Chapter Text
Steve doesn’t have any tattoos. If he’s honest, he never really thought about getting one before. At least not before he knew Eddie, not before he spent the summer semi-covertly tracing each and every line of Eddie’s tattoos whenever he had the chance. At the pool or on hot days or when he got way, way too into his D&D game, waiting for the little twerps to make a decision, hands resting on his notes and drumming his fingers. And Steve would sit on the couch behind them, would let himself map the ink on Eddie’s forearms.
If he’s really honest, some of it might be internalized stigma, inherited from his parents. The idea that tattoos are for people on the outside, the fringes of society. People who made bad decisions. Criminals, gang members, “faggots” (as his father put it so kindly once). But Steve was slowly picking those pieces out of himself that his parents had left behind, finally understanding that they came from little homes of hate that Steve just didn’t have in him.
And maybe he’s been feeling like he has more and more in common with the people on the outside of his parents' world. Been feeling pushed further to the edges himself. Outcast from the social norms of Hawkins, Indiana. Most nineteen-year-olds don’t have PTSD and a gaggle of shitheads that depend on them, after all.
So maybe he was toying with the idea of getting a tattoo. Sue him. It’s summer and he fuckin’ made it out of high school alive. He has friends that make his all too often empty house feel less soul-crushingly sad. He fuckin’ survived the demobats. He’s got the scars and nightmares and still sore muscles to prove it. He’s actually a little happy now, when he’s not working retail. So he goes to the only person he knows who will know anything about tattoos; Eddie. Of course.
Which, he guesses, is how he finds himself here, on Eddie’s couch. With Eddie fluttering around as he sets up a very makeshift tattoo studio.
The tattoo he’s getting is close to the top of his thigh, ‘cause he isn’t quite sure who he’s going to be yet, if visible tattoos are going to be acceptable further down the road—and he sure as fuck couldn't let his parents find out. So he’s keeping it hidden away.
The fabric of Eddie’s couch is a little scratchy on the backs of his thighs. And Eddie is crouched over him, sitting on the coffee table and bent in half so he can see what he’s doing. A little plastic cup full of ink is balanced on Steve’s other thigh, along with some pre-ripped paper towels.
Eddie’s got soapy water in an old beer bottle on the table to clean the excess ink as he goes (as he’d explained to Steve earlier). The wrapper of the needle he’s using is discarded next to it. Apparently, someone in the trailer park does tattoos, like, professionally. Steve didn’t ask too many questions though, he was a little too nervous about getting one to begin with.
He feels a little more than exposed, sitting there in a threadbare t-shirt and his boxers, the hem pushed up to allow for Eddie’s needle. It’s making him a bit jumpy.
Even though Eddie assured him Wayne wasn’t going to be home for hours, something about sitting in his living room, in the middle of the day, when all someone had to do was open the front door to catch them in what Steve imagined would look like a fairly compromising position, made him feel vulnerable. Made his stomach turn over in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And the fact that it was Eddie just added to it.
Eddie wipes down the area on his thigh with an alcohol wipe, he’d already shaved it with his razor, which was weirdly intimate and not something Steve wants to examine too closely at this point in time.
A detailed drawing of the tattoo is taped to the wall just above the couch. Eddie’s not a bad artist. And though Steve wouldn’t admit it, he’s pretty impressed. He draws a rough outline of the tattoo on Steve’s thigh with a marker. It leaves a stark purple outline behind, that Steve itches to run his fingers over. But he doesn’t, it’s supposed to be sanitary and all that.
“Go take a look Stevie-boy,” Eddie taps beside the outline twice before unfolding himself and pushing the coffee table back so Steve can get up and look in the mirror. Steve takes the supplies off his thigh so he can stand up.
He has to walk into Eddie’s room to get to the full-length mirror, and he looks a little disheveled with one leg of his boxers hiked up and his shirt clinging to him in weird places ‘cause he’s dripping with sweat. Eddie’s place is feeling a bit like the inside of a fucking toaster. But the placement looks good. He likes it. Can’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitches up into a lopsided smile. It’s not a big tattoo, just a line of barbed wire—for Barb, he feels like he owes her that much, and a crooked nail— ‘cause the nail bat is his thing.
“You better like it ‘cause I don’t wanna draw it again,” Eddie calls after him from the other room, “sorry princess.” Steve can hear the smirk in his voice, he rolls his eyes even though Eddie can’t see him.
“Suck it, Munson,” he shouts back as he walks into the living room again, hand still gripping the fabric of his boxer leg so it doesn’t fall down and contaminate the place where his tattoo is about it be.
