#Steve Harrington is blind as hell. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rustedhearts · 9 months

Text

Raise Hell (Nascar!Steve x fem!reader)

summary: nascar driver steve harrington is a hot mess. literally. but when he keeps coming into your diner, staggeringly drunk and adorable, you can’t help but grow fond of him.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

hot wheels masterlist main masterlist

tags: nascar!steve, reader is referred to as ‘bunny,’ just fluff and flirting.

author’s note: i don’t know much about the mechanics of nascar because i’m more of a formula one fan, so some of the racing terms/descriptions might seem a bit more f1. sorry!

raise hell, praise…harrington?

talladega, alabama, summer 1995

In Talladega, a girl’s got two things to be: a country beauty queen, or stuck at her high school job. Stupid or stuck. You were stuck—specifically, stuck balancing trays of sweet teas and cokes, and burning your palms on the underside of steaming hot burgers and flapjacks. Stuck in the same stupid powder blue uniform and frilly lace apron you’d been swearing since you were seventeen. Sometimes, you started to wonder if you were no longer stuck—just plain stupid.

But two years ago, Nascar saw a new face on the tracks: one Steve Harrington. Donned ‘Pretty Boy’ for his princely good looks and boyish charm, he burned rubber like nobody’s business, and Alabama’s been in an uproar ever since. You normally didn’t welcome midwestern men with such open and loving arms in a place like this, but as the folks say: he’s one of us, honey.

And one of you he became. He even had the slight slur of a southern twang to prove it, and you came to hear it firsthand when he sat at the end of your counter one night last October, bleary-eyed and pink-cheeked.

“What can I get you, Hot Wheels?” You hadn’t meant for the name to slip, but once it was out there, you couldn’t take it back.

Luckily, Steve just laughed. Slumped on his palm, draped over the counter full of old crumbs and sticky syrup, he pointed toward a laminated menu beside him.

“You guys sell fries?”

You gave him a basket of hot, golden french fries fresh out of the fryer, salted to perfection by yours truly. When Steve saw them sitting in front of him, practically overflowing in their red plastic, newspaper-lined confines, his eyes got huge. He devoured the basket in five minutes flat. You turned your back to clean the coffee pot, and when you went to check on him, offer a glass of water to rouse him from drunken stupor, he was gone.

Sitting in his empty, grease-splattered basket were two hundred dollar bills. It’s still the largest tip you’ve ever gotten on such a small bill to date (or…on any bill).

When Steve Harrington stopped by the diner, you went home with a thicker wallet, a swollen heart, and a burning blush on your face.

You always heard his arrival before you saw his face. The smooth, low grumble of his Ferrari engine. His headlights blared through the blinds on the diner windows, whipping with effortless expertise into the front spot near the door. The headlights cut off, and moments later the door chimed as his lean figure stumbled through.

Designer sneakers scuffing the floor, black leather racing jacket with endorsement patches ironed on neat gleaming beneath the white fluorescents of the diner. He smelled like gasoline and boozy cologne—or maybe that was just the booze. Steve's favorite bar was just up the road: a swanky wood-paneled joint with a mechanical bull, and girls just out of college in skimpy denim shorts and leather cowboy boots. He always left with pink-tinged cheeks and a sway in his step, and though you disapproved of getting behind the wheel under the influence, you didn't mind that he raced all the way here just to get to you.

Tonight, like every night, he strode straight toward the counter and took his seat on a squeaky metal stool at the end.

He patted the counter, shot a finger gun at you, and smiled a half-cocked grin. "Hey, pretty girl."

Cheeks blazing, you rolled your eyes as you collected the coffee pot—freshly brewed just for him—and his basket of sizzling, golden fries. You placed the fries in front of him and flipped over a porcelain mug, pouring a steady stream until it pooled around the rim. No room for cream or sugar: how Steve liked it best. He was already five fries in by the time you placed the coffee pot back.

"Hey, Hot Wheels. Catch anythin' good tonight?"

Elbows pressed against the counter, you leaned over the stack of sticky menus and extra ketchup bottles to flash him your sweetest smile. You always laid it on real thick for guys like him. None of 'em tipped like Steve did, and none of 'em were nearly as handsome. None of 'em made you laugh like Steve did. Jesus, how stupid was that?

"Nothin' worth bringin' home, Bun," Steve sighed, head falling to his palm as his fingers made quick work of delivering fries straight to his mouth.

"Better luck next time." You shrugged, though you knew what this game was.

"No," Steve mused, eyes narrowed with a twinkle of mockery, lips coated in shiny grease and flecks of salt. "No, I don't think so. Know who I'd love to take out, though?"

You pulled away from the counter, that familiar flutter in your chest. You reached for the damp rag previously soaked in lemon sanitizing spray, wiping at the crumbs behind the counter. Steve always came in right when you were closing up. The first time he stumbled in, you threatened to kick him out, but something about those stupid puppy dog eyes and that sly, halfway smile made you stop. You always agreed to close on weekends, just to stay back and clean up after the strays and Steve Harrington. The diner was quiet, only the buzz of old lights and the distant whoosh of cars on the road keeping you company until he appeared.

"Who?" you asked, eyes flicking his way as he munched on his fries. The newspaper in his basket crinkled with his eager snatching.

Steve lifted his head, movements slow and bleary, and in your periphery, you could see it follow your every motion. His jacket made his shoulders look broad and big. You could smell the cigarette remnants still on his hands when you moved in front of him again.

"Come on, Bun," he huffed, that poor, sweet attempt at an Alabama drawl clinging to every word. The way he said your given nickname made your heart squeeze.

"Come on, what?" You flashed him a smile, pursed lips and scrunched nose, and he shook his head amusedly at it. He thought you were so beautiful, even in this ridiculous 1950s getup, hair frazzled and face gleaming with heat.

"When are you gonna let me take you out, sweetheart?" he pouted, hand bumping his empty, grease-stained basket when he dropped it to the counter.

Though your insides were stirring and the back of your neck felt like someone was giving it a pinch, you spun on your heel and reached for the coffee pot again, feigning an air of cool ease. You never wanted a man to have the upper hand on you, no matter how pretty that man might be. Your daddy taught you better than that.

Pressing close to the counter, you held the pot midway in the air, hovering, and caught Steve's eye. His were all whiskey brown and muddy green, more hazel than anything. It was only at this moment that you heard the Willie Nelson song humming on the jukebox in the corner. His lips parted when your eyes narrowed, catlike and dreamily charming.

You inched closer, leaning in like you were fixing to whisper a secret. "When you come in sober, Mr. Harrington."

You topped off his untouched coffee, placed the pot back, and sashayed toward the tables to wipe them down (for the second time tonight). Behind you at the counter, Steve gnawed on his lip, head tipping to admire the backs of your thighs where they caught the plump flesh of your ass beneath your shorts. He scoffed to himself, snatching the mug thrumming with heat, slurping at the potent black liquid.

If sober was what you wanted, sober you would get.

♡ ♡

Nascar was always on channel two, and when your manager Rod was working, he insisted on playing it on the tiny television behind the counter. He paced between the office in the sticky kitchen and the space behind the counter, munching on peanuts and sipping a jumbo Pepsi from the morning.

"Rod, maybe you should have somethin' else to eat." You whooshed a platter of burgers and fries over his head as you rushed toward your table.

"Nah, I'm waitin' for that-that Harrin'ton kid to come on," he excused, motioning toward the tv with a salted peanut palm.

You bit back a grin, sliding the plates onto the table for your eager customers. Wiping your hands on your apron, you headed back to the counter and leaned on the other side.

"What, excited to watch his engine crap out again?” you teased, giggling at Rod’s offended expression before flouncing off toward the kitchen for your break.

“That kid might not be from here, but he’s one of us now, Bunny!” Rod called after you, accent thick and slurred loose.

You waved a hand, eyes rolling. “Why d’ you think I give him such a hard time, Rod?”

You heard his hoarse chuckle as you hopped up on the empty steel tabletop in the kitchen, snatching a soggy fry from a half-empty basket. The cooks all murmured about a table that sent back a burger (there’s always one), and asked you about your shift today. The occasional ‘how are the kids,’ and ‘your garden holding up well in this heat?’ ensued, but most of them knew that when you had a moment to yourself back here, you preferred it in silence.

Billy, a line cook a few years older than yourself, whizzed by with a greasy silver spatula and a plate of perfect, crispy grilled cheese. He slipped it onto your lap as he passed, eye dropping in a wink, before he returned to the grill. You grinned in thanks, picking up the warm, shiny sandwich.

You were halfway through the first triangular slice when a holler jolted you on the table. You dropped the slice, rushing to place the plate on the table and skitter into the dining room again. Head whipping around, you searched for some sort of disaster—a hurt child, a choking customer—and found Rod screaming at the television, red-faced and glistening with sweat.

Huffing, you collapsed against the counter. “Rod, what the hell?”

Rod didn’t tear his eyes away from the television as he smacked his hands together. “Aw, come on! His car’s crappin’ out, he’s gon’ have t’ leave the race.”

You shifted toward the television, preparing to scoff at the urgency of Rod’s statement when sparks skidded over the track on the screen. Even in their pixelated form, the sparks were bright and sharp as a firework on independence day. You watched the cherry red car bounce, jostling the driver inside—clear cause for a biting backache. The car veered left, then right, then toward the off track where Steve stopped it.

Rod cursed, slapping his knee and shaking his head.

“Got-damnit,” he shrilled, easing up from the stool. “When’re they gonna put ‘im in a car that actually drives?”

Rolling your eyes and attempting to ignore the ball of worry the size of Texas aching in your chest, you slid away from the counter and headed back toward the kitchen where your food waited.

“When are you gonna get t’ work, Rod?”

“Eh.”

♡ ♡

That night, you soaked the linoleum in lemon cleaner and scrubbed at the vinyl booths, lights dimmed to keep customer count low until you actually closed. Rod left a few hours ago, and only a handful of cooks lingered in the back, shooting the shit and sharing smokes. You liked having the dining room to yourself while you closed up, humming along the radio and watching the road through the windows. You fantasized about a life with enough money to never wipe a table again.

Given the day he had on the track, the last person you expected to see that night was Steve Harrington. So when the door chimed open and shoes squeaked across the freshly-cleaned tile, you whirled around with a customer-approved smile in preparation for a sweet but curt “we’re about to close.” However, the customer service facade dimmed at the sight of that familiar pretty face and those colorful ironed-on insignias.

“Hey, Bun.” He sounded breathless and beat.

"Hey," you squeaked, dumbfounded by the sight of him.

The outline of his helmet still sat on his face: aggravated red lines indented around his eyes, across his cheeks and nose. His hands, Ferrari-red and raw, trembled as they swept through his tousled hair. "Mind if I sit, Bun? Long day."

Which is how he ended up slumped in a clean booth, head of slick locks thumped against the glass. It felt odd to see him in an actual seat instead of his usual at the bar, but he needed the rest. You could only imagine the sort of strain a car going 200 miles an hour while jerking around had on someone.

You slipped into the kitchen, and with a meek and quiet plead, had the cooks make one last batch of fries fresh for Steve before they left. Just enough for the driver to get his strength back up and feel at home again. The fried pile of grease glistened and sizzled in their plastic confinement on the way out of the kitchen, a cold glass of Pepsi fizzing in your other hand.

You brought them to the man still drooped in the furthest booth, head tipping to find his eyes. "Steve?"

"Hmm?" Blearily, the racer sat upright and blinked at you.

Flashing him a fond smile, you pushed the basket of fries closer to him. "Food."

"Oh."

He munched on the crispy golden potatoes for a while in silence. The back door clinked with the absence of cooks. You thought about getting up to flip the sign over to 'sorry we're closed!' but you couldn't find it in yourself to leave the table. Eventually, you slid into the booth across from him and watched him eat. He sucked down the Pepsi through a striped straw like a toddler gulping apple juice.

"Why did you come here tonight? I mean...you're in no shape, Hot Wheels," you remarked, watching him rub his fingers free of salt.

Steve's eyes flickered toward you below his brows, chin tipped toward his food. He straightened up when he saw you watching, giving his shoulders a shrug. He smelled like scorched rubber, gasoline, and a bit of bourbon-whisky.

"Had a shit day," he muttered, eyes returning to his fries with urgency. "Knew seein’ you would cheer me up."

A flutter disrupted the rhythm thumping in your chest. You felt it in your throat, too, settling like indigestion. You swallowed harshly to clear it away, easing the wonderment in your face with a little grin. Steve went back to finishing the thin strips of fry remnants sitting at the bottom of his basket.

Stripped free of liquored charm and that 'pretty boy' suave, Steve Harrington actually seemed...sweet.

"Hey, Hot Wheels?"

Steve looked up, lips glassy with grease. "Yeah?"

"You can take me on that date now."

♡ ♡

1K notes · View notes

stevieschrodinger · 5 months

Text

I really want to write this fic but I don't have time so have this.

Post upside down, everyone lives/nobody dies.

Steve and Eddie get together, Steve deals with his gay crisis. Eddie works through his 'holy shit I'm dating Steve Harrington' crisis, and they settle together. It actually turns into a long term relationship and Eddie starts to get comfortable.

Steve does not.

Steve's got a string of rejection and one night stands behind him, so he's kind of watching for signs of the same from Eddie.

Eddie settles in for the long haul, so the honeymoon period kind of wears off a little. Maybe it takes a while, maybe a year or a little more, but it does happen. They get jobs, Eddie has band practice and DnD nights.

And Steve Harrington who has confused sex with love since he was fourteen, doesn't handle it well. He starts keeping track of every time Eddie is 'too tired' or 'ive literally just showered, I wanted to sleep' or ' Steve I wanted to watch this movie' or the hundred other reasons Eddie turns him down all the time.

Eddie doesn't even try to initiate sex anymore, he just turns Steve down half the time or more. And Steve's got a hell of a sex drive, he knows, but Eddie's refusals hurt. They hurt every time, they make him feel unwanted, worthless. Unloved.

And worse, Steve likes their place to be tidy. Something that doesn't even seem to register with Eddie. He seems to be actually blind to anything untidy, like he literally can't see the dishes in the sink or all the books and crap he's left everywhere.

And it drives Steve fucking nuts. He says something. Eddie responds with 'leave it, I'll get it,' but Eddie's time frames for 'getting it' seems to be days long, despite it being a ten minute job.

So Steve stops complaining, and just accepts that Eddie doesn't care at all about how Steve feels, considering Steve has tried to explain to Eddie that he literally can't settle if his space is too messy.

Eddie doesn't even seem to want to understand.

Steve suddenly feels like he's committing some sort of crime because he wants their place to be tidy.

So he just does it all, keeps his mouth shut, and accepts the fact that Eddie doesn't love him. Because Eddie doesn't want him, and Eddie doesn't care about how he feels, and it doesn't matter that Eddie tells him he loves him a hundred times a day, because words don't mean shit.

It's action that talks.

And that goes on for ages, Steve slowly becoming more and more worn down. He stops trying to initiate sex; he's pretty certain Eddie doesn't even notice.

Steve cries about it when Eddie isn't there. Thinks about packing up and just leaving and going to Robs for a while. Thinks he's being melodramatic even if it doesn't feel it.

Comes home after a long day at work and the place is a mess and Eddie's just. Laid on the sofa. Steve looses it.

And he cries like, angry embarrassed tears as it all comes spilling out. And then he just...locks himself in the bathroom.

And obviously they sort it and live happily ever after and meet in the middle with all this stuff. Eddie probably talks to the girls about it and Robs just like..

So do the dishes? It takes two minutes and it will make him happy? You want him to be happy right? And she is right, so Eddie just...spends 20 minutes a day tidying. 20 minutes is nothing, and Steve always looks so thrilled and pleased when he comes home and everything is tidy. So it's easy to just get in the habit of doing it, especially when Steve's so grateful and affectionate with his thanks, and Eddie didn't realise until that moment how cold and absent Steve had become.

Eddie's sex drive just isn't as high as Steve's, it just isn't, but he finds when he's not in the mood, Steve is happy to jerk off while Eddie plays with his nipples and kiss him and tell him how much he loves him.

#steve Harrington #stranger things #eddie munson #steddie #steve harrington #ao3 writer #ficlet #my writing

694 notes · View notes

eldritch-thrumming · 1 year

Text

you smile that beautiful smile and all the girls in the front row scream your name.

i knew from the first note played i’d be breaking all my rules to see you. you smile that beautiful smile and all the girls in the front row scream your name. so dim that spotlight, tell me things like “i can’t take my eyes off of you.” i’m no one special, just another wide-eyed girl who’s desperately in love with you. give me a photograph to hang on my wall, superstar.

Eddie has three major rules when it comes to working with celebrities: 1. don’t flirt with the talent; 2. don’t hang out with the talent; 3. don’t, under any circumstances, fuck the talent.

He’s had enough rockstars’ managers kick him out of hotel rooms after waking up to an empty bed with cold sheets to have learned his lesson ten times over by now.

He doesn’t even think of adding a fourth rule: don’t fall in love with the talent. Has never even come close to needing a rule like that. Not until he meets Steve Harrington.

