth. “Shit,” he says again. “That was Wayne’s favorite.”
“I know,” Steve says tersely. “I’m sorry.”
His tone is definitely weird. “I mean, I’m sure it was an accident, Steve–” Eddie starts.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, almost snapping this time. “I’ll clean it up.”
“O-kay,” Eddie says slowly, watching as Steve jerks into motion and moves over to the corner where they stash the broom and dust pan.
“I’ll apologize to Wayne when he gets home,” Steve says as he starts sweeping up, even though Eddie hasn’t said a word.
“He gets home at, like, six in the morning.”
“I’ll make sure I’m up,” Steve says shortly.
“Steve, you can just tell him what happened later, he’s not going to stand around demanding an explanation. I mean, seriously, you think Wayne is gonna be pissed if you’re not there, immediately scraping at his feet when he comes through the door?” Eddie scoffs, but Steve remains silent. Eddie watches as he finishes sweeping in short, sharp motions, brows pulling together as Steve apparently fails to pick up on the joke. “…he won’t be, y’know.”
Steve shrugs. His expression has gone eerily blank, and he takes the dustpan over to the garbage can to dump it.
“Hey, don’t–” Eddie reaches out, and Steve jerks to a stop just in time. “You don’t have to toss it, man, we might be able to glue it back together.”
Steve sends Eddie a sharp look. “I’m not gonna be able to hide that it was broken, Eddie,” he says slowly, as though this should be painfully obvious.
“I’m not suggesting we hide it, I’m just saying we might still be able to use it,” Eddie answers in the same slow manner. “It’s not junk until you’re sure you can’t fix it.”
“Right,” Steve snaps, dropping the dustpan on the counter so sharply that the shards of porcelain clink against each other. “Can’t even clean up right.”
Eddie frowns, stirrings of defensiveness rising up in his gut at Steve’s continued sour mood. “I didn’t say that. I just said we might be able to fix it.”
“Fine. We’ll try to fix it,” Steve bites out, turning away from Eddie so he can put the broom back in the corner.
Eddie shakes his head, unwilling to engage with whatever snit Steve’s got himself worked into. “What happened, anyway?” he asks instead.
Apparently, this is the wrong tactic.
“What happened is, I’m too stupid to even do the dishes right,” Steve declares as he whirls back around. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“What?” Eddie is baffled, suddenly caught in the middle of an argument he hadn’t even realized was happening. “No! Why would I want to hear that?”
Steve throws his arms up, a demonstration of giving in. “Well I already said I’m sorry, and I am, and I don’t know what else you want from me!”
The heat of Eddie’s own temper is beginning to flare, but he does his best to shake it away because he still doesn’t know what the hell is going on and he doesn’t think getting angry will help. “I don’t want anything else from you! Why are you acting like I’m yelling at you? I’m not, I’m not even upset about the stupid mug, so what the hell is your deal?”
He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, reaching out for Steve, hoping just to touch some part of him. Physical contact has always been grounding, has always been a comfort for them both; it almost seems like they can communicate better if they can just be in contact somehow. Instead of reaching back, though, Steve tenses up; it’s not exactly a flinch, but it’s as if he’s bracing himself, as if he’s waiting for Eddie to–
Eddie takes in the painfully blank expression on Steve’s pale face, the way his chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths that he can’t quite seem to control, the way he’s angled himself just slightly away from Eddie, and suddenly Eddie feels cold.
It’s as if he’s waiting for Eddie to hit him.
Eddie wonders how the hell he hadn’t realized he was walking through a minefield until he was already standing in the middle of it.
(It still takes him by surprise, sometimes, that Steve’s anxiety, his panic, tends to look more like anger. That he tends to lash out like a wounded animal when he feels backed into a corner, hurt too many times in moments of vulnerability to do otherwise.)
(It takes him by surprise, but he’s learning.)
