#ccf day twenty-two: au

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Settle For This

Day #22 - AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: E | CW: Sex Acts, One F-Slur, Abuse of Power (Eddie's Not Mad At It), Brief Reference to Recreational Drug Use (Weed) | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Eddie x Gator, Minor Steddie Mention | Tags: Modern AU, Fuck The Police, Literally, Blowjob, Semi-Public Sex, But No Speeding Tickets Here

"Fuck the police," Eddie says, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. The van can't outrun the oversized penis metaphor of a truck behind him, red and blue lights flashing, so he eases to the shoulder. 

"Goddamnit, Eddie, I told you to slow down ten miles ago!" Gareth yells from the back, trying to hide the last of the weed.

Jeff's up front, and Goodie's sprawled out across the middle row, both dead to the world. 

They can't afford a speeding ticket, and definitely not anything more, if the guy's a real dickhead. 

The cop taps on the window, and oh, he's for sure a real dickhead. 

Stupid camo pants, stupid thigh-holster, and douchebag tattoos he definitely picked off a flash wall. This dimwit from the Stark County Sheriff's office is just gonna fuck up Eddie's whole night. Eddie can see it now.

He doesn't even give an opening spiel, just taps his nightstick on the side of the van, "What're you? Some sort of band? 'Spose yous guys are on tour, eh?"

"Yes," Eddie answers, trying not to sound sarcastic. But honestly? Did the logo give it away?

"Well, what kind of music do y'all shitbirds play?" he asks.

Eddie would rather just give his license and registration.

"Heavy metal," Eddie says.

"I like Metallica," the cop says in his thick accent, as if Metallica isn't the most well-known metal band in existence, but Eddie just nods. 

"I'm gonna need you step out of the vehicle," the officer says, and fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fine.

Whatever.

Just get this over with.

He's led to the back of the patrol truck, parked behind the van, lights still flashing, bouncing around in the darkness.

"I'm Officer Tillman, Gator if you're nasty," he says, and Eddie blinks at him. Did he really just say that? 

And Gator? What kind of name is Gator? Makes Goodie sound normal.

"I'm gonna have to give you the once over," he drawls, and then he's frisking Eddie, too rough, too long, and way too interested in what's between Eddie's legs.

"If you want to fuck me, just say so," Eddie snaps, and the hand that was brushing against him clamps down, squeezing his dick.

Eddie wills himself to not get hard. On principle.

"What'd you say to me, faggot?"

"I'm not the one squeezing cock, now am I?" 

Gator lets go, but keeps patting Eddie down.

"I ain't got nothing on me. I'd suggest a cavity search, but I think you'd like that a little too much, wouldn't you?"

"Don't make me handcuff ya."

Eddie grins, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

Eddie gets shoved against the tailgate of the truck for his trouble, and a knee slides between his legs, pushing upwards. 

And a hand, big and rough, grabs a fistful of Eddie's hair, pulling. Hard.

His dick is a goddamn traitor, because that does it. He's fucking hard against this asshole's thigh between one breath and the next. 

Fuck it.

Eddie grinds down, and briefly wonders if he's really fucked now. If he's gonna end up in jail, or worse.

But Gator pulls back, and his hand is firm on Eddie's shoulder, pushing him down, down, down to his knees, forcing him into the gravel.

Eddie hates that he isn't mad about this. Hates that he wants it.

Eddie goes.

And Gator is looking down at him, holding some intense eye contact, as he starts unbuckling his belt. Eddie watches and licks his lips. The dick that he pulls out of those camo pants is big, and thick, and Eddie wants nothing more than to put his fucking mouth all over that cock. 

Eddie sticks his tongue out of his mouth a little, an invitation, and Gator steps closer, taking it. Eddie wraps his hand around the thick length, and guides it towards his mouth. Rubbing the tip against his bottom lip, before sliding it all down, nose to pubes, showing off.

Gator groans, and grabs a fistful of Eddie's hair. Eddie doesn't mind that at all, and starts sucking his dick in earnest. Enjoy the stretch, the musk, the sore jaw that comes with the territory.

And when Eddie flicks his eyes up again, Gator is sucking on a goddamn vape. He can't even smoke a cigarette like a real man, apparently, but he definitely thinks he's big and bad. 

Eddie will just have to bring this fucker to his knees, as retribution.

"Fuck me," Gator moans, and boy would Eddie like to do just that. But right along the highway, as deserted as it is, seems unwise.

He'll have to settle for this.

And Eddie bobs his head, wet and hard and intense, as Gator claws at his scalp, pulling his hair, forcing himself deeper. Eddie's sure he thinks he's getting away with something here, but Eddie wants him that deep. 

Wants him to swallow him fucking whole.

"Oh fuck," Gator says, and then lets out a wounded noise as he comes against Eddie's tongue, down his throat. Fucking filling him, still grinding in.

When Eddie finally pulls back, he's sure he looks thoroughly debauched, as he demands, "My turn."

And to Eddie's utter surprise, Gator slips his vape into his pocket, moving to his own knees.

Back in the van, after, Gareth is all up in his business.

"What the fuck? Did you fuck a goddamn cop?" Gareth asks, leaning over between the seats. "I didn't know you were serious when you said fuck the police, Eddie. Fucking hell."

"Didn't get a ticket, did I?" Eddie says, answering without answering. 

"That's like, illegal. You could have him charged. Abuse of power or some shit," Gareth says. 

"Well, that's a thought. But I'm not dissatisfied with the way my night went."

"How? Why?!" Gareth screeches. 

Eddie turns, and grins, "Did he not look like Steve Harrington?"

