Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Nothing much really. Chores, I guess. Ugh.”

“Y’know,” Robin laughs, voice tinny over the phone, “They’re not really chores when you live alone.” 

“They still feel like a chore. I’m out of clean clothes. I’m down to my old PE shirt and a pair of Christmas pajamas that don’t even reach my ankles.” 

“That’s so pathetic, Steve, the machine literally does the work for you. You don’t have to fold the laundry to have clean clothes.” She says it in a way that is simultaneously condescending and affectionate. 

Steve blinks at the kitchen wall, world changed. “You don’t know how much that actually helped me feel like I could handle it.” 

“Ugh, men,” Robin teases. “Always need a woman to tell them what to do.” 

“Yes, because you are so competent,” Steve quips back. “Say hi to Vickie for me.” 

“Will do, loser. Stay dry out there.” 

The line goes dead just as a clap of thunder shakes the windows of the kitchen. Steve does not jump at the sudden noise, absolutely not. His parents’ house— his house now after they got the fuck out of Hawkins— is way too big for one barely-adult with undiagnosed PTSD, and really who can blame him for being a little jumpy. 

The rain is torrential, and had been coming down hard since last night, fucking up everyone’s weekend plans. Robin and Vickie were thrilled to cancel the group movie plan, relieving them from joint-babysitting duty to do whatever nerdy shit they liked to get into, and one by one the kids had called with excuses to stay home. 

It was fine by Steve. He had no clean clothes and an otherwise slightly trashed house, and the rain was a good motivator to actually buck up and do something about it. He rides that wave of motivation all the way to cramming as many clothes as could possibly fit into the washing machine before giving up. But hey, baby steps right?

He has the whole day to himself. Even Eddie was busy with band practice, breaking their three day streak of him sleeping over. In fact, Eddie was probably the reason Steve had no clothes left, now that he thought about it. The guy insisted on stealing his shirts the second he was given the opportunity. 

Steve has been staring out the laundry room window at nothing, and the second his brain supplies an image of Eddie in his shirt, he feels his whole body flush. He thinks about the mess in the living room, pizza boxes and beer cans and a movie they’ve started three different times and not actually paid an attention to. Thinking about Eddie like that is finally starting to not scare him to death. His brain isn’t desperately trying to repress any gay thoughts, instead it’s actually encouraging them a bit, which Robin insists is normal and healthy. 

Obviously it’s fine. It’s fine when Robin thinks gay thoughts, so it’s fine when he does too. He has to repeat that like a mantra to keep himself from hating himself or panicking or having a full on identity crisis. Steve has saved the world enough times to treat himself to a boyfriend. The word ‘boyfriend’ rattles around in his brain like a pull tab in an empty can as he forces himself to at least drag himself back into the living room and throw some trash out. 

Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend .

Normal, healthy, good . It gets easier every day, and there’s something to be said for Eddie’s specific brand of positive reinforcement. 

Plus, Steve has to keep Eddie safe. Even though most of the shitty people had bailed after the ground split open, he still needed to make sure no lingering assholes tried to murder him, or even worse, no crazy Upside-Down nonsense tried to possess him. Even letting Eddie go to the band practice he still insisted on doing gave Steve anxiety like no other, but it was getting easier. 

By the time he’s fully aware of it, Steve has sort-of cleaned the whole kitchen-living room area. Steve has never daydreamed about a girl so hard he forgot about cleaning his house, but he chooses not to unpack that right now. What he is is sweaty, the cheap buffalo check flannel pajamas clinging to him uncomfortably, and he thinks he’s earned a shower. 

He writes off his constant Eddie focused thoughts on a normal amount of anxiety as he showers. It’s normal to worry about a guy that definitely was dead for two and a half weeks, who was hated by half the town, who had his fingers in his hair and his mouth on his neck last night.  

“ You love him,” Robin had teased him. “You are in love with Eddie the freak, your Royal Highness King Steve, and I am not going to let you live that down.”

Steve spends several minutes blow drying his hair and not staring at the massive hickey on his collarbone. He’s being so normal, about all of this, actually. 

All the daydreaming catches up with him as soon as he pulls the drawer of his dresser open. It’s empty empty. Literally not a single shirt. No, shirt, fine, he’s not cold, he can lounge around shirtless. The only pair of pants left are jeans that have a few holes in them and are stained with mud which is, he guesses, also fine, he’s home alone. No one will judge him for wearing what he’s 99% certain are Upside-Down stained jeans. 

