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Steve can’t sleep.
It’s been weeks since their assault on Vecna’s lair. The Party reunited, El closed the gates and the good people in Hawkins were none the wiser. They haven’t seen another victim since. Not even a compass going awry. Again, it’s over. The best they can do now is heal and move on.
Steve has been the champion at pretending to do just that.
He conceals the bags under his eyes with cool sunglasses, and always puts a vest on although he can’t stand anything thicker than a light t-shirt. Steve grins when the scars on his sides make him wince. He won’t dream of bothering anyone with their own scars to heal. Life goes on and so must he.
But it gets harder and harder to soldier on when the voices come.
As soon as the sun is out, their whisper causes his hair to stand up on the back of his neck. A multitude screeching as one, that reminds him of the bats and aches deep in his scars.
Some nights, most nights, they remain this unsettling murmur. They live in the walls of his big empty house. Fill in the shadows of his bedroom. Steve fights with his bedsheets as if they were trying to ensnare him. Only to resent the emptiness that surrounds him when he jolts awake in the middle of the night.
The voices have replaced the Russian shouts and the flickering lights. One nightmare after the other deepening the cracks within Steve. So, when sleep won’t take him, Steve has made a habit of patrolling around his friends’ houses.
He starts with Robin’s, then the Byers’, Dustin’s, and so on. Headlights off, his Beemer rounds each neighborhood. Steve makes it worth putting some stifling clothes on by keeping them safe.
Parked near the Wheelers’ driveway, Steve considers speaking up about his insomnia again. It’ll be good telling someone, if only to quiet the voices the radio can’t drown.
They’re here again, hissing his name as if to taste it. So close that Steve can almost see the lips where it comes from, sticking out its tongue to lick the sweat off his skin.
That mouth in the shadows always finds him when Steve flirts with the edge of slumber. It nips at his earlobe as he dozes off behind the wheel. It’s a little hoarse. Enticing…
Steeeeve Haaarriiington
The state of his pants usually dissuades Steve from getting out of his car.
Everyone in their party understands stress, exhaustion, even terror. But lust… Steve cannot bring himself to talk about it. It drives him further and further away from his friends. Until, one night, Steve finds himself at Roane Hill Cemetery.
The moon is thin, but his feet seem to know their way between the tombstones. Step after step, the fog coils around his calves and engulfs the jacket that he drops behind. Soon, Steve stumbles past the line of the trees, feverish and hard.
Finally, he falls on his knees, staining his jeans on dirt too fresh to grow grass. In front of him is a brand-new headstone. It bears no name, just a lonely epitaph. They didn’t want to see it trashed if anyone found it.
Steve didn’t decide to come here but he knows why he did. He lies down on the bed of earth, whimpering at the brush of his shirt against his wounded skin. Embracing the grave in the moonlight, Steve looks for a sliver of relief. But the voices rise, louder and louder until they chase the thoughts out of his head to nest there.
Under the blue cold moon, a slimy touch lifts his shirt. A vine that he hasn’t noticed is curling up his back. Before he knows it, they’ve wrapped around his arms and bound his wrists to the nameless headstone. Then his legs are slowly tied down and spread. He writhes between the tendrils, aware that he should fight back, but his spirit withers.
How can he keep fighting when his sides stop aching at their contact? Held down, held tight. Vines slip beneath his clothes and Steve’s body bends along with them. Lightheaded from the sudden absence of pain, Steve turns all pliant.
The vines leave a slick ooze through his hairs, soak the inside of his jeans wet. They seem to know exactly where to creep up. Without haste, his clothes are pulled aside, and Steve is languidly stretched open.
Steve gasps for air. He’d forgotten what pleasure even felt like till vines slithered in and out of him. His nose, his mouth, fill with the scents of earth and decay. And something else.
It smells of leather, with hints of smoke and metal. It should scare him but it’s all too familiar, and so are the hands crawling up his body.
Their touch makes the vines recede and squelch out of his gaping hole. It must be the filthiest sound Steve’s body has ever made. Right behind the whine he utters at their loss.
Steve doesn’t mourn them for long. His attention shifts to the sharp ends of huge leathery wings lowering around him. A heavier weight replaces the vines who recognized their master. His slender limbs, his long dark hair, the curl of his smirk as he nuzzles Steve’s jaw.
His fangs graze Steve’s ear as if he’s still dreaming but his voice… his voice merges all the others and spreads shivers all the way down Steve’s spine.
