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numinosmoon

Jul 14

hbyrde36

Ye Olde Meet-Cute

Steddie | Explicit | No Warnings Apply | WC: 7994 | AO3

Written for the @strangerthingsreversebigbang

Art & Divider by: @penny00dreadful

The day was finally here.

Eddie had been putting his Ren Faire outfit together for weeks, hunting through thrift stores and digging through his craft supplies, determined to create something that felt authentic to him—which meant less 'historically accurate' and more 'fantasy rogue with good taste.'

The base was a white poet shirt he'd found at Goodwill for three bucks—oversized, with those big dramatic sleeves he could really work with. Over that, a black brocade vest he'd thrifted and then spent two evenings adding silver buttons to, each one stamped with a different design. His favorites were the little dragons. Black pants tucked into boots he'd already owned. They were his regular stomping-around boots, but hey, they worked. Leather bracers on his forearms that he'd actually made himself, tooled with vines and thorns. And his rings—all of them, because what was the point of period accuracy when you could have style?

He'd even braided a few small sections of his hair back from his face, leaving the rest wild and curly down his back.

Grant had taken one look at him that morning and whistled low. "Damn, Munson. Look at you!"

"I know, right?" Eddie had turned in a circle, letting his sleeves billow. "I look like I'm about to seduce a prince or start a tavern brawl. Maybe both, I'm flexible."

Walking through the faire gates with the afternoon sun warming his shoulders and lute music drifting through the air from somewhere up ahead, Eddie felt perfectly in his element. This was his kind of scene. The creativity and craftsmanship of it all, the crowds of people just having fun with it.

Grant swished past him in a dramatic whoosh of burgundy skirts. His black corset was laced tight and decorated with delicate embroidery, complementing his winged eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, the rest of his makeup flawless as always. "Turkey legs first, or—"

"Definitely turkey legs," Gareth interrupted.

"Yeah, I'm starving," Jeff agreed.

They wandered deeper into the faire, past colorful tents and wooden stalls, breathing in the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread and the dusty-sweet scent of hay baking in the sun. Eddie was admiring a display of hand-carved pipes when they rounded a corner and—

Oh.

Oh no.

There, tucked beneath a sprawling oak tree strung with unlit fairy lights, was a blacksmith's stall. And working the forge, hammer in hand, was the most beautiful man Eddie had ever seen in his entire life.

He was broad-shouldered and strong, the kind of build that came from actual physical work rather than a gym. His hair was a rich brown, long enough to be tied up in a bun at the back of his head, though pieces had escaped to stick to his temples and the back of his neck. He wore a simple linen shirt that might have been cream-colored once but was now soaked through with sweat, clinging to every line of his back and shoulders. The sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

Art by Penny00dreadful Eddie watched, transfixed, as the man raised his hammer and brought it down with controlled force over and over again. The ring of metal on metal cut through the ambient noise of the faire. There was a hypnotic quality to it—the rhythm, the precision, the casual display of brute strength.

The blacksmith paused, examining whatever he was working on, and used his forearm to push back some of the hair falling in his face. The gesture left a smudge of soot on his cheek.

Eddie made a sound. He didn't mean to. It just came out, somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

"You good?" Jeff asked.

"No," Eddie breathed. “I’ll never be good again.”

Grant followed his gaze and let out a knowing hum. "Oh, honey."

The blacksmith plunged whatever he'd been working on into a barrel of water. Steam hissed up in a dramatic cloud, and when it cleared, the man looked up—maybe feeling the weight of eyes on him, maybe just checking on the small crowd that had gathered at his stall.

His eyes swept over the people browsing his wares, and for just a second—one perfect, crystalline second—his gaze landed directly on Eddie.

Eddie's heart stopped. Started. Tried to beat its way out of his chest.

The man had gorgeous eyes. Even from this distance, Eddie could see they were hazel. And right now, they were focused on him, taking in the billowy sleeves, the brocade vest, probably the whole ridiculous picture Eddie made standing there with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

The corner of the blacksmith's mouth quirked up.

Just a little.

Just enough.

Then he turned back to his anvil, selecting a different piece to work on next.

"Oh my god!" Eddie hissed. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" Gareth asked, though his tone suggested he knew exactly what.

"He smiled at me!"

"He smiled in the general direction of his customers," Jeff said reasonably.

"No." Eddie shook his head. "No, that was at me. That was a me-specific smile."

"Eddie—"

But Eddie was already drifting closer, pulled like a magnet toward the stall.

"Nope," Grant said, looping his arm through Eddie's and physically steering him away from the blacksmith's display. "We are not doing this."

"Doing what?" Eddie asked innocently, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. The blacksmith had picked up his hammer again. "I'm just—I'm appreciating local artisans. Supporting small businesses. It's practically my civic duty to—"

"To drool?" Gareth supplied.

"I'm not drooling!"

"You're about to," Jeff said, grabbing Eddie's other arm. Together, he and Grant marched Eddie firmly in the opposite direction.

They made it to the turkey leg stand, and Eddie managed to keep his commentary to a minimum while they ordered, only mentioning twice how the blacksmith's arms had looked, and once how he'd probably have a great grip, you know, from all the hammer work, and wouldn't that be—

"Eddie," Grant warned.

