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The stack of movies is on Steve's side of the couch, balanced crookedly on the arm with the titles facing out. He wants to be the one who chooses what they watch next, if only because he knows it's going to be another horror movie if he doesn't. It's just him and Eddie tonight, and some control over the situation would be nice because there's already popcorn all over the carpet and weed on the coffee table and he's pretty sure there's a damp patch between them from where Eddie kept excitedly gesturing with his beer during most of the second movie. He thinks that one was about furry alien balls from space that ate people, or something.
Steve doesn't want to complain too hard though, not when he's feeling pleasantly relaxed with someone else's weight tipped into his shoulder, sharing which other films the people in the credits have been in. He doesn't recognise most of them but it's cool, it's fine. He knows he tends to complain about it, but to be honest it's kind of nice that his friends all have different tastes, that they all enjoy different things. It means they have a whole bunch of genres covered, new stuff coming up all the time so no one feels left out, even if he's not personally into it. It works for other stuff too, someone in the group showing up with exactly the information they need because they have a weird niche interest that no one else does. Steve's realising lately how important that might be considering what they've all been through. Even if he does sometimes wish he could be the one with the answers.
So he doesn't smack Eddie's pointing fingers down, he just lets him ramble on, only breaking to lean forward for another beer, and just about missing scattering the half full ashtray onto the carpet.
" - and she was in Cujo, did you see Cujo?"
"Is that a sports movie?" Steve asks, before realising that's probably a stupid question since Eddie's the one asking.
"No, it's about a dog that gets bitten by a bat and gets rabies. It's based on a book by Stephen King and it's tense as shit."
"Ok, let's never let Robin watch that one then." Steve knows, if nothing else, that he really doesn't want another spiral on that at two in the morning. "Because I think she has a phobia."
"That...is actually a good point," Eddie concedes. He balances his beer bottle between his knees and drags his pouch back into his lap so he can lay two papers together and start filling them without even looking. "I'm definitely dragging her out to see Pet Cemetery if they ever turn that into a movie though, you too, obviously. Though that one's more zombie-adjacent."
Steve watches him slide the tip of his tongue along the edge of the joint and roll it together with a familiarity that borders on muscle memory, before he swivels it around and sticks it in his mouth. Steve hopes he's sharing it, because he has a horrible feeling Eddie's going to find some way of convincing him to watch something that's more his taste than Steve's, again, under the argument of broadening his horizons. Which at this point in time feel so wide it's a wonder he hasn't fallen off the edge. He'll never understand how his friends can literally see the most disturbing shit in real life and then want to spend their free time watching made-up disturbing shit too. But they're his friends and he knows he wouldn't replace a single one of them, so he grumbles complaint without any real feeling when Eddie sets his beer down and stretches over his lap to slap a hand on the stack of tapes, like Steve putting them out of reach meant absolutely nothing.
He's not really surprised, even if basically using him as a jungle gym is rude as hell. Steve lifts his drink out of the way so he doesn't spill it all over him.
"Hey, hey, I put them there for a reason."
"The other end of the couch isn't exactly out of sight out of mind. It's like you're not even trying."
Eddie's about as vulnerable as it gets right now, so Steve, under the influence of a few beers, lifts a hand and brings it down sharply against the jean-clad curve of his ass.
The sound he gets in response is punched-out, a choked, shaky mess of a thing that has the joint falling into the couch cushions and Eddie's weight sinking over his thighs like he can't hold himself up anymore.
Steve freezes.
Because...holy shit.
Jessica Winslow had asked him to spank her once. Steve had been surprised, but it had seemed fun and kinky in a harmless sort of way, so he'd agreed. He'd been careful about it, and he'd only let his hand fall three times but he'll admit that watching her ass go pink and warm had been kind of hot. The sex afterwards had felt weirdly charged, and he'd figured it was because it'd been a while since he'd tried something that felt new.
But she had never once made a sound like that.
Steve's whole body has gone tight with interest, which he really wants to be shocked about but if he's being honest that would probably be the least crazy thing that's happened to him this year, so instead he latches onto the fact that what he most wants right now, is to hear Eddie make that sound again.
Instead he's watching his beer spill down his knuckles and onto the floor and Eddie's hands are digging between the cushion and the arm of the sofa for his lost joint, wheezing his way through what sounds like the most thready fake-protest in the world.
"Not - not cool, not in any way cool - or fucking funny, Harrington. Is this how you treat all your guests?"
Eddie's lost a knee somewhere in the middle of the couch and the stack of tapes is now half on the floor. Steve's whole body is a strange twist of confused heat, vaguely aware that if Munson keeps wriggling like that then his dick's going to get the wrong impression, or the right impression, Steve doesn't even know anymore. He watches Eddie put his hands down to try to straighten up, and before he's even really thought about it he has a hand spread open on Eddie's back, where he's warm through cotton, muscle shifting under his fingers. Which means he feels it when all those muscles go tense.
