#cuips writes

His mouth is so open. So wet. His tongue swipes over Steve's molars and his lips slide sideways, head tilting so he can lick even deeper.

"Yeah," Steve murmurs. His voice is muffled by the tongue in his mouth, by his tongue in Eddie's. "Yeah, like that."

Eddie smiles. Steve can taste his teeth.

He hugs Eddie tighter to him. Gets a fist in his soft curls. Eddie whines when he tugs them. Breathes hot and heavy right into Steve's mouth. Steve sucks his puffy lower lip, pulls so the skin stretches and clicks wetly back into place. He licks up the spit running down Eddie's chin, runs his tongue along the seam of his lips and grins when they part for him.

There's a pool of liquid collecting behind Eddie's bottom teeth. Steve luxuriates in it. Drinks when it all starts to drip down into his own mouth.

He's been so fucking thirsty.

"You ready?" Eddie asks. Their lips aren't the only wet thing between them.

Steve reaches down, pulls the meat of his ass to one side. He makes room. His hole leaks lube when Eddie takes his fingers out.

"I'm ready."

Eddie's breath is shaky between them. He's never fucked something before. Steve gets to have that from him, too.

"Oh my god," Eddie says. "You're so—"

He's got the tip of Eddie's cock inside him. He, Steve Harrington, is taking cock.

"—lovely," Eddie finishes.

He's wearing a loose tee today instead of his normal tight polo, which only compounds the weirdness. He has to sit up straighter in his car, different than his normal Indiana backroads slouch and the stiff half moon cutouts below his chest leave his pecs feeling oddly exposed, despite the fact that normally, he's got nothing covering them beside his shirt.

This isn't to say that he dislikes wearing it, however. He looked really fucking good trying it on after work, and the slight strangeness—the unfamiliarity, more than anything—really isn't enough for him to consider something so drastic as taking it off.

And anyway, Eddie's already in the car with him. That would totally ruin the surprise.

"—should do it soon, probably." Eddie says.

"Hm?" Steve turns into Loch Nora and Eddie reflexively ducks at the sight of a couple walking their dog a ways down the street.

"Should call my lawyer," Eddie says, halfway into the footwell, the seatbelt throwing his bangs askew. "Y'know. Check in."

Steve gets a weird urge to kiss him. But he always gets urges to kiss him, so at this point he really can't call them weird.

"Good idea," Steve says, motioning that Eddie can sit up now that he's turning into his own driveway.

"I, uh, gotta go," Eddie says.

Steve raises his eyebrows. They're both only half dressed.

"My lawyer," Eddie starts, voice cracking. "Wayne said he's on his way."

"That's fine," Steve says, refusing to match Eddie's pale face to the few facts he has. Eddie's uncle on the other line. The tremor in his gruff voice that Steve's heard in Eddie's, before. Back in March. The way the phone just wouldn't stop ringing. "We just have to get there before him, right?"

Eddie shakes his head. "He's coming to pick up the tapes."

"But—" Steve flounders. "I thought we had another week."

"Mhm." Steve scratches his throat. "Why don't you sit down?"

Eddie gulps. Sits on the edge of Steve's bed. Steve takes the desk chair, swinging his leg over it to straddle the back.

"We can't use that tape," Steve says, folding his arms over the top rail. "The last one. Doesn't look good for your case.

Eddie nods. He'd figured as much.

"It's fine, I think, if we're short one tape. But we can't be short any more. So"—Steve's hands flex and he sighs real loud—"the rules. They're pretty simple: whatever I do to you, you do to me. And whatever you do to me, I do to you."

"Wait." Eddie's head spins. "No, that won't—"

"Oh, and the cleaning. You're not allowed to do that anymore, obviously."

"But—" Eddie wrings his hands, looks at Steve with pleading eyes. "But we're supposed to do it this way! Didn't Murray say? What about all the times you got beat up, Steve? I'm not—I'm not gonna hit you on camera, oh my god."

Steve rolls his eyes. "So don't spank me, then, jesus. But I really don't think it's gonna matter to the jury if our positions are flipped a couple times."

"No," Eddie says. Fucking him is already enough. Fucking him is already way too fucking much, actually. He's not—he can't—

"Yeah, Eddie," Steve says quietly. "Or it's done."

"Did it for you, sweetheart," Eddie says, and almost bites his own tongue off at the soft giggle that gets him.

"Looks weird without your posters." Steve's arms are crossed over his chest as he surveys Eddie's strange, blank bedroom. "And all your junk. Like you gutted the place."

