Love is Kinda Crazy with a Spooky Guy Like You: Mulder x Scully Halloween Special
Requests: Angel x Fem!Pet!Reader Chrissy x Fem!Bisexual!Reader TransMasc!Reader x Stranger Things Fluff
Blurbs: Eddie #1 Eddie #2 Eddie #3 Steve #1 Steve #2 Spencer Reid #1 Spencer Reid #2 Robin #1 Jonathan #1 Egon#1 Egon#2 Egon #3
Shiver with Antici...pation! for these Upcoming Projects!
Dream a Little Dream of Me (Driller Killer x Female Reader)
Strangers Meet, Strangers Dream (Egon Spengler x Female OC)
Watch Me (Giles x Female Reader)
You’ve Got Me Hooked (Killian Jones x Female Reader)
I Want to Believe Pt. 2/Pt.3 (Fox Mulder x Female Reader)
Don't you Panic! Requests are OPEN, with a few Rules, of course:
Send me an ask in my inbox with the character, pairing/grouping, and specifics you would like. It may take a while to be finished, and I reserve the right to reject a request for any reason. I WILL NOT accept requests from minors or ageless blogs. Anon requests are accepted. I also ask that any requests DO NOT include the following subjects. I am not comfortable with these subjects and will not write them. (I don't judge anyone who enjoys these subjects, I am just not personally comfortable with them.)
Rape/Non-con (I’ll write references/flashbacks to past sexual assault if it’s beneficial to the story. But no rape fantasy)
Incest/Stepcest
Cheating (In a positive light)
Anything relating to Minors
Watersports/Scat/Vomit Kink
Omegaverse (I honestly just don’t know enough about it)
Pregnancy/Breeding Kink
Pretty much anything else is free game, so request away :)
*I do NOT give consent to have my stories translated, copied, uploaded to other sites, or fed into AI of any kind.*
summary: And now his brain’s spinning out again. Swerving hard down the Steve-path.
Because you’re his girlfriend. Right?
You and Steve. That’s the rule. The boundary. The carved-in-stone given.
warnings: 18+ smut, threesome (mmf), p in v, oral (m receiving), handjob, praise kink, dirty talk, instructional, lots of check-ins, heavy pining, softdom!steve, kind of subby!eddie, bisexual!eddie, bisexual!steve (?), voyeurism, external ejaculation, light alcohol use, insecurity abt scars (s4 canon events), body worship, eddie's pov, did i mention pining, bi-panic (!), friends to lovers, angst, fluff, slow burn, polyamory
a/n: whoo. sit tight, y'all. whole thing's kind of a ride. read pt. 1 here. series masterlist
It’s after eleven when the party fizzles out.
Robin’s shouting something unintelligible by the door, buzzing from three and a half vodka slushies and a game of charades that got deeply unhinged somewhere around The Exorcist.
“The powerr of Christ... compellshh you!” she cackles, Jonathan and Nancy in tow.
“Jesus, Buckley, go home.”
“Handss off, Harrrington—I'm gay, remem’ber?”
Byye! Love ya birrthday girl!
Drive safe, you idiots.
G’night! Woah, Rob, watch out for the—
Oh my god, Robin!
Nope, I’m aaall good! Tootally fine!”
Jon I got her, go get the car.
And then—finally, blessedly—silence.
The lights are dimmed. Music low, static-thin from the stereo, one of your mixtapes playing something dreamy. There’s cake crumbs all over the floor, glitter ground into the carpet. A stack of half-drunk cans sweating onto the coffee table.
Just the three of you now.
You’re sitting on the rug with your knees folded to one side. Back against the couch, barefoot, in an oversized tee Eddie’s pretty sure used to belong to Steve.
You look… unguarded. Loose in a way people rarely are.
Steve returns to your side, slipping back into the picture of lazy confidence. His legs stretched out long and lean, one elbow slung behind your shoulders. His hair falls in that perfect mess, strands brushing his eyes, and his skin glows with the soft flush of the night—not his night, but he carries that kind of light anyway.
He looks impossibly good. Of course he does.
Asshole.
Eddie’s sitting on the floor across from you, spine slumped against your armchair. He’s absentmindedly picking at a crumpled napkin, still nursing the same beer he cracked open an hour ago.
It’s warm now, but he keeps sipping it, if only to give his hands something to do.
Then your voice floats over, light and silky, and Eddie’s head snaps up.
“This is really something, Eds,” your eyes are tracing the slim leather-bound notebook in your lap. A ribbon tie, knotted with a tiny silver guitar charm, swings lightly between your fingers.
“Seriously. Thank you."
You look up at him with that slow, dreamlike smile—one Eddie still isn’t sure he deserves.
“Sure. Figured you’d wanna keep tabs on how much we all suck.”
You laugh. The sound curls warm in his chest.
“Looks badass, babe.” Steve leans over to peek at the cover. “Look at how smooth that leather is.”
You smile. “Right?”
Steve smiles back. Not his usual shit-eating grin, either. This one’s quieter. Loose around the edges. Then, with a soft nudge against your knee, he adds:
“You’ve always loved Eddie’s gifts the best.”
Eddie freezes, fingers going still on the napkin. He blinks hard, breath stalling.
That was a coincidence. That had to be a coincidence.
His gaze flicks between you and Steve, eyes narrowed, searching for a sign, a tell. But you just nod, humming softly in agreement as you adjust your legs, hand brushing over Steve’s thigh in passing.
Casual.
Too casual.
Eddie’s just about ready to say something dumb—deflect, escape—oh gosh, look at the time!—when he notices Steve looking at him.
Not smug, or teasing.
Just watching.
Like he sees the thoughts scrambling behind Eddie’s eyes and isn’t in a rush to chase them away.
Then Steve clears his throat, unwinding his arm from behind you and reaching for the lone remaining slice of cake.
“Baby, you want this last one?” he murmurs low, fork in hand.
You shake your head, laughing softly. “I’m gonna explode.”
“Munson?” Steve turns. “You want it?”
Eddie blinks.
“What?”
Steve smiles.
“The cake, man. You want it?”
Eddie opens his mouth to decline, but for some dumb, stubborn reason his gaze falls to you instead—eyes half-lidded, chin propped on your hand, lips curled just so—unreadable yet quietly inviting.
Somehow, the ‘sure’ slips out before he can stop it.
Steve’s grin widens.
Eddie leans forward, half-expecting Steve to pass him the plate.
So when he doesn’t—just grins and says,“Gotta open wide for this one, man”—Eddie’s dumb brain short-circuits.
And he just... does it.
Opens his mouth like a complete idiot and waits.
The fork takes forever to reach him.
His neck’s craned at some dumb, uncomfortable, nearly painful angle, but it’s happening now, apparently, and he’s powerless to stop it. So he lets the fork slide past his lips. Closes around it.
Cherry frosting. Soft vanilla sponge. The taste is irrelevant.
Steve watches him chew, then leans back like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just hand-feed his friend cake in front of his girlfriend.
And you—fuck, you’re still watching. Still smiling.
Something soft and unreadable in your eyes, and it hits him low, behind his ribs, hot and unsteady. And Eddie doesn’t know what the hell to do with it. Doesn’t know what it means. Just knows it lands in his chest like a spark catching in dry tinder, slow and quiet and dangerous.
You hum, tipping your head just slightly:
“Mmm. Now I kind of want a bite.”
Casual. Lazy with sugar and vodka and whatever the hell has changed in the last two minutes.
Flirty, he dares to think.
His brain is screaming. Every nerve lit up like a switchboard, crackling with static, humming a language he doesn’t speak but somehow feels written all over his skin.
And Steve—Christ—Steve's murmuring in your ear, voice all syrup and sunshine.
“‘Course, babe, c’mere.”
And that smile—boyish, bright, sweet as pie. Beaming at you like you’d hung the fucking moon.
He’s doting now. Practically cooing while he loads the next forkful, hand cradling your jaw, might as well be making fucking airplane noises as he guides the bite to your mouth, and Eddie—
Eddie’s gonna be sick.
He’s gonna fucking combust—
And then… you moan.
Nothing loud or obscene. Just this quiet little breath—low and warm and full of satisfaction.
Still, it hits him like a brick to the sternum.
Turns his blood ice cold, even as the kindling in his gut catches fire like dry brush in a heatwave.
He nearly chokes on the last bite of cake—ends up lunging for his beer instead. His fingers fumble, he swears under his breath when the bottle almost tips, and he downs a mouthful too fast. It’s warm and flat and bitter.
Fucking gross.
He immediately takes another swig.
When he looks up, Steve’s still grinning down at you, eyes all shiny and soft.
“Yeah? That good?”
And god, the way he says it—low, teasing—and now he’s pushing his thumb past his lips to lick the leftover icing, and—
Holy shit.
Steve’s not looking at you anymore.
He’s looking up.
At Eddie.
Not you.
Eddie.
And maybe it’s nothing. Just a glance. A flicker.
But it catches Eddie off-guard, has something stuttering deep in his ribs.
You’ve always loved Eddie’s gifts the best.
And suddenly, there’s a low-grade panic humming in his bloodstream.
Because in retrospect it did sound a lot like an implication, and he’s not sure what’s worse: believing that it was, or that maybe it wasn’t.
His heart’s jackhammering, palms slick. His knee bounces once, then again, before he forces it still.
