it’s all I wanna be

he wasn’t really like that though until post s3…. when for the first time in his life he truly thought he was going to die down there in that bunker and that he’d never get to see you again. and that begins his obsession with needing to worship you… to tell you just how much he loves you… how much he needs you.

s4 he nearly dies again and his psyche is holding on by a thread at this point with max clinically dying, eddie dying, and himself getting his flesh shredded by the demobats. he’s in pain…not just physically but mentally too…. but even with his torso wrapped and his neck killing him he needs to feel you. needs to feel you wrapped around him…. feel your tight wet heat around his cock…. feel your warm skin under his hands as he holds your hips while you ride him slowly…. needs to have you so close to him that no one could tell where you end and he begins.

you keep trying to convince yourself it would never work anyway. he's gorgeous, charming, effortlessly good with people. women probably throw themselves at him.

meanwhile, your life comes with baggage: a kid who isn't his and a calendar built around school drop-offs and bedtime routines.

you assume that, eventually, he'll realize this isn't the kind of life he pictured for himself.

except steve doesn't see a list of reasons why it won't work.

he sees you.

and then, somehow, before you can even process it, he's gone and won over your daughter too.

you find him sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, letting her attempt to braid his floppy hair while she giggles herself silly. she tugs a little too hard and he throws his head back dramatically.

“owww, you're so mean to me.”

she erupts into laughter, immediately asking if she can try again.

“i guess,” he sighs dramatically, “if i have to.”

those stupid, warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at your daughter, looking at her like she’s the most important person in the room.

which, to him, she is.

and so is her mom.

you keep waiting for the catch. for steve to realize there's a whole world beyond yours—a world where he gets to be young and carefree and unburdened, instead of choosing a life that already comes with so many responsibilities.

and every time he looks at you with that soft, awestruck expression, you have to look away because surely this isn’t real. no one has ever looked at you like that before.

yet despite your best efforts to push him away before things can get any more serious...

he gets you into bed.

it's terrifying.

you're more nervous than you've ever been with anyone—even more than your first time—because this isn't just about being physically vulnerable anymore.

it's the way he looks at you.

at the scars and stretch marks. the body that carried your daughter, that carried you through the hardest years of your life. the body you've spent the last decade treating like something practical, something that only mattered because it kept you moving.

never something to be cherished or wanted.

except steve doesn't look at you like that.

his gaze is nothing short of overwhelming.

there's an intensity to it that makes your heart stumble, something instinctive and undeniably hungry, but it's softened by so much warmth and affection that you can't bear to meet his eyes.

you glance away, folding your arms across your stomach and trying to make yourself a little smaller.

except steve won't let you disappear.  

he waits.

gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, kisses your cheek while he’s got two fingers lazily fingering your pussy, stroking deep and knowing and good because “I’ve gotta make sure you’re ready for me, hm?”  

and oh, did you mention he was hung, too?  

stretches you to the limit every time. he can fuck you for hours, though he makes you come at least three times before he even thinks about pulling his dick out.

and when he tells you you're beautiful in bed with a completely straight face, you believe he means it.

it's not a line. he says it the way someone says the sky is blue.

like it's simply, undeniably true.

and he's just... too much.

because the men you've been with before never paid even a fraction of the attention he does. no one slowed down long enough to notice when you got tense, or checked in just because they wanted to know how you were feeling.

but steve does. constantly.

he notices every tiny shift in your expression, every shaky breath and every little gasp.   

he's endlessly patient with you, spending hours on his knees at the foot of your bed, blinking up at you with his nose buried in your pussy. cheeks tinged pink, glistening with your slick, hair a complete mess because he'd wanted you to stop worrying about being so careful with him. because he'd wanted you to grip onto him and show him what felt good.

and the whole time, he's looking at you with this expression that's almost impossible to describe.

wonder and gratitude. a kind of open, wholehearted adoration that feels too big to hold.

like he's trying to memorize the details of this moment because he still can't believe he gets to love you.

and all you can think is...

how?

how could someone so kind, so heartbreakingly good, look at you like you're the greatest thing that's ever happened to him?

but then he watches you do the exact same thing.

you look at your body and see only the things you wish were different.

he looks at your body and sees a woman who loved her daughter so fiercely that her body still carries the memory of bringing her into this world.

he sees love written into your skin.

and somewhere along the way, it makes him wonder if maybe his own scars deserve the same kindness.

because neither of your bodies tells a story of something broken.

they tell stories of love.

yours are the marks left behind by bringing your little girl into the world—their little girl now—and his are the marks left behind by protecting the people he loves, no matter the cost.

different stories, same kind of devotion.

you keep trying to convince yourself it would never work anyway. he's gorgeous, charming, effortlessly good with people. women probably throw themselves at him.

meanwhile, your life comes with baggage: a kid who isn't his and a calendar built around school drop-offs and bedtime routines.

you assume that, eventually, he'll realize this isn't the kind of life he pictured for himself.

except steve doesn't see a list of reasons why it won't work.

he sees you.

and then, somehow, before you can even process it, he's gone and won over your daughter too.

you find him sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, letting her attempt to braid his floppy hair while she giggles herself silly. she tugs a little too hard and he throws his head back dramatically.

