@marismorar - Tumblr Blog

Got real long and smutty after the cut....

Inspired by @nancywheelesbian's post:

Steve asking Eddie to spar/wrestle with him while fully expecting them to fuck at the end because the locker room taught him that’s how guys show interest. Meanwhile halfway through Eddie’s like. Why is he hard.

Steve had a plan. And yeah, he’d had this plan for weeks, but whatever. He’s going to do it this time. He’s no chicken. He’s decided he’s not letting his…shall we say, hesitation. Get in his way this time. Not today. Not while he’s somehow managed to corner Eddie, alone, at the lake, on the hottest day of the summer so far. Not while Eddie has been in fucking swim trunks and a t-shirt all day. A t-shirt that’s obviously ancient and too small and torn in places that keep making Steve’s mouth water. Like under the left armpit. Or the mouth-sized hole on his right shoulder.

Steve isn’t stupid. He knew that this shirt would probably not make most people’s attention wander. Can admit that the tiny sliver of hair that is revealed every time Eddie’s arms go above his head is probably not enticing enough for this inability to act that he’s been dealing with for the last hour. But that’s the entire point, isn’t it? He knows what’s happening here. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been attracted to a dude. He can handle this. Queue the fucking plan, god dammit.

The plan was simple; it was tried and true. It had always worked during his locker-room trysts. The hookups he’d managed all the way through high school with no one any the wiser. This plan had landed him blow jobs, hand jobs, and frotting (and everything in between) for four years without even creating the whisper of drama or rumours. Because The Plan was usually foolproof, easy to execute, and easy to flee from.

He’d attempted several other things first, just to get Eddie to understand the goal. He was pretty sure that he didn’t want the locker room version of Eddie. Well. No. He wanted that. He just wanted…the rest of it too. Confusingly. So he’d done his level best. Had tried almost every other thing in the Steve Harrington playbook. But nothing seemed to work. Eddie seemed incapable of wanting Steve in return. And most sane people would have given up by now. He would probably have given up by now.

Except.

Every time he catches Eddie staring at him when he thinks Steve isn’t looking, there’s such a hunger in those stupidly large brown eyes that Steve’s stomach melts to his feet. When Eddie bumps into his shoulder to make some sort of punchline land, Steve is not imagining that lingering touch and the heat between them. He isn’t.

At least. He doesn’t think so.

He physically shook himself off to get his head back in the fucking game, which earned him a little quirked smile and a puzzled expression that Steve really could have lived off of for the next five years if given half a chance.

Eddie’s hair was still damp, though he’d pulled it out of the ponytail it had been in in a futile effort to keep it somewhat dry, and now the ringlets that were forming at the base of his neck were so much tighter than the rest of his curls. His shirt was back on because they’d eaten a literal picnic he’d brought, full of juice boxes and poptarts and homemade crustless sandwiches that he’d produced from a cooler bag after they’d finally gotten out of the lake.

It was infuriating. Eddie Munson was fucking infuriating. He was hilarious and confusing, equal parts exhausting and addictive; he was hot, but such a dork, and he didn’t seem to know that either thing was true. And Steve had never, literally ever, wanted anyone so bad.

He shoved Eddie in the shoulder. Part one, complete. Steve laughed as Eddie shoved him back.

“Hey,” Steve said, rough and low. “Bet I could take you.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading slow across his face like he’d just been handed something he didn’t know he wanted. “Take me where, Harrington?”

“In a fight. A real one.” Steve rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck. Showed off a little, maybe. He’d been doing that a lot lately and he was starting to think it might be a problem. “You and me. Right here. No rules.”

“Okay, first of all, there are always rules—”

“No rules,” Steve repeated, and shoved him a third time, which was probably pushing it, but Eddie just crumpled a bit and laughed, and that laugh did something stupid to Steve’s chest cavity.

Eddie looked him up and down in a way that was probably meant to be sizing him up for a fight and was absolutely not doing that. This time, when Steve checked him, he put his weight into it, catching Eddie off-balance enough that he fell to the side, bare feet kicking up sand. Eddie’s eyes went wide for a second. He was surprised, maybe, but not angry, and then that grin was back, the one that split his face in half and made Steve’s chest do something embarrassing.

