Boltedfruit Archive

last man in the city

Published: 2023-12-25

Category: M/M

Rating: E

Words: 3,755

Fandom: Stranger Things

Ship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Chrissy Cunningham

Tags: Oneshot, Christmas smut, First Meetings, Eddie is a line cook, Comfort Food, Anal Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Blow Jobs


Eddie wags his pen towards the window. “Nighthawks. It’s a painting. Just, you know. You sort of were giving off this last man in the city kind of vibe.”

Author's Note

I hope you enjoy! And consider leaving a comment at the end of the fic to let me know what you thought.

@Eddiethehunted wanted some nsfw line cook Eddie and thus I was possessed. I hope you like it!!

Also if anyone is like me and the holidays (any holiday whatsoever) makes you very awkward and uncomfortable, then here is some smut for your troubles!

It’s two in the morning which means it’s officially Christmas. The stove is still hot, grease still bubbling new and sparking in the fryer, and the knife in his hands is as deft as it was when he started his shift yesterday afternoon.


Eddie chops strips of burning hot bacon into chunky pieces for the last omelet of the night. He’s off in ten minutes, and there’s only been one patron in the diner for the last half hour. Ordered two meals, back to back. Can’t blame the guy, what with the industrial uniform he’s got on, grease and other nameless muck riding deep into his skin.


This part of town rarely sees all kinds. Mostly they just get the regulars from the factories about a mile out, and the guys from the car shop across the street. The factories mean steady business at all hours, and the car shop means personalities.


Eddie folds the eggs in half, sprinkles fresh green onions and the bits of bacon on top and sets it on the warming counter. He hits the bell once and Chrissy appears, smiling bright and cheery, if a little razzled at the edges. She adjusts her nametag and takes the plate, winking at him before spinning away.


After this, they agreed she’d take her ten before he left. He’s already switched off the fryer when she walks by him again.


She stops at the counter, arms crossed. “Still no Tommy, huh?”


“Neither hide nor hair, the little cretin. Probably giving it to Carol and forgetting he had a shift.”


Chrissy makes a face. “Don’t be gross, Eddie! It’s slow enough. It’ll be okay if he’s a little late.”


“You sure?”


“Positive!” She reaches over the counter and steals a stray fry from the counter. “Happy Christmas, bub.”


He fists the greasy rag in his apron and swats it playfully at her nose. She scrunches, leaning back with a giggle.


“Merry Crisis, you weirdo. Go take your ten. I’ll probably be gone by the time you get back.”


“Drive safe!” She blows him a kiss and heads out back, their usual smoking spot.


He’s wiping down the stovetop, enjoying the hiss of the water when he hears the front door chime.


He lifts his head, debating if it’s worth it to duck out back and pretend they’re not still open and that no, he’s getting ready to head out and is officially off the clock.


But the guy catches his eye against Eddie’s better judgment.


He’s young, closer to Eddie and Chrissy’s ages than any of the usual crowd who tends toward their forties at least.


Has this gorgeous head of thick brown hair, going to wild hell with every pull and tug the guy gives it as he crashes into the nearest booth. His chest heaves and he looks out the window into the dark, empty street illuminated only by a faulty flickering street lamp.


His hand leaves his mane to cover his mouth. The way his shoulders shake, Eddie can take a guess at his mood.


He should leave. He’s got most of the place cleaned up and ready for Tommy to take over, if he ever shows his lazy ass. He could skimp on the few tasks he still has…wouldn’t be the first time. Tommy deserves every petty inconvenience life can muster, after all.


But the guy in the booth.


He’s crying. It’s Christmas morning.


This is obviously not his part of town. He’s wearing khakis and loafers for Christ’s sake.


It almost makes him laugh.




Eddie grabs an old receipt and a pen and heads over, apron still dutifully tied at his waist.


He stops at the booth and clicks the pen in that cute way Chrissy does when she waits tables. Or he tries. Eddie waits now and again when he has to, but Chrissy shines with people where Eddie crashes and burns.


The guy’s got moles, a spare pattern sat pretty along the skin he can see.