“owww, you're so mean to me.”

she erupts into laughter, immediately asking if she can try again.

“i guess,” he sighs dramatically, “if i have to.”

those stupid, warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles at your daughter, looking at her like she’s the most important person in the room.

which, to him, she is.

and so is her mom.

you keep waiting for the catch. for steve to realize there's a whole world beyond yours—a world where he gets to be young and carefree and unburdened, instead of choosing a life that already comes with so many responsibilities.

and every time he looks at you with that soft, awestruck expression, you have to look away because surely this isn’t real. no one has ever looked at you like that before.

yet despite your best efforts to push him away before things can get any more serious...

he gets you into bed.

it's terrifying.

you're more nervous than you've ever been with anyone—even more than your first time—because this isn't just about being physically vulnerable anymore.

it's the way he looks at you.

at the scars and stretch marks. the body that carried your daughter, that carried you through the hardest years of your life. the body you've spent the last decade treating like something practical, something that only mattered because it kept you moving.

never something to be cherished or wanted.

except steve doesn't look at you like that.

his gaze is nothing short of overwhelming.

there's an intensity to it that makes your heart stumble, something instinctive and undeniably hungry, but it's softened by so much warmth and affection that you can't bear to meet his eyes.

you glance away, folding your arms across your stomach and trying to make yourself a little smaller.

except steve won't let you disappear.  

he waits.

gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, kisses your cheek while he’s got two fingers lazily fingering your pussy, stroking deep and knowing and good because “I’ve gotta make sure you’re ready for me, hm?”  

and oh, did you mention he was hung, too?  

stretches you to the limit every time. he can fuck you for hours, though he makes you come at least three times before he even thinks about pulling his dick out.

and when he tells you you're beautiful in bed with a completely straight face, you believe he means it.

it's not a line. he says it the way someone says the sky is blue.

like it's simply, undeniably true.

and he's just... too much.

because the men you've been with before never paid even a fraction of the attention he does. no one slowed down long enough to notice when you got tense, or checked in just because they wanted to know how you were feeling.

but steve does. constantly.

he notices every tiny shift in your expression, every shaky breath and every little gasp.   

he's endlessly patient with you, spending hours on his knees at the foot of your bed, blinking up at you with his nose buried in your pussy. cheeks tinged pink, glistening with your slick, hair a complete mess because he'd wanted you to stop worrying about being so careful with him. because he'd wanted you to grip onto him and show him what felt good.

and the whole time, he's looking at you with this expression that's almost impossible to describe.

wonder and gratitude. a kind of open, wholehearted adoration that feels too big to hold.

like he's trying to memorize the details of this moment because he still can't believe he gets to love you.

and all you can think is...

how?

how could someone so kind, so heartbreakingly good, look at you like you're the greatest thing that's ever happened to him?

it’s nice at first, being taken care of like this — but soon it feels a little condescending and sometimes even chauvinistic. there are boundaries you try to set with him, stressing that you’re not stupid. and steve does know that! you’re the smartest prettiest angel he’s ever seen! but a little thing like you shouldn’t have to carry the world on your shoulders. he sweet talks you, calms you down, telling you that he simply loves spoiling you and could very happily do so for the rest of his life.

but it doesn’t really feel like he’s spoiling you when he’s sizing up a guy who you were making small talk with while waiting for your drink at the bar. you watch your sweet steve turn from a puppy into a watch dog, his fingers digging into your waist and ushering you away from the presence of whatever “sleaze” was just “trying to fuck you.” that’s how steve sees the interaction, at least. as a threat. someone who wants to take you away from him.

you blow up at him when the cool outside air hits you. breaking out of his grip to shove your pointer finger into his chest and scolding him, words vicious, things you don’t really mean but you’re just so sick of him acting like you’re incapable of existing without him.