"Jesus, fine, you can pick the movie, let me up," Eddie says, something thin in his voice that sounds more panicked than annoyed.
"Do you want -" Steve stops, he's not sure how to ask, or if he even should.
"What?" Eddie eyes him from under his bangs, cheeks red and Steve tells himself it's because he's still head down and ass up.
"Do you want me to do that again?" he settles on, which he suspects is one of those things where he's saying exactly what he's thinking and maybe that's not the best idea under the circumstances. Because out loud that sounds like the sort of thing a crazy person would say.
Eddie seems to agree because he says absolutely nothing in reply, which Steve has known him long enough to know is weird as hell. There's eventually a staggered burst of air, something like a laugh, something like a laugh and also nothing like a laugh.
"Steve, you do not put a - fuck, you do not put a guy over your lap and ask shit like that. Please tell me you know that. I don't know what kind of stuff went on in the locker room -"
"Well nothing like this, that's for damn sure," Steve says with an awkward laugh. This is definitely new to him, but he thinks he's just drunk enough to really want to do something stupid. Which seems reckless but, he has to admit, also kind of exciting.
Eddie looks up at him through his hair. He opens his mouth a few times, clearly decides that he really doesn't want to say whatever thought had occurred to him.
"So, ok, I can't believe I'm asking this, but do you want to do it again?" he asks instead. He's not even trying to hide his own surprise in the question and Steve can't help but hear judgement of some sort.
"I mean, not if you don't want me to, obviously. Since, I'm basically, you know, hitting you." It sounds really bad like that and Steve realises he doesn't have the experience to talk about this the way they probably should.
"You realise this is a -" Eddie stops, tries to gesture with a hand, before realising he's leaning on it. He shakes his head and laughs instead. "How do I put this delicately - no, scratch that, why am I bothering to be delicate, this is really not the time. Steve this is a -"
"A sex thing, yes, thank you, I got that."
Eddie's eyes go wide, as if he really hadn't expected that. Also he's still half sprawled over Steve's lap, when it would be pretty easy to just push himself up and away. Something which he hasn't actually done, and Steve thinks maybe that's why they're still talking about this.
"And you're...good with that?" Eddie asks, waiting with this expression on his face like Steve has wandered into the wrong changing room or something.
Is he?
Is he good with that?
Steve's brain had been so busy dragging him to the next logical step that he hadn't really had time to think about it.
"I want to if you want me to," he says simply. Because it turns out that he does, and maybe he's a little out of his depth here but he can be honest at least.
Eddie stares at him for a beat longer, eyebrows hiked about as high as they'll go. There's a lot on with his face, but Steve doesn't know him well enough to read most of it.
"Oh my god, I literally have no idea what's happening right now, but I might have gone insane." Eddie drags one of the cushions over and buries his face in it, hair falling forward to cover whatever expression he's wearing. "Sure, have at it. But if you go too hard and I tell you to stop, you better stop."
"Yeah, of course," Steve says immediately, voice sounding weirdly thin, like something had squeezed his throat tight.
Steve is left staring down at the thick leather of Eddie's belt, where it slides through the loops of his jeans, the worn-thin back pockets, and the pale strip of skin where Eddie's shirt had ridden up.
He's been given permission. He could just - he could just do it.
He lifts his hand, lets it hover in mid-air for a moment, and then brings it down with a solid slap, and this time he gets to see the way Eddie rocks forward where he's balanced on his elbows, and to hear the weird breathless noise he makes. Which Steve isn't going to pretend he doesn't like, whether he's supposed to or not, he likes it a lot.
The first time hadn't been a fluke, the first time hadn't been some stupid crossed wires in Steve's brain or some vague nostalgic memory of Jessica Winslow. He watches Eddie's head briefly press down into the cushion to muffle something he doesn't want Steve to hear, watches one socked foot stretch out to brace against the other arm of the couch.
"You want me to keep -"
"Yes," Eddie bites out, no hesitation this time but clearly annoyed about having to admit it, hair still covering his face, ringed fingers curled shut. Steve wishes he could see him.
He raises his hand again, then lets it fall, the dull thump of it half-cushioned by denim, but it's still better than it has any right to be. Steve has to wonder what it would feel like if Eddie wasn't wearing jeans, wasn't wearing anything, and he can't help but think about it - has to tell himself to breathe. He doesn't know if that's too much to ask for, if that's crossing some sort of line. But Steve is hard and there's no way Eddie can't feel it where his hips are sprawled across the bend of his crotch and he'd be more worried about that if he wasn't pretty sure he's not the only one. They're both into this and the fact that they're just doing it rather than talking about it is...well it's something.
