Archive of Our Own

Now, this is a story all about how
My life got flipped-turned upside down
And I'd like to take a minute
Just sit right there
I'll tell you how I came on the tits of a guy with great hair

The best part about being a drug dealer, Eddie thinks to himself as he swings his silly little lunchbox around, is all the downtime spent loitering in the creepy dirty woods at night.

He scowls, looks at his watch again. His buyers are twenty minutes late tonight. Fucking typical.

He’s standing in a small clearing just off the dirt path at one of the parks on the edge of town. It’s a popular spot, deep enough into the woods that the cops don’t usually bother walking all the way down here to break up whatever unsavory activity is happening. And there is unsavory activity happening. Eddie’s well acquainted with more than a few of its many varieties, but the trash scattered all over the place would clue him in regardless. The underbrush is littered with crushed beer cans and cigarette butts and tied-off old condoms.

Eddie spots a magazine peeking out from beneath one of the thorny bushes, and he bends down to pick it up. Which is kind of stupid, honestly. More than a little bit gross, too; there’s like a fifty percent chance the thing has dried cum between the pages.

But he’s bored as hell, and it’s either that or go back to kicking twigs around in the dirt for another twenty minutes, so.

The magazine is… interesting.

It’s clean, for one, looks like it was barely removed from its plastic sleeve before it was abandoned here. Eddie imagines some poor startled baby queer tossing the thing in the bushes and making a run for it.

Secondly, it has quite possibly the funniest cover Eddie’s ever seen on a skin mag.

TITS! the title reads in exuberant block letters. There’s a man’s torso filling the entire page, the peaks and valleys of his physique accented in harsh shadow, one pert nipple tenting the paper-thin fabric of his see-through mesh top.

The hottest new male erogenous zone, it goes on, and Eddie snorts at that — he’s pretty sure there’s nothing new about that particular zone, not according to his last eight or so years of personal experience, anyway — for the late 70s continues to blaze into the new decade. Herewith, a sizzling nine-page pictorial saluting those magnificent masculine mounds of pleasure.

Eddie snickers into his fist. A pictorial salute to pectorals, indeed. Fucking man mounds, Jesus Christ.

He plops cross-legged into the dirt and spreads the magazine across his lap. It’s ridiculous, objectively, filled with disembodied close-ups of mens’ chests: broad, hairy ones constrained in leather harnesses, hairless, pale bony boys with cute nipple piercings, one with glittery tassels like cheerleader pom poms. Eddie’s giggling, delighted, and then.

And then he gets to the centerfold and the laugh dies in his throat.

The guy is fucking gorgeous. Stunning. Eddie feels stunned, tongue heavy in his mouth like he’s just been hit with a numbing shot. Paralysis poison, maybe. Eddie’s gonna fucking drool.

It’s the only full body shot in the zine so far, and the guy is stretched out on his back like a cat in the sun, his spine arched and his arms resting overhead. Knees bent enticingly to accentuate the swell of his ass, the sculpted curves of him. He looks like a statue, like some marble marvel in a fine art museum, and he has, without question, the nicest tits Eddie’s ever seen. They look firm but not too big, a dark smattering of chest hair glistening with just the barest hint of oil. His hair is fucking beautiful, too, cresting over his forehead like a caramel wave. Eddie presses the heel of his palm to the tent in his jeans.

“Yo, Munson!” a voice calls, twigs snapping underfoot as his clients finally decide to show. Eddie jumps, yelps at a truly embarrassing octave and scrambles to his feet, slipping the magazine into his inside jacket pocket for safekeeping.

💋💋💋

Eddie doesn’t look at the magazine.

Much…

Which is to say that he’s jerked off to it no less than twelve times since he found it five days ago, and he’s quickly becoming completely obsessed with the model, whoever he is.

There’s something so familiar about him, something that teases the back of Eddie’s brain as his eyes roam over the constellation of moles, the mean edge of his jawline, the profile of his nose sharp enough to slice through him like a chef’s knife. But he can’t quite place it, can’t quite tell what the guy really looks like between the low lighting of the photoshoot and the way his face is angled ever so slightly away from the camera, twisted up in pleasure. Not that he doesn’t try. He’s spent hours trying, staring at the photo spread, tracing his fingers over it, daydreaming about the face that he’d find looking back at him if the photo suddenly sprang to life, if the guy turned his head and smiled slow and filthy at Eddie and beckoned him to come near…

Goddamnit. Eddie’s half hard again. In public, for shit’s sake. He’s in the hallway waiting for his figure drawing class to start and there are other students milling around and he’s seriously standing here popping a stiffy over the magazine he still has tucked inside his jacket pocket.

Get it the fuck together, Munson.

He adjusts himself in his jeans as subtly as he can, recites the pledge of allegiance a couple times until his own flag retreats from half mast, and then he rolls his shoulders back and takes a deep calming breath and walks into class and nearly fucking dies.

Because he’s lost it, right? Utterly and officially, he’s lost his goddamn horny little mind, dropped it somewhere on his morning walk across campus. Right?? What other possible explanation could there be for the vision that greets him like a brick to the face?

There’s a guy sitting at the front of the class, naked except for a tight pair of black boxer briefs that leave almost nothing to the imagination, and it’s… it’s the guy. The fucking guy, the one Eddie’s been stripping his dick raw to for the last week like an insatiable freshman. Eddie would recognize those tits anywhere: the dusting of dark hair over olive skin, the toned muscle dotted with moles and freckles like cupcake sprinkles, good enough to eat, and oh, fuck. Fuuuuuuck.

The guy looks up at him, catches him staring and meets him head on, and hey, at least Eddie knows that he isn’t hallucinating now. There’s no way he could make this shit up.

Because the face of TITS! magazine is King Steven H. Harrington. Jesus H. Christ.

Eddie averts his gaze, mind reeling as he takes his seat and starts unloading his materials for class. He remembers King Steve well, the prissy little prick who spent their shared years at Hawkins High pointedly ignoring Eddie like he was an embarrassing bit of spinach stuck between the school’s teeth. And like, sure, Eddie was obnoxious in high school. He can admit that to himself now, alright? Who puts their shoes on the tables where people eat their lunch? Gross.

But still. Steve didn’t have to be such a dick about it.

Eddie was kind of humiliatingly into the guy back in school (still remembers his full name from the yearbook page he absolutely did not doodle a heart over), but Steve was always so cold to him back then. Indifferent. Worse than mean, in Eddie’s book. He acted like Eddie didn’t exist, like he was put out by remembering that Eddie did on the rare occasions he was forced to do so during classes.

And now here Eddie is, pining for him twice over.

He wants to be mad about it. He really does.

But he also can’t stop glancing up at Steve through his lashes, thinking about how he fingered himself open last night with his free hand splayed over the picture of Steve spread out beneath him. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck.

“Good morning, class,” Mrs. Byers greets as she strolls in and deposits her burlap messenger bag on the desk. “Oh, Steven, you’re already here. Wonderful.”

“Just Steve, ma’am,” he corrects shyly, folding his arms over his chest.

Good. Good riddance, Eddie thinks, watching those perfect tits disappear behind Steve’s toned and veiny forearms, and that’s… not helping, actually. Fuck is it not helping. The squeeze of his arms just accentuates his pecs, his cleavage bracketed by his firm biceps. Eddie might actually hyperventilate.

Think about something else, think about something else, thank about anything fucking else, Munson, come on—

“Steve,” Mrs. Byers agrees pleasantly. “Welcome.” She turns to the class, a hush falling over the room as everyone settles. “We’ll be working on active poses today, with a focus on quick sketching and capturing movement. Really think about the expressiveness of each form as you work. You’ll have five minutes to recreate each pose, and I’ll leave some time at the end for you to clean up your sketches or work directly with Steve if you have any specific poses you’d like him to model. Sound good?”

