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hitlikehammers · 22 days ago

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draw me like one of your french girls ♥️ steddie ✨established relationship✨ future fic (specifically 1997, I wonder why 🚢🧊)

“Draw me.” Eddie blinks, comes back into the still-warm-and-soft here and now. “What?” “I want you to draw me,” Steve’s tone is pitched a little particularly, so it takes a second to sink in but: oh my god. Now the robe makes sense. Or: late 90s!Steddie see Titanic (of course) and get ideas.

rating: m ♥️ tags: established relationship, future fic: 1990s, late 90s rockstar husbands, baby, boys being ✨inspired✨ by nudity on film cinematic history being made, it was ARTISTIC DAMNIT, fluff, romance, softness, Eddie Munson is not a portraitist, (please don’t hold that against him), he believes with every cell in his body in the truth of his husband being the most stunning human being in the history or future of the entire cosmos despite however his attempt to capture it may suggest otherwise ♥️

for @steddielovemonth day twenty-two: 🎬 Titanic

“What?”

Eddie asks it—holds off a while because he loves the feeling of Steve’s eyes on him, and prolonging the sensation is generally his go-to tactic—but eventually he asks it: soft and warm and as gooey as it’s been for just over a decade, now, so he doesn’t foresee it changing, like, probably ever.

He’s good with that.

“Your fingers,” Steve comes up to him in a robe that lives on the hook on the back off the door in the bathroom, but Eddie has genuinely never worn, nor seen Steve in before. They tend to either get dressed or just stay naked.

“Why?” Eddie puts the pencil near-down to its nib down and wiggles them around in a bid for seduction that always lands in absurdity instead, and almost works better for it as he commits to the low purr in his tone as he asks:

“Giving you…ideas?”

And Steve does smile, warm and pillow soft, reaches and catches those fingers and slides his touch up their lengths, caresses the knuckles, sends shivers down Eddie’s spine for it so fucking delicious; so perfect.

Steve’s so fucking perfect, in every way, for every part of Eddie, his soul slid into place just right: it takes Eddie’s breath away all the time but sometimes it just…hits him.

This really is his life.

“Draw me.”

Eddie blinks, comes back into the still-warm-and-soft here and now.

“What?”

“I want you to draw me,” Steve’s tone is pitched a little particularly, so it takes a second to sink in but: oh my god.

Now the robe makes sense. Seeing as they spent the whole three-hours-and-fuck-knows-how-many-minutes in those shitty theatre seats last weekend just to argue about the floaty-capacities of doors in saltwater to the point of calling Dustin for further insight—who was absolutely no help beyond yelling ‘It’s called buoyancy!’ and hanging up on them which: rude.

Anyway: it all makes his answer easy enough.

“Like one of my French girls?” He flutters his eyes until his lashes catch on themselves.

Steve’s grin, though, is somehow shark-like and coquettish all at once as Eddie twirls his hair around his index finger and bites his lower lip, never breaking eye contact while Steve closes the distance between them a little more.

“Wearing this,” and he pulls the chain that never leaves his neck out from the crossed ‘v’ of his robe: the red pick Wayne had given him back after his demise had finally be allowed to come out as greatly exaggerated; the tie of a bread bag that’d long lost the papery covering and was worn down enough not to poke or scratch; and the plastic half-moon of a ring pop, broken off the rest of the setting and joined with the finest of duck tape to make the ring complete. The story of their…their everything, so far. The promises they’ve made, and the way they keep each of the them close to the heart every second.

Wearing this.

Fuck you if you think that doesn’t sting in Eddie��s eyes a little.

“And only this.”

It’s a rumble. It’s a tease. It’s lidded eyes and fire under lashes. It’s a visceral kick of Eddie’s heart to the cage of his ribs.

“Jesus fuck, Stevie,” Eddie exhales slow, a little shaky. “I’m not actually an artist.”

Steve’s brow quirks immediately.

“Bullshit.”

And Eddie ducks his chin, bits his lip against a grin: Steve still to this day uses that word sparingly. Only when he means it.

Eddie loves him for so many reasons; for all that he is. His blind faith in Eddie himself is…not a small thing that Eddie loves.

But it remains blind, and apt right now because Eddie may have artistic panache in the musical realms but…drawing?