~*~

“Ed, I got a new one for ya, he’ll be here at two,” Eddie’s boss Murray says from the open doorway of Eddie’s office.

“Huh?” Eddie eloquently responds, mouth full of the banana he’d found in the office kitchen for lunch. “What?”

Murray rolls his eyes. He gets endlessly annoyed when it turns out no one can read his mind.

“New singer-songwriter coming in at two, asked for you specifically. Working on his second album, so look alive.” Murray tosses a demo in Eddie’s direction before departing the office and moving down the hallway towards his own. Eddie barely catches it just before the plastic corner gets him right in the eye.

This is the problem with Murray. He gives no details and leaves absolutely no room for follow-up questions. The other problem with Murray is that he waits until the last minute to spring shit on Eddie that he knows Eddie’s not going to like.

Eddie flips the plastic CD case around in his hand so he can read the words written in Sharpie on the front. ‘S. H. - 2’ is all it says, giving him absolutely no information. It’s already ten to two, so Eddie doesn’t even have time to listen to a single song if he wants to make it up the two floors to the conference room where he usually meets with the talent for the first time. Eddie scowls in annoyance; he hates being unprepared and he just knows Murray is conspiring against him somehow.

Eddie pushes up from his desk and leaves his office, heading for the elevator. He pressed the button for the 42nd floor. He likes to play this game where he tries to hold his breath for the duration of the elevator ride. Two floors is easy. The ride up to the 40th floor is a lot harder.

By the time Eddie makes it to the conference room, his appointment’s already in there. As he walks through the glass doors, he realizes that when Murray said “new,” he didn’t actually mean new. He meant, like, new to them.

Because sitting in the conference room at the head of the table is former boy band heartthrob Steve Harrington.

~*~

Eddie had never had Steve’s poster on his wall in high school or anything embarrassing like that, thank god. But he had kept one of the pages he’d ripped out of the library’s copy of Tiger Beat folded under his mattress for early morning daydreaming. And Eddie had certainly never listened to his music when he’d been in Teeny Boppers United or whatever the hell his band of cookie cutter boy-next-door types was called (he definitely knew).

Now, here Harrington is, sitting across the table from him, hair full of blond highlights and cherry lipgloss (Eddie thinks, imagines, hopes) on his lips.

“Um, hi. I’m, uh, Eddie. Munson. Eddie Munson,” Eddie holds out his hand for Steve to shake and Steve does. Eddie tells himself he’s imagining the way Steve’s eyes linger on him and how he takes just a second too long to pull his hand away.

Steve smiles, blinding and perfectly white. “Yeah, man, I know. My friend Robin has worked with you before? She had real great things to say,” Steve tells him and he sounds more sincere than a former-pop star asshole has any right to be.

“Buckley?” Eddie asks surprised, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah, she’s been a huge help with my solo stuff. She co-wrote a few of the songs on my first album.” Steve drums his fingertips on the thick wood of the table.

“Huh.” The sound leaves Eddie against his will, as he’s trying to mask his surprise. Robin Buckley was talented and she had a sound that Eddie would never guess Steve Harrington would be into. She was indie, for sure, almost folk, bordering on a breathy country sound that Eddie thinks she’d deny if she heard him describe her like that. “I’m not entirely sure I’m what you’re looking for, to be honest with you.” He doesn’t know why he says it. He has no idea what Harrington’s sound is now that he’s broken free of the teenage bubblegum scene. But he’s always had a self-sabotaging streak a mile wide and he feels both relieved and disappointed to potentially have this out.

Steve frowns slightly, the crease between his eyes deepening. “Did you listen to the demo? I actually have this one song and I’m struggling with the bridge and, you know, not to, like, geek out or fan girl or whatever, but I’m, like, so into your sound and your lyrics and just the way you can construct a metaphor that seems so obvious when you hear it but is still so surprising in the context of the song it’s in and I think it would really complement what I’ve already started and…” Steve’s been gesturing wildly with his hands and must realize he’s rambling, because he trails off, blushing. “I mean. Did you listen?” He asks again.

“Honestly, Murray only just told me about this meeting about ten minutes before it started,” Eddie shrugs, but he feels bad about the way Steve’s shoulders fall.

“Ah, okay,” Steve pushes back from the table. “Yeah, okay. No worries.”

And Eddie feels, like, not great about this. He doesn’t like the disappointment he can see etched across Steve’s handsome features. So he reaches a hand across the vast wooden table, gesturing for Steve to stop.

“Wait,” he says, hand raised between them. “Listen, I’m… skeptical, to say the least. But. I’ll listen to your demo tonight, okay? And I’ll let you know what I think tomorrow. Is that… does that work?”

Steve nods quickly. “Yeah, dude. Yeah, that’s awesome. Thank you. Um. Do you… did Murray give you my number?”

“Here,” Eddie slides his notebook and pen across the table.

Steve picks up the pen, scrawling across the entire notebook page, before sliding it back toward Eddie. “My, uh, personal number.” Steve runs as hand through his highlighted hair. “I’m really looking forward to hearing your thoughts. Thanks, Eddie.” He reaches out again to shake Eddie’s hand and this time, Eddie knows he doesn’t imagine the way Steve’s fingers linger on his palm.

Eddie clears his throat. “Talk soon,” he says, smiling, before Steve is turning and leaving the room.

~*~

Eddie had gone to LA with stars in his eyes and big dreams circling his head. He’d had hopes of making it big, of thousands of people screaming his name. It had sounded so good back then, when he'd been trailer trash in the smallest, most close-minded town in the American Midwest. And it had kind of happened. He’d recorded an entire album, had even had a national tour. But he’d realized fairly quickly that it wasn’t what he’d really wanted. Performing was fun, but what he really cared about was the song-writing. The way a perfectly constructed verse could speak to someone, on a deep, intimate, important level. That’s why he cared about music, that’s why it had always been so important to him. It wasn't the performing or the flashing bulbs of cameras or the after parties filled with people who wanted to get close to fame. It was the songs. It was the words and the meanings behind them. It was what it all meant, down to the end of it all.

So Eddie had changed course. He’d begun song-writing instead, freelancing at first, selling a song here and a collab there. Until he’d been approached by Murray Bauman, who’d heard what he’d done on a Taylor Swift track and was impressed. Murray had offered him a job in New York, writing and producing, an office and a salary for the first time in his life. And Eddie loved what he got to do now, loved the tracks he produced for other people to sing. He’d thought it would feel strange, like he was missing out on something, but it didn’t. It just felt good.

That had been five years ago and now here he is, sliding Steve Harrington’s demo into the CD player in his living room. He presses play and crosses the room to grab a beer from his kitchen. Just as he's crossing the threshold between rooms, he hears the first three notes of the song and it stops him in his tracks. He tilts his head back toward the stereo.

Because the song isn't the sound of a boy band lead gone solo, belting out pop lyrics that would guarantee major radio play. This song is soft and melancholy, the poetic lyrics of a chorus crafted with vulnerability, a complicated bridge that ties it all together. The song ends and shifts, the guitar twang taking on a pop rock tempo, more upbeat than the last song. Steve's voice comes out, deep and honey-sweet, different than his boy band days. The lyrics are still sadder than Eddie would have thought and Eddie's impressed by the words juxtaposed with the upbeat instrumentals and the tone of Steve's vocals.

Eddie listens to all four songs standing there in the doorway between his living room and kitchen. Can't bear to tear himself away. And when the fourth and final song is over, Eddie crosses the room to click 'play' all over again.

~*~

Eddie waits to call Steve. He wants to call him immediately after his third listen, but he figures that it would be a bad idea to interrupt a client’s dinner or date or whatever former pop stars do on Thursday nights.

He spends all day at the office the next day listening to Steve’s first album on repeat. He thinks he can tell where Robin had helped with the lyrics, can see the ways the two of them have come together, and he can hear how their voices complement each other on the track she’s featured on. He listens to it on repeat for hours, before swapping it out for the new demo all over again. He thinks he can trace the way Steve’s voice has evolved since the first album, can see the places where his song-writing has matured. He spends the weekend deconstructing each song, finding the spots of vulnerability and the developed self-confidence that allows that vulnerability to take center stage. He feels a little guilty for not calling Steve, but he can’t imagine Steve’s sitting by the phone or anything anyway.

But the end of the weekend, Eddie knows he can’t say no to Steve Harrington. He knows that he has to be a part of this album, no matter what. That this project is going to be something magical, something unimaginable.

First thing Monday morning, Eddie calls Steve and makes a deal.

~*~

“Fuck, you have no idea how happy I am to hear from you,” Eddie hears Steve breathe down the phone line. “I’m such a huge fan and hearing what you did with Robin… I was worried you were gonna say no, y’know? When I didn’t hear from you?”

Eddie smiles to himself, small and involuntary. He’d never thought he’d hear Steve Harrington sounding so earnest.

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was just about ready to say no.” Eddie runs a hand through his hair and then shifts his phone from one ear to the other. “But I gave your demo a listen and I revisited your first album and I gotta tell you, I think there’s something really special there. I’m excited to see what we come up with.” He’s downplaying this, he knows it, but he doesn’t want to seem too eager. He doesn’t want Steve to know that he’ll probably die if he doesn’t get to work on this album. That’s probably a little too over dramatic, even for Eddie.

He hears Steve suck in a breath, can’t tell if that’s good or bad. “Dude, thank you. I’m so excited. This means a lot to me. Thanks, man.”

“Alright, well, I’m gonna have my assistant call you in a few days to set up some meetings and get everything worked out, timeline-wise. I’ll be in touch soon.” Eddie has to get off the phone now, before he says something dumb as fuck.

“Awesome. Thanks again, Eddie,” Steve replies, before there’s nothing but a dial tone.

~*~

Eddie has Chrissy set up all the meetings, scheduling studio time and booking out the conference room.

For months, Eddie’s life revolves around Steve Harrington. All he can think about are what chord progressions will have Steve’s voice sounding its best, all heavy and sweet, or what rhyme scheme the chorus should have to enhance its emotional tenor in the way Steve wants.

They record together, Steve in the booth and Eddie at the console. Sometimes Robin joins them, happy to take on second guitar and suggest a new phrasing for a line that’s giving them trouble.

Steve enlists the same band he’d used on his first album and Eddie’s kind of impressed by how well they all seem to get along. How committed they are to helping Steve figure out the vision for this album.

Towards the end of recording—long months spent trying new things, taking out second guitar here, adding a keyboard track in there—Steve convinces Eddie to play lead guitar on one of the tracks they wrote together. It’s one of the unfinished ones from the demo Eddie had been so enchanted by, the one that Steve had said was giving him trouble on the bridge. They’d spent long nights in Eddie’s office ordering late-night pizzas and trying to figure out how to make the song work. Eddie was so frustrated he was about to suggest they just scrap the whole thing until Steve started drumming on one of the discarded pizza boxes, humming along with a switched-up melody, a reversal of what they already had, a dramatic shift from chorus to bridge and back again. Eddie couldn’t do anything but stare and then the words were coming, Steve finishing his sentences when Eddie stumbled searching for the right word. By morning, the song was finished.

Eddie agrees to play, if only because he loves the song so much, so proud of the work they’d put into it. It has nothing to do with the way Steve’s sweet smile spreads over his face or the faint pinkness Eddie can see rising in his cheeks. In the end, Eddie’s even convinced to lend his vocals to the song. He doesn’t let himself think about how good they sound together, Steve’s deep voice belting out the lyrics with Eddie’s softer cadence just underneath.

~*~

Steve goes out on tour almost immediately after they finish recording. The record label says there’s so much buzz around the album, so much anticipation, that they should strike while the iron is hot.

“Don’t forget about me out there on the road,” Eddie jokes, voice light and airy. He and Steve are at his favorite coffee shop, just down the street from his offices.

“Could never,” Steve tells him, smiling, tone just on the wrong side of serious. He takes a sip of his coffee.

They’ve been dancing around each other for months, probably since they’d started recording if Eddie’s really honest with himself. But Eddie has rules and he’s been burned before. So when they’ve finished their coffee, they part ways. Eddie wishes Steve luck on his tour and Steve says he’ll be in touch.

Eddie’s life goes back to normal.

~*~

They text sporadically. Eddie doesn’t mind. He remembers how chaotic and stressful tour had been when he’d done it and he hadn’t been nearly as huge as Steve is now. Eddie knows it’s an endless parade of meet-and-greets and sound checks and dress rehearsals, one day blending into another. He’s surprised Steve even reaches out to him at all.

Steve is set to perform the last show of his tour at Madison Square Garden. Eddie thinks about showing up, grabbing the free tickets he gets as part of the job and surprising Steve. He thinks about it a lot actually, all five months Steve’s gone, fantasizes about how Steve might greet him, how he’d pull him into the green room backstage and…

A week before the show, Steve calls him.

“Hey, man!” Steve sounds winded and breathy. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, y’know, same old same old.” Eddie tries to sound as casual as possible, but he can’t control the grin that spreads across his lips.

Steve laughs. “Yeah, I bet. Hey, listen, I only have a minute, but I was wondering if you’d be open to, uh. Coming to my show at the Garden?” Eddie thinks he might be imagining the nervous lilt to Steve’s voice, the unsure way he poses the question.

“Yeah, man, of course. I’d love to be there.”

“Great! I’ll text you the details.” Eddie doesn’t even have time to say goodbye before Steve has hung up on him.

~*~

The night of the concert, Eddie shows up backstage, feeling just a little out of place. He’d bypassed the front of house, but he hadn’t missed the line of young women and girls snaking out of the venue doors and onto the streets of Manhattan. He had known Steve was big, but he hadn’t imagined it would be like this.

A woman with short blonde hair leads Eddie into the green room. Steve’s getting his makeup done, but when he sees Eddie in the reflection of the mirror, his eyes light up and he smiles, wide and goofy. He pushes up from his chair and crosses the room, moving to pull Eddie into a hug before Eddie can even say anything, arms looped around Eddie’s neck. Steve is warm against him, his muscles firm and soft—a strange juxtaposition—as Eddie wraps his own arms around Steve’s waist.

“So happy you’re here,” Steve whispers against his ear, breath hot. Eddie can’t even react before Steve’s pulling away, crossing back over to his chair and dropping himself into it. Steve looks at Eddie in the reflection, their eyes meeting. “I have a favor to ask.” Steve suddenly sounds hesitant, fingers fidgeting in his lap.

“Oh, no,” Eddie jokes, winking at Steve in the mirror. “What is it this time?”

Steve blushes. “I know you don’t really perform anymore, but I was hoping you’d help me out with our song? It’s the last song of the show.”

The words our song echo in Eddie’s ears and he can’t help his smile. Sure, he doesn’t really perform anymore, but, he realizes in this moment, he’d do pretty much anything for Steve. The thought should be terrifying, but somehow it isn’t.

“Dude, that’s awesome.” Eddie watches Steve practically sag in relief. “I’d love to.”

Before long, Steve is being rushed around, manhandled on his way to the stage, and Eddie is left to follow behind so he can watch from the wings.

Eddie had thought he’d known Steve. They’d written and recorded together for months, felt every emotion possible in the time it had taken them to complete the album. But watching Steve perform is something else entirely. Steve glows under the harsh stage lights, smiling and charismatic as he jokes with the girls in the front row vying for his attention. It’s magical to watch Steve perform the songs they’d made together, to sing words from Eddie’s own brain. Eddie is transfixed by the way Steve’s lips wrap around each note, like each word that comes out of his mouth is the most important word that’s ever been spoken. Steve is otherworldly on stage.

“For the last song, I have a surprise,” Steve stops in front of the mic stand as someone rushes to bring him his favorite guitar. He pulls the strap over his head. Someone on the side of the stage nudges Eddie, holding out a guitar that Eddie’s never seen before. If he’d known about this, he would have brought his own beloved sweetheart, but he’ll have to make do with what he has. No backing out now. “You’ve probably heard of Eddie Munson.” Steve smiles as the crowd cheers. “Yeah, he’s a huge deal. He’s worked with everyone from Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers to Bruce Springsteen and Metallica.” The crowd cheers again. “I worked really closely with him on this album,” Steve smiles. “And he took something raw and messy and made it so fucking great.” The crowd screams. “I always close the show with my favorite song off the album. It’s the one that took us the longest to write. We were so frustrated, I thought Eddie was gonna tell me to just forget it. We spent so many all-nighters stuffing our faces with pizza and cursing ourselves for ever even thinking we should write this stupid fucking song.” Steve laughs with the crowd. “But then, one night it all clicked. It all came together. It was like magic, sitting there with Eddie on some ugly couch in his office, just about ready to give up. We made magic together.” Steve looks out at the crowd. “So. Eddie’s here to help me share this song with you.” The crowd goes wild as someone pushes Eddie out onto the stage, but Eddie’s eyes are fixed on Steve, who’s smiling at him from under the lights, eyes crinkling in the corners.

Playing the song is easier than Eddie had thought it would be. The notes come to him like muscle memory, like he could play this song in his sleep. He can’t take his attention away from Steve where he sings into the microphone. It’s all too much for his heart to handle. He feels like he might die here, right on the spot.

Just as suddenly as it had started, it’s all over. The crowd is deafening and Eddie’s got a smile on his face so wide his cheeks ache. Steve waves to the crowd before taking Eddie’s hand and leading him off stage.

