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Eddie's feet are cold.
He pulls his legs under the blanket and squirms to find a comfortable position, mentally repeating his little mantra.
Relax. Focus on your breathing. Go to sleep.
For the love of all that's holy, go to fucking sleep.
The thought startles a snort from him. There's nothing remotely holy about what he's doing here. Waiting for unconsciousness to claim him so that a literal sleep demon can come and ravish him in his dreams.
It's silly, really, this jittery restlessness that's making him toss and turn, that has him checking the alarm clock with mounting frustration. He was the one who suggested this, after all. Who came up with the idea of doing this on a fucking schedule.
A fucking schedule.
Oh God, why can't his stupid brain shut up?
He groans and rolls over.
The clock reads 01:32.
Steve probably thinks he chickened out and decided to pull an all-nighter. Which is actually getting more and more likely if his stupid mile-a-minute mind doesn't chill out soon.
His eyes flick to his desk. He can just make out the shape of the metal lunch box sitting on top.
Steve said to do this sober.
Steve also said to have a good meal and plenty of water before and keep the bedroom well aired, and Eddie, with the same alarming eagerness to obey that he knows from the dreams, followed all of his instructions.
And what did it get him? Cold feet.
The alarm clock jumps to 01:33.
“Screw this,” Eddie mutters. He flings aside the blanket, swings his legs over the edge of the bed-
-and falls into a bottomless, black void.
It's so sudden he doesn't even have time to scream or brace for impact. He also doesn't have to.
His stomach lurches as the fall stops, and then he's dangling in the blackness, spread-eagle, like a puppet suspended from invisible strings. He gasps and fails, trying to make out shapes in the dark, but his eyes might as well have been glued shut.
It's hot. That's the first thing he notices once the adrenaline fades. Hot and humid. It makes his lungs feel like they've been filled with syrup, makes it seem like he's floating weightlessly in warm molasses, makes a thin film of sweat bead on his naked skin.
He wasn't naked when he went to bed.
“Clothes would kinda defy the purpose, wouldn't they?”
Eddie flinches, head whipping around in an instinctive attempt at finding the source of the voice, but it sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once.
“Not that I don't like the thought of undressing you. I'll need to do that some time. Put you in some skin-tight leather, then peel it off you inch by inch, while you beg me to go faster.” A hand grabs his ankle, sliding up his calf, parting his legs. “Not today, though. Took you long enough to get here.”
“W-wait,” Eddie stammers. He needs to pause for a startled moan when the hand reaches his inner thigh and brushes his balls. He's hard already. “When did I fa- aaah, shit. When did I fall asleep?”
“That's the thing, right?” says Steve. One warm, long finger circles Eddie’s rim, then pushes inside, and Eddie sways in his phantom bonds. “Sleep is weird like that. You can wait for it for hours, but you can never pinpoint the exact moment it takes you. Were you planning on smoking that weed? I thought I was clear on that?”
That must’ve been part of the dream then. Unless whatever weird magic that allows Steve to know his innermost thoughts now extends into the realm of consciousness, too.
Steve pushes in a second finger, all the way to the knuckles.
“Well, excuse me,” Eddie rasps through the syrup-thick warmth and the coil of lust clogging his throat. He tries to rock back onto those fingers, but he can't find leverage. “I was getting a little desperate there.”
“You like that though. Feeling desperate.”
The fingers coil. Eddie feels sweat drip down his chin and disappear into the darkness.
“I was fucking nervous. Shockingly, the idea of a dream sex date made me a little a-aaah … awkward. And going by the way you've turned off all the lights, I'm not the only one.”
The fingers stop fucking him open, and Eddie allows himself a smug grin. Not like Steve can see it.
Unfortunately, he forgot about the mind-reading powers.
“You're getting entirely too cheeky.” The fingers slip out. Eddie is left dreadfully empty and disoriented in the dark, clenching uselessly around nothing while Steve's voice floats in and out of reach. “I told you: we're doing this on my terms or not at all. You still want to do this, don't you, Eddie?”
“Yes,” Eddie gasps. There's a raw, pulsating beat of pure need thrumming deep inside him - in his blood, in his fingers, in the tip of his aching cock. “Please, I'll- … I can be good, promise.”
“You better be,” says Steve, and suddenly his hands are on Eddie’s knees, spreading him wide open as he buries himself inside. The darkness fills with starbursts of red and white, and the sticky sweet molasses in Eddie’s abdomen start to boil. “Or I might decide I'm not letting you come today.”
Eddie doesn’t think that's likely. Steve has told him, after all. That his energy is the most delicious, the most nourishing, when he's at the peak of his pleasure. And isn't this the whole point of this?
He's not gonna run any unnecessary risks, though. Instead, he bites down on his own tongue, forcing himself to go still and pliant as Steve starts to fuck him, one relentless thrust at a time.
He may be developing an unlikely taste for despair, but he doesn’t think he’d go quite as far yet.