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trashmouth-richie · 8 months

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MODERN! EDDIE x FEM! READER

MODERN! KING! STEVE x FEM READER

CHAPTER 2: DOUBLE DOSED

summary: taking the back roads to Indianapolis was Eddie’s idea. the day trip there was Steve’s. But when Wayne’s borrowed truck grinds to a halt on the hottest day in September, the tension and the boys’ tempers aren’t the only thing to rise.

warnings: 18+ smut, alcohol use, drug use, drug mention, kinda sadboy! Eddie, king Steve being king Steve, modern times so things such as google and Snapchat are mentioned. no use of y/n, reader has a nickname, pet name usage.

The blazing swell of the late September sun had been pelting down on you all day. Stuffed right between your best friend Eddie and his best friend Steve, the humid Midwest air trickled through the open windows in a hazy wave of oven door heat.

Between Steve’s hair-brained idea of driving to Indianapolis for tickets to the annual Irvington Halloween Festival and Eddie’s even more ridiculous idea of taking Wayne’s single cab truck, without A/C to make the 4 hour round trip drive— it was no surprise when the clunking metal of the brown ‘86 Chevy spluttered to a grinding stop alongside the highway.

100 miles from Hawkins, and nothing but pent up anger boiling at the surface to keep you all company.

“Oh this is just great Munson,” Steve groaned, swinging open his door and slamming it shut with a metallic bang. A ring of sweat set deep in the Hawkins athletic shirt he was wearing, a heavy hand pushing his hair from his face, “dude, let’s take the truck!” he mocks the long haired metal head, “fuckin’ told you this would happen!”

The boys weren’t exactly getting along for the entirety of this trip. Eddie and you had made plans to decorate your apartment tonight for Halloween, a month too early just like you did every year, a night full of themed snacks and cheesy 80s horror movies, the perfect opportunity to finally make his move.

But when Steve showed up at the light blue trailer looking for his wingman to help him score at Hargrove’s party— he was less than impressed to find you peeking around Eddie’s outstretched arm holding open the door, a shit-eating grin on your face. Even more pissed when Eddie told him that you would be tagging along. A roll of his eyes and a scoff on his lips as he pounded down the concrete steps.

Steve wasn’t your favorite and you definitely weren’t his. He didn’t get the appeal.. Always too loud, too annoying, acting like one of the boys when clearly you were just too insecure to have any friends that were girls.

As he stomped through the dead grass he told himself it had nothing to do with the fact that you turned him down freshman year, never mind that it was six years ago and Steve had plenty of girls added to his belt, his snap score and drawer full of stolen panties proved it. Never mind that his bruised ego from that night at a bonfire in the woods pushed him into his King Steve era. He flicked a cigarette into the dirt, muttering under his breath.

“Fuck off, Harrington.” Eddie gripes as he shoves the gear shift into neutral, he lowers down to his left and pulls the hood jack towards him. “It’ll be an easy fix.” He says to you, his breath fanning your sweaty cheek as he shoves open the door and jumps out, boots crunching along the gravel as he pushes the hood open.

To be fair, Wayne’s truck had about a 50/50 chance of making the trek to Indianapolis, but Eddie had wanted to take it for a few reasons, and not one of them was for a trip down memory lane like he had told Steve.

The first reason he wanted to drive the truck opposed to Steve’s BMW, was lol was because it was a stick shift. An opportunity to let him float the gears and have his veins pop out that he knew was a panty wetter for most girls, he had only hoped you fit into that category.

The second reason was simple: there was no air conditioning, meaning the small tank top you were wearing would undoubtedly become very hot, and maybe… just maybe you would think of taking it off to cool down.

And finally the third reason mimicked the first… you would be sitting bitch in the middle, and with each shift between gears, his arm would be sliding around the soft plains of your luscious thighs. The same thighs that were bare besides a high waisted pair of cut off shorts that had his mind flipping the perv meter to dangerous levels when you hopped off your bike this morning.

Greeting him with the same smile that cooked his brain to mush for years.

Only today— you were starting to flirt back with him, pushing your ass out and bending at the waist just to untie your shoes. Even though in the history of forever, you had never once taken off your worn converse in the Munson trailer. You also were wearing a tank top, accentuating your curves, and Eddie was ready to chew a hole in the makeshift drywall of his trailer when you bounced up the steps to greet him.

Usually you hid your body with a baggy shirt and a pair of jeans, your fuck-off attitude is what earned you the right to have Eddie as a friend in the first place.

Tonight he was going to push the limits, share a joint with you when the yellow harvest sun dipped low into the indigo trees, kiss your ear with chapped lips while he held you when the movie had a jump scare… he had a plan. And Steve ‘cockblock’ Harrington was being the worst wingman of all time.

Sliding out of Eddie’s door, the Navajo rug blanket snags against the cracked leather of the worn seat. The back of your knees were sticky and shiny with sweat, same as your cleavage, not a single stitch of wind to be found along the gravel road— unless you counted Steve’s annoyed huffs.

—

Steve bitched and moaned the entire time Eddie was bent over the truck. Investigating what had gone wrong, “aren’t you supposed to be some sorta mechanic?” He grumbled, pushing his hair from his forehead, slotting his hands back into place around the Levi’s on his athletic hips, “swear to God if you make me miss this party, and what Lily has been teasing me with on snap,” his eyes roll into the back of his head at the thought of it, almost letting out a desperate whine.. “I’ll shoot you dead Munson.”

“Take it easy Stevie,” Eddie grunted, his jaw tensed and an irritated tone on his lips. His brows turned inward in concentration as he twisted a wrench with strong grease covered hands from behind the hood, “just need’t.. fuck.” Dark smoke started billowing out around him.

His foul mouth spewed a string of words that barely made any sense, ending his fit with a slam of the hood and his wrench thrown into the ditch.

You walk pointed nails across his sweat covered bare back easing his bruised ego with a sickly sweet voice, “it’s okay,” you preen, pushing your chest into his side when he wiggles from your tickling fingers, his dark eyes swirling into calm and the huff from his breath lost in his throat, “I’ll just call AAA.”

AAA did not service in your area, and according to google— the nearest gas station was twenty miles away, a podunk hole in the wall that sold newspapers for a quarter and had 1 star reviews.

“Fuck,” Eddie shouted, kicking the tires and hiding the burn of ache traveling up his leg, “the hell are we gonna do now?”

“Guess we’re fucking stranded! Great idea Munson, gonna die by the inbred hands of the family from The Hills Have Eyes, but god we just had to take this piece of shit!.” Steve spit as he flopped back into the bed of the truck.

Eddie pointed a greased finger into Steve’s chest, “you,” he said prodding with emphasize, “were the one who didn’t want to buy them online, oh God Eddie let’s just get out of Hawkins for the day, make Lily sweat a little bit, make her think I have a bitch in Indy..”

“Fuck off,” Steve said shoving Eddie’s hand away, sitting up, casting a stank eye in your direction, voice laced in venom, “at least my dick is getting w—”

A pack of cards hits Steve right in the chest, hard and knocking the insult from his lungs.

It was your idea.

The slick pack of cards in the glove box with paisley red design on the front was sure to lend some relief and make time pass between now and when Robin would be on the way, driving Steve’s BMW with white knuckles and the radio off no doubt. You had texted her when the boys were arguing, explaining the situation and promising her a small white baggy from Eddie’s stash when you got back.

“great idea,” Steve accuses, “s’ gonna take at least 2 hours to get here,” his hands fly in the air in defeat as he yells, “she’s failed her drivers test four fuckin’ times because she drives like my grandma, and that old bag has been dead for years!”

“Cool it, you didn’t have any other ideas besides whining Steve,” Eddie defends, fingers wrapped around the neck of a foggy glass bottle filled with amber liquor, he hands it to you in a slick move of his wrist bending and presenting both a blunt and the bottle like a flower blooming in his open palm, “might as well relax a little s Sswhile we wait, make it worth our while.”

The liquor went down with a burn, hotter than the pinked shoulders of Eddie’s sunburnt skin. And the small band of splotchy salmon across Steve’s nose.

Eddie wrestled a dusty moth bitten blanket from behind the seat, and spread it on the bed of the truck. Before you could push your ass up onto the tailgate, he had wrapped his hands tight along your hips and hoisted you up. A grip so tight he didn’t want to let go, your body feeling just right in his palms, and you were feeling it too.

As the liquor bottle got lighter and lighter, the tension eased, Steve was actually laughing at Eddie’s jokes and wasn’t rolling his eyes as much when he had to give you a card or when Eddie praised you for winning again.

When Steve threw his cards on the blanket and twisted his arms in a pout at losing another round of Go Fish, it was his idea to play another game.

“It’s real easy,” he explained around a puff of smoke as he shuffled the cards back into the pack with his large tanned hands, a single bead of sweat sloping down from his temple and curling around his chin. “You hold up five fingers, and if you’ve never done what one of us says, you keep a finger up, but if you have… you put a finger down and take a sh—- hey dickhead!”

Eddie’s lips turn sinister around the glass bottle as rogue drops of Crown dribble from his chin. “Ooops,” he says coyly, eyes bigger than Betty Boop’s and already feeling the combined high and drunken stupor take over his body, “were you needing this?”

Dragging a hand down his face, Steve sighs, “yeah it’s kinda the whole point of the game, fucker,”

“Hey…” Eddie whines, “be nice Stephanie.”

With another ten minutes of arguing about Eddie being a jackass and Steve being crabby in hot weather, you all agree to play the game, the loser has to finish the bottle and strip off an item of clothing.

“Okay so let’s start this easy,” Steve explained, “never have I ever been arrested.”

Eddie puts a finger down and scowls, “good one Harrington,” he adjusts his legs and leans back against the frame of the truck, “just because you got away doesn’t mean your ass wasn’t just as guilty as mine.”

“Shoulda ran faster,”

The boys make annoyed faces at each other and it’s Eddie’s turn, “never have I ever… nope I’ve done that… never have I.. shit.. okay pass! I gotta think.”

“Your turn,” he says, passing you the bottle of almost empty liquor.

“Okay, Uhh..” you hold the bottle with both hands and gently peel back the label with your fingernail, rubbing the sticky residue between your fingers, you rack your brain for something that would get them both, “never have I ever… peed standing up.”

The boys roll their eyes, and each put a finger down, “cheap shot,” Steve whines, and glowers when you stick your tongue out at him.

“Oh I got one!” Eddie says rubbing his hands together, splaying a wicked grin on his face, “never have I ever, socked Billy Hargrove in the face.”

You push Eddie’s shoulder and slap his chest playfully, as he laughs like a hyena, “he deserved it!”

Steve chokes on his inhale of the passed blunt, “that was you?!”

“Fuck yeah it was!” Eddie says proudly, “that’s why she’s banned from the pool.”

Laughing at the now funny memory of Billy slapping your ass as you walked by him in your swimsuit.

The way Eddie’s fist felt in your hands as you shoved it down, the rage in his eyes as he was ready to beat the bricks off of Billy.

The sick twist of his mustache when it formed a grin knowing that Eddie was on his last strike with Hopper and couldn’t defend you.

And the satisfying crack of his molars splintering in his gum line when you knocked your fist into his jaw.

The pain and swollen fingers were worth it.

“And I’d do it again,” you say lowering a finger and taking a swig from the bottle, the burn of the liquor barely there now.

Steve laughs, a new sense of almost admiration, as he looks at you with his hair in his face, grabbing the joint from Eddie’s fingers and holding it firm between his teeth, “my turn,” he says clearing his throat, “uh..never have I ever… kissed Eddie.”

You and Eddie look at eachother and giggle awkwardly around the cloud of dense smoke, but your fingers never budge.

“Seriously?” Steve says incredulously, looking from you to Eddie and back to Eddie and then you again, “can’t lie in this game, dude.”

Eddie had come close to kissing you on a few occasions. Once in high school at Steve’s party after winning the beer pong tournament, he looked at you the way someone would a lover, wetting his lips and looking at your mouth, but in the end he gave you a bone crushing hug and twirled you around the room.

Another time during the 4th of July fireworks last year when you had both smoked two bowls from the pretty pipe he gifted you earlier that year on your birthday.

The air was warm, just like today, and you leaned your back into his front as you laid lazily on the roof of his van. He was singing a song you were too high to comprehend and when you turned your head into his shoulder and looked up at him.

His fingers wrapped around a lock of your hair and you hummed in approval. Snuggling further into him. And the next thing you knew it was nearly dawn and you had fallen asleep.

It just never seemed like the right time.

“So who’s turn is it?” Eddie said clearing his throat.

“Oh n-n-n-n-n-n-no!” Steve said leaning further into the circle, clearly interested to know what’s going on, “we aren’t just gonna skate past this.”

“Drop it, Steve,” Eddie said all too fast, his boots stretching out to kick at his thigh.

The bottle in your hands is suddenly heavy and you set it down with a clunk on the bed of the truck. And you pick hastily at your nails, avoiding two sets of brown eyes.

“Fuck it,” Steve says, tongue dancing around his mouth trying to stop a smirk, “I dare you to kiss her.”

You're certain your heart stops beating.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie sighs. Running his hand on the back of his neck, his open cut off flannel shirt showing off his tattooed chest.

“Y-you don’t have to Eddie, it’s okay…” you say trying to brush the tension off, not noticing the way his hands are fiddling with the ends of his shirt and how his eyes haven’t left you, “but I dare you to.”

It could have been the combined high. It could have been the fact that you hadn’t taken your eyes off of Eddie since you parked your bike against his trailer this morning.

He was always good looking, in that goofy best friend kind of way. And although your friendship was never normal, Eddie’s hands always searing through your skin like grill marks on a hotdog, it never crossed the boundary into something more. And you’d be lying if you weren’t curious about how his lips would taste.

That was all the convincing Eddie needed before he pushed himself up in a fluid motion, balancing on his knees, and leaning back with a second guess, but it’s you who leans up on your knees too, meeting him halfway.

His dark curls swing around your face as he gets impossibly closer. “You sure?” he asks, working a finger under the tip of your chin.

And your surprised when your nod is followed by soft lips, slipping against yours.

He tasted like the liquor you’ve been drinking and matches. Musky, and woodsy. Your tongue swipes against his bottom lip and catches into the corner of his mouth, the brine of sweat on your tongue has you whining into his mouth and he swallows your noises with glee.

He shudders when you pull him closer, fingers hooked into the fabric of his shirt. His eager hands holding your face, lips smacking against yours, and for the first time today, it’s not the heat that has your panties wet.

Kissing Eddie is like finding money in your jeans after they go through the dryer. It’s easy, and slow, and so fucking good.

Seconds, minutes, days? go by before Steve clears his throat and mutters an ahem!

Eddie finished the kiss by nudging is nose down the apple of your cheeks and kissing behind your ear.

“Fuck…” is all Steve can muster and you bite your lip and sit back down, lips still buzzing with Eddie’s spit still on them.

Eddie is smiling and looking at you, eyes drunk on lust.

“I— uh, yeah, it’s my turn I guess, ” straightening your back and crossing your legs in a pretzel, you know damn well you’d get at least one finger down from Steve. “Never have I ever… kissed Nancy Wheeler.”

Steve rolls his eyes and puts a finger down, and when a long finger covered in grease despite the many wipes against denim jeans also disappears into a fist… a sloppy grin lines Eddie’s mouth as Steve looks like he might throw up.

“Are you fuckin’ serious man?”

Eddie explains to a butthurt Steve, “let me explain, fuck— it was like a hundred years ago, after junior year, she kissed me!”

It was true.

Nancy went to Eddie to buy some “forget-‘ems” (Eddie’s coined word for ecstasy) after Jonathan left her for the pretty long haired new boy from California. She was scared and didn’t want to be alone while she took the white pill. Drug use being foreign to her entirely.

Eddie? She had asked kindly, unsure about herself for the first time. Take it with me?

His long curls bounced as he nodded his head, taking one of the pills from her dainty hands and placing it between his teeth. Tipping his head back with a quick jerk and a rough swallow, hoping it looked cool, he looked into her blue eyes and gave her a grin.

It was strange, having the preppy Nancy Wheeler in his trailer with her proper fitting cardigan and light wash skinny jeans.

He could tell she was uncomfortable, the normal glow of her skin was lost behind shallow cheeks and dark rimmed eyes, pressed tight with setting powder to try and hide it.

maybe she should have had a smaller dose, being that her small frame had never dealt with drugs before. And right when Eddie’s high took over, Nancy Wheeler had started to feel it too.

She ran around the trailer giggling and feeling the rough edges of the peeling wallpaper. She did flips on Eddie’s bed and spilled cereal all over the kitchen, laughing with dark wide pupil filled eyes. Completely rolling.

The high lasted longer than Eddie had thought it would, and she started to cry when thinking about her mom, crying harder when she asked Eddie about his. Forgetting she was gone.

She took it a step further by kissing Eddie square on the mouth, wet cheeks and harsh lips pressed to his before he could pull away. And immediately after, Nancy threw up all over his lap.