"I'm just saying!"

The jousting arena was next, and Eddie did actually get absorbed in the show for a solid fifteen minutes. Right up until the knight's sword caught the light and Eddie said, "You know who could probably make a sword like that—"

"Don't," all three of his friends said in unison.

"—the hot blacksmith," Eddie finished. "I bet his swords are incredible. I bet they're—"

"We get it," Gareth said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

They wandered through the marketplace after that. Eddie bought a little dragon figurine from a ceramics stall—

"It reminds me of the buttons on my vest, which got a lot of attention, did you notice? The blacksmith definitely noticed…"

Watched a glass-blowing demonstration—

"The way he works with fire, it's kind of like the forge, don't you think?"

And stopped to listen to a lute player perform a ballad about star-crossed lovers.

"God, imagine if we were—I mean, not we, but like, if someone were to—do you think he's single?"

Every time they passed anywhere remotely near the blacksmith's stall, Eddie tried to casually steer them in that direction.

"Oh, hey, wasn't there a cool leather vendor over this way?"

"Eddie, we were just there an hour ago."

"Right, but I wanted another look at—"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"Yes, we do," Jeff said, looking ready to push Eddie into the duck pond.

By the third attempted detour, Grant just grabbed Eddie's sleeve and physically redirected him like a wayward shopping cart.

Eddie did manage to catch one more glimpse of the blacksmith when they passed by on their way to the archery range—just a flash of sweat-soaked linen and those strong arms, the man laughing at something a customer said. Eddie walked straight into a support post and nearly took out a display of handmade candles.

"That's it," Gareth declared. "You're officially a hazard."

Three hours later, the sun was starting to sink lower in the sky, washing the faire in amber light. They'd seen the joust—twice, because Eddie had insisted. Tried their hand at axe-throwing, which Eddie had been terrible at, too distracted by his own spiraling thoughts. Watched a very dramatic staging of a dragon fight, and consumed truly irresponsible amounts of mead and food.

Eddie's feet hurt. His shirt was sticking to him in the heat. Grant had lost one of his earrings somewhere near the petting zoo, and Gareth's flower crown was looking distinctly wilted.

And Eddie was still talking about the hot blacksmith.

"—and the way the light from the forge caught on his face, right? Like some kind of renaissance painting. He's probably been doing this for years, you can tell by the way he moves, it's so confident, so—"

"Eddie," Jeff said, sounding pained. "Buddy. Please."

"What?" Eddie blinked at him innocently. "I'm just—"

"You've been talking about Hot Blacksmith Guy all fucking day," Gareth said. He'd removed his flower crown and was fanning himself with it, for what good it would do. "Hours, Edward. We've heard about his arms, his hair, his eyes, his face, the way he holds a hammer, the way he wipes sweat off his face, the—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," Eddie said, holding up his hands in surrender. "But have I mentioned his hands? Because when he took off those gloves—"

Grant made a sound like a dying animal. "That's it. I'm out. I'm calling it. We're done."

"What? No! The faire doesn't close for another two hours!"

"Yeah, well, we're closing," Gareth said, already heading toward the exit. "I'm hot, I'm tired, my feet hurt, and if I have to hear one more word about the blacksmith's forearms, I'm going to lose it."

"But—"

"Eddie." Jeff turned to face him, expression grave. "You have two options here. One—come with us, go home, take a cold shower, and live with the regret of not shooting your shot. Two—stay here, grow a pair, and actually talk to the guy instead of just staring at him like he's some exotic animal in a zoo."

Eddie opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Those are both terrible options."

Grant was already walking backward toward the parking lot, skirts swishing. "Come on, babe. Make a choice. We're leaving in sixty seconds with or without you."

Eddie looked back toward the faire. He couldn't see the blacksmith's stall from here, but he knew exactly where it was. Tucked under that oak tree, with the fairy lights that would be glowing now in the dimming light.

His stomach dropped and soared at once.

"I'm staying," he heard himself say, with far more confidence than he felt.

Grant's face split into a delighted expression. "That's my boy."

"But what if he's straight?" Eddie asked, sudden panic rising. "What if he's married? What if—"

"Then you'll know," Jeff said, not unkindly. "And you can stop wondering. Either way, we're done hearing about it."

"Fair," Eddie admitted. "Rude, but fair."

Gareth clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, man. Text us when you need a ride home."

"Or don't," Grant added with a wink, "if you get lucky."

"I hate you all," Eddie called after them, waving as they headed for the exit.

"Love you too!" Grant's voice floated back. "Go get that blacksmith dick!"

Several families turned to stare.

Eddie's face had never gone redder faster.

But he didn't run away. Instead, he turned back toward the main path, toward that oak tree and the fairy lights and the most beautiful man he'd ever seen.

The faire had a different energy after dark. The air had cooled just enough to be pleasant. The crowds were thinning out to stragglers—couples walking hand-in-hand, a few shoppers hunting last-minute deals, families herding overtired kids toward the exit.

Eddie's boots crunched on the dusty path as he made his way back toward the blacksmith's stall. Each step felt both too fast and not fast enough, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

This is stupid.

You're being stupid.

You're going to look like a creep, lurking around his stall at closing time.

But his feet kept moving anyway.