“So good, Stevie,” you sigh, syrupy-sweet, sinking back into Steve’s arms as he leans down to peck your lips, and—YEP. OK.
Eddie blinks, tearing his gaze away, feeling the weight of discomfort really sink in. Shuffles against the ground, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, his boots, the way he’s just sort of there while you two glow golden together.
Right. Time for this third wheel to gracefully roll his ass out of here and—
“Eddie.”
His name floats over in your voice—soft, certain.
“Uh… yeah?
“Thanks for coming today. And for…”
You smile. A little crooked, a little knowing.
“…helping Steve pick out my gift.”
He freezes.
Just. Full-body lockup.
There’s a long beat of silence where his brain blanks, words floating unprocessed.
Then they hit.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Everything inside him shuts down like someone flipped a breaker.
“Uhhhh,”
It’s a sound, technically. He makes it for what feels like an hour, until Steve finally—finally—takes mercy on him.
“The toy, man. She knows.”
And just like that. It’s out.
The lavender-colored silicone elephant has officially entered the room.
Eddie stares.
“I—you…” he stammers. Fails. Tries again.
You knew. You knew this whole time, and he—
“Mhm.” You nod, as if reading his mind. Then, slower: “And I just wanted to say… it was a really thoughtful choice.”
Oh, no.
Nope.
Nope nope nope.
Definitely a sex dream. That’s what this is.
Any second now he’s gonna wake up in a pile of blankets with a dry mouth and a hard-on and a vague sense of shame.
Three, two, one—
“I kind of asked him to, you know.”
And that short-circuits everything. Because you're starting to shift a little closer now, making Eddie painfully aware of how little space there is between you.
Half-lounging on the rug, legs folded beneath you, so when you lean in—eyes all warm and glassy—it looks like you’re crawling straight into his lap.
Eddie cannot breathe.
Everything in his head just... slams to a halt.
His eyes flit desperately across your face. Then back to Steve. Then back to you.
Your knees are nearly touching his. You’re not looking away.
“You… you asked?”
You smile again. You’re on your hands and knees.
“Yeah. Told Steve to talk to you. Figured if anyone could help me out, it’d be you.”
You pause as you get closer, hands just short of grazing his leg.
His heart is doing something unsafe in his chest.
“Only if you want to, Eds. No pressure.”
Eddie’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He’s a fucking goldfish, he knows. Can’t stop.
Not when you’re looking at him like that—like this is a normal conversation and not a total mental collapse in real time—and your fingers are now lightly tapping the floor, just inches from his leg like they’re thinking about making the jump.
Steve hasn’t said a word, so Eddie risks a quick glance over your shoulder. He finds him already looking back, and when their eyes lock, Steve gives a small nod.
Like he’s serious. Like this isn't a carefully laid sex trap, baited with silicone.
Eddie could cry. He really could.
Not even from joy—just from the sheer overload of it all. His chest goes tight, vision a little too sharp around the edges, like his body’s already pulling back.
It’s automatic, this desperate little reflex of his. The cowardly thought that if he pulls away now, he won’t have to face the possibility that it’s real.
That he hasn’t been hallucinating this strange, slow-burning orbit around the three of you, the gravitational pull he’s been quietly caught in for weeks, circling closer and closer to something that he hasn’t dared to name.
So, naturally, what comes out next is:
“Is this… is this like a joke?”
The glassy haze in your eyes clears in an instant. Your brows draw together, lips pinched tight.
“No, Eddie, we’re not… we’d never—”
And suddenly, Steve’s beside you—there in an instant, eyes locked on Eddie.
“Hey, no one’s messing with you,” His tone’s different now—quiet, level. “Swear.”
There’s weight in that word. More than just this moment. A history. A promise.
Eddie swallows, throat thick. “It’s just—fuck, this is…”
He laughs, gesturing weakly, like the motion could string the words together for him.
“Are you… are you asking me something here, or—?”
Steve exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I know,” he nods. “I know it’s kinda crazy.”
And Eddie wants to open his big dumb mouth and scream yeah, you think? but chokes it down at the last second.
“To be fair, though” Steve continues slowly, mouth in a sideways grin, “we didn’t think you’d freak out this much.”
Eddie makes a noise then—half-yelp, half-laugh—that bursts free from his chest like a soda can popping under pressure.
“You fucking fed me cake, man.” His voice cracks. He can’t find it in himself to care.
Steve shrugs, mouth twitching. “You took it.”
“Because you were dangling it in my face!”
That makes you crack up—like, really laugh—and you bury your face in Steve’s shoulder.
And it hits Eddie all at once how absurd and beautiful this moment is, so vivid and overwhelming that he wants to dissolve into the floor, yet never leave this spot for anything in the world.
Steve looks down at you, affection flickering in his eyes. Eddie watches like it’s happening on a screen—slow motion, every detail amplified. Then Steve turns back, eyes steady, and nods.
“Listen. None of this is a joke. Or a setup. Okay?”
Eddie just stares at him. At both of you.
“We just… we want you to feel good about it,” He adds quietly. “If you don’t, that’s totally fine. Really.”
You look up again, cheek resting against Steve’s arm.
“We like you, Eddie.” Your smile is a radiant, wondrous thing. “Both of us.”
And god.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
He drags a hand down his face, trying to swallow.
“I need another beer.”
Steve grins. “You can have mine.”
Eddie’s jaw drops open. Steve Harrington has the audacity to laugh.
“Kidding, kidding! I’ll go grab you one.” Steve beams, already moving. Then, pauses for a moment, looking down at you pointedly: “You’ll behave, right?”
Eddie chokes, eyes rolling back.
You just grin, wide and shameless.
“No promises.”
...
The living room feels louder without Steve in it.
Which is stupid, honestly.
The music’s still low, lights still warm. Nothing’s changed—except for the very specific, stupidly-hot-dumbass-shaped hole in the room.
You don’t rush to fill the silence. Just shift a little more comfortably on your haunches, hands in your lap.
Your bare knees brush his jeans as you settle.
“I meant what I said, you know, about the gift.” Your voice drifts after a while, soft.
“I mean, with both gifts,” you add quietly, laughing under your breath. “It was really sweet.”
And Eddie feels weirdly… high.
Not like weed-in-the-back-of-his-van-high, or drunk-on-the-roof-at-2am high. More like, his blood's been replaced with helium. Like he’s drifting sideways through his own life, watching it unfold from just above his body.
“Yeah, well. You deserve it.” He swallows, nodding.
Your head tilts. A curious softness in the gesture, like you’re trying to see him clearer.
“Eddie.”
His eyes flick up to you like they’re tethered—pulled without question, without thought.
Your eyes are all soft light and velvet shadow. Shimmering with something he can’t name. He doesn’t want to, not right now. He’s happy just sitting in it. Letting it soak into his skin.
“I asked Steve ‘cause I knew you’d help him pick something good. Something thoughtful.”
His brain skips, like a scratched record, stuck on Steve, stuck on the gift. That gift.
It’s probably somewhere upstairs right now. Tucked away in your bedside table. And thoughtful isn’t exactly the word he would’ve used, not for that, but you’d always been generous with him in ways he never fully understood. Gentle where he braces for rough edges.
“But honestly… I just wanted an excuse to ask you without really asking you, you know?”
Your eyes are steady, but the edges of your smile are different now. Shy, unsure.
Eddie blinks. He’s pretty sure he understood maybe three of the words that just came out of your mouth. The rest are caught in the spin cycle.
“Uh huh.” He nods.
Then has to fight the sudden, almost feral urge to shake his head like a wet dog— rattle some clarity loose—and settles instead on an uneven exhale.
“Can I um… can I just ask why?”
Your brows pinch. “Why?”
He nods. Doesn’t say the rest out loud, but they thrash around in his skull, louder than ever: Me.
Why me?
But that’s not how you take it.
“Well, because you’re important to me. To us.” You start, fingers curled loosely in your lap. “And I didn’t want to scare you off. Or creep you out.”
Eddie’s throat goes painfully tight. He’d laugh if he wasn’t one minor emotional shift away from sobbing.
“And we weren’t trying to mess with you, I’m sorry if it felt that way.” You smile, lips tight with apology. Then you exhale, looking at your lap as if the next words are a little heavier.
“It’s just, it felt like we’ve been circling around something for so long, and tonight… it’s like we finally found the same rhythm. You know?”
The words land like a weight on his chest.
He nods, but finds himself unable to meet your gaze after that. Not after you’ve so eloquently given voice to something he’s always known, but never dared to name.
Eddie feels twelve again. Stuck in a grown-up conversation armed with nothing but sarcasm and the urge to fidget.
You’re speaking in full, articulate sentences. Like an adult. Emotional literacy and shit.
And he’s… uncharacteristically quiet. Frozen.
His gaze trails toward the kitchen, unbidden.
Where the fuck was Steve? Brewing the beer from scratch?
And the silence presses back in, thick and slow like fog, until:
“You don’t have to say anything right now,”
Your voice cuts instantly through the haze—soft, understanding. Always.
“We just wanted you to know.”
You shift back on your haunches, hands loose in your lap. Still close enough that he can smell your perfume—something sweet and warm and sunlit. It clings to his nose like memory.
“It’s not that I don’t want….” His hands flutter helplessly, motioning vaguely at you, at the room, at the entire charged thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes.