The class responds, nodding their heads with a chorus of agreements, and Mrs. Byers claps her hands together and goes to set the timer for the first round.

It’s easier to focus with a time limit, Eddie thinks as he runs his tongue along his top lip and concentrates on the scratch of his pencil against his sketchbook. But it still isn’t easy. Steve is distractingly hot, infuriatingly fit as he moves through a series of strenuous yoga poses, barely even breaking a sweat. He holds a warrior two pose for nearly five minutes straight, only stopping once to shake out his leg muscles, and his thighs look downright fucking edible. Eddie sinks his teeth into the meat of his bottom lip and resolutely does not imagine how pretty Steve’s inner thigh would look decorated with a purpling bite mark.

Eventually, the class nears its end, and Eddie’s feeling pretty pleased with the work he’s created today. He could pack it up early and turn in his assignment, use the extra five minutes to go splash some cold water on his face or inhale half a pack of cigarettes before his next class. But Eddie’s always been something of a masochistic little shit (or maybe a sadistic one? A little shit, regardless), so he doesn’t do that.

What he does is clear his throat and flutter his fingers to get Steve’s attention and say, “Hey, Steve?”

Steve turns to him, his cheeks flushed light pink with exertion, going a slightly darker shade as he meets Eddie’s gaze, like maybe he’s finally remembering who Eddie is. “Yeah?” he answers.

Eddie taps his pencil on the edge of his sketchbook, like he’s considering his words. As if they haven’t been brewing in his brain for the last forty-five minutes in a roiling boil of horny nonsense. “Think you could model a couple of resting poses for me? Just to round out the pack, you know.”

Steve shrugs, fully unaware of Eddie’s scheming, apparently, because he just says, “Sure. How do you want me?”

Screaming, ideally. He shakes the thought from his head, his hair tickling his face. “On your back,” he tells Steve. “Can you start in corpse pose?”

Steve goes down easy, looking grateful for a break from the more difficult postures. He lies down flat on his back with his arms out by his side, eyes closed, a small, restful smile playing on his plush lips.

Eddie draws six random squiggle lines on his page just to make it sound like he’s drawing something. “Okay, great,” he says quickly. “Now, uh,” he pretends to consider, “maybe bring your arms up overhead?”

Steve does. Eddie draws four circles. A triangle. Three long, slashing lines. “Cool, can you arch your back for me? And bend your knees just a bit.”

Steve’s brow furrows a bit at that request, but he does it anyway, eyes still closed. The shift of his hips as he arches his spine sends his head tipping back, Adam’s apple bobbing in his long, lovely throat, the razor’s edge of his jaw on display, and there it is. There it fucking is, that delicious pose that Eddie’s been devouring for days. Eddie flips to a fresh page, sets to work recreating the divinity on display in front of him. There’s a good chance he’s about to ruin his jeans before he even finishes laying the framework of his sketch.

The alarm on Mrs. Byer’s desk rings, and Eddie’s going to have to murder it. He’s just going to have to, he doesn’t even care that inanimate objects can’t technically be killed.

“That’s all for today, class,” Mrs. Byers announces. “Please select three sketches to turn in for review, and let’s all thank Steve again for his time.”

Fuck smoking half the pack. Eddie’s gonna smoke a whole carton.

💋💋💋

It goes on like that for six weeks. Six glorious, torturous weeks of seeing Steve Harrington half-naked and biddable for an hour each class, moving into whatever position he’s asked to without ever making a single complaint. Eddie’s tried to get him to make one — asked him once if he could hold a royal dancer pose, just to fuck with him, just to see if he could get him to whine — but Steve’s a professional through and through. He didn’t even blanch at the request, just planted one hand against the wall for balance and then lifted his leg up behind him in a graceful arch, the calf of his standing leg straining as he shifted up onto tiptoe with a devious smirk.

Eddie didn’t turn that sketch in.

It’s wedged between the pages of TITS! magazine, tucked into an ever-growing collection of his favorite sketches of Steve, none of them coming close to the perfection of that centerfold spread. Eddie thinks about asking Steve to model for a private session, about hiring one of the photography majors to shoot something just for him. Fantasizes about joining Steve in the pictures, running his fingers through all that chest hair. Letting it catch on his rings…

“Dude,” Gareth sighs, throwing a judgmental look at him in his vanity mirror. “Would you please just fucking ask the guy out before you jizz all over my mattress?”

“Don’t be crass!” Eddie gasps in mock offense, chucking a pillow at Gareth’s head.

“Don’t mess up my wig, you asshole!” Gareth squawks.

“Well, I never—! That isn’t very ladylike of you at all!”

“Fuck you, man, I’m not a lady.”

“Not with that five o’clock shadow, you’re not.”

Eddie’s teasing, giggling into his hair as Gareth glares at him, his drag makeup only halfway done, one eye looking ten times bigger than the other with its false lashes applied. But then Gareth’s face falls a bit as his eyes shift from Eddie to the reflection of his own chin, and Eddie sees a flicker of real insecurity.

“You can’t actually see a shadow, can you?” Gareth asks quietly, frowning at himself. “Because I spent, like, way too much money on that new color correcting cream, and I—”

Eddie hops off the bed, plants his hands on Gareth’s shoulders and smacks a wet kiss to his temple. “You look fantastic, babydoll,” he assures him, meeting his eyes in the mirror with an encouraging smile. Gareth’s not actually his baby, not like that, but he knows his friend likes to be praised, likes to be called pet names, especially when he’s getting into girl mode. Eddie’s all too happy to help his friend feel good about himself and his new hobby. He’s genuinely so proud of him for coming out of his shell, for expressing himself and shedding the baggage of suburban bullshit. For coming out this year, too. It’s a lot of big steps for him.

Plus, Gareth usually gets way better tips when he’s feeling confident and then he spends those tips buying Eddie shots, so… Win win.

Eddie lights a cigarette while he lounges on his stomach on Gareth’s bed, flipping through a (G-rated, titty-free) magazine and lazily kicking his feet as he looks at the glossy pages. It’s a fashion magazine, one of the fun, alt style ones where everyone looks just a little bit fucking crazy. Eddie loves it: the wild hair, the spikes and chains and shaved eyebrows, the chunky rings and violent lipstick shades. Eddie sees a picture of a guy with long black hair — big and curly like his, with a denim vest that puts his own to shame — and the guy’s lower lash line is rimmed in dark liner, smudged like charcoal into the hollows under his eyes. He looks like a sexy raccoon.

“Hey, Garebear?”

Gareth hums from his spot at the vanity, so unbothered by the stupid nickname that he doesn’t even look away from where he’s overdrawing his lips with near surgical precision. Damn. Eddie’s gonna have to come up with a new one; this one’s clearly lost its power.

“You think you could make me look like this?” he asks, holding up the picture of the guy for Gareth to see.

Gareth turns in his chair, reaches out to take the magazine from him. Snorts at it. “Sure, dude, I can make you look like a hot pirate,” he smirks horribly, waggles his painted-on brows as he passes the magazine back, “if it’ll help you plunder that booty.”

Eddie faceplants into the comforter, cackling and also wishing he could just smother himself to death to escape that monumentally bad joke. “Jesus Christ, man, you’re gonna be the world’s most insufferable dad,” Eddie chokes out through his laughter.