Ending the high and the four hour sudden friendship they had gained.

Eddie had told you the story one night when he got too drunk, making you swear to secrecy the next morning that you’d never tell a soul, and you hadn’t. Keeping the pinky promise with your friend all the way to your grave— if he hadn’t just spilled it all to Steve.

“See,” you say to try to smooth things over, voice calm and cool through your own high, “no harm no foul, Stevieee,” you chirped, hiding a small giggle behind bit lips.

“Really?” Steve spit, flustered and a bit bold trying to mask his hurt with venom. Tongue pressing deep into his cheek and his dark eyes locked on your own, hands tapping onto his bent knees, “then maybe we should even the score, huh?”

Eddie blows a ring of smoke into the air, following its lazy descent into the dense humid sky. “You wanna kiss Chrissy?” He looks at you with a quizzical expression, laughing at your stunned face, not understanding what Steve is getting at, “be my fucking guest, dude.”

“No,” Steve says firmly, not breaking eye contact with you, dark knives of fury peel back each layer of skin, “her.”

Eddie says your name in disbelief, and you’re stunned to your core, realizing the air was suddenly much stickier and hotter than before.

He sits up straight and leans over the discarded card game, pointing at Steve, eyes narrowed in on him, “you don’t even like her.”

“Sure I do,” Steve lies, sniffing loudly, his wicked eyes glance towards Eddie and he licks his lips when he turns his head back to you, eyeing you up and down, as he leans back on his palms, “don’t I, Taffy?”

Eddie’s nickname he had given you when you were kids for love of the cavity inducing candy, felt wrong falling from Steve’s mouth, especially in the grim sentiment it was said in.

Of course he was referring to the way he had approached you at that party at the lake all those years ago.

You could still smell his Acqua Di Gio cologne, the way the sun highlighted his hair that summer, the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the warm beer on his breath.

You make a face in disgust towards him, “I’m not kissing you, Harrington.” Crossing your arms in finality as if your words held enough power to command an entire kingdom.

Eddie shoves Steve’s shoulder, “what the fuck man,” mixed pleasure of pain and concern painting his face, “don’t be weird.”

Steve knew how much Eddie liked you, having spent many nights on the roof of his practically abandoned home listening to Eddie through FaceTime over analyzing how to make his move.

“‘m not,” he says with a shrug, long fingers tapping against the metal of the truck bed behind him, legs stretched out so the tops of his air forces skim your bent knees, eyeing what he wanted, you.

“just trying to get even,” Steve said nonchalantly.

“She’s not gonna kiss you,” Eddie said, shaking his head and throwing his hands around, hurt lacing his voice, “give it up.”

Steve wiggled the toe of his sneaker against your knee, shooting you a wink, “not until she does.”

It’s not as if the question hadn’t crossed your mind. It had more times than you’d like to admit. What would it be like to kiss Steve Harrington?

“Dude! She doesn’t wanna do it. Fucking leave her alone.” Eddie’s voice was loud and on the cusp of breaking as he pleaded with his friend.

What would have happened if you fell for his charm instead of turning him down? He was definitely sweet back then, taking your hand in his and guiding you along the rough terrain of the woods.

“Let her speak for herself!”

Eddie’s eyes fall to yours in desperation, his heart aching for you to tell Steve off, “c’mon, tell him, Taffy.”

Pressing your eyes shut tight you can feel Eddie’s hand on your knee, rubbing soft circles in an attempt to remind you that he’s there.

“One.”

“What?”

“What!”

“Just one kiss, then you need to shut up, got it?”

“Taff, you don’t have to do this, we can— we can just get home and I’ll pay him or something.” He’s desperate, willing to do whatever it took to not have this happen.

“It’s okay, Eddie, what’s one stupid kiss gonna hurt?”

You don’t hear the way he groans and throws himself back against the side of the truck, pinching the corner of his eyes between his fingers trying to ignore Steve’s low chuckle and smirk planted on his face.

“C’mon then,” Steve presses, man spreading his legs and patting his lap, “get over here.”

You roll your eyes and push yourself up again, “cocky aren’t ya?”

“all confidence babe,” he says back, licking his lips, and you roll your eyes again before kneeling in front of him.

Eddie groans and kicks at Steve’s leg again.

“Sorry dude, just bro code,” he said to Eddie, “and you,” he says addressing you with a nod, “ready?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He doesn’t move like Eddie, he’s grabby and rough, taking what he wants and not waiting for cues. He bullies his way into your mouth with his tongue, colliding yours with his and massaging it wildly. It wasn’t bad, just completely different than how you were just kissed by Eddie. When his teeth bite the flesh of your lip you yelp in surprise.

You turn your head and Steve’s lips trail down your neck, hungry hands grab at your waist and pull you into his lap. Your eyes are closed but his are open, looking at his friend and moving his hand in a wave to beckon him over.

A second set of hands is on your shoulders and you feel Eddie’s lips against your neck.

“This okay baby?”

His breath is hot and stuttering as you reach up and fist your fingers in his hair, your answer muffled by Steve’s mouth.

You moan their names, and it drives Eddie wild.

Eddie’s hands lower the strap of your tank top scraping your skin with the blunt of his nails. He groans when he sees the absence of a bra strap, diving into your warm skin with a lapping tongue, thrashing slow against your skin, working a strawberry shaped bruise into your skin.

Steve’s hands are already working to pop the button on your jeans, and you whine when you feel his hard cock beneath your leg.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” Eddie breathes as you crane your neck to meet his lips, desperate for your lips to connect with his sgain.

His hands fumble on your tank top straps and he groans when his fingers skim over the swell of your tits, you twist his hair in your fingers when his rough hands pinch at your nipples.

Steve takes his shirt off and tosses it carelessly, his skin is warm on your bare chest as he licks at your exposed neck and earns another moan from you, causing you to whine into Eddie’s mouth and move your hips against his cock.

You’re all a tangle of bare chests and sweat coated skin. The boys are barely giving you any time to breathe between open mouth kisses and lazy tongues before the other one commands your attention.

“oh, fuck,” Steve whimpers when he works your shorts down, his large fingers find their way into the wet folds of your pussy, “no panties?”

Eddie pulls his mouth from yours to let out a desperate groan as your hands unzip his jeans, “shit, all day and no bra or panties,” his hands caress your cheeks and his thumb slips into your mouth open, which you close around him and moan, “you’re a bad girl, huh?”

“With the tightest little pussy, fuck,” Steve groans as he pushes a finger into your slick walls.

“Mm’mm” you answer them both at once, grabbing needy at Eddie’s cock through his boxer briefs as it flips into your hand, heavy and leaking a pearl of cum from the slit.

Noises of all kinds flood the bed of the truck.

Wet sloshing from you gushing over Steve’s fingers, him coaxing an orgasm from you as quick as he could, determined to hear your pretty mouth hum.

Eddie almost in tears as your mouth devours his length and the head of his cock slides into your throat.

The velvet skin of Eddie’s heavy cock slides in and out of your mouth at a slow speed, a small patch of hair rubs on your nose as you take him deeper.

He’s muttering incoherently and Steve is egging you on. His lips wrapped around your nipples and teeth nipping harshly.

“Jesus Jesus sweetheart, Taff— I’m gonna, don’t want to shit shit shit,” you open your mouth and he slides out on accident as you cum all over Steve’s fingers. Sloppy and wet as he rubs at your clit like a DJ.

“Thas’it,” he encourages, “so fucking wet, pretty little pussy, yeah, you like this? The two of us giving you what you want huh?”

“Yes, Jesus Christ yes!” you’re a blabbing mess, as your high peaks and Eddie spins you away from Steve.

Steve’s jeans are soaked from you and he’s pitching a tent big enough to host a family reunion.

“My turn baby,” Eddie says kissing you sloppy on your lips, “been wantin’ to taste this sweet pussy for years.”

He helps you lay down on the blanket, making a makeshift pillow with the discarded clothes from the three of you.

You’re covered in sweat and more than likely sunburnt in places no one ever should be, but you could care less. Being worshiped by Steve and Eddie had you feeling like the sexiest woman alive, and nothing could compare to the separate high that alone was giving you.

Eddie nudges his nose in the crook where your thighs meet, tongue lapping up the pleasure leftover from Steve. “What’d’ya think Stevie boy? Wanna bet I can make her cry?”

Steve’s busying himself with unthreading his legs from his jeans, his cock in his hand as he strokes it up and down at the sight of you spread out and naked for them.

“You’re on, Munson.”

Eddie’s tongue was tantalizing. Demon-like against your puffy clit and going further into your pussy than any tongue has before, including Robin’s.

His nose pushes up against your clit as he goes deeper, swirling his wicked tongue and slurping your folds into his mouth.

You’re buzzing all over. Vibrating from the intense pleasure. Moaning and yanking Eddie’s hair between your fingers as he moves and licks and darts his tongue.

Pretty whimpers elicit your body and are swallowed by Steve’s lips, as he hungrily works his tongue into your mouth. The swirling and twirling is all too much. Their tongues work like hands on a clock and your second orgasm arrives quick fast and in a hurry. The tears spill from your eyes as your writhe and moan beneath them, clawing every inch of their skin.

Eddie cleans you up with his tongue holding your hips in place as you shake and try to wiggle away from him. Too sensitive as you lay practically lifeless on the bed of the truck.

“Told you,” Eddie says as he sits up, with a sheen of your arousal all over his face. Smiling wide. “I’m just that good.”

Steve sits up and tucks his cock back into his boxers, pushing his hair back from his sweat slicked face, “yeah yeah, whatever…” he says, looking out towards the blue sky and the wavering, heat wave horizon, a stupid grin on his lips, “better get dressed sweet girl.”

“Thought we were just getting started,” you whine as Eddie kisses his way up your body, laying on his back next to you, his finger threaded with yours.

Steve chuckles and points a long finger to the road, “it’ll have to be another time, princess, our ride is almost here.”

I have a part two partly written .. lemme know what you would think of that?

CHAPTER 2: DOUBLE DOSED

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #steve fanfic #steve x female reader #steve harrington smut

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longlivesteddie · 1 year

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soulmates au where you start seeing color if you lock your eyes with your soulmate, rockstar!eddiesoulmates au where you start seeing color if you lock your eyes with your soulmate, rockstar!eddie

I need Steve to love Corroded Coffin so much he goes to their concerts every time they are in Indianapolis. This time is different. This time he manages to push through the crowd until he's almost next to the stage. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that. Because if he stayed behind like all the previous times, there would be no chance for Eddie – the singer – to look him in the eye. The world would not start coloring itself. The singing would not stop mid-song. And Steve would not have to run away like a kid.

Eddie deserves someone better. Someone less damaged, someone less needy and clingy. Steve’s so wrapped up in his own head in the train on his way home. He’s obsessively refreshing the corroded coffin tag on twitter, but it looks like the concert continued after.

And then for two months, there's nothing. No news, no concerts, no paparazzi photos. And then suddenly a new mini album. It’s under Eddie’s name titled: to my soulmate.

Steve manages to not listen to it for the whole 20 minutes. It’s just 4 songs. And they are all beautiful, all heart breaking.

The first one starts with Eddie saying: “This is for you, sweetheart.”

One of them talks about Steve’s face and the color of his eyes and Steve’s sure that Eddie couldn't see it from the stage with all the lights around them. Does that mean that he went through footage from the concert trying to find a glimpse of him? Could he check the names on all the tickets he sold? Did he try to search for him online? Did he go through the endless follower list on his instagram account, hoping he’s gonna find Steve?

Another one talks about how Eddie understands if he’s not enough for his soulmate. And Steve’s whole chest hurts so bad as he sobs through it. Eddie is more than enough, Eddie’s perfect.

The last one is a love song. Love at first sight. It’s about everything Eddie accepted to feel if he ever found his soulmate, it’s about how wrong he was, because the words can’t describe the overwhelming love he felt the moment they looked at each other. When the song ends, Steve can hear Eddie breathing: “If you want to give me a chance, I’ll be waiting where we met. Friday, 7 o’clock.”

And then it’s quiet.

Steve’s determined not to go anywhere. He has 5 days until it’s Friday. And then it’s gonna be over. Then, Eddie can find someone else. Someone better.

On Friday, he finally confesses to Robin. If she could reach through her phone, Steve’s sure she’d pull him by his ears and kick him towards Indianapolis. He tells her all his worries, all his reasons to not go to the club. He tells her that Eddie would not want him anyway. Who would want someone like him?

“Don’t you think he should make that decision himself?“ She asks and she’s right.

The last train leaves in less than an hour and Steve barely makes it. Shaking like a leaf he sits next to a window and tries to calm himself down. He managed to take a shower before, fix his hair and put on a Corroded Coffin hoodie. He’s gonna be 20 minutes late. And he hopes, he prays that Eddie will wait a bit longer.

When the bouncer finally lets him in, Steve runs down to the stage. It’s way past 7.30. He’s not sure where Eddie could be. There’s no band playing tonight. The club is half empty so it’s not that hard to check every table.

Eddie’s not here anymore.

Tears sting his eyes. He squeezes his nose. And goes towards the bar to ask for rum and coke. He chugs half of the glass on his way towards an empty table. He writes Robin a quick message.

After he finishes his drink, he’s gonna find a place to spend the night, because there are no more trains going back to Hawkins.

Robin replies back almost instantly: “check his insta stories.”

But before Steve’s able to do that, there’s someone standing in front of him

“Hey.”

When he looks up, he’s lost for words. Because that’s definitely Eddie. Eddie, who looks so put together. A proper contrast to Steve’s red face from running and his puffy eyes from tears that haven’t fallen yet. It takes him a solid 5 seconds to say something back.

“Hi.”

Eddie gestures at him, smiling, like he can’t believe this is happening. Then he scratches his head and says: “I didn’t think this through.”

Steve starts laughing at the absurdity of it all and then he hears Eddie joining him.

“I’m Steve,” he finally introduces himself a minute later. He extends his hand.

“Steve, hi. I’m Eddie, but you probably already know that.” Eddie’s hand is warm and his handshake is firm. And he doesn’t let go afterwards.

“I’ve heard your songs... But you probably already know that too, since I’m here at all.”

“Did you – did you like them?” Eddie looks at him like it really matters. Like Steve’s opinion is important.

“I love them,” Steve exhales. “I’m sorry.”

Once he starts apologising he can’t stop.

“I’m so sorry Eddie. I didn’t. I thought you deserved so much better than me.”

“It’s okay. Hey, it’s okay.” Eddie says he grabs Steve’s chin and makes him look up. Eddie’s eyes are the prettiest shade of brown and Steve’s so grateful. “You’re here now.”

“I’m here,” Steve repeats. “I’m here and I’m not leaving.”

Less than a month later, there’s another mini album. Another 4 songs, but this time, they're all happy. And maybe the last one is Steve singing for Eddie.

#steddie #soulmate au #soulmates #this was supposed to be three lines wtf #revised: 08/01/2023 #so many typos and grammar mistakes oh my god what was i doing #mine

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metalhoops · 11 months

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Steddie Week Day 4:

Familiar / Hurt/Comfort / Here Come the Tears by Judas Priest

Eddie and Steve had never been close before the world went to hell. They’d known of each other, as everyone knows everyone in small town, middle America. They’d gone to the same school, smoked behind the same abandoned buildings and knew all the best places to make the worst decisions, but they hadn’t done it together. They were disparate figures, drifting around each other’s edges. That all changed in 1986 when through fate or chance the two boys had been flung together.

By the summer of 1988, they’d grown into and around each other like vines beneath forest foliage. They’d become inseparable, familiar. Steve showed up outside the garage at closing time, the Beamer tearing down the gravel path, leaving a trail of dust in its wake. When Robin and the kids weren’t around, Steve drove fast, throwing caution to the wind. No one else knew that about him. Eddie did.

He didn’t know what to do with all of the pieces of Steve that were uniquely his. He felt the illogical urge to write them down, catalogue each one as though designing a character for a new campaign. He wanted a record of each minute detail of Steve.

“Your yuppie boyfriend’s tearin’ up the drive again, Manson,” Eddie's boss, Frankie, hollered from his spot behind the service desk.

In the year he’d worked at the garage, he’d never seen the guy move from behind his desk, yet his hands were always grease-stained. Eddie hated his boss, but the job paid well enough. He was saving up to high tail it out of Hawkins, where nicknames like ‘The Freak’, and Frankie’s newest addition ‘Manson’, as in that Manson, the one with the cult in the 60s, weren’t so widespread.

“I was off twenty minutes ago, Frankenstein. You want him to stop kickin’ up dust you could just let me off on time,” Eddie grumbled, grabbing a spare rag and trying to scrub the worst of the grease and engine gunk from his hands and overalls.

“You think that carburettor was going to replace itself? You wanna finish on time? Work faster,” Frankie noted, punctuating his point by kicking his feet across the desk. Charming.

Eddie made his way to the car, drummed his knuckles against the passenger door and waited as Steve leaned over to push it open, his precious seats covered haphazardly with one of Eddie’s ruined bandannas. This was their habit, how the two worked. Steve was wearing sunglasses, which usually meant he was fighting off a migraine. They’d been more frequent in recent months. Eddie blamed the hot weather.