“And portraits,” he whines a little because seriously, people-drawing is a whole other beast on top of everything—but Steve just eyes him, unwavering.

And Eddie is weak before the wants of his husband; this man that he loves more than lungs long for air.

“You can’t judge me for what comes of this.”

Steve’s grin is blinding, and Eddie’s heart shifts from kicking to fluttering for it, as always.

“You also can’t think that I could ever think you look as horrible as this is going to turn out,” Eddie wags a finger at him, almost daring him to back out, but also just as much daring him to try to make that case because Eddie has never, ever, believed in anything less than Steve’s otherworldly beauty, or been anything less than vocally and persistently worshipful about it.

Oddly, that’s what softens Steve’s grin into a smile, like he’s watching Eddie through eyes that see the same in reverse—insanity. But Eddie feels the caramely warmth washing through him again for it, and, fuck.

Of course he was always gonna play along with whatever Steve wants. Of course he was.

“Over on the couch then, Mister Harrington,” Eddie gestures grandly, and Steve wastes no time, drops his robe and stretches languid, nudges the chain on his chest just a little before mimicking the scene from the movie as best he can, hand lifting the still-near-constant coif of his hair all the higher; all the more tantalizing for the way the tendons in his neck stand out for the angling it encourages.

Eddie swallows hard, feels his pulse in his throat.

Holy fuck, but he’s a lucky son of a bitch, ain’t he?

So Eddie…gives himself a few stretched-long minutes to appreciate his stretched-long lover laid out for his appreciation before the nerves get to him because…it’s not false modesty. Eddie doesn’t think he knows what false modesty actually is.

So he wants fucking demurring or whatever when he said he can’t draw real people for shit. Let alone Adonis-like subjects such as the one whose only indication of the years that have passed are every possible hint that he’s gonna be the finest fucking wine the world’s ever sampled.

And the only one who gets to sample is Eddie fucking Munson.

Again: lucky fucking son of a bitch.

The minutes turn to hours, Eddie thinks so at least. He takes ample time in the parts of Steve’s form that demand that most attention—all of him does, really and truly, but some things…lend to themselves not just to the aesthetic eye but to even attempting to capture appropriately. Even by the less-than-amateur.

Steve asks if he can stretch just a little, if the arm he wants to shake out is safe from fucking up Eddie’s composition—as if Eddie needs any help doing that.

“You know I think every part of you is gorgeous,” Eddie bites at his lower lip and looks over the top of his little sketchpad; “nothing in the cosmoscompares, never has,” and Steve smiles at him indulgently, like he does when he knows Eddie’s being genuine, even if he thinks that genuineness is a little over the top—the amount of latitude Eddie’s earned over the years is impressive, in that regard. Might have something to do with just…loving someone this big. Adoring your partner thisdeep.

“Never will,” he adds, tone low and a little breathy, as he runs the tip of a fingernail over his work—he could try and fix a few things, here and there, but.

He’s never gone get it right, so.

“The muscle here,” he traces it on the paper—Steve’s left pec, he put extra care into the bits of Steve’s body he maybe worship most frequently—then touches the paltry twin on his own body, since he hasn’t turned the final product yet for Steve’s appraisal.

“And the way your hips kinda curve here,” Eddie moves his own hand to the jut where Steve’s hands still hand in judgement when he’s scolding someone for being a shitstain.

“You sure that’s my hip there, that’s curving?” Steve raises a brow; he’s not self-conscious, but he’s also implying something fucking nonsensical. Yeah, the whole Party had been faced with how they’d spent literal years as soldiers, so with the actually end of it all, when it came, they all made the slow-crawl journey from survival to looking like well-fed humans who sometimes got sleep. if Eddie’s honest, a healthy Steve Harrington, where he’s leveled and mostly stayed since maybe ‘89, definitely not later than ‘92, is his favorite. Because it’s his Steve right now, and his Steve is playful, bitchy, happy.

And the way he’s trying to find enough flesh to pinch to make his non-point is silly, really, like his smile. Maybe because he knows it’s moot. Or maybe because Steve could be the size of a woman with six nuggets in her belly and he’d love this man with everything he is in the exact same fucking way.

And Steve? He’s finally come to know that, and believe that, in this bones.