“Fuck,” Steve breathes out, pulling Eddie along down the backstage hallways back towards the green room. “That was un-fucking-real.” Steve’s smiling, cheeks red.

Eddie can’t say anything at all. All he can do is follow helplessly behind Steve, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. His heartbeat so loud he’s sure Steve can hear it.

They’re back in the green room before Eddie can even blink. Suddenly, his back is pressed up against the closed door, Steve practically plastered to his front. He can barely breathe as Steve’s lips crash into his.

“Is this okay?” Steve asks, pulling back slightly. His breath is hot against Eddie’s lips. “Been thinking about you for months.” His voice is soft, barely there.

“Fuck yeah,” Eddie groans, running a hand through Steve’s hair, trying to pull him back in. “It’s so okay, Stevie.”

Steve lets out a groan of his own and then he’s kissing Eddie again, lips parting and tongue curling against Eddie’s.

Eddie’s not sure how long they stand there pressed up against the wall, hands tangled in hair, kissing each other breathless. All too soon a knock comes from the other side of the door and they jump apart.

“Steve?” A muffled voice calls out from the hallway. “You have a meet-and-greet in five.”

Steve looks at Eddie, laughing a little. “Fuck, sorry, I forgot,” he whispers, before raising his voice to respond to whoever’s outside, “Okay, just a minute!” He kisses Eddie one last time, soft and so sweet. “Come with me?” He asks.

Eddie nods and follows after Steve.

~*~

Eddie watches from the sidelines as Steve takes picture after picture. It’s kind of uncanny, the way Steve’s smile seems genuine in every photo he takes, the interest he seems to take in every person who comes to meet him.

The line has dwindled down when the next group of fans catch sight of Eddie in the shadows. “Oh my god!” One of the girls squeals, before turning toward Steve. “Can we get a picture with you and Eddie?”

Steve laughs, already nodding, before turning towards Eddie. “You mind?” He asks, holding his hand out for Eddie. Eddie slides his hand into Steve’s and has his picture taken.

~*~

After, Steve invites Eddie back to his fancy hotel room, but Eddie counters by inviting Steve to his apartment. Steve’s face brightens, clearly excited to see where Eddie lives. Eddie tries to mentally envision how he’d left his apartment, thinks it’s probably safe for world-famous superstars to visit.

They take Steve’s car, his driver dutifully ignoring whatever’s going on in the back seat, and by the time they make it up the six floors to Eddie’s door, they can’t keep their hands off each other. They crash through the front door, attached at the lips. They stumble down the hallway to Eddie’s bedroom and Eddie all but tackles Steve down into the sheets.

The next morning, Steve insists on making a homemade breakfast. Eddie rarely cooks, but by some miracle, he’s got eggs and bacon in his fridge. Eddie knows he’s got a dopey look on his face as he sits at the kitchen table, chin in his hand, watching Steve move around his space.

Later, when they’re curled up together on the couch and Steve is dozing against his chest, Eddie scrolls through his Instagram feed. He’s tagged in a ton of photos from the night before, up on stage with Steve, eyes fixed on each other as they play their guitars, crisscrossing beams of light all around them. He scrolls for a few more moments, before he sees the picture they’d taken together at the meet-and-greet, with the three girls who’d asked for a picture with Steve and Eddie. Steve’s blushing, his hand still holding Eddie’s, a wide smile on his face. Eddie’s just as flushed, eyes glassy, but he’s not even looking at the camera, face turned toward Steve instead. He looks lovestruck. It would be embarrassing, but Steve shifts in his arms, letting out a tiny little sound from the back of his throat.

Eddie screenshots the photo and saves it to his camera roll.

~*~

@thecaptainsgingersnap gave me “dealer's choice lyrics from Superstar” :)

This turned out waaaaayyyyyyy longer than I originally planned, so I probably should’ve split it into two posts, but here we are. Hope you enjoy it!!

#in this universe eddie munson co-wrote tolerate it #i know what song they wrote together but I’m keeping it to myself lol #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steddie ficlet #stranger things fanfiction #steddie fluff #steddie fic rec #steve harrington x eddie munson

2K notes · View notes

transmunsons · 6 months

Text

Little Eddie Munson whose favorite movie growing up was Sleeping Beauty. Or rather, it was his mother’s favorite. She loved the dragons and fairies and princesses and magic.

Eddie watched her face, open and excited, as it was lit up by the reflected glow of the theater screen. The light washed away the crease line between her eyebrows that always became more prominent after talking to his dad. It was the only wrinkle she had. The only one she’d had time to form.

Eddie remembered the way she had leaned down and laughed quietly after Eddie frantically asked her what would happen to the prince. How she told him to wait and watch. And maybe Eddie was too young to fully grasp the plot, but his mom was patient and explained it to him in the parking lot as they walked back to their car, hand in hand while Eddie stomped on every leaf he saw.

Two years later, Eddie stood next to his dad wearing the frilly dress he’d always hated and stared resolutely at his Mary Janes. He’d kicked and screamed that morning, but his dad eventually convinced him that Mom would want her little girl to look her best today and don’t you want that? So he’d complied. Hours later, the rotund man at the pulpit would not stop talking about how Elizabeth Munson used to light up a room and how we would all miss her so terribly.

Eddie was just tall enough to see into the casket. She looked like she was sleeping. Like she was only a kiss away from coming back. He watched as his dad pressed his lips to her hairline, watched as the lid closed and she was lowered into the earth.

All this flashed before his eyes as he stood alone facing down the hellish swarm of bats. A scream—a roar—ripped itself from his raw throat as he challenged the monsters, goading them into attacking. He wielded his jury-rigged spear and trash can lid as if they were a sword and shield, taking down as many bats as he could.

But Eddie was no prince. He was knocked to the ground and held down, laid out like an underworldly buffet for the vicious bats to sink their teeth into. And they did. It hurt like hell, too. By the time Dustin hobbled over to him, Eddie had stopped screaming. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that the bats weren’t gnawing on him anymore.

It’s not how he thought he would go, bleeding out in the arms of a fifteen-year-old. It’s not fair, but he’s a Munson. They don’t get happy endings.

He heard Dustin calling his name as his eyes slipped away to stare at the inky excuse for a sky, splintered with red. He never knew how much he loved the sun until it was gone.

Big, brown cow eyes framed by blocky eyebrows overwhelmed his field of vision. Steve.

He felt a hand on his cheek and then—oh—Steve was kissing him.

He could vaguely hear Steve shouting instructions at someone, or multiple someone’s, he wasn’t sure. Then his lips were back on Eddie’s, pushing air into his lungs. Ah, so it wasn’t a kiss. Damn shame.

“Steve, he’s mumbling something”

“He’s delirious”

The world was moving. Flashes of light passed by periodically. He was still lying down but not in the dirt anymore. The lights were… street lamps. He was in a car.

Thankfully he couldn’t feel his body. He knew this wasn’t good and probably meant that he was in so much pain that he went into shock. He was trying to ignore that.

Frantic voices surrounded him and he was lifted out of the car. The movement jostled him too much and all the pain came back in a tidal wave of blinding white. He promptly passed out.

Eddie woke up covered in so many bandages he could barely see any skin. He felt gauze on his jaw and neck and tried to touch it, but his hand was yanked to a stop by the wrist. He was handcuffed to the gurney.

“I tried to stop them.”

He was met with the sight of Steve Harrington slouched in a plastic chair wearing a rumpled deep red sweater. Through fallen strands of hair, Eddie could see that the skin under Steve’s eyes was tinged purple.

“They said it was just a precaution, to make sure you wouldn’t run.” Steve looked mad. “Hopper’s out there working on getting you uncuffed.”

Eddie must’ve still been delirious. “Hopper?” He croaked.

“Long story,” Steve twitched his mouth into a smile.

“I always knew that guy was a tank,” Eddie stated.

Steve let out a laugh. It was a glorious noise. Eddie wanted to come up with a million ways to cause it again.

“How are you in here, you know, if I’m so dangerous?” Eddie rattled his cuff.

“I can be quite charming,” Steve leveled him with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

Eddie made a disbelieving hmph.

“You doubt the charm?” Steve looked playfully offended.

“Oh, I doubt.”

Steve scoffed.

“You’re not nearly as cute as you think you are,” Eddie lied. “So how’d you get in?”

Steve stared at him for a second before fishing something out of his back pocket. The ring of keys jangled and flashed in the light where Steve held it. “Lifted it off a nurse.”

In Eddie’s book, that was far more impressive than schmoozing his way in. He told him so.

“Thanks,” Steve looked down. If Eddie didn’t know better, he’d say it was downright bashful.

“They lowered your security to just, uh, that,” Steve gestured to the handcuffs, “after your alibis were confirmed.”

“My alibis?”

“Yeah, you’ll be a free man as soon as you sign some paperwork.”

Of course there was a catch.

Beeping from the machines Eddie was hooked up to filled the room.

“You saved me.” Eddie whispered. He remembered strong arms pulling him off the ground, one under his knees, one cradling his head.

He took a good look at Steve sitting there beside him, with his sweater and his stolen keys. He looked wrecked, like he hadn’t had a good night's rest in days. His honey brown hair shone in the harsh hospital lights. Eddie thought he looked fucking regal.

Eddie realized two things at once. 1: he might be falling in love with Steve Harrington and 2: there was a big, fat, unmistakable “F” on his medical bracelet for all to see.

He heard the beeping of his heart monitor increase.

“Hey, what’s wrong, are you okay?” Steve was suddenly very close. His hand hovered near Eddie’s shoulder.

“Where’s my uncle?” Eddie asked, trying to calm his breathing. He kept staring at it. They’d at least gotten his name correct.

“He left to get some food, he’s been haunting your bedside for the past week.” Steve’s face was right next to his, trying to meet his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Steve turn his head to look at Eddie’s wrist. “What are you looki—oh.”

Steve covered the bracelet with his hand; his palm was big and warm. “It’s alright. None of the kids know.”

Eddie felt his stomach drop. “And you?”

“I know,” Steve had the decency to look embarrassed.

“I had to cut your clothes off to bandage your wounds,” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “I put two and two together when I had to correct how some of the doctors referred to you.”

“And you’re cool?”

“Yeah, man, I’m cool.” Steve smiled. “I swear on Dustin’s mother.”

Eddie chuckled and then immediately cringed when his sides contracted. “Don’t-don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry.”

Screw falling, Eddie was firmly in it now. Steve was being so casual and normal about what should have been ground-shaking information to him. Grass is green, the sky is blue, Hawkins hosts a hell dimension, and Eddie Munson has tits. Had tits, anyway.

Steve had to sneak back out before he got caught and Wayne eventually came back with some turkey sandwiches. They had a tearful reunion where Eddie explained everything and Wayne told him he believed in him the whole time.

Some men in suits came by and watched as Eddie paged through a Bible’s worth of documents. An undead Hopper stood glowering at them from the corner.

Eventually, Eddie was discharged and immediately tackled by a gaggle of young teenagers. Mike, Dustin, and Lucas apologized for almost readmitting him when he yelped and told them to be careful.

Eddie and Wayne settled into their tiny new two-bedroom near main Hawkins. Wayne grumbled that it was too far from Forest Hills, but Eddie knew he enjoyed having his own room for the first time in years.

The school didn’t let him attend class physically, but they sent him work to complete so he could finish the year. He was determined to walk.

Steve and Robin would drop by to hang out. Robin said it was enrichment for Steve since he didn’t have any other friends his age, and Steve gave her a noogie in response. Robin and Eddie bonded over their shared freak status while Steve seemed to be thinking about something very hard.

During one of these visits, Eddie found himself alone with Steve on the roof of his van. Robin had some band thing, so they’d driven out to a field armed with a six-pack or two and a small mountain of junk food.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow across the field and turning the grass to gold. The plaid blanket they’d spread on the roof was covered in crumbs and empty wrappers. Eddie watched Steve’s profile as he brought the beer bottle to his lips, as the liquid traveled down his throat. He stared at the slope of his nose, how his eyelashes brushed against his cheeks.

“Alright, it’s your turn, hit me,” Eddie said.

Steve looked out at the treeline thoughtfully. “Okay, who was your first crush?”

Eddie groaned. “I’ll tell you but don’t laugh.”

“I won’t!” Steve was already smiling.

“Promise?”

“No, I’m not gonna promise, what if it’s really funny?”

Eddie pulled up his legs and buried his head between his knees. He mumbled the answer.

“What was that?” Steve teased.

“I said it was Prince Philip!” Eddie admitted.

“From the cartoon?”

“Don’t laugh!”

“I’m not,” Steve laughed.

“It was my moms favorite movie as a kid and she took me to go see one of the re-releases. I was four and I was obsessed with him. My mom thought it was adorable.”

“It is adorable,” Steve leaned back to rest on his elbow.

“What about you?” Eddie leaned down to join him, “Who was your first crush?”

“It was, uh, Laura Jackson in fourth grade.” Steve picked at the label on his bottle. “She let me bum fries off her lunch when my mom forgot to give me money, which was all the time.”

“Did you ever tell her?”

“Yeah,” Steve huffed a laugh, “about every month. Shot me down each time.” He mimed shooting a gun into his own heart and flopped down with his tongue hanging out. Eddie chuckled and Steve resurrected with a self-satisfied grin.

“And you kept trying?” Eddie asked.

“I guess that when I know what I want, I kind of just go after it.” Steve looked over at Eddie. His eyes weren’t actually a true brown, they were hazel like the forest floor. He was looking at him with an indescribable expression. “All I have to do is figure out what it is that I want.”

Eddie looked away, heat crawling up the back of his neck, and lit a cigarette. He took a drag and let it sit in his lungs before blowing it out again.

“I think it’s my turn again,” Steve said. “Let me know if it’s too far.”

“Well now I’m getting worried.”

“Just—you don’t have to answer, but,” Steve picked a crumb off the blanket, “I noticed you don’t go on any dates.”

“That’s not a question, Steve, and not a lot of guys are lining up to gain the affection of Hawkins’ most notorious accused serial killer. Being gay isn’t a walk in the park even without the social stigma of acquitted murder. Let alone the fact that once my pants came off they’d run for the hills.”

“So you’ve never…?”

“Well,” Eddie flushed, “Let’s say I give better than I get.”

Steve seemed unfazed. “What kind of guy would you go for, if you could?”

You, Eddie doesn’t say. Instead,

“He’d have to be kind,”

“Of course.”

“And caring,”

“Naturally.”

“And totally reckless, an absolute daredevil. And ideally he would be madly in love with me, and he wouldn’t care how I was born.”

Eddie was describing the Steve who appeared in his fantasies. The one who showed up in shining armor to save the day. The one who slew monsters with his teeth. More importantly, the one who dropped Robin off at school every day, hours before his shift, just because he wanted to. The one who made sure the freshmen were safe. Who delivered fresh groceries at the Mayfield trailer every week since August.

“I need to confess something.” Steve broke off Eddie’s train of thought.

“What?” Eddie started running through a million possibilities in his head but before he could really process them, Steve spoke again.

“Robin didn’t have a band thing.” His face was so close to Eddie’s, he could see dust on his eyelashes. “I asked her not to come.”

“Why? You two are practically attached at the hip.”

Steve’s eyes flickered back and forth between Eddie’s like he was searching for something. “I wanted to do something together, just the two of us.”

The sun was kissing the treetops across the field.

Eddie had the all-too-familiar feeling that he was missing a crucial bit of information, a tickle in the back of his mind that often occurred when he was staring down a blank test or missed a social cue.

Steve plucked the cigarette from Eddie’s slack mouth, took a deep pull, and placed it gently back on Eddie’s lower lip all without breaking eye contact. Eddie let it fall to the blanket, holes be damned.

“What’s going on here?” Eddie demanded, sitting upright. “You know I’m gay, you can’t do shit like that to me.”

Steve copied his position and exhaled the smoke, taking a second to check that the camel was put out. “My god, Eddie, I’ve spent the entire evening hitting on you and you haven’t said a damn thing!”

Eddie closed his mouth with a clack. He blinked to recalibrate his brain. “I thought you were straight?”

“We spent an hour last week ranking the asses of male musicians. I still say Springsteen deserves first.”

Eddie flailed his hands, “I don’t know! I thought that’s what straight dudes did with their friends. Everything you guys do seems incredibly homosexual, how is a poor guy like me supposed to tell the difference?”

“I sang to you on the ride here!” Steve said through an incredulous smile.

Eddie recalled the slightly pitchy but otherwise impressive rendition of “Your Kind of Lover”. Thinking back, he should’ve noticed the emphasis Steve had put on the chorus, but he was a little distracted by the way Steve’s hair had bobbed as he nodded his head to the beat, fingers tapping on the wheel.

Now, under the weight of Steve’s gaze, the attention felt like too much. It wasn’t fair how the setting sun illuminated Steve’s tan skin. The man was fucking glowing like Helios himself. A drop of sunlight pooled in the hollow of his collarbone just above where a thatch of hair peeked out of Steve’s white undershirt. Eddie nervously licked his lips.

He let a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "You like me," Eddie poked his finger into Steve's shoulder.