There’s no underwear. Steve digs through all of his socks, which live in the same drawer, and finds not a single pair of briefs. The thought of wearing jeans without anything underneath does not sound even a little bit comfortable, and he’s not fully committed to hanging around completely naked, and so he shuffles through again, desperate. Something baby blue catches his eye and he yanks it out, hopeful. 

He stares down at a pair of light blue and white polka dot panties, complete with a lace waistband. Where the fuck did he get these? He literally can’t remember. They must have been left behind by a girl at some point, and Steve tries very hard to picture her. He can’t. No name, no face, not even a time frame. How they managed to wind up clean and in his dresser is beyond him. They’re cut for a girl with wider hips and more ass than he has, and he suspects they’d fit. 

Steve Harrington stands there in his bedroom, wrapped in a towel, and has a full blown crisis about panties. 

He can just go commando. That’s what King Steve would do, right? But he isn’t King Steve anymore. He’s Eddie’s Steve, and Eddie’s Steve is very hung up about what obscene things Eddie would say if he saw Steve wearing panties. 

Maybe he should wear them himself first, home alone, and see if they even fit before he gets all excited. Eddie won’t be back until tomorrow, he can do the rest of his laundry and surprise Eddie with them when he’s ready. 

He’s dealt with the end of the world like three fucking times. Four? He can’t keep track. This is a stupid thing to worry about. 

Steve puts them on. 

They fit, and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or not. They don’t just kinda fit, they hug his hips and stay in place like he bought them for himself. He would not describe them as comfortable. They instantly threaten to give him a wedgie, and he cannot figure out a way to tuck himself that isn’t incredibly precarious or flat out uncomfortable. But they’re soft, and he likes the way the lace looks on his hipbones, and he’s conceited enough to know he looks fucking great in them. 

Still, he’s not just going to stand here all day and ogle himself in women’s underwear. He pulls his jeans on, has to wear them a little higher than usual to cover the lace, and now feeling terribly self conscious, he pulls on a hoodie that isn’t clean, but isn’t necessarily dirty.

Steve switches the laundry. He doesn’t start a second load, because fuck that, and instead plants himself down in front of the TV with a bag of chips and flips channels. 

It’s fucking weird being alone. He’s antsy and anxious. He can’t get comfortable, he can’t decide on a show, he keeps thinking about the kids and Robin and Eddie and wondering what they’re doing. It hadn’t really occurred to him how much he wanted to be surrounded by them at all times until he was alone. His parents weren’t even here to breathe down his neck about nothing at all, they fucked off to Florida at the first given opportunity. 

Just him and the ladies on the shopping channel, the food channel, the soap operas. 

The rain actually gets worse somehow. It drives him a little crazy, honestly. It sets his teeth on edge and makes him want to call the kids to check in on them, even though they have their own parents to do that. Eddie’s probably staying at the drummer what’s-his-name’s place instead of driving back to his uncle’s. Robin and Vickie are probably blasting classical music and calling it a marching-band rehearsal while they make out in Vickie’s attic. 

And Steve is raptly watching a commercial for a prescription medication. 

Someone knocks on the door, and Steve has to suppress a little yelp. He’s on his feet before he registers moving, and he makes sure his baseball bat full of nails is within arms reach before he opens the door. 

Eddie looks like he has been standing in the rain for at least an hour. He is soaked, head to toe, his shirt (Steve’s shirt) glued to his skin and water dripping from his hair into his eyes. Regardless, he has a massive grin plastered on his face, and waves at Steve like he didn’t see him earlier that morning. 

“Hey, Stevie.” 

Steve is hauling him inside onto the tiled entryway, channeling as much motherly concern into his expression as he can muster. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

“Well,” Eddie starts, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall to the floor with a wet plop, “Gareth’s garage started leaking, so we had to load all the instruments back into Jeff’s van to keep them dry. And then I had to haul my ass up your long ass driveway.” 

“You stood in the rain for dramatic effect.” 

“Just a little , I did get this soaked just moving the instruments. The dramatic effect worked though, right, look how pissed you are.” He cackles, trying not to let his teeth chatter, blinking up at Steve demurely. “Can I have a dry shirt?”

Steve heaves a long suffering sigh, but there’s no heat to it. “The dryer should be done in a sec, let me find you a towel.”