When the oak tree came into view, Eddie's breath caught.

The stall was empty of customers now, the crowd that had been there earlier long gone. But the blacksmith—god, the blacksmith—was still working.

Only now, as Eddie watched from the edge of the clearing, the man reached down and grabbed the hem of his shirt. In one smooth motion, he pulled it over his head.

Eddie stopped walking. Stopped breathing. Ceased existing as a human being.

The blacksmith's back was to him—bare, broad, and gleaming with sweat in the firelight from the forge. He tossed the shirt aside carelessly, then reached up to adjust his hair. His bun had come half-undone throughout the day, and he pulled it free completely, gathering the sweat-damp strands and twisting them back up, securing them with what looked like a leather tie. A few pieces escaped again immediately, curling against his neck and temples.

Then he turned back to the forge, picked up his hammer, and went to work on a sword that lay waiting on the anvil.

Eddie had died.

He must have.

This was heaven, or maybe hell, some divine punishment designed specifically for him—having to watch this absolute vision of a man without being able to touch, to speak, to do anything but stand there in the shadows and try not to whimper.

Eddie drifted closer before he could stop himself, boots silent on the packed earth until he stood at the stall's wide opening, close enough to feel the forge's heat against his skin.

The blacksmith's movements were hypnotic. Each swing of the hammer was controlled, purposeful. His muscles flexed and released with the rhythm of his work—shoulders, back, arms, even his abs contracting with the effort. Sweat rolled down his spine, catching the firelight.

Eddie wished he were that sword. Desperately, fervently wished he were that piece of metal getting all that focused attention, being shaped by those strong hands.

He must have made a sound—a groan, a sigh, he didn't even know—because suddenly the blacksmith's head turned.

Their eyes met across the dimly lit space.

Eddie forgot how to breathe.

The blacksmith's face split into a slow, pleased smile. He let his gaze drag over Eddie deliberately—starting at his boots and traveling up, taking in the black pants, the brocade vest, the white sleeves of his poet shirt, finally landing on Eddie's face.

Then he winked.

Actually winked.

Eddie's knees went weak.

The blacksmith returned to his work, but there was an intentional quality to his movements now, the way he positioned himself. Like he knew exactly what kind of show he was putting on and for whom.

He brought the hammer down. Once. Twice. Three times. Each strike rang out in the quiet evening air. Then he paused, examined the blade, and glanced over at Eddie again.

Eddie couldn't move. Couldn't look away. This was eye-fucking. This was absolutely, definitely, 100% eye-fucking, and Eddie was going to combust right there in the middle of the faire.

The blacksmith's expression turned wicked. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and picked up the hammer again.

It happened a few more times—the focused hammering, the pause, the glance, the eye contact that sent heat flooding through Eddie's entire body. By the end of it, Eddie was gripping the wooden edge of the stall just to stay upright.

Finally, the blacksmith seemed satisfied with whatever he'd been shaping and plunged the sword into the water barrel. Steam hissed up in a dramatic cloud, and when it cleared, he set the blade aside carefully.

Then he turned fully toward Eddie and started walking over.

Oh shit.

Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit…

Up close, he was even more unfairly attractive. Hazel eyes catching firelight like molten honey. A constellation of moles scattered across his skin—neck, collarbone, disappearing below his belt line. The broad planes of his chest were covered with dark hair that Eddie's fingers itched to touch.

"Hey," the man said, and his voice was warm and a little rough, probably from the smoke and heat of the forge. "I'm Steve."

If that voice was natural, god had a sick sense of humor.

"Eddie." It came out as barely more than a whisper. Eddie cleared his throat and tried again. "Hi. I'm Eddie. I said that already. Words. Uh, I know them—usually."

Steve's laugh was warm and delighted. "You've been watching me."

Eddie's face burned. "Yeah. Sorry, that's probably creepy, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize." Steve rounded the counter, closing the distance between them until he was standing close enough that Eddie had to tilt his head back slightly. He smelled like smoke and metal and sweat and something woodsy underneath. Eddie wanted to bottle it. "I was hoping you'd come back."

Every coherent thought he'd ever had fled Eddie's head. "You... what?"

"I noticed you earlier," Steve said, and there was an almost shy quality to his expression now, despite the fact that he was standing there shirtless and impossibly attractive, clearly aware of the effect he had. "You and your friends. Hard to miss you with that hair—it's gorgeous, by the way. And that vest. It's really cool. Did you make it?"

"I—" Eddie managed, brain struggling to catch up. "I did the embellishments. The vest is thrifted, but I added all the detail work."

"Nice." Steve's gaze traced over the silver dragons appreciatively, lingering. "You've got good taste."

"You're—" Eddie gestured vaguely at all of Steve, at the bare chest and the muscles and the unfairly attractive face. "I mean. Look at you."

Steve laughed, bright and bubbly, ducking his head. "Look at you. I've been trying to catch your eye all day, but there were always so many people around, and then your friends dragged you away, and I thought maybe I'd missed my chance."

"You were trying to catch my eye?"

"Yeah, I thought that was obvious." Steve reached up to push back a strand of hair that had escaped his bun, and the movement made his bicep flex. Eddie nearly swallowed his own tongue. "So when I saw you come back just now... I might have been showing off a little."

