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mcdynamite · 18 days

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My brain refuses to sleep, so more drabbling! Probably modern-ish AU?

Steve makes a career for himself as a re-decorator (or de-decorator, as he loves to call himself). His clientele are those celebrities who rose to fame so quickly they have plenty of money, but they don't have time to make their houses feel like home. They just bought penthouses and mansions and now live in homes that are fancy, but they feel like hotels.

Steve is there to fix that.

One of his clients is the hard working rockstar Eddie Munson whose life path went from a trailer park to couch surfing to living with 4 people in a tiny apartment, then suddenly tours, hotels and boom! He has a house that looks like an IKEA prop.

He doesn't hide his distaste at the pristine condition of the place (yes, Eddie has a cleaner). "Oh god. A beige carpet?" he scoffs and he sounds so bitchy Eddie decides he likes him already.

He likes him even more when Steve puts on reading glasses. Damn.

Over coffee, they discuss what Eddie wants. Except Steve doesn't just...tell him. He doesn't give him any hints. He just keeps asking about Eddie's favorite colors, what movies he likes, does he have hobbies apart from music? Can Steve see some of the items that bring him comfort?

And Eddie's surprised. "Shouldn't you, like...be telling me what I'm supposed to want?" he asks the gorgeous man who almost wails when he sees the vase with fresh flowers ("This is the third place in a row that has this fugly thing! Is it like a status symbol? Uh, tasteless.").

And Steve just stares at him. "Uh, Mr. Munson?"

"Eddie."

Steve nods. "Eddie. Why should I have any say in what you want? If you ask me what's practical, easy to clean, what bounces off light well, that's another thing. But in matters of taste...you're the boss. You live here, I don't. (Pity, Eddie thinks) Now, let's change this place into somewhere you actually like staying, hm?"

They spend the whole afternoon talking. Eddie opens up about what he loved before the touring and expectations from his agent took that from him. He talks about the Lord of the Rings, Dungeons and Dragons, fantasy in general, and Steve listens, makes tons of notes and asks questions that make Eddie's heart bleed, such as "and who is your favorite Lord of the Rings character?" and "you mentioned elves, dwarves, orcs, wizards...so what is your favorite group?" and "which DnD class would you be then? I guess a bard? Is that too obvious?". Now, Steve doesn't know much about these things, but learns quickly and works with the info he has.

They walk through the house again, with Steve making notes and wincing at transgressions against humanity or at least against his taste in things ("Oh ew. EW. Glossy finish on a kitchen counter? What is this, a future crime scene?") and Eddie feeling equally amused and curious. Eddie orders dinner for them, it goes something like:

"I don't know what would be appropriate, any preferences?"

"Eddie, there's no time or space when pizza is not appropriate."

"What about a funeral?"

"It puts fun in a funeral."

"Touché."

They follow up on a bunch more things. Steve notices Eddie fidgeting and asks him like the mindreader he is if perhaps the place is too clean for him. "Minimalism is what everyone's trying to push," Steve says, not without sympathy, "but it's not for everyone. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you seem like a person who'd love a more....personal, cluttered space."

And god, Eddie feels so seen. He tells Steve about all his favorite books and trinkets that he lost during a horrible earthquake in Indiana, so when he moved to the city it was just some clothes and his two guitars. Steve makes so many notes. "I've seen quite a lot of collectibles for your beloved trilogy," he says with a hint of a smile. "Is that something you'd like in your home?" Eddie can't nod any faster.

They talk about the budget (Eddie just scoffs at that, for the first time in his life money is not an issue), Eddie's absolute no go things ("No more vases, please! PLEASE. Also maybe the one room that can stay as it is is the studio, there's no decor"), if he has issues touching any materials, if he wants to keep any areas in the house neutral for visitors (he doesn't). Then finally, he asks Eddie if he wants to be more consulted or surprised.

And Eddie, tired and surprisingly relaxed from talking to Steve, just grins and says: "Surprise me, big boy."

Steve just smirks and makes one more note. "Oh, I will, Eddie."

...

Eddie goes on yet another tour for a couple of months, which is the ideal time for Steve to start working on the house.

Steve sometimes texts Eddie random choices, such as "Rohan or Gondor or both?" or "what's the best pub in the Middle Earth?" and Eddie usually trips over his feet trying to get to his phone after concerts to see if maybe he has another message from Steve. He learns bits and pieces about the man as well - he has a younger brother, Dustin, who is into the same stuff that Eddie is. Sometimes it goes like this:

STEVE: What's the best battle in the LotR movies?

