Chapter Text
Sing me to sleep (I don’t want to wake up on my own anymore)
Sure, Eddie's been a fantasy junkie for most of his life. He’s played DnD, he’s watched the nerd movies, read the nerd books. Played all the games. Let his freak flag fly. But, he also wasn’t a fucking idiot (or at least he liked to pretend to think so, considering the whole Super, super senior thing). He might be a freak, but he liked to think he had a pretty firm grasp on reality most of the time, chemically assisted trips slightly outside of it notwithstanding. He knows what's real and what isn’t. At least, he thought he did, until he saw Chrissy Cunningham practically hanging from the ceiling of his piece-of-shit trailer like the world’s most fucked up chandelier — saw her skinny little arms and legs snap like glowsticks right in front of his eyes.
Things had gotten kind of blurry after that. And, now Eddie doesn’t have to even believe, because now he knows. Now he knows things like alternate dimensions and spider demons and little girls with superpowers really exist. Knowing is a little different than simply believing, but in the end, Eddie supposes it still counts.
But now it’s over. It’s a mantra he repeats to himself daily – it’s over, it’s over, it’s over , even if it’s, at best, a half-truth. Vecna might be dead. Evil vanquished, good guys win, but Eddie still can’t go a day walking through town without at least one person spitting on him. Which, in the right context, Eddie’d be totally down with, but it’s kind of a bummer when you’re trying to buy a pack of Marlboros and just get on with your day.
What Eddie’s having the most trouble believing is real at the moment is what’s happening right the fuck now. Because right now he’s got Hawkin’s resident Prom King — Steve “The Hair '' Harrington — pretty much mewling like a goddamn kitten underneath him. Eddie’s never considered himself a lucky guy, but it feels like his luck might be changing just a little when Steve grasps him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him in, practically writing next time with his tongue right against Eddie’s mouth like a promise.
If he didn’t know it was happening. Wasn’t experiencing Steve Harrington in all his technicolor glory, well…Eddie’d never believe it. Sure, Eddie himself hadn’t been immune to Steve’s good looks anymore than the average Hawkin’s High teenage girl. He’s not too proud to admit that. He’s got a working dick and a great imagination. The guy is a fucking smoke show and a half, and Eddie doesn’t think a single person in Hawkin’s could disagree with him. Not even Robin, who’d admitted one night after one beer and like three puffs on a joint (a lightweight if he ever saw one) “yes, he’s proportionate and aesthetically pleasing to the eye but, oh my god ew, never ask me that again, Eddie. I swear to god I’ll christen your brand new mattress with my vomit instead of Steve fluids like we both know you want to.”
“Rob…Steve fluids?”
“Never again, Eddie! Never!”
It’s not like he could argue with her on that one.
And he’s not too proud to admit that the minute he’d looked into Harrington’s eyes (not just brown he’d realized that night, moonlight streaming in through the windows, but flecked with gold and green, too), stupidly pretty asshole, was pretty much the only other thought in his head besides possibly having to use the broken bottle he’d been pressing up to Steve’s throat, which would have been a shame. Wrecking such a nice face.
It had gotten even worse when, as the whole Vecna thing unraveled around them, Eddie got to see firsthand how wrong he’d been about the guy. The fact that Steve was fucking pretty as he was and also not a douche? That he was brave and selfless almost to the point of self-destruction in the most awe-inducing and fucking maddening way?
It was just goddamn cruel. Because now even Eddie couldn’t lie to himself about how much he wasn’t just crushing on the dude.
Eddie wanted him.
As if Eddie hadn’t suffered enough the past week. Why torture himself more?
Which — Eddie liked his pain and pleasure all mixed up as much as the next guy, but it hadn’t seemed possible, seemed like sadomasochism without any of the payoff to even entertain the thought that he could somehow be lucky enough for Steve to want him back.
Maybe the universe was just giving him a solid. Eddie doesn’t get down on his knees for just anyone (or ever, really) but he might just to thank whatever might be up there for letting him have this. Because god, he really doesn’t think he’s seen anything hotter in his life than Steve Harrington’s face when he comes.
And the dude’s already got a pretty flawless face.
“Eddie, Eds —” There’s a tug on the back of his shirt and Eddie’s vision blinks back into focus to see Steve, still looking glassy-eyed and fucked out, but also slightly uncomfortable. That alone is enough to get his attention.
“Hmm?”
“Not um – that this isn’t super fucking hot still, man, but —” Steve trails off, biting his lip and gesturing to the admittedly not small mess of spit and jizz that had already started to dry tacky all over his chest between them.
Yep, Eddie definitely doesn’t feel the slightest bit proud of that at all. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that glorious chest hair of yours to be compromised, would we?” he says, twisting his fingers in that aforementioned thatch of hair and pulling, teasingly.
Steve huffs but it’s not like he’s trying to get away that hard when Eddie leans down to press his teeth into the younger boy’s shoulder. “Fuck you, man.”
“Other way around, Stevie,” Eddie quips, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “But we’ll get to that eventually.”
Steve lets out a sound like Eddie accidentally punched him in the lungs or something. “Oh my god, what is wrong with you?” he chokes, eyes wide, and there’s that pretty flush again Eddie notes appreciatively, climbing up Steve’s throat all the way to his cheekbones.
