Melting In the Sun - All the Way Down Down Down
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“What happened to our pact?” Steve asks. He’s not whining, just genuinely wondering when and why she shed her loyalties and gave someone else his reserved treat.
Robin throws him a look he can’t quite read. “I had to help out a patron in need,” she says vaguely. “Did my job, y’know.”
Which would be a valid explanation of course, if Robin hadn’t spent the last two months stashing away a secret popsicle for him even though Jen would give her an earful about it if she knew. And if it was Jen of all people who’d requested that final frozen perfection, Robin would’ve said so right away.
Robin, who’s throwing him another look, well kinda. She’s sort of peeking over his shoulder actually, somewhere behind him. Huh. Steve spins around.
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Or, Steve's craving his sweet treat, Robin lovingly betrays him and Eddie's just trying to read in peace.
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A little bit of lemonade dribbles out between the bottle and Eddie’s mouth. Steve swallows thickly. It runs down Eddie’s chin, pink and sweet and a little sour, ‘cause Eddie likes berry stuff. Raspberry Dream popsicles and ice-cold currant lemonade. Blueberry pancakes once when Steve made breakfast for dinner. He watches the drop, heat collecting low in his gut despite the cooling water of the pool around him as it reaches Eddie’s jaw, almost disintegrates in the dip of the scar there, then makes it to the soft skin between his mandible and throat.
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Or, swapping spit
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“Eddie, can you maintain a shred of consideration for your coworkers’ aural health and, y’know, both our dignity?” Steve asks sweetly, kind of serious, but also kind of not.
Eddie’s voice is just as sweet, “What, you don’t want them to know how you edge me until I can’t walk anymore?”
Steve groans and folds himself over the kitchen counter.
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Or, Eddie Munson’s Guide on How to Make NSFW Phone Calls at Work
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