“How was your day?” Steve asked, starting the car.

Eddie flopped into the passenger seat and groaned. He let his body lay slack and boneless as the leather seats cradled him and the cool air from the A.C. took his breath away.

“That good, huh?”

“Everyone’s cars decided to break down on the hottest day of the year and Frankenstein’s still giving me shit about being a cult leader. I think the dude used to hold out hope for you since you were the town's golden boy, but now he thinks there’s some kind of Stepford wife thing going on.”

Steve snorted as he turned onto the familiar street leading to The Harringtons’ house.

“I saw Dustin today. The kid wanted me to remind you, you’re picking the twerps up on Monday,” Steve informed, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. The guy had no sense of rhythm, but Eddie never had the heart to tell him.

“Remind me why you can’t,” Eddie muttered as Steve’s house came into view.

“Because I work late and you get off by two.”

“I thought you said my van was a ‘death trap’. I could always take your car,” Eddie proposed with a devilish smirk.

That car was Steve’s baby. Not even he was allowed to drive it, save that one night in Indianapolis when Steve was drunk and Robin broke her wrist. They’d spent five hours together in the emergency room. It’d brought back all the wrong kind of memories for Steve and Eddie could tell.

Steve and Eddie talked about everything except Eddie’s stay in hospital and defining the liminal space between platonic and romantic, their relationship had been drifting for the past six months.

“In your dreams, Munson. You staying at mine tonight?” Steve asked, pulling up and walking around to open Eddie’s door for him.

He always made excuses about Eddie getting engine oil all over the passenger door, but he thought Steve liked playing chivalrous in the same way he liked playing up his less-than-stellar reputation.

Steve kept asking him to spend the night. Eddie had his own drawer in Steve’s room. He couldn’t help but feel like he was asking him to move in. Eddie kept turning him down, not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in Hawkins, even if it was with Steve. He’d tried to convince himself he’d be able to do it, so they could get out of their goddamn stalemate and get on with the rest of their lives. Yet, Hawkins had always been inhospitable for the likes of people like him and the person Steve was becoming.

“If you’re cookin,” Eddie agreed, unbuttoning his overalls.

By the time Steve found his keys, Eddie had managed to strip the sweat-slicked clothes from his body and dumped them unceremoniously on the front stoop. The good thing about rich people’s houses? No neighbours for miles.

They followed the same old routines. Eddie made his way upstairs to shower while Steve started prepping for dinner. Once Eddie didn’t smell like the inside of a boys' locker room, he returned to find Steve spaced out in the kitchen.

Eddie’s heart was a hummingbird in flight. Steve’s body was stock still, his eyes a thousand miles away.

“Steve,” Eddie breathed, signalling his approach.

He tried to focus on the kitchen. This wasn’t two years ago. Vecna was dead.

He laced his fingers into the crook of Steve’s elbow and finally caught the boy’s attention, the pot on the stove having boiled dry.

“Migraine?” Eddie asked as Steve’s eyes snapped shut, frown lines marring the landscape of his forehead.

“Yeah,” Steve confirmed through gritted teeth as Eddie guided him to the couch, switching off the lights on the way.

“Looks like you’re going to have to put up with the Munson special then, eggs on toast,” He breathed, sitting down beside Steve and guiding his head into his lap.

He’d sat through a couple of Steve’s migraines. Sometimes they were fast and painless as a sun shower, other times he’d spend hours disorientated and puking up his guts. There wasn’t much Eddie could do for him, but sit there and be with him for it. In sickness and in health, all that crap. Eddie wasn’t sure when he’d become close enough to Steve that he’d sit through anything with him, but he knew now he would.

“Stevie, you know when I get outta this hellhole, I’m taking you with me, right?” Eddie breathed, feeling the sudden need for candour.

Sometime in the space between getting to know Steve and getting to love Steve, they’d crossed the line from familiar to familial.

Steve’s face nudged against Eddie’s palm, his forehead beaded with sweat.

“I’d like that,” he confirmed.

“We’d have to take Robin with us, though,” Steve added after a beat, causing Eddie to let out a breathy chuckle and dip down to press their foreheads together.

“Fine by me, long as you’re there.”

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddieweek2023 #steddieweekprompts #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #ficlet #drabble #steddie ficlet #stranger things 4 #stranger things #I'm getting this one out right before bed #but I made it #Metalhoops writes

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eddies-house · 8 months

Text

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter Five - Cold Eggs

W/C: 6K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

Warnings: Anxiety attack, mentions of drinking

Some early morning honesty on the rocks. Eddie is fucked. In every sense other than literal.

A/N: I'm getting giddy over these two please tell me yall feel the same

Masterlist

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The Munson bachelor pad wasn’t as boyish and messy as you initially thought. You were sober enough to make that observation. It was cozy, much like your own home and was around the same size. The kitchen was probably the messiest part of it however you didn’t get a peek at the bedroom which you assumed could also be very disheveled. There were cereal boxes left open on the counter, Cocoa Pebbles being the one that caught your eye along with a neglected box of Rice Krispies that laid on its side.

A few too many pots and pans cluttered the stove top and some empty cans of soup and Spaghettios were left to collect dust near the sink. His refrigerator held a collection of magnets, some being letters from the alphabet, although quite a few were missing, and others were ads from a pizza place and a few fruits and vegetables with cartoony faces. Among the mess on the counters, you also noted a few empty liters of soda and some crushed beer cans. Budweiser to be specific.

Other than that, the living room you’d been sitting in was tidy. There was a clearly used checkered blanket bunched up on the corner of the couch you’d been occupying for the past several minutes and a few car catalogs littering the coffee table along with a copy of Lord of the Rings, bookmarked with a coupon for ground beef clipped from the local ads. Next to that, an ash tray nearly overflowed.

His wallpaper wasn’t as ugly as yours, which you envied. It was maroon with even darker stripes alternating, creating a dark but homey atmosphere. The wall sconces on the other hand, we’re tacky. They looked more medieval than anything, almost like torches. The light wood floors contrasted with the walls and at your feet was a frayed rug that looked like it had seen better days. Not dirty, just tattered.

In the corner sat an acoustic guitar painted with the words ‘this machine slays dragons’ and next to it was an electric guitar, red with cracks of black. You’d never seen one like it before and it seemed to be well loved from what you’d heard every day, the endless guitar solos bleeding into your eardrums daily. At least he was getting his money's worth out of it.

You continued eyeing your surroundings, taking in the habitat that was Eddie Munson’s home when your gaze lands on a particular object that piqued your interest. It sat atop a shelf near the door, a lonely Garfield mug.

Before you could further examine the mug or even think of reasons as to why it was displayed, if it was even displayed, or perhaps it was abandoned in a hurry out the door, Eddie emerges from the bathroom just off the living room. His curls are now wet ringlets toward the bottom, and instead of wearing your puke, he wears a red sweatshirt that reads ‘Indianapolis, Indiana’ on the front along with some baggy black sweats. Despite his comfy clothes, his face is still decorated with that grouchy frown you’d grown used to. Did this man ever relax his face? His eyebrows were still pinched together either in thought or in irritation.

“I-um, I’ll wash the shirt and um the–the boots.” You stutter, rapidly standing from your perch at the edge of his couch.

Though still a little tipsy, more coherent thoughts flooded your mind. Guilt plagued you as you thought about the blanket of barf that coated his shirt and boots about a half hour earlier, abandoned on the front porch. You were smart enough to avert your gaze when he lifted his shirt off of his torso just to let it wrinkle up on the wood planks to be dealt with later. It wasn’t your fault that you’d caught a glimpse of the tattoos that adorned his body, some kind of dragon if you remember correctly, wound from his waist up to his ribs. The others you didn’t have long enough to distinguish their imagery, though there were several along with what appeared to be some scarring of some kind. You couldn’t be sure, the darkness from the night not allowing you a clear picture along with your hazy mental state.

“Don’t worry about it.” He dismisses while you bashfully sit back down on the edge of the couch.

It was hard to grasp whether he was pissed at you or just at life in general. You would take full responsibility for the vomit but everything before that was on him. Yelling at you over a pile of broken plates seemed far more degrading based on his tone, the way he reprimanded you and painted you as this stupid girl, unable to stand your ground. Maybe it was better that he fired you, you wouldn’t be subject to his obnoxious mood swings where he seemed to take everything out on you when shit hit the fan.

You continued watching Eddie move about his surroundings, taking in how he interacted with his day to day environment. What did he look like fully relaxed? Lounging around, playing his guitar without a care in the world. It was difficult to picture; the image of a moody man with a tensed facial expression the only one you could seem to conjure up every time rather than the vision of him with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, enjoying coffee out of that stupid Garfield mug. You wonder if takes his coffee with cream and sugar. Maybe just cream? Or just sugar? Maybe he drinks it black, that would be the most sensible option if you were going by his grouchy nature.

“Gonna find my keys, then we’ll go back to the bar to get yours.” Eddie decides, shuffling through some items on the kitchen counter.

The irony.

Agreeing with a hum, you allow yourself to lean further into the couch while trailing your finger over the faded plaid pattern, lines of beige crossing over white that temporarily held your focus. The clinking of empty beer cans against the linoleum counter can be heard, and then footsteps into the bedroom just off the living room to your left. Two idiots with misplaced keys under the same roof.

It feels as if the couch begins to mold around you, welcoming you into its springy cushions that otherwise wouldn’t be very comfortable but considering the night you had and the state you were in, you felt like you were on a cloud. Your thoughts drift back to curious visions of Eddie. What did his hair look like first thing in the morning? Was it as wild as you imagined? Curls sticking up every which way, frizzy and matted? Or was it somehow still perfectly messy? Boyishly messy.

Did he take those chunky rings off every night, leaving them on his nightstand until the morning? How many more tattoos did he have? What movies did he watch? What did he do for fun? You suppose plucking at his guitars was a main contender with the way it would constantly invade your ears. Obviously he read, your eyes catching that copy of Lord of the Rings on the coffee table again. Maybe he worked on cars too, based on those car part catalogs.

The image of him working under the hood of a car, all sweaty in some kind of tank top occupied your brain, his usually tense face hard at work with grease smeared along his cheek. And his hands. His hands would be coated in oil and he’d pull a rag out from his back pocket to wipe them off. Then he’d smile and reveal those deep dimples framing his face so perfectly. And then you would–

“Uh, Bambi?”

Eddie’s voice doesn’t do much other than cause you to stir in your sleep, snuggling a pillow while curling into yourself. You were nearly drooling, completely content. He couldn’t help but stare a little longer than necessary before realizing what a creep he was being. Was he supposed to wake you? If he was, he felt wrong doing so with how peaceful you looked. He rolled his eyes but truthfully, he didn’t mind having a guest for the night.

Maybe he’d be able to get some sleep for once.

–

Tossing around as the springs beneath you squeak, your mouth feels like it had previously been filled with sand. Not an ounce of saliva coated your tongue, you were severely dehydrated. You flung the knitted blanket that had rested on top of you off–when did that get there? You don’t remember grabbing a blanket before drifting off into a deep slumber.

This wasn’t even your house.

Collecting your thoughts, you recall that you had been sitting on Eddie Munson’s couch before apparently falling asleep. It was still dark outside, signifying that it had to be early in the morning which meant you’d only slept for maybe two or so hours. A lamp set atop a beat up side table in the corner was the only thing illuminating the room now. Sitting up and stretching, your bones ached from the way they were piled on top of each other in the position you had been sleeping in. Your right arm had pins and needles running up and down it from being cut off from circulation for so long.

The groan that threatened to escape you was held in your throat as you scooted forward, only to find a full glass of water right there on the coffee table. This was beyond embarrassing, this was humiliating. If you could scurry out the door and across the yard back to your place you would, but you were in this predicament due to your own negligence.

With no other options available to you, you gulp down the lukewarm water, just grateful that your tongue was no longer dryer than the Sahara desert. But it still wasn’t enough. Your thirst seemed unquenchable, at this rate you’d need approximately five more glasses. So you stood yourself up, legs shaky and stomach a tiny bit queasy, and wobbled over to the kitchen. You’d have to pace yourself to avoid throwing up a bunch of water since your stomach was so sensitive right now. Food was out of the question but water was a necessity.

Twisting the sink handle with a small screech of the metal, you fill the glass with a shaky and weak arm before sipping away.

Slowly. You remind yourself.

It must have taken around eight minutes to finish that second glass of water, coaching yourself through it the entire time. You grew tired of drinking it but persisted anyway. As you reach to fill a third glass, you’re startled by a figure in the doorway to Eddie’s room, unable to make out any features in the dim lighting. With a yelp, you manage to drop the glass in the sink, it clanking around noisily but thankfully, not breaking.

“Shit, why are you awake?” Eddie asks, hands raised in surrender as he emerges from the shadows.

“Why are you awake?” You counter.

He raises a brow, clearly wide awake. He didn’t even have that gravelly, sleepy voice. Maybe he hadn’t even gone to sleep at all. There was no evidence that his hair was any frizzier than before and his face didn’t have that puffiness to it when you wake up. It’s also possible that he just looked perfect when he woke up but if you’re being honest, no one really woke up perfect.

“I, uh, I was reading.” He admits, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh.”

An awkward silence trickles in, causing you to cross your arms as a means to close in on yourself, steadily backing up until you hit the counter behind you. Eddie maintains eye contact with you as he retrieves his own cup from one of the cabinets, filling it up and chugging it down with ease. You suddenly feel so out of place, like you were supposed to leave but there was nowhere else to go.

“I, um, I’m sorry for…for the puke. A-and for falling asleep. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You tell him honestly.

He only nods.

“I can go…sit on my porch until you go into the bar. And I’ll get my keys and be out of your hair.”

A few drops of water roll down his chin as he continues drinking, the back of his hand coming up to swipe the liquid away. He appears to be lost in thought, eyes concentrated on the counter in front of him where a few rogue Rice Krispies live. You let your legs carry you a few feet away, your goal being the front door until he speaks up again.

“I’m not gonna be responsible if you get eaten out there.” He grumbles.

“Eaten?”

Eddie looks you up and down as if to say ‘are you serious?’. To be completely honest, you hadn’t taken into account the wildlife that thrived throughout the area before you moved in. Now you were looking more and more dumb by the minute.

“Bears?” He offers an anxious head tilt. “We have fucking bears here, Bambi. You can’t just wander around in the middle of the night.”

“I wouldn’t be wandering.” Why were you trying to make an argument? Out of all the things you could fight him on, why were you choosing whether or not you’d get eaten by a bear? “I would be sitting on my porch.”

You felt like the dumbest woman on the planet and you knew you should’ve stopped talking but the words just…came out.

“Bears can reach your fucking porch, you know that, right?”

His large eyes bored into you in disbelief, his mouth slightly hung open as he awaited your answer.

“Y-yeah.” You gulp.

“God.” He scoffs, turning away from you, perplexed before muttering something under his breath that you happened to also catch. “Christ, they shoulda turned you away.”

“Who?” You pipe up, feeling a bit daring.

For a moment, he turns to stare at you blankly. It’s almost as if you’re the only two people awake and if either of you happened to raise your voice in the slightest, it would awaken the town.

“The assholes that sold you that house.” He just about whines, his voice an octave higher, frustration obvious in his tone.

The refrigerator light briefly appears over the blue and green tiled floor as Eddie opens it, reaching for something before turning around toward the stove and kicking the door shut.

“What–what do you mean? Turn me away? What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask in offense.

“I mean…” He cracks an egg into a pan, followed by another. “They shouldn’t have sold it to someone so clueless.” Another egg.

The shells are discarded in the sink, further cracking into smaller pieces at the impact he’d thrown them.

“What? Were they just supposed to reject me until someone more ‘qualified’ came along?” You try to catch his gaze, ducking your head as he reaches for the salt and pepper. “And–are you seriously making eggs right now?”

You earn a scowl from him as his pan begins to sizzle, his hand quick to grab a spatula from one of the pots on the stove to flip the eggs. This had to have been some weird dream or manifestation. And there they were again, those three numbers falling from his lips in a whisper as his eyes shut temporarily while his eggs simmered.

“I was already qualified before you came along!” He raises his voice, not quite to a yell but not very quiet either.

Silence.

Your eyes must have bulged out of your head, Eddie’s features softening by the second. Regret settled in his eyes, your face the vision of pure horror and all because of him.

He got impatient.

His therapist would be disappointed in him. And so would Wayne.

“I-I just…I was going to, um…” He starts calmly. “I was gonna buy it. And, and I was—” His breathing is now shallow, his eyes wet and pleading. “It–it was–I don’t–”

“Eddie.” You whisper, trying to break through whatever trance he was in.

He seemed stuck in his own head, eyes darting back and forth while he struggled to find words. The eggs were on the verge of burning which prompted you to reach over him and turn the stove off. The spatula he previously held clung against the tile.

