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“I need you to hurt me,” Steve says, like that’s a normal conversation starter.
On some days, like today, it is.
“Not your face,” Eddie says from the couch, not looking up from his book.
“Never my face,” Steve agrees.
Eddie scrambles for a bookmark and settles for putting a receipt from yesterday’s grocery run in between the pages. “Come here.”
Steve sits right down in Eddie’s lap, smirking at the oof he lets out at the impact.
He pays for it in the exact way he wants when Eddie pushes his hands under his shirt and rakes trails of fire across his back with his fingernails.
It satisfies the itch, the one Steve has had all day, but only a little.
“More,” he demands, arching into Eddie, trying to get more pressure out of his hands.
“Give me a sec, will you?” Eddie says, smoothing his hands over Steve’s back, up and down, up and down. “When have I ever denied you?”
“All the time. Literally all the time. And sometimes, you get off on it.”
Eddie laughs because it’s true and increases the pressure of his nails against Steve’s back because he loves him.
Steve gasps, falling forward and burying his face in Eddie’s shoulder. He wants Eddie to leave marks. Not draw blood, not scar, but leave red in his wake, something that’ll burn when Steve inevitably falls asleep on his back later tonight.
“Nope,” Eddie says, burying a hand in Steve’s hair and tugging until he’s upright. “If I’m hurting you, I get to see you.”
Steve lets his jaw drop open and basks in the harsh bloom of pain on his scalp. It’s the closest they’ve come to scratching that itch, but Steve knows he needs more.
“I said, ” Eddie repeats, tugging harder and shaking Steve’s head lightly. “That I get to see you. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Steve gasps out, fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head at how good he feels. “You get to see me, baby.”
Eddie’s smile is just as mean as Steve wants it to be without any of the cruelty.
“Good job, sunshine,” he says before he bites into the junction between Steve’s neck and shoulder.
Technically, all he’s doing is giving him a hickey. But Eddie’s kisses have always been more teeth than anything else, and when Steve asks him to hurt him, he turns the dial all the way up.
It’s basically a bite. Steve thinks it’s fair to call it a bite.
Eddie bites there, and there, and there, and a dozen other places around Steve’s neck and shoulders and chest. He worries with his teeth and soothes with his tongue and gives each mark a barely-there kiss when he’s done with it because even when he’s a sadist, he’s a sap.
“More,” Steve says because while the stings and the bites and the spit cooling on his skin feel good, they don’t feel right.
Eddie says something against his skin that he doesn’t quite catch, but it doesn’t matter, not when he reaches a hand up to toy with one of Steve’s nipples.
It’s just light teasing, light touches all around, the occasional rub of a thumb with pressure that’s almost substantial, that’s almost enough.
“Baby,” Steve says. “Come-”
That pressure veers a sharp left into pain when Eddie, without preamble, pinches.
“-on,” Steve grits out.
“Like that?” Eddie asks innocently. It’s unfair how good he is at faking innocence. It’s those big eyes of his that do it. One bat of his eyelashes, one doe-eyed look, and, if it weren’t for the drug dealing and the murder accusations and the satanist rumors, people think he can do no wrong.
Steve isn’t immune. Steve wouldn’t change anything about him.
“Yeah, baby,” he says, having learned how to pick his battles when Eddie gets like this. “Just like that.”
Lot of good it does him. Even though he was perfectly nice, perfectly good, he gets the same kind of pinch on the other side.
Once he’s able to sort through the pain-pleasure of it all, through the slight haze Eddie started to create as his request, he shoots him a glare he’s sure is made much less effective by the fucked-out look on the rest of his face.
“Had to make it even,” Eddie says, and before Steve can snap back with something, he bites again.
It’s good. All of it is good: the biting and scratching and tugging and pinching and the occasional slap Eddie gives his ass and his bruising grip on his hips and his leg, shoved almost painfully between Steve’s for him to rock back and forth on.
It’s good. But it isn’t enough.
Between all the sensations and sounds and sights, Steve voices what is:
“Belt.”
Eddie doesn’t acknowledge him. He just keeps kissing his chest, always too light, always a tease.
Steve doesn’t wait for the inevitable bite before he repeats himself. “Baby, I want the belt.”
At that, Eddie does pause. He picks his head up to look Steve in the eye, and his hands gently stop the motion of Steve’s hips against his thigh.
“If we’re using the belt,” Eddie says, exactly like Steve expected, “I need to know why.”
It’s not an “Are you sure?” question. Eddie trusts Steve enough to know what he wants, and Steve affords Eddie the same courtesy. They trust each other, but for heavier stuff, for stuff out of the norm, they need to know why.
