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Cover Me - Philia 09 - Wet & Messy

Written for @steddiesportsau's Week Two prompt: Sports Injury

[ AO3 ]

Steddie - Rated: E - 5.8K -CW: N/A Tags: Wet & Messy, Lube, Massage, Sports, Steve Harrington plays soccer, Getting Together, Roommates, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Anal Fingering, Cum Play, Kissing

Summary

Wet and messy fetishism is a form of sexual fetishism consisting of participants getting messy with a variety of materials, such as food, chemicals, and water.

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Steve hurts a muscle in his back playing soccer, and Eddie offers him a massage, despite the years they've spent not touching each other at all.

Excerpt

“You want something?” Eddie asks. When Steve peeks up at him, he looks like the good version of an avenging angel, haloed by the light from the hall, and he sees the ice pak is wrapped in a soft hand towel. “Aspirin? Sledgehammer? Massage?”

Eddie wiggles his eyebrows at the last one, but Steve shoves his face into his pillow and groans. The idea of a massage sounds so fucking perfect he could cry. He knows the pattern of Eddie’s jokes by now—only one of those offers was for comedy, and he hopes to fucking God it was the sledgehammer when he lifts his head to look up and bravely whispers, “Massage?”

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hellooo!! :] gonna post this first since it was one of my first steddie drawings and i still love it sm. glad to see all the lovely people here!! <3

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Robin, while drugged: Steve.

Robin, while drugged: Steve, I like your name.

Steve, while drugged: Thank you, I got it for my birthday.

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If he's so evil and heartless, why is he cuddling with me oh so gently and kissing me?

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maybe i'm old fashioned but i just think it's tacky to put fanfiction behind a paywall. we're all at the devil's sacrement girl you can't charge people admission

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The Language of Steve Harrington’s Feelings

After everything — the underground base, the torture, the screaming, the bloody teeth, another concussion, and that awful, bleach-heavy smell that lingered in memory — Steve started learning Russian. Just… because. Because when you survive torture, when no one understands the words you’re screaming, you simply want to be able to speak.

And to be understood. Or not understood — that too.

He studied from old textbooks. Ordered cassettes and grammar guides, repeating harsh, growling words until they turned into honey and milk on his tongue. He scribbled awkward letters that, over time, became a graceful Cyrillic flow.

Steve didn’t tell anyone. Not Robin, not Nancy, not even Dustin. There weren’t any Russian language experts in Hawkins, and no real reason to speak it, so it was easy to keep his little hobby tucked away at home. He didn’t even use the local library — just occasionally bought books with his father’s money. (He secretly hoped some government official would start wondering why John Harrington suddenly took an interest in the USSR. But that, of course, belonged more to the realm of unlikely fantasies.)

Two years passed, and it became a habit.

He’d start thinking in Russian when he wanted to hide from his own thoughts. And speaking it — quietly, when no one was around. Or even when they were, but couldn’t understand.

One day he saw Nancy and Jonathan in the park. They were laughing. Holding hands. Jonathan had that rare look of confidence on his face, and Nancy… she had a softness in her smile, a gentleness in her eyes. Their happiness scorched Steve with quiet bitterness. He didn’t love Nancy anymore — not in that way — and he loved Jonathan, if anything, like a friend. But his feelings almost lifted its heavy head and made him whisper:

"Я завидую тебе. Мне до сих пор больно из-за того, что ты сделала тогда со мной на вечеринке" (“I envy you. It still hurts, what you did to me at that party.”)

And no one understood. And that was… a relief.

From then on, Russian became his emotional purge. He’d whisper, "Если бы ты только знал, как я устал" (“If only you knew how tired I am,”) when Mike begged for a ride even after two shifts and three sleepless nights. Of course, Steve would still pick him up. He’d mutter "Придурок" (“dumb-ass”) in Russian to particularly rude customers at Family Video and smile broadly when Robin wasn’t on shift. His father, in the private corridors of Steve’s thoughts, was officially renamed “Сэр мудозвон” ("Sir fuck-nugget") Russian swearing hit just as hard as drugs.

