hippiegoth97's Fanfic Archive

He knows it in the lines of your face in the morning, soft with sleep. In the heat of Steve’s palm against the small of his back. In the smell of lavender soap and coconut sunscreen and bitter coffee grounds.

He knows it in the way Steve collects all your scribbled notes on the fridge like scripture:

don’t forget milk!

back by 9

love you ◡̈

In the way you collect pieces of time, too.

Movie stubs. A wrinkled matchbook from the Hideout where Eddie first whispered I love you. The guitar pick he gave you as an anniversary present, his initials etched on the back in a shaky scrawl.

You tuck love into the corners of your lives. You make a home out of the moments.

Eddie’s learned all the soft, tender things.

But he knows about all the filthy things, too. He’s no saint.

He knows the exact way your head tips when you’re close. That the tender patch behind your ear, where your perfume fades, is a straight line to the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

He knows you cry a little when edged too long. That you beg so sweet when you’re made to wait. That your favorite toy is still that very first lavender vibrator; you come harder with it than anything else.

He knows Steve’s thighs twitch when he’s seconds from the edge. That he likes getting head with someone holding his hands. That there’s a small mole right at the base of his cock that makes him squirm every time Eddie kisses it.

He knows Steve gets possessive when he watches you and Eddie together, jaw tightening, eyes going dark.

She’s fucking ours, Munson.  

Eddie lives for it. Needs it.

And he knows you love it, too. Being the center of their orbit, shared and indulged.   

He’s addicted to all of it.

But more than all that, he’s learned himself.

He’s learned he can sit still. That he can sit on the floor between your legs, your fingers carding through his hair while Steve flips lazily through some worn issue of Cosmo, reading the dumb quizzes aloud just to make you both laugh. He can sit there for hours and not feel the itch to move or talk or fill the silence.

Because it’s not empty anymore. It’s full.

He’s learned that crying doesn’t make him weak. That he can have a nightmare and wake up with someone already there, rubbing his back, telling him he’s safe.

He knows how it feels to have both of you around him at once—your thighs around his head, Steve’s hand around his cock. Knows the heady rush of being stretched open while one of you holds him down and the other tells him he’s beautiful.

He’s learned he likes the marks. Likes the scratches down his back from your nails. The bruises on his hips where Steve grips tight. Likes waking up sore and smiling, knowing exactly where the ache came from.

He’s learned that being loved isn’t just about sex.

But god, the sex—it’s reverent and filthy and everything he never let himself want before now.

And above all else, he loves getting to feel you fall apart in his arms.

Loves even more that you let him piece you back together.

So tonight, when you pull him down onto the couch with a hushed little come here, whispering dirty promises with that half-lidded, love-drunk grin, he follows without a word.  

You're laughing as you climb into his lap, fingers diving into his hair, greedy in the way he secretly adores. The TV glows soft in the corner, a rerun that’s been on since Steve left a couple hours ago for his evening shift.  

He should be home by now.

The thought passes through him distantly until your thighs tighten around his hips, until your hips start to roll against his own, dragging heat through the front of his sweats. He shudders, hands slipping under your shirt on instinct.

“Baby, you—fuck—you’re gonna get yourself in trouble doing that.”

Your lips hover over his, eyes gleaming with something wicked and sweet. “What if I want to get in trouble?”

He huffs a helpless laugh, head thudding back against the couch. “Damn menace…”

“You know it.” You hum before dragging him into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue. 

Impatient fingers start to tug at his curls, gentle and then not. The rhythm of your hips becomes insistent, the couch squeaking softly beneath you, each movement punctuated by shared breaths and the quiet, hungry smacks of mouths finding each other again and again.

And then:

“I’m home!”

The soft jangle of keys hits the dish by the door, followed by the muted thud of shoes kicked off onto linoleum.

“In here, baby!” You chirp, still smiling, still perched on his lap.

Eddie, breathless, doesn’t know whether to laugh or brace himself.

“Coming!” Steve’s voice calls back, happy and sing-song.

The faint clink of the fridge door. Running water. The familiar shuffle of socked feet across hardwood.  

Then Steve appears in the doorway.

Shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed and bulging in a tight blue and white polo. Glass of water held loose in one hand, he lets his gaze drift lazily across the room, drinking in every detail.

You in Eddie’s lap. Eddie’s red mouth. His rumpled shirt. The slow, not-so-innocent grind of your hips where you haven’t quite stopped moving.

Steve grins.

You lift your chin and smile back, shameless. One arm loops around Eddie’s neck, staking claim, before you lean down to press a soft kiss to his jaw—punctuation.

Steve quirks a brow, strolls in. Sets the glass on the side table and lets his eyes linger on both of you.

“Well,” he drawls, lips curling. “This looks cozy.”

He leans down to kiss you first, quick and familiar. Then he turns, giving one to Eddie too, lips brushing his temple, fingers grazing his nape.

And Eddie—god, he still flinches a little. Not because it’s unwelcome, but because it never stops surprising him. That Steve can touch like that, can give away affection so freely. Like it costs him nothing. Like it means everything.

That it can be this easy.

It burns, sometimes. In the terrifying way. In the good way.

Steve drops onto the couch beside him in a slow sprawl, legs open, hand already resting on your thigh.

There, sitting hip to hip with Eddie, he turns his head and just... looks at you. Holds your gaze for a long, quiet beat. Like your face is a blackboard and he’s solving some wild, unspeakable equation. His eyes glow dark amber under the lamplight, edged with a curious thought.

Not math, Eddie thinks. Chemistry. Combustion.

Eventually, Steve seems to decide on a tone.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he croons, all brassy and honey-warm.

The sound of it swims through the room, thick as syrup. Steve’s fingers trail slowly up your neck, the backs of his knuckles brushing along your jaw in a gesture so gentle it makes your breath catch. They slip into your hair, threading through with the same care one might use to untangle a silk ribbon.

Until...

His grip tightens.

Hard enough to tip your chin back.

Tilt the spotlight. Isolate you.

When Steve speaks again, his voice has changed.

No more honey. It’s steel wrapped in silk.

“Were you a good girl for Eddie tonight, baby?”

Eddie blinks, heart jolting, thoughts stuttering.

That tone. A clean, whipcrack switch that cuts straight through the room.

He feels it like a shift in barometric pressure, the electric promise of a storm.

Your lashes flutter, lips parting as you try to nod, but Steve’s fingers tighten just enough to keep you still.

“Mhm,” you breathe.

From beside Eddie, Steve makes this sound. A low, guttural hum, almost a growl caught in his chest.

“I don’t know,” he starts, voice rumbling deep.

His gaze stays locked on you, the grip in your hair pinning you in place.

“What do you think, Eds? Has she been good?”

Then, even lower: “Or was she a desperate little slut, like she always is?”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

It’s about to be that kind of night.

Your jaw falls slack. Your thighs twitch around Eddie’s. He feels it, the way your body answers first, ahead of thought. That soft, desperate whimper that gets trapped in your throat when you try to swallow it down.

What if I want to get in trouble?

Eddie almost laughs. Almost.

You fucking menace.

Instead, he adjusts his grip around your waist, fingers skimming up your ribs, dragging just high enough to make your breath hitch.

He tilts his head, playing it casual. Lethal with it.

“I mean… she did start it.”

Steve huffs through his nose—a clipped, amused little exhale—and his expression hardens. 

You look wrecked already: lips parted, chest heaving, eyes flicking between them like you can’t decide who you want first.

You're waiting.

You like the waiting.

Steve’s thumb brushes along your jaw, deceptively soft. “You did start it, huh?”

“Hmm,” you breathe, trying for sweet, but your voice trembles. Your lips twitch, the excitement underneath stretching taut like a wire about to snap. “Baby, I was good. Promise…”   

It’s almost convincing. Almost.

Steve laughs. It’s a quiet, cruel sound. Dragged up from his chest like he’s letting you in on a joke you’re not quite smart enough to get. The hand in your hair tightens again, tugging you back a little further, baring your throat to the ceiling.

“Good, huh?” He tilts your head a fraction, studying your face like he’s remembering the exact shape of your mouth when you lie. “You sure about that?”