"A little," Eddie repeated faintly.

"Okay, a lot." Steve conceded with tilt of his head. "Did it work?"

Eddie let out a slightly hysterical laugh. "I think I'm having a medical emergency, so yeah, I'd say it worked."

"Good." Steve glanced back at his stall, then back to Eddie, teeth catching his bottom lip for just a second. "I'm closing up here. You want to get a drink?"

Eddie's chest tightened. "Yes. Yeah. Absolutely. I would love to get a drink with you."

"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, warm and so openly happy.

Eddie couldn't quite believe this was real.

"Yeah."

Steve's hand found Eddie's, their fingers tangling together like it was the most natural thing in the world. His palm was callused and warm. "Come on, then. I know just the place."

When Steve grabbed his discarded shirt from where he'd tossed it earlier, Eddie was genuinely disappointed—until Steve just slung it over his shoulder instead of putting it back on. He led Eddie through the winding paths of the faire, their joined hands swinging slightly between them. Eddie was hyperaware of Steve's thumb rubbing absently against his knuckles, of the fact that Steve was still shirtless and everyone they passed was staring.

Eddie felt a ridiculous surge of pride.

Yeah, that's right.

Hot shirtless blacksmith is holding my hand. Suck it.

"So," Steve said, glancing over with a smile, "you come to the faire often?"

"Come here often?" Eddie snorted. "That's your line? Really?"

"I'm a blacksmith, not a poet." Steve shrugged and squeezed his hand. "Cut me some slack."

"First time, actually," Eddie admitted. "My friends and I have been planning this for weeks. Well, I've been planning my outfit for weeks. They've been planning to mock me for weeks."

"The friends who left you here?"

"The very same. They got tired of me, uh..." Eddie felt his cheeks flush again. "Talking."

"About?" Steve's tone suggested he had a pretty good idea.

"Y'know, general faire things," Eddie said weakly.

"Uh huh." Steve pulled him around a corner, past the now-closed fortune teller's tent. "Nothing to do with any specific vendors?"

Eddie made a strangled sound.

Steve laughed, the sound rich and easy. "For the record, I kept looking for you all day. Every time you walked past I was hoping you'd actually stop instead of just..." He gestured vaguely.

"Staring longingly from a distance?" Eddie offered. It sounded better than stalking.

"Something like that, yeah."

Eddie bumped his shoulder against Steve's, grinning from ear to ear. It was almost startling how natural this was already starting to feel—the easy banter and teasing, the comfortable silences between words. Like they’d known each other longer than a whopping twenty minutes.

“You could have said something. Put me out of my misery sooner.”

"I might have if your friends hadn’t kept dragging you away. Although, there were always people around, and I wouldn’t want to be that guy who hits on customers when they're just trying to enjoy their day." Steve glanced at him, expression soft. "Plus I couldn’t be sure if you were actually interested or just... people-watching, you know?"

Eddie struggled to wrap his head around the fact that this gorgeous man had been nervous about approaching him. Him. Eddie Munson, who'd spent the entire day pining like a lovesick character in a very gay romance novel.

The stall up ahead was designed to look like a rustic tavern, all rough-hewn wood and hanging lanterns. Behind the counter, two women were wiping down surfaces and organizing bottles. The shorter one—blonde, with a high ponytail and a pale blue gown—looked up as they approached.

Her face lit up. "Steve! Oh my god, you actually talked to him!"

"Chrissy," Steve said, but he was laughing. "Subtle."

"I'm never subtle, you know this." She turned her bright smile on Eddie. "Hi! I'm Chrissy. This is Robin." She gestured to the taller woman beside her, who was wearing a simple tunic and breeches combo that would've looked at home in any tavern. She had a rainbow bandana tied around her arm and was beaming like the cat that got the canary.

"You must be the guy with the great hair," Robin said. "Steve's been stalking you with his eyes all day."

"Eddie is fine," Eddie said with a shy little wave.

"Robin!" Steve protested.

"What? You have!" Robin leaned on the counter, clearly enjoying herself. "I'm pretty sure you nearly set your whole stall on fire at one point because you were too busy watching for him walk by again."

Eddie preened.

Steve's ears went pink. "That's not—that was unrelated!"

"Sure it was." Robin turned her attention fully to Eddie. "So. Eddie, what are your intentions with our dingus?"

"Robin!" Chrissy swatted her arm, but she was giggling.

"I'm just asking! Someone has to vet the guy." Robin raised an eyebrow at Eddie. "Steve hasn't been this interested in anyone in, what—"

"Nope!" Steve said firmly. "We're not doing this."

"Six months? A year?" Robin continued, ignoring him completely.

Eddie took a sip of the mead Chrissy had poured them without him even noticing and decided to throw Steve a lifeline, even if it meant embarrassing himself. "Well, I spent the entire day talking my friends' ears off about how hot your blacksmith is, if that helps. They literally abandoned me here just to shut me up."

Chrissy made a delighted sound. "Oh, I like him!"

Steve turned to Eddie, looking genuinely pleased. "Really?"

"In my defense, you were very distracting. The hammer thing, the sweat, the—" Eddie gestured at Steve's still-bare chest. "—everything."