“Oh, you wanna go, Harrington?” Eddie announced, standing quickly, nimbly.

“Yeah,” Steve said, and his voice came out lower than he meant it to, quieter. “Yeah, I wanna go.”

He didn’t wait for Eddie to process that. He leapt up and lunged.

It was sloppy. He was out of practice, and this wasn’t high school; he quickly realized that wrestling in the rocky sand was nothing like the mats in the gym, or even the pavement of the parking lot, but the basic mechanics of a friendly grapple were the same. Get a hand on the shoulder, hook a leg, drive forward. Eddie went down with a surprised grunt, and Steve landed half on top of him, one leg between both of his. Steve grinned and offered a hand Eddie as he helped him up.

“Round two,” Steve teased, backing up with his hands raised. His breathing was uneven and way more laboured than it should be based on so little exertion.

They went at each other again, and this time, the bout lasted longer, their arms tangled and connected, scrabbling and grabbing. Steve got an arm around Eddie’s waist and hauled him sideways. Eddie’s elbow caught him in the ribs; not hard, but enough to make him hiss. But then they were both laughing, that wheezing, breathless laugh that meant they were having too much fun to actually fight properly. They went down together again, a tangle of limbs and sand and damp skin.

Eddie ended up on top this time, one knee in the sand beside Steve’s hip, both hands planted on Steve’s chest like he was about to push himself up. He didn’t push himself up. He stayed there, breathing hard, and Steve could feel the heat of his palms through the thin cotton of his own shirt, could feel the weight of him, and his brain short-circuited for a second.

Because Eddie was heavy. In a good way. In a way that made Steve’s whole body go stupid and warm.

“Yield,” Eddie said, and Steve snorted.

Steve got a grip on Eddie’s wrist, twisted it behind his back, and for one perfect second Eddie was pressed flush against his chest, all damp heat and the smell of lake water and that weird smoky sandalwood shit he wore. Steve’s chin brushed the top of Eddie’s head, and he felt, more than heard, the little hitch in Eddie’s breath. Then Eddie was gone, rolling off him with a huff and flopping onto his back in the sand, arms flung wide. Steve lay there for a second, staring at the sky, his whole body buzzing like he’d stuck his finger in an outlet.

“Jesus Christ, Harrington,” Eddie panted. “You fight dirty.”

Steve propped himself up on his elbows. Eddie’s shirt had ridden up to his ribs, and there was sand stuck to the damp skin of his stomach, and Steve’s mouth went dry. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

“Of course it is.” Eddie turned his head, and his hair was a disaster, sand caught in the curls, and he was smiling that stupid crooked smile, and Steve’s chest did the embarrassing thing again. “Round three?”

Steve’s heart hammered. Round three was where it usually happened in the locker room. Round three was where someone’s hand slipped lower, where the pretense fell off, and they stopped pretending the fight was for anything except getting each other off. Steve inhaled sharply, noticing all of a sudden how out of his depths he was. This was not a locker room, and Eddie wasn’t Tommy fucking Hagan.

And Steve, in his stupid short shorts, was decidedly hard. He’d noticed, obviously. Somewhere between the scent of Eddie on top of him and the sudden loss of contact, the blood had drained from his face. And desperately migrated south. He’d be embarrassed if this hadn’t been the whole plan. And he was going to follow through if it was the last thing he did.

“Round three,” he murmured, rolling with the intention of getting the drop on Munson.

But he didn’t, because Eddie was already pushed up on one arm, studying him. Studying all of him. Eddie’s gaze traveled downward, halting somewhere around Steve’s midsection. Steve felt his face flush hot under the scrutiny, but he didn’t break eye contact. This was it. This was the moment where Eddie would either laugh or—

“You’re hard,” Eddie said, not laughing. Not moving either. Just stating it like he was commenting on the weather.

Steve’s mouth opened, then closed. His carefully constructed plan didn’t account for Eddie just...saying it. Out loud. So Eddie.

“Yeah,” he managed, because what else was there to do? Deny it? With the evidence right there, straining against his shorts?

“You jocks. I knew there was something off about you,” Eddie said, his tone teasing, but he was also on his knees now, walking closer in a way that should have been hilarious but was not. “Wrestling. You could have just asked.”

