Prompts Post

[strangerthingskmeme]

Please leave your prompts and fills in the comment section below.

A good prompt will specify what ship(s) you'd like to see in the fill and then some description of what you'd also like to see, for example, "[character]/[character], making out in the Upside Down." You can go into detail or keep it short, it's up to you. When you click 'reply' to this post it should give you the option of a subject line - this is where you can give the general idea of your prompt: the ship, the kink or 'jist' of your prompt - and then you can add more detail in the comment box before posting.

Writers, you can fill a prompt by simply replying to it. If things take off, I'll try and organize it better but for now it'll be great to get some prompts (and hopefully fills) flowing.

Feel free to crosspost your fills onto AO3 if you wish. Maybe we could get a Stranger Things Kinkmeme tag going over there!

Argumentative, harrassing or abusive comments about fandom discourse, hating on a ship or a kink will be swiftly removed. This is a place for anonymous (unless you choose not to be) and fictional fun.

Happy prompting and writing.


FILLS POST: https://strangerthingskmeme.dreamwidth.org/966.html

Comments

FILL: Steve/Eddie, temptation, fantasy non-con 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

The joint had burned all the way down, it's just a smudge of heat and smoke where Steve's fingers still hold it. It's going to put a hole in the bed before it dies so Eddie tugs it out and crushes it in the ashtray, the tiniest tick of sound that somehow still manages to be the loudest thing in the room.

"Told you it was strong, but you had to be smug didn't you?" he mutters. "You had to insist that you knew better. Steve Harrington knows exactly what his tolerance is. Well, tell me exactly how that's working out for you?"

He gets no answer, not unless he wants to count the exhale, the faintest shifting sink of chest. Steve does appear to be pouting in his sleep though, so he'll take that as offence at his judgement.

"I should rifle through your pockets," Eddie tells him. "It would serve you right."

If there was anyone else around to blame it on he might - no, probably wouldn't, because they're friends now apparently and friends don't clean their friends out when they're asleep. He taps a foot against Steve's, none too gently, but his sneaker just rocks against the rucked-up bed cover, before settling.

"No self preservation skills at all. Not a single one. Dead to the world. And I don't know whether I should find it hilarious or horrifying that you figured my bed was a safe place to sleep. If your illustrious past self could see you now. Think you'd give yourself a heart attack."

Eddie checks his watch and it's only a little after one in the morning.

"What would people say if they could see you, all stretched out in my crappy sheets -" he's halfway through the tease before his brain answers his own question. "I fucking know what they'd say, obviously they'd say I lured you here, with my sinister satanic powers, and cheap weed. Because God knows these people fill their days thinking up ways in which I'm trying to collapse the moral fabric of society. As if anyone would have the time - no, what am I saying, this town is a powder keg of judgement, repression and simmering rage, someone could probably knock that out in two weekends, three at most."

Eddie lights up again, because why not. It's not like the company is up for sharing anymore.

"Anyway, so, yes." He turns his head to look at Steve and gestures like they're still having a conversation. "You've clearly been lured here under false pretences into my abode and partaken of my illicit substances. Which have rendered you helpless and forced you to…"

Listen to him fucking ramble on apparently.

"Lie there while I rifle through your pockets for valuables and castigate you for falling into my very obvious and well-telegraphed trap of being in when you came knocking at my chamber door and willing to indulge your need for company and weed."

Said pockets are perfectly accessible even, since Steve had the foresight to sprawl out on his back, hair spread in flicks and half-curls across Eddie's pillow. He has one hand laid over his chest the other curled on the bed and now empty.

"Prettiest thing I've ever had in my bed by far though," Eddie mutters. "Hell, the only thing if I'm being horribly honest here."

It sounds incriminating enough out loud that he has to immediately check Steve's face, to make sure that he's actually asleep.

"Probably not the first time you've heard that though," he reasons. "I bet there are girls aplenty who had to pinch themselves at finding a real live Steve Harrington in their sheets."