“You’re exquisite,” Eddie waves off the specifics to focus again on his very uneven show of anything like skill on the drawing in his hands; “I don’t know what’s different just now, all of a sudden,” he tilts his head, studies the parts he put real effort into, then flicks his eyes back up to Steve, gaze narrow, precise before he meets Steve’s warm-waiting eyes:

“I drink you in as much as I can every goddamn day,” Eddie murmurs low, and the slow stretch of Steve’s lips in response is hot in the pit of his belly.

“It’s like your body was waiting for enough peace,” and he ventures to add; “enough happiness,” and Steve smiles even bigger for that one:

“For you to really grow into it,” Eddie ultimately decides, after mentally comparing first times in his memories to the exquisite display spread out before him now; “in, like, this way that made the whole thing glow,” and he can’t stay sitting, he needs to stand, to cross even just this little space between them to get closer, to touch the places on Steve’s body that song to him just now in a heavenly pitch, as Steve’s everything always does; fuck if that body doesn’t write half Eddie’s songs for him, just to witness and call his own.

“Like it was waiting for every inch of you to soak up you, and fully come alive,” and he puts his sketchbook on the table; cups Steve’s cheeks, then, fully breaks the pose and traces those cheekbones, glorious, glorious, back and forth as he breathes:

“You’re stunning, Steven Harrington.”

Steve smiles a little smaller, sweeter, private almost and he tips his chin to better catch Eddie’s touch.

“Please don’t think anything less,”Eddie whispers as he drops a kiss at the corner of Steve’s lips and hisses fierce: “ever.”

Steve hums, and then reaches for Eddie in kind, traces his cheeks before catching his gaze and saying so soft and sweet:

“Show me the sketch.”

God-fucking-damnit.

It’s not like Eddie didn’t mean every word, okay? He means all of it and more with his whole fucking soul.

He was just hoping he’d be able to kinda…distract his beloved from the original reason for the present situation. Ideally with the introduction of a newsituational, capitalizing on Steve’s already delicious nude body.

Eddie really should have known better; Steve’s had his number clocked for fucking years.

“No,” Eddie tries a hail-Mary—he’s learned things over the years too, so, ha—capturing Steve’s lips full-on, relentless in drawing moan after moan from Steve’s throat, licking into his mouth, crawling over him to press—

“Eddie.”

And he pauses mid-climb, dick not even fully pressed to Steve’s yet, to see one of Steve’s hands darted out on top of Eddie’s sketchpad. Turned over, deliberately, just Steve’s eyes are unmistakable: he won’t violate Eddie’s privacy, that’s a long-established trust for them, especially when it comes to any form of the artistic process—but.

But.

“You’ll think I was just yammering bullshit because you’ll see what I drew which, again,” Eddie groans as he makes himself sit back on his thighs, straddled near Steve’s knees. “I doodle creatures for fake games and little mini-maps of squares to judge distances, that’s not,” and he peters off, doesn’t even know how to quite say I think you’d give the artists hanging in the Louvre and shit a heart attack if they saw someone as breathtaking as you in real life but only half of what’s on the other side of the sketchbook is even defensible as a human figure and I’m sorry, it’s not accurate, don’t take it as lifelike at all.

Or something like that.

“Eds?” Steve asks, gentler this time, but Eddie waves him on, gives his permission, then collapses forward hides his face in Steve’s chest: one of the parts he did put some real effort into in his sorry excuse for a portrait.

“It’s really not true to life, I swear,” he whines, muffled into Steve’s skin when the silence stretches long enough to be…noticeable.

“You’re sure?” Steve asks, his tone…weird.

Kinda…kinda oddly bright?

“I kinda love it,” and Eddie lifts his head to see Steve smiling so soft, so…endeared, which is almost heartbreaking when Eddie had to give up on drawing his perfect mouth with just subbing in a smiley-face curve, in the end:

“Most flattering I’ve ever looked, really.”

And the weird part is that he doesn’t sound like he does when he’s fucking with Eddie—which he’s gotten good at, truly, and often does string Eddie along for a good while but: he has his tells, and knows it, and always relishes Eddie finding them eventually.

Nothing’s standing out as a giveaway now, though.

“How much if I wanna buy it?”

“Buy it?” Eddie repeat dumbly, because fuck if he understands.