“Fuck, I mean—I do. Want.”
He swallows, laughing because it’s so terrifyingly obvious once the words leave his mouth.
“I just never thought, I never even let myself think….”
“No, I get it. It’s a lot.”
You nod gently.
He just nods back.
The quiet stretches again. Wide and awkward and full of implication.
Eddie steals another glance toward the kitchen.
“He’s uh… he’s been gone a while, huh?”
You don’t even look. Just smile—crooked and knowing.
“Mmm. Has he?”
And oh.
Fuck, that tone.
Eddie Munson knows he’s going to die on your living room floor tonight. He just knows it.
He clears his throat. Fumbles for the beer that does not exist because Steve still hasn’t brought it.
And now his brain’s spinning out again. Swerving hard down the Steve-path.
Because you’re his girlfriend. Right?
You and Steve. That’s the rule. The boundary. The carved-in-stone given.
But—
We like you.
Not I.
We.
Two letters. Infinite implications. It’s maddeningly simple. Boundlessly complex.
“Hey, is Steve …” he hesitates, then pushes through. “Is he like, okay with this?”
You blink, brows drawn, and for a second, he thinks he might’ve said something wrong. Crossed a line he didn't see.
But then your face shifts—eyes going soft, shoulders sinking.
You breathe, voice dipping into something almost reverent.
“Oh, Eddie, he’s—”
“—Okay!” Steve’s voice crashes into the room like a sitcom punchline, cheerful and a beat too loud. “Three beers, and a pack of Red Vines for the birthday princess.”
Eddie startles like he got caught doing something filthy with the door unlocked, distancing himself so fast he nearly topples over.
Immaculate timing, as ever.
Fucker.
There’s a shuffle—the thud of glass bottles dropping on the coffee table, the crinkle of candy being claimed. Steve’s humming something, stupid and off-key. And Eddie still can’t look up, because the sentence is just there, hovering between you like smoke that never got the chance to settle.
He’s… what? Steve’s what?
He hears the grin in Steve’s voice before he sees it. Oblivious or not, Eddie genuinely can’t tell anymore.
“What’d I miss?”
He's still reeling when you tilt your head, eyes on Steve but voice pitched like it’s meant only for Eddie:
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Steve just chuckles, unfazed, flopping down beside you on the rug.
“Alright, let’s see…” He sighs, squinting at his watch. “You’ve got another half hour of birthday immunity, give or take. What’s the plan, birthday girl?”
And for a second—just a second—you catch Eddie’s eyes.
Barely a flicker, but it lands like a live wire.
Something kicks in his chest. Hopeful. Idiotic.
And then you’re turning back to your boyfriend. All soft smiles and sunny warmth.
“Movie?”
...
The movie’s just barely started.
The Lost Boys was your pick, if you can believe it.
Yet the irony of a movie about found family and dangerous hunger and boys being seduced into joining something dark and powerful is lost on Eddie. Somewhere between the sticky heat in his chest and the echo of your voice saying, ‘We like you, Eddie. Both of us.’
Onscreen, the boardwalk is alive—neon lights and slow-moving danger. Echo & The Bunnymen warble through your TV speakers, singing about how People Are Strange, and Eddie’s thinking yeah, no shit, because he’s supposed to be watching the screen instead of cataloging the way your leg is pressed against his.
Warm, solid. Intolerably there.
The movie’s only about ten minutes in.
Not enough time for the vampires to make their move.
Plenty of time for something else to sink its teeth in.
The coastal town of Santa Carla sways onscreen—slow pans over leather jackets, sunglasses at night, a carousel bathed in red and gold. The whole place feels like it’s waiting for something awful to happen.
But all that exists somewhere far away now, muffled and distant.
Because Eddie’s brain is very, very much in the room.
And that room is warm.
Your thigh—your thigh—is pressed against his. Not brushing. Pressed.
The denim over his leg is old and worn soft and doesn’t do a damn thing to buffer the warmth bleeding through the fabric. You shift—just a little—but it’s enough to make it worse. Or better. He can’t tell.
Your couch is way too big for this much proximity to mean nothing.
He’s on one side, Steve’s on the other—you’re in the middle. And Eddie is just itching to fidget because all that tension from before has rapidly coiled up under his skin, humming like a live wire.
He gnaws religiously on the Red Vine you’d handed him a while ago. It tastes like plastic and fake raspberry, but it’s something to do with his mouth.
Somewhere to his left, Steve exhales. A long, soft breath.
And then, something shifts in Eddie’s periphery.
A motion. A shape. A hand.
He tries not to look.
Fails, spectacularly.
Because he’s been looking.
Again and again, stealing greedy little glances when he thinks neither of you are paying attention. On the slope of your neck, the way your hair’s mussed just so. The curve of your bare thighs. Your shirt—Steve’s, Eddie is sure of it now—slipping off one shoulder, collar pulled wide.
And a glint of something silver at your wrist—another one of his gifts, he’s just now realized.
A little charm bracelet Steve coaxed him into buying for last year’s Secret Santa. Elbowed his ribs at a random mall kiosk, saying ‘C’mon, man, she’ll love it. Look—tiny guitar. That’s you. It’s perfect.’
Eddie had bought it, wrapped it, forgotten it.
But now, it gleams in the TV light like a secret you’ve been carrying around this whole time.
And it hits him—like freight cars slamming into one another—
Had he really been that fucking oblivious?
His brain scrambles to piece it together, clawing through memories.
Signs. There were signs.
Too many now, in hindsight.
Like that time he came down with a brutal fever and you spent three nights straight on his crappy couch, pressing cool towels to his forehead while Wayne was at work, refusing to leave even when Eddie begged you to go home.
Like the way you just get him, sometimes, in a way no one else does. Could read him like a dog-eared book—the restless hands, the bouncing knees, the way his voice gets louder when his head gets worse. You recognize the difference between silence and withdrawal. When to ask. When to wait.
You let him steal the cherries off your milkshakes, laughing even as you cringe, always offering him the first sip.
And your hands—god, your hands—constantly on him in passing.
Playing with his rings. Tucking curls behind his bandana.
(Wrapping tight around his back that night he told you about his mom.)
Casual. Always casual. But never meaningless.
Not now—not in retrospect.
And Steve—Steve had to know.
Had to see it long before Eddie did.
The glances. The soft grins. The way he’d gently step back whenever you drifted closer to Eddie.
Like on the lake trip, when you got a headache and you asked Steve if Eddie could keep you company in the back of his van.
Or by the fire, when you slumped against Eddie’s shoulder and Steve just pulled the blanket higher around both of you.
Or that long, late-night drive to Ann Arbor, where Steve stretched out in the backseat and let the two of you talk for hours, smiling at nothing like he wasn’t even there.
And then—Christ—the vibrator.
That should’ve been the flashing neon sign.
Steve asking his help with something that personal, that intimate.
Except, no, you were the one who’d brought it up.
You'd asked.
And Eddie might’ve kept spiraling—might’ve sunk even deeper, haunted by the tone of your voice just before Steve had returned to the room—Oh, Eddie, he’s…
If not for the hand.
Steve’s hand.
Hovering over your thigh.
Fingers sketching slow, familiar circles just above your knee.
It isn’t overt. Isn’t even sexual.
It’s lived-in. Earned.
And it knocks something loose in his chest. This silent, wordless longing.
To know. To trust. To be trusted.
And god, he wants it. Wants in. Wants to be wrapped in that quiet kind of ease.
The bracelet—his bracelet—flashes again as you drift toward Steve’s hand, stroking the back of it with your thumb.
And Eddie watches.
Mouth full of sugar. Chest full of everything he never lets himself want.
It sears into him like hot iron.
He hates himself for how much he wants.
So much that he doesn’t even notice neither of you are watching the movie anymore.
He’s just about to look away, when—
“Eddie.”
Steve’s voice.
Low. Even.
His name, wrapped in velvet.
Eddie startles like he’s been caught stealing. Looks up—
Two pairs of eyes on him, steady and patient.
He blinks. “Yeah?”
Steve doesn’t move his hand from your thigh. You don’t stop stroking it.
Eddie wants to say something. Ask something. Define something. But every possible sentence feels like a trap.
Then—
“Do you want to kiss her?”
The movie plays on. Something explodes onscreen—sudden light flaring across your cheek, your lashes, your lips.
And Eddie stares.
At you. At Steve.
The question hums in the air, simple and devastating.
His chest aches.
“I—”
The pressure builds, tidal and huge. His mouth is dry. His hands are slick.
You’re looking at him now.
Smiling.
Small, steady. Like you already know the ending. Like you’ve just been waiting for him to catch up.
It knocks something loose inside him. Or maybe something collapses instead—a scaffold of doubt, years of practiced deflection. A lifetime of pretending he shouldn’t want this. Doesn’t need it.
It gives way, all at once.
He swallows.
“Yeah.”
He’s leaning in before the word’s done leaving his mouth. Falling like gravity’s shifted.
And you’re there to catch him.
With your hand tucked under his jaw, he kisses you with a desperate kind of reverence—lips trembling, hunger barely contained. Your fingers slip beneath his collar, and Eddie lets out a low, broken sound into your mouth, something wrecked and grateful.