"Nice of you to finally catch on," Steve poked him back. "I was starting to think I misinterpreted all your ogling."

"I do not ogle," Eddie sniffed, "I admire. You haven't seen yourself from behind; if you had a music career, I'd rank you above Springsteen."

"You sure know your way to a man's heart." Steve said flatly.

"Ya know, when you gave me CPR in the Upside Down, I thought you were giving me true love's kiss." Eddie confessed.

"That's adorable."

A siren whooped in the distance. Instinct took over Eddie's body as he scooped bottles and wrappers into his arms and tried to scramble off the roof. He registered Steve doing the same next to him, and in their haste they knocked into each other, slipped off the van, and tumbled into the grass.

Eddie ended up laying on top of Steve, holding one of the beer bottles at the base of his throat.

"Hi," Steve said breathlessly.

"Hey," Eddie let the bottle roll to the ground. They'd landed on the side away from the road. He watched through his van's tires as the police car sped past their location without a second glance.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked.

"I'm fine."

Crickets started chirping in far-off woods and Eddie thought he might've heard a bullfrog croak.

Steve tucked a piece of Eddie's unruly hair back in place and settled his hand against Eddie's cheek. The sun had just set and Steve's eyes were huge in the low light. Warmth bled through his shirt where it pressed against Eddie's bare forearms.

"D'you know how long I've liked you?" Steve whispered. His breath ghosted over Eddie's lips.

"Tell me," Eddie whispered back with a smile.

"Back in school, I thought you were kind of an ass-"

"I thought this was about how you like me."

"I'm getting to it. I thought you were a jerk, but after I became friends with Dustin, I noticed how much more comfortable he seemed. You made him a space where he could be himself. That's what you do. You make everyone around you more comfortable in who they are because they watch you be proudly yourself.

"You're the bravest, smartest, kindest man I know. I think I started falling for you when you told me you were wrong about me, you know, being an asshole. No one I've dated has ever recognized how much I've changed. You saw me, the real me."

Steve looked so sincere, eyes wide as he held Eddie's face. Eddie wanted to hide in his hair.

"You're gonna make me fall in love with you, Harrington." Eddie warned.

Steve grinned, "You promise?"

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna kiss you now."

"Okay."

Eddie didn't have nearly as much experience as Steve, but he held his own. His hands raked through Steve's hair, felt him do a full body shiver when he tugged.

Eddie smiled against his lips.

“Shut up,” Steve murmured.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Eddie was pulled back into the kiss by the back of his neck. He tilted his head, coaxed Steve into opening his mouth. Steve did something with his tongue that would’ve made Eddie go cross-eyed if his eyes were open. One of Steve’s hands crept up Eddie’s thigh until it rested on his hip, a thumb touching Eddie’s side where his t-shirt had ridden up.

Eddie moved to properly straddle Steve as he switched to latch onto the side of Steve’s neck. The hand on his hip gripped him tight as Eddie settled. Steve made a desperate noise and arched his back, grinding up to meet him.

“Eddie,” Steve said hoarsely. Eddie hummed in acknowledgment as he laid open mouthed kisses on Steve’s pulse point, skating his hands up Steve’s arms to squeeze his biceps.

“Eddie, we gotta slow down,” Steve pulled a reluctant Eddie off his neck and stroked his cheek with a thumb.

Steve gave him a sweet, lingering kiss and Eddie nipped at his lower lip as he pulled away.

“If my giving you CPR was true love’s kiss, does that make me your Prince Charming?”

“I should never have told you that,” Eddie groaned against Steve's collar.

cross-posted on ao3

#trans eddie munson #steddie #ftm eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #eddie munson

702 notes · View notes

loveshotzz · 6 months

Text

My name’s Elvira, but you can call me tonight

steve harrington x eddie’sbestfriend!reader

Hell N Back

summary: A flash flood warning, a week of cancelled plans, and the night Steve Harrington shows up at your front door.

wc: 5.2k

warnings: 18+ mentions of weed smoking (r), thigh riding, fingering, oral (fem receiving) and you know I can’t get enough of making Steve cum in his pants.

A/N: thank you all for your patience with this one, and thank you for reading 🥹♥️

🎃<- chapter two | mini series masterlist

It felt like it had been raining for days, the downpour never ceasing until there were flash flood warnings lighting up the bottom of your TV screen by the end of the week. You hadn’t seen Steve since Tina’s party, every plan that your group had getting canceled by the clouds that never seemed to want to leave Hawkins.

Heavy droplets hit your window in the living room in sporadic patterns, the wind outside making the howling noise you’ve only ever heard on your favorite horror movies. The flicker of your candles dance along your walls, mixing with the warm glow of your string lights just like that night, and for once you don’t try and stop the thoughts of him that threaten to consume the rest of your evening.

Laying bundled up on the couch in a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized sweater, the black and white sci fi movie The Empire of The Ants plays on your TV while Elvira’s bubble gum sweet voice cracks lewd jokes over the B rated film. The Halloween Macabre special was your only saving grace this week, that and the thick fuzzy Jack O Lantern socks on your feet gifted from Robin.

You giggle to yourself at a joke about her boobs in particular, the half smoked joint on your coffee table makes it easy to wonder if Steve would have thought it was funny too.

Jesus Christ.

You huff a little, pulling the throw blanket closer to your chin, eyebrows furrowing in a pout.

How did this happen? When did this happen?

Before you have time to think too hard about it, lights flash behind your blinds dancing across the exposed glass in the opening from outside. You keep your eyes trained on it until they cut and the darkness from before takes over, shrugging it off to it being your neighbor coming home from work. Shuffling your feet under your blanket, you burrow yourself further into the cushions finally getting the level of comfort you’d been searching for since the movie started, but it only lasts a couple of minutes. Three melodic knocks rattle your front door, scaring you out of your fleece cocoon and onto your carpeted floor.

“God dammit!” You grunt, pushing yourself up and tossing the blanket on the couch, “Fucking Munson.”

It’s only when you get halfway to your door that you realize it’s definitely not Eddie or he would have let himself in with the spare. Your footsteps stop as you remember that this is actually how every single horror movie starts out. It’s almost as if whoever it is can read your mind, and a familiar voice calls out from the other side.

“It’s Steve!”

Relief floods your system, and your shoulders slump as your heart rate starts to calm, but then the realization that Steve Harrington was on the other side of your door unannounced just kicks it back up again. Especially when you look down at what you’re wearing.

“If this is weird or you have someone over, I can leave!“ He talks loud enough to be heard over the rain, but it still threatens to drown him out.

“No!” You don’t mean to yell when you answer, clearing your throat, you try to play it off when you continue, “I’m coming, sorry I’m coming!”

Taking a deep breath you pad the few extra steps to your door, straightening your shoulders before your fingers wrap around the handle. There’s a silent count to three before you actually open it.

The sound of the rain you’d only heard muffled from behind your window grows tenfold, making you wince at the difference at just how hard it’s still coming down. A chilled mist hits your exposed skin from the wind, sending a shiver down your spine and you’re met face to face with a very wet version of the boy you were just thinking about.

“Jesus, Steve! Why didn’t you call?!” You scold, stepping aside to let him into the warmth of your apartment. Shutting the door quickly behind him, a flash of lighting illuminates half the night sky followed by a low roll of thunder.

“I know, I know.” He gives, running a hand through his soaked hair pushing it out of his face. His smile almost looks victorious when he shows you the whites of his teeth. “My power went out.”

His Hawkins Community College sweater clings to parts of his stomach and chest, the worn heather gray cotton turning dark. The water makes the blue denim on his legs even tighter than normal, sticking to him like a second skin and you have to actively stop your eyes from lingering as he drips a mess onto your floor. His white sneakers squish, completely drenched down to his socks and he still somehow looks handsome as ever.

“Robin lives like two blocks away from you.” You arch your brow, flipping your lock to stop anymore horror movie cliches from happening, only for the string lights in your living room to flicker as you do. The energy in the air is laughing at you.

Steve’s cheeks flush a deeper shade of the rosy pink they were from the cold of the storm, and that’s when you notice the shopping bag.

“Did your power actually go out?” The corners of your mouth twitch, crossing your arms across your chest. The bottom hem of your sweater lifts higher up your thighs and Steve licks his lips, following it.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he huffs out an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “What a weird lie, right?”

“Kinda,” you giggle, eyes catching the colorful packaging of the popcorn and Red Vines inside the plastic in his hand, the knot in your stomach tightens knowing that he’s been thinking about you too.

“I just felt like if I had called I wouldn’t-“ he coughs looking anywhere but you, “I heard from Eddie that Elvira’s Halloween special was on tonight and I just thought, you know we had kinda talked about it before-“

“Do you want to get out of those clothes?” You cut him off, making his eyes snap up wide. “I mean, wow, that came out a little forward.”

It’s your turn to laugh awkwardly.

“Eddie just leaves stuff here all the time, I clean it obviously or it’d make my place reek.” You try to explain in an attempt to break the tension and it works when you get that lopsided grin that makes you go shy. “I’m sure I’ve got some sweats and a shirt that would fit, I can throw your wet clothes in the dryer if you want?”

Steve’s shoulders relax, nodding, pushing back that loose strand that drips falling over his forehead.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

——

When Steve hands you his wet clothes through the crack of your bathroom door, it makes your brain stop working for a second. You catch a glimpse of his bare back in the mirror, littered with more moles and freckles that would make the sky hidden behind the clouds jealous. With thicker thighs than your best friend, it makes the cotton of the sweatpants that hang low on his hips stretch tight over his butt. The dark patch of chest hair that’s always just been teased comes into full view right in front of you and your throat goes dry. Why did it look so soft?

Steve catches you staring, the tips of his ears dusting red before mumbling a mess of sorry’s shutting the door again. You shout an awkward apology of your own, soft thumps on your carpet as you hurry the wet clothes to your dryer. Silently scolding yourself to get it together, feeling the heat rise from your neck to your face, even warming your ears. God, he looked even better without a shirt on.

“You’re good, everything’s chill, you’re totally fine it’s just Steve.” You whisper under your breath, tossing the clothes into the machine with a wet plop. The last part has you rolling your own eyes at yourself, throwing in a couple of dryer sheets for good measure.

Your nerves make you want to keep busy, so you start rummaging through the bag he brought in the kitchen. Butterflies taking flight in your rib cage when it’s everything the two of you had picked out that first night. You bite your lip to hide your smile, opening the popcorn to put in the microwave when you hear the soft click of the bathroom door opening. His feet sound heavier than yours on the carpet,and you make sure to have your back towards him when he finally enters the kitchen. Plugging in the minutes, the loud beeps of your microwave only add to the tension that hangs thick, almost suffocating you in the air.

“I mean, everything fits… I guess.”

He breaks the silence right as the low hum kicks on and you watch the small bag start to spin on the glass plate. You collect yourself quietly before turning around, not expecting the sight you’re met with to send you into a fit of giggles. Slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop it, you take in the faded black Iron Maiden shirt you gave him.

You realize now with him standing in front of you that it's a size too small for the King of Hawkins, probably one of Eddie’s old one’s from high school. The worn fabric fits tight over his chest, making ‘Eddie’s’ face stretch distorted over his pecs. The sleeves look ready to burst at the seams, and the bottom hem refuses to meet the top of his sweats. Revealing a little sliver of his tan skin and the beginnings of the thick happy trail you’ve shamelessly thought so much about.

It’s the cutest you think he’s ever looked, besides that one summer he worked at Scoops Ahoy.

“Hey! That doesn’t make me feel very good.” Steve chuckles, his cheeks becoming a permanent shade of red for the night.

“No, no, you look cute!” You try to get out, but the snort he gives you in response makes you giggle harder. “I promise, I wouldn’t lie to you!”

The way your lips twitch when you say it makes his eyes roll, but even with a shake of his head, the smile on his face gives him away. He can’t be mad, not when you just called him cute.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” He runs a hand through his hair that’s already started to dry, curling in wisps behind his ears. The gold that kisses the tips shimmers in the low light of the kitchen.

The unexpected first loud pops of the kernels stop any other words that sit on the tips of your tongues, making you both jump at the sudden outburst.

“Why don’t you go warm up on the couch, since you decided to come over for a date during the storm of the century and I’ll bring the snacks out.” You try to keep your tone as even as possible, refusing to meet his eyes after saying the ‘D’ word, busying yourself again with grabbing cups for some hot tea.

You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat from across the room in the moment of silence that follows. Not even realizing you're holding your breath until you feel the heat of his palm against the small of your back and it exhales through nervous lips.

He smells like the rain that won’t stop pouring outside with notes of cedar from his cologne. There’s an undertone of the lilac from your dryer sheets. He’s spring in the middle of autumn, leaning in close to your ear.

“Only if I get to be the big spoon again.”

The way your cheeks push up, and your lashes flutter against the tops of them when he makes his intentions clear, he thinks he’d drive through a hurricane to get to you.

——-

When you get to the living room he’s lying where you were earlier, doing his best to get comfortable, but the size of the shirt has him pulling at the sleeves to get them to loosen up. Muttering under his breath, your giggle is what catches his attention. Big chestnut eyes look up at you, and all the annoyance on his face drains with a smile he can’t contain.

“What? It’s literally cutting off my circulation.” He laughs sitting up, his hair now completely out of control. “You sure this is Munson’s?”

“Yes, but I’m starting to think from, like, junior year.” You try to hide your grin when his jaw drops in disbelief.

“That explains a lot,” he scoffs

You watch him lean forward to grab a handful of the popcorn, the fabric restricting him again, and both of you hear the faint sounds of a tear. His eyes lock with your in a dead stare making you throw your head back in a full bellied laugh. Rib cage tightening just like your chest with the realization of how much you actually like him.

“I’m glad you’re having a good laugh, you’re lucky you’re so pretty, I’ll tell you that much.” He grumbles reaching forward for the popcorn again only this time is successful, probably due to the rip, and something shifts in the air when his words sink in.

“Sometimes it gets me out of things.” You grin, a little shy just for him.

“I’m not surprised in the slightest.” He licks the butter off of his fingers, pink lips wrapping around the tips as he leans back into the cushions. He watches how it makes your thighs press, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

“Are you gonna keep hogging the couch or are you makin’ room for me?” You fake annoyance gesturing toward the way he's manspread on the cushions, doing your best to try and cover up how flustered you feel, but the way his eyes seem to light up tells you it isn’t working.

Shifting himself back to lay on his side, he lifts the covers with raised eyebrows and the kind of shit eating grin you want to kiss off of him.

“I was just waiting to see if you were gonna stand the whole movie or not.”

You make him snort when you roll your eyes, and he tries to play it cool when the smell of your apple blossom body wash fills his senses as you take the small space he’s made for you next to him. Swallowing hard, you leave a little bit of room between you, the nerves in your stomach starting to feel like an Olympic gymnast is competing for the gold. The heat of his breath fans against the back of your neck, his own insecurity making it come out a little shaky having you this close again. The tension breaks when he goes to wrap his arm around you and another sound of a rip hits both your ears.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles over your fit of giggles, his face turning a deeper shade of red that you can’t see. “I swear I’m not trying to take my clothes off but this is not working honey.”

His laugh puffs across your skin, making goosebumps rise when he shifts to sit up a little bit. Turning your head, you meet his anxious eyes over your shoulder.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen you shirtless Harrington,” you tease, your own face heating up in memory of the view you got minutes ago in your bathroom.

“It’s not, like, going to make you uncomfortable or anything right? I swear this isn’t like a move - not that I don’t want to make a move -“ The boy looks panicked, his signature tell of running his hand through his hair coming into play.

“Steve, it’s fine, take it off” you giggle, “It’s clearly a size too small.”

He huffs out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, rosy cheeks deflating before a toothy grin spreads across his face.

“Okay, yeah, al-alright.”

You turn your attention back to the TV to give him some ‘privacy’, your heart going into overdrive when you see the fabric drop to the floor in front of you. The couch shifts under his weight as he lays back down, and for a second you think you can hear his heart over your own. Tentative hands find their way to your hips, fingers digging into your softness when he pulls you in, the warmth of his bare chest seeps through the thick fabric of your sweater and your body melts against it. You feel the way it makes him relax behind you, a stubble covered chin hooking over your shoulder while your feet tangle with his. A content hum, leaves from between his lips next to your ear, the tip of his nose nudging behind it as he snuggles closer and it feels like he’s breathing you in.

“Mmm, so what’d I miss?” His voice comes out a little sleepy, and you hate the way it makes your thighs press. You wonder if he could feel it.

“So basically this woman cons people to buy houses on this island,” you start, stuttering when you feel the tips of his fingers under your sweater that sits rucked up to your waist, “And when they get there someone had dumped human waste creating these giant ants that hate humans.”

“Oh that’s…interesting,” he tries, making you laugh and it has him smiling into the crook of your neck.

“It’s ridiculous, it’s okay, that’s why she’s making fun of it.” You grin, running your fingers down his forearm, finding his hand that's made a home on the curve of your tummy to give it a reassuring squeeze.