"Okay, he passed the first test," Robin declared. "You can keep him—for now."

"Thanks for the approval," Steve said dryly, but he was practically beaming as he grabbed Eddie's hand again. "Come on. Let's get out of here before they start planning our wedding."

"Use protection!" Robin called after them.

"I hate you!" Steve called back.

"Love you too!" Robin's voice was bright with laughter.

Eddie couldn't help but smile as Steve pulled him away from the stall, their drinks in hand, thumb rubbing absently over Eddie's knuckles. "They seem fun."

"They're the worst," Steve said fondly. "Also the best. But mostly the worst." He squeezed Eddie's hand. "Come on. I want to show you something."

"Yeah?" Eddie's pulse picked up. "What's that?"

Steve's expression turned wicked again. "You'll see."

They walked away from the main thoroughfare, past more darkened stalls and empty stages. Strings of lights overhead cast warm pools of gold across the path, and the sounds of the faire faded as Steve led them deeper into the maze of structures.

"Where are we going?" Eddie asked, not that he really cared as long as Steve kept holding his hand.

"Storage area," Steve said, glancing back. "For old props and set pieces. It's quiet back here."

"Quiet," Eddie repeated. Heat pooled in his stomach. "That's... good?"

"I thought so." Steve pulled him around a corner and suddenly they were in a shadowy space filled with fake stone walls, wooden barrels, coils of rope, and various other theatrical debris.

Steve turned to face him, and even in the dim light, Eddie could see the heat in his gaze. "I've been wanting to kiss you since about ten this morning."

Eddie's thoughts scattered like startled birds. "Oh. That's—yeah. I've been wanting you to kiss me since approximately the same time, so—"

Steve plucked the tankard from Eddie's hand mid-ramble, set both drinks aside on a weathered barrel, and kissed him. Eddie had never been so grateful to be shut up.

It was exactly as good as Eddie had been imagining all day—which was saying a lot, because he'd been imagining it on a loop. Steve's lips were soft and warm, tasting like mead and honey. His hand came up to cup Eddie's jaw, tilting his head just right, and Eddie made an embarrassing sound into his mouth.

Steve smiled against his lips and kissed him deeper, pulling Eddie closer with a hand on his hip. Eddie's hands found Steve's bare shoulders, his back, mapping all that warm skin he'd been staring at for hours.

"Fuck," Steve breathed, pulling back just enough to speak against Eddie's mouth. "You're—"

"Don't stop," Eddie said desperately.

Steve laughed and kissed him again, walking Eddie backward until his back hit a wall. Then Steve was pressed against him, all solid muscle and warm skin, and Eddie thought he might actually die right here and be perfectly fine with it.

Steve's mouth moved to Eddie's neck, and Eddie's head fell back against the wall. "God, you're gorgeous," Steve murmured against his skin, breath hot.

"Have you looked in a mirror?" Eddie managed. His hands were still roaming over Steve's back, his shoulders, unable to stop touching. "You're literally—fuck—you're unreal."

Steve bit down gently on Eddie's pulse point and Eddie saw stars.

"Come here," Steve said, pulling back and grabbing Eddie's hand. His pupils were blown wide. "I want to show you something."

Eddie let himself be led deeper into the storage area, trying to get his breathing under control. Steve stopped in a corner where moonlight filtered through a gap in the canvas overhead, illuminating—

"Holy shit," Eddie breathed. "Are those stocks?"

Steve's expression was absolutely filthy. "They are."

The stocks stood there looking entirely too inviting—wooden and worn smooth, with semicircular cutouts for wrists and neck.

"Old punishment scene prop," Steve said casually, running his hand along the weathered wood. "Retired a couple years ago. I helped repair them last year." He turned to Eddie, eyes dark. "They're very functional."

Eddie swallowed audibly. "That's... good information."

"Yeah?" Steve stepped closer, crowding into Eddie's space. "What are you thinking right now?"

"I'm thinking," Eddie managed, "that you're very good at this."

"At what?"

"Seduction. The whole—" Eddie gestured vaguely at Steve, at the stocks, at the entire situation. "—everything you're doing right now."

Steve laughed, low and warm. "I try." His hand traced down Eddie's side, fingertips barely brushing. "Want to try those out?"

Eddie's brain was screaming yes but his mouth managed to form actual words. "Is this—i mean, this is a lot for a first… meeting."

"It is," Steve agreed easily, expression softening. He tucked a strand of Eddie’s hair behind his ear, the touch feather-light. "We can absolutely just keep doing this—" He kissed Eddie again, slow and deep. "—and talk. No pressure."

Eddie looked at the stocks, then back at Steve, then at the stocks again. His friends had left him here. The faire was closing. This beautiful man wanted him, and Eddie wanted him right back with an intensity that was probably concerning but felt too good to question.

"For the record I do want to talk, get to know you better and all that jazz, but—” Eddie let out a shaky exhale, and finally let himself run his fingers through all that chest hair he’d been admiring. "Yeah. Let's—yeah.”

Steve guided him forward with a hand on the small of his back, and Eddie went willingly, brain three steps behind his body, every rational thought drowned out by the steady hum of want.