You taste like the Red Vines—cheap raspberry and sugar—but somehow infinitely better. Sticky-sweet and artificial in a way that makes his head swim. Like carnival candy. Like frosting off your fingers. Like something he could live off of.
Heat unfurls low in his spine, his heart pounding like a kick drum.
You pull back first, just enough to breathe.
Eddie blinks. Wide-eyed. Dazed. His lips still parted.
“Okay?” you whisper.
He nods. Swallows.
“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah. Fuck.”
You laugh, brushing your nose against his.
Behind you, Steve makes a sound—something like a breath, or a laugh—barely audible over the blood rushing past Eddie’s ears.
“Fuck, that was…” Eddie hears him murmur, voice rough.
But he barely has time to react before you’re leaning in again, smiling like you just can’t help it.
And Eddie—he’s gone. Absolutely, irreversibly gone.
He exhales into your mouth, dizzy with it, chasing the warmth of your lips. His hand’s resting on the hem of your shirt, curled against the fabric, not quite sure what to do with itself now that he’s here.
And then—he feels it.
Steve’s hand, sliding over his.
Not stopping. Not directing.
Just joining. Mirroring.
Two palms moving as one, gliding up your thigh, over your hips, to your waist.
Eddie shudders from the sheer presence of it.
And then, without a word, you lift your arms.
Both hands move—synchronized without meaning to—sliding your shirt up and over. Your bra slips down your shoulders, falling off easily.
Eddie pulls back, breathless, his hands back to hovering uselessly at his sides.
But you catch them. Curl your fingers around his wrists and bring him back to you.
“Here,” you murmur, guiding him up your stomach, the soft swell of your breasts, stopping just beneath your collarbone. “You don’t have to be careful.”
But he wants to be.
Wants to learn the topography of your body like a hymn. Every dip and scar, every breath you take under his hands—it’s all scripture.
Steve leans in from behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder. His eyes flick up, meeting Eddie’s over your skin—steady, quiet, full of something unsaid. Steve’s thumb rubs where it rests against the side of your neck, but it’s Eddie who shivers.
You lean down again, kissing him like it’s second nature now—deeper, eager to explore.
He feels you tug gently at the hem of his shirt, and he lets you, barely noticing as the fabric slips off and falls behind the couch.
Yet, when you pull back to look at him, he drops back into his body, and his gaze skitters upward, fixed on the ceiling.
Trying to escape your eyes. Trying not to brace.
Because he doesn’t have to look down to know what you’re seeing.
The uneven ridges along his sides, warped pale lines that shimmer faintly in the dim light—angry still, at certain angles. A map of old pain he sometimes wakes up tangled in, gasping, soaked in sweat and not quite sure where he is.
But you don’t pause.
You don’t recoil or pity or pretend not to see. You just lean in, lips brushing over the tender hollow above the worst of it—like it’s nothing. Like it’s yours.
Then another. And another. Slow as liturgy, your mouth dragging reverent paths along the broken terrain.
By the time your knees meet the rug and your hands bracket his thighs, his chest is flailing like he’s remembering how to breathe again.
And when his eyes flutter open, instinct drives his gaze just past you, toward Steve.
Kneeling behind you, shirtless, golden skin awash in amber lamp light.
And Eddie sees it—that faint scar curling along his friend’s side. Smaller, smoother—but the same shape.
A mirror. A matching wound. A quiet tether.
Something shared.
A knot cinches tight behind Eddie’s ribs.
You reach for his hand then, fingertips gliding over his knuckles in little figure eights.
“Eddie,” you murmur, “is this still okay?”
He swallows, nodding before his voice catches up.
“Yeah,” He breathes. “God—yeah. Please.”
You smile, mouth finding him through denim, a warm press over his thigh, then another kiss at the edge of the waistband. You work his jeans open with practiced grace, brushing over him just enough to steal his breath.
And god, he’s already so hard. Has been for a while. But under your fingers, he feels real—naked, flushed, thick and leaking as you wrap your hand around him. You stare up—mouth parted, lashes kissing your cheek—utterly serene. It’s just not fucking fair.
“So pretty,” you murmur, lips ghosting over the head of his cock.
Beside you, Steve doesn’t miss a beat.
“Told you.”
The sound Eddie makes in response is barely human.
His head hits the back of the couch with a dull thud. Curls catching on the cushions, chest stuttering like he might come from just this. He can’t even hide it—how hard he’s trying not to blow his load with just your fingers around him, hearing you and Steve talk about his cock like it’s been the subject of your weeknight dinner conversations.
You smile, soft, pleased, as you lower your mouth and take him in.
Wet heat. Slow suction. Tongue circling the tip, then dragging along the underside until his hips jump and his thighs tremble. He tries not to move—god, he tries—but your nose brushes his pelvis and he thrusts up without meaning to.
“Sorry—fuck—Jesus fucking Christ…”
Steve laughs quietly, brushing your hair off your cheeks, eyes trained on Eddie.
“Good, huh?”
Good doesn’t even begin to touch it. No word could ever come close.
This is surreal. This is ruin. This is you, and Steve, and him, in a reality that should’ve collapsed under the weight of itself.
You pull off with a soft pop, spit stringing from your lips to the flushed head of his cock. Eddie stares, undone—until you turn to the side, pressing your mouth to Steve’s.
And what follows is something so utterly carnal it knocks whatever breath is left inside him.
Steve, devouring you, in the most obscene, open-mouthed, spit-slick kiss Eddie’s ever seen in his life. All tongue and teeth and unrelenting desperation. The kind that makes his skin prickle with the shame of watching.
Steve kisses you like he’s starved. Like the only salvation is to swallow you whole.
Eddie’s heart is trying to climb out of his chest. He strokes himself helplessly, slick and twitching against his palm. His gaze slides lower, watching Steve’s fingers slip under your shorts, moving with lazy precision. You match him, palming him through the soft cotton of his boxers.
“So good, baby,” Steve murmurs against your tongue. “Looked so pretty with him in your mouth.”
You shiver at his praise, and Eddie watches something in you unravel. Eyes turning glassy as you go boneless in Steve’s arms.
Eddie’s never seen anyone melt so completely—soft and willing—as you do in that moment.
“Wanna ride him, Steve,” you whimper.
Eddie chokes on his own spit, fingers strangling the base of his cock.
Shit, not now, not yet, please, god.
Steve’s grin is wild and loving. “Yeah? Why don’t you ask him nicely.”
Your head turns, eyes wide and shining.
“Eddie… can I?”
And what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?
He’d let you carve your name into his ribs if you asked. Rip his heart out with your teeth. Hollow him out and crawl inside.
He nods so hard it rattles his brain, curls flying like rain off a dog.
“Fuck—yes. Please.”
You beam, lips shiny with spit as you go to kiss Steve again—one last, filthy, lingering thing—before you shimmy out of your shorts and climb into Eddie’s lap.
A condom. A flick of your wrist.
And then you're sinking down onto him like the world’s tilting off its axis.
Inch by inch.
Hot and tight and unrelenting.
He nearly whites out just from the way you suck him in, hands coming to grip your hips like he’s drowning.
“Holy shit,” he pants. “Fuck—fuck—”
You bottom out with a breathy moan, then start to move.
Rolling. Rocking. Deep and deliberate.
Eddie can’t think. Can’t breathe. His body’s one giant nerve ending, and you’re strumming every note.
And then the couch dips.
Steve—climbing up beside him, kneeling, one thigh brushing against Eddie’s shoulder. His cock—long, flushed, slick with arousal—hangs heavy between his legs. His hand wraps around it lazily, stroking once.
Eddie stares. Can't not.
Flushed to the root, veins thick and swollen, a pearled gleam beading at the tip as Steve’s thumb drags over the head, tracing slow circles.
Eddie’s cock jumps inside your heat.
He doesn’t even know how he’s still breathing.
Your tits are bouncing with every roll of your hips. His shaft’s locked inside your wet, perfect heat. And Steve’s cock is right there, close enough that if he just turned his head—
“Fuck. Look at her, Munson.”
Steve’s voice sounds from above, rough with worship.
Eddie looks.
You're ruinous. Damp hair clinging to your temples, lips parted, eyes glazed with heat. Every thrust wrings a ragged gasp from your lips.
You look like a vision. A dream. Like one of those cruel, too-lucid things his brain conjures up when he’s had too much sugar or not enough sleep.
“Yeah? Is that good?” Steve croons, hand sliding up to cradle your cheek.
You moan, head thrown back. “So good, Stevie.”
Eddie nearly laughs, dizzy with déjà vu—he sees the ghost of you in Steve’s lap, licking frosting off your fingers while he feeds you cake.
“Tell him, baby,” Steve murmurs. “Tell him how good he’s making that pussy feel.”
Your voice breaks into a tight cry. “So good, Eds—gonna—ah, right there, fuck!”
Then Steve’s hand finds Eddie’s, guiding him to the apex of your thighs.
Presses his fingers against your clit and murmurs close to his ear.
“She likes it soft at first,” He smiles, brushing your hair back. “Then a little faster. Yeah, that’s good. Like that.”
You sob when Eddie moves the way he’s told.
Steve palms your tits, pinching and circling your nipples until you’re screaming both their names—tangled syllables, desperate gasps, punched-out groans.
“I’m—’m close—”
Steve kisses your shoulder. “Let go, baby.”