"No, he didn't look like Steve Harrington. He looked like a fucking douchebag!" Gareth argues, exasperated.

Eddie shrugs. 

He looked a little like Steve Harrington.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

Rough and Rowdy Ways

Day #22 - AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Van Tour, Known Destroyers of Hotels, Motel Desk Clerk Steve Harrington, Meet Cute

One more dingy room, one more motel that's just a little more rundown than the last. It's been a long few years on the road, each one getting harder and harder. They have upswings, and downswings, and right now, they're definitely down. Playing smaller venues in the middle of fucking nowhere, more often than not. 

They aren't famous, more infamous than anything, because there's been a few incidents over the years that have put them in the papers for less than flattering reasons.

Damages, lawsuits. 

Rough and rowdy.

Assholes.

That's the name they've made for themselves. Gareth is still on probation from the last hotel trashing, and that was the straw that broke the camel's back, making all the major chains put the kibosh on them staying anywhere decent for the near future.

Most of them have their pictures hanging up, like they're outlaws. 

Eddie sees an old, falling apart neon sign with an arrow promising a motel. He's not sure it'll still be there. It's a toss-up, for sure, as shitty as that sign looks. 

But when they see the gravel turn-off, there is a solitary car sitting in the parking lot. Something that looks too nice, too expensive, for a place like this. 

But, they'll have to try their luck and see if they can slide under the radar, pay cash, give fake names, and go unnoticed. Move on down the road tomorrow. 

There's a guy sitting behind the desk, and he looks out of place in this shitty, unkempt place. He's very kempt. The most kempt person Eddie's seen in days.

Gareth immediately rings the bell, and Eddie wants to throttle him. That's never a good way to make a first impression. And they are the ones needing something here. 

"One room, please," Gareth says. 

The guy looks them up and down, and then shrugs. Pulling two sets of keys off a peg behind the desk. 

He has pretty eyes. Very pretty eyes, pretty everything, really.

"Twenty dollars. Room four," he offers, like he doesn't give a shit if they burn the place down. Maybe he doesn't care. "Name?"

"Edward Jones," Gareth says, mashing their names together.

"Sure you are," the guy says, and they both look at each other, "just sign here."

"What's that mean?" Gareth asks.

"Edward D. Jones? The financial advisors?"

It's not ringing a bell. They carry their money in a duffle bag. They definitely don't have any advisors.

"Coincidence," Gareth says, and Eddie thinks it might actually be, because he's not sure Gareth would know that either. 

"Checkout is at noon," he says, and then picks back up the book he was reading.

Transaction over.

Eddie paces the room, and the rest of them are getting annoyed. Goodie has already kicked him twice as he's walked by, and Gareth is sassing him.

Just. That guy. Steve, his name tag said, but that might have been as fake as Edward Jones.

"I'm gonna go get ice," Eddie declares, and the rest of them all seem to sigh in relief that he and his nervous energy are leaving the room.

Eddie carries the cheap plastic ice bucket up to the counter, "Steve?"

Steve looks up, so maybe that is his real name.

"Where's the ice machine?"

"It's broken," Steve answers.

"Oh. Damn," Eddie says, leaning up on the counter, trying to encroach on his personal space, just a little. Steve doesn't back up, not an inch, which is impressive. This usually works to make people uncomfortable. "I really need some ice. It's so hot."

Steve is looking at him, straight in the eyes, "Is that so?"

Eddie smiles, and isn't sure what he expects might happen, but he'll shoot his shot. There's no harm in it, he'll never see this guy again, come tomorrow.

"I have an ice machine in the back, if you want me to get you some. It's not really for the guests."

"Well, I appreciate that. I won't tell any of the other guests," Eddie says, a little sarcastic, because he's pretty sure nobody else is here.

Steve rolls his eyes, and grabs the brown bucket, pulling it across the counter and disappears through the open door behind him. 

Eddie follows.

He's pretty sure he's not supposed to, but Steve didn't tell him to wait at the counter.

Steve lifts the lid and grabs the metal scoop, filling the bucket. When he turns, he catches sight of Eddie and the bucket goes flying, ice spilling all over the floor.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry!" Eddie says, holding his hands up, just realizing that he may look threatening. He forgets that sometimes. "I'm not, I won't. Fuck. I'm sorry."

And then Steve laughs, a nervous giggle that makes Eddie smile, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I wasn't thinking. I'm a musician. Eddie."

"Jones?" 

Eddie laughs, "Munson. That's my best friend, Gareth Jones. A coincidence, I think."

And Steve smiles, just a little, "Okay, just. This place brings in the freaks and weirdos," Steve says.

And Eddie points at himself, eyebrows raised.

"Little bit," Steve teases, and Eddie grins.

"Let me help you pick up the ice," Eddie offers, getting down on his hands and knees, swiping it all towards himself. Then Steve is standing over him with a broom.

"This might be more efficient," Steve says, sarcastically and Eddie laughs as Steve sweeps up the mess.

Eddie's palms are black from the floor. And somehow it's not the dirtiest place they've ever stayed.

"Is there a sink?" Eddie asks, showing Steve his palms, and Steve nods towards the little bathroom off the breakroom.

There are personal items all over the sink, and a small, corner shower. Does Steve live here? Eddie suspects someone does, if it isn't him.

Steve is leaning in the open doorway, watching him, but in a curious way, not in a suspicious way, Eddie thinks. Which is good. Great.

"Do you live here?" Eddie asks.

"Unfortunately," Steve says, smirking.

"Wanna run away and be a roadie?"

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