Eddie chooses not to react to the junk comment. It's honestly pretty deserved. "Yeah, well. I got a bunch of them after ’84, so."

"And you're sure you checked all of them?" Steve gestures to the few still hanging up. "These ones were all here back then?"

"I'm sure," Eddie says.

Steve nods and starts setting up their stuff for filming. Eddie does his makeup while Steve gets the camera on the tripod, and then they swap. Steve smears flesh-colored goo on his sides and a little on his chest and neck to hide the fucking hickies Eddie gave him, and Eddie squats down to check the date.

Late November, ’84.

"When, um," Eddie starts, sucking the inside of his cheek when Steve turns to face the camera and his stomach hair is just right there through the eyepiece. "When exactly was the Upside Down shit in '84?"

"Uhh…" Steve spits the hem out of his mouth, curtaining Eddie's view of his happy trail. "I think it started on Halloween? And I got involved pretty quick after that."

"Okay." Eddie stops squatting. Steve's right there when he stands up and it makes the slightest flush appear on his cheeks, this proximity. "So the camera says the twenty-ninth, were you all healed up by then?"

"I think so. My face always heals pretty quick. Dunno about the ribs, though. I think the bruises were gone around Christmas."

"Should we... not show your chest,then?" Eddie's trying to think logistically here. Trying not to linger on how Hargrove bruised his fucking ribs.

Steve hums. "Yeah, maybe not. We could do, like, me fully clothed, you naked. That's always hot."

"Sure," Eddie says, extremely casually. "Yeah, great idea."

It's trying to kill itself on the light above the mirror.

Over and over again the little moth rams itself headfirst against the dull yellow light bulb, its flight pattern growing slower and more sluggish with each impact of fuzzy body on glass.

Eddie takes pity on the poor, stupid thing. Cups his hands around its frail little body, nudges the door open with his foot, carries it all the way to the back door and takes it outside. The moth stays on his hand for a moment, then two, fluffing up its delicate wings and probing the air with its antennae at the sudden shift in the air.

"C'mon, little buddy." Eddie says, blowing gently on the creature on his hand. "Be free."

The moth doesn't respond except for clinging harder to his palm, wings fluttering in the sudden breeze.

"Look, man." Eddie sighs, brings the bug up to eye level.

He wonders how many of him the moth sees. Wonders if moth eyes even work like that, or if they both only see one of each other.

"I got places to be. Showers to be had. Dicks to be sucked. You gotta let go of my hand."

If moths could blink Eddie bets it'd be blinking at him, all confused by whatever the hell a shower is. Instead of blinking, it just walks further up his had, tiny body tilting sideways at the sudden drop created by Eddie's bent wrist.

"C'mon. Off you go." Eddie blows harder this time. The moth goes spiraling away.

He watches it, for a few moments. Watches it make loops in the air, wings beating furiously, joyously with this brand new freedom. It flutters past his nose, dives into a nearby bush before flying out again in pursuit of better things.

Then the moth finds Steve's back porch light.

It tries to drown itself in brightness once again.

Eddie shakes his head at the idiot fucking bug, clucking his tongue as he slides the screen door closed again, fingers searching for the light switch. There's something poetic in its total disregard for its own bodily harm so long as it can try to reach the light, but Eddie switches it off anyway. Moths don't get poetry, just as Eddie doesn't get the point of trying to do your own head in just 'cause something looks pretty.

Pretty things, Eddie thinks, are sometimes better left alone.

Back to Steve's bathroom he goes.

"You didn't shower," Steve says, breathing in the scent of Eddie's dry, unwashed hair. God, he smells like his Camels, too. Steve almost moans.

"I didn't," Eddie agrees.

"Good," Steve says, and steps back. He presses a ripe plum into Eddie's hand. "And you're not going to."

Eddie sighs but dutifully eats the little fruit. The juice coats his lips in a sheet of sweetness. Steve swallows his own spit instead of sucking it off.

"Can I—" Eddie pauses to lick up the juice running down his wrist. "Can I just like, wash up before we start?"

"Sure," Steve says. "But no cleaning."

He hears Eddie snort as he turns around to get their camera and bags from the car. Eddie's nibbling on the stringy bits attached to the pit when he returns, the seed pinched between his slender fingers and lips wrapped around one end. He spits it into his palm and holds the clean pit up as if to say Look, I ate the whole thing.

Steve gives him a nod and starts unloading the takeout. Eddie moves to help, but he waves him off. "Get the other bag," Steve says. "You never saw what was inside it."

Eddie grabs it. His sticky plum-juice lips form an O.