But it’s Eddie you collapse into—body tipping forward until your forehead’s pressed into the hollow of his neck, mouth open against his skin, breaths hot and ragged.
Your hips stutter.
Erratic. Desperate.
And he feels it. The exact moment you come undone.
The way your walls clamp down on him—tight, fluttering, rhythmic—every squeeze a full-body shockwave. You pulse around his cock like you’re trying to drag him down with you, and Eddie feels everything. Every twitch. Every tremor. Every slick, perfect moment of your orgasm thrumming through you.
You’re whimpering into his neck, his name tangled in your breath—choked, half-formed.
“Ed—oh my god—Eddie—”
And he loses it.
His hips buck up helplessly—once, twice—then he’s spilling into the condom with a violent, full-body shudder. His head falls forward on a groan, curls damp against his temples, sweat stinging his eyes.
His entire world narrows to your breath against his throat, the slick heat wrapped around him, and Steve’s low murmurs filling the space in between—Yeah, just like that, come on his cock, baby. Let him have it, good girl. So fuckin’ pretty, keep going, don’t stop—all the while you’re groaning—Eddie, Eddie, Eddie—and Eddie’s body is going nova.
White heat lances through him, vision fracturing into shards of light, spinning behind his eyelids—bright and silent and dizzying.
Then everything goes weightless.
When the haze finally lifts—when the stars behind his eyes begin to fade and the world tilts gently back into place—
You’re still in his lap, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and divine, jerking Steve off with slow, sure strokes. Hand wrapped tight around the length of his cock, thumb dragging circles over the swollen head.
And Steve—
He’s bracing himself with one arm behind Eddie’s head, knuckles white where they dig into the cushion. His other hand is clenched tight by his own thigh.
He’s flushed. Glowing.
His leg presses hot and solid into Eddie’s shoulder. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts as he pants through his teeth, mouth parting in a helpless groan.
“Fuck,” He rasps. “Just like that, baby—gonna—ah, fuck—”
And then he’s coming. Twitching violently in your hand, thick ropes spilling across your chest, catching on your sternum, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts.
One long, glistening ribbon arcs lower.
Lands hot across Eddie’s stomach.
He blinks.
Something lodges in his throat. His breath stutters.
He should flinch. Should look away. Should feel something more awkward than the sharp, white-hot ache that curls in his gut.
Steve’s face is tilted skyward, jaw slack, eyes fluttering half-shut. The muscles in his neck pulled taut, cords shifting beneath gleaming skin as he pants through the aftershocks, hips rocking into your fist.
The sound he makes—a low, broken exhale, almost a whimper—burns straight through Eddie’s ribs.
There's a glow to him in the lamplight. Not soft, not like yours.
Sharper. Hard light kissing the angles of his face—the cut of his throat, the ridge of his nose, flickering at his Adam’s apple when he swallows.
His cock—ruddy and wet in your hand—twitches once more before it begins to soften.
His lashes tremble when he blinks. His lips part again.
And Eddie watches it all.
The ripple of Steve’s stomach as he exhales.
The faint tremor in his biceps as his arm drops from the cushion and ghosts down to your hip.
Watches the way Steve drags a shaky hand through his hair, messing it up, then exhales a laugh, dazed and half-lidded.
You giggle blissfully, dragging a finger through the mess on your chest without shame. Then you melt into Eddie’s side, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, hand still loosely cradling the base of Steve’s cock.
And still, Eddie doesn’t look away.
Not when Steve shifts, just slightly, thigh brushing Eddie’s arm again, hot against his skin.
Not when he feels that stripe of come on his stomach begin to cool.
Not when Steve finally glances down—face flushed, blinking unevenly—and catches Eddie staring.
He smiles.
Quiet, warm. Boyish in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach tighten.
“You alright, Munson?"
Eddie swallows. Tries for a nod. Manages something that might pass for a grin.
“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, I—uh.”
His voice cracks. You laugh gently into his shoulder.
“Don’t think I’ve ever felt more alright.” He manages eventually, rough and breathless.
Steve chuckles, shifting closer. The heat of him presses almost fully along Eddie’s side.
He lifts a hand, hovering mid-air for a second before settling on Eddie’s shoulder, warm and solid. His thumb presses in as he squeezes lightly.
“Good.”
...
The room settles into a soft, weighted silence.
Breaths even out. Shared heat fades slowly from skin.
The movie plays on, muted and distant.
You're still tucked into Eddie’s side, cheek resting against his shoulder. Steve’s hand lingers low on your calf, tracing absent-minded shapes.
Eddie’s still catching up. Mind fogged, muscles aching in the sweetest way. His stomach is cooling where Steve’s come cut a clean line across him.
He feels stretched thin and overflowing all at once, vibrating from the echo of you, of Steve. The whole impossible weight of what just happened and what it might mean.
You stir softly in his lap, pressing a warm kiss to the side of his jaw.
“We should clean up.”
From beside him, Steve laughs—soft and breathless, tired in that good, muscle-deep way.
“Not sure if I can get up right now. My legs feel like fucking Jell-O.”
You snort softly, shooting back a comment about how he wasn’t even the one riding, but Eddie’s only half-listening—his gaze pulled sideways, fixed on Steve.
He’s slouched into the corner of the couch, legs sprawled wide, one elbow hooked behind him. Cock soft and flushed against his thigh. He looks completely wrecked in that slow, satisfied way.
Your thumb under Eddie's jaw brings him back, and when he looks up, you’re already watching him. All soft smiles and sunny warmth.
“You’ll stay the night, right?”
It’s soft. Uncomplicated. But it lands heavy anyway.
His mouth goes tight with I shouldn’ts. All the usual noise rushes in—jokes, escape routes, some half-formed line about overstaying his welcome—but none of it lands. It all feels too thin for this moment.
Because under the usual static of reflexive backpedaling, there’s something quieter. An ache, maybe. Or a kind of stillness he hasn’t felt in a long time. And now that it’s here, it feels impossible to ignore.
He glances between you and Steve—still close, still steady—and something in him unknots.
He lets out a shaky breath.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
...
The shower is chaos.
Someone drops the loofah, twice. Shampoo runs into Steve’s eye. Eddie knocks a razor off the ledge with his elbow and nearly takes out your knee trying to pick it up.
And there’s something ridiculous about it—three people trying to fit into a space made for one. Maybe two, at most.
No one is smooth. No one looks particularly sexy. It’s all dripping hair and half-laughed apologies, skin slipping against skin at awkward angles.
But still—no one’s in a rush to leave.
Eddie doesn’t say much through most of it. Not withdrawn, just observant, tracing the curve of your spine as you rinse your hair, watching Steve’s profile through the fogged glass.
Because he still doesn’t know what any of this is.
Half-floating, half-splitting apart in his own head, trying to find footing in something that doesn’t come with a rulebook.
You bump his hip on the way out of the shower. Steve hands him a towel without looking.
And his mind keeps drifting. Snags on a look, a breath, the ghost of Steve’s hand against his. Things unspoken, unshaped.
No clean lines. No straight edges.
Getting into bed is barely more graceful than the shower.
You mutter something about cold sheets and dive first under the blanket, dragging the other two down with you.
There’s lots of shuffling and tangling of limbs. Steve’s arm ends up under your head. Your leg hooks over Eddie’s hip. It’s not coordinated or planned—but somehow, it fits.
The room hums with leftover warmth. Damp hair. Soft exhales. The smell of clean skin and whatever detergent you use on your sheets. Steve mutters something against the pillow and you answer without opening your eyes.
It’s all some insane, slow-dream version of a sleepover Eddie never had.
Domestic in a way that should feel foreign.
...
Eddie ends up staring at the ceiling for a long time.
His body aches in a good way. His mind aches in a different one.
Doing what it always does: turning corners, checking for exits.
Mapping the contours of this soft, strange place.
He wonders what it is you think you see when you look at him.
How Steve feels when he sees the two of you together.
He wonders if this is some beautiful, borrowed detour to an inevitable death.
Because there’s always a turn, eventually. Something waiting with teeth on the other side of the trapdoor. Eddie knows this. He’s lived too long in aftermaths to pretend otherwise.
Beside him, you’ve gone quiet against his shoulder. Breathing even, deep in sleep.
Steve isn’t—Eddie can feel it in the way his hand flexes where it rests against your waist.
Eddie turns his head, just enough. Finds soft-brown eyes on him in the dark.
Steve doesn’t say anything. Just looks. Then raises a brow, as if in question.
Eddie breathes. Offers him a small, lopsided smile.
Steve nods, eyes slipping shut, shifting to turn to the ceiling.
“’Night, Munson.”
Eddie’s lips twitch.
“’Night, Harrington.”
a/n: this was... almost too much i fear. the yearning, the bi-panic, i'm right there w/ eddie on the lucid dream thing.
i'm so curious to know what you guys think of this dynamic so far—lmk! ur sweet reblogs and comments keep me going + my inbox is always open :)
as always, thank you for reading <3
update: read pt. 3 here!
series masterlist // general masterlist
tag list: @mmmunson @micheledawn1975 @am0iur @gloomweed @yourgirlfriennd @catmomstyles3 @corrodedcorpses
i think we should be ridiculing them more for this. you don't get to try and go all "queer website" when your staff likes to go on nuking sprees targeting the trans fem users
would be remiss not to mention that the rainbow notably straight up just removed the trans flag colors from it. like they’re gone. it’s the progress flag minus the trans flag colors.