You make a high, helpless noise, fingers knotting in the front of Eddie’s shirt.

“Couldn’t even wait for me to get home, grinding all over Eddie.” Steve sinks deeper into the couch, thigh pressing against Eddie’s in a slow, deliberate push that sends a jolt up Eddie’s spine. “It’s kind of pathetic, you know that?”

Eddie watches, burning with awe, as you come apart in his lap.

Loved and ruined in equal measure.

This is what Steve does.

One moment, he’s light: hands like balm, lips like sunrise. And the next, he’s fire: no warmth, just heat.

Steve Harrington is the sun, radiant and merciless.

He’ll offer you his heart on a silver platter, then burn you to ash. Split you wide open, make you sob with nothing but his voice in your ear and his gaze pinning you like a blade between the ribs. 

And right now? With that hunger in his eyes, with the way his tongue’s dragging over his lip like he’s savoring the taste of your ruin?

You’d be lucky to make it out of this one alive.

You whimper again, throat bobbing with a swallow. Steve’s grip is merciless now, his hand a vice, keeping your head tipped uncomfortably far back.

And then—because you’re you, because you never fold easy, because you’re wild and stubborn in the most beautiful ways—

You smile.

That wicked, glorious thing that tears Eddie in two every single time.

“We were just warming up the couch for you, Stevie,” you breathe. “Swear.”

You seal your fate with a demonstrative roll of your hips, bearing down against the bulge in Eddie’s pants.

Oh, god have mercy on you.

Steve’s eyes narrow, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb brushing softly across your cheek. “You think that’s clever?”

Then the hand in your hair tugs hard. Eddie sees it in the way you wince for real this time, breath hitching, eyes squeezing shut.

Immediately, Steve murmurs: “Color, baby.”

Your answer comes faster than Eddie can blink, breathless but sure:

“Green. So green.”

Eddie watches you both, enthralled.

Another lesson. One of a thousand he’s learned from the two of you.

What once felt awkward and uncertain, he gets now. Understands what it means when Steve color-checks in that tone, low and anchored, like a lifeline.

A reminder that no matter how rough it gets, no matter how far they take you apart, the center always holds.

Eddie swallows hard, brushing his thumb low on your waist, right where your skin is warmest. He feels the shiver ripple through you, delicate and involuntary.  

God, he loves you. Loves Steve. So fucking much it fills him right to the top, threatens to spill over and crack him open.

Steve exhales through his nose, pressing a kiss into your temple with steadying warmth.

“Good girl.”

And just like that, you melt.

It’s magic, the way you do. Such a precious treat to see it like this, so up close. Watching you go liquid from two little words, eyes glazing over, lashes drooping like you’re drifting someplace sweet and far away. You’re hovering in that delicious space he knows you love most: half in penance, half in worship, trembling with the need to give more, to be better, to be theirs.

Steve dips closer, voice sliding back into that velvet-edged steel.

“You were good, huh?” He mocks. “Grinding on him like a desperate slut. That counts as good behavior now?”

Eddie almost chokes at the whiplash of it all.

But you? You only moan louder, hips bucking, thighs squeezing around him as you chase friction like it might save your life.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, hands tightening on your waist. His thumbs keep tracing slow, loving circles over your belly, far too gentle for how desperately you’re moving against him. “Look at you, gorgeous…”   

Steve hums at that. “You love it when he talks like that, don’t you?” His eyes cut to Eddie, sharp and knowing. “Gets you all wet and needy while I’m gone.”

Your breath hitches when you try to protest. “I—”

“No.” Steve’s voice slices clean through the air. “You don’t speak unless I say.”

You swallow back the words with a small, obedient whimper.

Steve’s fingers slip from your hair, tracing the column of your throat. They settle there. Just a little weight, not hard enough to choke, but Eddie knows it’s a promise.

“You wanna show us?” Steve murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans your cheek. “Show us how good you can be?”

You nod once, pupils blown so wide your irises are nothing but a whisper of color.    

“That’s my girl.” He kisses the side of your jaw. “Stay right here, baby. On Eddie.”