He takes the opportunity to keep you there, intertwining your fingers and pulling you even closer. The sound of the rain against your window gets heavier, and the roll of thunder gets louder. The flicker of your candles makes the storm raging outside seem relaxing from the inside, and you can’t believe he drove all the way over here in this, just to cuddle with you on the couch. Somehow trying to burrow yourself into him even deeper, the wiggle of your hips when you readjust makes the air shift.

Your sleep shorts and the cotton of his sweatpants don’t hide what his jeans did. His grip on your hand tightens, and he bites his tongue to stop the moan that's begging to slip out when you do it again. His nose nudges harder behind your ear, exhaling a huff through it that makes you shiver.

“Honey,” it comes out as more of a plea than a warning, his lips that you’ve yet to feel against your own ghosting against the sensitive spot on your neck.

The feeling of how much he wants you pressing into the small of your back is what gives you the courage to turn around in his arms, ready to finally do what you’ve wanted since the last time you found yourself here. He lets your fingers slip through his, always keeping his palm against your skin until it sits on the small of your back. Both of yours land on the dark patch of hair on his chest that's even softer than it looks, slowly sliding them up till the pads of your thumbs trace his collar bone. With your head resting on one of his arms, his other pulls your bodies flush together before his thigh finds space between your own sliding you close enough for your noses to brush.

His half lidded eyes meet yours, and your breath catches in your throat when you see how they darken. He takes his time, letting his hand roam on its way from your back, fingers tracing up your ribs before the warmth of his big palm envelopes the already heated skin on your cheek. His gaze flicks down to your parted lips, licking his own while his thumb traces the pout begging him for a kiss.

“Please,” he whispers ,not knowing he beat you to it.

The connection is soft at first, just your top lip brushing against his bottom but it’s enough to make every inch of your skin come alive. A low groan rumbling deep from his chest, vibrating against your hands. He meets your eyes one more time down the slope of his nose before he closes the distance with nothing held back anymore, kissing you in a way that makes you feel like you’ve never been kissed the right way before. It’s like he knows just how to make your toes curl when they slot together, the tip of his tongue wasting no time when you sigh giving him the opening he needs. The blunt ends of your nails dig into the warmth of his skin, leaving half crescent moons over his pecs that’ll be hidden by the thick chestnut hair that covers them.

Your tongue meets his eagerly, cedar and rain making you dizzy when the top of his thigh adds pressure to the heat between your legs. Your noses bump, teeth scraping together while his hand leaves your cheek to squeeze at your hips encouraging the small roll they start to do on their own. The mess in your underwear only gets worse letting you move against the hard muscle with ease, your fingers weaving in the soft hair at the nape of his neck when he flexes it for you. He growls low when you give the roots a gentle pull at the same time your teeth tug at his bottom lip, his self control to try and be a gentleman slipping away.

“Jesus Christ baby,” Steve gasps, the new nickname making you smile when you give him a softer kiss loving the way it makes his skin flush.

“You started it,” you whisper, watching the way his cheeks push up before he chases you for another one, which you gladly give, letting your lips linger when he hooks your leg over his hip.

Close as close can get.

“Me?” He tuts, letting his hand slide up your thigh before squeezing at the curve of your ass, glancing down to see how you still roll against him “I don’t think so, you’ve been trying to take my clothes off since I walked through the door.”

He throws his head back with a laugh when you scoff, and you pretend to push him away only for his hold on you to tighten. His lips connect anywhere but yours as you play hard to get, trailing a wet path to your neck, teeth nipping at the spot that gets a sound from you that has him kicking up in his sweats. So he does it again, and this time he can’t stop the grind of his hips that meet yours when he gets you saying his name the same way.

“And what do you think you’re doing now?” You try to tease but it comes out too breathy to be taken seriously, especially when he starts to suck where his teeth just grazed.

He grins against your skin, nosing his way up your jaw before meeting your eyes again, something softening in the gold inside them that shines through the abyss.

“You want the truth?” He asks, bringing his hand up to cup your face, the pad of his thumb tracing the small bags under your eyes with a gentle touch and all you can do is nod.

“I just want to make you feel good, god - it’s all I’ve thought about for so long. Just wanna treat you right, take things slow,” his thumb drags across your bottom lip watching the way your eyes glaze over at his words. “Take you out to nice dinners, watch all your favorite movies, hear about your day, but really what I want to do right now is make you cum on my tongue.”

“Steve,” his name comes out broken, the roll of your hips becoming more pointed, and the swelling in your chest makes you feel like you’re ready to explode.

“You want that pretty girl?” He whispers, leaning close so his lips brush against yours, his eyebrows furrowing when you grind a certain way, your clit catching his tip.

“Y-yeah,” you whimper, eyes big and pleading, turning into putty from his sweet words.

He gives you a kiss that’s more gentle than the rest, before sitting up on his haunches letting you fall into the empty space on your back. A big hand wrapping around your ankle, moving your leg out of his way so you’re spread with him in the middle. Leaning forward, his fingers curl around the elastic band of your sleep shorts, giving you one last look from under his lashes before tugging them down your thighs, throwing them on the floor with his shirt.

“Shit - baby.” He groans, running a hand through his hair when he sees the effect he really has on you. “Better than my dreams.”

All the blood rushes to your cheeks from his affection, as gentle hands run up your calves when he starts to lean forward, fingers curling under your knees to lift them over his freckled shoulders. Tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you start to feel shy exposed to him like this for the first time. A kaleidoscope of new feelings settles deep in your gut when his hot breath hits your core, thighs tensing that the pads of his thumbs try to soothe.

He looks up at you, from between your legs pressing a soft kiss to the place where your hip meets your thigh, making your back arch.

“You okay?” He whispers after another kiss, only this one on the inside of your thigh.

“Yeah, just nervous,” you giggle, feeling the warmth on your cheeks with your hand. If anyone would have told you that you’d have Steve Harrington between your legs begging to taste you a year ago, you’d have laughed in their face.

“Want me to stop?” He rests his cheek right where he kissed, looking content just to be doing this.

“No.” You smirk, reaching down to run a hand through his hair that was just begging for it, pushing back the stray that falls over his forehead.

He smiles, closing his eyes leaning into your touch for a minute before he turns his head, lips meeting your soft skin where he starts a path to where you want him most. You feel his breath and it sends a shiver down your spine, the tip of his nose spreading you apart first. He applies the kind of pressure against your bundle of nerves that makes you gasp, letting his tongue follow, collecting what you’ve already given him.

“Oh my god, Steve,” you whine, when he flattens the pink muscle doing it again, groaning loudly at the taste of you.

“So fuckin’ sweet, god, honey,” he mumbles against your cunt, replacing his nose with his lips, sucking your clit in a greedy way that makes your eyes hit the back of your head.

His fingers dig hard enough into the meat of your thighs, that you’re sure they’ll be bruises in the morning. The tip of his tongue tracing your entrance that flutters around him, threatening to suck him in and he can’t help himself, giving your body what it wants. Both your hands find their way to his hair, tangling your fingers in his honey colored locks searching for purchase when he starts to taste your walls, creating a steady rhythm that has you rocking against his face for more.

“Yeah, you like that?” He grunts, extending his tongue as far as it can go, drool and slick starting to drip down your thighs as he starts to lose himself in you.

“Uh-huh,” is all you manage to get out, jaw going slack at the way he feels like he’s eating you from the inside out, like he’s thought about this longer than a few weeks.

One of his hands lets go of your thigh while he starts to focus his attention back on your clit making you gasp when you feel the thickness of his finger press itself against where his tongue just was. The stretch makes you keen when he pushes one knuckle deep with ease, distracting you when he pushes the second one in as he starts to suck on your bundle of nerves.

“God - baby,” he gasps, when your walls take the third knuckle in by themselves, and it’s only then you notice the way he’s rutting against the couch in search of his own friction.

Your head pushes back into the cushions when he curves it, hitting the spot that only you’ve ever found on your own, and it has you babbling, your hips rolling up greedily for more which he gives you when he adds a second finger. He sets a pace that has your lashes fluttering against your cheeks after he lets you adjust to feeling so full.

“Come on, I can feel it, you’re close huh?” He asks against your clit, making you shudder, nodding your head when he starts flicking it with a wild tongue.

“Steve, Steve, Steve,” you whine, eyes closing tight, the band inside of you going taut, your hips grinding against his face without abandon as you try to take his fingers even deeper.

The sound of his name leaving your kiss bitten lips like a prayer makes a moan rumble deep from his chest, and it vibrates against your cunt, giving you just enough extra stimulation to make it snap. Vision going white behind your eyes, your body tenses while your mouth opens in a scream that falls on deaf ears when nothing actually comes out.

“Honey, honey, honey,” he babbles, his hips stuttering while his tongue refuses to stop despite the way your body shakes.

You murmur his name in a daze, trying to push his head away as you reach the verge of overstimulation and it takes him the third shove for him to finally listen, addicted to the way you taste. Feeling empty when he pulls his fingers out, your body betrays you trying to get them to stay. He kisses the inside of both of your thighs, smirking against your skin when your legs twitch because of it, slowly sliding his body up the length of yours. Skin flushed, and lips shining, you’d be embarrassed if he didn’t look like he just won the lottery.

His nose nudges yours before his lips steal a kiss that you eagerly give despite feeling so spent. Your fingers finding their way back into the hair at the nape of his neck, a smile tugging up the corners of your mouth when you feel the warmth of his own release in the cotton of the sweats.

“I hope you have another pair of pants for me.” He laughs, embarrassment making the tips of his ears turn red, the warm color only deepening when you grin and you realize you have more than just a crush on Steve Harrington.

#my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington thoughts

812 notes · View notes

carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 6 months

Text

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 18

Part 1 Part 17

Will runs to the voice before Steve can stop him, falling on his knees on the carpet next to a bookcase full of the odds and ends that always seem to accumulate in everyone else’s houses. Will reaches out, like he’s begging a ghost to hold him. Where he touches, light explodes, just like it had on the ceiling, but now, now Will is touching it.

Steve takes two quick steps toward the kid before the voice comes again. “Okay,” it says. “Good, good, good. Where are—”

The voice sounds like it’s choking on emotion. It sounds like Mrs. Byers from the grocery store on a bad day. It sounds like Will’s Mom. But what if it’s a trick? What if the Demogorgon is going to burst from the light any moment and rend his little body in two?

“I’m here, Mom,” Will says, still holding his hands up into the light. “I’m—”

“Blink once for yes, and twice for no,” she pleads. “Can you do that for me sweetie?”

Will’s eyes are shining in the light until he pulls his hands back and the light goes out.

“What is that?” Eddie murmurs to him, leaning into his space like he always is.

“A lamp?” Steve asks just as Will puts his hand back up, blinking once for yes.

Eddie looks it him like he’s surprised, but it makes sense. Light is light is light, what else could it be?

“She can clearly see it on the other side,” Eddie says.

They’re both talking quietly, but they still shut up when Mrs. Byers starts talking again. “Good boy, good boy,” their only link to the living world says.

“Baby, I need to know, are you alive?”

Will chokes at that, tears pouring out of his eyes, as he curls in on himself, wounded at the thought of his Mom thinking he was dead.

Eddie nudges further into his space, sides pressed together as Steve wonders if his own Mom has even noticed he’s gone.

Will blinks the lights once, and Joyce Byers cries. “Are you safe?” she asks.

Will turns to them now, seemingly remembering they’re there. He’s got snot dripping out of his nose and onto his upper lip. It’s disgusting. Steve wants to bundle the kid in a warm blanket and get him the fuck out of here. Beside him, Eddie slowly shakes his head.

Will hiccups, turning back to where the light will be. He raises his arms once. Twice. Not safe. He’s trapped in a hell world with two fuckups that can’t keep themselves safe, much less him.

Joyce Byers starts sobbing, and Steve Harrington feels like dirt. “I need to know where to find you, honey,” she says, words tripping over each other. “Where— where are you? Can you tell me where you are?”

Will sinks into himself, arms wrapping around his knees. His hands are glowing. Steve wants to die.

“Can you please, baby? I need to find you. Tell me what to do.” Will cries harder, his whole body sinking into itself, toward the ghost of his mother until his whole body is glowing.

“I’m here, Mom,” Will cries.

Eddie reaches out and squeezes Steve’s hand. Steve squeezes back and holds on as the family reunion plays out in front of them.

“Talk to me, baby.”

The lights start to go crazy, like Mrs. Byers’ desperation is reaching through the veil between their worlds and bathing him in light. The whole room is lit now. It’s bright. Blinding. Beautiful. Steve gasps, mesmerized by it as the floating lights flicker in and out, faster and faster until they’re drilling a hole into his head.

Then he hears it: the sound of claws rending a door.

“Will, run,” Steve says, but it comes out as a whisper. It doesn’t matter, Will is already looking at the door, eyes wide and colorless in the blinding light.

“Go,” Steve shouts, just as the Demogorgon begins its clicking call. He pulls Eddie hard, yanking him toward Will.

“Mom,” Will shouts, “Mom, run!”

Eddie yanks the kid up, shoving him forward. “Your Mom will be fine,” he says. “It’s here, not there. Move!”

But that’s not true, is it? The Demogorgon went to the real world to drag Will here in his shed. It dragged him and Eddie in through the fucking swimming pool. It could get Mrs. Byers. Steve wouldn’t let it.

Will rushes through the house, hopefully toward an exit – a back door, a window. Eddie’s hot on his heels, but Steve stops in the doorway, picks up the shotgun and waits.

It doesn’t take long for Munson to rush back. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, just as the Demogorgon stalks into view.

“Meet back at your trailer, okay?” Steve says, keeping the gun up, eyes trained.

“Harrington,” Eddie whispers, harsh enough to come out as a hiss.

“Keep the kid safe, okay?”

“Come with us,” Eddie says, sounding like he’s crying. Steve doesn’t look his way. “Now.”

The Demogorgon doesn’t walk toward them. It stalks toward the wall where Mrs. Byers had been and swipes its claws. The gaudy wallpaper rends just the same as the wall. It reaches its monstrous claw into somewhere new.

“Keep the kid safe,” Steve repeats. He should be scared, but he’s not. He should be screaming, or crying, or running. But he’s not. His feet are planted, his finger is on the trigger, and the scope is trained right on this thing’s head. He’s so in his body that he’s out of it. “I’ll see you at home.”

He takes a shot just as Eddie turns to run , just as Mrs. Byers starts screaming, If he has to go out, this feels like the perfect place for one last stand, protecting two people at his back, stopping this thing from rending a family apart.

A window shatters further into the house. They’re out. Fuck, they made it out.

The Demogorgon turns toward him, opening it’s face and screeching loud enough that the house shakes, loud enough to drown out Mrs. Byers’ screaming.

He shoots it again, straight in its mouth. It staggers back. The rift in the wall is still there. Steve can just barely see the top of Mrs. Byers head.

“Come get me, you fucker.”

Steve Harrington runs.

Part 19

#steddie upsidedown au #steddie fic #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #my fic #i have been Vibrating about posting this bit

443 notes · View notes

strawberryspence · 2 years

Text

Wayne’s trying his best to get the picture hung as straight as possible.

There are kids screaming at the yard, he can hear Hopper arguing with Jonathan from the backyard, something about the movers or something, Eddie’s in the kitchen trying to hang his mug collection in display, Dustin and Mike are trying to carry more boxes to the house and the others are scattered everywhere in the new house, trying to do their own thing to help him out.

There’s a box full of framed pictures just beside his legs. Wayne’s still trying to level the frames. He was never one for pictures, until Eddie came home to him.

The first framed picture, he remembers buying the frame from a dollar store. No glass, just a flimsy plastic and plastic frame. Eddie was 12 in the picture, teeth crooked, hair growing, with the acoustic guitar Wayne bought for him. It’s secondhand but, Wayne still had to work double time for it. Every minute of it was worth with how big Eddie’s smile on the picture was. He just finished learning his first song and just finished playing it for Wayne. It’s Stand By Me by Ben E. King.

There’s more in pictures taken, more pictures developed and slipped into an album he bought from Melvald’s. But the second picture to be framed was when he was 15. It’s a picture that would make any person stop and think, “Who would frame a picture like that?” Eddie’s 15 in the picture, curly hair long and frenzied, but the highlight is his beaten up face. He has a growing black eye, there’s is crusty blood on his nose and Eddie Munson is beaming. He got into a fight, his first fist fight, and Wayne shouldn’t have framed it. But it’s also the same day Eddie came out to Wayne and Wayne will forever keep it close to his heart.

The next picture framed is when he’s 18. It’s the day Eddie’s supposed to be graduating High School, but didn’t. Eddie thinks he hides it well, the stress and disappointment that he’s not graduating, hiding it in sarcasm and witty jokes but Wayne can see through him even blind. He takes him out for the day to Indiana, they walk around, going to stores Eddie would love and ending it in a diner. Wayne asks the waitress to take a picture of them. Eddie breaks down that night, telling Wayne he didn’t deserve this and that he should be more disappointed, more angry before shutting himself to his room. He wakes up the next morning with Wayne trying to hang another framed picture in the trailer, Wayne tells him, “School’s not everything. You’re a good person, Ed. That’ll always be the most important thing to me.”