He’s so absorbed with the outside world that Eddie has to clear his throat to grab his attention.


He startles, turning rapid and sharp. Spooked. He sighs when he realizes it’s just Eddie. Who else could it have been?


His eyes are puffy and red, and Eddie feels his chest lurch.


“So, Nighthawk,” he starts, adding a wink for good measure, “what’ll it be?”


Those red eyes turn puppy-dog cute and confused. “What?”


Eddie wags his pen towards the window. “Nighthawks. It’s a painting. Just, you know. You sort of were giving off this last man in the city kind of vibe.”


“I…Oh.” He frowns, sniffing.


Okay, not what Eddie was going for.


“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. What can I get you?”


The man’s eyes sweep over Eddie. Probably wondering why the very obvious cook is waiting tables for.


But he only says, “I don’t know. Don’t care. Just anything I guess.” Then, in a tone far more removed than Eddie expected, “It doesn’t matter.”




He taps the notepad and clicks the pen again. “Sure thing…?


The man meets his eyes once more. Eddie taps his nametag. It makes the guy smile, if only a bit.


“Just Steve,” Steve glances at his nametag. “Eddie.”


“Steve, Steve, Stevie,” Eddie says, winking again and hoping he doesn’t look deranged. “One chef’s choice coming right up.”


Back in the kitchen, he knows exactly what to make. He gathers what he needs and is mixing ingredients when Chrissy pops back in, clearly confused why he’s still here.


“Just a straggler. Take your time. I’ve already got it.”


She smiles and heads back out.


It’s not a particularly complicated recipe. Doesn’t take long until he’s plating it and pouring a nice fresh brewed cup of coffee.


He looks out at the dining room, at Steve still sitting but now with his arms hugged around himself. He’s not wearing anything thicker than a windbreaker, and outside it’s snowing.


Eddie’s never claimed to be the smartest man. It took him three tries to graduate high school before he finally just bit his ego in half and got his GED. So he doesn’t question himself too much when he heads for the breakroom—little more than a cleared out closet he and Chrissy dragged some chairs into—and reaches for familiar worn leather.


He’s not smart, but he’s not stupid either.



Steve startles when Eddie tosses the leather jacket on the table.


He grabs it, eyebrows lifted, question already half-formed when Eddie waves his hand.


“It’s like thirty degrees outside and I know this place has shitty heating. I should know, I’ve failed to fix it myself for like two years.”


Steve considers the jacket in his hands. He runs his fingers over a pocket tentatively. “But you need it…?”


“It’s a sauna standing over a grill all day and night, so it’s not like I’m using it. Just put it on. For me?”


“For you?”


“For sweet ol’ me, then?” Eddie makes a show of bowing and batting his lashes. Steve smiles a little more full, a little more real and Eddie feels his heart flutter. “You’ll be doing me a favor, is all. She’s oh so lonely with no one to wear her while I bust my butt in the kitchen all the time.”


Steve sniffs, but it sounds closer to a laugh. Eddie smiles as Steve actually moves to put it on. His shoulders are wider than Eddie’s; the leather pulls tight across them, but the rest fits just fine.


“Not fair.”


“What isn’t?”


“You just make her look good, is all. Be back in a split.”


He goes back to grab the food, the coffee. He silently curses himself for flirting so much, and so badly. God.


Steve seems a little more settled when Eddie is setting everything down. Steve’s eyes go wide.


“This is…this is a lot, man.”


“Don’t sweat it. Chef’s choice, remember? And oh, before I forget!” He runs back to the kitchen and grabs the jar of cherries. “The pièce de résistance!”


He spins the lid off and spoons several heaps of cherries on his ultimate creation. It’s a gooey mess, but it’s always been his favorite.


Steve just stares at the food. Doesn’t move to touch it.


The thing is, Eddie’s always loved cooking. Baking too, but he’s not as skilled in that particular arena. Cooking is something he and his mom used to do, before she got sick. Then Wayne took it up with him until he almost burned the trailer down. Then Wayne was just happy to watch and eat whatever Eddie made.