And then… there was Eddie.

Eddie became something like a permanent hallucination. Always there. Loud, alive, real. And that… was dangerous.

Steve, who had long stopped feeling in English, stumbled one day in a Russian-English dictionary on the word "любовь" (love), and froze.

Nothing changed in the way he behaved, but his vocabulary shifted.

Sometimes, when Eddie sat beside him, loudly sipping soda, feet kicked up on the table, calling Steve pretty boy, Steve would turn away and whisper:

“Отвяжись, я тебя умоляю!

Вечер страшен, гул жизни затих.

Я беспомощен. Я умираю

от слепых наплываний твоих.” (Набоков)

(“Leave me alone, I’m begging you. The night is terrifying, the hum of life is still. I’m helpless. I am dying from your blind surging will.” (Nabokov))*

Or he’d murmur:

"Я бы хотел, чтобы ты знал" (“I wish you knew.”)

It all came out by accident.

Summer. A quiet evening. The Party threw a backyard bash — barbecue, lemonade, beer for the grown-ups, sunscreen in the air, fireflies. Everyone had gone. Nancy and Robin, freshly licensed, had dropped the kids off. Only Steve, Eddie, and Hopper remained — the latter fiddling with the Jeep, not in any hurry.

Steve was tired — the kids had been extra energetic, and sleep had been a stranger lately. Slightly drunk, which was rare, but Hopper had promised them a ride home. Disheveled.

He watched Eddie walk toward the woods with his guitar, and without thinking, not even loud enough to be heard, he said:

"Я люблю тебя. Ты же никогда не узнаешь, да?" (“I love you. You’ll never know, will you?”)

Nothing happened.

The world didn’t explode. No cicadas stopped singing.Hopper sighed, slammed the hood of the Jeep, and called them over.

Nothing happened. But before he dropped Steve off, Hopper said quietly:

"Знаешь, парень… ему ты можешь это сказать и на английском." (“You know, kid… you could tell him. In English.”)

Steve froze. Turned his head. Hopper was looking at him — not judging, just calm. Understanding.

Steve lowered his gaze.

“I didn’t want anyone to know. It’s easier that way. I… didn’t think you knew Russian.”

“You’re not the only one who had a wild time back in ‘84,” Hopper replied with a shrug. “I don’t know much — just the basics. But "Привет" (‘hello,’) "Пока" (‘goodbye,’) "Сдавайся!" (‘give up the fight’) and "Я люблю тебя" (‘I love you’) I can still recognize. And listen, Steve… that’s your choice. But him? You can definitely tell him.”

Steve nodded. Said nothing. Just turned away.

Hopper watches them for another month. He doesn’t look at Steve—Steve is already clear to him. He watches Eddie. Watches how Eddie smiles only at Steve. How he jokes a little too nervously, as if afraid of how Steve might react. How he leans toward Steve more than toward anyone else.

That’s all Hopper needs. One day, he catches Eddie by the trailer park and hands him a battered book, a creased notebook filled with scribbled notes, and a worn-out cassette tape.

"Hopper? What’s this?" Eddie asks, uncertain, not quite sure how to deal with the former sheriff without a bunch of kids around.

"You’ll find out if you want to find out," Hopper says simply and turns to leave.

Eddie stands in the doorway, holding a Russian language textbook.

—

The next time Steve says " Я люблю тебя" (“I love you”) they’re sitting in his backyard. Summer is in full bloom, and the world feels quiet for once—no monsters, no missions, no kids who need constant supervision. Just sunlight and the sound of cicadas.

Eddie is covered with drop of water and tattoos, halfway through a story about the one inked on his chest.

Steve says it in a whisper “Я люблю тебя.” ("I love you") Soft. Natural. Because he’s used to thinking in Russian when the feelings are too big for English.

He doesn’t even notice the shift at first— Not until Eddie’s face flickers, like something fragile just cracked. Steve’s heart skips. Panic bubbles up. Then— A push to the chest, sudden and strong. Followed by a kiss. Desperate. Breath-stealing. So intense Steve forgets how to breathe.