“i’m a big girl, steve, i can fucking handle myself!”

this is where steve disagrees with you. but he lets you rant at him until your throat hurts, and he lets you poke at his chest until it turns red. he lets you seethe in the car on the way home. most shocking of all, he doesn’t argue with you when you tell him you need a little space, a few days to just breathe without him watching you as if you might choke on air at any given moment.

he gives you a few days. it’s agonizing torture for him, and he sort of hopes it’s the same for you, too. though you do actually seem a lot happier when he watches you from the parking lot of the hawkins public pool, dressed in a goddamn bikini, one that he bought you, one that you’re only supposed to wear at his place. surrounded by friends with your tits barely concealed, where the lowliest trash in town can have an eyeful of your body.

he has half the mind to get out of his car and drag you away, but he knows better than to blow his cover now. so he waits until you’re tucked in bed that night to knock on your window and sweetly ask if you’d let him in. just to talk. nothing else. promise!

but would steve really be a loving boyfriend if he let you get away with that shit? no! he’s gotta fight for you, doesn’t he? even if that means tying you to your headboard haphazardly with a silk scarf when you get all combative again. even if that means slapping his hand over your mouth so that you’d just listen to him instead of arguing. until he finally shoves your underwear into your mouth with a regrettable sigh because you’re acting like someone you’re not.

“where’d my good girl go?” he asks softly, hands tracing down your body, cloaked in one of his oversized hawkins basketball shirts and nothing more. “what happened, baby? hm?”

you try to argue with him, but nothing quite makes sense past the cotton in your mouth.

a hand lingers at the base of your neck, steve’s finger gently tracing over the golden s that hangs on an expensive chain he got you. he’s at least pleased that you haven’t removed it, but it seems that, perhaps, it’s not doing such a good job at reminding you of who you belong to.

“i know you’re mad at me,” he says, sounding absentminded as his fingers continue to stroke his initial. it looks so pretty on you. “let me make it up to you, okay?”

you let him push your legs apart. you let him push his old t-shirt up over your breasts. you let him kiss down your neck while your chest rapidly rises and falls, clearly worked up — pissed at him and so wildly turned on that your sheets are darkening under you, wet with your arousal.

he fucks the look right out of you. spreads your legs wide and hitches them up on his shoulders, bending you in half. pushes in with one brutal thrust, a perverse sense of pride overtaking him while he watches your eyes widen and your fists clench above you.

“said you were a big girl,” he groans. “now you’re lookin’ at me like you can’t take it. need me to help you, huh?”

you clench hard around him, hips bucking, trying to get away from the stretch.

steve laughs. “yeah. just like i fuckin’ thought.”

every thrust is rough, but there’s intention behind it. each push of his hips is slow and deep, tilted just right, the tip of him sweeping over your g-spot over and over. you couldn’t even find it with your dumb little fingers before him. each press is a kiss to the deepest part of you — i love you. i love you. i love you. let me.

“i can be better,” he groans in your ear. “fuck, honey, let me show you.”

that doesn’t mean he’ll take a step back — instead, he means that he’ll help you get used to him. to his hand on the small of your back, to his overwhelming need to take care of you, to the rest of your lives together where you don’t lift a fucking finger except for him to put a ring on it and for you to take care of his kids.

steve’s a good guy, and when you offered to help him relieve his stress even further by letting him use you however he wants, you really did mean it. the only stipulation he asked for was that it only happened if he was stoned, because that somehow made it less weird.

this time, steve’s had a bad week. which seems to be a little bit more like a bad month. keith has him working ridiculous hours, and robin keeps bailing on her shifts to hang out with vicky. his car battery won’t keep a charge despite it being changed three times, and he needs new tires.

and he’s lonely. very terribly lonely.

you hear it in his voice when he calls you a little bit past 8, beating around the bush for a minute before telling you that he’s planning on smoking and would you pretty please come over. and maybe wear something that provides easy access.

you wouldn’t dream of denying yourself — or him — of that.

and use you, he does. all of you.

kisses you until you’re gasping for air, biting at your lips and licking into your mouth like it’s made of candy.

grabs your hips and hauls you onto his lap, hardly getting you stretched open enough before bullying his way inside of you. he knows you love the burn, the way he keeps you steady and helps you take it. he fucks you on his cock like you’re a toy, something for him to play with. something truly his.

steve loves it when you ride him, though he’s typically the one making you bounce. his teeth latch onto his bottom lip while he moves you, up and down at a dizzying pace. when the taste of copper hits his tongue, he leans forward to suck and kiss your nipples. he’s prone to leaving a hickey or two or five on your breasts, just because he can. likes knowing you’re marked up by him and no one else.

and when your legs get too tired, he flips you onto your back, hooking your knees over his shoulders. he’s slow now, grinding in deep, holding your hands to his mattress while he coos down at you.

“you’re real good to me, yeah? lettin’ me use this pretty pussy?”

you leave with shaking legs after, your stomach in knots for the rest of the evening thinking about him and thinking about how he may like to use you again in the future. maybe you could cockwarm him — or perhaps a blowjob, guiding the tip past your gag reflex just to feel your throat tighten around him —

his next call comes not even twelve hours later, just as the sun is starting to rise.

“i’m sober. but i can’t stop thinking about you.”