Steve laughed, more air than anything else. “I’ve been trying, you dork.”

Eddie’s eyebrow arched as he settled himself on his knees, balanced on his own heels. His gaze dropped. Lingered. And Steve felt it like a physical touch, like a hand sliding down his stomach, and his whole body went tight and hot and mortified all at once.

“That so,” Eddie murmured.

And that was all Steve could take. He wanted this too badly. He pounced. He grabbed Eddie by the shoulders and pulled, and Eddie went with it like he’d been waiting, like his body had already decided before his brain caught up. They tumbled sideways into the sand, and Steve ended up half on top again, one leg slotted between Eddie’s, and Eddie made a sound, a small, punched-out noise that Steve felt in his teeth.

“Okay,” Eddie breathed, and his hands came up to Steve’s waist, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. “Okay, yeah.”

Steve kissed him. Just leaned down and did it, no finesse, no buildup, no practiced ease; just his mouth on Eddie’s, and the taste of lake water and grape juice and Eddie's tongue. Fingers tightened on his shirt, pulling him closer, and Steve pressed into it, and Eddie’s back arched off the sand, and they were—

They were doing this. They were doing this.

Steve pulled back just a bit, waited for the panic. Waited for Eddie to tell him to go away.

Instead, Eddie keened, pulled him back. Attached himself to Steve’s neck. Steve’s brain fizzled out like a wet fuse. Eddie’s mouth was on his neck, hot and open and slightly damp, and the sound he’d made? That whimpering, desperate little noise? It was still ringing in Steve’s ears as he leaned into the touch, vibrating through his skull, settling somewhere deep in his chest where it pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

Eddie’s teeth grazed his collarbone, and Steve’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, pressing himself against Eddie’s thigh, and the friction was so good it was almost painful. He heard himself groan, felt it rumble up from somewhere in his gut, and Eddie made that sound again, muffled this time against Steve’s skin as he bucked into Steve’s leg too, making him aware suddenly that Eddie was hard too.

“Fuck,” Steve breathed, and it came out wrecked, shaky, nothing like his own voice. His hands were on Eddie’s ribs, fingers spread wide, and he could feel Eddie breathing, could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the thundering of his pulse. He was overwhelmed. The plan hadn’t ever, even in his imagination, worked. He was completely out of his depths.

As if reading his mind, Eddie chuckled, released him. He shoved Steve over so that they were lying on their stupid little blanket again, and he was winding his way down Steve’s body, roaming hands and open-mouthed kisses on skin that he released from a damp t-shirt one inch at a time.

“You gonna panic, sweetheart?” Eddie murmured as he shoved sure fingers into the band of his swim shorts. He paused as he waited for Steve to confirm, to consent, to express anything. “Steve?” Eddie insisted, his fingers pressed into Steve’s skin, rubbing circles along his hip bones.

“Please,” Steve finally managed, a breathy murmur he barely recognized. “Please.”

Eddie’s hand slid lower, and Steve’s breath hitched as those fingers shoved his shorts away and wrapped around his cock. The touch was confident, almost reverent, and Steve’s hips bucked involuntarily into the grip.

“Fuck,” Steve gasped, his head falling back against the blanket. The sky above him blurred, blue and white and too bright, too much.

Eddie’s mouth returned to his stomach, kissed along the trail of hair leading downward. Steve’s fingers tangled in Eddie’s wild curls, sand falling from them like tiny stars.

“You have no idea,” Eddie murmured against his skin, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

Steve could only groan in response, his body arching as Eddie’s tongue traced a path along his hip bone. He had some idea of how long, but this was hardly the time. The sensation was electric, overwhelming, nothing like the rushed, furtive encounters in locker rooms. He was being studied. His cock jumped at the thought, and Eddie laughed.

“Impatient,” he huffed, finally moving his mouth to ghost over the head of his dick, joining the hand that had just been lazily running up and down his shaft.

Steve’s hands moved of their own accord, holding firm onto Eddie’s hair. Something in the back of his mind wanted to grip, to guide, to hold his head. But that wasn’t now. That wasn’t this. Eddie’s tongue traced a slow, maddening path up the underside of his cock, and Steve’s fingers tightened without meaning to. The sound that escaped Eddie was somewhere between a groan and a prayer.