"...what?" Steve whispers, dazed, still not quite caught up.

"Harrington, you’re a damn mystery." Eddie’s voice is hoarse, a little wild.

"Я люблю тебя тоже" ("I love you too.")**

*It's not really a love poem and damn me, I shouldn't be translating Nabokov. Sorry. **It would be more correct to say "Я тоже тебя люблю" (like “I too love you”), but let's assume that Eddie uses the correct words, but puts the words as in English grammar.

*** It started as the language of pain and ended as the language of love because Steve deserves it.

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Sub Eddie week is here in some parts of the world! We hope to see posts start to trickle in soon, so keep an eye on our social media pages and our AO3 collection.

As for posting -- we don't always see everything in the tags for this event due to search not always working. Feel free to tag our account in your posts to ensure we see everything.

Prompt reminders will be posted each day of the event, likely around midnight Central time, or you can check out the full list right here:

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modern steddie is like

eddie is a dumbass on the internet... probably has a youtube channel is definitely famous on tiktok for rollerskating through city hall and being chased out by security and steve sees one of his videos once, probably one where eddie is saying some dumbass shit like 'yall ever think about how fish cant eat cheeseburgers? Like think about all the fish that don't get to experience the American dream!' and steve is ENAMOURED

steve on the other hand is just like... idk a normal dude, he doesn't have a tiktok, he sees eddies on dustins screen when he picks him up or whatever... dustin makes fun of steve for how little he understands computers... dustin decides that the pining is exhausting and is tired of being the one to show steve every single one of eddies videos and eddie makes a lot of them so it's kind of a hassle every time dustin sees steve

dustin who makes steve a tiktok account to campaign for eddie to notice him/date him...

and yeah idk eddie notices him and is like AWOOGA and they live happily ever after idfk

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Give me good at math Steve. Maybe he’s dyslexic and words never made sense and always swam away from him, but numbers? He can memorize formulas, he can recognize pattterns.

I feel like it would add so much dimension to his character. I always like it in fic when they write Steve knowing a second language, or playing an instrument because I feel like the fandom has taken this idea that Steve is incompetent and ran with it. He’s incredibly clever, and sarcastic (a sign of intelligence btw), and snarky. He thinks quickly, is it well thought out? Not always, but that’s just his lack of self preservation skills. People can be smart and idiots at the same time, they can have their strengths and I wish that was portrayed more in fic and fandom.

So let him be good at math. Let him just be able to make sense of it. Show him tutoring El and assisting Lucas and Max when Mike and Dustin seem too condescending or intimidating or bitchy.

He’ll be bitchy too, but in an understanding way, because he knows what it’s like to struggle with something others find simple.

Also give us a scene where Mike or Dustin find out and flip their lids PLEASE

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holy-

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*Writing. Not necessarily posting/sharing if that came later.

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It’s HIS shirt

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Accidentally called myself a service dog instead of a service top. I'm never beating these allegations.

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Word Count: 2.3k | Rating: M | CW: Death, description of canon deaths (Chrissy and Patrick) | POV: Eddie | Tags: Dark Eddie Munson, be careful where you play ding dong ditch, police officer Steve Harrington, this is a Author Chose Not to Warn situation so reader beware.

The roses are beautiful at this time of the year. The bushes bloom, lush pinks and peaches and reds, even some yellow ones. Eddie loves them.

He’s lived out here, way out on the outskirts of Hawkins, for nearly twenty years, in the old house he bought with Wayne, God rest his soul. He’s still the town freak, does his best not to go into Hawkins proper if he can possibly avoid it, always willing to drive to other towns to get his groceries and gardening supplies as much as he can. Other than that, and the occasional trip to his dealer in Indy, there’s not much else he needs in life.

