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⭐️Radio Star⭐️ (part three)

(part 2) (part four)

Robin was sprawled across the couch, glaring into the tea that Steve had brought her, her feet propped up on the opposite armrest as she looked up at him. “What is this?”

“Tea,” Steve said simply, shrugging and kicking her legs gently out of the way before sitting down. The documentary was on the TV, and this was the first time she had torn her eyes away from it in the last hour. 

“This is not tea, Steven.” She muttered, stretching over to place it down on the coffee table.

He rolled his eyes and pushed himself up enough to reach over and grab the cup, some of the liquid running down the side of the mug and onto his hands. It wasn’t hot, because Robin didn’t like hot tea. Or iced tea. She would only drink kind-of-warm tea, which he thought was weird, but never commented on.“You didn’t even drink any, how do you know?”

“Because it’s the stuff from the advent calendar, and that stuff is horrid.” She sat up, which jostled the couch cushions and made more tea spill onto him, and he sighed.

“It’s horrid?” 

“Yes, it is horrid.”

Steve took a sip and forced himself to swallow, gagging slightly. “What the fuck is in this.”

“I told you!” Robin shouted, throwing her hands in the air and flopping back down on the couch, which made even more tea spill into Steve’s lap. “Why did you even keep the calendar? It’s October!”

In truth, he had only bought it because it was on sale last year and he thought it might be fun to try, but every bag tasted slightly like licorice and it really was horrid—he just wasn’t going to admit that to Robin, because he hated when she was right. And he was not about to throw away ten dollars of perfectly (disgusting) fine tea bags just because Robin was picky about what she drank.

“If you drank the tea more than it would be gone sooner—“

Robin reached over and took the tea out of his hands, getting up and pausing the documentary before going into the kitchen and, presumably, dumping down the sink.  

They watched the rest of the movie in silence, and Steve had to stop her from putting it on again, before going up to change. He had slept in jeans before, and he never wanted to do that again, even if he didn’t have a choice, like the last time. Because honestly? The shorts from his old work uniform would have been more comfortable to sit in the bottom of some creep's dingy basement with, but the two of them hadn’t known that when they had changed into their normal clothes before leaving.

Robin was still laying on the couch, but she looked half-asleep by the time Steve came back, and he considered waking her up to drag her to bed with him, but she probably would have hit him with the pillow if he tried. So he let her stay there, trudging off to bed and trying to find a place to lay that wasn’t covered in Robin’s things—books and her little shark stuffed animals that she insisted he get her for Christmas. And he never argued with Robin when it came to sharks.

Steve dropped onto the bed and huffed, his face pressed into the pillow, his eyes closed and his muscles trying to relax. Sleeping had always been hard, but it got worse—especially when he slept alone. He was seconds away from deciding it was best to squeeze on the very little part of the couch that Robin wasn’t taking up when the doorbell rang, and he shot up, flinching slightly. The strangled noise from the living room let him know that Robin had done that, too. 

“It’s okay,” He rushed out, getting up and hating the way his body sagged slightly as he made his way back through the hallway. “It’s just the door. I’ll get it.”

He looked over to Robin, who had pulled the blanket over her head and curled up beneath it, some of her hair peeking out the only indicator that she was actually under there.

He was so fucking tired. If this was their neighbor here to complain about their bushes one more time, he was going to strangle the old woman. 

The entire world was yellow underneath the blanket, which was still dark, but light enough for Robin not to feel panicked. She could hear Steve grumbling to himself as he walked past her, and it took her a moment to calm her breathing.

It was only the doorbell, right? She wasn’t going to die, there was no one out there that wanted to kill her. Again. It was probably just their elderly neighbor coming to tell them that their bushes looked ugly, which honestly? It was kind of rude, but it was fun to see Steve trying and failing to be nice, when he really just wanted to be a bitch to the woman. 

Robin liked Ms. Hilda, though, because sometimes when Steve went out by himself (which rarely ever happened) she would come over with food and hang out until Steve got back—and Robin loved the company, even if all Ms. Hilda talked about was how Robin needed to be less dependent on that boy, because she was her own woman and could do her own things.

And that was true. To…some extent. She could do things on her own, it just always kind of felt like the world fell apart without Steve and then she would get panicked,and then she would probably cry because she really hated being alone, and—oh, now she was thinking about this all too much.

“Hey,” Steve said, his words short and clipped, muffled through the fabric of a blanket, and there was a quick ‘hey’ said back at him, the other person sounding out of breath—and Robin knew that voice. 

She shot up, the blanket falling off of her and messing up her hair even further. There was Vickie, standing in the doorway, her short red hair swept to the side slightly in the little curls that they were always in, her pale skin flushed and her freckles looking like stars. Robin liked stars. She was wearing a green t-shirt and a long skirt that fell to her ankles—a picnic skirt, Robin thinks it was called—a yellow one with little buttons that went all the way down the front, her black boots a bit muddy at the bottom. She smiled at Robin past Steve—but it wasn’t the crooked little smile that made Robin’s heart flutter—it was a small, guilty one. One that looked sad.

Robin’s face flushed and she practically ran into the bedroom, hearing Steve sigh as she slammed the door behind her and sunk to the floor, her face pressed into her hands. What could Vickie possibly want with her, now? To embarrass her further? In front of Steve? In her own house?

(Well—technically it was Steve’s house. And even then, it was technically his parents house. It wasn’t big like the one he used to live in—the one that Robin had always refused to go inside because it made her feel very, very alone and tiny—this one was small with wooden floors and white peeling paint. His mom and dad had bought it, and continued to pay the bills for it, as an ‘apology’ for not helping look for him when he and Robin had gone missing—even though they had looked appalled at the idea of their son wanting to live in ‘this….thing.’ )

She heard footsteps in the hallway and Steve muttering some kind of apology to Vickie before there was a knock on the door—one that rattled through her fucking spine since she still had her back pressed to it. “Hey, Bobby?”

“Hm?” She choked out, her throat already feeling tight and itchy as her skin crawled and her bones ached. She got like this when she was sad. Steve said it was okay that she felt things with all of her, but she fucking hated it.

“Do you need me to come in?” His voice was gentle and it made her want to sob—so she did. A little bit, her finger tips pressing into her palms and leaving marks, little half-moon shapes that she smoothed over as she sighed wetly.

“No. I’ll be out in a minute, just—just let me change, first.” She sat up and waited until she thought he was back in the living room and grabbed her headphones, shoving them on and taking…probably the deepest breath she’d ever taken in her life—one that made her cough slightly as she cleared her throat and put on her music to just relax for a second (even though she ended up skipping through songs for a good minutes while she slipped on some jeans and a t-shirt—that was probably Steve’s—so that she wouldn’t have to talk to Vickie in a tank-top and her underwear).