“You’re gonna—” Steve started, but the words dissolved as Eddie took him fully into his mouth, warm and wet and impossibly good. His hips bucked up again, and Eddie’s hand pressed firmly against his stomach, holding him down with a gentle but unmistakable authority.

Steve had done this before and had this done to him. But never like this. Never with this kind of unhurried attention, like Eddie had all the time in the world and wanted to spend every second of it right here, like Steve was something worth savouring. The thought made his chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with his arousal.

Eddie pulled back, his lips swollen and wet, and looked up at Steve through those ridiculous lashes. “Stop thinking,” he demanded.

“What?”

“Thinking too much.”

As though a switch had been turned off, Steve’s brain silenced, cut off mid-tirade. When Eddie took him back into his mouth, it was just sensation that met him. The wet heat of Eddie’s mouth, the scrape of teeth just shy of too much, the way his tongue pressed flat against the underside on every stroke; all of it bled together into something that Steve couldn’t have named if his life depended on it. His hands stayed in Eddie’s hair, just sitting there, like if he let go the whole world might spin off its axis.

Eddie’s free hand moved from Steve’s hip to his thigh, gripping, fingers pressing into the muscle, and Steve’s leg twitched under the hold. The sand was everywhere. He felt it, gritty under his shoulders, stuck to the backs of his arms, probably in his hair. And he didn’t care. Couldn’t have cared less if the entire town of Hawkins had decided to have a picnic three feet away.

The rhythm changed. Slowed. Eddie hollowed his cheeks and sucked, and Steve’s back arched off the blanket. Eddie hummed around him, and the vibration travelled up Steve’s spine.

“Eddie,” he groaned. His voice broke on the name, shattered into something unrecognizable. His hips jerked upward, chasing the sensation as Eddie took him deeper, swallowing around him, and Steve saw stars.

The orgasm hit him as if a live wire had been dropped into standing water, unexpected despite everything leading to this moment. His whole body seized, muscles locking as pleasure ripped through him, the riptide pulling him under from the ankles, sudden and total and without mercy. He came back to himself in bits and pieces. He finally noticed that Eddie had collapsed beside him and was actually giggling like a maniac.

“I should,” Steve gestured, trying to drag himself from the sand, trying to reciprocate.

Steve snorted and rolled his eyes, but the warmth spreading through his chest had nothing to do with the summer sun. Eddie’s arm felt like it belonged there, heavy and grounding against his skin as he let his breath slow further, as he returned to himself, to the insane disconnect between this man’s dweebiness and his beauty. He was, unfortunately, intoxicated.

Eddie’s laugh gained momentum, and he rolled over to throw an arm over Steve’s wrecked torso. “Didn’t think you’d heard me, Stevie boy. I came already. Down there. Surprised me, to be honest. You were pretty gone by then, and the sounds you made. Jesus. I swear it’s usually a bit harder than that to get me off, so don’t get…um. Cocky."

“Cocky,” Steve repeated, his voice still wrecked. “Really?”

“What? I had to.”

Eddie’s grin was unrepentant, his eyes half-lidded and satisfied. Sand clung to his cheek where it had pressed against Steve’s chest, and Steve had the sudden, overwhelming urge to brush it away. So he did.

His fingers moved slowly, almost reverent, across the curve of Eddie’s cheekbone. Eddie’s breath caught, and his eyes widened just slightly before softening again. The moment stretched between them, fragile and new and terrifying in its simplicity.

“So,” Eddie said eventually, his voice lower than usual. “The wrestling thing. That’s how you usually...”

Steve’s hand stilled on Eddie’s face. “Usually what?”

“Get guys to...” Eddie started.

“Pssh,” Steve murmured as he flipped them over. He rolled on top of him, letting his weight collapse as he cupped Eddie’s cheek again, forcing their eyes to connect down to the soul. “Yeah, Eds. Obviously. I yield.”

“Let’s just not, okay. I’m an idiot. I’m…not sorry, but—"

“I want you to know that you are stuck with me now. Okay?”

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