I think a lot of transmisogyny stems from this idea that people are really scared to see a dick. The reason bathrooms and locker rooms and hot springs keep being flash points is because these are all places where if a trans woman is using them, it's possible you might see her dick. A lot of transmisogynistic humor revolves around being traumatized because the subject saw a woman with a penis. And look, to a certain extent I sympathize. I'm not a fan of dick; I dont want this thing either. But if you want to be an ally to trans women, I think a big important step you can take personally is to examine your own reaction to the scenarios I described above, and recognize that a dick is just a body part a girl has sometimes. Seeing it as inherently sexual and/or traumatizing is a major wedge conservatives use to justify their rhetoric
Ik theres not that many Black people on here anymore, but it still baffles me how it seems like we be fighting for our lives on here every other week, and then when we bring up a scenario that rocked our community like the plague, people go "oh wow I hadn't heard of that".
So are there just, like, antiblack sharks just swimming around Black bloggers 😭 like we be going through all this and somehow the most hateful people find us, and yet somehow it doesn't even make ripples to everyone else 😭 are we in the Tumblr equivalent of the ghetto or something bc how does no one ever know what goes down. We in the thunderdome or some shit 😭
it's baffling to still see people be like "you can convince white conservatives to like socialism if you don't use buzzwords! and then work on racism later" in the united states. like yeah, it probably is really easy to convince people that having things is good. how are you going to convince them that the people they hate having things isn't a problem?
#any analysis of class issues in the us that doesn't take anti-black racism into account is a fairy tale#if you haven't come around to the fact that republicans hate black people more than they love god i don't know what to tell you
republicans hate black/brown/poor people with the white hot intensity of 10,000 suns
we are NEVER going to advance, make any progress, or get anything nice like other countries until white people actively dismantle racism. it's just never going to happen.
Remember when Lil Nas X beautifully explored his sexuality, seduced and killed the devil to the banger of all time, and instead of cheering on this openly gay and proud Black artist for his artistry and fighting back against respectability politics, suddenly said respectability politics was all the Queerest Place on the Internet cared about? Hm. Wonder what happened there.
Anyway I miss him and hope he's doing better with his mental health 🙏🏾
Yeah, I say fuck that bigoted noise. It's PRIDE MONTH FOREVER BABY!!! And the more I see bigots bitch and whine, the LOUDER and GAYER we're gonna be about it! Ooh, I tell ya, I have got the TIME to be an insufferable little queer this year! 🥰💜
pairing: steve harrington x eddie munson (x reader)
summary: “And I was thinking about… maybe getting her something, for her birthday. Just like… surprise her, y’know?”
And that. That stops Eddie cold.
Because he’s seen things—blood, rot, fangs, psychic carnage. Hell, literal Hell.
But nothing—not a single goddamn thing—could prepare him for the image of Steve Harrington wandering wide-eyed through a dingy sex shop in rural Indiana, trying to pick out a vibrator for his sweet little girlfriend.
warnings: 18+, discussions of sex toys/adult store, sexual fantasies, heavy pining, yearning, light angst, eddie's pov, period-typical internalized homophobia, bisexual!eddie, eddie's kind of a horndog in this one but still so so sweet, friends to lovers, eventual smut, eventual steddie x reader but reader is only mentioned in this one. title by berlin. series masterlist
It starts with a rumor, as most things do in Hicktown Central, Hawkins, Indiana.
Whispers turned into tales turned into legends, and before you know it, Eddie Munson can’t take a piss in the B-wing bathroom without hearing that damn story all over again.
Betty Callahan.
Now known exclusively—irrevocably—as Battery Betty.
A sophomore volleyball player with a college boyfriend and a neon scrunchie collection. Sent to the principal’s office on a random Tuesday for ‘behavior unbecoming.’ No one really knows what happened—just that it involved a locker, a hum, and some deeply repressed panic.
The rumor spreads like brush fire.
Tampon turned taser turned sex toy. Shame’s favorite game of Telephone.
By the time it reaches Eddie, the details are warped six ways to Sunday.
That a bullet vibrator buzzed to life during algebra. Fell out of her gym bag in the girls’ locker room and startled wriggling across the tile. Got lost between the bleachers and nearly gave Coach Walt another heart attack—poor bastard's already got a limp from the ’82 dodgeball incident.
Out of everything, Eddie will give that last one credit. It's got flair.
But he doesn’t dwell on it. Just tosses it to the burning pile of Hawkins-brand hysteria and moves on.
“Yeah. You know, that place with the cartoon pickle on the billboard?”
Steve Harrington’s voice floats over, casual as the breeze.
Eddie snorts, cracks open his soda with a sharp psssft.
“You mean the sex shop.”
Steve nods, sips. “Yeah. You been?”
“Couple times,” Eddie shrugs. “Used to deal to a guy who worked there. Freaky little dude with a lazy eye. Big into latex.”
Steve laughs, quiet.
“You know if he’s still there?”
Eddie lowers the can. Leans back against the railing like a cat sensing a storm front. Eyes him, slow.
“What’s this about, Harrington? You finally caving to the dark side?”
“No, just…” Steve huffs a laugh, reaches up to scratch the back of his neck—a tell.
“You uh… you hear about George Callahan’s sister?”
Oh. Oh no.
“Battery Betty?”
Steve nods. “Yeah. Just… the whole thing kinda got me thinking, you know?”
Oh, no.
Eddie lifts a delicate hand to his chest, all slow, theatrical scandal. His voice dips into velvet.
“Steven Harrington, are you propositioning me?”
He expects a laugh. Hell, wants one. Needs one. But Steve doesn’t bite. Doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he gives Eddie this look—curious, a little amused, head cocked like a golden retriever hearing jazz for the first time —and then glances away, grinning into the dirt.
“No, man. I’m serious. I’m trying to do something for my girlfriend. She heard about the whole thing and she’s been…”
Steve trails off with a half-laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
Fuck, it’s too hot for this. The cicadas are screaming.
Eddie licks his lips. “Ah, caught the little perversion plague, did she?” His fingers twitch. “It’s an epidemic, y’know. First sign of the apocalypse. That and Reagan getting re-elected.”
Steve chuckles, low and private, shrugging. His hands disappear into the front pockets of his jeans—too tight, always a little too tight.
“Yeah, well. Word really got around.”
A breath.
“And I was thinking about… maybe getting her something, for her birthday. Just like… surprise her, y’know?”
And that. That stops Eddie cold.
Because he’s seen things—blood, rot, fangs, psychic carnage. Hell, literal Hell.
But nothing—not a single goddamn thing—could prepare him for the image of Steve Harrington wandering wide-eyed through a dingy sex shop in rural Indiana, trying to pick out a vibrator for his sweet little girlfriend.
And then there’s the other part. The part Eddie wishes he could ignore even harder.
You.
God, you.
You, laughing into Steve’s neck while he fumbles with a gift bag behind his back, red to the roots and trying to act tough about it.
You, sprawled across his bed like a sin-drenched cat, lips bitten, eyes sparkling.
You, flushed and wrecked, Steve’s hand splayed over your stomach while the other holds something that whirs.
Fuck.
Goddamn it.
Eddie clenches his jaw. The soda hisses in his grip.
His lungs feel full of sand—hot, dry, impossible to breathe around.
Because he shouldn’t be thinking about it. He knows that.
But he is.
And it’s not just the filth—though, Jesus, that’s definitely there, loud and detailed and stupidly cinematic.
It’s the intimacy. The effort. Steve wanting to make you feel good, caring enough to ask.
And Eddie’s curiosity turns sharp. Hungry.
“So, what are you thinking?” he hears himself say, voice a shade too low. “Like a… starter kit?”
Steve’s face lights up. “Yeah, exactly.”
His smile is wide, boyish. Eddie’s head is pounding.
“Something fun, y’know? Something she’d actually be into. And maybe, like, something we could try together.”
We.
We.
Eddie’s pulse kicks like a mule.
You. Steve. Trying things.
He clears his throat, cracks his knuckles against his thigh like that’ll knock the image out of his head.
“Wow,” He plays it cool, because of course he does. Because Eddie Munson doesn’t rattle easy, not after Hell and teeth and gates and blood. “And they say romance is dead.”
That makes Steve blush. Pink blooming up his neck, right to the tips of his ears.
And Eddie waits for that usual flicker of something—amusement, maybe— that smug little thrill when he manages to get under someone’s skin.
But it doesn’t come.
Just weight—something heavy sitting low in his chest, twisted and hard to name.
He shifts uncomfortably, kicking a pebble with his toe to watch it skitter off the trailer steps, bouncing across metal.
From beside him, Steve’s voice floats back over.
“I was thinking about checking it out. See what they have. But, uh…”
He hesitates. Rubs the back of his neck again.
“… kind of feels like uncharted territory.”
There’s a pause. Heavy. Humming.
Then Steve lifts his gaze, infuriatingly steady, a slow smirk playing at his lips.
“You really gonna make me ask, Munson?”
Eddie Munson blinks.
Once. Twice.
The cicadas keep screaming. His soda fizzes in his palm, forgotten. It’s too hot for this.
And Eddie—poor, twisted, sharp-tongued Eddie—finds himself drowning in silence.