“Wow, you cleaned Stevie, and did the laundry? What a sweet little housewife!” Eddie kicks his boots off onto the tile before following Steve up the stairs. Steve’s ears burn with embarrassment, and he ducks his head to hide his creeping blush as Eddie slips past him into the bathroom. Snatching a towel off the rack, he instantly drapes it over his head like a cape. 

“I’ll be right back,” Steve says, stilted, awkward. He’s nervous, like Eddie hasn’t been sleeping at his house, like he didn’t kiss Eddie goodbye this morning. Like he isn’t openly ogling the way his shirt clings to the curve of his chest and the lean muscles in his arms. 

Eddie catches his hand, keeping them in the hallway. His big brown eyes, always so full of mischief, drop to serious, eyebrows pinched in concern. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, forcing a smile. “I’ve just been kinda on edge since you left.” 

It’s not a complete lie, and it distracts from the real reason he’s embarrassed well enough. 

Eddie makes a face like he’s trying not to smile, and he’s failing horribly. “Poor Stevie, he doesn’t know what to do without me.” Eddie isn’t mocking, not even a little bit, and he intertwines their fingers. Steve still gets a stupid little thrill at the brush of his callouses. “What do you need? Have you eaten? Do you wanna get high? We’ve got options, babe.” 

Steve laughs, but he will readily admit he loves being the center of attention for once, instead of chaotically trying to take care of the kids. “I want you to not get hypothermia.” The anxiety of being alone is already seeping away, slowly but surely. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but ultimately gives in. “Lead me to the warm laundry, then.” 

—

They are halfway through making shitty nachos out of stale tortilla chips and shredded cheese when Eddie gets handsy. Or, more handsy than he usually is. The little arm touches and the warm hand on Steve’s back becomes a hand slipping up his shirt and fingers tangled in his hair. Eddie reaches across Steve to grab the pickled jalapeño’s, and he slips his free hand down Steve’s back, underneath his hoodie, and then lets his pinky trail under the waistband of Steve’s jeans. 

And here’s the worst part; Steve had kinda forgotten about the panties. Once Eddie was there and he couldn’t adjust them, he just got used to it. But as Eddie’s finger trails over the lace, Steve sucks in a breath, and Eddie freezes. 

The wicked grin splitting his face is earth-shattering. “Stevie?” 

“Yeah?” Steve croaks, desperate to play it cool. 

Eddie’s fingers dip lower to confirm his findings. His nails trail over the lace and find the silky fabric covering the swell of Steve’s ass, and he blinks at him slowly, his whole demeanor shifting. 

“Are you wearing women’s underwear?” 

“They were the only thing that was clean.” Steve stares at their shitty nachos, face burning. 

“I swear to God, Steve Harrington, that they made you for me in a lab somewhere.” Eddie plants a hand on his chest and shoves him back, and Steve stumbles back against the kitchen island. Eddie pins him there, hands on either side of his hips, and demands his full attention. “Where did you even get them?” 

Steve has to shut his eyes against the intensity of his gaze. “I dunno, I think a girl left them behind at some point—“

“Who?” Eddie demands. 

“I dont know—“

Eddie gasps dramatically. “Are they Nancy’s ?” 

“No! No, I don’t think so, I don’t remember—“

“Ugh, King Steve and all his conquests can’t even remember which girl he stole panties from.” He giggles delightedly, and grabs Steve’s chin, forcing him to open his eyes and look at him. “How long have you had them on?” 

“Since like, one o’clock, I guess.” 

“Have you touched yourself yet?” 

Steve shakes his head no, despite Eddie’s hand holding his jaw. It aches so good, and all his blood pools south. 

Something crosses Eddie’s face, and he bites his own lip, pupils blown. “You didn’t think I was coming back tonight. These are all for you.” 

“I just—“ 

“Uh-uh,” Eddie corrects, nails digging into his face. “Safeword?” 

Steve’s stomach flips in anticipation. Eddie is going to get mean with him, if he has to ask this early in the process. “Red,” Steve whispers. 

Eddie grinds his hips forward, and Steve has to bite back a grunt. “Do you like wearing them?” His voice has dropped significantly, his whole energy shifting from manic delight to focused and in control. 

“Yeah,” is all Steve can manage, focused on Eddie’s hands sliding up his abdomen under his hoodie. 

“D’they look good?” His finger brushes over a nipple and Steve shudders. 

