𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡 / 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 — [𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰]
cw: allusions to/non-graphic mentions of smut (18+ - mdni)
˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗
Kissing Eddie Munson is Steve Harrington's absolute favourite pastime.
His taste, how he feels—pliant and mewling under him, or hard and growling above him—how he looks with bruised lips, and flushed cheeks, how he sounds...It’s all he can do to keep from locking them in a room together to kiss him for the rest of time.
Sure, if he’s being honest with himself, the feeling of stubble rubbing up against his own had taken a bit of getting used to, but so had not having to duck down to reach his lips, and feeling toned muscle where he was used to the soft give of a breast. Now that they’re a month and a bit (five weeks, and two days) into their relationship though, he knows deep in his bones that he could never do without any of it.
Hell, he’s even come to appreciate how Eddie’s kisses taste first thing in the morning when their breath could make paint curl. Every little thing about him is perfect in a way he can’t quite describe.
Almost regretfully, he pulls back a touch to look down at his work, appreciating the little purple marks he’s painted along his milky canvas. Eddie occasionally talks about constellations, and universes, and things far out and beyond his comprehension—another holdover from his short time with his mom, he’s come to learn—he wonders, as he traces gentle lines between the bruises, what stories he’ll see when he next looks in the mirror.
Then Eddie’s smiling up at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Steve can’t help but smile right back down at him like he’s the moon, illuminating and healing the darkest parts of himself. He sweeps the pad of his thumb along his cheekbone and takes just a breath longer to appreciate every little thing. All he wants is to collect these precious, quiet moments, and tuck them away inside of himself to roll over in his hands on those increasingly rare nights he has to sleep on his own.
Finally, he lies himself back down on top of Eddie, and trails lazy kisses from his Adam’s apple up to his lips. The final remnants of syrup, cigarettes and coffee still cling to his tongue, and it makes Steve’s head go all foggy because even when he’s in charge, it’s hard not to be pulled out to sea, and drown in him.
With worshipful slowness, he slides his fingers along Eddie’s ribs, appreciating each dip, and the sensitive pucker of his scars. The goosebumps and quiet whimper he’s met with have his stomach clenching with need. Not a hurried, burning need, but a fond kindling (a kindling he's started to call home) in the base of his heart.
“Can’t believe I’m making out with Eddie Munson to Metallica,” he chuckles against parted lips.
Eddie's mouth skews prettily as he trails the pads of his fingers up and down his spine. “Sweetheart, I love you, but this isn’t Metallica."
Steve blinks. “What?”
“It’s Dio,” he corrects before laying a sweet, chaste peck on the corner of his mouth.
Uh...
OK.
OK. OK, no.
No, just— No.
No.
Struggling to sort his thoughts up, he props himself onto an elbow and scans Eddie's face for any hint of anything (deception, humour, pity, horniness, anything). But as he often is, Eddie's mostly unreadable.
“No, it’s Metallica,” he grunts.
Eddie winces. “Babe—”
“What? No, dude, it’s literally Metallica!” He insists, brow pinching hard as he listens. “OK, OK, wait…Crushing all deceivers, mashing non-believers, never ending potency. Hungry violence seeker feeding off the weaker, breeding on insanity. Smashing through the— See? Metallica!”
Of course it's Metallica! How could it not be Metallica? How could he know it’s Metallica, and Eddie of all people, not know—
Not...not know...
Oh.
Oh.
Oh, he’s fucked up. He’s fucked up real bad.
“Shit—"
“Well, well, well, Steve Harrington,” he drawls, smirking like a cat with a bird in its teeth, “Who’da thunk it.”
“No. No, no, no, no, no. No. No!” He whines, brain stalling as he struggles to find anything to shove in the hole he’s dug for himself.
Eddie only chuckles back up at him. “Who’da thunk that Steve Harrington would know—”
The little voice in the back of his head that loves to ruin things reminds him of Eddie in cherry red swim trunks chattering on about tummy rot. Without any grace, he smashes their lips together, desperately trying to get him to shut the hell up, and just drop it. It works for a moment, his words melting into a quiet groan before his taunts continue around the kisses.
“—would know the difference between Dio and Metallica. That he’d know the lyrics to a Metallica song! It’s not even a title track! Oh, how far they fall!” He cackles, large, warm hands squeezing playfully at his waist.
Steve straightens himself up, and stares down at Eddie’s flushed, gleeful face, grimacing as embarrassment crawls hot and prickly up his chest. It’s nearly impossible to not think of the last time he'd perched in his lap like this, hands on his nearly hairless chest, Eddie laid flat, flushed and panting. Embarrassment outweighs the echoes of…of that, but his dick still stirs because of course it does. And, of course, because they’re so close Eddie takes note, and his grin only gets more devilish, which is mortifying.
“You put it on my side of the tape! How could I not know it?” He demands, trying so hard to ignore how whiny and flustered he sounds.
“No, no, don’t you try making excuses now, King Steve. You’re a closet metalhead, aren’t you?” He purrs around another laugh as his hands glide up and down the outside of his thighs (which really isn’t helping with the not thinking).
“Me? A metalhe— Y’know— Do you have any idea how you sound right now?” He scoffs, lips quirking into a sneer.
Infuriatingly, he begins ticking off his sins on his fingers. “You made a battle vest—”
“We made a—” he attempts to correct as Eddie continues.
“—fine, you asked me to help you make a sacrilegious pop-rock battle vest. You just sang along to Metallica, and we’re going, together, to a Metallica concert in nine days. Babe, I hate to say it, but if it walks and talks like a duck…”
Well, he certainly has him dead to rights.
“A duck, Munson? I’ll show you a duck!” He threatens as he wraps a very loose hand around the base of Eddie's throat.
“Mm, well, to be honest with you, I don’t know what that means, but I’d love to see it,” he jeers. “But you gotta catch me first!”
Eddie pushes him off, and Steve lets him, rolling onto his side with a little grunt. Immediately after, Eddie takes off in a mad dash out of his room, cackling as he goes. And because Steve's not one to back down from a challenge, he rushes down the short hallway after him, and manages to snag him around the middle by the kitchen.
Eddie's laughter comes loud and booming from his chest, occasionally turning to snorts as Steve's jaw goes slack, his eyes crinkle, and his giggles go squeaky the way he knows Eddie loves. It feels so stupid and cliché to be laughing about nothing while holding his lover, but he can't stop himself because joy has completely filled the well inside himself, and is running over; he has to let it out somehow.
With great care, he turns Eddie around in his arms, and cups his face, thumb running lightly along the puckered scar the spans the crook of his jaw and the hollow of his cheek. Eddie, in turn, runs his pointer finger along the ring at the base of his throat and draws patterns between the love marks he's left behind. And Eddie's looking at him with so much admiration and affection his well runs over again, and the joy turns into everything, and nothing and all of it in between all at once, so he can't not kiss him.
Willing prisoner to his own desires, he indulges in that need, brushing their lips together until Eddie's laughter dies down, and his arms wind around his neck to pull him closer.
Yeah.
Yeah, he’s never going to get tired of kissing him.
˗ˏˋ༻ʚ♡︎ɞ༺ˎˊ˗
haiii again! here's a preview for the companion piece to i'm permanent (now i won't go) which will hopefully be back up on ao3 soon. hope you enjoy ૮ ᴖﻌᴖა
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