Eddie shrugs. “Many have tried to figure it out, Harrington. Few have ever succeeded.”
“You’re insane,” Steve mumbles, but he’s also nuzzling into Eddie’s palm as he says it, so the insult doesn’t have much of a sting.
“Hey, you were warned. Freak’s right there in the name, baby.”
He’s joking, obviously, but still, Steve looks up, mouth twisted into a frown, his brow furrowed. “You’re not really a freak — at least not anymore than the rest of us are now, really.”
Eddie can see that's a little true. After all, there was a 14-year-old girl downstairs who could literally move mountains. Something warm and unnamed unfurls itself in Eddie’s chest, but he pushes it aside, just for the moment. Partly because he’s got a mess to clean up (and he’s the one that made it, really, so it’s the gentlemanly thing to do after all), and only a little bit because Steve Harrington is turning out to be such a fucking sweetheart that Eddie thinks he might do something else untoward (and possibly even more corrupting) if he doesn’t get out of this bed right now.
It doesn’t help when he does finally move that Steve just holds on tighter to the back of his shirt, hiding his face in the messy tangle of blankets they’d created when Eddie crosses his arms and looks down at him, smirk curled smugly at the corner of his mouth.
Eddie stoops down to press a lingering kiss to Steve’s bared shoulder, so sweet that it’s almost as much a surprise to Eddie himself. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
…
From the orgasm that felt like it had actually dismantled his brain into a million tiny, useless pieces, coupled with the fact that he’s been exhausted for what feels like months now, Steve doesn’t even think he could move off this bed if he tried.
That’s what he tells himself is the reason he doesn’t move a muscle until Eddie comes out of the bathroom, washcloth in hand. Well, he tries to move, intends to move – to help — but Eddie’s too quick, and climbs on top of him before Steve’s still-cum-drunk brain can process what’s happening, pinning his wrist to the bed with an insistent noise of disapproval.
“What happened to not moving, sweetheart?”
There’s that flash of something in the older boy’s eyes again that gives Steve that same goosebumps feeling as before, made worse by the cold, damp fabric being dragged across his chest. All of it warring with the weight of Eddie’s hand, the stretch of his fingers pressed against the pulse Steve can feel thrumming in his own wrist just as much as he can feel that same frantic beat hammering away in his chest.
Steve’s brain is screaming at him to say sorry for some reason, which, he’s going to ignore that entirely at the moment because he can’t even begin to analyze that. Instead, he manages to stammer with possibly the least amount of confidence, “I’m not a fucking baby, dude.”
“Good thing,” Eddie says, “ — otherwise this would be pretty fucked up, wouldn’t it?”
Steve rolls his eyes, annoyed at how not annoyed he is, but before he has the chance to say anything else, there’s what sounds like a fucking stampede coming from the hallway outside his bedroom, followed by a frenzy of pounding on the door.
“Did you guys die in there or something?”
“Hey, Dingus! Asshole! The natives are getting restless. If these nerds don’t get to finish their game, I think they’re gonna revolt.”
“It’s like she’s completely forgotten that she’s one of us now.”
…
“Oh my god,” Steve says, eyes darting back and forth frantically between the door to Eddie, “it will scar both me and Dustin for life if they open that door and see me like this,” he hisses.
“Like what?” Eddie teases. Honestly, he’s more annoyed than freaked out by the fact that their friends are right outside, but he gets why Steve is panicking. “Like somebody who just got wrecked?”
“God, you suck,” Steve says with a groan, squirming under Eddie’s weight like he’s trying to force him to move. It kind of has the opposite effect for both of them, considering the pained grunts they both let out. “Just — give me a second,” Steve says breathlessly, finally sitting up after Eddie frees his legs and flops sideways onto the mattress beside him, “and I’ll throw some clothes on and you can go do your weird dungeon master thing, okay? Before they break the fucking door down or cause an international crisis or something.”
“No way, Harrington. You’re staying here,” Eddie says, leaning over the bed to pick up the pair of pants he so fondly remembers peeling down Steve’s legs a mere hour or so ago, and sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on.
Steve, to his credit, stays put when Eddie tells him to. Again (something Eddie absolutely files away for later use because holy shit) . “Why?”
“Because you need sleep, man,” Eddie says, like it’s obvious. Because it is. The guy looks like he’s got two black eyes for chrissake. “And I think if you tried getting up, you’d fucking fall right over.”
Steve stares in disbelief. “You want me to stay up here and take a fucking nap?”
“Well, look at that, Harrington. You aren’t just a pretty face,” Eddie says
“Fuck you, I don’t have to do what you say, Munson,” Steve says, crossing his arms.
“I know that,” Eddie says confidently, “but you’re going to anyway”
Steve’s fingers twist and clench nervously in the bedsheets, a look of confusion on his face that really shouldn’t be so fucking… adorable. “And why would I do that?”
“Because you want to. Because you like it,” Eddie grins devilishly before turning around and crawling up the bed until his face is mere inches from Steve, who shivers noticeably when Eddie licks a stripe up the side of his throat before pulling away again. “And, because you want to be good for me.”
Steve’s face turns the reddest Eddie’s seen yet. But still, he doesn’t exactly disagree. He does, however, pull the blankets up over his head and groan, “I take it back. You are a freak.”
“Takes one to know one, Stevie.”