"Here." Steve's voice was low, easy, like they had all the time in the world. He positioned Eddie in front of the stocks and lifted the top beam with one hand. The wood was worn satin-smooth, no splinters, no rough edges. "Wrists here, neck here. See how the cutouts are shaped? Plenty of room. Nothing's going to pinch or rub."

Eddie placed his wrists in the grooves. The wood was cool against his overheated skin.

"Now watch." Steve let the top beam down—not latched, just resting. "There's no lock. Just push up and you're out. Try it."

Eddie pushed. The beam lifted easily, barely any resistance.

"See? Anytime you want out, you're out." Steve met his eyes, and beneath all that heat there was genuine concern. Real, unperformative care. A gentleness that didn't match the setting, or the stocks or what they were about to do, and was all the more disarming for it. "If anything doesn't feel good, if you want to stop, slow down, change positions, you tell me."

"Okay."

"Promise?"

Eddie's throat tightened. He'd hooked up with guys who hadn't bothered to ask if he was comfortable during, let alone before. And here was Steve—shirtless, stunning, radiating enough raw sex appeal to power a small city—taking the time to make sure Eddie knew how to get out. Making him practice it. Asking him to promise.

He swallowed hard against the sudden thickness in his throat.

"I promise."

Steve searched his gaze for another beat, making sure, and then that dangerous edge slid back into his expression. He lowered the beam again, settling Eddie's wrists and neck into place, and stepped back.

Eddie couldn't turn his head much like this. He could see the ground beneath him, his own hands poking out on either side, the vague shapes of other props in his periphery.

Behind him, he heard Steve's boots shift on the packed earth.

Circling.

Slow, deliberate footsteps that moved from one side to the other. Eddie's skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending alive and straining toward the sound.

Steve appeared in his field of vision—just a glimpse, hip and thigh and the low-slung waist of his pants—before disappearing again behind him.

"So." Steve's voice came from somewhere to his left. "A thief."

Eddie blinked. Then caught on, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the way his heart was racing. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an honest merchant."

"Mmhm." Steve's footsteps came closer. A hand trailed across Eddie's shoulders, the touch light through the thin fabric of his shirt. "An honest merchant. That's why you were lurking around my stall all day? Casing the goods?"

"I was admiring the goods," Eddie corrected, and heard Steve stifle a laugh behind him. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Steve's breath ghosted across the back of Eddie's neck. Close. So close. "Because from where I was standing, it looked a lot like you were planning to steal something."

"And what would I steal from a blacksmith?" Eddie's voice came out breathier than he intended.

Steve's lips brushed over the top of his spine. "Whatever you could get your hands on."

Jesus Christ.

"Well," Eddie managed, "I guess you caught me."

"I guess I did." Steve's hands settled on Eddie's hips, thumbs tracing slow circles. "And thieves need to be taught a lesson."

The roleplay was thin, barely there—more of a shared joke than a committed bit—but it gave the moment a shape, a frame to hang the tension on, and Eddie was grateful for it. Easier to surrender to something when you could pretend it was a game.

Steve knelt behind him. Eddie heard it—the soft scrape of knees on dirt—and then felt hands at his boots. Steve unlaced them with the same careful precision he brought to his metalwork, easing one off and then the other, lining them up neatly as he set them aside. His fingers found the waistband of Eddie's pants next, and Eddie sucked in a breath as Steve worked them down over his hips, past his thighs, off entirely.

The underwear followed. Eddie shivered despite the lingering summer heat.

Bare from the waist down. The poet shirt still draped over his torso, sleeves pooling around his restrained wrists, the brocade vest a snug weight across his chest. But everything below was completely exposed—his thighs, his cock already half-hard and hanging heavy between his legs, fresh air kissing skin that had been covered all day.

He had a moment to wonder how he’d gotten here. Four hours ago he'd been eating a turkey leg and arguing with Gareth about whether the jousting was choreographed. Now he was bent over in stocks about to be fucked by the sexiest man alive. His life was incredible, actually. He owed the universe an apology for every complaint he'd ever made.

Then Steve rose. Eddie heard the shift of his clothes, a slow exhale, felt the weight of Steve's gaze settle over him like a physical thing.

The silence stretched, thick with anticipation.

"Fuck," Steve said quietly. Just that. Like the sight of Eddie bent over and bare had knocked the clever words right out of him.

Eddie's cheeks flared hot. His cock twitched.

There was something almost unbearable about not being able to see—about being pinned in place while Steve moved freely behind him, studying him from whatever angle he pleased. Eddie felt cracked open, every inch of exposed skin tingling under that invisible gaze. If there had been an audience, a crowd of fairgoers watching his supposed punishment—

His stomach clenched with a new surge of heat that caught him off guard.

Oh.

Oh, that's—

He hadn't known that was a thing for him. The exposure, the vulnerability of it. The idea of being seen like this, put on display, unable to hide or cover himself. Embarrassment burned like a brand across his face and down his neck. His cock stiffened further, hard and aching.

Or maybe it wasn't the imaginary audience that was doing it for him. Maybe it was just Steve. The singular, focused weight of his attention pressing against Eddie's skin like palms. Being the sole object of all that quiet intensity.

Yeah, Eddie thought distantly, that's the one.

Steve's hand traced down his spine through the shirt, following the curve of his back, skimming over the hem where fabric ended and bare skin began. Eddie shuddered.