Eddie hasn’t moved from where he was sitting on the coffee table, picking at his nails as he waits. Steve flops back down on the couch, and Eddie uses the heels of his socked feet to drag the table closer to the couch again.
“Okay?” Eddie leans back into his personal space, head tilting just slightly as he asks, and his fingers pull at the edges of the sketch, stretching it this way and that. He’s sitting close, so close that Steve can feel the heat radiating from him. He has to pull back to look Steve in the eye when he doesn’t answer.
“Yeah, looks good, come on, let’s get on with it,” Steve says, rolling the hem of his boxers between his fingers, back and forth, back and forth.
“Be nicer to me, Harrington,” Eddie snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, not bothering to take his rings off.
“Why should I?”
“‘Cause I can always stab you much harder than I need to,” Eddie arches an eyebrow at him like a challenge.
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve waves him off, tilting his head back and shaking the hair out of his eyes. He can’t quite help how the muscles in his thigh jump when Eddie touches him again.
“Hey, relax,” Eddie’s voice is soft and stern. It’s not a command, but Steven’s body follows it like it is, the tension in his muscles fading enough to take the edge off. A heat crawls up the back of his neck, and he’s not sure if it’s from Eddie’s words or the fact that his body seems to want to follow them without question.
“I am relaxed,” Steve huffs, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He chances a glance at Eddie, to see if he’s gonna call his bluff, but Eddie’s just looking back at him with those big gentle whiskey-brown eyes. Entirely too kindly. He gives Steve’s leg a little squeeze just above the knee, and gets to work.
“I’m just gonna do a few,” Eddie dips his needle in the ink cup that’s balanced on Steve’s thigh again, and ducks down, “so you know how it feels, okay?”
Steve just nods in response.
“Gonna need you to use your words, doll,” Eddie says without looking up, “I’m not exactly going to be studying that pretty face while I’m tattooing you.”
Steve’s face heats a little at that, and he swallows.
“Yeah, ‘course, sounds good,” Steve does his best to sound annoyed, but he’s not sure he quite pulls it off. Thankfully Eddie doesn’t say anything else, he just gets to work. The first few pokes burn, Steve hisses each time, but Eddie doesn’t make fun of him.
“It might get a little more painful after the first go around,” Eddie says, and pulls back to check in. Steve nods, ‘cause Eddie’s looking at him now. Eddie smirks at him, “and by might, I mean it definitely will.”
“I’m a big boy, I’ll be fine,” Steve grumbles. Eddie’s smirk grows into one of his little manic smiles, eyes twinkling. He dips the needle back into the ink with a flourish, and starts to trace the outline, pausing every handful of pokes to wipe the excess ink away.
He quickly falls into a rhythm. The tip of his tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration. He pauses for a second to sweep all his hair to one side, keeping it out of the mess of ink and blood that’s now smeared on Steve’s thigh.
Steve drops back onto his elbows when Eddie pauses to dip his needle again, and watches him work. Sweat is making his fringe stick to his forehead.
It’s been a long fucking summer. A long fucking year really. Vecna is gone, though they barely managed to defeat him and make it out alive. Steve still has regular nightmares that they didn’t, that Vecna’s back and Eddie doesn’t make it. That he gets devoured by demobats and Steve can’t do anything to stop it. Now and then, it’s Dustin or Robin instead of Eddie. Those nights are brutal. He wakes with tears already streaming into his hairline, and a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, hardly able to catch his breath.
Those nights he calls Dustin or Robin, whoever happens to have died that night, even if it’s four or five in the morning. He has to. He has to hear their voice, has to know they’re fucking alive and breathing and safe. He has to be reminded that it’s not real, not anymore.
Robin will stay on the phone with him, talk him down from his panic, until he drifts off again. Talking to him about nothing, usually whatever she watched on TV that night, sometimes the latest SNL episode and what sketches were her favorite.
He doesn’t like to talk about it with Dustin. He doesn’t want to scare the kid. Even though he was there, they’ve both seen worse. But he doesn’t want him carrying the burden of Steve’s peace of mind. So he tries to keep it lighthearted. Still, Dustin always knows why he’s calling. He’s called Steve countless times for the same reason. And Steve’s stayed on the line with him until they both drift off. Much to the annoyance of Mrs. Henderson, who’ll good-naturedly complain about the phone bill whenever Steve stays for dinner.