Steve sinks behind you onto the floor, knees against the carpet, chest pressed flush to your spine. His hands slip under Eddie’s, cupping your ribs. Four hands move as one as they lift and peel your shirt away, baring you inch by inch.

“Fuck, baby…” Eddie breathes, hands roaming your skin. “So fucking pretty.”

Steve crowds closer, lips brushing your shoulder. His touches are less careful: callused palms cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling your nipples into stiff peaks before pinching them with a sharp tug.

You whine, lashes fluttering.

“Please,” you whisper. “Want…”

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Steve croons, teeth grazing your ear. “Use your words.”

“Wanna… wanna come. Please.”  

Steve snorts softly, like he’s barely impressed. “Already?”

Eddie smiles too, eyes glued to the way your body arches, the way your nipples are pebbling under Steve’s clever fingers. “So needy, aren’t you, gorgeous?”

“Greedy, more like,” Steve mutters, pinching again so hard you gasp. “Always so full of it. Mouth, cunt, attitude…”

You whimper at the words; Eddie knows how a little cruelty lights up your veins, praise and degradation mixing the same way in your blood.

You turn toward Steve, mouth parted, seeking his kiss with helpless instinct. He catches your chin, amused, before pulling you in. The kiss is filthy, hungry, his tongue sliding into your mouth in one smooth stroke to claim.

Eddie watches, struck stupid at the sight—your moans muffled against Steve’s lips, body rocking mindlessly against Eddie’s dick. He’s practically leaking under his sweats, the heat from your cunt soaking straight through the fabric.

“Can I touch you, baby?” Eddie whispers against your jaw where Steve’s still holding you in place. He knows the answer, but he needs it anyway.

You nod frantically, a slick string of spit stretching between you and Steve when he lets you pull away.

“Yes, Eddie, please, need you—”

Eddie doesn’t waste a second. He tugs your shorts aside, fingers sliding through your slick—

“Jesus christ.” He stares up at you. “Baby, you’re dripping.”

“Always is,” Steve mutters, lips against the side of your throat, sucking a mark hard enough to bruise. “Pretty slut loves to show off.”

You whine, arching back into his chest as Eddie sinks two fingers into you, slow and deep until his knuckles kiss your skin.

Your entire body bows.

“Fuck, fuck—Eds—”

He curls his fingers, rubbing against that perfect spot like he’s been practicing for months (he has). His thumb circles your clit with steady precision, and your whimpers turn into breathless little cries.

Between your moans and the wet squelch of your arousal, Eddie almost misses your next words.

“Please... wannit, want you inside...”

He pulls his fingers out slowly, watching your hips chase nothing. His cock is throbbing painfully as he pushes his sweats down.

Steve’s voice cuts in, merciless.

“Ask him nicely, slut.”

“Please,” you sob. “Please fuck me, Eddie—need your cock, wanna feel you—please—”

Eddie’s answering smile is pure warmth. “I got you, sweet girl. C’mere.”

He guides you down with both palms cupping your hips. His fingers glisten with your arousal, smearing across your skin.

Inch by careful inch, the slow sink inside you is hot and tight and buttery-smooth.

“Fuuuck…” Eddie groans, completely, devastatingly in love.“You feel so good. Take it so fucking well.”

Steve wraps his arms around you, palm splaying over your stomach.

“What do you say?”

“T-thank you,” you gasp. “Thank you, thank you—”

Every slow thrust rocks a sob out of you. A particularly well-placed grind has you mewling, clawing at Steve’s arms.

Steve cups your jaw, forcing your head back against his shoulder. “You close, sweetheart?”

You nod, frantic.

“Words.”

“Yes, yes, please—can I—”

“Not yet.”  

Your cry is sharp enough to cut straight through Eddie’s heart.

 “Steve,” he grunts, strained. “She’s—”

“I know.” Steve hums, maddeningly calm. His hand slides down to feel your cunt, fingers obscenely framing the place where Eddie’s stretching you open. “She can wait. Can’t you, honey?”

You shake your head in frantic, tiny motions. “P-please, can’t…”

“Breathe through it,” he says softly. “You’re not coming until I say.”

“N-no, please, I....”