Mouth opening then shutting, useless as a landed fish.
He takes another swig, the prickle of metallic fizz doing absolutely nothing to shut up the noise in his head.
Steve's still watching. All easy elbows and sunlit forearms and that cocky half-grin that never quite hides how earnest he really is. Hair sticking to his temple, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt.
Like he didn’t just drop a conversational landmine and go right back to sipping his soda.
You really gonna make me ask, Munson?
Eddie’s knee bounces. He wants to claw his skin off. Or maybe throw himself directly into the sun. That’d be simpler.
He could say no.
He should say no.
You’re Steve’s girl. Steve, who fought beside him. Bled beside him. Who’s seen him—like, really seen him—and somehow still keeps coming back.
And with you, well, Eddie’s already too far gone to think clearly when it comes to you. The softest laugh. Eyes so bright they nearly burn. And the biggest heart Eddie’s ever known.
He also knows, deep down, that this is playing with fire—not the kind you brag about, not lighters, or stage pyros, or matchbooks behind the gym. No, this… this is the kind that could scorch everything if he’s not careful.
He runs a tongue over his teeth. Wipes a hand down his jeans, where the sweat’s sticking fabric to skin.
He should say no.
But his voice betrays him, always does.
“You sure you want my input?”
Steve tilts his head, brows drawn, like it’s the dumbest question he’s heard all week.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Eddie barks out a laugh—short, bitter, ugly. His rings clap against denim.
“Gee, I dunno, man. Maybe ‘cause you’re shopping for a birthday vibrator for your girlfriend, and I’m...”
He waves at the air around himself, trailer-park gasoline, but he’s not even sure what it’s supposed to mean.
Steve just snorts, undeterred. “Exactly. You’re the expert.”
He says it with a grin, but there’s no malice in it. None of the shit other people layer into that word.
Just seasoned, expert freak Eddie.
“You’ve got taste,” Steve adds, a little softer now. “And you don’t weird out easy. I figured you’d be honest with me. Help me pick out something she’ll actually like.”
He shrugs. Leans back like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not burning through every frayed wire in Eddie’s brain.
“And,” Steve adds, like it’s an afterthought, “I trust you.”
And that—that’s what does him in.
Not the shop. Not the toys.
Not even the unholy image of you moaning into Steve’s mouth while he shows you what he—they, fuck—bought.
It’s the way he says that. Like it’s just a fact. Like it’s always been true.
Eddie exhales. Looks down at his shoes, at the scuffed floorboards. Anywhere but at Steve.
His voice is quiet when it comes.
“…Yeah.” A pause. A swallow. Then:
“Yeah, okay. I’m in.”
And Steve smiles—god, he beams—like Eddie just agreed to help him move his couch.
“All right, Munson.” He pushes off the railing, stretches, dusts off his hands like this is all settled now. “We’ll swing by tomorrow? After Hellfire?”
Eddie nods. Just once. Tight.
“Cool. Later, man.” Steve nudges his foot against Eddie’s like a kid saying goodbye at recess, then hops down the trailer steps, whistling something breezy as he goes.
Eddie stays where he is.
His soda’s warm now. His shirt’s stuck to his back. The air’s thick with heat and cicada song and a thousand tangled thoughts he can’t quite name.
He shouldn’t think about it. About you. About the we.
But he is.
And he knows—he knows—he won’t be able to stop anytime soon.
He smirks into the lip of his can and drains the last sip, bitter and flat and nowhere near strong enough.
“Later, man.”
...
They pull up in front of the place just after seven.
The sign above the door reads THE VELVET PICKLE—a holdover from the billboard off the highway, complete with a smug little cartoon gherkin giving a thumbs up. Half the bulbs in Pickle are dead, so it just reads VELVET PI---E, like it's trying to be coy. A cherry-shaped neon light buzzes low overhead, red and tired.
Eddie slings the van into the lopsided parking spot, gravel crunching under his tires. The sky's bleeding out golden, streaked with wisps of pink and lavender. Neither of them has said a word since they turned off the main road.
Eddie cuts the engine, glances sideways.
“You ready, big boy?” he smirks, teeth sharp, ignoring the drumbeat pounding in his throat.
The entrance looks worse up close—blackout film peeling at the corners, and a laminated red sign that blares: NO RETURNS. NO EXCEPTIONS. DON’T ASK.
Eddie swallows as he pushes the door open, stepping into the blast of recycled air and fluorescent lighting.
The smell hits first: thick, stale—something between old rubber and dollar-store strawberry. The air conditioner wheezes overhead like it’s been smoking unfiltered Camels since '72. Swampy heat clings to the walls, and the dim red glow casts a sticky haze that makes everything feel vaguely pornographic, even the welcome mat.
A cardboard cutout of a nurse with D-cups and a 7-inch ‘thermometer’ greets them at the door, dead-eyed and faded.
Eddie whistles low. “Yep. Still classy.”
Steve steps in behind him, immediately knocking his elbow into a rotating rack of fishnet stockings and crotchless panties, the metal jangling like a wind chime in a haunted house.
“Shit.”
Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, turning to watch as Steve wrestles with a tangled pair of edible underwear.
He tries not to grin too hard. “You alright there, Harrington?”
Steve shoots him a look—half sheepish, half stubborn—hand stuffed back in those too-tight Levis, eyeing the mannequins by the door like they might start swinging their riding crops.
Eddie smirks. “Welcome to the jungle, baby.”
Inside, the shop is a claustrophobic maze, shelves so packed you have to sidle through. Old VHS pornos, glitter-labeled lube bottles. A bin near the front holds a bunch of novelty junk—fuzzy handcuffs, penis-shaped pasta, and a vibrating rubber duck that’s seen better days.
Eddie tries to walk like he owns the place. Not his first rodeo. Yet his heart is pounding so loud it feels like it could rip right out of his chest.
He eyes the guy at the register—new, definitely not Latex Larry.
This one looks like someone’s half-retired uncle; flannel rolled to the elbows, a pair of readers perched low on his nose as he flips through a wrinkled copy of Popular Mechanics. Doesn’t even glance up.
“Evening. Tuesdays are ten percent off if you don’t ask any questions.”
They move slowly past a shelf marked Couple’s Play—feather ticklers, leather cuffs, two dozen plugs in every color and shape you can imagine.
Steve briefly stalls in front of a black silk blindfold, fingers brushing the fabric.
“Think she’d be into this?”
Eddie’s mouth is instantly dry.
No, he’s fine. Shut up.
He raises a brow, deadpans: “Yeah, man. You’d look hot in it.”
Steve rolls his eyes. Eddie grins at the floor and keeps walking.
Then, they hit: The Wall of Dicks.
No other name for it—just rows and rows of dildos. Neon, glittery, shockingly pink. Others disturbingly realistic, veins and all.
Steve goes still, eyebrows somewhere in his hairline.
Eddie snorts—can’t help it.
If someone had told his fifteen-year-old self that one day he’d be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve Harrington, contemplating a rainbow array of synthetic dicks…
Yeah. That kid would’ve laughed himself into a coma.
Steve snorts quietly from beside him, then keeps on moving.
“Nope. Definitely not.”
Toward the back, things mellow a little. The lighting softens. Shelves are labeled Personal Massagers in soothing cursive—toys in sleek lines and pastels encased in transparent clamshells.
Eddie picks up a box and clears his throat. Drops his voice to baritone, smooth and ridiculous:
“Like a dentist,” Eddie shrugs, stone-faced. “Four out of five recommend this one in particular.”
Steve chuckles and leans in to scan the fine print, head tilted, mouth moving silently as he reads. There's a little crease between his brows that Eddie has zero business finding so endearing.
Steve flips the box over, then moves to the next shelf, picking up another toy and squinting at the label. His bottom lip catches between his teeth, and he makes this thoughtful humming noise under his breath that lodges itself squarely in Eddie’s chest.
He points something out on the packaging—something about battery life, maybe, Eddie doesn’t really hear it—then gives him this half-crooked grin, like they’re comparing crushes instead of, y'know, vibrators.
Eddie nods mutely.
His pulse is doing weird things. His mouth is dry again.
No, he is absolutely fine. Shut up.
Then Steve goes right back to browsing, eyes focused, curious. And just, comfortable in a way Eddie never quite is, even when he's trying his hardest.
His throat feels tight.
His heart’s thudding like it’s pressing up against the back of his teeth. His palms are drenched, and when he shifts, he realizes he’s been leaning in without noticing. Like gravity’s got ideas of its own.
No, he’s fine. He’s fine.
“So,” he says, too loudly, too fast, yanking himself back. “What’re we thinking, Romeo?”
Steve glances at him, then at the shelf. He rubs the back of his neck, expression gone a little soft. “Something simple, right?”
He bends slightly, scanning the lower row. Eddie’s eyes follow without permission. The denim of those too-tight jeans strains across his thighs and—yep, abort. Look away. Look literally anywhere else.
“What about uh…” Steve says, a little hesitant. His fingers turn the box over once, then back. “What about this one?”
It’s small. Lavender. Smooth silicone, soft matte finish with a gentle curve.
And the look on Steve’s face—focused, a little uncertain, lips pressed together like he’s waiting for approval—hits Eddie straight in the chest.
God, this guy.
If Eddie had a single working brain cell left, he’d say something smooth, something teasing.