“I-I–um, I was–”

It’s as if he isn’t even in the room, totally removed as the same few syllables fell from his tongue.

“I’m–I-I–”

“Eddie, it’s okay.” You attempt to soothe him. “Do you wanna sit down?” You ask, trying to catch his eyes but failing as he squeezes them shut.

Again with the counting.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

All under his shaky breath.

“I-I’m fine. ‘M fine.” His voice cracks, eyes opening timidly.

When you go to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, he flinches, a gasp leaving his lungs. Forcing yourself a few steps backward in order to provide him the space he needs, you recognize a hint of fear within him. It’s not of you, it’s something else yanking at his thoughts.

“Sit down, let’s sit down, okay?” You instruct, gradually lower yourself, waiting for him to follow your actions.

Nodding, he slowly slides his back down the side of the counter, falling into a position where his knees were to his chest, hands resting against the floor. You join him, still keeping your distance but wanting him to know that despite the previous tension, you were being supportive through his episode. Whatever it may be.

“Breathe.” You tell him, just as he had done with you back at the bar. “In…and out.” You encourage him.

He follows, his breathing still labored but improving. Continuing for a minute or so, his shoulders finally loosen up, his face relaxing. You let him guide the situation from here, if he wanted to talk or remain mute. Either was okay.

Moments pass, the hard kitchen floor causing you discomfort that you willingly take, not daring to shift around too much as to keep the tranquility finally falling over the two of you. Instead, you take interest in the wood grain of the cabinets, eyes wandering around each curve like a maze, sometimes identifying shapes along the way. A dog’s face, a ghost, and occasionally the haunting silhouette of a human.

Sneaking a glance at Eddie, you find that his eyes are shut as he rests his head against the cabinet behind him, his hands fidgeting with the strings on his hoodie, tying little knots and then undoing them just to repeat the process. Your watch indicates that it’s 4:03 AM. You would usually be sleeping however you can’t really offer yourself much sympathy when it seems this is the norm for Eddie. He always had tired eyes though you’d never put much thought into it until now. He must not be sleeping. Which could also be a contribution to his moodiness.

“I’m gonna lose the bar.” Eddie speaks up from beside you, eyes still shut as he continues to fidget.

“Hm?” You turn your full attention to him.

There’s a pause, a moment of thinking. You can tell as he opens his eyes and side-eyes you, not with malice but more so to collect his thoughts. Lips pinched in between his teeth roughly, you could almost wince at the way blood surfaces from the poor abused skin. Not too obvious, but obvious enough as you await clarification, the tiniest bit of crimson seeping out from behind his teeth only to be left to dry out on his perfectly shaped lips. Then he breaks the silence with a heavy exhale.

“I, uh, I’m pretty close to losing it. Can barely pay the bills on the damn place. Been going downhill for a few months now.” He elaborates, spinning a ring around his finger repeatedly . “I was gonna use the rest of my savings that my grandpa left me to buy that house. Rent it out. I talked to a friend who’s really good with all that financial shit and he said I could get a steady income and most likely keep the bar running and profiting again.”

“Oh.” You whisper, a huge sensation of guilt overtaking you.

“Not your fault.” He sighs. “Guess I’ve been kinda taking it out on you.”

Now he avoids your gaze, far more interested in the cracked tile beneath him. A curse can be made out from just under his breath while he buries his head in his hands, running them up and down his face, almost as if to relieve some of his stress but having no such luck. His admission catches you off guard, not at all suspecting that this morning would turn into honesty hour.

“No.” You reply quickly. “I mean…yes. But I-I didn’t know. If I knew–”

“Don’t give yourself a stroke, Bambi.” He cuts you off, turning to look at you. “I’m not proud of how dick-ish I’ve been. It’s nothing personal though.” Eddie confesses, seemingly annoyed with himself.

Sincerity floods his eyes, a cry for help. But how were you supposed to help him? Before you can muster up some kind of response to his almost-apology, he continues.

“I-uh, I just can’t lose this bar. I inherited it from my grandpa and he had been running it for…years.” Behind his persistence, there’s hints of defeat. A bitterness that you’d come to recognize in the last few weeks. “And, uh, I didn’t know ‘im for very long but, I kinda feel like it’s my responsibility.”

“Didn’t know him for very long?” You asked before even calculating the consequences. You had no right to pry into his personal life.

His hands begin to move up and down his shins, a self-soothing gesture from what you can tell. Eddie was very fidgety, and you’d only just started noticing.

“Yeah.” He whispers. “I moved here like four years ago. Some bad shit happened back home and I–” There’s a moment of hesitation, a sudden panic lurking behind his gaze. “I can’t go back.”

You want so badly to ask him where ‘home’ used to be but decide against it. He had already willingly offered you more information than you would have originally been brave enough to ask for.

“Anyway, I never really knew my grandpa until I came here to live with him. He died last year. I’ve been trying to keep things afloat since then.” He explains, pinching the bridge of his nose with a shaky hand.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know.”

Genuine sympathy drips from your voice, the kind that felt like hot honey running down a sore throat during flu season. During the moment it feels…good. Comforting. In the way that only his mother ever was in the brief time they had together. And then the sting returns.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.” The walls are rapidly raised once again and god knows when you would get to peek through the cracks again. “We should, uh, we should get to the bar so you can get your keys. And your car.” He suggests, pulling himself up from the floor with a groan.

“Wait–what about your eggs?” You mention, gripping the edge of the counter for leverage as you stand.

The eggs were long forgotten about, now all sad and cold in the pan. Unappetizing. One of the yolks had somehow broken among the commotion of Eddie’s panic and left a disgusting coating around the gaps, that eggy-wet-dog smell nauseating you. They were trash in all honesty but Eddie didn’t seem to mind, quickly lifting the pan and grabbing a fork to shovel them into his mouth.

You can’t fight the urge to stare, cold eggs and runny yolks being tossed into his mouth without a second thought.

“What?” He glances at you in irritation.

“You could’ve at least heated them up.” You complain, nose crinkled in revolt.

He rolls his eyes but his annoyance quickly melts away, a fraction of a playful smirk pulling at his lips, eyes gleaming with something captivating.

–

The scent of tobacco and motor oil invades your nose, the smells of Eddie’s truck, much different than the little pine tree air freshener in the car he’d driven you in last night. The engine rumbles down the road, startling the birds as he drives by. Some kind of guitar riff blares through the radio, his ringed fingers tapping along against the steering wheel. Instead of his sweatshirt and sweatpants, he now wears a long sleeve covered with his leather jacket along with some ripped up blue jeans. As far as you’re concerned, he’s way underdressed for the brisk morning air, only getting colder and colder by the day. Though, he may run hot and the drop in temperature just doesn’t faze him. Even so, it’d make you feel better if he at least put on a heavier coat.

Regardless, you can’t seem to control the shivers that rattle your body, your teeth nearly chattering, jaw clenched tightly. You were mentally scolding drunk-you for forgetting your jacket at the bar and though you were on your way there now, it didn’t do you any good with the way you were practically an ice cube. It was apparent that the heater of Eddie’s truck wasn’t very efficient as the air coming out was slightly warm but not warm enough to relieve the cold nipping at the exposed skin of your arms. You could see your breath, only further reminding you of how cold you truly were.

Attention was the last thing you wanted as you subtly moved your hands that rested politely in your lap, up your arms to offer the tiniest bit of skin-on-skin warmth. Any kind of relief would do. You only hoped he wouldn’t notice as you began to move your hands back and forth as a means to create some friction, more heat.

Buy a large, fuzzy, soft coat, ASAP. You note to yourself.

As a distraction, you begin to identify objects within the truck, a solo game of ‘I spy’ if you will. At your feet, there’s a small crate of cassette tapes. An impressive collection, mainly metal and rock from what you can see. Maybe a few folksy ones behind those based on the labels, John Denver being the one that stood out to you. Then, another car parts catalog on top of the dash. An empty can of Dr. Pepper in the cup holder. Or what you assume to be empty. A definitely empty cigarette carton abandoned in the other cup holder–

“Shit, here.” Eddie says, reaching behind into the back seat only to magically pull out a denim jacket covered in several patches and pins.

Evidently, you weren’t playing it as cool as you thought, clearly somehow exposing that you were in fact freezing. He showed no emotion as he urged the jacket into your reach, eyes still focused on the road. Your hesitation only had him pushing the denim into your hand, wordlessly cautioning you that he wouldn’t have your modesty or insistence that you were fine. Clutching the rough fabric in your hand, you pause to stare at him, as if he was going to change his mind any second. He doesn’t. Only keeps his eyes forward, brows furrowed in that grumpy manner.

His nose is pink again and you were willing to bet that the tips of his ears matched if they hadn’t been hidden by his wild hair. Even his cheeks were dusted with the lightest rosy shade. Fall looked good on him. You couldn’t even imagine how amazing Summer would look on him.

Quickly, you undo your seatbelt and shrug the jacket on. It’s cold from living in the truck all night but warms you up regardless, much cozier than your bare arms out in the open. And it smells like Eddie, a smell you can’t quite pinpoint to one specific thing. A little bit like cigarettes, maybe a hint of cologne, spicy but not overpowering, and a whiff of rubber. It almost smelled like a garage.

The sun was just rising on the horizon, the lake coming into view perfectly as if to put on a show. Hues of orange painted the sky, birds chirping and squawking as they announced the arrival of a new day. An apricot dream accompanied by peachy tones.

–

The Bourbon was a shell of itself at 5:00 AM. The morning was bright and early though the bar wasn’t ready to awaken just yet, not until the evening when it thrived. Until then, it slept peacefully throughout the day, forgotten about until Happy Hour. Ribbons of light snuck in through the blinds, illuminating the smallest sections of the tables and the floorboards.

The lights quickly took over that magical early morning feel as Eddie emerged next to you, hands tucked into his pockets while you scanned the room. And there they were, your keys. Sat right on top of the bar just as you had remembered. Your jacket, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Bummer.

You could’ve sworn you grabbed it from the back lockers before you declared war on Eddie last night. It wasn’t there either, your locker devoid of your belongings other than a pad of paper and a pen.

“Have you seen my jacket?” You ask Eddie, checking the barstools just to be safe. Nothing.

He had slipped right back into work mode, even at the crack of dawn. You suppose it's fair though, the information he had shared with you in the quietest hours of the morning resonating in your mind. Work never stopped for him.

“Hm? No, I haven’t seen it.” He answers, collecting the dirty rags from their designated bin behind the bar to start them up in the wash.

With a soft pout, you trace your steps in your head but can’t seem to recall where you’d left it, your brain failing you. Maybe it would eventually pop up again, it wasn’t anything special anyway. It just happened to be one of the heaviest jackets you owned so you would have to remember to stop by one of the shops to search for something equivalent. Beginning to pull your arm out of the sleeve of the jacket you currently wore, Eddie’s voice stops you.

“Just–keep it ‘til you find yours.” He says. Like he knew.

Were you that obvious? Girl moves to a random town miles and miles away from home only to be unprepared for the weather conditions in which you would think she would be aware of before committing.

“No, it’s–”

You immediately shut up when you see his expression, something that says ‘for the love of god, just listen’ with glaring eyes and furrowed brows. Instead of fighting him on it, you offer your gratitude in the form of labor.

“Um, I could stick around…and help. If you need.”

Your words float in the air, so delicate it makes him want to vomit; not out of disgust but out of confusion for whatever feeling was swirling around in his head, making him dizzy. Each word was too sweet, cavity inducing sweetness that he wanted to lick up like icing. He wasn’t used to being presented with such regard, a candied offer delivered right from your pretty lips to his ears.

“If I still have a job.” You add. Sugary syllables pouring from your lips unintentionally. He may have a heart attack from the amount of sugar.

Eddie collects himself, clears his throat as if to also clear his conscience, not succeeding. You’re so unlike everything that he knows. He knows of friendly conversation and boyish banter, endless nights followed by endless days without sleep, he knows of his shitty attitude that comes around more often than not, but he’s never been one to know pure kindness, a certain tenderness radiating from you and seeping into him. Sure people are kind to him, especially here. But you’re something else.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course you have a job.” He affirms.

The small smile you grace him with makes him want to jump off of a bridge. Because he is such a cruel being, such a monstrous man awaiting further punishment from the universe for being much less than gentle with such a sweet-tempered, sympathetic human that may even be a gift from god himself if Eddie believed in all that.

And then Chrissy crossed his mind. He could not endure another loss. Chrissy was never even his but he used to mourn what could have been had she lived. Perhaps she was his first love. A miserable little middle schooler pining after Hawkin’s Sweetheart all the way up until highschool. And the moment he got close enough, she was gone, right in front of his poor traumatized eyes. It was enough for him to swear off love for good.

For some reason he was finding himself wanting to dial back on that promise. He had only known you for around two weeks and was going back on his own word. It was freaking him out, making him want to yank his hair out from the roots and collapse onto the floor. He felt like a teenage boy again, going through puberty and trying to work out all of his jumbled feelings and hormones.

You were staring at him expectantly and it was only then that he realized he had been lost in thought. A pool of thoughts actually. Maybe even having a revelation?

“You can uh…” He clears his throat, nearly hacking up a lung. “You haven’t…you haven’t eaten, have you?”

Internally, he’s scolding himself.

You’re gonna get hurt before you can even get close. People are not meant to love you, Munson. It’s been proven time and time again. Quit while you’re ahead.

He was too far ahead anyway. Would he ever learn his lesson?

People are not meant to love you.

“No.” You answer sheepishly. “But I-I’m fine!” You try to say convincingly. The reality was that your stomach was swallowing itself, the fact that your dinner had been four tequila shots was not favoring you.

“Bambi.” Eddie says sternly.

God she’s gorgeous.

He was fucked.

“Okay…fine. I haven’t eaten.” You admit. “But I can help out a little and then–”

“C’mon.” He demands, abandoning the bin of dirty rags to head for the kitchen.

And on the way, he reasons with himself as you follow.

Just be friendly. There’s nothing wrong with being friendly. We can be friends. Stop scaring the shit out of yourself. She wouldn’t even like you beyond that. No one would.

“So, what are you feelin’?” He asks, knocking his knuckles against the metal worktop.

“Oh, I-I don’t know. Whatever is easiest. You know what, I can just go get something from one of the shops, I’m sure that little pancake place is open by now.”

“You don’t trust my cooking?” He jokes, amusement written all over his face.

To be fair, he hadn’t given you much reason to trust him since you arrived. But somehow, layers were starting to peel back and you were getting the tiniest glimpses of his true self. And you’d be stupid not to indulge when he had practically propped the door to his mind right open. At least for the time being.

“Should I?” There’s a huge grin on your face, a stupid grin that you try to conceal but can’t. “I dunno, you kind of have me wondering if you’re gonna spit in my food or something.” You quip.

“Ouch.” Eddie feigns hurt by bringing a hand to his chest. “You think I’m that scummy?” He asks, raising his brow playfully.

“Oh, the scummiest.” You banter back.

“You’re breakin’ my heart Bambi.” He frowns before disappearing into the walk-in freezer, discarding his leather jacket on a hook on his way.

Truth be told he was breaking yours too, with his handsome face and his dumb smile, deep dimples you could think about for hours, and those eyes. They told a story, a tragic story that maybe he would never care to share. And that’s what broke your heart. Suffering in silence. You knew that feeling all too well.

“By the way…” Eddie shouts from the freezer before appearing once again. “I’m Eddie.” He sticks his hand out toward you, two eggs held in his free hand.

You look up at him, bewildered.

“I never asked for your name.” He reminds you with a shit-eating grin.

The Eddie you met weeks ago was gone as far as you were concerned. All within a few hours, he seemed to warm up to you.

The scary dog was rolling over…for you.

~end~

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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiemunson95 @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel @mmunson86 @witchwolflea @kurdtbean @micheledawn1975 @tlclick73 @erinekc @hazydespair @whenshelanded @corrodedcoffincumslut @ms1oftheboys @lma1986 @uglypastels

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson series #eddie munson angst #eddie munson au #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things au #stranger things fic

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free-and-to-none-accountable · 2 years

Text

Posted on September 2, 2022 by Rybyn Z.

The meeting went off the rails when I got a text and an email from one of the early elementary teachers. The managers were lying to our faces. Everyone must have gotten the same messages, because my coworkers’ voices started to rise, their tone grew angry, and they stopped respecting management’s “meeting norms.”

Our in-person school year had ended a week before, but management insisted on a virtual “follow-up” meeting. So, everyone dutifully logged on at 9:00 am. The regional director and his crony were waiting patiently. In an act worthy of Broadway, the DMV regional director, with a too-bad-so-sad tone, announced that our principal and assistant principal had “left to pursue other opportunities.” There was no one to replace them yet.

I work at a neighborhood charter school in Washington DC. Most students come from low-income or middle-income Black and Latinx families. Just a few months before I started working there, the board that owns the school switched charter management companies to a renowned national charter “turnaround” company based on the notorious Mind Trust’s model. Often credited as creating the blueprint for privatizing urban education, it helped spawn the company that now oversees my school. Mismanagement, exploitation, and hypocrisy were in the company’s DNA. Originally founded in Indianapolis (like the Mind Trust), the company grew until it spread all the way to Washington DC, where a charter market already thrives.