“Paying customer gets to do what he wants with the finished product,” Steve shoots back primly, before piling himself up, sliding enough from underneath Eddie to coax his half-chub out of the lounge pants he’s been wearing all day, and fall over to take him into that oh-so-talented mouth.

Eddie gasps when Steve’s first move is to lick his slit like a goddamn lollipop, slow and just shy of too deep and, and—

Fucking hell.

And like, Eddie was already well on his way to hard and ready to make the very most of this moment, right? And Eddie’s long over being anything but euphoric about those perfect glimmer moments they fall into sometimes that conjure the whole-ass absence in him of anything remotely resembling stamina or restraint when Steve touches, moves, looks, exists just so sometimes, the right hit to Eddie’s veins just for the sake of Steve’s beingshooting clean and sparkling-sharp from the pump of his blood to…

Shooting elsewhere, otherwise, in the space of a fucking heartbeat.

Steve barely works a fifth of the way up the straining vein of him before he’s quick to lower his jaw and take the way Eddie comes down his throat without any warning, just as shaken and surprised as anyone by the way he lasted less than five minutes by a longshot.

More likely closer to three.

“Goddamn,” Eddie mouths more than speaks, pants into the warm bubble of aftershocks rippling through the room around them, making the air thick and soft; hazy-like, a little.

“That in the price range you’re maybe thinking?”

And Eddie can be entirely forgiven for not catching on right away to the point of Steve’s far-too-put-together smug little volley as he tucks Eddie back into his briefs, but he does get there eventually, and smacks Steve’s still distractingly naked chest with the back of his hand for it because:

Paying-fucking-customer.

Jesus H. Christ, but he’s married to a menace.

“What’re you gonna do with it?” Eddie asks, mostly resigned to Steve’s will not so much because Steve’s so convincing (he is) or demanding (rarely ever, else: not that way), but more because it’s long been the orienting rule of Eddie’s life that he does whatever lies in his power to give the man he loves all he wants and more.

Even if, in this specific case, the magnitude of humiliation involved aggrieves him.

“Frame it,” Steve threads his hand through Eddie’s hair as he stretches back across the cushions, as Eddie finds his spot in the center of his chest to lie; feels him stretch back, toss his head over the arm of the couch. “M’gonna hang it in our room, for when I’m feeling less than,” Eddie shifts as Steve tips his chin to look kinda-down toward Eddie, he shifts a little more to meet Steve’s eyes as he asks:

“What did you call it?”

And now, now? Now, Steve sounds like he’s teasing.

So Eddie doesn’t feel bad at all for grazing his teeth across Steve nipple before settling back down and digging out his answer, kinda unavoidably dreamy around the word:

“Stunning.”

Steve’s hum is a warm, marveling, but softly satisfied thing under Eddie’s cheek as much as in his ear and it’s like melted chocolate, or sweet caramel—yes, he nuzzles closer. Fucking sue him.

“Yep,” Steve nods, meets Eddie’s nuzzle by burrowing into the top of his head, kisses through his curls; “right on the wall.”

Eddie pouts deep enough that Steve chuckles to feel it pressed against him.

“It’s not nice to put evidence of my absolute lack of skill on the wall we fuck up against!”

Steve—and this is fucking rude of him, like, entirely unfair—but Steve just chuckles, all the warmer through his chest where Eddie’s head sits, and kisses his head again as he murmurs low, and so fucking self-assured as he slides one palm along Eddie’s hip:

“Our absolutely enviable skill at fucking makes up for it.”

Eddie means to groan, to put up any level of protest. His body betrays him entirely and what escapes his mouth is a lot closer to a whine, maybe even a whimper.

Like he said: betrayal.

“I really do love it, y’know.” Steve eases him up slow as he sits up himself, grabs for the drawing and sits Eddie between his legs, before balancing the sketchbook on his knee, taking a long, considering look.

“It’s like you focused in on what you saw as most important.”

Eddie makes a sound that might agree, or come out more like ehh. Six of one, half-a-dozen of the other.

“This,” Steve taps the carefully-if-not-skillfully rendered tousle of his hair, and the shaded curls on his chest, same ones Eddie’d previously been enjoying as a pillow.

And a hideaway.