Then, when she could hear Steve walking back towards the room—probably to drag her out of the room by her ankles if she wasn’t ready already—she opened the door and he jumped back slightly, squinting slightly as he took in her frazzled appearance.

“Do I look okay?” She whispered, pulling at her hair slightly.

Steve reached over to smooth it down slightly and then paused. “Yeah, good enough. Also stop taking my clothes. That’s my Beatles t-shirt.”

Robin looked down, and sure enough, she was wearing the brown tie-dye with John Lennon’s face in the middle. “It’s not a Beatles t-shirt, Steve, it’s a Beatle t-shirt. Singular. There’s only John.”

Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fuck off and go talk to your girlfriend—”

“—Language. And she’s not my girlfriend—“

“—And I have a shirt with all of them on it, it’s just in the wash!” He called over to her as she walked to the living room, which got him flipped off over her shoulder as she sat down on the couch. Vickie was sitting opposite of her in the armchair, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her skirt, her knees pink and her socks green with little yellow flowers. 

“Hey.” She whispered, her eyes watering slightly, and Robin wanted to reach over and touch her, but she didn’t, her hands clenched into fists in a way that she knew was making Vickie think she was mad. She wasn’t.

“I’m so sorry—“ Vickie started to say, at the same time that Robin started, “I’m not mad—“

“Oh,” She whispered, laughing quietly and wiping her eyes. The rim of them went red when she cried, and her nose went all pink-colored, and gods, she was fucking pretty. “Sorry.”

“Don’t—don’t say sorry,” Robin rushed out, her hands reaching over the coffee table before drawing back against her chest quickly. “I—I get it, I really do. I know I’m not the most…date-able person alive, and I’m really not the best person to live with either, I mean, I-I’m surprised Steve hasn’t kicked me out yet—“

“I would never do that, although I have thought about it,” Steve muttered as he stumbled into the kitchen, looking exhausted. Robin rolled her eyes but turned around to face where he had just been standing.

“You can go to bed, Steve, you don’t have to stay up for me.”

All she got was a mumbled, “I’ll be fine, Robs.” In response.

“Anyways, as I was saying—“ She started as she turned back around to face Vickie, but she was cut off when Vickie grabbed her face and pressed her lips against hers, putting most of her weight against Robin. And oh shit—when had she gotten up? Where was she supposed to put her hands? Was she supposed to kiss back? How was she supposed to kiss back?

All of those questions were short lived when Vickie pulled away, her nose even more flushed. It wasn’t the best kiss, because Vickie was crying, so it was kind of wet and tasted like tears, but holy fuck, Robin wanted to do it again. With less tears this time. 

“I—“ she tried to speak, but Vickie only squished her cheeks in her palms lightly and kissed her again. 

“No—you don’t get to say that stuff about yourself.” She whispered, eyes searching over Robin’s face in such a caring way that made her insides twist into knots and her organs want to explode. “You…I…I really don’t know what to say right now…”

“That’s…you were apologizing for something…? Before I interrupted…?” Robin whispered, hooking her arms around Vickie’s waist, and it felt normal enough, plus Vickie didn’t pull away, so maybe that’s what she was supposed to do with her hands?

“Oh. Oh, right! I—I’m sorry I missed out date, I really didn’t mean to stand you, up—“

“—I know—“ 

“—but I volunteer at a food donation place, and they needed more people to come in and help sort the produce, and I—they called me this morning, so I came in, and I totally forgot to call you and tell you about it! And I swear, the organizations who donate wait until some of the food starts to go bad to send it in, which is so screwed, I mean—we could hardly use any of it!” She paused and took a slow breath, sighing. “Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“Only a little bit, but it’s okay.” Robin whispered, sounding out of breath even though she wasn’t the one who had been talking.

“But I—I think…I think I might be falling in love with you.” Vickie laughed slightly when she said it, but she looked serious enough.

Robin felt her heart stop, and she tightened her hold on Vickie’s waist, if only slightly. She could tell that Vickie noticed, though, in the way that she moved just a bit closer, which made Robin whisper out a small, “Really…?”

Vickie nodded. “Really. Really really, Robin.”

Robin tried to speak, but she felt like dying. She wanted to peel off her skin, crawl back under the blanket, and let her bones just rot. After a few moments of watching Vickie’s lips, she started to whisper, “I think I might—“

Before she was cut off by fucking Steve, coming out of the kitchen. “Hey, Robs, I’m going to head off to—“

“Steve!” She hissed, turning around and glaring at him, and when Steve noticed how Vickie was practically in Robin’s lap, his face went bright red and he cleared his throat. 

“Shit, uh…sorry, sorry. Carry on…whatever you’re doing.” He cringed slightly and looked them over before walking down the hallway.

Once Robin heard the door close, she looked back at Vickie. “I’m not…I don’t kiss a lot, so…”

“I could show you?” Vickie rushed out, looking down at Robin’s lips, her hands slipping from the sides of her face to her shoulders. “I have—I’ve done it before.”

Robin nodded and stood up, bumping into Vickie slightly and taking her hand. Fuck, her hands were sweaty. Was Vickie weirded out by that? She didn’t seem to be. “We have a guest room? It’s more comfortable than the couch.”

“Mhm. That, uh…that sounds nice.”

Fuck, why did she put on jeans? Of all pants? Steve’s t-shirt was off and kicked to the edge of the bed, and her hands were fumbling with the button. These jeans were…probably a bit tight on her, but she hadn’t thrown them out yet because then Steve would have taken her to get new ones, and she really hated going to the store. No—her and Vickie were about to have sex (if she was reading this whole thing correctly) why was she thinking about that right now? She just needed to focus on getting her fucking pants off, and—

“Robin?” Vickie’s lips moved off of hers for a moment, just far enough away to say something, and Robin practically gasped for air, pressing her forehead to Vickie’s shoulder. Vickie’s bra was slipping off, and for a moment Robin felt guilty for staring, but wasn’t that the point of getting undressed like this? To admire the other person?

“Hm?”

“Do you need help?” 

“I, uh…no, no, I’ve got this.” She muttered, finally undoing the button and pushing the jeans past her hips before tossing them somewhere near the door.

Vickie’s eyes glanced down slightly, and Robin felt her face flush, shifting uncomfortably. “I…”

“You…you know we don’t have to do this, right? We can just…we can just kiss.” Vickie sounded slightly guilty when she said it, but there was a faint trace of disappointment in her eyes as she looked back up and kissed Robin’s shoulder.