Staff, students, and families were already reeling from a traumatic year. So the announcement about the administration team blindsided us. While many of us did not like the principal and assistant principal—or, like myself, believe we could do without them altogether— we all agreed that they cared for the school community.

Meanwhile, the company had nearly run the school into the ground through mismanagement and financial profiteering schemes. They fired teachers while we were desperately understaffed, revoked already-earned bonuses for changing jobs, and did shady things to raise test scores. These were only the most glaring of a whole host of issues threatening to overwhelm and destroy the school.

So, we were all a little more than suspicious. The atmosphere was tense. A few staff members pressed the regional director for firm answers about our former leadership team—and received dodgy replies. One of the workers then asked, “Were they let go, or did they choose to leave?” over and over again. Eventually, the regional director paused for a few seconds, then—finally—said, “They chose to leave.”

That’s when I, and nearly everyone else, got the text message from the early elementary teacher. It was just an image thumbnail. Inside was the principal’s termination letter, sent by the director hosting the meeting.

It was too much. Under unbearable pressure, we exploded.

One of the teachers opened with a salvo about the terrible, contradictory communication and chaos. She ended with, “The 4:30 dismissal time has got to go.”

Our “offer letters” (we don’t have contracts) specified our roles and hours. We all got paid for eight hours a day while the company enforced nine-hour days—and most teachers worked longer to barely keep up with the crushing workload. All year, the workers had expressed disgust with these policies. Several times, workers took direct action against them. Most of the time, teachers just refused to do the bullshit busy work admin gave out, and the company couldn’t do much about it. Thanks, Great Resignation.

Another worker, an English Language Learner specialist, demanded to know if support staff who’d been thrown into different roles, sometimes multiple times a day, would be paid for their extra work. The director kept sidestepping our questions. He said to get paid, they needed to pull the records from the overflowing staff group chat, where people begged for classroom coverage all year. Several workers then pointed out that this group chat, owned by the former principal, was deleted. He had no answer for us, and we knew it. Even though we were on Zoom, I could feel the rage bubbling up. The school’s social worker then cut the higher-up off, “You all have come into a community dealing with immense trauma without thinking about what the community needs at all. Where is the support from this company? We only see y’all once a month!”

This had been something that agitated everyone on the shop floor all year: the company flew a couple of rich white people into DC for two days each month, then straight back home. She laid into them for five more minutes.

As she talked, and as several teachers came off mute to support her and launch into their own tirades, I realized this was an opportunity to unite the staff and build power. I’d built up a committee in the first few months of the school year that took some direct actions. But without a proper formalized structure beyond a group chat, the committee only represented my immediate coworkers, and ultimately dissipated as understaffing at our school got worse and worse. It had felt like many workers at the school were content to take it on the chin and keep moving. That was incorrect. A deep rage extended across every grade band and role.

The task I’d struggled with was building a formal committee that met outside work hours. With the help of two external organizers from the IWW’s DC, Maryland, and Virginia Education Workers Organizing Committee and the Southern Coordinating Committee throughout the year, I accumulated the knowledge and skills I needed to do that. Here was an opportunity to apply that knowledge.

I noticed that several people had replied to the email the early elementary teacher sent, expressing anger and betrayal.

I hopped into the thread and sent a message venting my own feelings and asking if anyone wanted to form a group chat to discuss how to make a change in the workplace. Along with that, I whipped up a google form asking for contact info and platform preference—about ten people filled it out.

Workers were still on the meeting yelling at the regional director, by the way. The meeting was supposed to end by 10:00 am. It was now 10:30. Our office assistant took the mic.

“The old logo is still on the building, the same color scheme from before, too. How is this company going to support rebranding?”

The director shifted a little bit, seemingly uncomfortable with giving us information about how the company works, “the operations team helps, but really it’s up to the school board.”

The worker shot back, “We need an action item here. You said operations, does that mean the school leadership, the board, or the company makes that decision? I’m leaving so someone else needs to connect those dots.”

She received vocal and written support from staff, and kept pressing her demand until management caved and agreed to weekly meetings with worker input.

Soon, staff members turned to berate management for abandoning us. No counselor, no substitutes, and a stream of overworked, underpaid staff members running for the door had taken their toll. Our social worker spoke out again, “We desperately need a counselor. Why do we not have a counselor?”

“It all depends on enrollment, I’m sorry to say. That’s where the funding comes from, and with the school in a deficit, we can’t afford to backfill positions.”

One of the teachers—a 20-plus-year teaching veteran not to be played around with—took her turn to criticize not just the company, but the invisible board who hired them.

“I see where they’re all coming from. We felt like the stepchild of the company, like we were never a part of it as a school community. And it feels like that with the board, too. I feel like they never see the work teachers are doing in the building. We need to let the community back into the building to see what’s going on. We need a commitment to a counselor.”

“It all depends on enrollment…”

Meanwhile, I was setting up our committee’s group chat and collaborating with coworkers to set up the infrastructure to keep ourselves together over the summer. I gathered non-work contacts.

The same teacher responded to the director’s vague answers: “We don’t know where any of this information comes from! Why is there no money? Are we non-profit or for-profit? I know y’all probably came into DC thinking this was a hot money-making market for you with all the charter schools. But you don’t seem to realize that these other charter companies at least offer more resources. Two Rivers, DC Prep, and Friendship do that, why not y’all?”

I called the company out for doing nothing to cover the school’s deficit. Enrollment numbers had dropped over the pandemic, meaning less funding from the DC government while expenses rose. The higher-up and I got into an exchange where he tried to evade my questions, and I kept bringing up the same points. He fell back to the same “it’s up to the board, government, and enrollment,” line, so I went back on mute to allow others to speak.

Two more staff members aired grievances about being thrown into different positions with no warning. At that point, it was 11:00, and the regional director claimed he had another meeting he had to join. I wonder what he said about us afterward.

There are a couple of lessons to draw from this experience. One is that having a formal committee that represents the workplace is essential. Two, spontaneous direct actions by workers can win gains and catalyze a solid organizing committee.

During the 2021-2022 school year, my coworkers and I were able to win certain concessions from management through loosely coordinated direct actions. For example, our ex-principal imposed an attendance policy that collectively punished the staff for the late arrivals of only a few (and those workers were only late consistently because of terrible conditions). Throughout the next day, groups of workers would go down to the office to protest—spurred on by everyone else cheering them on. We won.

Even so, most of the tangible organizing only happened in my department—the 3-5th grade instructional team. Within our own circle, we were strongly critical of the principal. Eventually, one of the 3rd-grade teachers even lead us in writing up a formal complaint against them. But after consolidating a committee representing K-2, 3-5, para-educators, and food service staff, I discovered there was a significant minority of staff who loved our principal and assistant principal. The two of them being fired was what agitated them enough to take action and join the committee in the first place. Without a formal workplace-wide committee, we couldn’t see that. I had to readjust my perspective.

Our spontaneous actions made a difference. This year, we have an official eight-hour workday, more robust curriculum support, and a seemingly much more competent leadership team. Less concretely, management has tread a lot more lightly around us. It’s obvious they want to do more to control and discipline their human capital stock, but can’t because they know we might bite back, and hard.

Not only that, but the committee I formed survived the summer, has a meeting schedule, and is actively gathering contacts in preparation for one-on-one conversations as I write this. Summer whittled us down from ten to five, but I had my first one-on-one just the other day, and management has started to act like their old selves again, so I’m predicting that will change soon.

Contact the IWW today if you want to start organizing at your job. Click here to read more about Rybin Z., the author and organizer.

#iw #useful #organizing

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karmic-vibes · 1 year

Text

The Doctor Nurse is In

one-shot inspired by this prompt, ft steve w glasses. enjoy.

cw: drug and alcohol use, vomit/general symptoms of being hungover

wc: 1.9k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

———————————————————————

Steve had dreamed of being a nurse for as long as he could remember. Growing up, he’d tell everyone who would listen about his aspirations, and people always told him to dream bigger.

“A smart, handsome man like you shouldn’t be a nurse. Try for doctor!”

“Have you considered getting a Ph.D instead?”

“Why nurse? It’s a job for chicks!”

Regardless of what he was told, he never listened. He stuck to his hopes and dreams, committed to four years of undergrad, and was now finishing up his clinicals.

During his rotations, he fell in love with emergency medicine, despite initially wanting to go into neurology.

Now, here he was. A fresh grad, finishing up clinicals before officially going for his R.N., and suffering through a rotating schedule, landing him doubles every other weekend.

In terms of Indiana hospitals, Hawkins Memorial was the best-of-the-best. People were shipped in from all over the state to be treated by their staff in all departments. It didn’t help that they were the only trauma hospital for miles, meaning all the chaos that went down in Indianapolis on the weekends got shipped up to them.

As Steve sat at the intake desk, completing some unfinished reports from the first half of the shift, dreaming of none other than his bed and pillow, he heard the 800-EMS radio go off. He slightly turned his head, paying half attention to it—another drunk was on their way in. He rolled his eyes, pushed his glasses further up on his nose, before resting his chin in his hand.

He began to doze off mid-report before Dr. Nancy Wheeler ran over to him, urging him into the trauma room. Steve shot up, stumbled out of his seat, and followed her down the hall.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked.

“You know that band that was performing at the Dome tonight?”

“I don’t necessarily know who they are, but yeah, I know there was a performance tonight. Why?”

“Well…” She slid open the door to find a half-conscious rockstar on the stretcher. “He’s out of his mind on god-knows-what and his agent was saying how he bit a bat during his performance.”

“What‽”

“Mhmm.”

“I… what?”

“Mmm…” The patient groaned, slowly stirring awake.

“We pushed twenty of narcan, so he’s slowly coming to.”

“You seem to have this covered… why do you need me?”

“Well, you’re babysitting him until he wakes up. Make sure he doesn’t choke on vomit or stop breathing or anything like that.”

“Uh… okay…”

“And I wanted to further prove your theory of only drunkards coming in on the weekends,” Dr. Wheeler smirked. “Call me if you need me. Security will be right outside the door. Let me know when he wakes up.”

“Can I at least go get my reports I need to finish?”

“I’ll have Joyce drop them off on her next set of vital rounds.”

“That’s not for another hour!” Steve whined.

“Watch him, Harrington. That’s an order.”

“Yes, doc,” Steve sighed, sitting in the uncomfortable hospital chair. He leaned over to glance at the patient’s bracelet. “Edward J. Munson. Well, Edward, we’re about to be buddy-buddy for the next seven hours,” Steve muttered to himself.

Steve sat back, watching the saline slowly drip in the chamber. He occasionally counted Eddie’s breaths by watching his chest rise and fall—god, he hated babysitting duty.

During Joyce’s next vitals round, she handed Steve his bundle of paperwork. He clicked his pen and continued where he left off. Joyce raised a brow at Steve before directing her attention to Edward.

“How’s he doing?” she asked.

“He’s fine—just drunk and probably high,” Steve mumbled, glaring at his papers. “Do you have the last set of vitals for room three?”

“Yeah, here.” She handed her notebook over to the boy.

“Thanks, Joycie, you’re my savior.”

“Hmm, I’m sure I am, Stevie,” she teased.

“How’s Will? Doing okay in school?” Steve asked, trying to make polite conversation.

“Yeah, he’s doing fine. Struggling a bit with making new friends.”

“Why? He’s such a sweet kid.”

“People keep teasing him, saying he’s gay, and ugh, it’s stupid.”

“I’m sorry, Joyce… that can’t be easy on him.”

“It’s okay. He’s a strong boy, he’ll make his way through it.” She sighed before taking Edward’s blood pressure. “Ready for his vitals?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Steve clicked his pen.

“Heart rate is one-twenty, blood pressure is one-ten over seventy-two, and respirations are–”

“Twelve, I know that one. Thanks, Joyce. I hope things get better with Will.”

“You and me both, sweetie. See you in two hours.”

“See ya.”

Steve poured his attention back into his mountain of paperwork for another hour or so before he heard Edward stir in his bed. He slowly blinked before muttering complete nonsense to himself.

“Morning, sunshine,” Steve said, scribbling down the time he woke up. He slid open the trauma room door and leaned against the doorframe. “Can you get Dr. Wheeler down here, please?” he asked the security guard.

“On it,” he said.

“Yer cute,” Edward chortled. He tilted his head, making it glaringly obvious he was checking out Steve’s ass in his scrubs.

“Mr. Munson–”

“Uck, so formal. Call m’Eddie,” he mumbled.

“Eddie, how’re you feeling?” Steve walked over and took his pulse.

“Better now th’I have a cute doctor to look at.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“A nurse! Even better,” he chuckled.

“So, Eddie, do you remember what happened tonight?”

“Hehe,” he giggled to himself.

“Eddie?”

“I did some stuff.”

“What stuff?” Steve sighed in frustration.

“Drank some beer, did some drugs.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“Hmm,” he hummed.

“No judgement. What’d you take?”

“I dunno, dude,” he whined. “Will you go out with me?”

“No.”

“C’mon, cutie, go out w’me.”

“Sorry, I don’t go out with people who have rabies. It’s my best friend’s number one fear.”

“I have rabies…” Eddie‘s jaw dropped, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth. His pupils were still blown from whatever he took, and his eyes were glossed over.

“No, you don’t have rabies,” Dr. Wheeler said.

“Maybe, we’re still running some tests,” Steve added.

“You probably don’t have rabies,” she corrected. “Mr. Munson, I’m Dr. Nancy Wheeler, I’ll be your physician for the evening.”

“Why’s everyone so goddamn formal,” he scoffed. “‘m Eddie, pretty lady!”

“Yeah, you have fun with him, Stevie. Thanks for letting me know he’s awake. Let me know if anything else major happens.”

“Wait, I’m still stuck watching him‽”

“Yes, you are. Call me if anything changes.”

“Ugh,” Steve huffed, running his hands through his hair.

“You’re so mean, Steeevie,” Eddie snickered. Steve rolled his eyes before returning to his seat. “‘s okay, jokes on you, I’m very much attracted to evil.”

“I’m not evil,” Steve said.

“Whatever y’say, big boy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Y’hear me,” Eddie hiccuped. “So why won’t you go out with me?”

“I already told you.”

“But why,” Eddie whined.

“One, you’re not sober. Two, you probably have rabies. Three, you’re my patient. It’s not happening.” Eddie started laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“Y’never said that ‘m not your type.”

“I… what?”

“I’m your type,” he teased.

“Please,” Steve scoffed, pink tinting his cheeks. “You have no idea what my type even is.”

“Yeah, I do. ‘s me.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hummed contently.

Steve ignored Eddie laughing to himself and went back to his paperwork. Eddie was moved to a regular E.R. treatment room shortly after, still needing Steve to babysit him. Around five in the morning, Steve managed to get all caught up on his patient care reports, and Eddie was in a deep sleep. He just had to ride out the last two dreadful hours of his shift.

Right around six, Eddie started to stir awake, moaning and groaning for something to throw up into. Steve rushed to hand him the basin on his bedside table. As Eddie spewed his insides into the pale pink bucket, Steve grabbed onto his hair, pulling it back into a bun.

“Thanks,” Eddie whimpered, spitting out some bile.

“No problem,” Steve said.

Eddie went back to heaving as Steve gently rubbed his back, trying desperately to soothe him. After five never-ending minutes, Eddie flopped onto his back, heaving, trying desperately to catch his breath.

“You okay?” Steve whispered, dampening a washcloth.

“Mm, been better,” Eddie groaned.

“C’mere.”

Steve gently held his chin in his hands as he cleaned up the vomit from the rockstar’s face. Eddie faintly smiled at him as a silent token of gratitude.

“Thanks…”

“Mhmm.”

Steve picked up the basin and threw it into the biohazard bin before removing his gloves and washing his hands. He ripped a few paper towels from the machine and leaned onto the counter.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

“Mm, I’m sure. Wanna tell me what you took last night?”

“Lord, I dunno. Some coke, some molly, and a joint… maybe two.”

“Fun night?”

“You could say that,” Eddie smirked.

“Do you know if the weed was laced with anything?”

“I know one had traces of fent or morphine. I dunno which one.”

“That explains why the narcan worked,” Steve sighed. “And to drink?”

“Dude, I dunno, I lost count. A lot.”

“And the bat?”

“That what?” Eddie mumbled.

“People said you bit into a bat.”

“Who the fuck told you that?”

“The doctor I work under and your manager-agent person.”

“No, I didn’t bite into a fucking bat. I’m sure I said I did, but I was so high, nothing I was saying was true.”

“Gotcha…”

Steve took a deep sigh as the words rang in his ears.

Nothing I was saying was true.

Did he not think Steve was cute? Did he not want to go out with Steve? Sure, Steve shot him down each time, but for once—since high school—someone found him desirable. He felt wanted.

Eddie quickly pulled Steve out of his thoughts by snapping and waving in his face.