“This, of course,” he points to the not-entirely-terrible attempt to draw Steve’s gorgeous cock—but then, Eddie’s a guy, all guys have been doodling some version of a penis since the learned to hold a pencil, it’d be shameful to have fucked it up as the worst part of gunshot attempt, but Steve just grins, and yes Eddie with heat as he chides happily with a poke to Eddie’s ribs:

“Horny fuck.”

And it’s not like Eddie can, or would ever try, to deny it.

“These,” he points in a trail of moles, oddly precisely compared to the rest of it, Eddie’s favorite trails to any part of the treasure of his sweetheart’s body.

“The eyes were just dots so I’m assuming also these,” Steve pauses to trace around the way Eddie paid actual attention to trying to capture the swell of muscle along Steve’s front, then the tantalizing peek of his back thigh: majestic. Eddie’s glad they’re noticed as such, because Eddie really does count his life as most fulfilled in getting free rein to worship them daily.

But he needs to be very clear:

“Your eyes are intoxicating,” Eddie leans, twists to him his thumbs around the shape of both, to watch as the touch makes Steve’s mesmerizing lashes flutter.

“It’s just a bridge too far for me to capture, can’t you see how much I erased?” He pokes at the paper where the dots betray his shortcomings.

“Same for here, then?” Steve asks wickedly, when swoops a fingertip along Eddie’s sad excuse for a mouth on the portrait.

“Lips suck, man,” Eddie whines, realizing most of Steve’s face really is just disjointed pieces of a peace-love-smiley sticker, fucking hell, he should be ashamed—

“Yeah, man, literally,” Steve nods, serious as anything and Eddie glares when it clicks—lips suck. Literally.

Steve’s very recently demonstrated as much.

Good god, he loves this man.

“Yours are divine,” Eddie turns to capture them as deep and earnest as he possible can given the angle—they’re both breathless for it when they break apart, so.

Good enough.

“But then,” Steve splits is middle and index fingers and taps Eddie’s attention to the shoulders: “here.”

And Eddie contorts himself to kiss what he can reach of one said shoulder, because Steve’s arms are temptation, bar none, but the breadth of his shoulders, the stretch when he crosses his arms over his chest—

“Even if this is life-model accurate,” Steve’s turning the sketch, probably taking note of the little details where Eddie didn’t just give up the cause as hopeless: the notch of his throat. The crease of one elbow.

How the rest of him kinda matches the smiley face, very late stick-figure period.

“I told you it wasn’t—“ Eddie protests, because he needs that to be clear and beyond the realm of even potential doubt, but Steve rests a single finger on his lips to shush him, so he turns again and only stills when the sheer weight of love in Steve’s gaze ensnares him.

“If this is what you see when you look at me?” Steve says, voice soft and a little…awed?

“Not as if I didn’t already know, but it’s proof, y’know?” And then it’s Steve leaning in, kissing him for all he’s got after murmuring against his lips:

“I’m the luckiest fucker alive.”

And they’re just as breathless when they part this time around, so the pitch when Eddie makes it is maybe a little weak for panting:

“How about you be the luckiest fucker of me, hmm?”

Steve stares at him blank.

“I legitimately just sucked you off.”

“In the world’s most true-to-the-name fucking quickie!”

Which was…not Steve’s fault but was Steve’s doing, so.

“You came, didn’t you?” And Steve, the fucker, he licks his lips, pretends to consider and then concludes dramatically:

L”Oh, yep, definitely did.” At which point he has the audacity to lift Eddie up and deposit him on the sofa as he grabs for the long-discarded robe on the floor—as if the show of strength and the view of his naked ass at the bend was going to help matters at all.

He kisses the corner of Eddie’s shock-parted lips before he makes for the kitchen:

“I’ve gotta start dinner.”

And then he’s gone.

And it takes Eddie a second, which is justified given the tent he’s starting to pitch, but he’s on his feet, only stumbles a little for forgetting his pants weren’t fully shedded when Steve pushed them down to suck him earlier, but then he’s jumping to pull them up faster and scramble for the kitchen, calling out all the while:

“I can be very flexible! And you know how well I do against the countertops!”

All he gets in reply is laughter, light and airy and it lands the same in Eddie’s chest, bubbly like champagne, and: fuck—but that’s kinda the whole point, isn’t it?

His Stevie.

Too stunning, too much his whole heart to be captured in anything as simple as pen and paper, anyway.

♥️🖤♥️

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