“Probably,” 

“Ugh, so modest.” Eddie surges up to kiss him, (finally, finally ) only gentle for a split-second before he’s biting Steve’s lip and licking into his mouth. Steve’s nearly dizzy with how hot he is suddenly, every nerve ending on fire as Eddie gropes his chest and grinds his hips forward. He tastes like smoke and soda and it’s thrilling how comfortable it is, that Steve has gotten to kiss him so many times that it’s familiar. 

Eddie very purposefully does not dip his fingers below the waist again, and Steve thinks he’ll go insane. For all his energy, Eddie always takes his sweet time when it comes to fucking Steve. If Steve isn’t begging and shaking and crying by the end of it, an hour or two wasted in sweet agony, then Eddie just isn’t satisfied. He can feel Eddie grinning into the kiss, his hands warm and grounding against his chest. 

“No wonder you were all jittery, baby girl ,” Eddie breathes against his lips. Steve bites back an incredulous whine, and his whole body throbs. “How wet are you from just thinking about me?” 

Steve always felt so dickish saying shit like that to girls even when he knew it made them weak in the knees, but he fucking gets it now. He whines, one because he needs to, and two because he know it’ll spur Eddie on. He’s aching against the confines of his jeans, against the confines of the silk and lace, but when he bucks his hips, Eddie steps away to deny him any relief. 

He lounges back against the opposite counter. Everything about him is languid, calculated; Steve can see the gears turning behind his stupidly big eyes, plotting just how to drive him insane. His hair is all limp from getting rained on, concealing his face in a way that's almost predatory, and he grips the counter behind him hard, the veins in his hand shifting. Steve stares unabashedly; he knows his ability to look will be impared soon enough. He tries to memorize the way his tattoo peeks out of the collar of the henley he’s borrowed, the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows thickly, the whole shape of him burned into Steve’s mind. They’re only a few feet apart, Steve is bigger, probably stronger, he could easily take back control, but he stays deathly still, waiting. 

“Show me.” 

Steve huffs, tries to look put upon to hide his eagerness. He can feel that he’s flushed down to his chest, he’s already stupidly hard, and he’s so self conscious in a way he usually isn’t. Steve knows he’s hot, he has no issue showing off a bit, and yet suddenly, this feels like the most daunting task of all time. He tips his head down, stares at the floor, and reaches for his zipper. 

He’s barely got his fly undone when Eddie leans forward to smack his hands. Gripping his wrist hard, Eddie ducks his head to meet his eyes. “You can do better than that.” 

Steve gulps, holding his expression for just a moment, before nodding. He steps just barely out of Eddie’s radius away from the counter to give himself space, and steels himself. He unrolls the sleeves of his hoodie, letting the stretched out fabric cover his hands, and gives Eddie a simpering look before he turns around. Bending at the hip, Steve hooks his fingers in his belt loops and pulls. He drags his jeans all the way to the floor, knees locked, ass on full display, before stepping out of them. 

The way Eddie’s breath hitches as he strips spurs him on, and he finds some motivation to tease. The panties were made for someone with fuller hips, and they’re awfully cheeky, leaving next to nothing to the imagination, but he slips a finger underneath the hem to adjust them. He snaps the elastic against his skin, waits, breathes, lets Eddie look. Eventually, Steve straightens slowly, kicks his pants away, and lets the hoodie fall over his hips, half concealing. 

Eddie lets out a long whistle before he says, “Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington. If only they could see you now.” 

Steve turns back to face him, tips his head and glances up through his eyelashes, and cutely, there’s no better word for it, bunches the hoodie up to his chest to put himself on full display. The front of the panties are wet where he strains against them, the fabric tenting obscenely. 

Eddie’s mouth hangs open in a toothy grin, and he runs his tongue across his top teeth. “I’d like to personally thank every girl you ever fucked for teaching you that .” 

Steve makes a face, tries to come up with a snarky retort, and just can’t. He tucks his nose under the collar of the hoodie, hiding his blush. Eddie’s eyes rove up and down him, unashamed, and Steve simply lets him look his fill. 

“Don’t play coy with me, Stevie. The cute and demure act doesn’t work for you. Everyone knows what a slut you are.” 

The word slut feels like a backhand in the best possible way. Steve exhales, shifts uncomfortably where he stands, feels Eddie’s eyes continue to drink him in. 

“Maybe some people don’t think of it like that,” Eddie drawls, stalking forward. “But everyone knows. Look at you. Look how far you’ve fallen. Dripping through your panties for someone like me .” 