💋💋💋

The Hideout always looks so different on Friday nights. Eddie snorts at the change of decor as he helps Gareth haul his duffel bags into the little supply closet beside the stage that everyone pretends qualifies as a proper green room. Friday nights are Drag Night, and on Drag Night, their lovable, crusty little metalhead hidey hole gets a glitter bomb makeover, a tacky collage of shimmer and shine that makes the place look like a rainbow threw up on it.

Eddie loves it.

…And he also thinks it can fully go to hell, because there’s a silver streamer curtain hanging above the green room door, and when Eddie shoulders his way underneath it to deposit Gareth’s bags in the room, the spiky tail of one of the plastic ribbons stabs him right in the fucking eye. “OW!” he screeches, hand coming up to cup his face. “What the fuck!”

“Are you okay?” Gareth asks.

Eddie glares at the offending streamer curtain overhead with his good eye, reaches up and yanks it right off the ceiling. The tape makes a satisfying ripping sound as it peels away from the popcorn tiles and sends the streamers floating down in a glittering heap, and Eddie stamps his boots on the pile at his feet for good measure.

“Yup,” he sneers. “Much better.”

Gareth snorts at him, gives him a look like, oh, you’re gonna be in a fucking mood all night, aren’t you?

And yeah. Fair. Fair and probably very true; Eddie’s been in a mood for half a semester now on account of one unfairly handsome figure model. He straightens the lapels of his denim vest, feeling his favorite magazine shift beneath the lining. The lining that he sewed in. For the express purpose of having a safe place to carry Steve around with him when it’s too hot to wear his usual jacket.

Ya know, like a horny little freak.

“Why does this place look like this, anyway?” Eddie asks.

“It’s Friday night, man, it always looks like this.”

“Yeah, but it’s….” Eddie chews his thumbnail, surveys the room. It looks like some kind of party supply surplus store in here. Truly headache inducing. God, he really needs a smoke. “...Worse.”

Gareth laughs. “It’s Buckley’s birthday.”

“Oh, yeah. Robin, right?” Eddie nods to himself, already knowing the answer. Robin Buckley — or King Robert, as she’s sometimes known around here on Friday nights. Sweet girl. Slightly awkward, a music major with limbs like a Great Dane puppy and a complete inability to shut her fucking mouth when there are pretty femmes nearby. Eddie likes her a lot.

He pats Gareth on the shoulder and steps out back to have a smoke while Gareth finishes getting ready. The other queens will be here in a bit, and Eddie knows that Gareth likes some time alone to get into character, get his outfit changes laid out, et cetera. Plus Eddie’s not a huge fan of loitering in a half-empty bar while he waits for everyone to show up for the night — kind of makes him feel like a pitiful little barfly if he’s honest — so smoke break it is.

It’s nice out, just on this side of chilly, but Eddie’s plenty warm as he sits on a picnic table and leans a little closer to the fire pit. He takes a few puffs off his cigarette. Hoping for calm. Trying to burn shut the fraying edges of his frazzled nerves.

The tobacco, regrettably, doesn’t do a goddamn thing to stymie the constant low thrum of hormonal aggravation he’s been feeling for the last month and a half, so he stubs the cig out a little viciously in a nearby ashtray and fishes a joint out of his front pocket to light up instead.

The smoke fills his lungs, murky and heady and syrupy sweet, and Eddie revels in the sweet fuzz in his brain as he tips his head back and exhales into the starry night sky.

He could stay out here all night if he wanted to. He could lean back on his hands and count stars and create new constellations. Feel the sweet breeze ghost through his hair.

But the back patio is starting to fill up with people, which means the bar is, too, if the bass-heavy buzz bleeding through the brick wall is any indication.

Eddie hops off the table, feeling just a touch boneless. Floaty. Like jello wiggling in a bowl. He smirks to himself and puts his lighter and cigs away, stashes them safely in his front pocket. Feels his arm brush the magazine tucked against his side and shivers a little as he makes his way back into the club.

It’s packed now, suddenly (or maybe Eddie’s just lost more track of time than he realizes), a pulsing throb of bodies moving like ocean currents, and goddamn does Eddie need a drink. Maybe a red bull. His head is swimming.

💋💋💋

“Gareth,” Eddie hisses sharply into his ear (or rather, the side of his massive fucking wig. Why is his drag persona so Dolly Parton coded?) He spits a strand of blond plastic out of his mouth and tightens his hand on Gareth’s bicep as he gives him a rough shake. “Gareth! Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Gareth just smiles, like an absolute dick, batting his long shimmery lashes and showing his teeth under all that overdrawn lipstick. “That’s Miss Garish to you, honey,” he says, popping a hip.

“Babe, I love you, but I swear to God I will take the stuffing outta your bra and give you the worst purple nurple of your life, don’t test me.”

Gareth throws his head back and laughs, full and bright, and brings a manicured hand up to rest on Eddie’s shoulder. The fake nails dig into his skin, and in a sing-songy accent that sounds like a bad imitation of Wayne, Gareth says, “Eddie. Honey, darlin’, sugar pie—”

“—Ugh, stop—”

“—Sweetest little cinnamon roll I ever did see.” Gareth pinches his cheek. Bops his nose.

Eddie’s gonna kill him. Gareth knows that Eddie shrivels like a rotten grape under the searing intensity of head-on niceness, the little bastard.

“It’s going to be fine.”

“Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be here?” Eddie pouts, high-pitched and embarrassing to his own ears.

Because, he is.

Here, that is.

Steve Harrington is at this party.

Steve Harrington — the guy Eddie has been almost alarmingly obsessed with for half a semester now — is at Robin Buckley’s big gay birthday bash looking like the cutest little wet dream Eddie’s ever had. Eddie glances over at him again, eyes drawn like a magnet.

Steve’s standing on the opposite side of the room, leaning against the bar in the sluttiest, most adorable bubblebum jock ensemble, so tasty it’s just outright rude, and Eddie is going to lose his mind. (And he’s got to stop thinking that, probably, because that ship has sailed. That ship is halfway around the globe by now; that ship is approaching Australia, or- or capsized in the Arctic Circle or some shit. Who knows? Certainly not Eddie, the hopeless, mindless fuck.)

Steve’s got on a shirt that he’s cut into a crop top — what looks like an old Hawkins swim team shirt, the ripped up neckline low and slouchy over his gorgeous chest — and he’s wearing khaki shorts, mid-thigh and tight across his ass and they’re…

Not khaki, actually. Oh, God. Eddie can see that now as the sweeping club lights illuminate Steve’s lower half. They’re not khaki. They’re fucking pink.

Steve Harrington’s shorts are fucking babygirl pastel flower-petal pink, and he has these cute white sneakers on with tube socks pulled up to mid-calf, his leg hair curling a little over the top, and it’s dorky it’s so objectively dorky and it should not be doing it for him why is this doing it for him???

Eddie bites down hard on his fist, begs himself to regain even an ounce of composure as his eyes roll back in his head.

He thinks about approaching Steve, just to rip the bandaid off. “Just fucking ask the guy out,” Gareth’s words from earlier that night ring out in his head. Simple. Easy.

Eddie’s not sure he can do it.

Because like, okay, even disregarding the pretty impossible-to-disregard fact that Steve is the figure model for his art class, that they have something of a working relationship that makes asking him out feel like he’s crossing a line somehow, Eddie is also just…

Starting to get really weird. About Steve. Weirder. Like, thinking shit about the guy that’s too fucking much, even for him.

The other day Eddie took his usual spot in class, right up front and center so he could capture every detail of Steve’s delicious body, and he was staring at Steve’s feet, his crossed ankles, trying to perfect the shape of his high arch when his eyes caught on a vein jumping just below the ankle bone. Pulse, pulse, pulse. The skin stretching taut over the throb of pale blue. Eddie wanted to bite it, wanted to mash his thumb against it until Steve squirmed from the pressure. Until he squeaked or whined about it. Until he cried.