Strangers wander through his garden sometimes, knocking the bright, plump petals off the stems, hoping for a look at him, sometimes even trying to snap a photograph. They’re young, for the most part, and he remembers what it was like to be their age. There had been an old geezer that had lived on the other side of the woods, and he and Gareth, Jeff and Matty would hike out there sometimes to get high and throw rocks at his windows. The rumours about him were nasty so they had no qualms about doing it. Eddie supposes this is karma come to bite him in the ass.

This one is a little older than usual, not a high school student by the look of him, but it’s hard to tell, kids are getting younger looking these days. He’s shifty, has a bag swinging from his wrist, and he can imagine what’s in it. A camera hanging from the other one.

“If that’s a bag of shit, can you throw it on the roses? I’m out of manure.”

Frightened blue eyes find him and the kid turns to make a break for it, but he’s just a little too slow and Eddie manages to grab him by the collar of his shirt.

“Ah, ah, ah. You came to look at the boogeyman, didn’t you? Don’t you want to get a good look?”

The kid yanks and pulls trying to slip out from Eddie’s grip, but Eddie holds tight, though he doesn’t want to frighten him, that’s not what this is. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to do anything!” the boy cries.

Eddie’s soft for them, he remembers what it was like to be a dick, even if he is angry about the rose bush.

“Hey, hey, calm down okay? I didn’t mean to scare you. But you know, you did fuck my bush up, dude. These take forever to look like this. If you wanted a picture to show your friends how brave you are you just had to ask.”

He let’s the boy go. Sometimes they run screaming abuse as they dart up the road, other times they walk away, breath heaving in their chests as they calmly try to get away from the supposed Hawkins Murderer and still retain a modicum of cool in front of their friends. And sometimes, just sometimes, curiosity gets the better of them.

The boy straightens out his shirt. “You’d really let me take a photograph?”

Eddie laughs. “Well, yeah, but you know, don’t tell everyone! This isn’t the Guggenheim, I don’t want queues of people waiting to get in. But I was a kid once, I know what it’s like to show off to your friends.”

The boys shoulders drop and he smiles back at Eddie. “Wow. Uh, okay, but I promise I’ll just take one and then I’ll leave, and I’ll make sure no one comes back.”

Eddie puts his hand out and the boy takes it. “Deal.”

It’s blisteringly hot, and the boy is sweating hard.

“You didn’t bring a bottle of water with you?”

The boy shrugs. “Didn’t think of it.”

Eddie tuts and heads to the house. “Get in here, asshole. Let’s get you something to drink.”

The boy seems unsure but the sun is scalding and with a quick look around, and a last look up the road, he follows Eddie inside.

Eddie keeps the curtains closed in the summer, a trick he learned from Wayne, so the temperature is noticeably cooler inside. He can practically hear the kid sigh in relief as he enters the house.

Eddie tells the boy to wait in the parlour - Wayne’s name for the living room, which Eddie thought was hilarious but secretly thought was so sweet - while he makes them something to drink. When he comes back he finds the kid leaning forward, peering at a photograph. 

“What? Surprised I’m friends with a cop?”

It makes the kid jump and Eddie does his best not to laugh at him. Poor guy is already on edge, and Eddie’s lot’s of things but he’s not cruel. 

“You know Chief Harrington?” asks his unexpected guest.

Eddie hands him a tall glass, one of Wayne’s special occasion glasses with the little yellow roses etched on the side, only meant for visitors. He doesn’t get an awful lot of those these days and it’s nice that to be getting some use out of the closest thing he has to a family heirloom.

“Yeah, we’re pretty close.”

The boy drinks greedily, faster than he should, but then it is awfully hot out and who knows how long he’s been outside.

“So do I get to know the name of my interloper? I know you know who I am.”

The boy has the decency to look embarrassed at least. 

“Brian.”

Eddie gives him a warm smile and raises his glass. “Nice to meet you, Brian.”

Brian smiles back.

“Nice to meet you, too, Mr Munson. And I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to— I dunno, I just…. I’m sorry.”