“How could I not?” Steve knows it’s part of their game, leaning hard into these perceived roles of popular jock and freak, but he still doesn’t want Eddie to put himself down. 

“Oh, he’s so sweet.” Eddie steps back into his space, mouth going right for the sensitive spot behind his earlobe. He trails his hands featherlight across the waistband of the panties, touching nowhere important. “Tell me what you are, Stevie. Use your imagination, you’re doing so good so far.” 

“I’m..” his voice catches, but it's easier to talk with his face pressed into Eddie’s hair. “I’m a slut.” 

“Not good enough.” Eddie pinches his hip hard, he knows exactly where Steve is still sore from the Demobats attacking him and digs in. Steve jolts against him, hisses. 

With sightly more conviction this time, “I’m your slut.” 

Eddie pinches him again, despite chuckling low and dark. “You sure are. Keep going.” 

Steve whines, shivers as Eddie nibbles on his neck, fingers dancing closer and closer and never actually touching. “I’m your slut, your baby girl, your princess,” he babbles, not sure what Eddie wants him to say. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

The noise that escapes Eddie is animal, half growl half giggle, and he grabs two fistfuls of Steve’s hoodie and shoves him to his knees. Steve hits the cold tile with a groan, finds it in himself to look up at Eddie through his lashes. 

“I’ve ruined you, huh? My princess?” Eddie is still fully clothed, and he hovers over Steve, blocking the light in a way that makes him glow. “If that’s true, then what am I?” 

Steve bites out a groan, rolling his eyes. “Don’t make me say it.” 

“Safeword?”

“…No.”

Eddie cackles, grabs a fistful of Steve’s hair and presses the rough fabric of his jeans to Steve’s face. “You’re the one who’s into it, baby girl. What am I?” 

Barely above a whisper, muffled by denim and the heady smell of Eddie even through his clothes, Steve mumbles, “Daddy.” 

“That’s right, Stevie, you’re Daddy’s little slut, huh?” He tightens his hand in his hair, grinds himself against Steve’s face. “Mine.” 

Steve opens his mouth to catch Eddie’s hardness, sucking hard over the fabric. Eddie groans, lets him degrade himself for a second, rubbing his lips raw, trying to regain any power over the situation at all. Eddie doesn’t stop Steve when he reaches to undo his jeans, lets him shove them part way down before catching his hands. 

“Did you ever make a girl call you daddy?” 

“One did, one time, but I didn’t ask her to.” He follows Eddie’s lead as he urges the hoodie off, leaving Steve nearly bare on the kitchen floor. 

“Didjya like it?” Eddie still has him by the hair, tipping him back, forcing his back into an unnatural arch. 

Steve wants to hide his face, to look away, to get some fucking attention where he needs it. He looks Eddie directly in the face when he answers, “Yes.” 

Eddie snickers gleefully. “Gonna fuck your face, princess, open up.” 

And, you know, maybe he is a fucking slut, because he simply doesn’t care about anything other than getting Eddie in his mouth. Eddie shoves his boxers down, he makes Steve sit on his hands, he wrenches his head back,  Steve’s scalp screaming, and slips himself all the way to the back of Steve’s throat because he knows he can take it. Every ounce of anxiety, pent up adrenaline, disquieting embarrassment fades to a pleasant buzz in Steve’s head as Eddie slides over his tongue. 

Eddie has his head pinned, there isn’t much Steve can do himself, so he simply lets himself get messier. He lets the drool roll over his chin and the tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and he chokes. He doesn’t have to choke necessarily, Eddie isn’t quite that rough, but he knows it turns Eddie on, relishes in the punched out little growl it pulls from his chest. 

“So fucking perfect, baby. You look so good, I can’t believe you were gonna wear those without me.” How Eddie manages to stay so articulate, Steve never understands, but it’s all to his benefit. “You were gonna go to bed alone, touch yourself through the silk, come all over your chest, thinking about me, huh?” 

Steve hums, and Eddie curses. He drags Steve close, nose buried in thick dark hair, and holds him there. Steve actually splutters this time, body buzzing pleasantly as he fights for air, and then Eddie is shoving him off. Steve lets his tongue loll, lets more drool slide off his lip, puts on his best dazed and fucked out expression for Eddie. 