And with the belt, especially. Eddie has been on both ends of it without explanation. Steve owes him better than that.
“You know…” Steve pauses to try to find the words. “You know when you take Silly Putty out of the little egg thing and mess around with it?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says, and Steve can tell that he’s still confused.
“And how it’s never in the right shape when you go to put it back? You have to squeeze it and hit it and press it so that it can go back in the little egg thing?”
Eddie nods.
“That’s what I need right now,” Steve explains. “I don’t want you to hurt me because I want to hurt myself. I don’t want you to hurt me because I just think you want to. I just need to get put back in the right shape. Not a fix, but a-”
“Reset,” Eddie finishes.
“Yeah. A reset. And I think the belt will help.”
Eddie pauses. Considers. Then says, “So, you don’t want that pain because you want the pain, you want it-”
“Because it’ll help. And it’ll feel really, really good,” Steve says, pushing his hips forward, back, forward.
Eddie grins, and Steve knows he’s got him.
“That’s why I like it, too,” he says, pushing Steve’s hips harder into his leg, and it feels so good, and fuck is Steve wet.
“Because it feels good?” Steve manages to ask.
“Yeah, but also because you always look so gorgeous after,” Eddie says, giving Steve a real, deep kiss, one that would make him weak in the knees if he wasn’t already sitting down.
When they break apart, Eddie starts undoing his belt.
At that sound, Steve grinds a little faster, adds a little more pressure. It feels so nice, and he’s so-
“You’re not getting off until after I hit you,” Eddie says, matter-of-fact, folding the belt in half and testing it on the back of his hand.
That sound really isn’t helping Steve’s problem.
“Up,” Eddie says. “And boxers off. You’re gonna sit in my lap with your back to me.”
“But-”
“Stevie,” Eddie sing-songs. He doesn’t say anything else, just trails the leather on the inside of his thigh.
Steve stands, strips, and sits back down in record time.
He tries to straddle Eddie’s leg like before, but Eddie hooks his knees inside Steve’s and spreads his legs apart.
He’s cold like this, exposed, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been so turned on in his life.
He loves when Eddie gets like this, gets a little mean when Steve asks him to do something, gets a little bossy. It means he’s going to take Steve apart exactly like he wants and put him back together, even better, just like he asks.
A reset.
Steve gets dragged out of his head by the feeling of two of Eddie’s fingers absently running along the seam of his pussy, just spreading the mess around, just teasing. The second he tries to shift his hips into them, Eddie takes them away.
“You know your colors?” Eddie asks, wrapping the leather around his hand.
“Green for good, yellow for stop and talk, red for straight to aftercare,” Steve recites, practiced and perfect.
“Very good,” Eddie praises, and Steve swears he gets wetter at the sound of those words. And then he asks, like he doesn’t already know, “Where do you want the belt?”
Steve turns around to face him and says, with a smile, “Everywhere.”
He’s only a little disappointed when Eddie’s first hit lands just above his right knee.
It’s still good, of course. It’s still harsh enough to make him flinch in the fun way. But without any friction on his pussy, it’s not what he wants, and they both know it.
“Eddie,” he hisses as the smacks move higher up at much too slow a pace.
“What, sweetheart?” he asks, and Steve looks back to see him looking innocent again. “Belt not doing it? Need a paddle? Need me to stop?”
Steve is highly impatient and beyond both words and consequences. So, naturally, he grabs the belt, dragging Eddie’s hand with it, and presses it right where he wants it.
God. The leather is cool and smooth and perfect, and Steve can’t resist rubbing it up and down, making soft sounds whenever it catches, just so slightly, on his clit. He keeps it there, presses harder, moves his hips into it as much as he can until-
His hand is snatched away.
His jaw is squeezed tight.
And the belt comes down, once, across his entire pussy.
Steve screams around a smile. He grins, satisfied in the same way a hunter is after a successful kill.
Feral.
“You wanted it bad, huh?” Eddie murmurs, barely audible over the wet sound of the next two smacks.
“Yeah,” Steve gasps, bucking into whatever contact Eddie gives him. “Wanted it so bad, baby, so bad.”
“I can see that,” he says, squeezing Steve’s jaw tighter, sounding unaffected. Steve would believe that tone if he didn’t feel his dick, still in his jeans, not-so-subtly grinding against his ass.
“Again,” he begs. “Please, baby, again.”
Eddie listens so well when he’s in a mood like this. He brings the belt down again and again, and Steve feels himself float, feels himself coalesce into something right and good and wonderful.
The pain all over his thighs and pussy shapes him, makes him feel good along the crossed wires in his brain, and Steve leans into it until it starts approaching the realm of too much, until he starts twitching away instead of towards.