Eddie ended up having to excuse himself from class for a full ten minutes after that one.

So yeah. Fuck approaching Steve. Eddie probably needs to just go get a restraining order put in place against himself at this point.

He shakes himself out of the spiral of dark thoughts, makes his way to the bar, flops his whole torso over it dramatically until Chrissy rolls her eyes at his antics and hands him a beer without even needing to ask what he wants.

“Can I have a shot, too?” he asks nicely, grabbing at her forearm over the counter.

She looks at him, tongue poking through her cute crooked teeth as she takes in his slightly unraveled appearance. “Who’s got you all riled up tonight?” she giggles.

“Chrissy, sweetheart, respectfully? I’ll fight you.”

Chrissy cackles and pours him a shot.

Eddie takes it from her with a muttered ‘yeah, yeah, laugh it up,’ drops a dollar in her tip jar and steels himself as the alcohol burns hot and sharp down his throat, clears out the weed haze just a bit. Fuck Chrissy. Fuck himself. He’s not approaching Steve tonight; he’s not even going to look at him.

So of course he feels someone sidle up to him at the counter.

“You up for one more?” Steve asks, double fisting two full shot glasses filled with milky liquid.

Eddie takes one from him, raises it in toast before throwing back the syrupy concoction. “Oh, my god,” he sputters as the sickeningly sweet fluid coats his tongue. “Did you seriously just hand me a fucking buttery nipple?”

Steve laughs, full and pleased with all those perfect straight teeth on display. Oh, hell. Does he know? Is he fucking with him?? Eddie feels the magazine pressed to his side like a brand.

“Come dance with me!” Steve says brightly in response, rocking onto the balls of his feet as he pulls at Eddie’s wrist with both hands. Eddie lets himself be led, feels like he couldn’t say no even if he wanted to (and he doesn’t really want to. At all, so. The part of his brain that keeps telling him he should want to can fuck right off now, thanks.)

💋💋💋

“What’s this?” Steve asks over their third song of the night. His whole back is flush against Eddie’s chest, writhing in graceful tandem to the filthy beat blasting through the club speakers, and his fingers skate over the rectangular lump in Eddie’s vest as he lets them roam over his torso. Steve’s other hand is buried in Eddie’s hair, wrapped around Eddie’s neck, and he uses the leverage to grind deep and dirty against his hips. Christ.

“Sketchbook,” Eddie grits out, voice strained, and it isn’t a lie, exactly. There are about two dozen sketches of Steve on his hands and knees in there right now.

Steve’s head tilts back onto Eddie’s shoulder as he lets the beat wash over him, that gorgeous, biteable throat on brilliant display beneath the flashing lights, pink then purple then blue, and Eddie has to clench his jaw hard enough to hurt to stop himself from sinking his teeth into it. Any more of this and he’s going to start panting, start rubbing himself obscenely between Steve’s cheeks, rutting like some kind of helpless animal.

“I need a break,” he mumbles into Steve’s shoulder, trying not to let it sound too much like a groan. “Come get a water with me?”

They make their way off the dance floor, and Eddie spots the birthday girl at the bar, surrounded by a loose circle of fellow music majors and artsy types. She’s got a fuzzy pink tiara perched in her short sandy hair and a glittery pink sash over her flannel shirt that reads BIRTHDAY BITCH in big slanting letters across her chest.

“Buckley!” Eddie exclaims as he approaches. He flings an arm around her shoulder, brings her in tight for a quick side squeeze, his limbs loose and easy with affection (and alcohol. And Steve grinding all over him like a goddamn stripper pole, like. That’s a thing that just happened.)

“Happy birthday!” he yells into her ear.

“Thank you!” she beams.

Steve sneaks in for a quick hug, too, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her off the floor for a moment. Robin squeals, laughing and slapping at Steve’s arms to “let go, dingus!” before he deposits her with a big, goofy smile and moves to flag Chrissy down for some waters and another round of drinks.

“What, no King Robert tonight?” Eddie asks her once she finishes readjusting her tiara and sash.

Robin shakes her head, then throws a pointed look at Steve. “Somebody wouldn’t help me tape my tits back, so…”

“Excuse you!” Steve says, looking genuinely affronted as he hands out drinks and waters. He’s ordered himself an aggressively tropical cocktail, some aquarium-in-a-cup bright blue slushie situation with a swirly pink straw and a garnish of pineapple and maraschino cherries, and he almost spills the thing as he starts gesturing in complaint. “I offered! I said I would do it, and you said, and I quote, ‘I will not have my tatas touched by a known bi- bise- sex… boobie lover!’”

“And non-boobie lover, as well,” Robin smirks, and Steve nearly chokes at that, going bright red as he clears his throat.

“Yes. And- and that, too.”

Steve blushes so prettily, and Eddie hides his smile behind the lid of his tallboy. He was pretty sure Steve was into men already — he really doubts anyone gets into modeling for TITS! magazine specifically without being just a little bit gay, no matter how good the pay is — but it’s nice to have his suspicion confirmed.

And it also isn’t nice. It isn’t fucking nice at all, because his mind latches onto the new knowledge like a leech to an open wound and starts blasting his mental movie screen with flashes of the most depraved shit he’s ever—

“Eddie?”

“Huh?”

And that’s Steve, snapping chilled fingers right in front of his face, his lips stained blue and openly smirking at his expense. “I asked if you wanted to go grab a seat with me? So we can watch the show.”

Steve takes another long sip of his stupid drink, his lips pursing over the thick straw, and yeah, Gareth’s just gonna have to die mad about it because there’s no way Eddie is going to be able to focus on a single second of his new act.

“Yeah, sure, Harrington. Lead the way.”

💋💋💋

“So…” Eddie spreads his arms out over the back of the rounded booth as Steve slides in beside him. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Shouldn’t you be hanging out with the birthday girl?”

“Well, sure, except the birthday girl is trying to get laid tonight and specifically told me to ‘fuck off and stop kissing her face before someone thinks we’re together,’” he snickers, his nose scrunching up so much that Eddie can see a hint of his upper gums. Cutie. “Apparently I’m too affectionate when I’m drinking, I don’t know. Didn’t want to cockblock her. Or, like… huh. Shit, what’s the lady version of cockblocking?”

Steve stares at the wall behind Eddie’s head, eyes squinted in concentration for a second before he seems to realize what it is that he’s sitting there contemplating. His face flushes pink, and Eddie laughs at him as he mutters an embarrassed ‘whatever’ and reaches for a sip of his water.

Eddie waits for him to start swallowing, then says casually, “I think they call that clam-jamming.”

Steve actually does choke at that, and Eddie feels a little bad for laughing so hard when Steve hacks a lung into the crook of his elbow and then turns to glare at Eddie like he can explode him with his mind.

Eddie lets the hand resting over the booth drift down to pat Steve apologetically on the back. “Sorry,” he says, even though he isn’t. It’s not his fault Steve looks so cute when he’s all teary-eyed and flustered. He looks like a grumpy kitten who just got forced to take a bath in the sink.

The lights dim and swing to focus on the tiny stage, and the crowd cheers as the first queen comes out and starts lip-syncing for her life to some bubbly pop number Eddie can’t be fucked to remember the name of. Who cares about all that when he can feel the heat of Steve Harrington’s bare thigh through his jeans right now?

“Hey,” Eddie says when the next queen comes out. He’s sort of just been staring at the back of Steve’s head like a tipsy weirdo for the last three minutes while Steve watched the show, and the alcohol has loosened his tongue enough to let his curiosity slip between his teeth. “Can I ask you something?”