“Steve,” Eddie says softly, dropping his hand slowly back to his side, “I’m not angry.”
Steve stares at him, almost confused, like Eddie’s not doing it right, like this isn’t what’s supposed to come next. Eddie sort of wants to break something (he thinks, briefly, that he’d like to start with the fingers on Mr. Harrington’s right hand, and then move on to his left).
“It’s just a mug, Steve, it’s okay. No one’s upset about it,” Eddie says. “I’m preemptively speaking for Wayne, because I know he’s not gonna be mad at you. Seriously, getting upset over a broken cup? Does that sound like something Wayne would do?”
Slowly, once he seems to realize that Eddie is waiting for an answer, Steve shakes his head.
“Does that sound like something I would do?” Eddie asks.
Steve shakes his head again, though he’s still watching Eddie with something approaching trepidation.
“I promise it’s fine. I’m not angry,” Eddie repeats, and chances a couple of steps closer to Steve.
Steve doesn’t react this time, no tensing, no flinching, no verbally lashing out, and so Eddie lifts a hand again, reaching slowly for Steve’s. Steve lets him.
When he gets his fingers wrapped around Steve’s own, Eddie can feel how cold they’ve gone, can feel the fine tremble of adrenaline working through them, and can’t quite choke down the noise of sympathy in his throat. He tugs on Steve’s hand.
“C’mere,” Eddie says, invites him by lifting his other arm, but leaves it up to Steve.
It only takes a moment for Steve to step in close, and when Eddie lets go of his hand to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders, Steve reciprocates by cinching his own arms tight around Eddie’s waist. He takes one sharp breath, and then another, and Eddie can hear the way they shake going in and out.
“There you go,” Eddie says quietly, rubbing Steve’s back.
“I just dropped it,” Steve says, his voice a little hoarse. “It was an accident.”
“I know it was,” Eddie assures him. “It’s okay.”
“It was an accident,” Steve says again, and Eddie wonders how often someone has believed him – how often he’d ever even been given a chance to explain.
“It was an accident,” Eddie agrees. “You’re okay, Steve.”
Steve lets out a little noise, like maybe he’s trying to laugh, but then he pulls in another shuddery breath and rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay.”
In a little bit, Eddie might lead Steve to sit down on the couch, or maybe just take them both up to bed, because fuck doing the dishes after this anyway; he’ll make sure to leave a note for Wayne about the mug (ask him not to bring it up until Steve does, to not even jokingly make a thing about it), but for now, he concentrates on holding Steve close.
He’ll stand with him as long as it takes for the shaking to stop, for his breathing to even out, for him to relax even just a little against Eddie, and he'll promise, as many times as Steve needs to hear it, that it’s okay. Things will be okay.
[Prompt: Embracing your partner]
#this one hurt a lot honestly#not gonna trauma dump in the tags but yeah#this one was a banger op i love it
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#i went to visit my tumblr gf 🫢#we watched . god. we watched voltron and then made out#which is objectively horrifying
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alright i CANT write so fuck my whole entire life i am rewatching season 4. i need to get back on my grind ‼️💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼💪🏼💯💯💯🔥🔥 (writing those guys fuck nasty)
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This is a huge reason housing is unaffordable. Make this illegal.
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*emerges from the other room covered in blood* you should see the word document
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what, like it's hard?
rating: EXPLICIT / NSFW
tags: boys so horny, fucking on a table, Eddie being surprisingly flexible
✨for @blubblesandink at my BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST for the prompt: "What? Like it's hard?"
It’s crazy, because Steve’s never been exactly the playboy this goddam town’s always hyped him to be—he’s no blushing virgin but he doesn’t actually notch his goddamn bedpost, Jesus Christ.