“Where are your manners, baby? Eddie’s being so good to your greedy little pussy right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you sob instantly. “Sorry—thank you, Eddie, thank you—Steve, please—”  

Eddie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. This raw honesty in you. How you become this soft, pleading, open thing in their hands. It’s beautiful, it’s mesmerizing, the way you allow yourself to beg. To come apart for them so helplessly.  

And when he lifts his head, meeting Steve’s gaze over your shoulder, he knows exactly what that look means.

Steve leans in close to your ear, voice dropping to a purr, eyes still locked on Eddie’s.

“You gonna come for him? Make a mess all over his lap?”

“Yes—need to... so close...”

Eddie feels you squeeze around him, tight then tighter, knows it won’t take much more to get you to break. He’s fucking you proper now, thighs lifting off the couch, hammering against that spot until you’re choking on your own breaths.

“That’s it,” he grunts. “Good girl.”

“Please, please, I need to—I can’t—”

Steve’s fists your hair again, grounding you with a sharp tug. “Not yet.”

You nearly scream, nails digging into Steve’s forearms. “No—please! Steve, I can’t—”

“You can. You will. You’re our good girl, aren’t you?”

Even sobbing, your nod is immediate. “Yes. Yours, yours, always—good for you both, please—”

Eddie shudders, the word both hitting him in a place so deep he nearly loses his rhythm.  

Steve smiles, hums a satisfied little note.

And then, finally, he nods.

“Let go, baby,” he breathes. “Come.”

And you break.

The orgasm rips through you in a violent shudder. You sob, convulsing, collapsing forward into Eddie’s chest as every muscle seizes and trembles. You’re shaking so hard he’d be worried if he didn’t know you love it like this.  

Eddie cradles your head, lets his movements slow, helping you come down with shallow, gentle thrusts. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice trembling under the weight of everything he feels for you. “Ride it out, there you go, baby. So good. So fucking good. We got you.”  

Steve’s lips move in a slow drag along your cheek, murmuring praises soft enough to make you cry harder.

And though you’re too far gone to notice it, Eddie sees the look on Steve’s face.

Adoration, vivid and sparkling, like sunlight fracturing through stained glass.

It lives in his gaze, his smile, the gentle crease at the corner of his eyes and the quiet strength in the set of his jaw—every warm, golden inch of the man Eddie loves.  

When your shaking finally slows, your breath tapering down into little broken huffs against Eddie’s collarbone, you lift your head.

And the sight that meets him just about takes his breath away.

Eyes wide and glassy, lashes jeweled with tears. Lips parted in small, shaky breaths, swollen from bruising kisses. You look like you’re trying to speak, words catching before they form.

But you don’t need to say anything at all.

Not when that look—god, that look—says everything.

This awful, beautiful softness in your expression, gratitude and devotion and something deeper still. Something Eddie feels unworthy of, even as he’s desperate to hold onto it. 

Trust.

Bare and luminous.

It wraps around Eddie’s ribs like a pair of warm hands, squeezing until he’s breathless with the weight of it.

Stripped down to nothing but faith in the people you love most, it’s a kind of vulnerability you don’t give lightly.  

Eddie’s heart lurches with something too full to keep inside.

He surges forward to cup your cheek, calloused thumb grazing your skin, and brushes his lips against yours. Barely a kiss, more breath than touch.

You melt into it with a quiet, content sound.

Behind you, Steve’s voice cracks for the first time all night: the first break in his dom voice.

“Fuck me.” he whispers. “You okay? Color?”

You mumble “green” into Eddie’s mouth, smiling.    

Steve’s laugh comes out shaky, relief washing over him in a visible wave. His shoulders drop, whole body softening like he’s finally allowed himself to breathe again.

And when you turn in Eddie’s lap, still wobbly, still glowing, Steve’s already there. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking the soft place beneath your ear as he draws you in for a kiss that’s nothing like earlier. Slow, gentle, built entirely from affection and no less passionate.

He keeps you close for a moment longer, thumb tracing the back of your neck. When he pulls away, it’s only so he can grab the glass of water waiting on the table. He brings it to your lips with careful hands.

“Small sips, baby. Good girl.”