Eddie pants, gripping himself at his base, and to Steve’s disappointment, does not finish onto his face. He’s grabbing at Steve, hauling him up, shoving him towards the couch. “If you think I’m going to pass up the opportunity to fuck you with those on,” he says, affected, as he shoves Steve over the armrest. “Then you are sorely mistaken.” 

“C’mon then,” Steve goads, burying his face into his elbows. It’s not the way Eddie wants him to talk, and it earns him a stinging smack across the back of the thigh. Steve gasps, corrects himself, “Please, Daddy .”

“Good girl. God, you’re obscene, Stevie. You might actually be worse than me. Fucking look at you.” Eddie is behind him, taking greedy handfuls of his ass, spreading him so the panties slip even further between. “I walked around flagging all through high school, and the guy of my fantasies didn’t even know what it meant.” 

Steve shudders as Eddie touches him, finally running a teasing finger over his erection. It’s not enough, it’s almost torture, and Steve moans regardless. 

“You’re so wet, baby. M’gonna eat you out.” 

“Holy fuck—“ is all Steve manages in response before Eddie has nudged the panties to the side and licked hot and wet over his hole. His hands knead into the muscle of his hips, Steve can feel every ring on his fingers just as keenly as he can feel the graze of teeth and press of his tongue. Steve is sensitive ; Eddie hadn’t just been hanging out the last several days, he had been blowing Steve’s mind each and every one of them, and this is no exception. If Eddie would just touch him it would be all over, and Steve wants it so bad, just as much as he wants what comes next. 

After several torturous minutes, Eddie replaces his tongue with his finger, swiping the tip low to gather drool before pressing into him. “You’re loose for me, princess. You’re so ready for it.” He spits directly on Steve, uses it to press a second finger in, chuckling darkly at the moan it rends from him. “How many girls have you fucked with just their panties pushed to the side, huh? Probably more than you can remember. This will be my first, obviously.” 

“Please, Eddie, I’m ready.” If Eddie teases him much longer, if Eddie finds that spot inside him, Steve may not even last. 

Eddie pulls his fingers out, hits him square across the ass again, and demands, “Beg for it good then, baby girl.” 

Steve shudders as Eddie shifts, shoving his own clothes away, disappearing to dig the mostly empty bottle of lube out from under the couch, master of organized chaos. He uses the pause to gather his confidence and swallow his pride. 

“Please fuck me, I need your cock, Daddy ,” Steve whines, high pitched and punctuated by a pleading look over his shoulder. He gets the joy of watching Eddie react, letting the words wash over him like a wave, eyes getting darker, smile tugging at his face, blush creeping down his chest. 

Eddie bends over him with no warning, bites him hard, so hard Steve yelps, thinks he’s drawn blood. His fingers dig into his hips, Eddie presses his teeth and nails in like he can’t even help himself, and before Steve can beg again, he’s pressing himself inside. He’s not gentle, even a little bit, sliding half way in almost instantly, and he only removes his teeth from his shoulder long enough to growl, “I’m going to fucking eat you alive,” before biting him again. 

Steve had spent the last few weeks convincing Eddie that he could take whatever Eddie wanted to give and more, that he understood the safe words and the color check ins and the tapping out. He’d gotten addicted to the pleasant floating feeling in his head where everything else fell away and it was only Eddie’s attention he had. Steve had gotten beaten to all shit so many times with no control, full of fear and fight and vigor, that it felt so good to just give up all that control and let go. He was safe, he was pretty sure he was sane, and at this point it was more than consensual. He begged for it. 

“Fu-uck, yes, Ed— ah, Daddy,” Steve wails, caught off guard by the lilt of his own voice, high and girly, as Eddie sets a brutal pace. Eddie sits back, leaving several stinging bites in his wake, grabs Steve’s ass and spreads him, groaning out a string of curses. Steve begs, “Please, please, please touch me!” 

Steve Harrington has a baseball bat full of rusty nails covered in monster blood by his door. Steve Harrington also cries as Eddie reaches around him to grab his dick through a pair of panties soaked with spit and precome. 

“Gonna squirt for me, princess?” Eddie’s voice is tight and breathy. His free hand slides up Steve's back to rakes his nails down, thin welts budding up in their path. “But not until I fill you up first.” 

It’s barely an empty threat, Steve can tell Eddie is close. His ears ring, his head is full of stuffing, if it weren’t for the rough embroidery of the couch under his bare chest he’d think he was floating away. He’s balancing on a tightrope of ‘please never stop’ and ‘oh God let me come’, moaning openly for Eddie’s benefit. Eddie drags the silky fabric over his dick, swipes his thumb over the tip where it peeks out above the waistband, adjusting his pace ever so slightly to account for his own pleasure. His thrusts are slower, longer, and his hand presses deep into the scar on Steve’s hip. 