Though he is glad he got around as much as he did, considering where he finds himself now: he’d never have ended up in bed with Lacy, who he caught eye with at a swim meet they had to stay in a hotel for, and who wasted no time at all less asking and more instructing Steve to fuck her in the ass. Sure it was one time but hell if Steve hasn’t benefited from the experience in practice given his current partner—his…his always partner, if he’s honest, and it’s on that cusp between appropriate and too-soon-to-say-it, still, but only just: but that doesn’t change the fact that Eddie’s it for Steve, and, yeah.
It was good to have some practical idea of what the fuck he was doing, for this first time. If he knew where Lacy was now, he might like, send her a fruit basket: thanks for making sure I’d be ready to please the love of my life three years later, or something.
Anyway: back to where he finds himself now.
Which is fucking said love-of-his-life, on said cusp-between-when-it’s-too-soon-and-fully-acceptable-to-say-as-much, on the table in the kitchen that honestly, Steve has spent his entire teenage life questioning the reason for because one, it was too goddamn big for life, two, they already had a too-goddamn-big-for-life table in the dining room, plus the island with stools also in the kitchen, and three: his parents were never here to use any of it anyway.
Now, though, Steve takes all of it back, the island and the dining room table but especially this specific table in the kitchen: no question what it’s made for.
Fucking Eddie senseless on top of. Obviously.
And Steve’s got a good rhythm now, enough momentum that even this heavy-as-shit solid whatever-wood is shifting a little, cracking a little, and Eddie’s moaning just, just dirty in a way that’s so fucking sweet and Eddie’s clawing at him, he often does, a little frantic and a little feral and Steve’s still got his shirt on, they’d honestly barely got through the door and locked it behind them when they started dismantling one another with purpose, with Eddie flinging himself back on the closest solid surface for Steve to work his ungodly-tight jeans over his ass, then past his thighs and rolls them off his ankles so they’re free for hiking up to hook over Steve’s shoulders, for Steve to spread him his so and work him quick and practiced and that’s something Steve’s never had before, with anyone: the kind of familiarity with a body—and a body he adores, and fucking worships, at that—where he can slip inside and know exactly where to touch, where to tease, how to give, and it’s a particular kind of high, honestly. And Eddie: Steve knows Eddie did faceless backroom shit in Indy, but he also knows he’s the first person Eddie got naked for, with, so he likes to think at least some degree of that giddy joy’s a shared thing.
Eddie chokes out a cry, a whine as Steve drives in again and he’s babbling, he’s panting mostly Steve’s name and that’s…that is unspeakably fucking hot, always, always, and Steve’s got a hand steady at Eddie’s hip, and another tracing his hole, relishing the hint of the clench and flutter of it, and Eddie’s gonna tear a fucking hole in his shirt and Steve is going to fucking come too quick for the rip of it, and he’ll fucking keep the shirt and wear it around whenever he can and he’ll have a perpetual half-chub for the memory but he’ll get hard in his goddamn boxers on command for the blush he knows’ll stain Eddie’s cheeks to see it, so yes, yes he welcomes the way Eddie’s nails dig and then catch, when he gains purchase and pulls on Steve’s collar and—
And lifts himself up to crash his lips to Steve’s, sloppy and panting, breathless and messy, needy and overwhelming and—
His legs are still over Steve’s shoulders; Steve’s still buried in him to the fucking balls, and Eddie’s kissing him he’s air and they’re drowning.
Steve might fucking already have drowned, and this is the last little firings of his brain on the way out because, because—
Jesus fucking Christ, that’s not just hot, that’s fucking insane, and Steve’s pace falters for it, lost to the image, to the feeling of Eddie’s tongue in his mouth and his own ceding fuck control as Eddie sucks, gasps, never lets go of Steve’s shirt as he clenches around Steve’s dick and holy fuck—
But then Eddie whines, so fucking long, the pitch of it keening and Steve jolts, because what if he hurt himself, what if—
“Fuck, babe, are you okay?” Steve lifts a hand from Eddie’s hip to Eddie’s cheek, gentle, so gentle; “did I hurt you, fuck—“
But then Eddie groans, and looks up at Steve, flushed and sweaty though his bangs as he pouts:
“Hurt my stomach,” he whines a little, and it’s a…a frustrated sound, a petulant thing—and Steve hasn’t been genuinely dumbstruck, like, actually fucking speechless when it comes to Eddie? In a while.