You drink obediently, eyes half-lidded and lashes heavy.

When you’re done, Steve lifts the glass toward Eddie without a word. Eddie rolls his eyes for form’s sake but still leans forward, cheeks warm, letting Steve tilt the glass for him. Steve makes him drain the whole thing, eyes on him the entire time.

Only when all three of you have caught your breath does Steve straighten with a grunt, knees popping loudly.

He looks deliciously wrecked: hair wild, cheeks red, shirt crooked and rucked up on one side. His Levi’s are unbuttoned, clinging hopelessly to a very obvious problem he’s ignoring.  

“Alright, you little menaces,” he sighs, planting his hands on his hips. “I’ve got ice cream in the freezer.”

You blink down at the obvious situation in his jeans. “But Stevie—”

“Ah-ah.” He points toward the kitchen. “Recharge first. C’mon.”

Your face scrunches into that bratty little frown Eddie knows too well, the one that means you’re already plotting a way around this.

But he also knows you.

And he knows there’s only one thing powerful enough to override your stubborn streak:

Ice cream.

You deflate with a huff, defeated but not really. “Fine.”

Eddie bites back a grin.

You brighten a second later, eyes going big and sparkly. “Wait, did you get—?”

“Yep.” Steve smirks.

He leans down to press a fond kiss to the crown of your head. Then his gaze shifts to Eddie, softening even more.

“Got your favorite too, Eds.”   

Your laugh bubbles out, breathless and sweet. You lean back against Eddie’s chest and whisper into his hair with a conspiratorial grin:

“Hey, Eds. I think he might love us or something.”

Steve snorts, shakes his head, but his eyes crinkle at the corners with a smile too wide to deny. 

“I love Eddie. You? Not so sure.”

Eddie’s heart stumbles. He has to squeeze your hip the moment he hears it, has to ground himself before he launches straight off the couch.

“Yeah, he’s uh…” He clears his throat, tries to hide the wobble in it. “One big softie, huh?”

He says it to you, but his eyes never leave Steve’s.

And Steve holds that gaze, eyes steady and warm, answering a question Eddie doesn’t say out loud.

Eddie smiles, looks away first.

You continue teasing Steve from your spot in Eddie’s lap, trying to coax him back onto the couch. “...I’m just saying babe, we could eat later. You’ll be, like, the main course before dessert!”

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes, already headed for the kitchen.

“I’m gonna start without you two if you don’t hurry up!”

“What? No fair!” you shout, scrambling upright. Eddie laughs as you drag him along by the wrist.

In the kitchen, Steve scoops out meticulous portions of ice cream while still sporting a semi. You pester him about his scooping technique—this was literally your job, babe—while perched up on the counter in Eddie’s Judas Priest shirt, legs swinging off the edge. Eddie leans next to you, arms crossed, throwing in teasing quips purely to watch Steve’s ears turn pink while he tries to defend himself.

You both last exactly ten seconds before boredom takes over.

You toss a marshmallow at Eddie's open mouth, missing so catastrophically that Steve stops scooping to interject.

The bag is confiscated before you can attempt a third throw.

Not that it stops you.

Sprinkles rain across the counter like confetti. Syrup streaks in glossy trails across the marble.

Eddie gets chocolate on his chin somehow, and Steve doesn’t even hesitate—he wipes it away with his thumb, slides it between his own lips, and sucks it clean without breaking eye contact.

Eddie chokes on his own spit. You gasp, delighted.  

And if things start to unravel—as they usually do—with a smear of whipped cream on your cheek, a cold spoon pressed to Steve’s stomach, and then shirts being dragged up and over heads because “you’re all sticky, babe, just take it off."

If a moment later, Eddie finds himself pinned between two warm bodies, one in front, one behind, syrup-sweet kisses trailing across his neck, sticky fingers tracing up his ribs until he can’t tell who’s gasping and who he’s gasping for…

Well.

That part’s for Eddie to keep to himself.

series masterlist

a/n: thank you to everyone who's been waiting for the series finale :) this is the last chapter, BUT if there are headcanons/ideas you’d want to see w/ these three, you can send them my way! who knows where inspiration might strike?