He can’t quite bring himself to call Eddie though, even though he’s the most frequent offender in Steve’s nightmares. He’s not sure they're there yet. Which is dumb, he knows. Trauma bonds and all that. But it just feels different. He can’t quite explain it. Eddie is just different. It’s his whole thing, Steve knows. But it’s not ‘the freak’ in Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson that got under his skin quicker than anyone Steve has ever known. It’s something else, something about the way he moves, the way he has a tenuous grasp on the concept of personal space. The way he looks after those kids like he’s known them their entire lives and not only a year or so. Whatever.
It takes a while, but Eddie finally has the first outline done. He wipes away the excess ink and sits up straight. He grabs one of the paper towels that are balanced on Steve’s thigh, spreads it out further down on his leg, and rests the needle on it. Steve mumbles an asshole under his breath that makes Eddie smile.
With his hands free, Eddie rolls his wrists, and Steve scrunches up his face at the sound of seemingly every bone in his hand cracking. He twists one way, and then the other, to crack his back, and Steve really does try not to let his eyes linger on the strip of pale skin that’s exposed as his shirt rides up. The grey of Eddie’s underwear is visible over the hem of his jeans, and Steve clenches and relaxes his hands where they’re resting on the couch. It could pass as a stretch, he’s pretty sure.
“How’s it feeling so far, Harrington?” Eddie is looking at him when his eyes snap back up to meet Eddie’s.
“Burns a bit, but I’ve felt worse,” he gives a half-hearted chuckle, motioning to the demobat scars that are currently visible with his limited range of motion. He has most of his weight still balanced on his elbows. Eddie’s eyes rake down his body, vaguely following the motion of his hand, and suddenly Steve feels like squirming.
“This isn’t quite demobat level I’ll give you that,” Eddie breathes a laugh, “but that’s a pretty high bar to hold all pain to.”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” Eddie sounds shocked and amused all at once, “you were basically missing a chunk out of your side. It looked like a massively oversized Jerry took a fuckin’ bite out of you.”
“I didn’t know my guts looked like cartoon cheese.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, princess.”
“What? How is that flattering myself?” Steve asks, and a blush stings his cheeks the way it always does when Eddie calls him that, but he tries to sound indignant.
“Whatever,” Eddie waves his question away, “are you ready to go again?”
“What if I wanted to stretch?” Steve pouts, looking at him through his lashes.
“Do you wanna stretch lovey?”
Steve hesitates a second, the pet name has his blush deepening, and he’s not sure he’s a fan.
“No,” he says finally.
“Let’s get to work then,” Eddie rubs his gloved hands together, making the latex ripple and squeak, “tell me if you need a break, okay?”
“Yeah.”
The second time around hurts more, quite a bit more. He can tell the skin that’s been poked at the most is getting hot to the touch. He keeps waiting for his body to get used to the pain, to adjust, but it doesn’t. It still fucking burns every time.
“Can I smoke that?” Steve points to the J resting in a pickle jar lid, that’s serving as a makeshift ashtray. Eddie looks up at him, his hair is still swept to one side, tongue still between his teeth.
“But of course,” Eddie straightens up and turns to grab the joint from beside him, and presents it to Steve balancing delicately between his thumb and first two fingers. “What the king wants, the king gets,” Eddie says, and smiles at him with that wild grin. Steve's pretty sure he’s not supposed to be touching other shit with his gloves on. but he takes the joint and tries not to think about it.
“You’re hilarious,” Steve fishes in the couch cushions for a lighter, (this isn’t his first rodeo thank you), and sparks up as soon as he finds one. He pulls in a careful hit, and breathes a little sigh of relief as he exhales. Steve watches it cloud his vision for a moment before it dissipates. Eddie’s already back to work, back to his pattern. Poke poke poke poke, wipe, dip in ink, repeat.
Steve lets the J do its job, takes another hit, and blows it out. Before long, that fuzzy feeling takes over, and the burn of his tattoo turns into a pleasant ache.
It's settling nicely under his skin, a low thrum that starts at his thigh and spreads outwards from there. His skin feels sensitized, singing a little under every point of contact between him and Eddie. The hair that brushes the top of his thigh is lighting little sparking trails up his leg.
“Do you think a field of snow counts as a body of water?” Steve asks, letting his head fall back against the arm of the sofa with a faint thunk.
Eddie stops and looks up at him with a serious kind of look that says are you stupid? even though there’s no malice behind it. It makes Steve laugh.
“Well, I mean it’s not water, so,” Eddie says finally.
“It is, it’s just water in a different state. still the same h-two-oh.”
“Yeah but, it’s not the same,” Eddie sticks his tongue between his teeth again to bite back his smile. It doesn’t totally work. Steve watches the way it makes his eyes squint.
“I think it counts,” Steve crosses his arms, takes another pull off his J before stubbing it out in the ashtray.