Robin shivered slightly and wrapped her arms around Vickie’s waist. “N-no, no. We can, if you want. It’s fine.”

Vickie looked at her for a moment—like, really looked at her—and it was really cute the way her eyes scrunched at the corners when she thought. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m…I’m sure.”

Robin woke up that morning with her face pressed into the pillow, someone else’s leg over her’s, and almost all of her clothes gone. Her bra was slipping down her shoulders, almost completely off, and her underwear was…somewhere. She sat up and gently moved Vickie’s leg off of her before getting up and putting some clothes on—grabbing Steve’s t-shirt from the floor and muttering, “Sorry you had to see all that, John.”

Steve was in the living room, sat on the couch and drinking tea. He kept making a face every time he took a sip. Robin still didn’t understand why he kept the calendar. He could have just thrown it out. 

“Morning.” She muttered, tossing Steve’s shirt to him as she plopped down in the armchair. Was she supposed to wait for Vickie to wake up, too? 

Steve fake-gagged and threw the shirt back at her. “I’m not touching that thing until you wash it.”

“We didn’t even do anything—“

“The walls are thin, Robin, I heard everything—“

“—plus you’ve offended John.”

Steve nearly spit out his tea, which didn’t really mean anything because the tea was fucking gross. “I’m sorry?”

“No, don’t say it to me, say it to John.” Robin muttered as she picked up the t-shirt off the floor from where it sat at her feet.

“I am not apologizing to a John Lennon t-shirt.”

“Steve.”

“What?”

She tossed the t-shirt back to him, and it hit him in the face. “Fucking apologize to the John Lennon t-shirt.” 

Steve held the t-shirt at arm's length and frowned. “This is so fucking stupid. I’m sorry.”

She smiled and stood up, taking the t-shirt back from him and going to put it in the wash. Everything felt…weird, now, but she wasn’t sure if it was in a good way or not. She just couldn’t wait for Vickie to get up so that she could change the sheets and stop worrying about it.

Pinterest board!

Hallo! I really hoped you guys enjoyed this part, because it’s the longest part I’ve written for this so far, and i spent all day working on this instead of hanging outside in the snow :)

comments and reblogs are appreciated, and feel free to send me asks and stuff because getting them makes me very happy ⭐️

IF YOU SAY ANY MISTAKES. I AM SO FUCKING SORRY. I DON’T HAVE A BETA READER FOR THIS I JUST WRITE AND THEN IMMEDIATELY POST. SORRY.

if you’d like to be tagged, let me know in the comments, and if you don’t want to be tagged but still want to follow along with the story, you can either follow my blog, or follow the tag “Radio Star by Finn”

taglist!:

@strangersteddierthings @an-atlas-or-other @aol19 @randombibitch @eddie-munsons-lunchbox @stillfullofshit @steventhusiast @estrellami-1 @jaytriesstuff

@itsthestrangestthings (so…I scrapped the make-out scene, lmao. And I got…whatever this was…? Also not as many sharks as I thought there would be…but there will be more throughout the rest of the story 🦈)

@5ammi90 @absolutegremlin

I think that’s everyone, but if I missed you lmk!!!

also I know there was no steddie in this part but I’m still tagging it as that because I like to use the same tags for fics regardless—just in case someone stumbles upon this part intending to read a steddie fic (since there’s some in the other parts)

head over heels

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Additional Tags: Hand Jobs, Virgin Eddie Munson, Finger Sucking, Outdoor Sex Summary:

The light is dappled through the trees as the sun gets lower. It’s still afternoon, which feels surreal. This day has gone on so long already, Steve’s started experiencing it like a, hell, what’s that word Robin loves, a montage? Flashes of events. For a long minute, they just stand, listening to the birds, and Eddie’s weirdly loud, deliberate breathing. “If you’re gonna kick my ass,” Eddie eventually says, low and serious, “wait ‘til after, okay?” Steve opens his mouth to ask, well, anything, but before he can, Eddie’s pinning him against the nearest tree and kissing him.

My second @steddiezine piece for the NSFW B-side edition, feat. boner revelations, finger sucking, and oh-god-we’re-all-gonna-die end of the world handjobs.

“Steve Harrington, right?” asks a voice from behind, startling him into standing again. Steve looks back to find a figure leaning against the brick wall next to the doors he just came through. The stranger is shrouded in darkness, standing under the awning, but Steve can spot the cherry red of his lit cigarette as he takes a drag. This interloper leans forward to stand fully, and saunters over to Steve.

“Oh,” Steve gasps quietly. This isn’t a stranger at all. Or, rather, maybe it is, since they’ve never really met before, but– “you’re Eddie Munson.”

Eddie Munson, standing before him in all his rockstar glory, smirks. His mane of dark curly hair cascades over his shoulders down to the middle of his back, the front of it held back into a messy bun, making him look disheveled, and showing off the many studs and rings dotting his ears. He looks a little mean, a little dangerous, his pale skin in stark contrast with the rest of him, faint freckles dotting the bridge of his large nose, a rosy blush dusting his cheeks, probably from having stood in the sun throughout the day. He’s mesmerizing to look at, and Steve feels a little starstruck in the presence of an actual rock legend, even though they’re the same age.

With a be-ringed hand, Eddie offers Steve a pack of cigarettes. “You look like you could use one, dude,” he says, his voice gravelly and a little sharp, not quite deep. Steve looks between Eddie’s huge, bottomless, dark brown eyes and the box in his hand, and feels tempted. He thinks about the vape in his trouser pocket, how unsatisfying it is to drag from it, the vapor of it coating the inside of his mouth with that rancid fake melon taste that makes him want to vomit sometimes. He misses actual smoke in his lungs, the burn of it coming through his nostrils, the warmth of it against his lips. He accepts the packet and looks at it.

“Gitanes?” Steve asks, one raised eyebrow. Eddie shrugs with a chuckle.

“Came here straight from Paris this morning,” he says by way of explanation. “And anyway, I’m not too fussy about it, as long as they’re not Marlboros.”

Steve snorts, picking up a cigarette and handing over the pack. Eddie then proffers a Zippo from his pocket, and flicks it, letting Steve lean in to light up his smoke. He does so, instantly intoxicated by the mixture of the scent coming off Eddie, something woodsy and musky, a little sweet and sharp, and the feel of that burn going into his throat for the first time. He nearly moans with the pleasure of it, but just about manages to keep it in for his modesty’s sake.

“You were right,” he says. “I needed that.”

Eddie laughs at that, a surprising snort giggle that’s a little high-pitched and a lot endearing. Steve feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience.