“You’ve kept me waiting…”
Steve gapes. His brain lags behind with the name that isn’t on the tombstone. It doesn’t help him think to have his head pulled up by his hair. Rings catching at the roots that the claws missed.
“You gonna make it up to me?”
He bucks his hips against Steve’s ass, black denim rubbing on his slimy skin, and it takes every last bit of strength Steve has to not crumble underneath him.
“Fuck, you smell good!”
Steve doesn’t know whether he means the sweat or the grime, but he breathes in his scent all the same. Like, now that Steve’s here, on his knees and spread out, Eddie Munson can’t get enough of him.
“Eddie…”
“I’m right here, sweetheart.” He bumps Steve’s knees further apart. “Just let me in.”
Taking pity on Steve and the angle he’s keeping his neck at, Eddie shoves his face down on the ground. His touch is electrifying; it makes Steve come alive. He whimpers at the clicks of a belt unbuckling, pushing his hips back like he’s been paid for this.
In this secluded part of the graveyard, Eddie meets him halfway. He buries his cock where the vines eased their way in, and feeds Steve every inch he has to give.
Eddie groans, one hand fisted in Steve’s hair, the other bruising his hip. Eddie fucks him rough and quick, clothes barely put aside to get his hands on him. He’s almost tender about it. Like he just can’t stop himself from pounding into Steve.
Eddie looms over Steve, his grip tight enough to leave marks. Scratches the shape of his claws that write Eddie’s name between the moles on his skin. And with every thrust he drives home Eddie makes the voices sing inside Steve’s head.
“Unh! M– Unh! Unh! Unh!”
Steve catches a glimpse of the woods when his eyes roll. The trees seem to move along the sharp breaths he lets out. They pulse with his heartbeat, from their leaves to the roots. And Steve sinks his fingers into the fresh dirt to reach for their hold. So– so deep!
His guts stir like vines to make room for Eddie and his monstrous cock. At least, it feels huge inside a hole no one ever entered. Steve’s knees have started wobbling, the back of his thighs have turned all red and sensitive where the denim rubs against them again and again. But worse are the choking moans Eddie pounds out of him.
At one point, Steve’s mouth has fallen open and it won’t close back. He’s gonna come! His dick throbs in that direction. It started dripping down on the empty grave without a single touch.
“Ah! Look at you.”
His world flips upside down and suddenly Steve sees the smile that he heard in Eddie’s tone. For a moment, that’s all Steve discerns in the dark. Sharps teeth drawing a known grin.
Then beneath familiar frizzing hair, Eddie’s eyes shine. Like mirrors someone painted red. They zero in on Steve, closer and closer as Eddie crawls back between his legs.
The bottom half of his club shirt has been torn off, and the chain on his open jeans clicks softly. He looks sicker despite his unnatural strength, despite the dimples his grin digs on his cheeks. His tongue rolls out, long and forked. He looks… hungry.
Eddie spread his wings wide. He keeps the whispering woods at a distance as if to lay a claim on Steve. Then Eddie grabs him by the throat and Steve doesn’t have a single doubt about it.
“When’s the last time someone’s been good to you, uh?” He runs his thumbs along Steve’s jugular.
His body jerks underneath Eddie’s, pushes when he pulls. Steve begs for his touch, for the sole relief he’s known in recent weeks. Steve needs him so bad he can’t breathe.
He reaches for Eddie’s lips mindlessly, cups his deadly pale face and steals his breath away the only way Steve knows how.
In his arms, Eddie freezes. Not expecting to be sought after, let alone to be kissed. Not right now, not like that. He moves his clawed fingers from Steve’s throat to his mouth and drags his bottom lip down as they change sides.
Their tongues find each other right before their mouths do. Filthily. Without a care for the mess they make. Eddie’s lips are everywhere, demanding and deliciously cold. They’re the only thing Steve can think about until a tinge of blood shakes them apart.
One of Eddie’s fangs shines with blood, from a puncture on Steve’s lip. A single drop of red smeared on a pearly reef. Enough for Eddie to go completely feral.
He dives back into Steve’s mouth to suck his bottom lip clean, moaning on his way down his neck. Right where his blood flows heavy and thick.
“Jesus Christ, don’t beat that loud for me, Steve.” He croaks against his throat. “I’ll keep coming back to you!”
Steve wriggles in anticipation of a full bite that never comes. Eddie lifts up his shirt and licks long stripes on his chest, he rips apart what’s left of Steve’s jeans, but he can’t seem to decide where to sink his teeth.
Where do you put new stars in a starry sky?