“Oh Harrington,” Eddie sighs dramatically, “so pretty, so so stupid.”
Steve's not sure if it’s the way Eddie's hair is brushing the inside of his thigh, or the puff of air he feels skitter across sensitive skin when Eddie laughs, or Eddie calling him pretty. But something makes heat climb up the back of his neck.
“I mean if we’re saying a field of snow counts—” Steve pushes on in an effort to distract himself from the warm feeling that’s settling at the base of his spine.
“We are not saying that—”
Steve ignores him. “—then shouldn’t like, I dunno, a steam room or something count too?”
“Now we’re talking,” Eddie slaps Steve's thigh in his excitement, making him hiss in a breath, “‘cause if we’re playing by snow rules, steam should count too.”
“I don’t disagree, but—”
“Oh boy.”
“—but a steam room is man-made. Most bodies of water aren't.”
“You still said most Stevie-boy”
“Yeah but all steam rooms are human-made.”
“Aren't there like, really humid caves or some shit?”
“Humid caves?”
“I don’t know! I’m just spitballing here,” Eddie says, gesturing wildly with his free hand and nearly knocking the ink off Steve’s thigh.
“And I’m the dumb one.”
Eddie lightly smacks his thigh again, mumbling dickhead under his breath, and Steve feels his breath leave him in a quiet rush. Quiet enough that Eddie doesn’t hear, thank god.
“Don’t be a dick while I’m concentrating.”
Steve makes an affronted noise but lets it drop.
Eddie’s hands work at a steady pace. And Steve can’t help but watch the way he delicately grips the needle. His rings stretch the latex where it covers his knuckles, making weird raised shapes. They look a little goofy. But still, Eddie’s got nice hands, and it’s not like Steve hasn't noticed. He has. He’s noticed a lot ever since Eddie had him up against that wall with a broken bottle pressed to his throat. Ever since Robin dragged Steve to The Hideout on a Tuesday, and he watched the way Eddie’s fingers flew over the frets.
He’s thought a lot about that performance too. Steve thought about it in the shower the next morning, hand moving over his cock, thought about those hands wrapping around him and stroking him quick and sure. Thought about it just before he was fucking up into his fist, come trickling over his knuckles. And now it was stuck in his brain, the idea of Eddie getting him off. And now really wasn't the time to be thinking about it, when those same fingers were working so close to his crotch already. And Eddie has that same look of concentration on his face now as he did that day.
(He’s talked to Robin about it, of course. Because after getting off to the idea of this metalhead’s hand down his pants, he pretty quickly had a panic attack. He played it pretty cool the next day though, kept his voice even and everything. Until Robin started yelling excitedly in the empty Family Video.)
“Steve, babe,” Eddie says, pulling him from his thoughts, “you gotta stop shifting so much.”
“Sorry.” Heat floods Steve’s cheeks at the nickname. “Just antsy I guess, this takes fucking forever.”
“This is a free tattoo, I’m being generous, selfless even,” Eddie looks at him sidelong, smirking, and he points at Steve with his needle, “and not even so much as a thank you from you.”
“Christ, put that thing down,” Steve jerks his head back just a little. Mostly just to annoy Eddie.
“Come on, Harrington,” Eddie’s looking at him expectantly, with a wild grin.
“‘Come on’ what?”
“Where’s my thank you?” It’s not really a question, and Eddie’s voice has gone all soft and stern again. Steve swallows around the burning in his chest.
It’s getting to be a lot, the constant drag of the needle, the brush of Eddie’s arm over and over on the inside of his thigh while he worked, the little puffs of breath that skitter over hot skin. It’s just. A lot.
He knows his cheeks are pink, he can feel them burning, and he’s hoping Eddie assumes it’s the heat. And really, who’s to say it’s not?
“Thank you,” he grits out.
Eddie’s grin turns predatory, just for a second, before he’s bowing as much as his position on the coffee table allows with a flourish.
“Flattery comes so easily for you, Harrington. That looked like it barely hurt at all.”
“I’m very amicable,” Steve protests, “when it’s warranted.”
Eddie throws his head back and barks out a laugh. Steve frowns, he didn’t think it was that funny. But Eddie’s smile lingers as he leans over to go over the final details of the tattoo one last time, shaking his head.
Steve hisses when he goes over some of the darker shading again, ‘cause fuck that hurts. He bites down on his lip, and his cock twitches in his boxers.
Fuck.
What the fuck.
There’s no way Eddie missed it. He’s been half a foot away from Steve’s dick all afternoon. But he doesn’t say anything, he just keeps going, while Steve turns bright red, and silently loses his shit.
