Eddie’s lying on his side, jeans off, one of his pillows between his thighs and pressed firm right against his dick. His skin is slick with sweat. He can hear the rhythmic patter of rain outside. The storm has just arrived, though it won’t stay long. He’s not trying to be quiet, per se, but he’d rather not wake up the entire trailer park. The mattress squeaks slightly with every insistent rock of his hips, seeking the soft, plush friction. The problem is that it’s been about two weeks since he’s even wanted to get himself off, and even longer since he’s actually succeeded. The psych that Owens hooked him up with says it’s normal after experiencing what she called an “adverse life experience”. Doesn’t make it any less infuriating.
A wavering sigh leaves his lips and he nuzzles his face deeper into his sheets. He knows he should probably get up. Eddie doesn’t really have time for this right now; he can feel the sensible part of his brain screaming at him to roll over and get dressed. There are so many other things he could be doing, and he really does want to be productive, but damn, it’s been weeks since it was good like this and he needs the release. The slow dirty grind of his hips against the pillow is just too intoxicating; the perfect amount of pressure, the best friction he could ever hope for.
His cock twitches. The thought of coming alone fills him with an overwhelming sense of desperation, though he can’t decide why. It would be so much easier if he had someone to suck him off, or fuck him on their fingers, to take the burden of responsibility out of his hands. But Eddie can’t quite bring himself to go out looking for either, despite the fact that he’s been thinking about it. It just seems like a lot of hassle, you know? He doesn’t need any help right now anyway, not from the kind of people he’s likely to find.
There are several people he used to fantasize about; windswept TV starlets, greasy, long-haired guys on glossy movie posters, and armored warrior women on the cover of Heavy Metal. Back then, he always wondered how it would feel to pin or be pinned underneath one of them, to feel hands running up under his shirt, thighs slotted, a warm, wet tongue along his neck, the dull impact of hips against flesh, fucking or being fucked.
The thing is, now, Eddie isn’t sure what he needs, or even wants from sex anymore. Maybe he just needs some company, that’s all. A warm body next to him. Someone who will stroke his hair and trace fingertips down his spine, pressed against one another in a cocoon of warmth. It’s not as if it was easy, to begin with – all those years of being teased by girls who didn’t want him back, the endless stream of boys who wanted nothing to do with him.
That was before he got to know Steve. Like, really got to know him. Steve is different from most of them, which lends itself to sweet fantasies of stealing kisses and gentle hands on top of his. But now they’ve graduated from awkward glances held too long and into innuendos and casual flirting that never seems to last long enough. Which of course only made his… less than chaste fantasies that much more intense.
Eddie closes his eyes and lets his thoughts wander. He’s been dreaming about fucking Steve for months now. He doesn’t know how to communicate that to the guy without sounding completely obsessed, though. He thinks of the thick hair that covers Steve’s chest and trails down past his waistband. Think s of the way he fills out that one particular pair of faded blue jeans, looks like he was poured into them, and how it makes Eddie just want to bite him. Especially when he does that fucking – that move , because it has to be a move, when he’s waiting to pick up the kids and he leans against the side of the Beemer with those stupid sunglasses on, thumb through his belt loop and his fingers hanging against the crease of his thigh to perfectly frame the bulge in his jeans.
"Shit," Eddie whispers into the empty room. He presses harder into the pillow and arches, trying to find a new angle to thrust upwards.
He reaches out blindly across the bed to grab a handful of sheets and furls them tightly in his fist. He can’t seem to stop moving. Fuck, he wants to suck Steve’s dick so bad. For months he’s been daydreaming about licking the sweat off his throat and the precome off his cock, imagining the punched-out gasp he might make at Eddie taking him down his throat, getting off on the way Steve might sound when he comes. His thighs tighten around the pillow he’s humping, and he’s pretty sure he’s making a very unattractive sound high in his throat but it’s hard to focus on anything else right now. His mind is filled with a haze of heat and want, thoughts of Steve’s big, strong hands, his voice, his beautiful, sad, puppy-dog eyes.
"Fuck me," Eddie moans, "Steve, fuck me. Please, please…"
He’s shaking uncontrollably, mouth hanging open and causing a wet spot to form on the sheet beneath his cheek, but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel something. Needs to come. Needs to feel needed. He presses harder against the pillow, desperate to find release. The head of his cock thrusts into the small puddle of precome soaking into the fabric, slick cotton rubbing the sensitive spot under the head of his dick. An embarrassingly high sound wrenches itself free from his dry throat.
"Oh, shit," Eddie breathes into his sheets again. He angles his hips to keep hitting that slick wet spot, smearing more precome into the soft pillowcase. “Nnh, fuck , right there. Just like that.”
God, his legs are trembling. There’s so much pressure building inside him, threatening to overflow. And shit, if Steve were here, he could take Eddie any way he wanted, could make everything better. He moans softly at the thought of him.
Would Steve be soft and slow? Would he kiss him wet and messy, lick at the place where his neck meets his shoulder, suck gently at the curve of his jaw? Would he give him that full Harrington experience, be sweet with him, and take his time breaking Eddie down and piecing him back together?
He pushes himself up on one elbow, head spinning, and humps down against the pillow. The mattress creaks and groans beneath him. It’s starting to feel humid in his room despite the lack of insulation between him and the rain outside, his hair sticking to his neck and breaths coming out in hot, heavy puffs.
Would he be rough and desperate? Would he hold Eddie down with one of those huge hands on the back of his head, bending him into a deep arch as he pounds him into the mattress? Would Steve crowd him against the headboard and crawl right into his lap and ride him? Would he face him, or face away so Eddie could watch his ass bounce with each thrust, taking him inch by tantalizing inch?
Eddie keens. There was a time when Eddie might've felt ashamed about it, but he doesn't care anymore.
In his head, Steve sits upright on his knees, still bouncing back on Eddie’s cock – because fuck yes , Eddie’s been dreaming of that ass since ‘85 and he deserves every bit of hedonism he can get – and reaches back to pull Eddie forward by his hair and into a sloppy open-mouthed kiss over his shoulder.
He can’t think straight. Everything feels fuzzy, like someone is holding him underwater. God, he just wants. He keeps moving, still grinding and pressing his wet, overstimulated cock into the pillow as hard as he can, willing himself to come. Pushing forward and backward with increasing urgency, panting and moaning with each breath he takes.
“Please, oh, fuck, please...”
He’s almost sobbing, and his face burns, but it’s not like there’s anyone around to hear it. Every nerve ending in his body is alive with the sensation. His heart is pounding, faster and faster until it feels like he’ll explode in his own skin.
Eddie feels the tension rising higher and higher inside him, and when it finally breaks it comes out in a guttural cry of desperation. He can feel his eyes roll back, vision completely losing focus as the pleasure wracking his nerves reaches its peak.
"Oh my God," Eddie gasps. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
A veritable torrent of hot cum spreads rapidly across the pillowcase and drips down onto the sheets below. He cries out again, again, and again, errant tears slipping from his eyes. The orgasm finally ebbs away after what feels like forever, leaving Eddie spent and shuddering in his sheets.
It takes a few moments for his vision to clear. When his breathing begins to return to normal, he realizes that he’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and completely exhausted. Eddie thinks he must look like a wreck, his dark brown curls flattened against his scalp, sticking up at odd angles. He stares up at the ceiling, listening to the steady beat of rain hitting the tin roof above his head. All he wants right now is to sleep, to curl up into his blankets and drift into dreamless blissful oblivion for a bit longer.
But then he hears it.
Footsteps.
There’s a creak out in the hallway, and Eddie freezes.