It may be thirty seconds, it may be three hours, but Steve is going slowly mad at just barely not enough, but at least Eddie is getting tantalizingly closer. Barely faster, barely more erratic, and so Steve lifts his head to make sure Eddie hears him when he says, “Please come in me, Daddy.” 

Eddie bites him again, hard, on the other shoulder as he buries himself in deep and finishes. Steve bucks against his hand uselessly, Eddie has him pinned, and focuses on the rattle of his breathing and the weight of his body. He’s so close, so so close, but Eddie takes his sweet time recovering. Steve wants to scream, to cry, to beg, when finally, finally Eddie pulls back off of him. Steve feels empty, dirty and defiled, and groans desperately when Eddie backs away. 

“Roll over, baby.” 

Steve does, limbs jelly, slings one leg up over the back of the couch and lets the other fall to the floor. Spread wide, the panties are more of a suggestion than a cover up, and Eddie grins, slow and lazy. 

“Slut.” 

“Please make me come.” Steve can feel Eddie’s spend seeping down his thigh. Defiled, ruined, desperate. Eddie leans forward, still intimidating despite looking fucked out and lax, and rests one warm hand on his thigh. 

“Whore.” He sneers the word, mouth curling around it. 

“ Please .“ 

“Wouldn’t it be more in character if I just took my pleasure and left you alone?” Eddie asks innocently, despite reaching forward to run a finger over Steve’s leaking hole. 

Steve bites back a whine. “I’m a better fuck than that, Eddie, you know that.” 

“Yes, I know, so chivalrous.” Eddie slips two fingers back into Steve, bites back a grin as Steve whimpers. He goes right for the sweet spot, and Steve has to close his eyes. “Call me daddy again.” 

It’s all so much, it’s all so good, it thrills him just to beg and moan and get touched. “Please, daddy,” Steve throws an arm over his face, covering his desperate expression.

“You love that so much, your whole dick jumps when you say it.” Eddie presses his fingers against Steve’s sweet spot again, Steve feels like he may explode. “Can you come just like this?” 

“Uh-uh.” Steve shakes his head. “I wanna though.” 

“Someday, princess.” Eddie grinds his hand against Steve through the panties, fingers working relentlessly. Steve’s back arches off the couch, bucking into the friction. It’s so good, so much, it takes nearly no time at all for Steve to reach the precipice. Eddie shoves the waistline down, finally wraps his whole hand around Steve, stroking roughly, and he comes undone. 

“Yes, yes, yes, please—“

“C’mon baby girl.” 

Steve nearly blacks out. He was so worked up, so strung out, fucked within an inch of his life and he finishes with a cry, bringing both his hands to cover his face as moan breaks into a silent scream. He’s hyper aware of sensations, of Eddie’s fingers in him and hand around him, the couch beneath him, the way the silk and lace rub against his hips. Everything he thinks is so muddled, no clear thoughts, just blissful perfect nothing. 

He floats for an indeterminate amount of time, and then Eddie’s hands are moving, wiping Steve off, dragging the panties away. He crowds Steve into the couch, balancing himself on the very edge to snuggle against him. Steve complies as best he can without opening his eyes, clinging desperately onto his high. Eddie’s soft mouth coaxes him out, petting his hair, rubbing their feet together. 

“I think that’s actually the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Eddie mumbles into his mouth. Steve kisses the shape of his smile. 

“You’re evil. You get off on torturing me.” Steve’s mouth feels stupid, like his tongue is numb. 

“That’s the whole point. Besides, you’re the biggest bottom I’ve literally ever met.”

“All for you.”

“All for me. It’s actually insane. Eventually I’ll get you to enjoy my music or join a campaign—“

“I gotta play hard to get somewhere . It’s in my nature.”

“It’s just crazy that out of all my interests, the one you’re into is letting me ruin you.” Eddie says it softly, overflowing with affection. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. You take good care of me.” 

Eddie kisses him, short and sweet. “Sap.” 

The pounding rain replaces the thrumming static in his head, and he breathes Eddie’s breath and saps his warmth. Steve falls asleep sometime after his shoulder does, and only a minute before Eddie. 

He’s ruined for anyone else.