They stand in silence for a while, smoking together. Eddie is looking around them, taking in the views from the canal behind the Palazzo. Steve is looking at Eddie, taking in the striking figure he makes, the boldness of his clothes and the way he presents himself. He’s wearing what looks like a tuxedo jacket, because it’s short at the waist and tapers in, but this one is also beaded with some intricate designs and there’s some lace as well, which almost matches the tattoos that decorate the line of his chest. Which Steve can see because Eddie is bare-chested under the jacket, just two long silver chains as decoration, one of which has a skull pendant. His chest under the dark tattoos is as pale as the rest of him, hairless and firm. He seems skinny but in a lithe way, sinewy and slight, and his tiny waist is accentuated by the high-waisted trousers he’s paired the jacket with. They’re black and slim-cut, hugging his slim hips and his strong calves, ending just where his boots begin.

Eddie Munson is undeniably cool, and Steve feels underdressed next to him in his impossibly expensive Fear of God suit and Tom Ford sneakers.

“I hate these things, man,” Eddie says, breaking their silence. Steve looks back up into his eyes, startled out of staring at the little bat tattooed on one of his knuckles.

“Film festivals?” Steve asks.

“Yeah… well, I mean, this is my first film festival, so I mean more like this whole charade, you know?”

Steve nods. He definitely knows. “Yeah. It’s the worst part of the job, for sure.”

Eddie looks over at him, taking Steve in as he stares back, feeling trapped even with all the free space around them.

“So, hm,” Steve begins, nervously puffing out the last of his cigarette, putting it out under his stupid Tom Ford sneakers that pinch at the heel and are not as comfortable as his Stan Smiths, thank you very much, Robin. “This is your first festival? Were you in one of the movies, or?”

Before Steve even finishes his question, Eddie is laughing. His hair bouncing around his head as he shakes with giggles. It’s kind of adorable how his eyes sparkle with mirth.

“Seriously?” he asks, wiping the corner of one eye with a ringed finger. “Dude, I literally scored your movie.”

Deeply embarrassed, Steve feels his entire face heat up. He never watches his own films, so he doesn’t really know much about the finished product, though he admires and respects everyone that comes together to work in the pictures. It’s just– he hates watching himself on screen. It’s why he prefers theater, sometimes, honestly. But now, being met with evidence of his neglect, Steve feels shame.

But honestly, Steve didn’t even know Eddie composed scores. He knows Joyce likes to work with the same composer, this guy Murray Bauman who’s an absolute menace but churns out some beautiful music, so under the embarrassment, there’s surprise at this turn of events, that this incredibly famous rockstar is here in Venice to help promote a film he scored.

“Oh, no, I’m so–”

Eddie waves a hand. “Don’t worry, man, it’s cool. It’s my first score, and I’ve been trying to keep it on the down low, you know?”

Steve nods. “I can’t believe I didn’t know, though! My friend Robin loves your music, she would’ve lost her shit. I mean, maybe she did, I kinda ran away before the screening started. Hate watching films here,” he says with a shudder, making Eddie laugh.

“I get it. I’ve just got in this morning and I’m already overwhelmed. Too many suits for my taste.”

“Execs?” Steve offers, and Eddie nods in response, making a disgusted face as he stubs out his cigarette on the ground under his Docs.

“Turns out film execs are just as bad as the music guys. Maybe worse, who knows. Anyway, I’m probably gonna bail, actually.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, disappointed. It’s strange, this feeling of not wanting this moment to end. He feels suspended in time, like he’s in a snow globe, and the air around them is standing still, words floating away with the early evening breeze.

“You staying?”

“Oh, hm. Yeah, probably. Everyone’s staying at my hotel, so if I want to avoid the paparazzi, I should stay until later,” Steve says, further disappointed at what awaits him. He just wants to lie down, maybe take a bath. He can’t stand here all night talking to Eddie, looking at Eddie, as much as he wants to. Tomorrow afternoon, he’ll be heading back to New York to start rehearsals for a play, and just the thought of his schedule for the next week is making the panic rise within him again, the same panic that had him flying through the kitchen and out into this dock with Eddie Munson.

Eddie, who’s looking at him with a glint in his eyes, and Steve can see wheels turning under all that hair.

The door to the kitchen opens again, and one of the cooks comes out, heading to a dark corner for their own smoke break. The interruption breaks the heavy tension in the air, though Eddie is still staring at Steve, a contemplative look in his eyes. Then turns and walks back towards the building.

Steve follows him, through the kitchens and into the main building, where the sudden loudness hits him like a sack of bricks, and he needs to brace himself so he doesn’t topple over from the overstimulation of noise. It’s all a bit too much, and maybe the paparazzi in front of his hotel are an okay price to pay for the pleasure of leaving this nightmare of a situation.

“Hey, Steve?” Eddie asks. Steve turns to face him, squinting against the headache forming in the middle of his forehead. “How do you feel about a nightcap?”

“A nightcap?”

“At my hotel,” he elaborates, more demure than before, when they were outside. Out there, Eddie was bold and bright, but now they’ve reached this large room filled with nonsense and pretentiousness, all that brightness has dimmed a bit, which is heartbreaking to witness. “I gotta head out before lunch tomorrow, so my hotel is close to the train station, all the way across town.”

Steve considers it. Leaving this terrible party early, getting to spend more time with Eddie Munson, maybe bunking with him if it gets too late. He can order a car to collect him in the morning, and his flight back is not until late afternoon anyway. There’s a stirring in his gut that Steve hasn’t felt before, it’s sharp and red hot, and addictive like the smoke in his lungs, and it sharpens when he looks at Eddie, with those wild eyes and big hair and sharp collar bones jutting from under the delicate lace of his jacket. Munson talks of freedom, and Steve doesn’t even hesitate before nodding furiously, his heart racing with the excitement of it.

Munson grins. “Meet me by the side exit in fifteen?”

“Yeah, yes. Fifteen.” Steve nods again, and watches as Eddie marches away, no doubt to put their dastardly escape plans into motion. A warmth settles in Steve’s chest as he watches Eddie walk away, but he’s got no time to spare, so he forces himself to snap out of it and find Robin.