Instead, he just stares, gaping like an idiot.
He clears his throat, desperate to push the air back into his lungs.
“Add it to the basket, Loverboy.”
Steve snorts and tosses him a look, bumping shoulders with him before moving past, and Eddie holds on for dear life.
On their way back, Steve lingers near the lube display. Bottles in all sizes, colors, flavors. Eddie makes the mistake of reading one labeled Glazed Donut Fantasy and physically recoils.
Steve notices and grins. “What, not a fan of dessert?”
“Not that kind,” Eddie mutters, ears going pink.
Steve picks up a cherry bottle. Holds it up between two fingers like a fine wine.
“This one’s safe, right?”
Safe. Like this is a normal, logical, harmless thing they’re doing together. Shopping. For lube.
Eddie tries to play it cool. His voice cracks: “Classic. Can’t go wrong.”
Steve nods and drops it into the basket next to the vibe.
That’s two. Two deeply compromising items in a basket that Eddie is now definitely holding more awkwardly than before.
And then—it happens.
Steve turns to look at something on a nearby shelf. Just turns. Stretches a little to reach for a different bottle, and the fabric of his polo shifts just enough to ride up over his hip, and Eddie catches the smallest flash of skin above the waistband of his jeans and—
Okay.
Okay.
He needs something.
A distraction. A shield. A miracle.
He reaches blindly and grabs the first thing within arm’s reach: a wrinkled old issue of Big Racks Quarterly with a glossy blonde on the front wearing nothing but whipped cream.
Steve turns back. Blinks.
“…Really?”
Eddie shrugs, real casual, slipping the magazine upright along the inside of the slotted basket.
“What? Research.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eddie does not—will not—explain that he needed something large, preferably eye-catching, and definitely boner-concealing between his hips and the world.
Behind the counter, Flannel Uncle is still buried in his magazine, barely lifting his eyes as they approach. When he does, it’s just a slow nod—like two guys carrying cherry lube and a vibrator and a porn mag is just business as usual.
Which, for him, it probably is.
“Need a bag?”
“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. Then, with slightly more dignity: “Please."
Steve stands beside him, hands in his pockets, bumping Eddie’s shoulder lightly as they wait for the total. Easy, casual—like someone who’s never had to hide a thing this obvious. This shameful.
Eddie doesn’t look at Steve. Can’t.
Just keeps his eyes on Steve's hands, instead, watching him slide crisp twenties across the counter. Follows the clerk’s fingers as he counts the change, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Outside, the heat clings thick and wet, pressing in like the air's trying to suffocate them for their sins. The paper bag under Steve’s arm rustles with every step, loud in the quiet.
And Eddie tries not to dwell on it. On any of it.
Partly for his dignity, partly for that deeply inconvenient problem growing in his pants, but mostly because… he can’t afford to.
Can’t afford to lean into it.
To mistake kindness for anything else.
Can't let himself think that he can, because hope is the thing that’ll burn right through, scorch him clean to the bone.
Like how, just before they left, the cashier winked and said, ‘Y’all have fun,’ and Steve didn’t laugh. Didn’t try to correct him, didn’t even blink. Just thanked him and moved on, and that scraped something raw and stupid in Eddie’s chest.
Or how, outside, Steve bumped his shoulder again—easy, playful—and Eddie had to light a cigarette just to keep his hands from reaching back.
Or how, once they were back in the van, windows rolled down, Eddie made some half-assed joke just to kill the silence, and Steve laughed.
A real laugh. Thrown-back-head, sun-in-his-teeth laugh.
And Eddie didn’t know what to do with the sound of it stuck in his ribs.
Didn’t know where to put it except somewhere deep where he knows it’ll bruise.
It all gets buried in the same place, eventually. Like when they ended up shoulder to shoulder at some greasy drive-through after, sharing fries from the same bag, and Steve didn’t flinch when Eddie accidentally handed him the milkshake by the straw instead of the cup—fingers sticky, too slow to let go. Just leaned in, drank deep, then made a face and declared his was better.
Like none of this shit was weird.
Normal.
And maybe it is. Maybe to Steve, it’s just another night.
Another friend. Another milkshake.
But to Eddie?
It’s a little too warm in his chest.
A little too close to something he’s not supposed to want.
So he focuses on the road, instead.
White-knuckling the greasy steering wheel, mind locked dead-ahead.
On the glow of streetlights blurring through the bug-splattered windshield. On the static-laced hum of the song on the radio, something low and clean and feel-good.
Steve probably knows it by heart.
Eddie doesn’t care for it. Never has.
Steve’s humming again—under his breath, off-key.
And Eddie keeps driving.
Tries not to turn and watch.
To let that warmth sink in too deep.
But damn if his eyes don’t keep drifting anyway.
a/n: and what started as an absolutely debauched steddie x reader idea has turned into, well... this. i hope you enjoyed. lmk ur thoughts! ur lovely comments and reblogs keep me going :)))
also, lmk if you'd want to be included on a taglist!
Written for the @steddiemicrofic May prompt ‘door’ | WC: 599 | Rating: E 18+ NSFW MDNI | CW: Voyeurism, exhibitionism, oral (f giving, m rec), masturbation (m), kink discovery, implied weed use | Tags: Pre-steddie, high school era | Summary: Eddie sells at Steve's sportsball team’s houseparty and receives an entirely unexpected bonus | A/N: We're straight into the smut under the cut folks 😉
Main masterlist | Steddie masterlist
“Oops, wrong door!”
The party’s been lucrative but that jock’s an asshole, this definitely isn't a bathroom.
Before Eddie can back out of what's obviously a bedroom, Steve looks over, smirking, gaze locking with Eddie's and ignoring the kneeling figure currently swallowing him down.
Eddie's frozen, entranced by the light hitting the curve of his ass, thighs jiggling as he thrusts his slick length past the girl’s full pout, the way he's grasping her dark, wavy ponytail. And Steve's the opposite of freaking out, eyes darkening and pace quickening. Moments later and without warning, he's whining, coming in the girl’s mouth, slack-jawed and brows furrowed, still more focused on Eddie than on her.
Eddie bolts, fleeing the party, his bladder and selling requirements be damned…
The next week Steve corners Eddie,
“Listen, I wasn't that into her, but having you look really… helped. And now it's all I can think about. Is that normal?”
Confused by Steve's familiarity but keen to seem knowledgeable, Eddie replies, airily,
“Yeah, that's totally a thing. It's called exhibitionism.”
“Soooo, how do I know if I have it? Can you help me?”
Eddie could hardly refuse, his previous fantasies about so many similar scenarios numbering into the hundreds. So, he finds himself on Steve's bed, both of them modestly high, with an unobstructed view of his hardened cock and swollen balls. Eddie’s trembling, incredulous, but also so goddamned focused, determined to memorise every exquisite detail. Steve's broad, hair-covered chest, his tense abs, how his dick curves, the colour of his flushed head, the way he uses his hand, and, not least, the size of him. Jeezus.
Steve's clearly enjoying it, cock blurting precum and balls tightening. But he wanted self-discovery, so Eddie encourages verbal confirmation.
“How is it, having someone watch you?”
“Shit, it’s so fucking hot!”
Steve whines, throws his head back. Eddie palms himself, mentally pocketing this visual too, before another reappears: Plump lips. Long, dark hair. And… wait, was that a leather jacket? Mouth engaging before his brain, his stoned thoughts tumble out.
“Steve, the girl at the party. She looked a bit… like me. Is it my mouth you want wrapped around your dick?”
Steve babbles, semicoherent,
“Fuck, yes! I watched you all night, wanted t’take you upstairs. Even asked Patrick to send you to my room, but I thought you weren't comin’. I've wanted you for so long Eddie, need your cock down my throat, wanna fuck you ‘til you scream, and I think you want me too if that hog you're stroking is for re-eal. Ohh-shi-shiiiii–!”
Surprising them both with his speed and ferocity, Steve comes with loud grunts, spurting his hot release high over his stomach and hand. Eddie can't believe what he's seeing, storing the images and sounds away with everything else, and hoping against hope that the latter covered his own barely-contained whimper.
Dizzy and dazed, he’s vaguely aware of Steve panting and cursorily cleaning himself up. Bashful, he readies to leave, adjusting his fully-hard cock in his jeans, certain this was just a fantasy that Steve wanted to live out.
But suddenly, his world upends. Steve’s leaning over him, pressing him into the mattress, straddling his thighs and grappling with his belt and zipper. His confused mumbling is truncated as Steve lunges down, tongue pushing past teeth and tangling with his own before he withdraws, still breathless. Eddie thinks he might be dreaming, but no, Steve's eyes are too feral and intense, and his voice is low and commanding as he rumbles,
“Take your clothes off, Munson. We're having our own fuckin’ party now…”
Happy Pride Month everybody! I hope everyone (myself included) is as loudly and openly queer as possible this year. I also plan to reblog at least one queer fic per day during this month, as well as publish my own fic that you all voted on! I love all my LGBTQIA+ family, friends, and fellow humans to the ends of the earth. Never change, never apologize, never back down. In these uncertain times, all we have is each other 🏳️🌈💜
Happy pride month to everyone who's still figuring themselves out, and happy pride month to those who aren't in a safe space to do so just yet. You're still just as valid <3
hippiegoth97's Fanfic Archive @hippiegoth97 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
