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Eddie has been having this dream a lot lately - finding out you'll be trapped in this shithole of a school for another year will do this to a guy, he guesses. Almost every night, he finds himself back in the deserted halls of Hawkins High, taking twists and turns and bends in his search for the exit. It's no use. Every time he rounds a bend, another empty corridor stretches out before him, leading him ever deeper into the maze.
The worst part is that he isn't alone.
He has never seen it. Every time he looks over his shoulder, there's only rows upon rows of lockers and classroom doors behind him. Still, he knows that it is there, with that weird, inexplicable certainty you only get in dreams. Stalking him. Watching him. Getting closer.
Except tonight, it is different. Tonight it isn't following him.
Tonight, it is calling to him.
It's nothing audible. No disembodied voice floating through the neon-lit corridors whispering his name. It's a tingle and thrum in his very blood, an irresistible pull behind his navel. Like a higher force is controlling his steps, luring him closer and closer to where it wants him. He's powerless to stop it.
Invisible strings guide him to one of the doors lining the walls. He has never walked through any of the doors before, and somewhere in the back of his mind, something wails in alarm, warning him to stop, to turn back while he still can. His steps falter, briefly, but then the thing in his abdomen lurches and his hand pushes the doorknob.
The air inside is warm and humid, smelling of sweat and cheap shampoo. The locker rooms, he thinks. Some distant part of him wonders how the hell he got here, but that is dreams for you, he guesses. They tend to warp the laws of time and space.
Which is also why he is only mildly surprised to discover he's no longer alone.
Steve Harrington is lounging on one of the wooden benches in front of, haughty and confident as if it were a throne.
“There you are,” he rumbles, low and pleased. “Took you long enough.”
Eddie opens his mouth to ask what the hell he's doing here - unlike him, Steve has graduated, he has no reason to be haunting this place - but then those pink lips curl into a smile, and a graceful hand beckons him closer, and he forgets to wonder about it. It's fine. It's just a dream.
“That's right, baby,” Steve murmurs, gently taking him by the shoulders and guiding him down to the floor. Somehow, Eddie only realizes that they are both naked when his bare knees hit the cold tiles and he catches sight of Steve's hard, flushed cock right in front of his face. Was he naked all this time? He doesn’t remember. “Don't worry about it. Don't worry about a thing. You've been wanting this, haven't you?”
It's true. He's been lusting after Steve for years. Has imagined in the quiet of his dark room, with his hand wrapped around himself, what it would feel that perfect mouth wrapped around him. What it would be like to have the King bucking and writhing under him, moaning and whimpering and begging to be fucked.
“Wouldn't you love to know?” Steve smiles down at him. “I'll have to disappoint you. I prefer being the one who does the fucking. You don't mind, do you?”
Eddie can't say he does. Not when Steve’s hand slipping into his hair to cup the back of his head feels like it belongs there. Not when the weight of Steve’s cock settling warm and heavy on his tongue feels like something slotting into place.
It’s a large cock, longer and thicker than any Eddie has ever seen before, and when it hits the back of his throat, he tries to pull off, afraid that he'll gag. Steve makes a low shushing sound and keeps him in place with the hand tangled in his hair, fingers scratching soothingly over his scalp, and after a second of panicked flailing, he realizes that it's actually okay. His sound of surprise turns into a muffled whine, and above him, Steve chuckles fondly. Then, with gentle pressure, he starts to guide him into a rhythm, picking up speed as they go. Soon, Eddie’s head is bobbing up and down in his lap, drool running down his chin as he fucks his own throat on Steve’s cock.
“So very good, baby,” Steve praises. His voice is a raspy, sultry thrum that vibrates right into Eddie’s abdomen. “Knew you’d be a natural at this. Now c’mere.”
As Steve pulls him up into his lap, Eddie wastes a brief moment wondering how he's supposed to take that huge cock without any preparation. But then Steve is lining himself up, and he realizes that he's already lubed and stretched wide open, clenching uselessly at thin air as he waits to be filled. As if he’d been waiting for this for hours.
“Look at you,” Steve murmurs, hands settling on his hips as he pushes past his rim, then bottoms out in one swift movement. His eyes are hungry as he watches Eddie’s face go slack, and so intense they seem to be glowing gold in the light of the neon bulbs overhead. “So eager to take me. Like you were made for this. Feel good, honey?”
The only reply Eddie manages is a wanton moan. He feels obscenely full, stretched wide open around the girth of Steve’s cock, stuffed so completely that every little movement and twitch of his hips makes white-hot sparks of pleasure erupt at the base of his spine. His hands have found Steve's upper arms, nails digging into skin hard enough to leave angry red welts as he starts bouncing up and down on Steve’s cock.
“Of course it does,” Steve hums, one hand reaching out to thumb at Eddie’s leaking slit. “We're going to have so much fun, you and I. God, you’re more eager than any of the girls I've had. Maybe I should give you a pussy next time. Wonder what that would feel like. Would you like it?”
Eddie arches his back, trying to buck into Steve’s hand, and whimpers. Of course he'd like that. He'll love anything Steve wants to do to him, and still beg him for more when they're done.
“Good boy,” Steve murmurs. His eyes are swirling, liquid gold, his voice is an electric current in Eddie’s blood. “You’re gonna be perfect, I can tell already. Go ahead now, come for me.”
Eddie shatters apart, like Steve's permission was all that was holding him back. Maybe it was.
And if he wakes with Steve’s name on his lips and his hand shoved down his pajama pants, fingers and belly slick with his own relief? And if he comes a second time that night, with three fingers shoved inside himself, pretending they're Steve’s cock?
That's okay. It's just a fantasy.
And if Steve catches his eye and smiles the next time he picks up the kids from Hellfire, eyes uncannily bright in the musty drama room? And if there's a trail of half-healed scratch marks poking out from the sleeves of his polo?
He doesn’t worry about it.
Dreams are weird like that.
He cannot wait for the next one.