Eddie wipes away some of the excess ink, and brings the needle down in the same spot. Steve gasps when it hits, his cock twitches again.
It must be crossed wires. It has to be. Something to do with pain and adrenaline. Because, otherwise, what the fuck. Otherwise, the heat that’s been pooling in his stomach all evening has something to do with the combination of pain and Eddie. And he really, really doesn’t want it to be that.
Steve chances a look down at Eddie, who, blessedly and professionally, is still focused entirely on the tattoo. He’s got his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, and he’s biting down on it hard enough Steve’s surprised he’s not drawing blood. He forces his gaze back up to the ceiling, traces the fissures in the gypsum paneling, and continues to freak out.
His thoughts are interrupted by another stinging pain, that makes the breath he didn’t know he was holding leave his lungs in a rush.
And some wires must be seriously crossed because he can feel his cock starting to take a more serious interest in things.
This time when he cautiously looks back down at Eddie, he’s looking back. Something questioning and unidentifiable in his gaze, something that makes Steve feel like he’s under a microscope, being examined.
“Holy shit, Harrington,” Eddie breathes. It’s not unkind. He sounds a little in awe, maybe. Steve can feel the tips of his ears go red. He wants desperately to say something, anything, but his mouth suddenly feels like it’s full of sand.
Eddie moves slowly, like Steve’s a skittish cat who’ll run at any sudden movement. He puts the needle down, takes off his gloves, and digs the blunt nail of his pointer finger hard into the meat of Steve’s thigh, a good few inches below the fresh ink. It’s hard enough to just break the skin, but not hard enough to draw blood.
“Ah. What the fuck dude?” Steve asks at the same time that his cock fucking throbs in his boxers. Like a traitor.
Eddie’s eyes rake up his body, and Steve’s starting to feel a little like prey, like Eddie might unhinge his jaw and swallow him whole. He squirms, and Eddie finally eases the pressure, letting his hand span the width of Steve’s thigh.
“This is really doing it for you, huh?”
“No—”
“Who knew Harrington was into pain play?” Eddie goes on, ignoring him completely, and taps his chin thoughtfully.
“It’s not—I’m not—”
“Oh, no?”
“It’s just a stress response,” Steve huffs. He wants to run, or throw up, or at the very least put some damn pants on. But Eddie’s gaze on him is heavy, and he feels pinned to the spot, his head swimming.
“If it was a stress response, you’d’ve been rock hard the entire time we were in the Upside Down,” Eddie says, his thumb tracing small circles where it rests on Steve’s thigh. It’s setting his skin on fire, just a little.
“We were fighting for our lives in there. It’s not exactly the same.”
“Hm, I guess that’s fair,” Eddie taps his chin thoughtfully, “so if it’s not the pain, this shouldn’t do anything, right?”
Eddie lifts the hand from his leg and brings it down hard on the inside of Steve’s thigh, hard enough to sting. Something hot twists in his gut. Steve tries to jerk his leg away, but Eddie’s holding it in place, running his hand soothingly over the reddened skin, and watching Steve with a wry smile.
“Thought so.” Eddie sounds so smug it almost makes Steve want to punch him. Almost. He squeezes his eyes shut before he can do anything stupid, like kiss the cocky smile off his face.
“Okay look,” Steve starts, but when he opens his eyes again Eddie looks…hungry. His hand is hovering above Steve’s cock, and whatever Steve was going to say dies on his tongue, his mouth suddenly dry.
Eddie shifts closer, and Steve is frozen, even though his brain is screaming at him to do something, anything. And then Eddie runs the heel of his hand over his cock, lightly, teasingly, and it hardens under his touch. His body feels like it’s suddenly been set on fire.
Eddie is looking at him with an eyebrow quirked in question. The room is soul-crushingly quiet, his own breathing sounds way too loud. Steve just nods, he’s not sure he could do anything else, and he’s afraid to open his mouth ‘cause something like a groan is building in his throat. Eddie traces the outline of him through his boxers, Steve’s cock twitches at the teasing touch, and Eddie lets out a low breathless laugh that has his cock twitching again. He wraps his hand around Steve as much as his boxers allow, long fingers gripping him loosely, and runs his thumb just under the head of his cock, back and forth until Steve’s panting, just a little.
All too soon, Eddie lets go, and Steve makes a small affronted noise. He starts to panic, worried that he'd done something wrong. “Wha—?”
“Relax love, I just gotta wrap your tattoo before we do anything else.”
“Oh." Before we do anything else. "Yeah, okay.”