The words aren’t Steve’s. He knows it somewhere in the back of his head, but further down Eddie is pushing his mole-dotted thighs up his torso. His weight pins Steve down the forest ground; it’s like they’ve never left the dry bottom of Lovers Lake. Once more, they save each other and Steve’s mouth tastes of blood.
“Aanh!”
When Eddie thrusts back inside Steve, metaphors fly out of his head. His body draws an obscene arc that starts on Eddie’s cock and ends where Steve throws his head back.
He’s done this a thousand times, the back and forth, hitting his skull on the headboard but he’s never clawed at a man’s ass to bring him deeper. It’s the first time Steve spreads his legs wider for someone else to fuck him in earnest and it’s– it’s Eddie.
The one who claims his bruised and beaten body. It’s Eddie, who latches on and plows him six feet under. Steve buries his hands in his long hair while Eddie laps at one of his nipples. Nips at the bud like a hard candy then switches to the other with the cup of his hand around his pec.
Eddie mumbles incoherently, losing the ability to tease while he rocks his hips slower, deeper… Balls flushed with Steve’s hole, he’s a goner. And so is Steve.
He wants to rake Eddie’s back with his nails, but his wings rise and fall in and out of the way. So, Steve fists the collar of his shirt to hike Eddie up instead.
Their noses brush in the motion, their lips catching in between heavy breaths. Eddie’s pupils are blown full, eating up the red irises so far that his eyes look brown again. For a split second, he seems so fragile he could break.
He’s entirely driven by his instinct when he rests his forehead against Steve’s. His hair falls around them like the branches of a willow tree. It shields them from the rest of the world in complete darkness where Steve nudges the tips of their noses again.
The bond that they share beats so loud in Steve’s temples, he can’t help but think that if Eddie doesn’t come back he’ll find him. He’ll bare his throat and pull his head down as many times as Eddie needs.
Eddie has placed a hand on the small of his back; he needs no more to lift Steve’s hips up to a mind-shattering angle. He resumes his thrusts, hitting that soft spot within Steve that he can’t shut up about.
It takes the sharp sting of Eddie’s bite to cut short his moans. Steve gasps, holding onto a fistful of long hair that’s nearly not enough a handle for such a kiss. But Eddie’s embrace is iron as he snaps his hips up and starts drinking.
Before he can touch himself, Steve is coming. His pleasure rammed out of him in long white streaks running down his belly. He comes and comes again to the sounds of Eddie whimpering with his mouth full.
The shafts of moonlight the night provided begin to blur. And in his fading field of vision, Steve makes out blood-stained lips. He’s so light in Eddie’s arms. He slowly… drifts off.
When he opens his eyes next, Steve stares at a familiar ceiling. The fan he installed on his own last summer is there, along with the holes Tommy H. and he made in eighth grade with plastic swords. He’s back in his bedroom.
It takes him more time than he'd like to resurface. Although the room is familiar, deep slumber surely is new. Judging by the sunlight filtering through the blinds, it must be his longest night since early spring.
Steve doesn’t bother raising the blinds just yet. His eyes still need to adjust, or something.
He blinks in the comfortable darkness, getting flashes of headstones and long hair. Did he dream all that? It seems unlikely that he had enough imagination for the entire scenario that comes back to him, but before Steve rules it out the ache that’s usually on his sides awakens in his backside.
His wounds are fine. They look better than yesterday even. But his thighs are a different matter. When Steve peels his bedsheets, they’re sticky with all the fluids that dribbled out of him. He’s not sure about the blush that creeps up his face right now. So, Steve figures his best course of action to avert a sexuality crisis is a shower.
With the confirmation that Eddie is well and truly alive somewhere, Steve winces out of bed. He has to warn the others, he thinks, as he heads for his bathroom. Steve immediately closes his eyes when he turns the light on out of reflex. So long for a gentle wake up.
He squints at his reflection in the mirror, his vision turning sharper with every passing second. He still carries bags under his eyes, but he’s been through worse. Now, the bite mark on his neck may be a bit more difficult to explain. On closer inspection, it comes down to two little holes, surrounded by a bruise already yellowing. At this rate it’ll be healed in no time, and it’ll just look like he has a new pair of moles.
Steve brushes the bite, mooning about the lips that were there earlier… He remembers their taste like they were still on his, a bit smokey and metallic. The thought of blood in his own mouth aches through Steve’s gums. It doesn’t hurt as much as it freaks Steve out a little bit.
He runs a worried finger under his upper lip to inspect his mouth. In the middle of his perfectly normal set of teeth, two shiny new fangs finish extending.
Shit… Robin is going to kill him.