[read j'adore venise here]

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Okay,” Eddie echoes. Steve can’t keep in the noise of surprise he makes when Eddie’s hands shift to hold both of his own. “You know what I remember about you?” He shakes his head, following Eddie’s hands.  “You were on the swim team, huh? You did all that lifeguard shit too, didn’t you?” He waits for Steve to nod before he continues. “I know it might be hard to find it. All that’s gotta be real loud, yeah? But it’s right here, see?” He finds Eddie’s pressed his fingers to the pulse points on his wrists. And Eddie’s right. It’s hard to feel it, but he finds it there.  “Oh,” Steve says. He can’t find other words. Eddie told him to find this. He feels it. It starts out heavy, a little frantic.  But then Steve focuses, and Eddie’s heartbeat reaches out for his ears, steady. It sounds a lot like Rumours always did, gentler than all the rest.

bring me your peace (what of it you have) by @bruxaed

24k | completed | S4 rewrite | mature

sentinel & guide au; steve harrington follows the sound of eddie munson’s heartbeat.

(one day I’m) gonna cut it clear

have this sad stuff I wrote last night to try and cheer myself up :)

(Sorry for any mistakes this was copied and pasted from photos of notebook proper :/)

TW: mentions of past trauma and paternal abuse

The first time that Eddie had cut his hair short, he had been eight and messing around with his mom's fancy brass scissors—the ones where the blades were a beak She used him to cut string from her quilts, and to trim his uncle’s hair when the man wasn't out in his boat. Eddie had used them to chop his hair off, watching The long brown curls fall onto the rug that his dad had bought as a wedding present for his mom.

It was rough and scratchy. Probably cheap, too. 

He sat there on his knees, one hand curled around the scissors, the other feeling through his choppy strands, staring down at the loose hair on the floor.

His dad had hit him for that, grabbing him by the arms and shoving him into his room with a sharp “the hell were you thinking, girl?” before he had locked the door.

Eddie had cried all afternoon, begging to no one, because he was sorry and he didn’t want his hair short anymore. Because he had cut it to stop people from calling it pretty but he knew they still would. Because he didn’t want to be trapped in the suffocating Georgia summer heat that was seeping in through the windows anymore.

When his mom had come home from Auntie Lacy's house—not his real aunt, but she got sad if Eddie didn't call her that, seeing as how she was close enough to family as is—he still remembered how broken she had sounded, finding Eddie laying on the wood floor in just his underwear, tucked away in a corner, panting.

She had drawn him a cold bath, hushing him softly when he complained about the cool water.

“My baby,” She had whispered, her accent seeping through her words. It wasn't like the southern one that she put on for his dad—some kind of Eastern European that he couldn't remember. She never talked about where she came from

"Your hair was so pretty.”

Eddie had turned to press his face into his mom’s palm, whimpering, “Don’t want it short anymore. M’sorry, mama, m’sorry.”

She had fixed his hair after that—made it look more even and neat. She had let him curl up in her lap afterwards, the bird scissors on the coffee table and the chopped strands gone from the rug. Her thin fingers pet through his hair—but there really wasn’t anything to pet through anymore, just gentle touches smoothed over his scalp, kisses pressed to the lop of his head where he could nearly feel her lips.

"It will grow back, iubirea mea," She assured him, rocking him in her arms as his fingers dug into the folds of her white dress. She smelled like cinnamon and sunscreen, and that incense that Auntie Lacy always burned. "It will grow back, Edith.”

"Eddie," He had whispered, his words unsure and choked as he closed his eyes and waited for her to hit him—to lock him back in his room with his bolted windows and stiff mattress.

But she just kissed his hair again, taking nis hand and rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

"Eddie," she agreed, holding him tighter when he sobbed and nodded, her fingers soft and warm against his. “My sweet Eddie. My baby." 

The second time his hair was cut he was thirteen. He had cried the whole way to the shop, gripping at the hair that fell just past his shoulders, like if he held on tight enough, it wouldn't have to go away.

“Stop crying,” his dad had snapped, his hands tight on the wheel of his Chevy truck. "If you wanna be a boy so bad, then fuckin’ act like one. Gonna look like one soon, too.”

He pulled Eddie out of the car. “This’ll show you. I ain’t raise my girl to be no fuckin’ queer,” he spat. “That was all that bitch’s doin’, ain’t it? Good thing she’s gone.”

“Don’t talk about mom like that,” Eddie sobbed, barely forcing the words out before he had stumbled backwards, face stinging and red from where his dad had hit him.

“She ain’t your mama no more. Ain’t that right, girl? Now fuckin’ get in there and tell the lady you want it all gone, or I ain’t letting you out of your room for a week,” his dad threaten, grabbing the collar of Eddie’s shirt. “A fucking week, you hear?”

That was the day that Eddie had left with Wayne for Indiana. His dad—no, Al, he wasn’t Eddie’s fucking dad anymore—hadn’t cared that Eddie had left. He had probably told all of his drinking buddies that “the other bitch is finally dead,” just so no one who might miss him in the town would go looking and bring him back. It would have only been Auntie Lacy. He still missed her sometimes.

Wayne hadn’t minded that Eddie didn’t want to wear the dresses or the skirts that he had packed from Georgia—took to buying him jeans when he had the money for something extra.

He had saved up for two years, working extra shifts and on holidays, so that when Eddie turned sixteen he could take him to the doctors and get him the stuff that made his voice drop. Eddie didn’t remember what it was called—hadn’t been able to hear the doctor over the ringing in his years from how hard his jaw was clenched as he tried not to cry in front of her and Wayne.

“Gonna get you fixed,” Wayne had said on the ride back to the trailer, and Eddie had laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.

“M’not a dog, Wayne.”

He had let Wayne do the shots, since anytime he tried to do it himself, his hands would snake too much.

“Haven't even done it yet, boy," Wayne muttered, his face annoyed, but his tone soft and sympathetic. "Just breathe."

Eddie did, but he had still flinched away again, just one more time.

The third time it was cut would be soon, if Eddie could just force himself to fucking man up and do it. He had just driven back from the antique shop down the road, bought those scissors he had seen nestled in between the old watercolor tins full of white chalk sticks and the black and white photos of men in long coats and hats—women with their hair up in a portrait studio, loggers standing on the planks stuck into trees as they worked, children sat on stools and chairs with dead-eyes.

They were bird scissors, brassy-brown and shining, still sharp. Like his mom used to have.

He looked out at the trailers he drove past. Two mail boxes until home. His stuff was in the back of his van, all the important stuff anyway, packed away into three boxes. Three.

And then he was home, into the house and then to the bathroom. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. And maybe he was crying. He was so fucking sick of crying.

His arms ached as he stretched the scars to reach up and grab a strand of hair, cutting. It was only an inch or two off the bottom, on a piece that he could easily tuck away and hide, but he still broke down—dropping the scissors and sobbing into his hands as he sank to the bathroom tiles on the floor.

He didn't want to cut his hair, but he had to. And he didn't know why he had to, which made him cry harder—hysterical sobs and gasps that no one but the nearly-empty shampoo bottles strewn sideways on the drain on the shower floor could hear.