He looks it, too, ashamed maybe. He probably grew up with his parents telling him stories about Freaky Eddie Munson, the Butcher of Hawkins High, how he had a predilection for high school students, how he got off on a technicality but everyone in town knows it was him. It’s how they all feel, it still follows him around like a vapour, a putrid gas cloud of toxic air that everyone can see and smell and has them all running in the opposite directions. He’s Moses, parting the Red Sea of Hawkins every time he walks up the aisle of Bradley’s, or has a rare moment of bravery when he takes to Main Street. He’ll never be free of it, but he’s come to terms with it, has found a way around it, a way of living a life despite the hate.

It broke Wayne’s heart. And that broke Eddie’s.

“So, did you drive here?”

He gets’s a shake of the head in reply.

“My mom needed the car. I dropped my bike at the end of your road.”

“Ah, smart. The road’s kind of rough. Did you at least bring a cellphone? We’re pretty far out here. You could have got in some real trouble, especially in this heat.”

“Don’t have one yet, my mom and dad don’t see the point.” He shrugs, looks self conscious about it. There’s something Eddie recognises in him; his sneakers are scuffed and beat up, his t-shirt looks like it’s been through several owners, no fancy labels. Whoever his family are, they don’t live in Loch Nora.

Brian's eyes dart around the parlour, from photograph to photograph. years of Eddie and Wayne, Eddie and his friends. The memories bring him comfort, help him feel connected to them still.

“You know, you’re not what I thought you’d be like."

Eddie’s heart stutters a little bit, an echo from the past fluttering in the dust motes. 

“Mean and scary?” he whispers, his throat suddenly tight.

Brian doesn’t look at Eddie as he takes a gulp from the ice cold drink, but Eddie can see the shy smile. 

“Yeah, something like that.”

Eddie takes a small sip of his own drink, carefully avoiding the chip on the lip of his glass. He sighs. “Yeah, get that a lot.”

Brian tips the glass back, finishing the drink, and wipes his hand across his mouth. He’d probably wipe snot on his sleeve. It’s kind of gross.

“I know what everyone says about me,” Eddie says, moving to sit in the armchair across from the boy. He looks him fiercely in the eye. “I never killed those kids. I was a fucking teenager, man. But I was there,” he says, pained. “I saw all of it… Chrissy first, then Patrick.” He closes his eyes and watches it all play back, feels the terror when he watched Chrissy float, the icy cold of the lake as he fell out of the boat as Patrick crumpled above him.

“I know what killed them, though, and it was nothing human. And I know what you’re thinking, crazy old fucker’s gone off his rocker living out here in the middle of nowhere. If I told you what killed them you’d never believe me anyway.”

The Spring and Summer of ’86 are etched on him, his mind and his body. A year of disbelief, of fear, of anger and eventually of healing. He made life long friends, but he paid dearly to get them.

For the first time since he entered Eddie’s home, the boy looks afraid.

“It’s gone now, don’t worry about that. Some very brave people fought and lost their lives to save this town, and now it’s safe again.

“But the thing that killed them, it…,” and Eddie stumbles here because it’s still so painful to think about, still so fresh in his memory all these years later. “It took their eyes, just sucked them straight back into their heads. You’ve never seen anything like it, man. It haunts me to this day. All this time. I’ll never be free of it.”

The kid begins to cough and Eddie rises to pat him on the back, handing him his own glass.

 “Here, take another sip.” 

And the boy does, drinks greedily from the fancy glass with the fancy flowers. Half of it streams down his chin.

“So I never got to see their eyes, you know? Never got to know what it was like, the actual moment when someone dies.

“When I saw it for the first time, that moment, fuck man. It was… You know that thing people say? ‘The eyes are the windows to the soul?’ It’s true. You can see the actual second they're gone. It’s… it’s magical.”

The flower glass falls to the floor and rolls under the chair. Eddie bends to pick it up, checks it for chips or cracks before taking it back to the kitchen and placing it in the sink. He’s always worried about them getting stained or damaged, got to rinse them straight away. When he comes back he crouches by Brian’s side, and he leans in.