The first three framed pictures and album full of pictures are gone, eaten by the four fault lines that swallowed Hawkins whole in 1986. Wayne doesn’t care, not really, not when his son was being chased down by the whole town. His kind, weird, loud Eddie, who doesn’t even want to hurt bugs or spiders, always opting with setting them free rather than squashing them.

Eddie comes out alive, and free at the end of it. Because beyond everything, beyond being kind, generous, loud, funny, Eddie has always been a fighter. Between fighting real life monsters, signing NDAs and recovering from literal feral bat bites, Eddie gains a family. It’s weirdly shape, contains an actual 15 year old with super powers, the Mayfield girl who rose from the dead, those two comes with a gaggle of children, Chief Hopper who also rose from the dead, Joyce Byers, the Buckley kid, the reporter, two potheads. It’s a weird family, and still the weirdest part is Steve Harrington. Harrington. Still it was a family, held together with tape, trauma and love.

Wayne’s not Steve’s biggest fan. Not until Wayne gets the full story of how Eddie survived, he doesn’t get it until three months later. Only because Eddie wasn’t ready to talk about it. Eddie tells him that it was all Steve. Steve who gave him CPR, wrapped his wounds properly and carried him out of the hell hole with his own injuries. Wayne was kinda mad at Eddie for not telling him immediately, especially because he’s been giving Harrington the stinky eye for three months now, when in truth Wayne is forever in debt with him.

Eddie’s also babble mouth who told Harrington that more than anything Wayne was devastated to learn that the “Upside Down” goo washed up all of the pictures. For his birthday, Wayne’s not even sure how he knows, Steve buys him a secondhand camera, an empty album and a stack of empty frames. That starts a tradition that spread all throughout the family. It somehow culminated to them taking pictures of Eddie, and when they think it’s special enough, they frame it and give it to Wayne. Eddie hates the tradition, because why do you guys keep framing my picture???

That’s how he ended up here, in his brand new house, the one Eddie bought for him just after his second successful tour, with a big box full of pictures.

Wayne backs up from the wall full of frames, it’s accumulated so many different pictures now, now it’s not just Eddie. Now, it’s a burst of different pictures. Somewhere in the left, you will find the framed picture of when Eddie finally graduated, Robin, Nancy and Jonathan beside him with the same graduation gown. Beside it is a picture of the Party in their own graduation, beside it is a big collage frame with a picture of each kid when they also finally graduate college, there’s a picture of all of them when Joyce and Hop finally got married, a picture of when Robin, Steve and Nancy all graduated college, all separately. Pictures of weddings, and birthdays, and kids from the kids who he watched grow up, who now call him Grandpa Wayne.

Eddie’s pictures are still there, Eddie will always be there. Eddie in his first apartment, Eddie and his band when they first open a concert, Eddie signing his first contract, Eddie on his first radio interview, Eddie and his band on their first magazine cover. Just Eddie, living his dream.

“I think that one’s a little crooked.” A voice tells him. He turns to see Steve, a little older now, hair shorter, glasses thicker, a hearing aid always on his ear.

“Which one?” Steve points at the large picture. It’s a little bigger than the other frames.

Wayne smiles, moving closer to adjust the picture. In the picture, it’s with Steve and Eddie, both in their tuxes, Wayne in the middle as Eddie’s arms is hooked around Wayne’s shoulders and as Steve is laughing at something Eddie has said. Wayne’s just smiling at the two of them, the sun bright, brand new rings sparkling in the sun.

When satisfied, he moves back just as Eddie enters the room, a box in his hand, “I got you some new pictures.” He gives Steve a knowing smile, as Wayne accepts the box.

“I don’t remember the pictures very well, but I tried my best to describe them to Will.” Wayne’s hand flies to his mouth as he sees the framed pictures. They’re drawings, and they’re not the exact same, but it looks so similar to the pictures he lost in the earthquake, the pictures he long accepted he’ll never see again. It’s Eddie as a kid again, and it’s enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“This isn’t fair, Ed. You can’t just make me cry.” Eddie laughs as he gives his uncle a hug, a whisper of thank you’s exchanged.

They watch as Wayne hammers a new nail on the wall, placing it just beside the picture of Wayne standing beside Eddie as he holds his first award.

He straightens the pictures.

Takes a step back to look at it all.

Some of the frames fraying from the age, some pictures fading on the edges, some of it are crooked.

All of it filled with pictures, radiating a life lived with joy and happiness.

It’s perfect.

#UNCLE WAYNE DESERVES HAPPINESS #LET HIM HAVE HIS SON #LET HIM HAVE EDDIE OKAY #wayne munson & eddie munson #wayne munson #steddie rants #steddie #daerants #daeheadcanons #steddie headcanon #steddie fic #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington x eddie munson angst #steve harringon wears glasses #hard of hearing steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson

4K notes · View notes

metalhoops · 1 year

Text

People debate if Eddie or Steve would say ‘I love you’ first, but I propose an alternative perspective where they both say it long before they start dating and confuse the hell out of everyone, including themselves.

Almost dying could put your life into perspective.

When Eddie awoke in his hospital bed with his uncle at his side and the late afternoon light shining through the window blinds, he was struck with the kind of death-bed revelation reserved for men sentenced to dangle from gallows or grit worn teeth down the muzzle of guns. He was alive, despite the assumed certainty of his death hours or days before.

Eddie let Wayne hold him, despite how much it hurt because the pain reminded him he was alive, that he’d made it out on the other side. Without thought, Eddie told Wayne he loved him. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but he couldn’t remember the last time it’d happened.

They were long past the first few tumultuous years when Eddie had moved in with Wayne. Where they’d tiptoed around each other and waited with bated breath for their shared peace to go wrong. Eddie hadn’t been used to living in a household where he didn’t have to walk on eggshells to get by and Wayne wasn’t used to looking after himself, let alone a kid.

They’d since found their rhythm, but it wasn’t often either man voiced their affections. Wayne showed his love. He didn’t speak it. That was just the way he was. Eddie didn’t share the man’s reservations, not anymore. His adolescents was a wave that had long since crested, and all care for others’ opinions had been thrown out the window. He wasn’t shy with his love, but his proximity to death made him reckless with it.

When Dustin appeared at his bedside not long after, looking as though he were staring down a spectre, Eddie knew he had to do something. He leaned over, ruffled Dustin’s hair and told the kid everything was going to be okay, that he loved him.

When the whole mess had died down and Eddie was able to come out of hiding, he showed up in Gareth’s garage at the usual time for band rehearsal. He was bombarded by a mess of limbs and an earful of questions. He told them his well-practised lie then muttered how glad he was to be back, how much he loved those stupid sons of bitches, because he did and they should know it. He’d never told them that before.

What Eddie hadn’t expected was to fall fast and hard for Steve Harrington. Eddie wasn’t one for fast affection or grand romantic ideals. He had his head firmly attached to his shoulders, thank you very much. He knew fast love was just infatuation. You were falling for the idea of a person, not the real deal.

He knew it was stupid and yet at seeing Steve sprawled out on the floor of his trailer, in front of their shitty Philips Color TV, his usually styled hair mussed, Eddie thought he loved him, which was a terrible thought because it meant Eddie had to tell him.

Steve was straight, and Eddie had only known him for two months. Sure, they’d floated past each other in high school, but that wasn’t this Steve. The Steve he loved. It was pathetic. Eddie was well aware. All the same, when he caught Steve’s curious brown eyes, he knew he’d have to tell him. Nothing good would come of it, but he was sick of leaving things unsaid. After all, he could die tomorrow.

“What are you thinking about?” Steve asked, appearing blissfully ignorant of Eddie’s inner turmoil.

“Nothing, I’m just glad you’re here. I love you, man.”

Eddie spoke before his brain had the time to think through his actions. He tacked on a haphazard ‘man’, as though it lessened the severity of the statement. Eddie had never called anyone ‘man’ in his life- who the hell was he?

“Oh, yeah. Me too,” Steve mumbled absentmindedly, laying back down and looking at the TV as the commercials came to an end. He was so cool and unbothered.

Eddie was sure he’d taken his confession as a platonic one, which was what he’d hoped for. He’d got it off his chest, but it wasn’t going to screw up the good thing they had going. What he didn’t know was the meaning behind Steve’s response, ‘me too’ what? Was he glad he was with Eddie or...?

“I love you too, Munson. I can hear the cogs ticking from over here and I want to watch the movie. You got me invested now,” Steve grumbled, returning his attention to the fantasy film Steve had no right to be as emotionally invested in as he was.

“Have I got you invested or has Tom Cruse in chain mail got you invested?” Eddie joked, pushing his luck as he felt Steve lean over to smack his shoulder, mumbling ‘asshole’, under his breath.

What Eddie hadn’t expected was for it to become a habit. Sure, he made a point of telling Wayne, Corroded Coffin and his band of misfit children he loved them when the mood struck, but with Steve, it somehow became a daily occurrence, what floored him most was that Steve was the one who started it.

The next time they saw each other was when Eddie went to grab a movie from the Family Video store. At least that was the excuse he’d given to see Steve again. He chatted with Steve and Buckley before grabbing whatever caught his eye in the horror section and was about to head out with an overdramatised bow and salute when Steve smirked and mumbled, ‘love you, Munson,’ before his eyes widened in alarm. He caught Robin’s hawklike gaze shifting between them as she choked on a days-expired potato chip.

“I meant... see you, Munson,” Steve amended awkwardly. Eddie shrugged his shoulders, practically preening at the slip of the tongue. He liked how Steve said it. Something about it felt special.

“Love you too, Stevie,” he called as he turned to retreat to the safety of his van, not wanting to witness whatever can of worms he’d opened between Steve and Buckley.

That was all it took to form a habit. He would spend the night at Steve’s place since the guy's parents had been MIA for months, and as the two went to part ways Steve would take one look at Eddie’s beaten-up van and mumble, ‘drive safe you idiot, love you,’ and a smile would threaten to split Eddie’s face in two. ‘love you too, jerk’. For a while, it was a tradition reserved for the two of them. Robin had to bear witness to the brunt of the love confessions, as Eddie would visit them at work, but in many ways, Steve saw Robin as an extension of himself, so for the most part, it was just between them.

That was until Steve showed up to band practice. Eddie had offhandedly mentioned the time and location of their rehearsals in the hopes that one day Steve would show up. When he did Eddie was over the moon. He was halfway through a killer guitar solo when the familiar BMW Beamer pulled up the drive. With the rest of his bandmates promptly forgotten, Eddie lay his Warlock gently in his case (because no matter how absentminded the guy was he still cared about that damn guitar like a kid) then ploughed forward to meet Steve at the mouth of the garage.

“Stevie, you came.”

Eddie was too excited at the prospect of Steve watching him play. Music, along with D&D, was his creative outlet. It said everything his tongue couldn’t articulate and he had a lot he wanted to say to Steve.

Anyone who knew Eddie knew he was excitable and theatrical. He didn’t know how to do things in half measures. His bandmates shouldn’t have been surprised when Eddie wrapped his arms around Steve’s midsection, picked him up and spun him in several dizzy circles, only setting him down when they almost tumbled ass backwards over Gareth’s drum set.

Eddie may have witnessed Steve try that move on Wheeler years before, but he’d deny it if anyone asked. Steve made the act seem easy and graceful. With Eddie at the helm, it was a chaotic jumble of limbs. While Steve gripped onto the man’s arm for dear life, not used to being manhandled, though by the fitful gasps of laughter that escaped his lips at the motion, Eddie noted he wasn’t opposed to it. When the two broke apart, Eddie felt his bandmates' watchful eyes on them, all sharing twin looks of confusion.

“You’re going to break something, dumbass,” Steve grumbled as he smoothed over his hair and bowed his head to hide the blush from his cheeks.

Eddie tried to carry on with the rehearsal as usual, but he’d admit he added some peacocking for Steve’s benefit, not that the boy seemed to mind. Steve watched from one of Gareth’s bean bag chairs. It wasn’t his type of music, Eddie knew that, but the guy still watched enamoured.

When the band was finished for the day, Steve managed to make small talk with the other boys when a thought struck Eddie.

“What are you doing after this, Steve? The boys and I are having a movie marathon at my place. Want to hang out?” Steve blinked owlishly, surprised to be invited to what appeared to be a ‘band-only deal’. That wasn’t exactly true. Sometimes Jeff’s girlfriend or Grant’s brother would join them, once Gareth had even invited a guy over. Eddie had never done it, but there was a first time for everything.

“I could do a movie night. I’ve gotta pick up Dustin from the Byers first, though, so I’ll meet you there,” Steve reasoned, and Eddie nodded, knowing Dustin came first. The little guy had weaselled his way into Steve’s heart and there was no way Eddie would ask him to forget the kid. Dustin had Eddie wrapped around his little finger as well, the brat.

“Alright, meet you there. Love you, Stevie.”

“Love you too.” The words rolled off Steve’s tongue easily as breathing.

Left in Steve’s wake was utter chaos from the rest of the Corroded Coffin members.

“Dude, why didn’t you tell us you were dating Steve Harrington?” Gareth berated, knocking Eddie’s shoulder roughly.

“Seriously? What the hell, man? I never would’ve called that,” Jeff added before Eddie could get a word in edge-wise.

“Wait, I’m lost, Harrington’s gay now?” Grant muttered, looking between the other boys. His bandmates knew Eddie was gay, but they’d definitely pulled the rest out of their asses.

“I didn’t tell you because we’re not, and he’s not. Far as I’m aware. Can you guys drop it before we get back to mine? Steve doesn’t know I am and I’m planning on keeping it that way, thanks.” All three boys looked at Eddie as though he’d grown a third head.

“But you guys were aggressively flirting,” Gareth argued.

“You said you loved each other,” Jeff added.

“Yeah, but I tell you guys I love you,” Eddie argued.

“Definitely not like that and if you did, I’d be trying to work out how to let you down gently because Eds you’re firmly in the brother zone,” Gareth reasoned, playing with his drum kit.

After that day, Eddie thought he should use his ‘I love yous’ more sparingly with Steve. Sooner or later, the guy was going to work out that the intent was anything but platonic. He’d gotten to know Steve well since the incident with The Upside Down. Nine months had passed and Eddie was still sickeningly sure he loved Steve. It’d gone past any form of infatuation.

He knew who Steve Harrington was and what he wanted. Steve wanted his future to be a gaggle of kids, crammed into an R.V. heading out on family vacations. If they were to do it, it would be anything but the conventional nuclear family of Steve’s dreams but Eddie couldn’t help but fantasise about ways they could make it work. He wanted it. He was beyond screwed.

When he and Steve were parting ways after the band’s movie night. This time Eddie uttered a lame,

“See you later, Stevie.’

To his surprise, he caught a look of confusion flash across Steve’s face. He opened and shut his mouth, looking as though he were weighing up his options. Unlike Eddie, the guy was good with social interactions. He knew how to read a room.

“See you,” Steve replied, awkwardly smoothing down his hair in what Eddie knew to be a self-soothing gesture. Weird.

Eddie kept this new, more formal, stilted form of goodbye going for a week, hating every second of it. He could feel Steve pulling away from him. Suddenly when he wanted to spend time with the guy, he was busy. The one time he hadn’t said ‘I love you’ back to Steve in front of Robin she shot him a look like he’d just kicked a wounded puppy. Eddie was understandably confused.

It took the passing of another week for Steve to call him out on it. Eddie showed up on Steve’s doorstep unannounced, insisting they hang out because Steve had been avoiding him and he damn well wanted to know why. Steve let him in, much to Eddie’s surprise.

“Did I do something wrong?’ Steve asked out of the blue as the two sat hunched over at the Harrington’s dining room table, looking over Eddie’s Dark Tower board game. Steve had picked it up surprisingly fast when he’d first brought the game to his place.

Eddie’s eyes swept over the board before shaking his head.

“No, that was a safe move. You’re fine.” Steve’s brows drew together, and he shook his head.

“I’m not talking about the game,” He grumbled, still not meeting Eddie’s eyes. Alright, what had Eddie done wrong now?

“What? No. Stevie. Why would you think that?”

Eddie had been asking himself the same question: what had he done to push Steve away? Now that Eddie was focusing on Steve, he noticed how the boy had hunched over himself, his shoulders up around his ears. His body tucked into itself. Usually, Steve was confident and unbothered, but he looked so small. Eddie knew something was very wrong.

“You stopped saying...” Steve’s voice trailed off. He rolled his eyes, looking pissed off. Not with Eddie, but with himself.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s stupid. My knight guy is going to the ruins,” Steve amended before Eddie could get a word in edge-wise. He leaned over, pushing the keypad on the tower, obnoxious electronic music filling the silence between them.

Eddie finally understood what Steve was worried about. Instead of taking his next turn he twisted a strand of hair around his finger and inhaled. Screw what other people thought. Since when did he care, anyway?

“Steve,” Eddie breathed. Full name. Serious business. Steve looked up.

“I love you. Sorry I haven’t said it in a while. I was getting in my head about... stuff.” Steve nodded, trying to look uncaring, but he failed miserably, his face scrunched and contorted.

“Stevie, I can hear the cogs ticking from here. Whatever you want to say, say it,” Eddie breathed, nudging Steve’s socked foot with his.