“Hello?” Eddie raised a brow. “Earth to Stevie?”

“Yeah, sorry, what?”

“Nothing, you just zoned. Can I get some water?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. You want ice too?”

“Ice would be nice,” he smiled.

“I’ll be right back.”

Steve finished out his shift, handed care of Eddie over to the next person doing their clinical rotation and went home to his sweet, sweet bed. Two days later, he was back in the hospital for his next set of shifts—this time, however, they were during the week and during the day.

He had never been more relieved.

No more drunkards. No more babysitting. No more Eddie.

When his shift ended that fateful Wednesday night, he made his way out to his car to find a familiar face leaning against the driver’s side door, puffing away at a cigarette.

“Hey!” He cheered, throwing his cigarette to the asphalt.

“Uh… hi? Wh-What are you doing here, Eddie?”

“I wanted to apologize and say thanks… y’know, for Sunday night.”

“Oh, it was no problem. Literally just my job.” Steve nodded and stuck his hands in his scrub pockets.

“Can I buy you a drink? Just as a thank you—i-it doesn’t need to mean anything.”

“Y’know, a drink right now sounds lovely. Lead the way, Munson.”

“My pleasure, big boy.” Steve froze in his tracks, staring blankly at Eddie. “Don’t think I forgot everything from last night, Stevie.” He winked before opening the passenger door to his jet-black corvette for Steve. “After you, cutie.”

———————————————————————

taglist: @steviesbicrisis

a/n: may make a part two. not too sure yet. anyways, hope y’all enjoyed!

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #eddie st4 #eddie stranger things #gay #st4 #lgbtq #lgbt pride #steddie #joe kerry #joseph quinn #joyce byers #winona ryder #will byers #noah schnapp #netflix #nurse Steve Harrington #rockstar eddie munson

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katyawriteswhump · 1 month

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the power of love, part 13 (steddie, stobin, steve whump fic)

Alternate ending S4: Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie��s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 14

(also on AO3 here and as part of my steve whump fic series)

Steve POV

When Steve’s finished slumping forward and retching, he’s so through with everything.

“You did good with the lightning, kid.” Hopper scrapes Steve’s hair from his face. He’s still got an arm about him, pretty much all that’s stopping Steve collapsing onto the dirt. “Let’s hope we don’t need it again, huh?”

Steve sniffs, takes the kleenex Hopper offers and dabs his lips. As his super-fast breaths finally slow, his brain kicks off:

I got superpowers! Henderson’s gonna flip! Shame about the glitches, what with the blacking out and puking my guts out. The sound of a rushing river distracts him. He’s been hearing it, on and off, for hours.

He kneels a little more upright. Hopper gives him some space, passes him some water. “How far exactly have you travelled from Hawkins since the accident at Lover’s Lake?”

The accident? Oh yeah. I died. Twice.

Steve hasn’t told anyone about his second joyride into the afterlife in the Soviet base. Somehow, being an idiot as a kid is way easier to share. A damp breeze rattles through the trees, slapping him back to the present.

“Steve?” prompts Hopper.

“I… uh, I played basketball all over the state.” Even after drinking, his voice is a croaky mess. “Swim meets, too. Been a few times to Indianapolis. I was okay.”

Hopper scratches his stubbly jaw, looking almost as bushed as Steve feels. “How okay?”

“To be honest, I was kicked off the starting squad after a couple of the more distant games. Crappy performances, and I got humiliatingly sick on the bus.” It all makes sense now. “I survived.”

“Fine. You’re a tough guy. You’re gonna have to tough your way through this journey. I can’t leave you behind.”

“Eleven survived in the woods for—”

“At that stage, she didn’t have half the US army on her back.” He pats Steve, powerful enough to rock him. “She’d gotten experience with her powers, too.”

Steve can’t fathom if he’s feeling slightly patronised or dead relieved. All he really wants is to lie somewhere quiet and sleep for a year. Instead, he must drag himself to his feet—or, in the event, he lets Hopper do the dragging. He can’t help asking, though:

“Chief, can you hear running water? Like, loud.”

And getting louder. Niagara loud, in fact.

“No. Why? Can you?”

“Oh… um, maybe not.”

Okay. It’s totally in my head. Why aren’t I panicking harder?

When they reach the Humvee, Robin and Eddie are no longer at each other’s throats. On the contrary, they’re huddled in some deep and meaningful chat. As one, they slam Steve with stricken bunny-rabbit stares, which make him want to laugh so goddamn loud.

During the torturous drive, he sleeps, and his mind drifts back to the Soviet base. He’s caught in that furious red tide, which roars through his aching head. It’s echoed by a caressing whisper: You’ll know when it’s time to go home.

“Yeah, I got it. Shut the fuck up.”

“Rude! Wasn’t saying anything.”

“Huh?” He lifts his cheek from Robin’s shoulder. Her worried, tear-stained eyes overshadow the amusement ruffling her lips. Jesus, I’m breaking my friends! “Dreaming. Sorry.”

He gingerly rolls his shoulders. The side in the sling twinges miserably, and yet… Now he knows he’s gotta ditch the whole bunch of them, the fug of sickness is clearing. He feels better. Much better, in fact.

He keeps the news tight.

If he plays poorly, they won’t expect him to sneak away, right? Though, the plan pitches him another problem—when he does escape, how can he stop Robin and Eddie coming after him? Eddie, particularly, would be in beyond deep shit if he got taken.

Inevitably, the Humvee gets stuck again. When Hopper asks Steve to take the wheel, Steve grabs up a green army notebook he’d spotted in the footwell, a stubby pencil also. He scribbles fast, between revving the engine.

“Eddie, I love you. Please don’t follow me. Steve x”

I love you.

Wtf?

When he’d blundered down that path with Nance, he’d been licking the scars two-and-a-half years’ later. With Robin, of course, things turned out different.

Then Eddie Munson happened.

To be fair, knowing Eddie as he did now, he doesn’t actually believe Eddie would vomit on the note. Maybe only cackle a while. Either way, Steve would no way in hell obey a love letter, telling him not to follow, from anybody he cared about.

Given recent form, he doesn’t think Eddie would either.

He scrunches the note into his pocket then scribbles furiously at ‘take two’:

“Eddie, DON’T FOLLOW ME. You make me sick. Steve.”

Jesus, that’s hopeless. You make me sick? He doesn’t mean that, apart from… It’s sorta true. Steve detests it, however, longs to try again. He’s out of time.

He stuffs the second note into Eddie’s pack, as Hopper opens the door. “We’re gonna have to walk from here. Think you can make it?”

“Dunno,” says Steve. For purely tactical reasons. Likewise, he doesn’t volunteer to carry many supplies.

As they trudge their way through the trees, his chances to run aren’t happening. Everybody’s way quieter than usual—edgy, like during that drive in the RV before they faced down Vecna. When he tries subtly falling behind, they all jump to help him. Even worse, they reach the liaison spot way sooner than he expects. Thankfully, for Steve, the car isn’t there.

“Where the hell are they?” Hopper gets out a compass to check they’re in the right spot.

“Because compasses are so accurate near Hawkins,” gripes Steve, his pulse thudding madly. It really is now or never, and why the hell hasn’t he got a better plan?

“We’re far enough out that the gates shouldn’t make a difference, right?” Eddie says.

How do we know? How do we know that Vecna hasn’t swallowed Hawkins whole, while we’re running away pissing ourselves yellow?

Steve bites this back. It’s not like he wants them coming with him. He sits down on the verge, presses his face to his bent knees. Soon as he dares, he gets up again.

“Where you going?” asks Robin, clambering up also.

“I need to pee,” says Steve. Eddie’s on his feet too. Steve can’t look him in the eye, and the words nearly choke him. “I don’t need a babysitter. Shoo!”

He walks back into the forest, upping his pace as soon as the trees obscure him. It’s gonna be a long trek, he’s hardly got any supplies, and he’s got a weird sense that, no, he isn’t gonna get through this time. He follows the sound of the water, because it seems obvious that he should.

And he feels more torn apart than ever.

The tug back to Hawkins is overwhelming, but the tug back toward Robin and Eddie? It’s like somebody has wound a thread around his heart, attached it to the pair of them. As he strides farther away, the thread snares tight, like that rope around his wrist did.

He’s annoyed—if not exactly surprised—to hear somebody thrashing through the forest behind him. Robin yells, “Steve! Steeeeeve!”

He finally locates a small stream, which seems to be the source of the supernaturally loud torrent. He skids down the bank, landing in about three inches of water, and crouches low.

Go by, Robin. Dammit, turn back.

She tumbles into the stream a yard off, landing on her ass with a loud splash and a louder squeak.

“Uuuuugh!” She takes the hand he offers, and they scramble to their feet together. “Steve, what the hell are you doing?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

She flicks pond scum from her legs and grimaces spectacularly. “Stopping you being an IDIOT! And since when were you not sick? God, I was so worried! Were you faking?”

“You know I wasn’t. I got… fixed.”

“Fixed? Like, HOW?”

He urgently presses a finger to his lips. “Sssssh! Keep your voice down! Look, I don’t know exactly, and I can’t go back. Hopper will make me get in that car.”

“He can’t force you.” Her glare is louder than her voice was.

“Whatever. He and El need to go. You and Eddie need to go.”

“You heard what Hopper said. They’ll torture you for information—they could kill you.”

“Been there, done that, Robin.”

“This isn't funny.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Steve sighs hard, belatedly noticing the stream has breached his sneakers. “All I do know is that I feel more myself already, turning around.” Following the water. “Also, Hop’s right—El can’t defeat Vecna with the military gunning for her. I don’t know exactly what I can do yet, but I have to try, whatever it is. So, please, Robin. Go back. Tell the others you couldn’t find me.”

“Eddie won’t leave without—”

“Which is why I gotta move! Take care, all right?”

He wants to hug her so bad. Instead, he sloshes away.

“Ugh, slow down!”

“Seriously?” He turns about suddenly. She nearly smashes into him and takes the opportunity to get right in his face.

“I am so mad with you! You made me run after you, my butt is drenched, and now you’re making me walk along a horrible ditch, all the way back to Hawkins?”

“It’s the quickest route.” He doesn’t know how he knows, only that he does. He turns around, wades onwards. The damp never bothered me anyway…

“Then why don’t we follow the bank, Steve?”

She has a point. “Oh. Okay.” They clamber up the sides, start following the stream from above. It’s as slippery as the riverbed and overgrown with treacherously tangly weeds.

“Eeeeeew! When this is over,” says Robin, “I am never, ever venturing into the totally-not-great outdoors again.”

“You don’t have to do any of this, Robin.”

Her latest scowl is more jokey—and fond—than he figures he deserves. “Shut up, Dingus. You know I do.”

Part 14

tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology @finntheehumaneater (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 14

#steddie fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steve harrington whump #steddie #steddie fanfic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington x eddie munson #eddie munson #stobin fanfic #platonic stobin #stobin

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denim-mixtapes · 2 months

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Not Another Moment to Waste (Hot Summer Night Part 3 of 4)

Word Count: 5k Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader Tags: EXPLICIT SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI - Rockstar/Radio DJ AU, canon divergence, set in 1992 and Eddie has more piercings and tattoos than ever, thigh riding, semi public sex, unprotected p in v sex (do not do this), light spanking, pet names instead of y/n (sweetheart, doll, baby), quickie in a broom closet (the smut scene is VERY BRIEF, this is a set up for a 4th and final part that is all smut no plot).

Summary: An emergency at work and a request direct from Steve Harrington lands you in Indianapolis, working before the Corroded Coffin show, and Eddie Munson fulfils his promise to take you backstage and show you a good time.

[AO3] [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part4 COMING SOON]

yes that is a photo of hozier in the header no i do not want to elaborate it just WORKS okay

When Eddie Munson promised to bring you backstage at the next corroded coffin show, you half took it as an empty gesture. Nothing more than a few pretty words murmured into your ear while still high off the adrenaline of a quick fuck in a bar bathroom.

It was great while it lasted, sure, but you were just another girl in another city and at the end of the day, Indianapolis was the next city on the list. A new city with new groupies and new distractions. He’s already probably forgotten about you, or at least moved on.

So when you’re catching lunch before getting ready for work, you’re surprised to get a page from your station manager marked URGENT.

Shouldering your way into the phone booth outside of your favorite deli, you dig out change and dial his office number with a huff.

“WKZT, this is Gary,” his gruff voice echoed through the pay phone.

“Hey, it’s me, what’s the situation?”

“Yeah, so,” he clears his throat uncomfortably. “Change of plans. Dave’s wife went into labor early so he can’t make the trip out to Indy for the Corroded Coffin gig tonight. Now normally I would send someone else in his place but we got a call from Steve Harrington specifically requesting that you make an appearance.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, “Gary, I’m not– I don’t do live events.”

Your boss grumbles, a heaviness in his voice that suggests he isn’t happy about this turn of events either, “Like I don't know that. Do you think I’d send you if I had any other option?” There’s a long pause on his end followed by another grunt of disinterest. “Look, Jimmie is going too, he can handle all the on air shit without his co-host, but I need someone there running tech shit. Just make sure nothing goes awry with the broadcast and then you’re scot free, free to enjoy the free concert with damn good seats thanks to Harrington.”

He can clearly hear the rattling of the phone booth as you hit your forehead against it, contemplating. On one hand, if the band’s management was sending for you, it must mean something good, right? But on the other, you have to spend two hours in the van with your unbearable coworker Jimmie – both ways – and work a live event, something you have absolutely no experience in.

As if he could sense your hesitation, Gary continued, “The station will put you up for the night, so you won’t be headed back late at night, and you’ll be paid for the mileage. Please, kid, we need you.”

“Mileage and the bonus event pay Dave would have gotten?” You push.

There’s a long pause before he gives in. “Fine. But you have to bunk with Jimmie in that case.”

“I guess I’ll take it,” you mumble, thankful for the tiny victory at least.

Your boss exclaims on the other end of the line, a sound of relief and uncharacteristic gratitude. He tells you to get packed and get to the station as soon as possible, you have a long drive ahead of you and an earlier call time than usual.

Packing.

A task much easier said than done.

Normally for work trips in the past, you only threw in the essentials. Jeans, station-branded tee shirts, a blazer for professionalism, and comfy, worn in combat boots. Now, staring into your wardrobe, you’re overthinking everything.

Harrington requested that the station send you. That must mean that Eddie was asking for you, that maybe his whispered promise of pulling you backstage for another roll in the hay had some truth behind it after all. The thought has you squirming in anticipation as you stare down your clothing.

A look at the clock reminds you of your time crunch, and you throw a few options in a bag, hoping for a quick trip and some time to freshen up in your hotel room before you have to head to the concert.

About an hour into your drive to Indianapolis, you’re starting to wonder if Eddie Munson is actually worth all this trouble.

Jimmie Page was exactly the type of man that made you feel like you didn’t belong in this industry. He changed his last name earlier on in his career in the hopes that daft women would confuse him with the musician of the same name. Everything he did and said was calculated, strategically planned to garner attention from the opposite sex, and he was cocky in the fact that it often worked. Not on you. From the moment you started at the station, he saw you as a challenge, but finally after years of turning down his advances (and more than one threat to call HR) he instead started treating you like ‘one of the boys.’

That’s how you got here now, in the passenger seat of the vinyl-wrapped station van, listening to him tell you stories as if you were just one of the guys. Crude, vulgar, accompanied with hand motions that jerked the steering wheel nauseatingly. You’re honestly not sure you prefer this to getting hit on.

By the time you make it to your hotel to check in, through the suffocating elevator ride, and into the dimly lit room, his voice is practically white noise roaring in your ears.

You throw your duffel onto one of the beds (thanking Gary, Dawn, and all that is holy that there are two of them), and start digging through it, tossing clothing items and makeup products on the bed in order to start getting ready.

There’s a low whistle behind you, the sound piercing you between the eyes to awaken the headache that this man always seems to cause.

“That’s a lot of face paint there, honey.” The endearment is sour on his lips, churning your stomach in all the wrong ways. His eyes turn to the scrap of leather in your hand. “Short skirt too. You hoping to attract some metalhead wannabe tonight? Maybe a greasy little merch boy? I can see how that would seem like the next best thing to the ones up on stage just out of reach in your eyes.”

Oh if only you knew.

You bite back the snide comment and push past him roughly, making your way to the bathroom.

“Just trying to blend in, asshole.”

“Well,” he shouts to be heard through the bathroom door, “we can’t all be prudes like you. So don’t you worry about me if I don’t show up back here till mornin’, yeah?”

“I should be so lucky.” You mumble to your reflection.

—

Thankfully, the broadcast goes off without a hitch. You stay in the van manning the equipment while Jimmie parades around outside, interviewing passerby, giving out stickers and tee shirts, and asking them to introduce the next song. He even manages to catch Gareth before he heads backstage and gets him to give another shout out. It isn’t a long show, they never are at live events, which you’re thankful for, and soon enough you’re both packing away work and heading inside the venue.