Steve turns back to him with an expression like sunlight itself, blinding in his delight at the crowd and the queens and buzzing thrum of it all, the way the club morphs into a single entity sharing one rainbow-tinted heartbeat. That metaphor doesn’t even make sense. Eddie might be drunk. Whoops.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, scooting in closer to hear.

Eddie fiddles with the tab on the top of his beer can. “So, like… shit, man. Gotta level with you here: I don’t really want to ask this, ‘cause I’m having a pretty fucking phenomenal time with you right now, but um. At the risk of ruining that…”

Steve sits up straighter at the words, his smile faltering as his brows pinch down and his head tilts to the side like a worried golden retriever.

“Do you— do you remember me? From high school?”

Steve’s grin comes back even wider somehow. “Remember you?” he crows. “How could I forget, man? You were always like, prancing all over the tables with your little- uh- shit, uh- your little like, one-man plays or whatever.”

“Pardon you! I did not prance! And my monologues were—”

“—Monologues! Yep,” Steve cuts him off, snapping his fingers by his ear. “Yeah, that’s it. Sorry. I’m so bad with words, dude, Robin’s always giving me shit for it.”

“I dunno, Stevie, you seem plenty good with words to me,” Eddie flirts, partly to distract himself from his sudden bout of nerves and mostly to watch Steve duck his head again, to admire the way his hair falls over his blushing ears.

They smile softly at each other for a moment, and Eddie takes a long pull of his beer, working up the courage to get to the follow-up question, the one he really wants to ask. “Okay, so then, um,” he says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and God, why is he being awkward now? He’s the one who’s supposed to be making Steve feel all flustered, not the other way around.

He drums his rings on the table. Better to just rip the bandaid off, right? Get it over with, man, come on.

“Why were you always so mean to me back then?” he sighs around a big woosh of breath, wincing in distaste at how whiny he sounds and barreling on anyway, as is Munson Tradition. “You acted like I- like I didn’t exist. Like I repulsed you or something, man, I don’t know. Guess I’m just uh, just a little confused here now because you’re being so…”

Sweet? Flirty? Unbearably hot in a way that makes me want to do truly unspeakable shit to you about it?

Eddie waves a vague hand, lets the sentence hang. Christ, he sounds pathetic. Oh, well. He’s fucking said it now, might as well survey the wreckage.

He steels himself and looks at Steve.

Steve, who looks at him with eyes like startled moons, and… starts laughing?

Steve starts laughing, unattractive, braying peels of it ripping out of him as his hand comes up to cover his mouth.

“Seriously? You’re laughing at-? I’m trying to have a moment!”

“Oh, my god, I’m— I’m sorry-!” he gets out before he has to stop to take a couple deep shaky breaths, fan his hands in front of his face to dry the tears beading up in the corners of his eyes. He looks at Eddie, a quick, sideways glance, and his cheeks balloon with the effort of stifling another round of giggles.

Eddie scowls. “So glad you’re having a fun little trip to the chuckle hut over there,” he mutters, feeling petulant.

That just makes Steve laugh some more, a sharp, quick punch of air before he gets himself under control. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats around a deep clearing breath. His shoulders sag as he settles, exposing some of his chest hair. “I, um. Um…Shit, why is this so embarrassing?”

He aims the question at the ceiling, interrupting himself again to rub at his eye with the back of his fist, and holy shit if this stupid beautiful man does not spit it the fuck out already—

“Ihadthebiggestcrushonyouinhighschool,” Steve says all in a rush.

Eddie’s lips twitch around his own laughter now. He’s pretty sure he knows what Steve just said, but just to be safe…

“You want to try that again at a human speed, Steve?” he teases, propping his head in his hand to smile patronizingly at him. Toying with him a little.

He wants to feel bad for being mean, but it’s pretty hard to do when Steve responds so cutely, blushing all the way up to his ears and bringing his hands over his face like he’s waiting for a jump scare in a horror movie. “Noooo,” Steve whines.

“Come onnn,” Eddie goads.

“I had a crush on you in high school!” Steve bursts, his voice too loud, his palms coming down to clap the table. “Okay? I had a big, dumb, embarrassing crush on you, and I was a closeted little dipshit who wasn’t ready to process that information, and ohhhh, my God I can’t believe I’m telling you this right now where the fuck is my drink?”

He reaches out for the slushie and brings the straw to his lips, sucking it into his mouth like a lifeline. Like he might die without it. Like he was born to suck—

Eddie snaps himself out of it, wraps a hand gently around Steve’s wrist to pull the drink away from him. “Hey. Steve. Look at me, please.”

Steve turns to him immediately, and his eyes are big and wet and so sincere. He looks like a puppy. He looks like an angel. Eddie wants to fold him up and stick him in his pocket with all his other favorite Steves. “Thanks for telling me,” he says.

Steve flushes more, his soft, pink lips going slack.

Eddie reaches up — slowly, giving Steve time to move away in case he’s misread this — but Steve doesn’t go anywhere, so Eddie brings his thumb to the plush center of Steve’s bottom lip, presses in, just enough to feel the give. The tip of Steve’s tongue darts out, licks over Eddie’s thumbnail. Fuck.

“Would you say you still have a crush then?” Eddie asks, eyes on Steve, assessing. Moving closer, not yet touching.

Steve nods under Eddie’s thumb. Closes his lips around it.

Eddie hisses. He wants so badly to lean in, to take what Steve seems so willing to offer, but he has more questions. He can be patient. He’s been plenty patient already, hasn’t he? What’s a little more?

“And are you still a, uh— how did you put it? A closeted little dipshit?”

Steve shakes his head no, slowly, eyes never leaving Eddie’s. Going a little cross-eyed with the effort as Eddie leans in further, lines their mouths up. “Good. And do you want me to kiss you right now?”

Another nod, this one hard enough to shake Eddie’s thumb out of place. Eddie laughs softly under his breath. “Gonna need your words here, sweetheart.”

“Yes, please,” Steve breathes. Well. When he puts it like that…

Who is Eddie to deny him?

“Like it when you tell me what to do,” Steve confesses when they part for air, “In class,” and holy fuck. Holy fuck, Eddie doesn’t even know what’s happening right now, doesn’t understand how he got lucky enough to be here, veins thrumming with lust and liquor as he lives out one of his hottest and most frequent fantasies. But he’s not about to go questioning the universe about it, not when Steve is writhing so prettily beside him in the darkened corner of the club booth, his thigh hitching up over Eddie’s like he’s three seconds from crawling into Eddie’s lap and grinding down against his dick.

Eddie licks at Steve’s mouth, lets his rings skate over Steve’s jaw, down to his throat. “Yeah?” he asks, like he doesn’t know the answer. Just to watch Steve squirm. “You take direction so well, don’t you, baby.”

Steve whimpers against Eddie’s lips, open-mouthed and panting, his hips jerking as he squeezes his thighs shut — seeking friction, seeking relief — and Eddie swallows the moan, fucking his tongue deep into Steve’s open mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve whines when Eddie lets him go. “Want to- unh, want to do whatever you tell me to.”

Eddie gets a fistful of Steve’s hair, gathers it at the back of his head in a low ponytail and pulls a little meanly, enough so it tips Steve’s head back, and murmurs, “That so? Whatever I want, huh? Are you sure about that?”

Steve jolts his hips forward again, and that just won’t do. He’s going to get them kicked out, moaning and humping Eddie’s leg like this. Like a desperate little whore.