EDDIE: The Ride of the Rohirrim, duh!

STEVE: Dustin says you're wrong, it's the last stand at the gates of Mordor.

EDDIE: The disrespect to king Théoden!

And finally, the big day comes. Eddie meets with Steve at the door. From the outside, the house still looks boring, but that's what they agreed on. At least for now.

But there's one notable difference and Eddie gasps when he sees it.

"I know we said no changes on the outside," said Steve sheepishly, "but I took the liberty to make one slight change."

Where the door used to be bland and white, it is now carved with silver etchings. It replicates the Doors of Durin. Eddie loves it.

Steve smiles at him. "Speak friend and enter, right? Dustin told me. Anyways, are you ready?"

Turns out, Eddie wasn't ready. Steve took all of the shiny and sterile surfaces and turned them into something beautiful.

The kitchen is now in warmer colors, brown and green, imitating the Green Dragon inn, plaque included.

Guest rooms have been changed, each to represent a group or a nation of the Middle Earth. Eddie thinks his uncle will love the Rohirrim one.

No more vases are to be seen, but Steve got potted plants ("almost immortal, as long as your housekeeper waters them once a week or so").

Eddie howls in laughter when he sees that Steve somehow managed to disguise all his security cameras as tiny eyes of Sauron.

The bathroom is inspired by the Rivendell, with soft tones and nods to Elvish architecture.

Eddie's bedroom resembles the Shire, with round shapes and homely motifs.

But Eddie's absolute favorite is the living room.

The only things that remain there that he bought are the massive TV and his stereo system with records. The rest though...

Gone is the ugly and sharp couch that looked like a geometry exercise. The new one is large and comfortable, with a couple of armchairs to finish the cozy feel. The coffee table and TV stand are more rough looking, with decorative ironwork. And then, around the room and on the walls...

"Oh wow," whispers Eddie and Steve beams at him.

There are collectibles and figurines that young Eddie Munson would have killed for. A replica of the Narsil hangs over the TV. It's cluttered but tasteful, still easy to clean, but Eddie always has something to touch, to play with.

And then he spots the bookcase and actually sobs. "What the fuck, Steve?" he asks, but there's no anger, just awe. "How did you know?"

The bookcase is full of Eddie's most beloved books, all that he told Steve about and more, but it's not just that. These aren't just pristine new prints - Steve managed to get both those and well-loved used copies. Most of them are the same editions that Eddie had before the earthquake. He runs his trembling finger over the back of the Hobbit and it feels like home.

"That was the hardest part," says Steve and leaves Eddie to rummage through the books, the old DnD guides and used comic books. "But I assumed you're sick of new and shiny. In fact, most of the collectibles are already used as well. They have some history. As for the books, uh..." He scratches his neck, embarrassed. "I will be honest, I don't read much. Dyslexia and some issues with the eyes, although audio books are making it more possible for me now. So I had to ask Dustin for help. We looked for editions published before the earthquake. I hope we got some of them right?"

Eddie just mutters "Sorry, I'm about to do something really unprofessional now" and pulls Steve into a bear hug. And Steve reciprocates.

"Fuck, this...this is everything," says Eddie into his shoulder. "How did you do this? Are you magic. You must be magic."

Steve grins. "I take it the surprise was a success then?"

Eddie finally pulls back. He would have loved to keep embracing Steve for a bit longer, but boundaries. "A total one. Wow. I mean. It's a lot, but so good. SO GOOD. How can I repay you?"

"You already paid me, Eddie."

"You know what I mean!" Eddie points and the books and apparently also a DVD collection he now owns. "This must have been so much more work than you normally do, no? I doubt every client has you memorize the members of the Fellowship."

"Not just that, but also why Sam is the best," Steve smiles at him and fuck. Eddie might be in love. "It was more than usual, but I loved it, Eddie. That's why I like my job so much, helping people find themselves again. You don't owe me anything. Although, if you're offering..."

"I'm listening."

Steve runs his fingers through that majestic hair. "So, I didn't tell Dustin that I was decorating the house for you, but he's a huge fan of your music. Like, massive, has every album, has been following your career from the start. And feel free to tell me it's too much, you are my client after all, but...he'd love to meet you. Over a pizza, maybe? The plain ham and cheese one you like so it doesn't have too many flavors?"

And Eddie melts. Because Steve still remembers his pizza choice from months ago, even though this definitely wasn't in his notes. He decides there and then that Steven Harrington is a national treasure.

"Sure, big boy," he smiles at Steve, and hopes he didn't imagine Steve leaning into the touch. "How about you invite him over for a movie night or something? With pizza of course."