Not to mention on their sheets come morning. Half a mouthful of smoke ends up flaring out of his nose in a stuttering, snorted laugh.

"Amateur move, my friend."

They are friends, right? After all the world-saving. Probably close enough that he won't mind a bit of teasing, he's taken worse from fourteen year old kids while he was actually awake.

He shuffles a little higher up the bed, where the good ashtray is, holding not just butts and ash but snaps of torn card and a scatter of matches. It's also a good height to look down on Steve Harrington, face now turned slightly into the pillow that probably - definitely - still smells like Eddie's hair. He's more than close enough to see the faintly flushed cheeks and soft eyelashes. The way his mouth for some reason is still a little damp, pulled into half a pout even dead to the world. Eddie tries not to think about that, tries not to let the thought drift in his head while the last of the night's entertainment slowly burns its way down between his fingers.

"I swear you are the bane of my existence, Harrington."

He chews over a lot of things he's not going to say out loud, taking his blunt down half an inch.

It had been a lot different when Eddie didn't really know him. Steve might as well have been completely fictional for the last few years. A pretty, spoilt thing, vying for the attention of people who didn't know any better, occasionally showing up looking like he'd gone a few rounds with someone who had no reservations about ruining the view.

Probably Hargrove, who seemed to take that shit personally.

"Look at you now, on the wrong side of town, in the bedroom of the resident bad influence and briefly suspected murderer." Eddie looks down at him and sucks his teeth. "I'm going to ruin your reputation Stevie-boy."

Honestly, he probably already has done, he knows he'd made a fucking nuisance of himself since everything happened and Steve's car isn't exactly subtle - even less so parked outside of his trailer all night. Which is…a thought he somehow hadn't chewed through earlier.

Eddie's starting to realise that Steve might have developed a habit of adopting strays, even the ones that just won't stop biting his hand and pissing on the carpet. Not exactly the most flattering description but it's an analogy so he's going to go with it.

"What else don't I know about you, I wonder?"

He crushes the butt in the ashtray, thumb hot for a second.

"A fuck of a lot of things I thought about you have turned out to be wrong after all. And I'm a man who can accept when I'm wrong." He can almost hear the scoff Steve would give to that. "Ok, ok, I'm not always happy about it, but I'm willing to be persuaded."

He sinks down a little again and Steve's arm is warm through his polo shirt, but he doesn't stir, doesn't make any sound at all. There's a scar on his mouth, very faint, just beneath his lip on the left side. A tear that didn't heal all the way. Eddie would probably be able to feel it if he slipped a thumb over it, pressed down. He'd definitely be able to feel it under his mouth, settle lips and tongue against that slight imperfection.

The thought is messy, sharp, warm enough to make him wish he had something to do with his hands.

"Don't worry about it," he says, not even close to the volume he'd been using before. "I'm not actually going to do it."

Not that Steve would ever know, if he did. He's deep under and heavy with sleep, Eddie's been there himself. A kiss isn't going to wake him up, even if Eddie stretched over him in the bed, pressed down hard enough to feel, made his mouth a little wetter than it was right now. He spins the ring on his left hand and tries hard not to think about it, but it's too easy, too vivid, too close to something he wants and doesn't get to have.

The worst part is, he has a really good imagination.

These are secrets for two in the morning though, right? Lying beside someone who's a friend but is also unexpectedly brave and resourceful and with a protective streak a mile wide, and also kind of fucking devastating from several angles. And this is literally the only situation where Eddie could kiss him and get away with it. No one would know.

I mean he'd fucking know, obviously, which is kind of the thing.

He knows what the people in this town think of him. He knows that it's not so much expecting no better from him, than it is always expecting worse. People assuming he wouldn't stop at a kiss. A fair few of them already think he got away with murder. No, they'd definitely assume the worst. He can hear it now, in the voices they use behind closed doors like he can't see the words in their teeth. Poor Steve, left defenceless in that boy's bed, under the mistaken impression that they were friends, well of course he'd take advantage, of course he would.