Eddie gets a hand on his hip bone and holds Steve down, digs the heel of his palm in until Steve keens. “Shut up and stop moving,” he hisses sternly, licking a stripe up Steve’s throat.

Steve goes so still. So perfectly, beautifully still, prettier than any of the pictures burning a hole in Eddie’s vest, and fuck. Jesus Christ. Eddie’s gotta calm himself down before he comes right here in the booth.

He exhales sharply through his nose, and his voice is low and calm. Deep. Commanding. “Get up and go wait for me in the bathroom.”

“Wha-?” Steve mumbles, looking a little out of it.

Eddie kisses just below his ear, his lips dragging, wet and messy. “Get up. And go wait for me in the bathroom. On your knees in the family stall.” It’s a standalone room with a full-length door and a proper lock, an out of order sign taped to the front of the door, and a toilet that’s been missing its seat for a month. No one ever goes in there. “Understood?”

Steve makes a needy sound and nods, scrambling eagerly out of the booth, and he doesn’t even grimace at the filthy request Eddie just made of him, asking him to get on his bare knees in a public bathroom and wait for him there, and—

“Hey,” Eddie grabs at Steve’s wrist, his voice louder over the music now that Steve’s no longer sitting right beside him. He waits for Steve to lock eyes with him, holds his gaze; makes sure Steve is sober enough to hold his gaze.

“Is this okay?” he asks seriously. He needs to hear it out loud. He feels too intense right now, and he doesn’t want to scare Steve off. He needs to be sure. “I know it’s a lot, and we’ve both been drinking, so uh, if you want to slow down, we can—”

Steve sways back into his space, plants a sloppy kiss on Eddie’s mouth and pulls back with a goofy grin, just a little lopsided as his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m… so into whatever the fuck this is,” Steve giggles. Honest to God giggles, his face bursting with a fresh splash of red as he holds up three fingers. “Scout’s Honor.”

Oh, of course he was a Boy Scout. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, too.

💋💋💋

“Shit,” Eddie breathes out harshly as he slips into the bathroom and locks the door behind him, because- oh, hell, he actually did it. He’s actually doing it.

Steve Harrington is kneeling before him, a vision haloed in flickering fluorescence, shifting his weight side-to-side on the gritty black concrete to ease the ache in his knees. He’s got his arms clasped behind his back, his hands gripping his elbows, and Eddie didn’t even ask him to do that part; he just fucking did it. He just— Jesus Christ.

“Well, aren’t you a lovely little thing?” Eddie purrs, like he’s just discovered Steve here by accident, some fortuitous, horny twist of fate. He runs his tongue over his teeth. Feels like a wild animal.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable down there on that hard floor?” he asks as he stalks over to Steve, cradles his chin so sweetly in his hand. Steve looks up at him with glossy eyes and shifts his weight again with a wince.

“Aw,” Eddie coos, “your knees must be so sore, sweetheart. Do you need to get up?”

Steve nods, eyes pleading.

Eddie tightens his grip. Steve’s mouth pops open on a punched-out oh, and he taps Steve’s cheek with his other hand, the pads of his fingers slapping lightly over bone.

“That’s too bad,” he teases meanly as Steve lets out a pained moan. He eases his grip, pets his rings down Steve’s face with the back of his hand. “Need you down there just a little longer. Want to use that pretty mouth of yours. You don’t mind, do you, baby?”

Steve whines, high and tight in the back of his throat, his head tipping forward to nuzzle Eddie’s thigh.

His arms are still clasped behind his back, and God, he’s such a—

“Sweet boy,” Eddie can’t help but sigh, running a hand through Steve’s silky hair. Eddie tugs it hard, makes Steve yelp in surprise as he forces him to look up at him again. “Believe I asked you a question, though, baby. You gonna answer me, huh? Or do you want to just stay down there and ride my boot all night like a brainless little whore?”

Steve’s brows draw down, looking humiliated and so turned on as he flushes a gorgeous deep red and bucks his hips against Eddie’s leg. The movement makes him pull his own hair, and he cries out and squeezes his eyes shut. “No, I-” he pants, struggling to string together the words. “I want to be good. Want to let you use my mouth, Sir. Let you c-come on my tongue.”

Fuuuuuck. Eddie pulls Steve’s face forward, rubs his nose into the seam of his jeans. Steve goes willingly, breathes hot and heavy over Eddie’s clothed cock, drags his open mouth over the throbbing bulge. He gets Eddie’s zipper between his teeth, pulls back to ask ‘May I?’ with a devious smirk — God. Not “can I.” Fucking “may I” — and Eddie has to grab the sides of Steve’s head with both hands to keep his knees from buckling as Steve opens his fly with that talented, beautiful mouth. Eddie’s going to fucking ruin him.

Eddie frees himself from his jeans, wrestles the tight fabric down to mid-thigh, exposing his cock to the cool air, and Steve looks like it’s Christmas morning. Like he’s just come downstairs to a mountain of presents. “Holy shit,” he breathes hotly, something like awe in his tone.

“Like what you see, baby?” Eddie smirks. He knows he’s big. Maybe a little intimidating, even.

Steve doesn’t look intimidated. He looks close to drooling. “Yeah,” he huffs eagerly. “God, yeah, you look- can I-” he stutters, overwhelmed, his words all tangled up in his mouth as his fingernails dig into Eddie’s hips.

Eddie fucking loves it.

“Look at you, baby. So eager for my cock. Do you need me in your mouth now?”

“Please.”

“Okay, Princess. Open up.”

He plans to feed himself to Steve slowly — let him adjust to the girth and weight of it on his tongue, coax his jaw open with massaging circles of his thumb — but Steve’s a complete fucking cockslut, evidently, because he surges forward the moment he gets the go-ahead and swallows Eddie down in one gulp, ramming the head of Eddie’s dick against the spongy heat of his soft palette.

“Fuck, baby, your mouth, Jesus Christ.”

Steve moans in agreement around him, bobbing his head up and down, fucking his own mouth around Eddie’s shuddering hips. Eddie loses himself to it, the slick, tight warmth of Steve’s mouth, his throat, the way his nose keeps pressing into the thatch of dark curls at the base. God. Steve’s making the most obscene noises as he works himself up and down, humming and squelching as drool spills out of his sloppy open mouth, smears all over his chin, all over Eddie’s balls, and he’s- oh, God, it’s too good, he’s-

“That’s enough, sweetheart,” Eddie manages, pulling Steve off with a mournful pop. His dick slaps wet and filthy against his overheated skin, and he instantly misses the warmth of Steve’s tongue. He wants so desperately to thrust back in and spill himself inside, to feed Steve his come, feel his pretty throat working as he swallows around the load.

But he also isn’t nearly ready to be done with the stupidly hot and eager boy kneeling in front of him right now, so he tucks himself away and reaches down to lift Steve by the armpits.

“Oww,” Steve groans when Eddie hauls him up, laughing at himself as he shakes out his legs. His kneecaps are bright red, pebbled with little divots where the rough concrete dug in, and Eddie feels a rush of fondness burst like a blood vessel in his chest.

“Shit, you’re so hot,” he grins, breaking character. “Are you good? Still doing okay?”

Steve smiles back just as wide. “Yes, dad,” he says with a bitchy little eye roll. “You’re sweet, I’m doing great.”

He hops from foot to foot, rolling his ankles, shaking out the pins and needles. “I promise if that changes you’ll know about it, though,” he snorts, “I’m fucking stronger than you.”

“Oh?”

Eddie quirks a brow, unimpressed. He waits for Steve to finish stretching then strikes out, lightning quick, throwing him off balance as he whips him around and slams him into the wall: Eddie’s chest to Steve’s back, Steve shoved against the cold tile, a violent recreation of their earlier position on the dance floor. “You are, are you?”