It looks like Steve could kiss him, but he doesn't. Not yet. That only happens a week later, when they bump into each other in Eddie's kitchen when they scramble to make more popcorn for Dustin.

Steve stays the next night. And maybe a few after that. Always in a different themed bedroom.

They travel for work a lot, but when they are both in Chicago, they always meet in the Green Dragon kitchen, cuddle in the bed that would be far too large for a hobbit, and in the night, Eddie wraps himself around Steve and whispers: "My preciousssss."

And Steve can't really complain, because it's his fault that his boyfriend has re-discovered his dorkiness, so why would he mind?

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #stranger things #THE BOOKCASE #STOP IT #this is so wholesome #and lovely #and sweet #and I love them

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mcdynamite · 3 months

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steve has nightmares

'tell me 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste—'

for @lexirosewrites, who just needed a pickfic-me-up. I very much hope this helps 🖤

It’s not like the nightmares are, y’know: something new.

Sometimes it’s just rehashing things he’s seen; things he’s done. Or the other way around: words shot at him or looks launched his way. Sometimes memories just gets twisted or flipped near their ends, making bad outcomes veer toward the unbearable. Sometimes it’s wholly new horrors; his friends—his family—thrown into the kinds of fucked up shit they never should have known but have come to expect and maybe that’s the most screwed up part out of all of it; that they expect it and—

Anyway.

So yeah: nightmares? Old hat.

What’s new is the way he wakes up from them.

It’s still a gasping thing, with his heart shot up past the base of his throat more near his tonsils or some shit, somewhere he can almost taste it like metal and the sour tang of fear as it rattles and shakes and pounds, like his chest’s caving in on itself and that’s all normal, that’s all stuff he knows and—

“-ve you,” but now there’s a sound on the periphery of his awareness, sneaking in the almost-nonexistent space between his hammering pulse but he grabs for it, because something in him knows it’s important: the most important.

He follows it in between the beating, risks getting crushed if he fails here, too, and—

“Love you,” Steve hears more clearly, all of a sudden, and he feels hands on him, running smooth but swift courses up and down his arms, over his chest, back to his arms, across his shoulders, and then he also feels lips, he can feel the words as motion against his body almost more than he can pick out the sound: “love you, love you, love you,” and now he knows it, now that his vision clears as it adjusts to the darkness and he sees him: Eddie.

Eddie’s what he wakes up to always, now. Nightmares or no nightmares.

“Love you,” Eddie frames Steve’s face where he’s rolled on his side to match Steve, to meet him, to hold to him and he cradles Steve gentle as his eyes dart between Steve’s own.

“With me?” he asks softly and Steve knows he blinks, tries to nod, is…his breath’s too fast to know if he manages, fuck.

But Eddie’s rubbing back and forth along his cheekbone with something like resolve so he thinks: maybe he managed. Or if he didn’t, something about him was enough.

Eddie has that ability in him; makes him feel like he’s enough.

Steve never expected that.

“Can you tell me five things you see?”

“You,” Steve gasps, but Eddie just smiles so soft and he slips a hand up to run those perfect deft fingers through Steve’s hair just so and—

“Charmer.”

Steve chokes a little in what he tried to make into a laugh. He’d wanted it to be a laugh.

“Anything else?” Eddie prompts gently, fingers still dancing through Steve’s sweat-drenched hair.

“Street lights,” and honestly, he only sees them because they reflect in Eddie’s big-button eyes, and Eddie is the best thing to notice, always—to ground him, to calm him, to remind him the very worst things in his nightmares aren’t real—and he nods, encouraging, and Steve makes himself gulp in air because Eddie would want that, Eddie does want that, and fuck if it doesn’t hurt like hell when he breathes in too deep too fast but: it’s okay.

It’s okay because Eddie’s slowly draws his hand from Steve’s hair to Steve’s chest, stokes those fingers up and down to soothe the invisible ache and okay.

Okay, Steve can, he can…

“Kleenex box,” and Eddie chuckles, kisses between Steve’s collarbones.

“At the ready, always,” he offers as sly commentary; “two more, sweetheart.”

“Your guitar,” mounted on the wall, jet black, catching the streetlights too; “and,” Steve’s eyes dart a little, but when they do his hand goes immediately to grasp for Eddie despite the man being pressed against him, holding to him already: he also needs to hold.