“Mouth,” he says. “Eddie, want your mouth. Please. Wanna feel good.”
Eddie lets his legs shut and gently slides Steve off his lap and onto the couch. He climbs off, kneels between his legs, and just looks.
“Please,” Steve begs, legs twitching and threatening to shut.
“Let me enjoy my view,” Eddie says, spreading him open, just a little bit, with one of his thumbs.
Steve hisses and shuts his eyes tight at how even that little touch makes him feel. When he opens his eyes again, he looks down to see Eddie still between his legs, looking transfixed, and sees him lick his lips once.
“Please,” he whispers because he hurts so good and wants to get off so bad.
At that one, pretty syllable, Eddie seems to come back into himself.
“Sorry,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of Steve’s thigh. “Got a little distracted.”
And before Steve can even think about laughing, Eddie dives in.
It hurts.
The pain radiates in the same way pressing on a bruise does. It’s a bone-deep ache, spreading out far beyond its impact. It makes Steve hyperaware of every other bruise and scratch and mark on his body, lighting his nerves up like Christmas tree lights, aching and stinging and burning all over.
It hurts, and it is wonderful.
Eddie pushes the tip of his tongue inside, fucking in and out as best as he can, and even that little stretch makes Steve’s hands dig into his hair, pulling to ground himself. His nose nudges his clit, oversensitive, with every movement, and his jaw works, over and over and over again.
It sounds obscene. Between the way Steve has been soaked since Eddie started scratching him, Eddie’s tendency to make him a mess whenever possible, and these little involuntary moans Eddie makes against him every time he feels Steve’s legs tighten around his head, it’s loud and filthy and perfect.
Steve tries to move his hips into him once and only once before Eddie drags him in so hard he’s worried he broke his nose and keeps a bruising grip on his hips.
He hopes it bruises. Steve wants the best collection possible of marks, of reminders of the reset.
Eddie moves from tongue-fucking his hole and to his clit, which he wraps his lips around, and, as he looks Steve in the eye, sucks.
Steve is gone.
He doesn’t think he can be blamed. He’s been live-wire tense since he climbed into Eddie’s lap, been soaked since he started grinding against his leg, been on the edge since Eddie undid his belt with that beautiful hiss of leather.
Steve fucking plummets over the edge with his thighs around his boyfriend’s head and his mouth open in a silent scream.
It could be seconds or hours from the time that wave crashes over him to the time he finally remembers to loosen his legs from around Eddie’s head. The second he does, he realizes he’s sore and exhausted and so, so happy.
Eddie for his part, looks to be in similar shape. From the floor, on his knees, his chest heaves as he pants, and he’s got a wicked grin on his soaked face.
It does something to Steve, seeing Eddie fully dressed in mussed up clothes while he’s still naked on the couch. He looks, will always look at Eddie whenever he’s around him, and as he looks, he realizes.
“You didn’t-”
“Don’t want to,” Eddie says simply, still out of breath.
“That’s gotta hurt,” Steve says, and he’s so spent that he can hear his words slurring, just a bit.
Eddie gives him a pointed once-over. “That’s gotta hurt.”
Steve shrugs, or at least tries to. He’s really tired. “‘S a good hurt.”
Eddie laughs. “That’s what matters.”
He wipes his face off on his shirt, and, after a moment of consideration, strips it off and throws it over the arm of the couch. If Steve were more verbose right now, he’d lightly nag him about it.
“Come on,” Eddie says, putting one arm under Steve’s knees and the other around his back. “Work with me here.”
Steve winds his arms around Eddie’s neck and tucks his face into his shoulder. “I still want to get you off.”
“Well, I want to get you cleaned up and into bed,” Eddie says, slowly carrying him to the bathroom.
Steve frowns. “What if you fucked my face? I wouldn’t even have to do any work.”
Eddie swerves into the bathroom door frame. Steve is just grateful he didn’t swear, loudly when he did, since he’d end up doing it right in his ear.
“I’ll compromise,” Eddie says, setting Steve down on the bathroom counter and turning on the bath. “You can wake me up with that tomorrow.”
“With head?”
“Mhm.”
“I do like morning sex,” Steve says, feeling his eyes slip shut.
“I know you do,” Eddie says fondly. Then, he taps the side of Steve’s face. “You can sleep after the bath, yeah?”
“Sorry,” he says, blinking his eyes open.
“Don’t be. You feel okay? Back in the right shape?”
“Yeah,” Steve says with a smile he knows is dopey but doesn’t care about fixing. “Fuckin’ perfect.”
And when Eddie smiles back, those words are true.