He twists one of Steve’s arms up behind him, and the movement squishes Steve’s face against the wall until his mouth falls open, until he drools a little on his chin. Eddie swipes it up and feeds it back to Steve, who just whimpers and greedily sucks Eddie’s fingers into his mouth.

“Don’t seem so fucking tough now, do you? Moaning on my fingers. Bet you couldn’t stop me even if you wanted to,” and he kicks Steve’s legs open, smacking an ankle bone with the toe of his boot. Steve bucks and his knees give and he tries to scramble away, but Eddie just presses in harder, holding him there like a steel trap. “Go on, baby,” he murmurs hotly in Steve’s ear. “Try to make daddy stop.”

Steve thrashes at that, convulsing in his grasp as his clothed cock pushes up against the tiles. He’s making the most delicious noises, probably making a mess of his little pink shorts, and Eddie just laughs, bites down on the tendon in Steve’s neck. But then Steve starts to flail so much that Eddie gets a little worried he might actually hurt his head, and he can’t have that. How’s he gonna keep playing with his new favorite toy if Steve concusses it on the ceramic?

“Stop moving,” he barks out, low and firm, yanking Steve’s hair to keep his face safe from the wall. “Calm the fuck down.”

Steve heaves in his hold, overwhelmed and gasping, and Eddie snakes a hand around his torso, slides in up under Steve’s shirt and splays his palm over Steve’s sculpted chest, kneading his fingers through the coarse hair there. “Good boy,” he soothes in honeyed tones. He slides his hand over one of Steve’s nipples, rolls it between his finger and thumb. “Such perfect tits, baby.”

Steve’s still panting, making these precious, hitching ah- ah- ah- sounds as Eddie teases his nipples until he can see them standing up through the fabric of Steve’s shirt, but he’s settled enough that Eddie’s no longer concerned that he might brain himself. He pulls his hand from Steve’s shirt, lets go of his arm; brings his hands down until they overlap Steve’s.

Eddie interlaces their fingers and drags Steve’s hands up to the wall on either side of his head. “Now,” he says, placing his own hands on Steve’s hips. “You’re going to be a good boy and keep your hands right there while I get you ready for me.” He’s sinking to his knees as he says it, pressing kisses down the column of Steve’s spine until he reaches the top of his shorts.

Steve groans. “Yes, daddy.”

Eddie kneels with all the reverence of a Catholic during mass as he rolls Steve’s shorts down his sculpted ass (and he’s pretty sure that’s, like, wildly offensive to Catholics, but fuck it; it’s not like he knows any.) He’s expecting to find a lighter version of the black boxer briefs Steve normally wears when he models for class.

He’s not expecting to find a pair of lacy boy shorts adorning Steve’s cheeks like pretty ribbons on a Christmas present, and he bites his lip so hard at the sight that he nearly breaks skin.

“Jeeesus, honey,” he breathes, peeling the lace down Steve’s thighs, making him stand there with his hands against the wall and his panties and shorts around his ankles and goddamn. What a vision. “You gotta let me sketch you like this,” Eddie practically drools.

“Yeah?” Steve looks over his shoulder, all smug and preening and coy. “Like what you see?” he teases, wagging his ass for Eddie as he throws his earlier words back at him.

“Cocky little shit,” Eddie laughs, “you know I do.”

Then he leans in and takes a bite out of Steve’s left cheek, just to hear him squeal.

Steve does, so beautifully, the sound coming out high and startled. “Fuck… oh, shit, are you gonna-?”

Because Eddie’s already dragging his lips toward Steve’s center, leaving a trail of wet kisses in his wake. “Yeah, baby. Gonna get you nice and open for me with my tongue.”

Steve’s knees shake. Eddie grips the backs of both thighs to steady him with firm pressure, slides his hands up to palm Steve’s cheeks apart. His thumb teases the edge of Steve’s rim. “Please,” Steve begs on a low, drawn-out groan.

“Please what?” Eddie asks, slapping Steve’s ass, watching it jiggle under his grip, admiring the brilliant pink stain he just splashed across pale skin like red wine on a white rug.

“Please, daddy. Please use your mouth on me.”

Eddie obliges. He flattens his tongue, licks a hot stripe up Steve from his taint to his tailbone, and Steve mewls and bucks so hard that Eddie has to wrap an arm around his hips to hold him still. Eddie doesn’t bother teasing him this time, doesn’t bother saying anything at all; he’s too overwhelmed by the offering in front of him as he dives back in with an obsessive eagerness that somehow manages to shock him still as he licks wet, messy circles over Steve’s hole.

He pulls back to look at it, shiny with his spit, pink and pretty, and what else did he expect? Everything about Steve is pretty and pink.

“Doing so well for me, baby,” he mutters as he kisses Steve’s ass cheek, gathering spit in his mouth. “You want my fingers, too?”

“Yes, please.”

God. Even his voice is shaking.

Eddie pops his thumb into his mouth, gets it all nice and wet before he brings it back to the edge of Steve’s rim, slips the tip of it inside. Steve shivers all over, clenching his thighs, and Eddie surges forward and lets his tongue meet his thumb, working both further into Steve. He hums into Steve’s hole, just to feel his legs give out again, and he pushes his thumb in as deep as it’ll go, his other fingers rubbing just behind Steve’s balls.

He doesn’t touch Steve’s cock. Poor thing must be aching right now.

He could make him rut against the wall again. Watch him wiggle and writhe and wince without the protection of his panties. Nothing to shield his poor, pretty cock from the sting of cold tiles.

“Can I have more, please?” Steve asks.

Eddie wants to be annoyed at having such a delicious train of thought derailed, but it’s hard to be anything but thrilled when Steve is sighing so sweetly, begging for more fingers in his ass and letting breathy little moans spill from his lips as he rolls his forehead against the wall like he’s being tortured by the pleasure of it all. Too much and not nearly enough.

“Sure you can, baby,” Eddie agrees easily, and it’s not his fault that Steve’s too fucked out and stupid to catch the undercurrent of mischief in his tone as he pulls his thumb out.

He spits on Steve’s hole and spears two wet fingers in deep without warning, and Steve yells loud enough that Eddie worries someone might hear him from the hallway. “Hush, Princess,” he warns sweetly, voice dripping with condescension. “You don’t want us to get caught, do you? If we get caught I won’t get to play with your pretty little ass anymore.”

He punctuates the sentence with a twist of his wrist, curling his fingers down into that spot that makes Steve scream — or it would make him, if he weren’t dutifully squeezing his lips shut like his life depends on it. What an obedient little thing, Eddie thinks as he presses in again, wringing another strangled, muted cry from deep in Steve’s throat. And another. Just one more time.

Steve beats his fist against the wall.

Eddie keeps working him open, thrusting in with his tongue, with his hands, overcome with some insane desire to just crawl inside Steve and live there, surround himself in the warm dark cocoon of Steve’s ribs and fall asleep to the echoes of his pounding heart and his low, rumbling moans. He feels as debauched as Steve looks right now, devouring Steve like a starved feral beast, his cheeks and chin and hands soaked with spit as Steve fucks himself frantically onto Eddie’s fingers.

When he feels Steve getting close, he stills his hand, and Steve whines, a high peel of frustration like he’s about to throw a temper tantrum.

“Just gotta stand up,” Eddie soothes, not sounding all that sorry about it.

“No, please! Don’t- can you-” he lets out another growl of frustration, and holy fuck, Eddie can hear tears in his voice, meek and pitiful and desperate when he cries, “Can you just please keep your fingers in me while you move?”