You’re worried you’ll have to spend the whole evening with your coworker, but when the usher scans your badges, you’re separated. You are told to stay put for a moment while Jimmie is led to his seat in the press area, off to the side and a little further back than desirable, and he looks at you with a furrowed brow that you only reply to with a shrug.

Thank. Fuck.

The usher speaks into a headset and tells you to wait there, someone will be there to collect you momentarily.

Turns out, someone is Dustin Henderson himself, dressed exactly as you would have expected in a Weird-Al-inspired patterned button down, jeans, and an oversized sport coat, flanked by two more men in actual suits that you don’t recognize.

“(Y/N), Hi!” He greets, taking your hand and shaking it with both of his, comically vigorous. “So glad you could make it.”

“Uh, hi,” you return his fond gesture, but point over your shoulder in the direction of the press area. “Am I not…there? I thought this was a press badge.”

“It is, technically, but Munson wouldn’t have it.” Henderson turns and starts walking, confident that you’ll follow. Which you do, eyes trained on the short mess of curls in front of you. He keeps talking to the open air in front of him, gesturing wildly in a way that suggests he’s never been able to keep his hands still. “I don’t know if you’re aware, young lady, but you’ve made quite the impression on our frontman.”

Your face twists in confusion as he ducks down a quieter hallway, away from the noise of fans and merch tables. “Young lady?” You scoff, “What are you, nineteen?”

“Twenty-one.” He corrects coolly over his shoulder.

Holding up your hands in defense, you stifle a laugh and continue to follow him down another hallway and through a set of double doors.

They lead you right up side-stage. Beside you sits a rack of guitars, you recognize Eddie’s iconic red Warlock, as well as another deep emerald green number he’s known to favor and a simple wooden-body acoustic. Curtains obscure your view of the growing crowd and offer you cover from their view, but your vantage point offers you the perfect line of sight across the stage, if not a little bit skewed because it’s from a different angle.

Smoke pours in from the fog machines underfoot as the opening band plays their set, guitar techs and various venue employees shuffle around you to do their work but you’re never made to feel in the way.

Dustin gestures to a pile of rolling trunks and equipment cases and smiles kindly, “more than welcome to take a seat throughout the show, but I like the view from here best. Steve and I will be around if you need anything just let one of us know.”

You nod and thank him with a sweet smile, a little overwhelmed at the special treatment, but then there’s a ruckus from behind you and Dustin is rolling his eyes and running off toward it, trying not to seem as frantic about the commotion as he clearly is.

And then you’re alone.

You enjoy the opening band, feeling the music as much as you’re hearing it, the nearby amplifiers thrumming along with the beat, and soon enough the frontman is introducing the last song. The commotion around you grows louder, more excited as more people filter in. Across the stage in the other wing, Jeff sees you and raises a hand in a kind wave, which you return happily. There’s no way you could stop yourself from looking around for a familiar head of hair framing that signature cocky smile. Peeking over your shoulder, you don’t see anyone you recognize except for Dustin, and across the way you can see the rest of the band, but Eddie is nowhere to be seen.

Until hands grip your waist from behind, making you yelp.

The sound of the opening band introducing Corroded Coffin and the roar of the crowd are syrupy in your ears at Eddie’s proximity. His hands squeeze where they hold your waist with a sense of familiarity you didn’t expect from him, and his words cut through the dull white noise around you when he murmurs in your ear. It’s a soft, pointed greeting of, “sweetheart.”

“You treat all your interviewers this special?” You tease, turning in his grasp to gaze up at him through your lashes.

“Definitely not.” He lets out a dark chuckle, one hand leaving your waist to grab roughly at your jaw and pull your face toward his for a hurried kiss. The hand still on your waist travels south, splaying wide over your ass, his long fingers teasing at the hem of your skirt that doesn’t land much lower than the crease of your cheeks. His voice lowers even further, “but then, they don’t all look nearly this good in leather.”

Behind him an impatient guitar tech clears their throat, and Eddie smirks. Your lips just barely brush his as you breathe, “break a leg.”

It’s with a dark chuckle and swift swat where his hand was resting on the swell of your ass that he mutters his own, “thanks, angel.” He finally detaches from you, much to your dismay, and allows the guitar tech to adorn him with his beloved Warlock. Onstage, The Freak matches the energy of the crowd with the bass-heavy introduction to Upside Down, and blanketed in the sounds of cheering fans and his first grungy, prolonged chord of the song, Eddie stalks backward slowly toward the stage. Eyes dropping from yours to take in your figure appreciatively, at the very last moment before he breaks onto the stage he adds on, “but all the luck I need is standing right there in a worn out pair of Docs.”

It’s lame. It’s so lame that you can’t stop your eyes from rolling at his sentiment, but as he turns to run out and greet his fans, he catches the flush creeping up your neck.

—

The show is electric. A whirlwind of wicked instrumental solos and Eddie’s powerful vocals, of the roar of a pleased crowd, fabricated smoke and sparks from cheap pyrotechnics, warm stage lights and adrenaline and speakers rattling your chest. Every time Eddie casts a sidelong glance your way, bathed in red stagelight and sweat and pure sex, you return the look with a dramatic blown kiss or an encouraging gesture, thinly disguising the way that every single one of those looks settles right between your legs.

After a show stopping first half of the setlist, allowing a moment for the deafening roar of the crowd to settle on the room, Eddie slings the Warlock to hang off his back as he approaches the mic stand, cupping both hands around it to speak in a hush.

“What do you say we give these goons a break?” He asks, voice low and sultry. There’s a hesitation in the crowd, but it’s filled with unsure excitement. Even you find yourself leaning in, waiting to see what he’s got up his sleeve. “What you you say, we make this a little more intimate between you and I? Huh? Would you like that, Indy?” The smile that lights up his face at the enthusiastic screaming from his fans is so boyishly gleeful and out of character that it almost catches you off guard. For a moment, you catch a glimpse of the teenager he was before the murder charges. Before the bandwagon accusations of a hometown that was always against him. Before the loss of a dear friend. The teenager who played DnD and covers-only gigs with these same friends, dreaming of doing exactly this one day. He chuckles into the microphone, then, gaze lingering on you through kissed lashes, he croons, “well then why don’t you allow me a moment to slip into a little something more comfortable and I’ll be right back.”

Soundtracked by house music, an outburst of applause and excited hollering, all four of them run off the stage toward you. Mirroring their excited energy, you high five the guys as they run past you toward Steve and Dustin who are waiting with bottled water and encouraging grins. You expect Eddie to follow suit, but he beelines for you, handing off the Warlock to the guitar tech with his wicked smile trained on you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s on you, taking your face in both hands and smacking a hard, hurried kiss on your lips.

Breathless and sweat slick and warm, he asks, “enjoying the show?”

“Mmm,” you hum, pressing your lips together in a tight smile and nodding as much as his hold on you would allow. “Very much. They love you out there!”

Still rushed, not wanting to leave too much dead air on stage, he pulls away and shrugs out of the denim battle vest he’s been wearing all night. Tugging at the collar of his torn up black tank top, he tears it off and throws it over your shoulder to another stage hand. You’re only given a brief moment to appreciate the sight before another shirt is tossed back. “Oh, they ain’t seen nothing yet,” he growls, clearly referencing the crowd but directing his energy right at you. He dons the new shirt, a black and white baseball tee boasting the logo of – if your research is correct – his high school DnD group the Hellfire Club, and takes the acoustic guitar being thrust into his arms. Behind the wall of speakers, the crowd has started to chant his name and he basks in it, grinning. “Time to go bare my soul,” he sighs, winking in your direction and turning in place to run back out to his adoring fans, the first few notes of Wake Up ringing through the sound system.

Somewhere between the first and second encore, you’re sent for again. The band had run off to the opposite end of the stage, much to your disappointment, but as you watch their close knit huddle fondly, it’s Steve’s turn to sidle up beside you.

You draw a breath to greet him, but the chant of Master! Master! Master! From the crowd demanding Eddie’s infamous cover of Metallica’s Master of Puppets all but drowns you out. Chuckling, you lean in closer and shout, “is it like this every night!?”

“Hm,” Steve muses, “not always. But we’re so close to our hometown, Indy crowds always deliver.” A beat of quiet passes between you before he continues, “I was asked to bring you back to the green room, if you want to follow me.”

“Uh, sure, yeah,” you concede, craning your neck as you follow him to watch them take the stage again.

Through more corridors and ducking around venue employees, you follow Steve Harrington back past the line of fans and wannabe groupies claiming they know this person or the other to try and make it backstage, toward the irritated security guard who waves Steve through with ease. From the line you can hear gripes from girls in too-tight shirts fresh from the merch table, who even is she? and what’s so special about that one? and why does she get to go back there!? As much as you wish it didn’t, pride swells in your chest at their jealousy. As you pass the guard adamantly telling someone that a press badge doesn’t get them past this point, you turn and let out a surprised laugh at the WKZT polo shirt and Jimmie’s shocked guffaw of your name.

You offer him a cocky smile and the briefest wiggle of your fingers before turning back around to continue chasing after Harrington.

There’s a few people milling about when you arrive at the green room. A girl you recognize as Gareth’s girlfriend, if tabloids are to be believed, a couple more girls that look like they were plucked from the crowd to join the band post-show, a few roadies waiting to break down, and you think the girl in the corner is Robin Buckley, long time friend of both Eddie and his management team. She’s sipping on a glass of champagne probably provided by the venue and scanning the pages of a thick paperback, keeping away from the chaos.

Steve gestures widely to the room without any additional words, catches Robin’s eye and gives her a brief salute, and heads out unceremoniously. As the door slams shut behind you, all eyes turn to you with interest, everyone curious about the new arrival. The girls quickly realize you aren’t one of the band members and lose interest quickly, Robin gives a polite wave, but returns to her book, and you’re left to stand uncomfortably in the doorway. That is, until maybe-Gareth’s-girlfriend smiles comfortingly your way and moves the throw pillows off of the other half of the loveseat she’s perched on, offering you a seat.

“Thanks,” you mumble, tucking your feet under you as you take a seat and tugging at the hem of your skirt to make sure you remain decent, “I probably look like a fish out of water here, huh?” You laugh at your own expense.

“Nah, you just look a lot like I felt after my first show on tour, happy to be here but a little lost” she waves you off, brown eyes sparkling with kindness. She tosses a curtain of rainbow colored box braids over one shoulder and offers you a hand to shake, “I’m Kiara.”

Shaking her hand, you offer a broad smile in return and introduce yourself.

“Oh!” She perks up, leaning toward you excitedly, “you’re the radio host from last night, right? The guys could not shut up about you all day today! Well…some more than others.”

Your cheeks color at her suggestion that Eddie was the one doing most of the talking, and you rub awkwardly at the back of your neck. “That’s me,” you chuckle, “so Eddie’s uh, mentioned me?”

“No! Not like that!” Her burst of a laugh is downright musical, and she’s physically waving off the comment with a manicured hand in the air. One hand lands on your arm and squeezes comfortingly. “Well, yeah. He’s Eddie. Of course he did, but I meant all the guys! Jeff said it was one of the best radio spots they’ve ever done. Gareth was practically glowing when he mentioned that you featured his solo. They were all impressed.”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you let out your own laugh, “well, I guess that’s good to know. They were a pleasure to have on the show, really genuine.”

The cushions behind you dip with the sudden weight of Robin Buckley’s crossed arms, leaning in conspiratorially. “But….one more of a pleasure than the rest, right?” One brow raised, even she can’t take herself seriously, snorting with laughter at the color draining from your face. “Ah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya, kid.” She tousles your hair affectionately, “it’s been a while since Munson’s been this smitten. I’m pleased to meet the girl behind the voice.”

Robin and Kiara talk around you, but those words dance around in your head.

Smitten?

No. That’s impossible.

He met you yesterday. Well, okay, technically you’d met once before. That show at the Hideout in his hometown was years ago, though. There’s no way he remembers you, no matter how much you may have flirted back and forth.

Then again, he didn’t have to invite you back, or specifically call the station to request your presence.

The door slamming open, rattling off the wall with its force pulls you from your thoughts. At the open doorway, flanked by his friends and band members, Eddie Munson lets out a hearty, “That’s how you put on a fuckin’ show!”

Hoots and hollers fill the room around you as the band filters in, adrenaline pouring off of them, filling the space quickly and wasting no time in pouring themselves drinks and passing around an overstuffed blunt. Gareth fills the space on the loveseat between you and Kiara, making you stand in response to make more room for him. Your conversation was all but over, anyway, and you’ve set your sights on Eddie across the room, who made a detour for the mini bar before making his way to you. You decide to meet him there, instead.

He’s bent at the waist, leaning with one arm on the door of the fridge, peering into it as if to look for some hidden prize. He closes the door as you approach, leaving room for you to slip between him and the minifridge and perch atop it. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he holds back the fond smile, forcing a more nonchalant look onto his face.

“What’s a girl gotta do to get a good drink around here?” You ask, reaching out to toy with the tattered collar of his Hellfire shirt.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs, leaning in close. You anticipate a kiss, leaning up and into him, only for him to change his course and continue on past you, reaching high onto the shelf above your head to pull down a bottle of bourbon. Uncapping it, he takes a swig for himself, then, grin turning wicked, notches the mouth of the bottle under your chin to tilt your pout up toward him. “I can think of a few things.”

His eyes follow the drag of your tongue across your lower lip, breath steady but shallow, and you take the moment of distraction to pluck the bottle from his hands and take a swig of your own, your smirk self-satisfied and cocky as the amber liquor burns your throat.

As he passes, the Freak mumbles to “get a fuckin’ room.”

Nearby, Jeff also groans out, “or at least let us get to the beer, man.”

Eddie’s shoulders slump, eyes rolling in an annoyed gesture, but the predatory smile never falters. He raises an eyebrow, staring you down, “good idea boys.” He steps back, holding a hand out to help you up, and as he ushers you out of the room with an arm wrapped heavy around your shoulder, he adds, “think I may do just that.”

Your ears burn at the attention, but you hide your smile in the soft cotton covering his chest and follow blindly down the hall. He peeks into a couple doors, finding them occupied or locked or otherwise insufficient. You're squirming in his hold by the time he opens another door at the end of the hall to uncover a supply closet, he hasn’t even touched you and yet you’re on the verge of melting into a puddle of anticipation and longing. It would be pathetic if you didn’t know for a fact he was in the exact same boat, pent up with adrenaline from a good show.

He doesn’t suggest it outright, but he peers down at you with a questioning brow, lets the door swing open and make the suggestion for him.

With a sly smile and no second thought, you press the bourbon back into his hand and lead the way into the closet, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness. He joins you quickly with a hint of pride shining in his eye. One final pull from the bottle and he slams it onto one of the shelves, freeing his hands to crowd you up against the door, your cheek pressed into the cool metal, and push your skirt up and over your hips. Impatient fingers swipe through your folds and you both groan. You, at the contact, the tease of sweet relief after wanting for so long. He, at the realization that you haven’t had panties on this entire time.

“Fuck, baby,” he huffs, retreating to make quick work of his belt and jeans, shoving them down just enough. You whine at the loss, drawing a dark chuckle from the man behind you. He fists his cock, lining up with your entrance, pausing just before giving you what you want. “Thought I would’a needed to warm you up at least a little,” his hips snap forward, driving into you with one swift motion and pulling a desperate moan from the back of your throat. “Should’ve known you’d be ready for me, the way you were practically fuckin’ me with your eyes all night.” He grips your hip with one hand, the other propped on the door beside your head, and starts to build a rhythm. Steady but quick, wasting no time.

“Can– fuck, Eddie–” you interrupt yourself when he hits particularly deep, and a peek over your shoulder at the shit eating grin on his face confirms that it was definitely on purpose. You groan, letting your forehead fall against the door again, “can you blame me? Y’looked so damn good out there, you were–” Another pointed piston of his hips cuts off your compliment with a guttural moan, and you concede, deciding now is not the time for talking.

“That’s it, Sweetheart,” he urges, mouthing at the nape of your neck, the hand on your hip sneaking lower to rub sloppily at your clit. He takes in your shaky breath, the hitch in it at his touch, and urges you closer to release. It’s over almost as quickly as it started, not your usual gradual build, but rather a startling wave washing over you with a cry. Eddie grunts his approval into your hair, following quickly and spilling inside you.

You stay that way for a moment, both of you breathing slowly and getting your bearings, until a drunk little giggle escapes your throat, sandwiched between your lips and your forearm where you rest your head.

Running a hand down your spine gently, Eddie hisses as he pulls out, then swats playfully at your ass. “What’s so funny?” If he was actually bothered by your laughter, he didn’t show it.

“Dunno,” you giggle, moving as if through molasses as you stand to right yourself, pulling the skirt back down and smoothing wrinkles from your top, “just really glad I agreed to come tonight.” You decided to bite back the tease, to not call attention to the fact that last night he practically promised you the night of your life, only to end up with a quickie in the broom closet. Not that you’re complaining, the man knows what he’s doing, but…

As if he can read your thoughts, he reaches out for you, drawing you into him with a firm hand on the small of your back. He swallows your protest, licking into your mouth with a smug satisfaction to make sure you know he isn’t going anywhere.