He sounded like he was dying.

Maybe he was.

He Knew what it felt like to die — to have the skin ripped away from his insides, his body bloody and aching.

This hurt worse

It hurt worse than the hell he had been through.

It hurt worse than hearing Steve cry and break over him in the hospital, when his body was too sore to move—to cradle him gently like his mom used to do, brush a hand over his hair and whisper gentle names in a language that he didn’t know—a quiet "just breathe, my baby. Lucrul meu dulce. You can be sad, but don't let it choke you. You can cry, but don't let it make you forget how to live. How to breathe. How to smile."

Eddie pulled himself up, dragging himself out of the bathroom and over to the phone on the wall in the kitchen.

He spun the rotary, hearing it whir and click after each number. A number he had whispered to himself night after night until he was sure he wouldn't forget it. But now his brain was fogged as his breath caught on a whimper, and he couldn't remember if it ended in a six or a nine.

Six. He spun to a six and watched it move back, the phone gripped in both hands as it rang.

“Hello?” And Eddie sobbed again at the sound of Steve's voice.

"Hey," he choked out, willing his voice To be level and his breathing to be calm, but to no avail.

‘Baby," Steve breathed, and god, Eddie didn't think it was ever possible for him to grow tired of hearing Steve call him that. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Eddie shook his head as an instinct, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw set, strained words coming out as he spoke again. "Need you to come over. Want to cut my hair.”

"Your hair?" Steve parroted back, his voice unbelievably soft, so soft that it made Eddie's chest ache a bit inside.

"Yeah."

Steve didn't ask why, even though he knew that Eddie's hair was important to him. He did offer to do it for Eddie—being the one out of the two of them who was more knowledgeable on the subject—but Eddie declined, saying that he needed to be the one to do it himself.

“I just need you to be here when I do it," Eddie whispered. He would have asked Wayne to sit with him, but Wayne was at work, and Eddie wasn't supposed to bother him unless it was an emergency.

He knew that Wayne would have come straight home if he had called to ask, though.

“I’ll leave now, alright?" Steve whispered. “Ten minutes, You go rest, get yourself a drink. Whatever you need to do baby, then I'll be there. Promise.”

“Okay" Eddie whispered, and even though Eddie wanted a reason to procrastinate this further, he hung up the phone, listening to the dial-tone sound off for a few minutes before shuffling over to the living room and pressing his face into a scratchy pillow. 

He tried to calm his breathing while he waited for Steve.

Should I make a part two? Maybe?? If you guys want??

Permanent taglist: @anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @here4thetrama @goodolefashionedloverboi

read this fic for steve losing his fucking mind

Written for @subeddieweek, day two.

A Firm Touch

Prompt: First Time | Word Count: 1912 | Rating: E | CW: Reference to Past Recreational Drug Use | Tags: First Time, Established Relationship, Being Restrained, Light Praise Kink, A Bit of Subspace, Insecure Eddie, Virgin Eddie, Service Top Steve, Working Out The Kinks (Literally), Boys in Love, Just Trying to Figure Themselves Out

Eddie squirms away from Steve's grasp, again, another night fucking ruined and Steve sighs in frustration. Running his hand through his hair. He's disheveled, and Eddie wants…but he can't. It's not gonna work.

This is never gonna work, and he doesn't know why he thought it might. He just wanted it to, so goddamn bad.

The knot in Eddie's stomach grows, because he knows that Steve is getting frustrated. Not by the lack of sex, Eddie doesn't think, but more by the lack of understanding of why they aren't having sex. Eddie's been trying, then shying away, stalling and Steve's been patient, but Eddie knows he's running out of runway. 

He's being a fucking cocktease, he's pretty sure, though that wasn't the intent.

"Eddie…" Steve trails off, "what? What is it this time?" he asks, hands finding his hips. The question comes across harsher than his voice actually sounds, but he's staring at Eddie in a way Eddie hates. He doesn't want to be looked at, stared at, perceived, known. 

Eddie shrugs, and Steve lets out a breath that's pure annoyance. Like something he'd aim at the kids when they are fraying his nerves. Eddie doesn't want that sound pointed in his direction, it makes him feel horrible. Worthless. 

Finally, Steve speaks again, "I just. I can't read your signals. They're all over the fucking place. Do you not want this? Or not with me? What? Just, what? Tell me," Steve pleads, and it's tinged with self-doubt, and maybe a little anger, and it makes Eddie withdraw further. Steve's got his own baggage, and Eddie knows it. But Eddie can't just say these things, can't ask for them.

So, Eddie clams up.

Because the other option is to jump right in, ready for a full fight. And he doesn't want to do that, so he just stays silent.

"Okay, I'll go," Steve says, and Eddie doesn't want him to go. But he doesn't know how to get him to stay. 

"Don't go," Eddie says, barely audible, squeezing his hands into fists so hard that his short nails are digging into his palms.

"Then tell me, and I'll do whatever you want," Steve says, soft, worried. Begging a little. "I can't keep guessing wrong. It's killing me."

"I'm just not built like you, Harrington," Eddie finally says. Hoping that will end the discussion for one more night. Maybe Steve will still stay, and give Eddie a little more time to figure his shit out.

"What do you mean by that?" Steve asks, his brow furrowed, as he's folding his hands in his lap.

"Nothing."

"It's not nothing," Steve answers, "obviously."

Eddie is annoyed, frustrated. But he knows he's not gonna get anywhere with soft, sweet Steve Harrington running his hands all over him, like he's made of glass. Been there, done that. And it never ends in anything other than in frustration. There's something broken in him, and Steve would never understand that. 

"Eddie, I-" 

"You don't want me. You don't want what I want. What I need." 

"What do you need, Eddie?" Steve asks, putting his hands on Eddie's arms, gently.

Eddie's exhausted, and he finally snaps, "I need you to hold me down. I need you to handcuff me and…" he trails off when he sees Steve's face. "I need a firm touch. A firm hand. To get off." 

"Oh," Steve says, soft and shocked. Disgusted, probably. 

Eddie looks down. 

And then Steve's big, warm hand is on his thigh. Pressing down. Firmly. 

"I can't, like, hit you," Steve says, face way too earnest.

"I don't need you to hit me," Eddie says with a small smile. He wouldn't be opposed, but if Steve won't get off on it, there's no way.

"But I can be firm. Well, I can try. I want to try." 

Of course he does, because Steve Harrington always jumps in with both feet. Eddie's seen it in action. He just never expected to see it here, in the bedroom. He just thought he'd be able to get over it, whatever hang up he has, but it hasn't happened. 