“It’s uh. They’re cherry waffles. From scratch. With a little of cinnamon and allspice to really drive home the warm and fuzzies. With a side of eggs and hash, because we are a diner, and I can’t exactly call myself a line cook if I can’t scramble a mean egg.”


Still, Steve says nothing. Just sits and looks at the food like he doesn’t quite know what it is.


“Oh geez, I didn’t even think. Is it the cherries? Shit, are you allergic to them? Or to the cinnamon? Or Jesus, there’s cream in the eggs. Are you lactose intolerant? I can—”


Steve laughs, shaky and watery, but a laugh all the same. He grabs the utensils and forks out a huge scoop of eggs. He does the same with the corner of a waffle next. He shoves them in his mouth and leans back, and shakes his head.


Then he wipes his eyes.


“I must’ve messed up real bad if my eggs made you cry, Stevie.”


Eddie sighs and finally tugs his apron off, balling it up and throwing it in the booth opposite Steve and sitting down beside it. He’s only half joking, but still. Steve is in a fragile state, he can tell.


“It’s not—It’s so not that. I just can’t remember the last time anyone made anything for me. And never so good,” he adds in almost a whisper.


Eddie’s heart breaks, just a little.


Eddie reaches out and plucks a cherry from the plate. Steve lets him, doesn’t make a fuss about it. Just watches him, eyes wet.


“Pretty thing like you must have someone to cook for him at home.”


Steve huffs. Straightens back up and starts eating. “I don’t. Haven’t for years, since I was what, fifteen?”


That’s a red flag if he’s ever heard one. “Pardon me for asking, but how old are you now?”


Steve gives him this look. It’s withering in the best, palm-tingling way.




Before Wayne, after his mom, Eddie went through the system. He knows there’s always a situation, one way or another. Knows a tone that says back off just as well, no matter how genial.


“I’ve got a couple years on you, then. Me? I love making food for people. Knew if I made it, nobody else could fuck it up. Or poison me.”


Steve barks a laugh at that. Eddie eats another cherry, this time from the jar.


“Seriously though, these waffles are delicious. Don’t know how you don’t have an ad for ‘em all over the windows. The masses would come in droves.”


Eddie feels heat climb his neck at the compliment. “Nah, these aren’t for public consumption. Or, well. They are. But it’s not from the menu. They’re my mom’s recipe.”


Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh, um. She’s taught you well.”


“Thank you. She did.”


Steve holds his gaze like he understands what Eddie’s saying. The small pit that’s dark and hollow and vacant even on the brightest, busiest day.


“She would’ve been proud of you.”


It’s a funny thing to say. It’s a fish hook in that pit, yanking it until it’s a little less smothered by the deep.




They sit for a while in peace. Eddie watches Steve slowly eat every single crumb and stray ooze of cherry.


“You must’ve been hungry. We get workers around here, night shift and all that. They’re always starving, but not many come through looking like they just left a Christmas party.”


A grimace twists Steve’s face. “Not too far off the mark.”


“Family blues?”


“That and a pinch of my-ex-girlfriend’s-family-and-friends-blew-our-plans-for-me-to-bake-for-the-holiday-and-nobody-even-ate-what-I-spent-all-day-baking.”


“Well, shit.”


“Yeah. Made like seven different cookies, two pies, two fudges, and the kids’ favorite chocolate mousse. All for nothing. Dustin, one of the kids, he tried a few things but in the end everyone just wanted these shitty store bought ginger snaps and stale as hell donuts.”


“Well, if they have such a talented patisserie for a dad, your kids will eventually get on the bandwagon. They just don’t know what they have.”


“Oh, no. No, no way. Not my kids. Or Nancy’s, my ex. She just—one of them is her brother, and the rest are this ragtag bunch of little assholes bent on making me go gray before I’m thirty.”


Eddie doesn’t fight how the info Steve is single and apparently not a father just yet has his insides warming. “Bet you money you’d look great as a silver fox, though.”


Another huff. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. It’s just…you ever feel like you try so hard, you hit every single check on this imaginary list of Things That Will Make People Think I’m Worth Something, only to realize nobody gives a single shit? That it’s all bullshit?”