“Your fucking socks,” Steve manages a wet strangled version of a chuckle there, still breathy because his lungs are kinda still seizing, like, a little bit; “there’s a hamper, man—“

“Four things you can touch?” and this man, this man, has the audacity to distract Steve from his nightmares, and his racing heart, and his useless lungs, and the laundry, by slipping his hands back up—again, never once breaking contact, never once even close—but slipping those spindly-perfect fingers back up to full on tangle in Steve’s sweaty bedhead and—

Diabolical. Fucking…

Fucking beloved.

“Your hand,” Steve leans into that hand shamelessly, not least because shame between them ceased to exist the moment Eddie woke up in the hospital and burst into tears, and told Steve he was fucking sorry, and sent Steve breaking down into his hands, and then bent over Eddie’s thighs, the two of them shaking apart into each other.

And then they never saw any reason to pull back; every fucking reason in the world to press forward. Closer.

“The sheets,” Steve drags his lips against Eddie’s palm now, clenching his hands in their bedding; grabbing Eddie’s other hand and pressing it under his own so they clasp each other before they scrunch the cotton.

“Your hair,” and Steve has one hand free, tangles it up into those curls and tugs the slightest bit until Eddie shivers without any control over it, like always, and grins knowingly at Steve for the move, and that’s gives Steve four:

“Your dimples,” he drops Eddie’s hair to thumb at the perfect little divot on the side of one cheek, then the other—

“Does it still count,” Steve breathes in, still shaky; “if I made them pop?”

He glances at Eddie through his lashes; knows he’ll find him waiting, no doubt in it.

And there Eddie is: smiling at him with so much warmth that his thundering pulse stumbles a little because the force of that much love in a gaze never gets old, or tired; never fails to shift the foundations of Steve’s entire world.

“‘Course it counts,” Eddie grins wider, makes his dimples deeper and the crinkles by his eyes more perfect frames for his street-lit gaze; “you’re touching them now.”

Steve is. Steve loves these dimples. These eyes. This face.

This man.

This man who’s curling up closer, gathering Steve nearer and Steve goes, of course he goes: he’d go anywhere for Eddie.

Pressed alongside Eddie’s body, tighter, nearer, that closest step toward melding into a single being? Fucking always.

“Three things you hear?” Eddie whispers just below Steve’s ear, now.

“My heartbeat,” is the first thing he can say because it’s still a bruising thing, if less a choking thing.

“Mmm,” and Eddie kisses Steve’s neck and holds there, feeling for a stretch of second before pulling back; “calmer, now,” and then he kisses Steve’s neck one more time before he wraps Steve’s tighter, less pressed against him and more into him:

“Don’t like when it’s scared,” he exhales so it catches in Steve’s hair, now, a little cool for the drying dampness there as Eddie slides a full-open palm up Steve’s chest, drags nails through the thatch of curls there before he presses, almost protective, over the echoing knock of his heart against his ribs, shaking up through the skin:

“But always my most favorite sound.”

Steve frowns to himself, and lets himself be held into Eddie’s chest a little closer before he asks:

“Not like,” he swallows, tries to give more strength, more sense to his voice; “not sex noises?”

Eddie chuckles, and from where he’s pressed, Steve can feel the vibrations: it’s kind of exquisite.

“You’d think, right?” Eddie laughs a little more, lighter and ember-warm, and Steve wants to wrap himself in it for the rest of his whole fucking life; “but no,” and then Eddie softens, dims a little where he shines around Steve and Steve moves to wrap him up in kind, to grab for him and pull him to Steve now because…

Because Steve’s real goddamn protective, too.

“No, this,” and Eddie’s voice is hoarse all of a sudden as he cups the beat under his hand a little harder, a little desperate, and Steve reads it in his body, recognizes it always: Steve was almost the cost the last time they fought; it was almost his turn, finally, for real. He remembers Eddie’s eyes, then. He remembers the set of his muscles and bones.

Eddie remembers Steve’s heart when it almost—

“This,” Eddie moves to mouth at Steve’s pulse at his throat again, maybe for seconds, possibly minutes; he lavishes it with warmth and care and devotion and Steve melts a little under it, can feel the beat calm just a little, incremental but true at the call of those lips as Eddie breathes into his skin:

“Two?”

“Your heartbeat,” because Steve’s pressed there, and because it hitched when Eddie’s thoughts strayed to losing Steve even though Steve’s right here; because now Steve’s heart does the same under Eddie’s kiss to think the same, just reverse: “my favorite,” he presses his ear, crushes the shell a little but happily so, to get that tiny bit closer, to nearly hear the blood rush between the beating as he sighs against the line of Eddie’s breastbone: “same reason.”