"It's freezing," Steve says, disgruntled. Wiggling on the newly filled mattress, making Eddie jiggle on the other side of the bed as he rides the wave of Steve's movements. "It's like it's leeching all my body heat."

"There's a heater underneath! Give it a chance to work!" 

"Uh, yeah," Steve says, sounding unconvinced. 

"In the meantime let's get this baby rocking!" Eddie shouts, giving it a hard smack. "Let's put some motion in the ocean."

"I'm having second thoughts," Steve says. 

"About the waterbed?" Eddie asks, feeling a little crestfallen.

"About you," Steve retorts dryly, and Eddie cackles. 

He knows better. 

"C'mon. Blowing off some of this steam will do you good. 

"I'm not laying my back on that cold ass plastic."

Eddie rolls his eyes. 

"I'll bottom, c'mon," Eddie says. Tucking his knees upwards.

"Oh, great, so I have to find leverage against this thing to do all the work? I get to drive my knees into the bottom frame? Sounds fun."

Eddie laughs. Steve's awfully high maintenance today.

"You can sit on my dick, I'll do the work."

Steve still looks displeased. But he caves. "Fine."

It's a rough ride.

Eddie's trying to thrust up into him, and they're just getting battered around. Up and down, and side-to-side. A rhythm is impossible to maintain. 

It's like they are playing tug-of-war. And not in a good way, as both of them try to strong-arm the rhythm, the pace, and aren't very successful. Steve's huffing, annoyed, and Eddie's just gripping his hips, trying to get them in sync. It might be impossible.

They have good sex. That's never been a problem.

This? This might be a problem.

"Just stop moving!" Steve finally snaps, and Eddie stills his movements immediately.

"Yes, sir," Eddie snarks, and Steve places a hand in the center of Eddie's chest, and rolls his hips. Gently. Testing the waters, literally. The wave starts, but this time it's a softer roll towards the head of the bed and back down. Steve tilts his pelvis up, testing another small movement, and well, that's nice, too. 

Steve catches the wave on the way back and shifts with it. Grinding down on Eddie's cock.

Oh. 

It's free momentum. That's the secret. They've gotta move with the natural coasting motion the bed is making, not try to jackhammer it to their will.

Steve is figuring it out in real time. Eddie can see it all over his face as he concentrates. Eddie shouldn't be surprised. This is Steve's wheelhouse. The mechanics of movement. Eddie just stomps and flails and scampers through life.

Steve gives another roll, a light moan escaping from his parted lips.

"Okay," he crows with a grin, "I've got it now. Go with the flow."

"Did you piss the bed again?" Steve mutters, voice thick, full of sleep.

"That was one time and I was blackout drunk. You were there. Did you piss the bed?"

Steve makes an annoyed noise, and Eddie knows he's skating on thin ice at — 2:23 in the morning — while Steve's ass is wet.

"It's leaking," Steve says, stating the obvious.

"Are you sure it's not from you?" Eddie asks.

And the noise Steve makes is enough to wake Eddie fully.

"I might be leaking, but if it's down on the side of my thigh, we've got problems," Steve says, haughtily.

"Gotcha," Eddie says, rolling carefully out of the bed, and onto his feet as Steve sloshes around, following.

"It says to apply the patch while it's dry," Eddie says, holding up the instructions of the ancient waterbed patch kit that came with it. The overhead light is blinding at this time of night. Hostile, even.

Steve wipes the bladder with the towel again, and more water bubbles up. If looks could kill, Eddie would be dead.

"Well, that's easier said than fucking done," Steve snaps. If he doesn't get his eight hours of beauty sleep he's a fucking bear, and this has already taken the better part of an hour. 

"Maybe we need to drain it."

Steve throws the towels down, hands finding his hips, "Do you know how many gallons of water are in this thing? We aren't draining it!"

Eddie holds his hands up, conceding.

"Just fucking help me. I'm gonna force this part upwards. You wipe it dry, then apply that godforsaken patch. Got it?"

"I got it," Eddie says, and Steve nods, trying to wrangle the heavy, vinyl waterbed mattress. Wrestling it. It looks impossible to move, it's so heavy. But, Steve places a knee beneath the spot of the hole strategically, forcing the spot with a hole up as high as he can, grabbing a slick fistful around it, shoving upwards.

"Now!" Steve yells, and Eddie springs into action. Drying the pinhole twice, just to make sure, and then sticking the patch down. 

Steve lets go, and the mattress flaps back towards the sides of the bed frame with a thwack. Jiggling as it settles back into shape. Steve leans back on his haunches.

"Did it work?" Eddie asks, and Steve gets up, shedding his damp underwear, putting on a dry pair.

"Guess we'll find out," Steve says, "but you're sleeping on that side now."

Well, that seems fair.