“Oh, definitely. You should have met high school me.”


“And it’s Christmas…people should care. It shouldn’t be so easy to leave others behind.”


His eyes go suspiciously shiny for another moment before he’s sniffing again. “Sorry, you’re working. I shouldn’t be dumping all this on you. It’s literally not your problem. How much do I owe you?”


“Technically, I’m off the clock as of,” eyeing the clock behind them, he’s surprised, “forty minutes ago.” Fucking Tommy. “And don’t bother. It’s on the house.”


“I can pay.”


“I’m sure you can, Mr. Members Only. Consider it an early Christmas present.”


Steve smiles almost shyly at him. Eddie clears the table while Steve stands, patting himself down likely for his car keys.


Eddie’s back at the kitchen sink when he feels eyes on him. Turning, it’s Steve standing at the lip of the kitchen. Stands like he’s afraid to cross the boundary from customer to staff.


Eddie smiles his way. He walks up to Steve. “So you’re heading out?”


“Yeah. I just wanted to say…thanks. For the food, the conversation. Everything really.”


“Anytime, Stevie.”


Steve blinks, eyes hooking, still, on Eddie’s mouth.


He isn’t sure who leans in first, but when they kiss it’s slow, immediately deep. Eddie holds his face as if he’s glass and tastes every little soft moan that leaves Steve’s throat.


Eddie pulls back first, sees Steve is flushed, his eyes are half mast.


Eddie wordlessly tugs him close, nips his bottom lip, then his top. He pulls him toward the breakroom. Gets the door open and backs up with Steve following him dutifully, wanting.


The door gets kicked closed and then Steve covers Eddie with his body. They’re the same height, but the width of those shoulders has Eddie feeling small. Steve pulls Eddie’s hair tie free and groans as he buries his hands in his thick curls.


“You’re gorgeous.”


“Hey,” Eddie says between kisses, “that’s my line.”


Steve hums, laughing softly, and proceeds to absolutely lick down to Eddie’s center. He fights the urge to bite his tongue, to speed it up, make it hurt. They can do that later. Maybe. Hopefully.


But then Steve is drawing away and has this hunger so root deep in his gaze that Eddie immediately feels heat swarm his chest, latching in long claws to curl deep and bloody at the base of his cock.




Steve smirks, flips Eddie’s whole world perception, and drops to his knees. It’s crowded, definitely not big enough to do what they’re doing, but Eddie will take it.


Steve mouths hotly over the curve of his bulge. Actually lays his tongue out, flat and hot and heavy as he licks up the length of him through a layer of cotton and denim.


“You taste good.”


“Like jeans, I bet.”


“More like fry grease, but.” Steve repeats the motion, moaning in a way that tells Eddie it’s not fake, not put upon. Steve’s kind of gross, and Eddie is all about it.


“You–Jesus–still feeling a little peckish?” Eddie asks, trying to keep focused on not making a mess in his jeans exactly thirty seconds after Steve’s started pulling his fly open.


“You could say that,” Steve smarms, getting his fingers on Eddie’s overheated flesh, pumping him once he’s fully free. “You never made me dessert.”


Then Steve barely parts his lips and lets the head of Eddie’s cock push through into the heat of his mouth.


It’s bliss. Eddie moans, ragged and too loud as he fists his hands at his hips. Steve swallows him down to the base, creates this intense pressure with the ring of his lips, and oh, it’s new. Eddie likes that little trick.


Hands find his own and coax him forward until he’s hesitantly touching that glorious mop of thick hair. Steve pulls off with a wet pop to look up at him, saying, “Pull my hair.”


Eddie does. Buries his fingers to the scalp, gathers fistfuls and tugs. Hard. Steve gasps, cheeks cherry red and lips already a little swollen.


“Use me,” he breathes. “Please, Eddie.” And he sticks his tongue out, waiting.


“You’re gonna kill me, Stevie.”


Steve hums, hungry and hungrier as he grabs Eddie’s hips and pulls him until his cock bumps Steve’s chin. He searches it out like a truffle pig, tongue laving wet at the head before swallowing him back down, pushing deeper and deeper until Eddie can almost feel the clutch of the back of his throat.