Eddie holds him them, cradles his head where it’s pressed so tight as Eddie lays his hand, and his mouth, where they’d already been just a little bit closer, now, and they both breathe. They breathe.

“One?” Eddie finally whispers, and Steve takes a moment to remember what he’s meant to do.

“Your voice,” Steve falls back on it because in truth it was the first thing. His own heartbeat yields to the sound of Eddie’s voice, no matter how frantic, no matter how deafening. Eddie’s heartbeat’s steady now; Steve’s own isn’t quite but: closer.

Closer.

“Did you know I wrote a new song?” Eddie muses idly between them, the drag of his lips soft, intimate where his mouth’s still lined up to Steve’s neck.

“Yeah?” Steve’s voice is breathy still for the weight of feeling in his lungs, with lingering racing of his heart pitted against them; but there’re other reasons, now. Also.

“Ballad,” Eddie spreads his fingers out over Steve’s chest slow, one by one but he never moves the hand far; “love song, even, you might be able to call it. I’ll play it for you when when we wake up, if you want.”

Of course Steve wants. He presses a kiss to the line of scar tissue nearest his mouth on Eddie’ chest like an answer. He wants.

“Two that you can smell?”

“Drakkar Noir,” Steve pushes himself up a little a buries himself in the crook of Eddie’s neck; Steve can smell it everywhere, in the room and on the comforter and yeah, lingering on Eddie’s skin still, but right here, just here, is where it’s worn off so that the scent’s a top note, just a lilting thing to how Eddie smells, and the cologne is part of what makes up the smell that’s solely Eddie, but it’s not…

It’s not the core thing that Steve breathes in like this.

“You love it,” Eddie rumbles, and Steve chuckles; it sounds like a chuckle this time, too.

“Never denied it,” because he wouldn’t; he honestly bought it half as a gag on their first Christmas: the name and the bottle and the color, it all screamed Eddie in ways that made Steve cackle while he paid, and he didn’t even care about the concerned looks the cashier shot at him as handed over his card, it was just too fucking perfect and too fucking funny—

Until that bastard lit up brighter than the tree the box was under: breathtaking. Until that motherfucker started wearing the shit and smelling ediblein it.

It’s not a gag gift anymore, basically.

“And cookies,” Steve adds, because he needs two things, and he can still smell the dregs of his culinary endeavors earlier in the night; maybe last night. Might be morning already, he doesn’t know for sure and doesn’t care to look so: cookies. From earlier-than-now.

“Which were delicious,” Eddie nods sagely, and Steve snorts at him immediately.

“They were burnt.”

“My favorite, extra crispy,” Eddie declares proudly, and Steve knows what’s coming before he even hears the words: “means I did my job.”

Because burnt cookies, burnt most things, are really only the consistent and predictable outcome of Eddie being a particularly distracting little shit in the kitchen. Did his fucking job.

Right.

“They’re not fuckin’ chicken Eds,” Steve grouses but he can’t mean it. He’ll never mean it. He loves Eddie so much it feels like it’s caving in to crush him sometimes, but more like, if the pressure what how a diamond’s made. Like the pressing of loving this much just makes Steve stronger, better, brighter; with Eddie.

So yeah: he’ll never mean it.

Won’t stop him saying it though.

“Aww, but Stevie,” Eddie whines a little, and brings Steve’s hand to his mouth to kiss; ”they’re far and away the option that’s more finger,” and then Eddie’s kissing his finger tip; “lickin’,” then yep, yep; that’s Eddie slipping a tongue around the pad of it and then he’s licking down the first, to the second knuckle and sucking hard before he lifts off with a pop and grins fucking wicked as he quips:

“Good.”

Steve bites his lips not to laugh, not to encourage, not to…he doesn’t even know.

Doesn’t know why he’s trying not to anything, really.

Then Eddie’s cupping his face again, studying him close like he’s trying to read a coded message, as if Steve’s anything but an open book when it comes to Eddie, especially here, like this.

Then he’s speaking again:

“One you can tas—“

And Steve’s shaken off the nightmare, now, he’s breathing okay, he’s here in his body in the present with the love of his fucking life.

He’s more than ready to feel his heart pound for much, much better reasons.

So he goes ahead, surges in, claims Eddie’s still-moving lips, and answers the one thing he can taste by clear fucking demonstration.

✨

on ao3 here

🖤 permanent tag list (which is a WILD CONCEPT but if you want on, just shout): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify 🖤

divider credit here

#IN LOVE WITH THIS #this is so soft #god #I love it #they’re so sweet and so in love #I’m CRYING #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #fluff

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