Eddie's too-short nails pick at the seam of his jeans and he's half tempted to scavenge in the ashtray for something else to relight just to have something to do with his hands.

Because the thing is -

The thing is, Eddie wouldn't.

He fucking wouldn't.

But that doesn't mean he can't imagine it well enough, that he can't see the version of him that they think he is. He's always been perfectly aware of what they all think of him, what their version of Eddie "The Freak" Munson looks like. As much in common with the real him as a puppet stuffed with straw. That version of Eddie would take a kiss, of course he would. That version, all smiles and secrets and ill intent, knees quiet on the bed, balanced up over Steve, laughing against a sleeping mouth, all words and pressure where he's soft and unresponsive.

Not just a kiss.

No, there's a hand at the waist of Steve's pants, nails bitten all the way down, burn marks on his middle fingers, popping the button on his jeans. The loudest sound in the room as it snaps through denim, scatter-slide of teeth coming down and he's going to be so warm there, cotton soft against his fingers and then the backs of his fingers when he slides a hand inside.

Steve Harrington ripe for the fucking picking.

FILL: Steve/Eddie, temptation, fantasy non-con 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

Eddie glares at the ceiling, heart beating so hard he can taste it. He's not an idiot, he knows thinking about it doesn't mean he wants to do it. Thinking about it isn't doing it. But thinking about it and getting hard in his own bed right next to Steve is definitely crossing a line of some sort.

But he's got to the point where not thinking about it makes it worse. Eddie loses track of the narrative, brain skipping ahead like it can lure him back if it pushes in the right place, make the fantasy sharp enough. Because he can't pretend that's not what it is anymore. A crisp polo shirt pushed up, sneakers and jeans dragged off. Steve sleeping far too deeply for any of the undressing to register. Heavy in all the best ways, but still soft enough that the flesh at thighs and waist would sink under the grip of fingers because this version of him is greedy.

"Stop it," Eddie tells himself. He doesn't expect the words until they're out, the hiss of it quiet but desperate. "You're fucking better than this."

He probably isn't.

He's been through a lot of shit in the last few months. Is it any wonder some of it sticks in the wrong place? Leaves him scrabbling for anything to stamp the grisly memories down.

He's just jealous, the way he figures, of the way Steve is always so put together about this. You get your whole world turned inside out and upside down and you find out the jock with the great hair has been dealing with it fine for years. Maybe part of him wants to hate him for that, maybe part of him wants to crawl inside him and dig his teeth in and demand he teach him how to stop from going insane some nights -

Steve Harrington, shoes and jeans and underwear on Eddie's bedroom floor. He's sleeping deeply enough that Eddie can sink down over him, grip him by the chin and the thigh and kiss him like he'd wanted to for months. Kiss him until the sleepy breath catches in his throat, kiss him while his other hand pushes his thigh up the bed, nails dragging through that scatter of dark hair there. Wondering if Steve's ever had pretty girl fingers inside him before, if he'd feel the difference -

Eddie rolls onto his side, brain an empty void for a long stretch, too hard in his jeans to breathe and pinching with guilt.

"Too high for this," he mutters and it sounds like an apology.

The back of Steve's hand is resting against the bend of his knee, the quiet sound of him breathing so fucking present in the room that he finds himself trying not to make any noise at all.

There's lube in the drawer under the bed, easy enough to get to, easy enough to pull out and uncap and bite a little at the softness of Steve's sleeping mouth. Tell him what he's going to do. Tell him things he shouldn't, spill all his dirty secrets while he touches him.

There's a static buzz in Eddie's head, good sense fighting against how clear it all is. He's not moving though, he's not actually doing anything.