"Okay, Steve, you can try. If you don't like it, you say so." 

"It's you," Steve says with a grin, "I think I'll like it just fine." 

Eddie just smiles at him, embarrassed, but hopeful.

"Tell me what you like, what your previous sexual partners have done for you that worked," Steve says, like he's ready to take mental notes.

Eddie laughs, shaking his head, "No previous sexual partners. But I'm flattered that you think that's a possibility."

"Then how do you know…?" Steve trails off.

"I still know how I feel. I know how I get off, alone," Eddie answers.

And that…how, is not very easy, never has been. At least not alone.

"Of course. Of course you do," Steve says, like he should have known that. Eddie doesn't think that's a thing that most guys ever contemplate. Eddie imagines Steve can get off easily, without even thinking about it. 

A few quick tugs, thinking about a pretty girl, or a cute guy, and that's all it takes. Eddie wishes it were that simple. He's trying to not feel embarrassed. It's Steve, and he's gotten used to the fact that he can tell Steve anything. 

And if he wants this to work, and he does, then this conversation has to happen.

"Okay, where do we start?" Steve asks, sounding chipper, and ready to go. To act. Now that they've got even a hint of a plan. Eddie cannot believe how brave he is. He's a take-charge kinda guy, maybe this will come naturally to him.

Eddie knows asking Steve to start with handcuffs is crazy, and he's never even been in them before, couldn't do it on his own, and as much as he wants to be, that's for later. Hopefully. Someday, maybe. So, he just lays face down on the bed. 

"Can you just…hold me down, maybe? Restrain me? With your hands?" Eddie asks.

"Yes," Steve says, like he's one-hundred percent certain that's something he can do, and then rolls him over, with a confidence that really works on Eddie. 

Steve's got big hands, hands Eddie has fantasized about on more than one occasion. 

And he grabs both of Eddie's wrists in one of his, and pins them above Eddie's head, pressing them into the pillow.

They aren't even undressed, but Steve crawls on top of him. Sitting on his thighs. 

"This good?" Steve asks, and Eddie nods. It's good.

He's clearly having to stretch to hold Eddie like that, so Eddie isn't surprised when Steve scoots up his body, until he's off his thighs, until they are crotch to crotch, and Steve doesn't shy away from that. He just pushes down against him, as he presses on his wrists even harder now that he has a better angle.

Steve's hard, and Eddie still isn't. Maybe this won't work. Maybe he's not meant to have anything as good as Steve.

But Steve keeps grinding down, over and over, as he squeezes Eddie's wrists. Then, Steve scoots up further, his hard cock pressing into Eddie's belly as Steve leans over him, his chest right over Eddie's face, and Eddie feels boxed in, Steve's shirt hanging down, brushing against his nose. The scent of Steve flooding Eddie's nostrils with every movement Steve's body makes. Eddie feels hidden. Secure. Safe. And he closes his eyes and just feels it all, fully. 

Enjoys.

When Steve shifts again, Eddie realizes he's hard. He doesn't know when that happened, but it feels so good. Steve is still rutting against him, and the pressure of him holding him to the bed feels like it's dug a hook into Eddie's center, and now there's an anchor pulling him down into the most amazing place he's ever been.

He feels drunk. He feels like he's taken the perfect amount of K, and now he's gently slipping into a hole.

Steve's not really doing much of anything, Eddie knows it's simple, but whatever Steve is doing is perfect. It's working.

Then, Steve leans forward, putting more weight on Eddie's wrists, holding them in place as he nearly lays on top of Eddie fully. Leaning most of his weight into it. Bringing them back together, hard cock pressed to hard cock. Still rolling his hips, grinding against him in slow, deliberate circles.

And even as Steve pushes all the air out of his lungs, Eddie feels like he can breathe, finally.

Steve's heavier than he looks, and Eddie is lost in the security he feels being under Steve.

He never even knew to dream about this, but here it is, his wildest dreams coming true at the hands of Steve Harrington.

"You feel so good under me," Steve says close to Eddie's ear, "you're being so good. Getting hard, just for me."

Eddie moans. 

"That's good," Steve says again, "are you ready for me to let you go? Do you want me to touch you?"

Eddie shakes his head no, then makes his request, "Lay on me."

And Steve lowers his whole body to Eddie's, pressing him into the mattress. Chest to chest, crotch to crotch. Eddie can feel every point of contact, every point of pressure, and it's good. So good.

His wrists are still tight in Steve's grasp, but now he feels like his whole body is being held in the same way. Safe. Secure.

Steve rolls his hips, one more time, and Eddie attempts to lift up his hips, tries to get his ass off the bed, but he can't, and he comes in his jeans. Steve following him over the edge.

Tears leak out of Eddie's eyes, and his breathing is shallow with Steve on top of him, but he's happy, and relieved, and kind of boneless. Steve finally shifts so he can hold Eddie's wrists in one hand instead of two, lighter now, and brushes the fingers of his open hand against Eddie's cheek. Face near Eddie's, grounding him.

"Whenever you're ready, tell me what you need. What to do," Steve whispers, and Eddie nods.

Eddie finally felt ready for Steve to let him go, so Steve's shifted so he's laying beside him, not on him, kissing his face, his neck, taking care of him like he always does. Just in a new way now. When Eddie pictured submitting, in the abstract, he was expecting punishment. Pain. To be used, and probably discarded. Thought that's what he wanted. Rough, hard, mean. He thought he needed to be hurt, or tortured, just a little.

And maybe he still does.

But Steve Harrington is none of those things, and his style of taking control isn't either. Steve's a take-charge kind of guy, but there's a softness there that Eddie never wants to see go away, honestly. 

"Was that okay?" Steve asks, and he looks so fucking nervous.

"More than," Eddie says, looking right in his eyes, "thank you."

"So, the handcuffs?" Steve asks, hint of a grin pulling at his lip.

"Wishful thinking," Eddie admits. Then raises his eyebrows, "Why? You interested?"

"For sure. Can we ease into it?" Steve asks, wrapping his arm around Eddie's waist, holding him tight, still so tight, and Eddie's sure he'll be asleep in minutes, feeling this comfortable.

This secure.

This safe.

This loved.

"Definitely," Eddie says, and closes his eyes, turning his face towards Steve's, nuzzling into him. Letting himself be held, not only down, but close.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @subeddieweek and follow along with the fun! 🖤

Notes: It was harder to write a first time (for both!) and have them have super defined roles. They're figuring their shit out. Together. And I like think Service Top Steve can grow into Pleasure Dom Steve, but not right out of the gate.