Eddie groans, his forehead thudding against the base of Steve’s spine. “Yeah, baby, I can do that. Fuck, you’re so sweet. Love how much you need it.”

He licks around the fingers inside Steve — drools all over the others for good measure, too turned on to even care that he just spit on the floor — and he climbs Steve’s body like a ladder as he scrambles up to standing (and somewhere waaay in the back of his mind he feels vaguely proud of himself for pulling that maneuver off one-handed without toppling them both sideways into the busted toilet.)

He curls himself around Steve’s back, wrestles his jeans back down his hips and then drags a hand up Steve’s throat, over his jaw, holding it just below his mouth. “Spit, baby.”

Steve doesn’t even have to; his mouth is so filled with saliva already that all he has to do is tilt forward and let it drip into Eddie’s waiting hand.

“Look at you,” Eddie marvels, pumping his fingers inside Steve. “You’re just drooling at the thought of having my cock inside you, aren’t you?” He grinds himself against Steve’s ass cheek as he says it, hot and hard and dripping with precum, and Steve lets out another string of filthy moans.

It’s not going to happen — not this time, anyway. They don’t have any condoms or lube with them, and besides, Eddie thinks as he wiggles another finger in, he doesn’t think he’d last five seconds if he tried to stuff himself inside the tight heat of Steve’s ass. He’d probably come the moment the head of his cock passed through the throbbing ring of muscle, and goddamn, the thought alone has his balls drawing up tight.

“Little more, baby,” Eddie says, “Give daddy a little more. Get my hand nice and wet.”

“Unh,” Steve whines, sliding his tongue from Eddie’s wrist to the tips of his fingers. “Yes, daddy. Want to get you so wet so you can touch my cock, please please please—“

Eddie cuts him off with a cruel laugh. “Oh, baby, this isn’t for you. This is for me,” and he laughs again as he reaches down to stroke himself against Steve’s ass at the same time that he pulls the fingers from his hole, watches him convulse in shock at the sudden loss of sensation. Steve’s grinding himself so brutally against the wall, so desperately; he’s probably leaking all over his cute little crop top.

“Please fuck me, daddy, I’ve been so good for you,” Steve begs, and he sounds close to a fresh wave of tears, his voice high and frustrated again as he pushes his ass into Eddie’s hips.

“Yeah, you have, sweetheart. So good for me.”

“Then why—”

“‘Cause I need you back on your knees, baby boy. Gonna come all over those gorgeous tits.”

“No, come on,” Steve whimpers pitifully, head thudding against the wall.

Eddie pulls his hair again. “Think you meant to say ‘yes, sir,’” he smirks as he turns Steve gently and pushes him back down to the floor, “but don’t worry, baby. Since you’ve been so, so good for me, I’m gonna let you touch yourself while you watch me come. Let you come all over daddy’s boots.” He strokes himself roughly with one hand, tips Steve’s chin up with the other. “Does that sound fair to you, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir.” Steve’s got tears running down his cheeks now, his eyelashes clumped together, and he looks turned on and miserable and so fucking pretty. His gorgeous cock jutting out, red and untouched as he waits there on his knees. A million times better than any magazine image.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” Eddie groans, speeding up his hand. “Take your shirt off.”

Steve sniffles. Does as he’s told. Holy shit. “Thank you, daddy. Can I please touch myself now?”

Eddie fists a hand in Steve’s hair, has to resist the urge to shove those pretty parted lips back down around his cock. He’s so fucking close. “Yeah, baby, you can- fuck, you can touch yourself. Go on. Go on, baby, that’s it, make yourself come.”

Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand flies to his dick, and then he really does ride Eddie’s boot, scooting forward to thrust against the black leather as he pulls himself off furiously. Eddie can barely fucking breathe, feels himself hurtling toward the edge, and then he groans “come for daddy, sweetheart” and Steve makes another high-pitched whine and spills himself all over Eddie’s shin, his fucking shoes, the floor, and Eddie has to push Steve back so he can hit his target.

He comes fucking hard, splashing thick ropes all over Steve’s gorgeous chest hair, leaning in to spread the mess over his nipples with the head of his throbbing cock. Steve arches into it, shuddering through the aftershocks, and Eddie’s so blissed out that he thinks he might giggle a bit as he sinks to his knees in front of Steve and laps at the sticky mess with his tongue.

“Holy shit,” Steve pants, startled and giddy from his own orgasm, “That- that was- so good, oh, my god.”

Eddie licks up the last of the spill, drags his tongue up Steve’s sternum to his collar bones to the hollow of his throat. “You. Are. So. Hot,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss up Steve’s neck. He nips at Steve’s earlobe, pulls back to sit on his heels.

Steve’s smile is fucking radiant. Eddie needs sunglasses to look at it head on. Maybe one of those eclipse viewers or some shit. “Could say the same to you,” Steve laughs, tongue caught between his teeth.

Eddie laughs, too. Feels himself blush. “Hey, feel free to say no; I know I just, like,” licked my own jizz off your body, he doesn’t say as he gestures to Steve’s chest, “but can I kiss you? I really want to kiss y—”

Steve surges forward and kisses him before he can finish the sentence.

“God,” Eddie sighs when they part, shoving himself up and offering a hand to Steve. Steve’s a fucking dream. Eddie’s mind feels like swooning soup as he gets them dressed and clean, a melty puddle of rainbow sherbet and unicorn cum or whatever the fuck, and he blames the orgasm for making him fucking stupid as he whispers aloud, “So much better than a magazine.”

Oh, shit. Ohhhhh, shit, no no no no no—

Eddie freezes, goes full deer in the headlights when Steve meets his gaze, thinks he’s so goddamn screwed, and how did he manage to fuck this up already? New personal record, Munson. Jesus Christ.

But then Steve just fucking howls with laughter, head tipping back as he claps his hands with unbridled glee. “I knew it!” he hollers, hopping around in a little circle like he just won the lottery. “I knew you knew about the magazine!”

“Oh, my god.”

“The way you kept talking about my tits? That pose you made me do after the first class? You think I don’t remember my own photoshoots, babe?”

“Oh, my god.” Eddie buries his face in his hands, begs the ground to open up and swallow him whole as Steve saunters up to him, slipping his arms around Eddie’s waist beneath his vest.

“Oh, holy shit, you don’t—” Steve’s eyes are gleaming with mischief as his arm grazes against the rectangular shape. “Oh, you do! Oh, dude. ‘Sketchbook,’ my ass, Munson.”

“Please just kill me, man. Like seriously, I think I have a pocket knife somewhere in here, just fucking—“

“Nah,” Steve grins as he pulls Eddie’s hands away. His eyes rake over Eddie’s face, and he drops the teasing, his smile fading into something small and sweet. His eyes are so fucking sincere. Jesus. How’s Eddie supposed to even function around that, huh? “It really is fine, alright? You think I got into modeling because I don’t want people to look at me?” He brings Eddie’s hands up to his lips, kisses his rings. “We’re cool, promise.”

Eddie sags in relief. “Really?”

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, I think it’s kinda hot.”

“You’re such a vain little shit,” Eddie huffs and shoves lightly at Steve’s chest. Steve doesn’t even deny it, just pulls him in for another searing kiss, slow and wet and sated.

“So…” Eddie sing-songs when the kiss comes to an end, fading into a series of soft pecks, their foreheads resting against one another. “You do any other modeling? Any other zines I should pick up?”

Steve laughs, pulls back to wink at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Eddie would.

Eddie wants to know everything about Steve.

There’s a voice in his head, a quiet, hopeful one, that’s pretty sure he might get to.