“I just- you were acting like... Christ. Forget it. It’s bullshit,” Steve stammered, standing up from the table, suddenly a bundle of energy, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

“What was I acting like?” Eddie asked, staying rooted to his seat, though his fingers drummed on the table nervously.

“Like we were in love,” Steve spoke at last, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Like we were in love?” Eddie echoed, unable to believe what Steve was implying. He watched Steve recoil as the words escaped his lips.

‘In love’ wasn’t a description someone used for friendship. Friends weren’t ‘in love’ with each other. Jesus Christ.

Eddie stood, cringing at the scraping sound his chair made against the tile floor. He really hoped he wasn’t reading this wrong.

“Please don’t punch me in the face,” Eddie grumbled under his breath as he crossed the space between them.

Steve remained rooted to the spot as Eddie hesitantly placed a hand on his cheek. He remained still. His brown eyes swelled wide and locked on Eddie’s. He waited for a beat, just long enough for Steve to pull away if that’s not what he wanted. When he didn’t, Eddie pulled him closer, crashing their lips together, his fingers snaking their way to the back of Steve’s neck. Holy shit, Steve was kissing him back.

Eddie lost the capacity for logical thought somewhere between Steve’s hand finding his ass, and his tongue slipping into his mouth. When they did pull apart, Eddie felt breathless and boneless.

“Wait, you actually love me?” Eddie asked when his brain finally came back online. Steve nodded, looking equally as shocked.

“I told you that months ago,” Steve confirmed.

“I didn’t know you meant it like that... you were so damn unbothered I thought you...” Eddie’s voice trailed off, a vague memory spiking of a story Dustin had told him a lifetime before. It was something to do with Steve’s dating advice. From what Eddie remembered, he’d stressed the importance of acting aloof, as if that actually worked for anyone.

“I didn’t want to come on too strong,” Steve argued, sounding equally exasperated.

“You, Steve Harrington, are a dumbass,” Eddie scoffed disbelievingly.

“How the hell am I in love with you?”

2K notes · View notes

steviewashere · 2 months

Text

Rhetorics and Bad Days

Rating: General CW: None apply! Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Bad Time, Steve Harrington is an Ugly Crier, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Calls Steve Harrington Pet Names, Forehead Kisses, Slight Love Confessions, Getting Together (Sorta Kinda/More Implied Afterwards)

Tripped and fell last night and wrote 3.2k words. Inspired by @scoops-aboy86 idea and my stupid little headcanon from this post!

💕—————💕

It seems like everyday was a bad day when you were somebody like Steve Harrington. Considering the good majority of his life the last four years, give or take, has been a cartwheel of nightmares and torture and blood and injuries—And, well. Obviously he has bad days.

Though, typically, it can be resolved and done over with a hot shower, maybe some stupid movie that he honk-laughs at, a warm blanket and a freshly dried pillowcase. Little things. Little good things that are able to calm him some, at least. Give him something else to think of, at most. He doesn’t have to do anything like cry or breakdown or yell until his voice is hoarse, that’s what he tells himself. Because, what’s been ingrained in his head, men don’t cry. Men don’t get hysterical. Men don’t break that emotional mold.

Though those words are definitely booming and deep and flat like his dad’s. That’s not his brain. Those aren’t his words. But it sure as hell is what he’s been exposed to for far too long.

And maybe that’s why, standing in the barren living room of his brand new (albeit worn down, caulked heavily, all too warm) apartment, he finds the rhetoric silenced. In a fresh space. With crooked blinds and awfully filled tack holes. A kitchen fit for a (former) king. Little breakfast nook that only allows for two dining chairs under the south facing windows. Barely any sunlight able to stream through. His bedroom cramped with just a queen sized mattress placed haphazardly on the floor, definitely crushing some well-loved Playboy magazines, crooked to the wall at his head because the movers carrying it were too tired from the recently odd mid-fall heat, and a decently sized freshly made spiderweb in the corner—he shivers at the thought of something alive and crawling watching him sleep at night. And the glorious bathroom—preemptively marked with darkened piss stains on the floor and a smell birthed from over-indulgence on alcohol.

It’s his, though. Well, his and Eddie’s.

Eddie has his own bedroom, similar size to Steve’s (think of a shoebox used to bury that poor hamster from your youth, dead from eating too many baseball cards), ceiling light stained with god worshipping moths, and a window that half-opens if he jiggles it the right way. They share that grimy bathroom. And he brought the living room couch, something that had been sitting on his and Wayne’s back porch for some time, definitely a little mud stained and mildew smelling from rain, but it’s not the worst. Not the best. Not even good. But it’s their space, freed from the confines of Hawkins, new and shiny for all of Indianapolis to see.

The rhetoric is gone in Steve’s brain. Like skin shed from his sunburned body. Peeling and crackling to every surface he finds himself on or leaning against or standing with. It evades him. Leaves him with something viciously young and terribly hungry.

Steve Harrington is prone to bad days. Bad weeks. Bad things.

The unfortunate luck begins anew an exact week from when they move in.

October 20th, 1986 is his first day back at Family Video. He’d been transferred, referred much to Keith’s dismay, but probably his pleasure, too. (Considering how immediate his response had been to Steve’s question.) But it was his first day back. Didn’t need to be trained. Just hooked like a fish to deceased worm bait, thrown out to the river that is their block’s neighbors and strangers and mere acquaintances that feel no better or worse about having new people take residency on their street, but he’s also not reeled back in at the end of his shift. If anything, he’s tangled in his own wire, flopping, gasping for water, drying to the gravel by the shallow give of the river’s flow. He is stranded behind the register. Returning customers telling him he should know what they like, or what discount they need, or how many movies they’ve checked out previously. That he should know that a particular customer is friends with the owner of the Family Video he so sorely resides in. But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. So he makes do. He powers through it. Feigns mundane annoyance like gum flavorless between his teeth, though he’s biting his tongue to not sob.

That’s not where the bad ends. No. Of course not.

He’s within walking distance to their apartment. Which should be fine. In fact, it’s incredibly handy because even if he were running late to work, he could blame it on something stupid. (‘My key broke off in the lock, had to bother the landlord.’ ‘Yeah, had a leak in the bathroom this morning, have to report it just in case it tries to flood the downstairs neighbors.’ ‘It’s odd, seems like the lock loves to devour my keys.’ Nervous laughter.) But just because he’s within walking distance does not mean that life is plainly simple. No, what happens is he gets soaked with dirty road rain water. Was it mentioned that it’s been raining all day? No? Well, it has been. And it’s a downpour. Forecast said it would happen tonight, not midday, not while he’s trying to power walk home so he can make the peanut butter and jelly sandwich of his dreams. But it does. Because of course. And some asshole, screaming out their window to tell him that he should’ve worn a raincoat, speeds by. Coating him from collarbone to toe in the mucky rainwater of a city that’s too busy for a place like bumfuck Indiana. At least in Hawkins everybody knows your name; at least they have the common decency to let you stroll on by before they make a major move like that. But in a city bustling with busy, selfish, awful people—because aren’t all city inhabitants like this, should he have realized something like this was bound to happen? Well, he did. Just didn’t think it would take less than a month for it to occur.

Sopping wet. Exhausted and burnt out. Hungry like a rabid stray dog. He walks briskly. Skipping over the cracks and lines in the sidewalk, no matter how much disdain he tastes for his mother. Missing freshly spat out gum by mere centimeters. Shoulder checking a few too slow pedestrians, their sneering faces burning into his back. And the next awful thing comes in like a planned prank on some mocking little sitcom show. Dog shit. Pure dog shit, brown and putrid and soft on the sole of his right Adidas Superstar. His brand new shoes. The shoes he got himself less than a month ago. Shoes that he had been eyeing for years, but couldn’t muster the courage or the reason to buy them. And now there’s dog shit on the bottom of his shoe. He smears it on the concrete, squishing it further into the ridges of his sole, scraping it against the harsh ground. Tries his best. Checks the bottom of the shoe precariously. And without missing a beat…topples down onto his ass, thankfully away from the smeared shit, but down onto the ground nonetheless. He prickles, stands up on his shaky legs, dusts off his ass, and storms the rest of the way home.

Maybe he shouldn’t slam the door. But it’s barely anything in comparison to the rest of his day. He shouldn’t do it. He knows that it could get them a noise complaint. Though, the way it vibrates against his back, settling deep into the wood, stepping out of his sneakers to wash in the tub in a few—it’s all too good.

The anger begins to dissipate from him in just that small action.

Then, again like a well-mannered sitcom scene, in barrels Eddie from his bedroom. Arms crossed over his chest, hip popped to the side, harsh scowl to his face. “Man, are you fucking serious?” He spits.

“What?” Steve asks, panting, breathless, absolutely done with today. With tomorrow. With the rest of this week.

“I told you this morning that I was going to be studying in my room! All day! Told you that I wanted it to be quiet, and the first thing you do when you get home is slam the door shut?!” He growls. Snarling, he continues, “And what about the noise complaints?! We can’t afford any of those, we need this place! Could you not—“

Steve pushes past him, shoes in hand, work bag slung down like a bomb to the floor. Leaving its contents scattered. A copy of Airplane! on VHS, some stickers reading ‘Be kind, rewind’, measly three dollars, and his Family Video vest. All of it strewn about their place. Pooling murky water on the surface, just as Steve’s clothes were dripping everywhere else. He closes himself in the bathroom, but doesn’t lock the door. In fact, that stupid fucking lock doesn’t even work. Nothing works. He stays in there anyway. Really, they should clean in here. Clorox the hell out of every surface. Maybe see if the piss stains will come up with a harshly gripped mop. But instead of those important things, he tosses his sneakers into the bathtub, and sits with his head in his hands on the closed toilet lid. Mushy socks to the tiled floor. Pants uncomfortably drying and chafing on his legs. Underwear like a second skin to his balls. His polo tight across his back and terribly moist.

Shoves his palms harsh into his eyes and whistles through his nose. “Fuck,” he mutters, lip wobbling with the word.

A tentative knock to the door startles him. “Steve?” Eddie’s voice rings out. It’s murmured, careful, testing the syllables on his tongue. “Hey, can I come in? I’m—“ He sighs, the anger he had before blowing away from him. “I’m sorry,” he sincerely apologizes. “I’m sorry that my first instinct was to get mad. I—“

“Just come in,” he croaks. It’s not very loud, but it must be enough because Eddie pushes the door open mere seconds later.

He sighs, mouth downturning when he sees Steve on the toilet. Meekly holds up Steve’s also brand new messenger bag. Stained like the tiled flooring under their socked feet. It’s sodden and depressing. “Hey,” he mutters.

Steve just hums in return. Looking up to Eddie from the toilet, he must be a sorry sight. All soaking wet, spine hunched and scrunched in a horrifically twisted amalgamation, hair limp in his eyes. Something has to read on him for Eddie to be gazing at him the way he is. All big eyes and sorry mouth and his shoulders slouched like he’s admitting defeat. Part of Steve doesn’t want him to, wants him to keep getting riled, yelling about their lease and the slammed doors and the forgetfulness that seems to flow through Steve just as easily as blood. Wants to be called names. Wants to have a non-delicate conversation about how much of a screw-up he is, how he should’ve listened to his father and never moved away, why he’s a disaster of a person. Tell Steve all the ways in which he’s deserving of the bad days. Deserving of their frequency. Deserving of misery.

“Are you—No, you probably aren’t, but I’m asking anyway. Are you okay, Steve?”

That—Well, that breaks something in him. The final block on his wobbling tower of everything and too much. Under his skin, like weak twigs, his ribs are snapping. Crumbling beneath him to make room for the way his lungs expand with the need to gasp. The need to hiccup his way through a terrible explanation.

His mouth twitches, lips pursing. Looks away. “I—“ Steve rasps. “No,” he sobs.

Warmth crowds him, all too sudden and all too much. Hands gravitating to his magnetic pull. Squeezing his shoulder and pushing back his stringy hair. Though, immediately and dizzyingly, he is reminded of that stupid rhetoric. He shouldn’t follow it. Shouldn’t even allow it to have the vice grip it does on his brain.

But he shakes Eddie off, standing uneasily from the toilet, walking around him. He paces into the kitchen, hungry and shaking and needed to do something. Get his energy out one way or another. Fight off the tears, no matter how relieving they would be. Clatters through the cupboards. Finds the cheap, shitty, generic white bread. And an already half-eaten jar of peanut butter, odd peaks and valleys in it as if somebody’s been chowing down on it with a spoon. That doesn’t matter, though. At least there’s any peanut butter at all.

Eddie’s not too far behind him. Standing in the kitchen’s entryway, hands floating in front of him, reaching out for Steve. “Hey, Stevie, I can make you a sandwich. Y’know, if you want to change out of your clothes. Must be uncomfortable,” he’s placating.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Steve lies to himself. Because he needs this to be true. Just this one good thing. One thing he can do for himself. Make something he wants to eat. Something he’s been thinking about all day. Something that plasters an easy enough smile to his already half-puffy face, tears encroaching and sobs clawing their way up to his throat. But when he grabs for the jelly, “Are you fucking kidding me?” He slams the door of the fridge closed. No jar in sight. Not a single kind. No marmalade or strawberry jam or even the nasty grape jelly he bought for when Robin visits. There’s nothing. “Are you—“ He groans, huffs, and hiccups.

Attempting to cover himself, he shoves his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes.

The one thing he can’t let Eddie see, because crying is going to happen whether Steve likes it or not, is that he’s an ugly crier. The ugliest, and he knows that. All bubbled snot and dripping its residue over his top lip. Lips bitten red raw from muffling the sobs. Spit burbled in the corners of his mouth. Choking on wet gasps, hiccuping with his whole body, trying to drink the air around him. Skin going splotchy red and hideously swollen, the swelling still apparent even two hours later.

With the first sob, he knows it won’t be possible to hide this breakdown. Eddie’s already inching closer, hands still out in front of him. Steve is a wounded animal, it seems like. He cries loud and shameful, mouth dropped open, his saliva bubbling between his teeth. Already choking on his first gasp.

“It’ll be alright, Stevie,” Eddie tries to soothe, “We can get more jelly, it’s alright.”

“No,” Steve cries, “No! It’s not—“ A series of short, hiccuping, wet gasps. Followed then by a snotty snort, bubbled and causing his breath to whistle. “Such a bad day,” he attempts to explain, voice keening, high pitched in the back of his throat. “Everybody was so mean—Clothes are—All wet and gross—“ Heavy swallow like trying to consume large shards of glass. He flaps his hands at his sides, scrunching them, trying to squeeze himself back to his ordinary box. But instead, more snorting sobs leave him.

Eddie places a warm hand on the back of Steve’s neck. Thumb digging into a knot that’s forming. He puts his other palm on his bare arm, coaxing him over to one of the dining chairs. Settles him down and crouches in front of his sob-riddled, hiccuping, contorting body. Holding Steve’s face with one hand, he reaches for the crumpled bandana in his back pocket, raising it between them. “Look at me, Stevie baby,” he murmurs, “Let me help you.” Steve drags his eyes away from where they’d been zeroed in on the floor. Locking with Eddie’s own sad and soft gaze. “There you are,” Eddie whispers. He gently strokes Steve’s cheek with the edge of his bandana. Gliding it over his skin, patting at the drying tear tracks. His other hand, thumb wedged near the corner of Steve’s mouth, wipes away at the spittle. “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he mutters, “But we’ll get it back on track, alright? You’ll be okay, sweetheart. I promise you’ll be okay.”

Steve’s lips wobble. “I thought you were mad,” he nasally whispers. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Stopping his slow and careful work, Eddie stares in heartbreaking dismay. “You deserve nice things, Steve. It doesn’t matter that I was mad. I’m not mad anymore.” And then he runs his bandana over the snot trails under Steve’s nose. Looking on with an odd mix of sadness and reverence. Thumb not even wiping anything away anymore, simply caressing over Steve’s heated, swollen skin.

He swallows glass again. Blinks sluggishly. Calmed down, oddly. This is probably the quickest cry he’s ever had. He chuckles, “God, I’m such an ugly crier, man.” Sighs. “Can’t believe you’re willingly wiping at my snot right now. ’T’s nice.”

“Stop being so hard on yourself, sweetheart. I don’t even think you’re ugly.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“What—I’m being honest!” Eddie quietly exclaims. He shifts the hand on Steve’s jaw, palm cupping his cheek, fingers splayed over his ear, holding him in a sweet yet fragile way. “Steve, you’re, like, gorgeous. I hate seeing you so upset, but you’re like an angel or something when you cry.” He draws his bandana away, but brings it back to cover the end of Steve’s nose. “Blow into this,” he instructs. And so Steve does, blowing out whatever didn’t already leave him in his crying episode. Eddie pulls it back again, not even grimacing at what is surely a squelching snot-covered mess in his hand. He massages his fingers into the hair around Steve’s ear. Gazing. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, reiterating. “And you deserve nice things, especially after what a clusterfuck of a day you must’ve had. And you deserve to breakdown every once in a while. Don’t have to hide just because you think you shouldn’t cry or because you’re ‘ugly’ or whatever.”