On the Matter of Mirrors

Eddie is still trying to convince Steve he and Nancy are made for each other. It comes up, like, everytime they hang out, which is all the time, because Steve couldn’t stay away if he wanted to. He doesn’t, but he also wishes Eddie would quit trying to set him up with someone else. 

‘Cause, like, here’s the thing. Steve likes girls. He also, he realized sometime after Robin came out to him, quite likes boys. He likes Eddie. Like… Really likes him. Practices pick-up lines in front of the mirror kind of like. Wears a little more black and tousles his hair just right to give himself a subversive edge he never used to have, just the right amount to trigger a subconscious response without appearing to be tweaking his fashion sense at all. Has mastered the art of wearing eyeliner without looking like he’s wearing it, and it took him a fucking while to work up the nerve to go out like that, not that anyone but Robin noticed. 

But Eddie just will not drop the Nancy case, no matter how many times Steve tries to stir the conversation away from her, and between his budding crush and the crushing fear that it’s never gonna be anything but one-sided, between the slightest of sore spots Steve still sports about the way things with Nancy ended in the first place and the bitter edge of never managing for something to start with Eddie after weeks of efforts, it’s beginning to grate, right? 

“So what’s the problem?” Eddie insists, bounding circles around Steve like an eager puppy, and something in Steve’s ribcage snaps. 

They’re in Steve’s room studying when it comes up once a-fucking-gain. Eddie is taking accelerated summer classes so he can finally graduate by September, and by some inexplicable fuckery of fate, despite Steve’s own dirt poor records, he’s turning out to be a decent tutor. Something about Eddie managing to focus in a way a classroom environment never allowed him to. Maybe because most teachers and over half the student body were openly hostile at worst and aggressively ignoring Eddie at best, all because of his last name or his tattoos or his loud brassy cheek.

All the same, Eddie does get distracted fairly easily, and an hour in, he’s bounced off the bed and started rattling reasons Nancy Wheeler is definitely Steve Harrington’s soulmate. Steve groans noncommittally, gets up to grab his water from the desk and takes a long swallow as Eddie keeps needling him. 

“You’re the problem, Eddie,” he all but snarls, when he really meant it to come out exasperated at worst.

He snarls, though, and Eddie stiffens, his eyes going cold and hurt and the corner of his mouth turned down in anger. 

“Right,” he says, and it sounds so casual Steve thinks he won’t make a big deal of his tone after all. Fool’s hope. “I’ll get out of your perfect hair, then,” Eddie spits out as he makes for the door, only Steve stands in his way, hands up in surrender. 

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that,” he starts. 

“No, you’re right, it’s none of my business,” Eddie interrupts, but he steps back, gesturing wildly as he speaks. “It’s not like we’re even friends, you just got saddled with me because of Dustin. We saved the world together? Big deal! My involvement was incidental, really, more of an inconvenience than any kind of help. Why would you want my opinion, of all people’s, right? Even by this point. Get out of my way, I’ll quit stepping on your toes. Go on!”

“I don’t want you to go, Eddie,” Steve tries again. 

“Just want me to shut up, is that it? Not really my strong suit, you might have noticed.”

Steve can’t help smiling. “I have noticed.”

It only seems to rile Eddie up even more, throwing his hands out and making to step around Steve again. “Man, what do you want from me?”

“Is this allowed?” he breathes out, extending the last word beyond its scope. 

Which puts him within reaching distance of Steve, who grabs him by the lapels of his jacket and presses him, careful not to jostle him too bad but firm enough to counter his manic strength, against the wall. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything, just presses a touch too close, lets himself imagine that he’s going to close the distance entirely, cocks his head and licks his lips and hangs there in a way he hopes spells it out for Eddie without inducing any kind of panic. 

Eddie, hands still up at shoulder height, lets out a little huff close to a whimper when his back hits the wall, bracing himself for a hit that would never come, and maybe some part of him knows this, because he doesn’t look scared or angry anymore, just kind of confused with a side of grief, and it doesn’t take two seconds for him to start to look intrigued, maybe even, if Steve allows himself a little optimism, interested. 

His lips part on a sharp inhale, and they’re close enough to smell each other’s skin, and Eddie’s eyes drop to Steve’s mouth, a little watery and out of focus, edging forward in a way that could just be a twitch, just a consequence of holding his breath the way he is, plausibly deniable, subconscious no doubt, only when Steve mirrors the movement, he does it again, gaze moving up and down from Steve’s eyes to his lips and back and back again without blinking, until twitch by twitch their noses graze and their mouths connect and Steve closes his eyes and concentrates on maintaining that seal over Eddie’s plush, pliable pout, because if he didn’t focus, he’d be way, way overeager for a first kiss. 

He moves back after several seconds with a shaky exhale, swallows as he finds Eddie’s eyes again. His blood is thrumming in his fingertips, somehow he feels both cold between his shoulder blades and warm down to his toes, and if Eddie looks at all put out he thinks he might never manage another mirror in his life. 

The look on Eddie’s face is pure disbelief. 

Steve shrugs, not quite settled on the matter of mirrors. “I thought you made a point of breaking the rules?”

A glint starts to wake in Eddie’s eye that’s looking more delighted by the minute. 

“Just as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“We’re in the clear, then,” Steve whispers, leaning in, just a smidge. 

Both of Eddie’s hands sink into his hair as he pulls him into another, much steamier, kiss. Steve lets his fists fall from Eddie’s lapels and knot over his back instead, lets his mouth drop slightly open, an invitation Eddie wastes not a second to follow through on, teeth scraping and back arching like he wants to sink all the way into Steve, and by the time they’re parting, breathless, cheeks flushed, mouths stinging, Steve’s one hand is braced against the wall, holding himself up, knees too weak to do the job on their own. 

“I thought you could barely stand me,” Eddie heaves.

“I can’t,” Steve admits. “You drive me nuts. Just not how you thought.”

Eddie frowns, suddenly serious. 

“You should forget all about Nancy.”

Steve frowns too. “That so?”

“Hm-mm. She’s taken, man. And not all that. You need to move on.”

“Damn,” Steve sighs. “Am I being desperate?”

“Pathetic,” Eddie nods, barely a whisper against Steve’s lips, and they break into smiles in tandem. “Forget all about her,” Eddie repeats. 

“Who?” Is the last word Steve gets out. Then he’s busy enough he really does forget. 

When he fixes his hair in the bathroom mirror in the morning, he walks away with a wink.

Give us a kudos, if ye dare x

They’re everything to me rn🫡

Pls enjoy these little silly doodles I cannot stop thinking about ✨THEM✨