Leave it to this fucking man.
“Just, let me try a different angle,” and Steve sounds determined, like it’s a goddamn mountain to climb, as he leans back a little, adjusts his grip on Steve’s shirt and pulls himself up and that’s the thing: he wasn’t clawing so much as grabbing for leverage, tearing the shirt to get to Steve’s lips and…
Honestly, that might be goddamn hotter.
Eddie tries, grunts, realigns, huffs, repeats the process a whole four times before he hums into Steve’s mouth and starts kissing again in earnest, or else, fuck: devouring Steve and mouthing sloppy, slick as he pants heavy:
“Told ya,” and his grin is traceable with Steve’s mouth; “proceed.”
And he sounds so wrecked and so fucking cheeky all at once and Steve’s gone on him, he is so goddamn gone, and between the two of them Steve’s got the core strength to get back to business, but he fucking depends on Eddie’s steady biceps to balance him as he fucks Eddie’s ass and his mouth all at once, as best he can, uncoordinated and a little bit crazed and it’s fucking spectacular, it’s immense and unhinged and goddamn glorious, and Steve just, he’s, it’s—
They’re gonna crack the fucking table one day, and Jesus Christ: he looks forward to it.
——
(And, if later—much later—they’ve made it to a bed and they’re kissing just as full but slower, deeper somehow, and Eddie does the whining again, Steve still asks if he’s okay.
“Sore, Stevie,” he moans and burrows against the side of Steve’s cheek and Steve holds him, cradles him close even as he chuckles.
“I’m kinda guessing that’s what happens when you bend yourself in half like a fucking folding chair, babe.”
And Eddie tips his neck back and frowns, actually, kinda looks bewildered, and while it’s adorable it’s also confusing: did he forget that stunt he pulled, sexy as fuck and kind of goddamn unheard of, like a gymnast or a fucking tantric sex god or some shit.
“What, like,” Eddie finally says, licking his lips with those big button eye stretched wide; “like, it’s hard? Or something? Was that not, like, normal—“
And Steve can’t fucking have that lilt of apprehension in his boyfriend’s voice, nope, he doesn’t stand for that shit and moreover: he’s definitely not standing for it when it comes to this.
“Eds, baby, it was amazing,” Steve assures him until the light’s back full-force in Eddie’s gaze, in, just, the whole of his face, his entire presence and being and just…Eddie; “you just might’ve pulled something.”
Because again, like, tantric sex god.
But then Eddie’s back to looking confused as fuck as he repeats, like the words are fucking foreign:
“Pulled…something?”
And so: if later, Eddie reveals that he definitely thought a pulled muscle was a whiny jock myth, because oh that one time it could have happened when I fell off the roof, I just figured that was the broken bone or well, I mean, the stage dive bruised the fuck out of me that time, kinda though it was just the bruises or well, Steven, forgive me if the bat bites were where I was focusing my attention, not the muscle strains, Jesus H.?
Steve thinks he is entirely within his rights to laugh his ass off at his beautiful, adorable, absurd, accidental-sex-god of a boyfriend.)
permanent tag list (comment to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690
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Can you believe it? This thing 👇 just told a lie.
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My one friend group can't stop saying, "See you in hell!" in a cheerful voice instead of, "Talk to you later!" and my other friend group can't stop calling things "penis" instead of "cool" or "good", so I just unironically uttered the phrase, "Sounds penis, see you in hell," as I got off the phone.
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i love tumblr because sometimes i get an urge to rb posts about something nobody likes and everyone just politely ignores me. everyone's like oh he's fallen into madness again, he'll be fine later i guess
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