“Thanks, Eds,” Steve squeaks. Face flushing with heat, gratefully not from tears. He flashes a small smile, modest but there, for the first time today. “You really mean all that? Even when you called me sweetheart?”

Eddie is bashful, smile stretching, going red in the face, tilting his head as if assessing. But the lovesick sheen to his eyes says he’s already made up his mind. “Yeah,” he murmurs, careful and devoted, “yeah, baby. I do mean all that I said.”

“Can I have one more good thing?” Steve tentatively asks.

“What’s that?”

He touches between his eyebrows. “Forehead kiss?” (And sure, maybe he does pout a little, but can you blame him?)

Eddie, without missing a beat, leans forward, fiercely cupping Steve’s cheek, pressing a slightly damp kiss to Steve’s skin. Then under his eyes. The tip of his nose. Corner of his mouth. Pulls back, whispering, “You can have all the kisses you want, sweetheart.” Still caressing Steve, he offers, “How ‘bout I go get you some new jelly while you take a warm bath? And when you’re out, clean clothes and not shivering, we can curl up on the couch and watch that movie you got?”

“Okay,” Steve mutters.

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs back. He presses one more kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Let’s make this a good day, baby.”

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington is an ugly crier #hurt/comfort

222 notes · View notes

nervoushottee · 3 months

Text

Illicit Affairs | Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: You wish you were enough for Steve, but he will always want Nancy.

Warnings: cheating trope, reader is the other woman, Steve is a cheater, angstttt, very minimal sexual themes, drinking

Note: hey hottees! Back with another Steve fic! Was in the mood for some angsty Steve drama and wrote this in one sitting a few nights ago so there limited editing. Hope you enjoy!

Series Masterlist

(To get into the mood of the story, it helps to listen to Illicit Affairs by Taylor Swift while reading)

You wish you could see this part of him more often than you do. You wish that you could do this during the day instead of the middle of night. You lay in his bed, still naked underneath the sheets from the actions a few hours prior.

Steve sleeps next to you, snoring softly in the middle of the night as you count the many freckles on up his arms and down his back. Tracing your thumb faintly against his bottom lip, feeling the breath against your skin as he sleeps. He looks peaceful, serene and happy as he holds you tighter in his arms.

It shouldn’t have gone this way, it shouldn’t have gone like this. You shouldn’t be the other woman who sneaks glances and short kisses. You didn’t want these moments only to be seen behind closed doors.

When Steve kissed you that night during the small bonfire party. You thought that was it, you thought you and Steve were finally going to be something. The constant push and pull between you both. From the King Steve days before Nancy and after her. From your few exes that all turned to regret and dumb decisions. From blind dates to one night stands in the end the two of you always find each other again.

Steve was there to pick you up when you faked an emergency to get out of shitty dates. You comforted Steve when Nancy broke his heart. He held you in his arms when you got cheated on. Best friends weren’t even the right term to describe it. You and Steve both knew it was more than that. Hell, even Robin could see it.

So when everyone had run into Lovers Lake for a tipsy late night swim, you had got out early to warm up by the fire before going home. Steve saw you, gave you his dry sweatshirt and offered to drive you home. You declined but agreed to let him walk you to your car.

The two of you talk like usual, not so subtly bumping into each other and staying as close as possible against each other as you walk. Steve makes a joke about not getting his precious hair wet when you ask him why he hadn’t gotten in the lake. It makes you laugh and push him away playfully.

You get to the driver seat of your car and the two of you stand so close to each other. The moon and the stars watch you both in awe of your ¨will they or won't they¨. You could blame it on the one beer you had two hours before. Or the fact that it was getting late and you were pretty tired already. But you know that would be a lie. Something happened that night, something felt different in the air. Maybe it was Steve’s smile, or how he looked down at you with his eyes low.

You forgot about everything rational and logical as you placed your wet hand on his cheek and kissed him.

It was a quick ever so soft kiss.

When you moved away you thought you would feel a pit in your stomach. A sense of regret from that small yet intimate gesture. But there was nothing there. No ounce of fear or embarrassment. And when you saw the small smile grow on Steve’s face, you knew he felt the same thing.

He kissed you a lot harder. Both of his hands against your cheek as he presses his lips on yours. He tasted of chocolate and smoke. He was warm like the fire as he wraps his hands around your cold waist. The two of you stay that way for a minute or so before separating. With a smile you ask Steve if you’ll see him tomorrow, and instead of response, he simply kisses you again like it’s second nature.

The drive home felt magical. The windows down, your hair still a bit wet from the lake as you drove home on the empty roads. You were happy and kissing Steve felt right and long overdue.

You went to sleep that night with a smile on your face and woke up with one the next morning. It grew even wider when you heard the one, two, three knocks on your door. With a small skip in your step you open the door excitedly. That excitement goes away when you see Steve with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He looks up and tries to greet you with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You try to ask him if he’s okay but he dodges your question and asks if he can come in. Steve’s never forward with you. He comes to your house when he pleases and vice versa. He never needs an invite or a request. Despite the small ounce of worry forming in your stomach, you nod your head and Steve enters.

He heads to your kitchen and puts both hands on the countertop. His back is towards you and his head leans down. It almost looks like he’s going to be sick with how he looks in front of your sink.

“Is everything okay?” You ask shyly.

Steve doesn’t respond immediately, which causes the worry to grow larger and larger with every silent second. Finally to your relief, Steve speaks.

“After you left last night, Nancy talked to me about some things.” He tells you. His back still turned but his head raised as he looked out your small kitchen window.

“Yeah?”, urging him to go on. The worry grows fiercely now when you hear “Nancy” leaving his lips.

He finally turns around to you, crossing his arms and leans back against the counter he was just hunching over. Despite seeing him now, his eyes don’t meet yours. He looks at his shoes, your fuzzy socks you wear at home, even the old kitchen tile. “She-uh” he scratches his eyebrow, a small thing he does when he’s nervous and hesitant.

“What did she ask you out or something?” You say with a small laugh. You try to say it as a joke, but deep down it's a question you ask to finally put the worry to rest. But when Steve finally looks up at you immediately after you ask, you know that your joke was his reality. Fuck.

“She said that she wanted to try again. Asked if I wanted to.” Steve tells you softly.

You try not to scoff at what you hear. Despite your worry and the big wave of heartbreak that’s about to rush over you if you know any better. You can’t help but go into bestfriend mode and get upset about Nancy acting like Steve still doesn’t love her. That he wouldn't sit and roll over if she asked him to. The many years you’ve been friends with Steve, you’ve never seen him love someone has fiercely and wholeheartedly as he does with Nancy. Despite them being apart you know Steve would prefer it a different way.

You force the anger down your throat like a large pill and try to keep the many emotions you feel from surfacing.“And what did you say?” You ask him quietly.

He doesn’t speak again, but he doesn’t have to. His eyes tell you all you need to know. It’s filled with guilt and apologies. Filled with a need to hold you and kiss you all the same.

“Oh.” you respond. Instinctively, your arms wrap around your waist as best as they can. In an attempt to comfort yourself. You try to force the tears away as you blink at them harshly.

“I understand.” You tell him. And you do. You know that you didn’t stand a chance against Nancy Wheeler. She was beautiful, smart, kind and determined. Who wouldn’t want to be with her? You knew if Steve was ever given the option to try again with Nancy. If he was with another girl or guy and she wanted to give it another go, he’d say yes in a heartbeat. So what made you any different?

You didn’t notice that you were crying until Steve pointed it out, walking to you quickly to wipe them away from your cheek. You should push him away. You should tell him to go to Nancy and that you will be fine. That the kiss from last night was because you were drinking and alcohol made you feel warm and affectionate. But you didn’t, you let him wrap his arms around you and kiss your head repeatedly. You let him tell you soft praises of comfort as he slowly rocks you both, back and forth. And you let him kiss you in the middle of your kitchen. Your lips wet with tears as you hold on fiercely on the bottom of his shirt.

That was one of the first many nights of his affair with you. Of you being the only woman. There were no rules or decisions made of how it was going to be. The two of you just fell into a rhythm of loving each other quietly. Steve would come to you in the middle of the night with a knock on your door. You would use the key hidden beneath the daisy plant and slip inside his bed next to him.

Nancy never slept over at Steve’s, he would only spend the night at hers. You don’t know why you had asked the question one night after hours of ecstasy and bliss. The sweat on your skin slowly drying from laying together naked in the sheets. Steve’s fingers tracing up and down against your back when he tells you. “I don’t let Nance in here. We don’t do anything here.”

Meaning he doesn’t have sex with her here. She doesn’t moan his name like you do against his sheets. She doesn’t sleep in the spot you’ve marked as your own in his bed. She doesn’t wake up in the middle of night to use his bathroom or place her toothbrush in the same spot you leave yours. You don’t know if his confession makes you feel better or worse. Because you know it will happen sooner or later.

And one day, you’ll put an end to this. One day you’ll stop. Because you know it's not fair.

Not to you or to Steve or even Nancy. But you know the day you tell Steve to choose, that you’re not going to like his answer. You won't be his first choice. You never were. And if you hear him say it, it will all feel too real. You don’t think you’d have the heart to stay around any of them after that. Your heart is shattered already and Steve is holding the pieces right in front of you with the glue in his pocket.

So you tell yourself that you’ll ask him tomorrow. And then tomorrow comes and you put it off for the next day. And the cycle goes on and on and on and on because you only just got Steve.

You’re not ready to let him go just yet, even though he’s not really yours in the first place.

#steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve stranger things #steve x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington angst #steve angst

216 notes · View notes

augustjustice · 8 months

Text

Sharing Smokes Outside the Snow Ball

AO3 Link

It's the Winter of 1999, and Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson are standing outside the Hawkins Middle School Snow Ball, sharing a smoke.

Eddie can't believe he's back here, the whole thing feeling nearly as surreal as that nightmare, wayward Spring Break over ten years ago. He'd barely made it out of that hell hole alive, Steve himself practically having to hold Eddie together as they made their way from Forest Hill to Hawkins Memorial Hospital.

Spring had turned into summer, sweltering and oppressive as Eddie slowly, painfully healed.

There had been bright spots, though. Watching Lucas and Erica squabble during the one-shot campaign he had cooked up just for the party that June. Evenings out beside the Harrington's temperature controlled pool, beer bottle sweating in his hand as he traded a joint back and forth between Argyle and Jonathan, the sound of Robin's cackle loud and bright as she managed to hipcheck Steve into the pool. Steve's own blinding smile--a longtime feature of Eddie's secret high school fantasies--being turned on him the first time he made it from the front doors of the physical therapy clinic to the passenger side of his BMW, without needing any help at all.

But then summer had ended, and Eddie, finally back together again like a character out of a children's nursery rhyme, had packed up his van and headed straight to Chicago, not looking back.

Sure, there'd been post cards sent, phone calls to Dustin and the other Hellfire brats, promises to see everyone soon. Promises that Eddie couldn't keep, even if he wanted to.

Not when he didn't dare set foot in Hawkins, not ever again.

Then, over a decade into his second life as a struggling guitarist by night, record shop employee by day, his cousin Brooke had landed on his doorstep, looking too tired and too young all at once, a bruise around her eye. Behind her, her eleven year old son was studying the apartment hall's tiling.

"I left him." Eddie didn't need an explanation for that one. Her good-for-nothing husband, Nash. "Jake won't be any trouble, he just...needs a place to stay, while I get back on my feet. Somewhere his daddy can't find him. Just for a little while."

Eddie thought of his Mama. And then he called Wayne.

"Shit, Uncle Wayne, I--don't know what to do."

"Come on home now, boy," Wayne said, easy as anything, like Eddie had left only yesterday. "Come on back home."

So Eddie had.

That had been six months ago. And now he was standing in the aforementioned middle school parking lot with Steve 'the Hair' Harrington, while their kids--and wasn't that just a fucking head trip and a half--danced the night away.

"I keep half expecting Click to round the corner screaming my name," Eddie admits as he gives Steve a light. "Remember junior year, I sold to you in the alley behind the gym? Old bat nearly got me that time."

"Remember? I literally had to shove that joint down the front of my shorts, dude," Steve admits, which draws a snort out of Eddie to match his own chuckle. "Most of the guys on the basketball team couldn't move half as fast as you did that day. You practically vanished into the woods before she even made it to the stadium. Totally shoulda gone out for the track team, Eds."

Eddie clutches his chest, as though he's been shot. "Don't speak such blasphemy to me, Harrington."

"Yeah, well, you can quit worrying. Pretty sure she finally retired," Steve tells him, taking a long drag before he's passing the cigarette back to Eddie, even that brief touch enough to send sparks of electricity up Eddie's arm. Then he shoots Eddie that charming, infamous Harrington smile, boyish and cocky, the one that says he's used to getting exactly what he wants. "Even if she's not, I'm head of the PTA. If Higgins tries anything, I'll just threaten not to bring cupcakes to the next bake sale."

"Harrington, my hero," Eddie fakes a swoon, collapsing for a brief second against Steve's shoulder, an excuse to get close.

The theatrics get no rise out of Steve beyond an amused smirk. Even after all these years, he's still used to Eddie's antics, it seems.

"You know, it was total déjà vu," he nods to the middle school gymnasium, all decked out in blue and white, "dropping Sam off here."

Though he's actually gotten to know the Harrington offspring in person since he's been back, Eddie had received the rundown from Dustin and the others on Steve's journey to dadhood in their scattered calls over the years.

The December after Eddie had left, Steve had met a girl, taken her out on a few dates, and accidentally gotten her pregnant.

With Samantha, a name Dustin had proudly persuaded Steve into as the little girl's godfather. Every bit as adorable, now that Eddie had seen her, as the gushing picture the party had painted for him, all big blue eyes and wavy chestnut hair just like her father's.

Steve had gotten down on one knee long before she was born, determined to tie the knot and do right by her mother nearly as soon as he'd heard the news.

The pair had been divorced not even two years later.

"I don't think they were ever really in love," Dustin had informed Eddie one sunny afternoon impromptu of nothing, as always blunt in his honesty. "But you know what Steve is like. He's a hopeless romantic."

Eddie didn't, not exactly. But he's gotten enough glimpses, both back in '86 and much more recently, that he's starting to put the picture together.

Steve draws Eddie out of that particular reverie with another bright laugh. And then he's recounting the memory of Dustin's hair, done up in the infamous Harrington 'do, as Steve pulled up in front of the '84 Snow Ball playing chaperone in his trusty Beemer, long since traded in for the much more affordable sedan he's driving now.

"I demand photographic evidence, Harrington," Eddie insists, smile crooked, that distracting dimple appearing in his right cheek, "you can't conjure up an image like that and then not fork over the goods."

"Hey, man, talk to Dustin. Mrs. Henderson took like...a million pictures that night," Steve laughs.

But he's already mentally going through the album tucked away on a bookcase back at home, positive he's got his own photo to show for it. It'll make for a nice excuse to invite Eddie over for dinner one night.

The subject turns then to their own checkered experiences with school dances.

"Class of '85, baby! That's when they made your 'King Steve' title official," Eddie crows, teasing as he taps Steve once on the nose.

Steve goes a bit cross-eyed, following the movement of his finger.

"Yeah, well, talk about a total let-down of a night. I didn't even bring a date," Steve admits, tone blasé. The truth is, his entire senior year had been something of a disappointed trudge towards graduation, a walk he had taken mostly alone. There had been bright spots--the little band of miscreants he'd fallen into babysitting, for one--but they had all been far outside the walls of Hawkins High. "I'm guessing you weren't around for that? Not really your scene, especially with the Munson Doctrine's strict rules about 'forced conforming.'"

He puts Eddie's words in deliberate air quotes, his turn to give him a teasing smile.

"You're wrong about that one, big boy. I saw them, adorning your glorious locks with the crown." That mischievous smile is back. "We're not that old, dude, don't tell me you already forgot the whole 'prom streaking' incident?"

Eddie shoots him a loaded, deliberate look.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Shaking his head with a laugh, Steve waves his arms in front of him, like he's calling a time out. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me. That was you?"

"The one and only. What can I say, Jeff and Gareth dared me. Besides, by that point," Eddie shrugs casually, "I already knew I didn't have a shot at graduating anyway, so. Thought I'd close out the year with a bang."

"You've seriously never considered doing anything halfway in your life, have you, Munson?" Steve asks, giving Eddie's shoulder an almost exasperated nudge, smile fond in spite of himself.

"Absolutely not, Stevie boy. Life's too short. Where's the fun in playing it safe?"

Eddie swings into Steve's space, then, dark eyes sparkling. Goading and flirtatious. Just like when they were teenagers, thrown together in the worst of circumstances but making the best of it, before time and pain and trauma put all that distance between them.

And if Steve's eyes drop down to Eddie's lips as they share air, slow enough it can't be anything but deliberate, and their fingers brush just a tad too intimately the next time they trade the cigarette back and forth...well. They've got a lot of lost time--and shared smokes in school parking lots--to make up for.

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #my writing #my stuff #my things #i watched the end of season 2 for the umpteenth time this evening #remembered i always wanted a steddie scene parallel to the jopper smoking scene outside the snow ball #and then wrote this in a fevered haze over the past two hours #so apologies for any mistakes and messiness

357 notes · View notes