“It was an accident, the first time. Some stupid asshole kid who thought he would fuck with the boogeyman on Halloween. I grabbed him, too hard I guess, and his head… “ And Jesus, his head, the blood, the way Eddie panicked and was ready to run. 

“He was alive, for a while anyway. I was scared, because now it had happened, you know, now there’s a kid dying in my house and I was fucking terrified, man.”

Eddie’s told this story before, but it never gets easier, and he feels like he’s talking to himself, trying to figure it out, after all these years. The person he was before and the person he became afterwards.

“I saw the moment his life left him, the exact second. And you know what?”

He moves closer, his mouth close to the boys ear, close enough to hear him struggle for breath.

“It was beautiful.”

The boy lies back in his chair, mouth open, wide eyes staring straight ahead. Eddie can just make out the little huffs of air as his paralysed body tries to keep itself going.

“My uncle used to drive trucks, long distance, coast to coast. And every now and then he’d come home and he’d plant a rose bush. And when he couldn’t fit anymore behind our trailer he planted them for our neighbours. Everyone’s garden’s looked beautiful. They’re all gone now,” he says, wistfully, “Earthquake dragged all of it to hell.”

He has his own now, his beautiful garden, alive with colour. His roses rich and fat.

“It’s funny actually, if you think about it. I never hurt a soul. Not a single one. Not until you assholes started coming out here.

“So you see, Hawkins is to blame for this. Not me.”

It’s getting close and Eddie’s heart races, pushes against his ribs, excitement pulsing in him. 

“I know what you’re thinking, someone will come looking for you, right? Mommy and Daddy will go to the police, and there’ll be a search party, same as they did for that red head kid last summer. Same as they did for those twin brothers a couple of years back. So many runaways, though, it’s really sad. But that Hawkins for you.”

Eddie grabs Brian by the chin and gently turns the boys face toward him; he needs a clear view of the eyes, unobstructed, wants to see those big baby blues lock on him. Needs to see the fear.

They’re bloodshot, sadly, it happens sometimes. A shame. But he’ll still get what he wants.

“Relax. It will all be over soon.”

****

The sun is low in the sky when he hears Steve’s truck rumble up their long drive. He drives the shovel into the dirt hard enough to keep it standing upright and crosses the garden to meet Steve at the gate. 

“Found this at the top of the road,” Steve says, pushing a dirty blue bicycle through the little picket gate. He wheels it to their shed, unlocks it and pushes it inside to sit with the others.

Eddie walks up behind him and grabs Steve by the waist, pulling him into a fierce kiss, laughing as their lips meet. Steve steps back and takes hold of one of his hands, turning it over and back again.

“Been gardening, huh?”

“Yep, put that new rose bush in.”

Steve smiles fondly as he takes in the new plant, little flashes of yellow petals poking through opening green buds.

“Guess I’m going to be late home from work tomorrow.”

They link fingers and head up the porch steps, back into the darkness of their home.

This started as something for the next Corroded Coffin Fest in July and spiralled (me with an out of control word count? I would never!)

And did I make implications about what Wayne used to get up to when he was trucking? Maybe so.

@the-unforgivenn 😈

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Find the full nsfw here

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Much More Than Fun by ForgetTheMoon Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Rated M, 17K

Eddie almost dies a virgin, which is mortifying. He’s rescued from certain death by Steve Harrington, which is infinitely worse. King Steve, who is not actually a douche, who is stalwart and brave and a whole lot hairier than he was last summer, carries Eddie’s ravaged body out of the Upside Down despite his own injuries. Eddie, clinging to consciousness by the edge of his fingernails, doesn’t even get to enjoy it.

It’s the summer of 1986. Eddie has some new scars, some new friends, and the same old embarrassing crush on Steve Harrington. When Steve gets curious about gay sex, who in all of Hawkins is better equipped to teach him? 

Someone who's not a secret virgin, maybe. Hindsight's 20-20.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64455691

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This part, in every fic. If you know, you know. What are your top fics? Reply with recs! I've devoured a lot but I'm still hungry for more content.

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