"Can I..." There's a difference between picturing Eddie's jeans pushed down his thighs and wanting it, and actually saying it out loud. "Can I do this without your jeans in the way?"
There's a cracked sound in reply, the long line of Eddie's back still braced over him, tensing and relaxing in a way that kind of makes him want to spread a hand there and hold him down again. Steve's half certain he's going to say no to that, make fun of him for wanting it so much. But he has to ask, has to ask just in case it's something Eddie's thinking about too.
"Fuck it, yeah, ok," Eddie says instead, lifting up just enough to squirm a hand down underneath him and Steve can hear the clacking drag of a belt opening, which is somehow the most erotic thing he's heard in his life up to right now. The edge of his forearm nudges where Steve's dick feels stiff and obvious crushed inside his jeans and he can't help the wavering noise he doesn't quite manage to choke back. Which makes Eddie freeze for a second to breathe. "You're going to kill me, literally and figuratively. I cannot believe this is happening to me, you absolute -" He hisses instead of finishing the thought, dragging his zipper down. Steve watches the waist of his jeans go loose and it's like an extra little twist in his belly, he's already reaching forward, tucking a hand into both the jeans and the waist of Eddie's underwear and, before he can talk himself out of it, he's dragging them both down to mid-thigh.
That definitely pulls a shocked noise out of Eddie, like he didn't expect Steve to take his underwear too, but it's too late now, and Steve knows he's made everything so much worse for himself, knows how screwed he is. Eddie's bare ass is so pale, except for the faint colour he's already smacked into it and he can't help the way he lays a hand there, finds it warm even as a strangled grunt of surprise crawls up and out of Eddie's throat.
"Fuck." Eddie can't seem to say anything else at this point, knees shifting on the couch. His ass flexes under Steve's hand in a way that has him almost instinctively slapping it with an open palm.
It's much louder like this, a crack of sound that has the flesh jumping and going pink immediately under the spread of his fingers. Steve's the one making a noise now, obvious and audible. Eddie's hands clench briefly in the cushions before he's frantically dragging the front of his shirt up and shoving it between his teeth, a groan making its way through the fabric. Which is so stupidly hot Steve doesn't know what to do with it for a minute.
His heart is trip-hammering in his chest, feeling the edges of arousal so sharp he's heavy with it. He can't remember the last time he felt like this.
Eddie doesn't try and get up, doesn't tell him to stop, he just fucking squirms in Steve's lap on the next ringing slap, the rigid and obvious length of his dick pressed down against Steve's thigh, shifting in awkward nudges that turn into slow pushes when Steve's hand comes down again, harder than he'd thought he was going to.
He watches the impact, the flush of heat, the way Eddie's thighs tense, fingers scrabbling back to grip at Steve's jeans as he exhales loudly through his nose in a way that isn't even pretending not to be a moan anymore.
"Did you know you were into this?" Steve asks, curious and fascinated.
Eddie garbles something out that sounds like 'yes, no, I don't know' muffled and strained before his hips are lifting back into the next slap, only to flinch away when it hits.
Steve takes a breath and does it again, a hot little snap of sound that leaves him dizzy, the skin under his hand filling with colour. The smack straight after is sharper, right to the soft curve and it makes his palm kind of sting, but even that's good. He stops hitting for a minute to lay his hand against the skin again, where it's hot and smooth and he can't resist digging his fingers in, spreading Eddie's cheeks apart, just enough to put everything on display and it's shockingly, unexpectedly hot. Steve holds him like that for a second, breathing harder than he needs to and listening to the way Eddie gnaws on his own shirt, something impatient and embarrassed and greedy in the sound he makes.
Steve spreads his own thighs a little wider, urges Eddie to move, to press down into him and it takes a second, it takes an uncertain couple of pushes before he realises that Steve wants him to chase it.
He spanks his ass again, and then again, in too deep to stop now and the sound of it in the empty room has been drowning out the white noise from the TV since they started.
"Steve - I'm going to come, literally all over your lap if you don't stop now," Eddie mumbles, strained through fabric, half apology and half shocked confession, one hand stretched out to brace himself on the edge of the sofa, the other sharp-fingered in the crook of Steve's other elbow. His hand is so warm, rings hard through fabric, and it's holding so tightly.
Steve doesn't stop, he can't remember the last time arousal has felt this liquid in his belly and he hasn't even touched his dick. He watches Eddie rock on every impact, shoulders pulled up, knees spread in the couch, making quiet, hurt noises that he's no longer trying to muffle, still half hidden in his own hair. His ass is bright red now, hot to the touch every time Steve gives in and has to lay a hand there, press in with his fingers, and it has to sting, but Eddie doesn't seem to care. He thinks there are going to be marks in the shape of his fingers and the thought leaves him breathless.