"You okay?" Steve murmured.

"So okay." The words came out ragged, his voice already half-destroyed and they'd barely started. "Incredibly okay. The okayest I've ever been—just, please don't stop touching me."

Steve's laugh was a low, gratified sound. His palm smoothed over the curve of Eddie's ass, unhurried, and Eddie bit down on his lip.

Steve knelt again.

Eddie felt the shift in the air, felt Steve's breath ghost across the back of his thigh. Lips pressed against the base of his spine—soft, deliberate. Then lower. A trail of open-mouthed kisses mapped across skin Eddie hadn't realized was sensitive, each one sending a quiet shockwave through him. The swell of his ass. The crease where it met his thigh. Steve's mouth was unhurried, exploratory, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else he'd rather be doing.

When Steve's tongue dragged a slow, flat stripe over his hole, Eddie's entire body jerked.

"Fuck—"

Steve hummed against him, a pleased vibration that Eddie felt in his low in his gut. Then did it again. Slow. Thorough. His hands gripped Eddie's hips to hold him still, thumbs pressing into the divots above his ass, and Eddie's world narrowed to that single, obscene point of contact. Wet heat, soft pressure, the slick sounds of Steve's mouth working him open.

Eddie's arms trembled in the stocks. His head hung forward, heavy and loose, drool pooling in his mouth, dripping down his chin. He couldn't even bring himself to care. He felt taken apart. Destroyed already.

He felt like he was losing his mind. He'd met this man maybe an hour ago and now Steve was eating him out in a storage tent at a Renaissance Faire and it was completely insane and also the singular best thing that had ever happened to him.

Steve pulled back, pressing his forehead against the base of Eddie's spine for a beat, catching his breath. Then he turned his head and dragged his lips across one cheek—a strangely tender gesture that made Eddie's heart stutter—before he spat on Eddie's hole.

He felt it land, wet and filthy, and moaned so loud it echoed off the canvas walls.

"Shh." Steve's voice was soft, amused. "Sound carries out here."

"Then stop—ungh—stop being so good at that."

There was a huff of laughter before a finger pressed against his rim, slick and careful. Steve worked it in slowly, giving him time to adjust. Eddie breathed through it—the stretch, the fullness, the strangeness of being opened up by someone he barely knew but already wanted to know completely.

"Good?" Steve checked.

"Yes—yes, God, yes."

Steve added a second finger and Eddie rocked back involuntarily, chasing the pressure. Steve's free hand snaked around to his front, palm settling low on Eddie's stomach, fingers splayed wide—grounding and possessive at once. He worked his fingers in a slow, curling rhythm, searching, patient—

Stars sparked behind Eddie’s vision.

He choked on a sound that wasn't quite a word. His thighs clamped tight, his whole body seizing around the sudden, blinding bolt of pleasure.

"Oh—oh—Steve, fuck, I need—please,” Eddie begged. “I’m ready. Need you to fuck me, please—"

"Not yet." Steve's voice was strained, the steadiness of it cracking at the edges, and that was almost as hot as the fingers still stroking inside him. "Don't want to hurt you."

"You won't, I can take it, please—"

Steve didn't give in. He kept working him open, maddeningly thorough, and Eddie's begging dissolved into helpless, hitching sounds. He wondered, deliriously, how big Steve's cock was. He could have cried for the fact that he wouldn’t get to see it. Everything was happening behind him, out of sight, leaving him reduced to sensation and sound.

A third finger. The stretch burned, a bright flare that dissolved after a breath into something deeper and fuller. Eddie was fully trembling now, from his shoulders to his knees, sweat rolling down his temples. Every coherent thought in his head had been stripped away, scraped clean—there was nothing left except Steve.

Steve’s hands. Steve's fingers. Steve, Steve, Steve.

Please let this not be a one-time thing.

The thought surfaced sharp and desperate through the haze. Because this wasn't just good sex. This was someone who'd noticed him across a crowded faire and spent all day hoping he'd come back. Someone who'd checked in multiple times before they'd even really started. Someone whose careful, confident hands made Eddie feel simultaneously undone and completely safe.

Please. I'll take whatever you'll give me. Just don't let this be the only time.

"Steve," Eddie gasped. He didn't even know what he was asking for anymore. "Steve, please—"

"I've got you." Steve's fingers withdrew and Eddie whimpered at the loss, clenching around nothing. He heard rustling behind him—packets tearing open—and let out a breathless, slightly hysterical laugh.

"Did you—here did you even—"

"Wallet," Steve said, and Eddie could hear the grin in his voice. "I'm an optimist."

"You're a Boy Scout."

"Eagle Scout, actually."

Eddie was still laughing when he felt the blunt head of Steve's cock press against him, slick and insistent, and the laughter died in his throat. He was glad—dimly, distantly—that at least one of them had been thinking about safety, because it sure as hell hadn't been him. He'd have let Steve do just about anything to him in the past twenty minutes and not thought twice.

"Breathe," Steve murmured. His hands held Eddie's hips—steady, secure. "Push back against me."