The version is his head, shirt stripped off, thumbs skating the two moles on the bend of Steve's neck, mouth at his jaw while he works slippery fingers in him just deep enough to -

Fuck.

It's more than static now, his whole body is hot, and if Steve is going to sleep all night in Eddie's bed then what does it matter? Eddie's not going to touch him. He's not going to do anything. But he still slips a hand down to his own belt, dragging it through and out, the metal of rings click-clicking against the double buckle as it slips free. He doesn't try and take his jeans off, doesn't shift anything down his hips, just knuckles the zip half down and shoves his hand down and in. Where he's blood-hot and hard enough under the pressure of his fingers to feel like a bite.

Fantasy him knows what he's doing, he isn't clumsy, doesn't ask questions, doesn't fill the air with an awkward stream of words. There's just sleepy open thighs and the slide of fingers, gentle enough not to wake him but still sinking all the way. He's watching, of course he's watching, watching the way Steve opens, the slick shine of his asshole stretched out. Two fingers for a while until he gets greedy, impatient, blood gone hot at how easy it is, and pushes in with three.

Eddie rolls his head into the pillow, calls himself names into the fabric, too quiet to hear, too muffled to be anything like genuine, a breathless shaky rumble to them all as he grips himself and pushes into his fist.

He'd hike a thigh up, and it's much easier to get the position right in a fantasy than in real life, belt dragged open, jeans pushed down -

He bites down on a sound that cracks out far too loud, fingers too tight around himself but still moving, genuinely afraid for a second that thinking it hard enough makes it real, makes it something he's going to have to feel guilty about come morning when he has to look at Steve's stupid slept-in hair and his sleepy eyes, that awkward little smile he always wears when people offer up their home for him.

"You're an asshole," Eddie tells himself. It's true, it's true, he's literally the worst fucking friend. Because it doesn't get more trusting than this. But he's still pressing down with his thumb where he's sticky-wet, pleasure sharp like a knife in his belly as he pictures the moment he settles in and smears the head of his cock where he'd just had his fingers, sweet and new and then pushing in, in, in.

He bites his lip, hand working quick and guilty where it's shoved awkwardly inside his jeans.

Eddie doesn't need to be good for this. He doesn't need to know what he's doing, and it doesn't matter that he doesn't know what it feels like, he just needs to chase it, Steve won't care he's going to sleep through it -

He'd still know come morning though, wouldn't he? He'd feel it, even if Eddie dressed him up again all nice and tight he'd feel it, feel that someone was inside him.

Jesus.

He doesn't think about that, thinks instead about how good he'd feel, the tight-hot grip of him, Steve making sleep-drunk sounds in his chest on every thrust when Eddie pushed his shirt up higher, set teeth to his pretty nipples and hands to his wrists and told him all the things he'd never, never say when he was awake. It's too good to picture him like that, all muscle and dark hair, as hard as him, all new sensations for him, touching him in a new way that no one else ever had, a little sweaty where they press together at chest and thighs. Eddie would do what Steve would never let him do, tug his mouth open and kiss him while he made a space for himself inside.

All the way to the edge - then he'd hold him open to see it - ass a little pink from use, still slippery with lube -

Fuck.

He buries his face in the pillow when he comes, a steady, twitching spill over the back of his fingers and the straining denim. Good enough to spark low and deep, blood pounding in his head, eyes squeezed shut tight enough to hurt.

The room's hazy for a moment, as he breathes hot into the bed, face covered by his own hair. The post-orgasm clarity leaves him feeling like more of a creep, blisteringly aware of Steve's hand still pressed to his leg. He moves back out of touching distance, then reaches down off the bed, drags up the first item of clothing to guiltily clean himself up, before tossing it across the room.

Eddie would never do anything like that, never ever actually do it.

He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling and tries very hard to think about nothing at all.

Re: FILL: Steve/Eddie, temptation, fantasy non-con 2/2

[(Anonymous)]

Ohhhhh, this was good!