Steve slaps him hard enough to make his whole hand sore and Eddie jolts, stiffens where he's braced over him, a shaky wet noise crawling up his throat as he spits out his shirt and gives a shameless gasping moan. Eddie is ridiculous and messy and loud when he comes and Steve goes hot all over watching it. He's forced to rethink a lot of things he'd assumed were set in stone.
He lets his hand fall when Eddie collapses over him, heart pounding in his chest, and he wants nothing more than to keep touching him, to squeeze gently until he makes that breathy noise of protest again, to press down on that warm space he's responsible for and - stripe it like he owns it.
"Fuck," he says shakily because now he's thought it he needs it more than air. "Eddie, can I -"
"Yeah," Eddie mumbles into the cushions, not even asking what he wants as he waves a hand. "Sure, absolutely, but I'm gonna need a sec."
Steve is sliding out from under him, letting him sink fully into the couch as he straddles the back of his thighs, tearing open the zipper of his jeans and dragging them down low enough that he can spit in his hand and grip himself, where he's hot and hard as hell, far too close to bear anything for long. He braces himself over Eddie's back, where his shirt is pushed up to the middle of his spine and his ass is bright red and soft and fucking perfect - and Steve falls straight over the edge after a few strokes, coming in lines and splashes and drips across Eddie Munson's bare ass.
"Did you just -" The end of that sentence is just garbled noise, a strange combination of amusement, shock and arousal. "Oh my god. It really is the end of the world."
Steve collapses sideways into the cushions, his head is buzzing and his skin feels hot and he's never felt so greedy in his life.
"Sorry, fuck, I'm sorry, I should have asked." Steve barely gets it out between breaths.
"Technically you did ask." Eddie's mostly talking into the couch. There's a muffled laugh and it sounds wrecked.
"I really didn't." Steve thinks it would be fair to say that there hadn't been a whole lot of communication going on at all. "I'm sorry."
Eddie still hasn't pulled his face out of the cushions and the whole living room smells like sex. Steve still has his dick out, he feels like he'd lost control of this whole situation fairly early on and just never got it back.
There is finally movement next to him, which is mostly just Eddie shaking hair out of his face.
"Seriously, do not apologise for this. That may have been the single hottest moment of my entire life so far and I'm going to feel really fucking shitty if we do the whole apology and gay sex freak-out right now, while I'm still in the afterglow."
"We didn't technically have sex," Steve points out.
"Says the man whose come is literally cooling on my bare ass at this very moment." This time Eddie sounds more amused than annoyed, which Steve thinks is probably a good sign.
He can't hold the snort, which feels really inappropriate, but he does put his dick away and drag his shirt off, make an attempt to clean Eddie up. Since Steve's the one who made an absolute mess of him, and he refuses to look too closely at the unexpected twist of satisfaction he feels over that right now.
Eddie finally pulls himself out of the cushions once he's done, face red, damp hair stuck to his cheeks and forehead. He carefully rolls over to pull his pants up, and Steve doesn't miss the very obvious hiss when denim drags over his ass. He gets a brief glimpse of Eddie's soft dick, and the streaks drying against his thigh and in dark hair before it's gone. But he figures he's allowed to look, probably.
There isn't enough room on the couch for them both but they're lying there anyway, crushed together.
"I'm not going to freak out," Steve tells him.
"Are you sure?" Eddie asks, like it's important.
He's freaking out a little, if he's being honest. But he feels like he'd definitely be a bad friend at this point if he did it obviously and he wants to be a good friend.
"I'm sure," he says. "No freaking out."
"Ok, so is this going to make - is this going to make everything weird?" Eddie asks, carefully, so very carefully.
"No," Steve says, and he tries to make it a promise.
Eddie looks like he wants to ask more questions, but he stops himself, drags his lip behind his teeth and sinks back into the couch.
"So, you want to pretend this never happened?"
Steve throws a leg over Eddie's, kicks gently at his socked foot.
"Not gonna do that either," he says, because if he pretends it never happened then that means it's probably never gonna happen again, and he thinks - he thinks he really wants this to happen again. Which feels like a lot right now.
Eddie rolls his eyes sideways to meet Steve's, like he doesn't entirely believe him, wary caution still somewhere in his face, but he doesn't pull away.
Steve thinks it would be nice to kiss him, but Eddie's squinting now, reaching down onto the floor for the forgotten joint so he can casually settle it between his lips. Steve can't help but think the moment's passed.
Maybe next time?