“Shit. Shit, Stevie. I’m gonna—”


Steve moans around words Eddie doesn’t understand. Doesn’t care. He whites out, fingers tight in Steve’s hair, cock buried and splitting near in half he comes so hard down Steve’s willing throat. It’s disparate. It’s everything he could have asked for.


Steve keeps him in his mouth until he’s gone soft again, only then pulling off to press a sweet kiss to the shaft.


He smiles back up at Eddie.


“Is it still too early in whatever this is to call you a beautiful little freak?” Eddie asks as Steve stands, hands steady at Eddie’s waist.


Steve’s smile widens. He kisses Eddie’s cheek, maybe out of kindness. But to hell with pleasantries. He turns and slides his mouth fully against Steve’s, licks inside and tastes the musk-salt of himself.


“Pull your pants down, handsome,” he says, after he’s caught his breath a bit. Steve obliges, having to wiggle a bit for the little room they have. “Put your hands on my shoulders.”


Steve does, a wry tilt to his smile.


Eddie looks him in the eye. Brings his index and middle up to lick over, to suck them in his own mouth. He withdraws them, spits, lets the mess show. Steve’s eyes darken.


He takes Eddie’s wrist in hand and turns his palm over, purses his lips and spits. He replaces his hand on Eddie’s shoulder as if nothing obscene occurred.


Eddie nips at his cheek, lowering his hand as he pulls one cheek out to make room for what he wants. Steve sighs, pushing his ass back into Eddie’s hold, feels fingers twist and tighten in his shirt. His hot breath smells faintly of cherries and semen.


His forehead finds Eddie’s when slick fingers find his hole. He circles, not wanting to rush. This could be new territory for Steve. He doesn’t know. But Steve is pressing back when Eddie presses forward, so he takes the risk. He presses his index in, deep. Slips through like silk with spit to ease the way.


Steve moans practically against Eddie’s lips.


“That’s it.”


It’s a wet, slick squelch as he fingers Steve open. First one finger, then two. He pulls out only to collect more spit and then he challenges Steve with three. It’s a lot. It hurts. He can see it in the pinch between Steve’s eyebrows.


“Sorry, baby.”


“More. Want you in me.”


“You sure?”




He shushes him. Pulls his fingers out and wipes the damp mess on his own shirt.


Steve accepts the kiss Eddie gives him, one in parting, a not-quite goodbye as Steve is turned around. Eddie kisses his nape, buries his nose in Steve’s hair.


He’s thankful he’s still able to get it up again after such a long shift. Steve’s got his blood pumping faster than a hot pan of spilled oil.


Like this, with Steve’s back to him, he’s able to look his fill. His ass is nice and round, muscular in the perfect way. He arches his back the smallest amount and pushes back into Eddie’s hips. Eddie inches back, lines his cock up and starts pressing inside without preamble.


He’s tight, he’s perfect. He’s making these sounds—


Eddie is still sliding home as he wraps his arms around his middle, pulling them flush together. He wants to feel Steve along every inch of himself. Wants to bury himself, wants to be forever entombed in the body of the man clenching around him, keening so softly at being full.


They move in tandem, push and pull. Eddie goes deep as he can on every thrust, minute though they are. He doesn’t want Steve to go careening out of the front of the closet. He does want to feel the way he shudders long every time he does it.


Steve reaches back with one arm tangling blindly in his collar, the other hand winding through Eddie’s own at his stomach. They thread their fingers together as best they can, as Steve whispers deeper, more, break me and Eddie is helpless to everything that is this guy named Steve.


Steve’s breath hitches, body going tight around Eddie almost painfully, and then he’s falling apart. Wet splatters the door, Eddie hears it. Feels the pleasure wrack through Steve’s body.


He’s not long for the end himself. He buries himself as deep as he can, grinding his hips in a small circle and then he’s coming inside Steve.


It feels like it goes on for hours.


He blinks, loses time, feels too good. Then Steve is just there, in his space, right side around again, and kissing Eddie even slower than the first time. It’s unhurried.


Eddie loves that.