Eddie exhaled, doing his best to relax, and sank back as Steve pressed in slow. Inch by agonizing inch, the stretch so deep and so much that Eddie thought it might never end—thought Steve might just keep going, filling him up forever—until finally Steve's hips met his ass and they were both panting.

Neither of them moved for a long moment.

Eddie's senses were white-hot, everything cranked to an unbearable pitch. The heat of Steve's skin against the backs of his thighs. The slight tremor in Steve's grip, the effort of holding still. The way Eddie's own body pulsed and clenched around the thick length inside him, adjusting, accommodating, trying to make sense of being this full.

"Okay," Eddie breathed. "Okay, you can—move."

Steve rolled his hips and Eddie's vision went white at the edges.

It started slow—long, deep strokes that dragged over every oversensitive spot inside him. Steve's rhythm was as controlled as his hammer work, each thrust powerful and perfectly angled. Eddie could hear him breathing hard, could hear the slap of skin, could hear his own voice making sounds he'd be mortified about later but couldn't seem to stop.

Steve's pace built gradually, hips snapping faster, driving harder, and Eddie gave himself over to it completely. The stocks held him up, kept him trapped in place while Steve drilled into him, and that helplessness—chosen, voluntary, a thing he could end anytime he wanted but never would—sent sparks racing down his spine.

The orgasm hit him without warning.

No hand on his cock, no friction, nothing but the relentless pressure inside him and the feeling of being entirely had. It crashed through him in a long, rolling wave, his cock pulsing untouched, release dripping in a thin, watery stream to the ground below. His whole body seized and shook, a broken cry tearing from his throat.

Steve groaned behind him—a ragged, gorgeous sound—and his rhythm stuttered. His fingers dug into Eddie's hips and he thrust deep one last time, grinding in close. Eddie felt him pulse and shudder through his own release.

For a few endless seconds, all either of them did was breath. Eddie's arms shook in the stocks. His legs felt like they'd been replaced with rubber. His heartbeat was everywhere—his chest, his throat, behind his eyes.

Then Steve pulled out carefully. Eddie heard him deal with the condom and a moment later, the beam of the stocks lifted away like magic.

No, not magic. Steve's hands were there, easing Eddie's wrists free, rubbing the skin gently, guiding his arms down.

"Come here," Steve said, voice gentle and soft. "Come here, I've got you."

Eddie's legs buckled the instant he tried to straighten up, and Steve caught him like he'd been expecting it, gathering him against his chest and lowering them both to the ground. He ended up half in Steve's lap, boneless, face pressed into the curve of Steve's neck.

Steve's arms wrapped around him, solid and secure. One hand stroked up and down Eddie's back while the other cradled the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair.

"You were incredible," Steve murmured against his temple. "So gorgeous. The way you sounded, the way you looked—god, Eddie. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Eddie made a vague noise that was meant to be words but didn't quite make it. His brain was still leaking out of his ears trying to join his mess on the floor. Every inch of his skin felt scrubbed raw and luminous, like he'd been taken apart and reassembled slightly better than before.

Steve pressed a kiss to his forehead. His cheek. The corner of his mouth. "You did so good. You were perfect."

"'M not perfect," Eddie mumbled into Steve's collarbone. He felt drunk—loose-limbed and hazy, wrapped in a cocoon of afterglow and Steve's body heat. "I walked into a post earlier."

Steve's laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating against Eddie's cheek. "Still perfect." Another kiss, this one to the top of Eddie's head. "How do you feel?"

Eddie considered this, and it took far more brainpower than it probably should have.

His body ached in that pleasant, wrung-out way that meant he'd be feeling this tomorrow and would relish every second of discomfort. His wrists and neck were fine—the stocks had been as painless as Steve promised. The ground beneath them was cool and solid, and Steve was the opposite—all heat and heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of breathing.

"Like I need to send my friends a fruit basket for abandoning me."

Steve tipped Eddie's chin up and kissed him properly—slow and sweet, with none of the urgency from before. Just the lingering taste of mead, the scratch of stubble, and something that felt startlingly like a beginning.

When they pulled apart, Steve's expression had gone open and unguarded in the moonlight. Hopeful, almost. It made something behind Eddie's ribs ache in the best possible way.

"So," Steve said. "I know this is kind of backwards, since we've already—" He gestured vaguely at the stocks, at their current state of undress, at the general scene of the carnal crime. "But. Can I take you out some time? On an actual date? With food and conversation and significantly fewer medieval torture devices?"

Eddie stared at him. This ridiculous, beautiful, impossibly earnest man who forged swords for a living and carried condoms in his wallet and had just rearranged Eddie's entire nervous system in a prop tent.

"Steve," Eddie said, "if you don't take me on a date, I will find these stocks again and lock you in them until you do."

Steve's grin was blinding. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both."

Steve kissed him again—still grinning, both of them smiling too wide for it to work properly, all teeth and clumsy angles and noses bumping—and it was messy and graceless and absolutely, completely perfect.

His phone buzzed in the pocket of his discarded pants somewhere nearby.

Then again after a short pause.

A third time.

Eddie didn't move from Steve's lap to check it, but he had a pretty good idea what it was.

Somewhere in an apartment across town, Grant was definitely texting eggplant emojis.

Thanks as always to the wonderful @penny00dreadful for your incredible beta work and cheerleading 💜

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