“Oh, you thought I was done with you?” He asks, dimples practically twinkling with the mischief they hold.

“Well, I…yeah?” You can’t come up with the words, so you just nod dumbly. “Baby,” he noses at your temple, kissing a tight smile into your hairline before dropping his tone to murmur directly into your ear. “That was just blowing off some steam after the show.” Another kiss, this time to the spot just below your ear that he discovered last night, nipping at the sensitive skin lightly and savoring the gasp it elicits from you. “I plan on taking my time with you tonight, you better not be calling it a night on me already.”

#eddie munson/reader #stranger things reader insert #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson reader insert #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic

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henrysglock · 1 year

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As someone who’s a born and raised midwesterner, I’m still feeling things about ST4 supposedly being set in late March. (building off this post from earlier this month)

For reference, I live and work near the border between Wisconsin and Illinois. I'm about 5 hours away from Indianapolis (see below).

This is what March 24th actually looks like in the central Great Lakes region: There are no leaves.

The grass is still dead.

The lake I work near is still frozen.

THERE WAS STILL SNOW ON THE GROUND AS OF YESTERDAY. IT SNOWED YESTERDAY MORNING.

Here’s March 23rd of last year for a year-over-year comparison:

No leaves, dead grass.

You cannot convince me that this:

is supposed to be the exact same stretch of time in the upper midwest. If anything, it more closely resembles late May.

Yes, yes, before you say it: I already know it’s filmed in Georgia.

However, they got fall and summer dead-on in Seasons 1-3. So why fuck the nature backdrops up for Season 4, the season where time is already being messed—Oh. Oh.

It’s almost identical to May 22nd—May 29th.

Here’s May 28th of last year for comparison:

The trees have full leaves.

The grass is completely green.

I’m staring directly at the Duffers explicitly stating they were going to retcon Will’s March 22nd birthday to May 22nd…and then they didn’t. I’m staring at the fact that no one in Hawkins remembered Will’s birthday either, not just the Cali crew. I'm staring at the timeline fuckery with the Creels.

There’s something really fucking weird about all this.

#birthdaygate #timeline theory #st filming locations #st setting #st set design #stranger things

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nymime · 10 months

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Im blasting my radio with sad songs, but spanish sad song.

And i just imaging hispanitalian Steve Harrington singing while crying “Señoras” songs that his mama like/listen because Eddie went to a date with some guy he meet on Indianapolis.

And he sing with Pimpinela, Roció Durcal, Gloria Trevi, Ana gabriel, La oreja de Van Gogh, etc.

————————

Robin was worried and a little mad with Steve. The older didn’t come to his turn on Family Video, he even didn’t call her after the plan Steve had to confess to Eddie.

She sigh and look over the clock onto the wall, ten minutes more and Robin can left and go see if Steve was okay. To the sound of the bell on the door and this hitting the big window, Robin jump and look over there, only to see the kids and a piss off Eddie.

“Robin! Robin! Did you see steve?! He didn’t come to search for us after hellfire!” Dustin makes his fast way where the mention one was, looking concerned and sad.

“No, he didn’t even call me last night.” Robin play nervously with her fingers, pinching her cuticles nearly making them bleed. “I was planning go to his house and see him.”

“Good, check out earlier and let’s go.” Max demands to the only older girl there.

Robin look again the clock, nine minute more, she can go nine minutes earlier. “let’s go.”

______________________________________________________

They make it to Harrington State, or the castle, how Mike and Eddie calls it. Robin knock the door, no respond, she do it again, no respond, she back up looking around for a emergency key, she found it under a big leaf of a plant.

She opens the door and they all jumps to the loud sound of music and singing that comes from upstairs, Robin look at the group, they enter and follow the music.

“YA LO VES, LA VIDA ES ASÍ”

“TÚ TE VAS Y YO ME QUEDO AQUí.”

“shit, someone really passionate about this song” mike comment with a half grin on his face. “what language even is this?”

“Spanish, if i can guess.” Eddie responded vaguely.

“¡LLOVERÁ, Y YA NO SERÉ TUYA!” a loud sob comes after that. “¡SERÉ LA GATA BAJOOO LA LLUVIAA. Y MAULLARÉ… POR TI!” “the last vocal expand but broke for heavy and louds sobs and laments, the voice was familiar.

They all look each other until see over the open door of Steve rooms, who was in the floor rounded with chocolate wrappers and nose-rags, the brunette let out an ugly whimper that makes the group shiver, they never seem Steve like this.

Another song start to play, Steve let out another whimper.

“Tu eres la tristeza y de mis ojos.”

“Que lloran en silencio por tu amor.”

“What we can do?” ask Dustin softly to Eddie, who bites his lip and didn’t answer.

“¡…Obligo a que te olvide el pensamiento! ¡Pues siempre estoy pensando en el ayer!” The crying boy let out a lament with his eyes closed, Steve blew his nose and continue to sing along the women in the Vinyl with tears still running down his face.

The group just backwards and left him be, maybe tomorrow he is okay.

After a while of leaving on eddie’s van, Lucas let out the question that everyone was thinking.

“Hey, since when Steve knows spanish?”

_________________________________

The two song i mention are “La gata bajo la lluvia” and “Amor eterno” - Roció Durcal.

Both song are really good and makes me cry, the first come out in 1981 and the second in 1984. So, thinking of Steve following Roció Durcal for his hispan side just makes me kicks my feets.

Edit: i just correct little mistakes of grammar i made. This was wrote at 4 am.

I just sleep 2 hours. I enjoy so much Latino/Hispanitalian Steve Harrington.

#steve is a sweetheart #steve harrington #steve stranger things #stranger things #imagine steve harrington #steddie #steve deserves the world #steve harrington angst #italian steve harrington #steve harrington headcanon #hispanitalian steve harrington #hispano steve harrington #latino steve harrington #steve harrington sings when his sad and heart broken #the next day he wasn’t fine #he’s still crying for eddie.#Later eddie comes and comfort him #just because eddie finally connects the dots and his gonna admit his feelings to steve until thia one dies of dehydration #they become a couple #eddie still apologize for making steve cry for two days.#He apologized taken steve out in a great first day and fucking him with love.#Eddie adore steve after their first date #After adore him eddie fuck steve to subspace #eddie was piss off in the start cause the kids makes him miss the date

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willowworkswithwords · 11 months

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Eddie and Wayne have a heart-to-heart. Part 4 of “Eddie hates his hair but he won’t always”!

part 1, part 2, and part 3

tw: brief allusion to past child abuse

---

Three days pass. They drive up to Indianapolis for the funeral. It’s just him, Wayne, the priest, and two friends of his mom’s that Eddie had never met. The priest says the usual, looking at Eddie with a soft sort of pity throughout the graveside service. Wayne whispers something to the coffin as he throws a handful of dirt down, but Eddie can’t make himself say anything. They drive back to Hawkins in pouring rain, and Eddie stays in his room until the next day.

Wayne is at work. It’s still raining outside. Eddie feels empty and tired and tries not to just stare at the rain all day, but the day drags. Mostly, Eddie putters around the trailer, looking at the odd assortment of knick-knacks that Wayne has all around. There’s a wall with about thirty different hats, and in one of the cupboards there’s a bunch of mugs and a single glass. The mugs all look like Wayne bought them at a gas station or those funky roadside stores Eddie would sometimes see when they had moved around.

After he digs up stuff for a sandwich, Eddie goes into the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s tired, it’s plain as day all over his face. The little bit of his hair that Annie had been able to detangle is starting to get knotted, and as he runs his fingers through it, they catch. Eddie yanks and cries out when it pulls at his scalp. It’s tender and Eddie—

Eddie wishes Annie were here so bad, it hurts worse than his throbbing head.

That’s where Wayne finds him hours later, shut up in the bathroom crying. He knocks on the door and Eddie jolts against the wall where he had slid down.

“Eddie?”

Eddie can’t stop crying.

“Kid—Ed, I’m gonna come in, ok?”

Eddie can’t stop crying.

Wayne slowly creaks open the door, peering around the corner before he opens it all the way. He sighs, that look from Sherry’s car back again, and squats down with a groan in front of Eddie.

“It sure is a lot, ain’t it?”

Against all of Eddie’s years of learning, against every fiber of himself that’s screaming at him to stop, to get a hold of himself, to stay where he is, Eddie finds himself rocking up onto his knees and right into Wayne’s chest.

Wayne sighs again, but both of his arms wrap around Eddie and Eddie can’t keep it in anymore.

Words and screams and the worst of him come spilling out, saturating Wayne’s flannel with his tears. Wayne takes it all in, squeezing Eddie against his chest and whispering quiet, quiet encouragements to keep crying, if that’s what he needs—and Eddie does, until Wayne’s hand lands in his hair.

“Don’t.”

Eddie catches his breath just long enough to spit the word out, jerking in Wayne’s strong grip, sounding broken.

Wayne’s hand is off him immediately.

Eddie smashes his face back into Wayne’s shoulder, suddenly drained. Wayne’s hand slowly comes back to Eddie’s back, rubbing circles in time with his own breath.

“Head off limit, Ed?”

“Just…” Eddie doesn’t want to say it, but Wayne is asking, really wants to know, and that’s more than Eddie’s ever let himself expect. “Not my hair. ‘s gross—I’m disgusting.”

Wayne goes perfectly, dangerously, still.

“Disgusting?”

His voice is clear and strong, and Eddie tenses without meaning to. The circles start back up.

“Disgusting, Eddie?” Wayne is quiet again, soft now.

“My fu—my stupid hair. It’s all a mess and Annie only fixed it a little before…”

“Ah.”

Eddie’s all run out of tears, and he feels himself sinking further into Wayne. Wayne seems to feel it too, because he shifts suddenly, pulling Eddie into his arms as he levels himself and stands. It says a lot that Eddie just shuffles a little in his hold, doesn’t say he’s too old—he’s just so tired.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, Eddie, you listening?”

“Mhm.”

“We’re gonna go get some water, and some dinner?”

He waits until Eddie hums in agreement again before he goes on.

“And then, we’re gonna have a little talk, and then I think it’s best to head to bed,” Wayne says, walking slowly into the kitchen. “I just wanna ask you a couple questions, and nothin’ you say is gonna be wrong, ok?”

Eddie takes a minute to answer this time.

“Okay.”

Dinner isn’t silent. Wayne sets a record on the player that’s just loud enough to let Eddie focus on the music instead of the throbbing in his head and Wayne sets about scrambling some eggs. Eddie isn’t paying attention to how he’d doing the, just looks up after a while from where Wayne had set him down on the couch to a plate of fresh scrambled eggs and a slice of toast with grape jelly. Eddie sniffs but doesn’t start crying this time, and Wayne sits down beside him, his own scrambled eggs with cheese and his toast with peanut butter. They each have a mug of water.

It takes all of side one of the record for them to both get done. Wayne flips it over and grabs their dishes. He settles back down against the cushions, enough space between them for Eddie to turn and face him if he wants to.

He faces front, just like Wayne.

Now that he’s had all of dinner to calm down, embarrassment and dread start to seep back in, but Eddie pushes them back back back. He wants to stop feeling like he has to run, to fight, to think and feel everything all at once just in case. So he pushes it back for now and glances at Wayne before looking back down at his hands.

“What are your questions?”

“Who’s Annie?”

“My friend from school. We ate lunch together.”

“And she helped you with your hair?”

Eddie takes a deep breath.

“Yeah. She knows how to do hair and uh, we didn’t have money or, or really know what to do with it. So, she helped me.”

“That was real nice of her.”

Eddie sighs shakily but smiles, small but true.

“Yeah, it was. She gets it.”

Wayne hums. He understands what Eddie means, and ain’t that something. Eddie doesn’t have to say what it is, just has to say it, and Wayne believes him.

It gives him just enough courage.

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

The record plays on. The crunch of gravel and baying of dogs peters in the through the window from all across the trailer park night.

“Well,” Wayne says. “The best way to do something you don’t know is with someone else. Makes you both feel better for not knowing.”

Eddie sniffs and leans against Wayne.

“There’s a woman cross the park, Jenny. She does a lot of the kids hair ‘round here. What d’ya think?”

Eddie sniffs again.

“Sure.”

“Alright. I’ll call her in the morning before I head off to work. I’ll be home round five again. If you get bored, just go outside. Plenty of kids and dogs you can be with.”

Eddie isn’t sure how he feels about that, but he nods anyways.

“Did your daddy ever hit you?”

Eddie nods. Wayne blows a long breath out, brings a hand up to rub at his eyes.

“Your momma?”

“She never hit me.” Eddie surprises himself with how vehemently he says it.

“I didn’t mean that,” Wayne squeezes Eddie’s hand once. “I was askin’ if you daddy ever hit her.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Ok. What’s your favorite thing to eat for breakfast?”

Eddie looks at him in confusion, the shift in tone making him blink.

“Um, I’ll eat anything?”

“Wasn’t what I asked, kiddo.”

And it goes on like that, back and forth until Eddie’s head starts to bob against the back of the couch and Wayne stops.The silence is the good kind again, and Eddie drifts to sleep. He wakes up the next morning with his bedside lamp on, and he rolls out of bed with a quiet anticipation growing.

Five o’clock just can’t come fast enough.

---

@manda-panda-monium

#please reblog if you're enjoying this series!#I'd love to hear feedback too!!#eddie munson #wayne munson #wayne munson is a good uncle #wayne munson just wants to help his kid #eddie is slowly letting himself believe wayne is kind #emotional hurt/comfort #stranger things #my fic #willow writes #willow talks #an abundance of italics

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medusapelagia · 7 months

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Eddie's Month: day 4

written for @eddiemonth

Prompt: Rejection | Arsonist’s Lullaby - Hozier | Lost

Rating: Mature Character: Eddie Munson WT: murder, violence, threats of violence, drugs, angst with feels, ambiguous ending WC: 1505

The first time the social worker comes into the squalid apartment in Indianapolis, Eddie is not surprised.

He might be five years old, but he sees the other families from the windows: they go to the park together, they have clean clothes and, the most important thing, they don’t walk on the streets at night as he and his mother do.

His mum works strange hours, she works by night and sleeps by day, and when she wakes she always searches for Johnny, or Uncle Johnny as he asked Eddie to call him more than once.

Uncle Johnny is the one who gives the medicine to his mum, so she can sleep quietly and doesn’t scream all day.

Sometimes Uncle Johnny can’t give her the medicine she needs, and those days are hard. She can’t work, so they don’t have any money for groceries, and until she gets a little better, it is Eddie who must take care of her.

But that’s normal, right? She is his mum. He loves her and he takes care of her.

That’s why he learns quickly how to steal bread and fruits to feed both of them until she gets better and goes back to work, and then back to Uncle Johnny.

Eddie doesn’t like Uncle Johnny. He smells bad and is always too tactile with him. But Eddie has a knife. A pocket knife. His mum taught him how to use it. How to open it quickly and use it to stab someone in the stomach “It’s the softer part.” she has explained to him.

Eddie knows that his normality is not really normal, and knows that the social worker that has taken the cup of coffee from his mother’s hands but doesn't dare to drink it, is studying both of them.

“Do you go to school, Eddie?”

Eddie doesn’t even know if he is old enough to go to school but he lies easily, he tells her about schools, friends, and lunch breaks. All things that he learned from television.

The social worker doesn’t take notes but seems somehow satisfied with his answers.

His mum is so proud of him that she takes him to eat burgers and milkshakes in a seedy place next to their home, and it’s not even his birthday!

Eddie is the only kid, so he entertains himself by looking at the water leaking from the ceiling and counting the drops while his mum goes to the bathroom.

One.

Two.

Three.

He can’t really count after twenty so he starts again. And again. And again.

Someone screams and he keeps counting.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

One.

Two.

There is more screaming, his mum's burger is getting cold and a police car is parked outside of the diner.

He doesn’t like the police. They took away his dad and he has never seen him since.

One of the policemen gets closer to him.

“Hey, kid.”

He doesn’t respond. He is not supposed to talk to strangers, is he?

“Can you tell me your name?”

Fuck. He lost count. Now he has to start again.

One.

Two.

Three.

“His name is Eddie.” someone says from behind him “It’s Moira’s son.”

“Moira?” the policeman asks.

“The woman in the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

Eddie lifts his eyes, that’s not a good oh.

“Son. I’m sorry. Your mum… she is not feeling well. Why don't you come with me?”

No! They are not going to take him away as they did with his father.

He runs toward the bathroom, screaming “MUM!” he is so small that he easily avoids the adults who are trying to stop him, and gets into the bathroom.

His mum is on the floor, her eyes open and unfocused toward the door, red signs around her neck, and a syringe on the floor.

He will find out, years later, that Uncle Johnny gave her a dose and she didn’t have enough money to pay for it because they just had burgers and milkshakes, so he killed her in that lurid bathroom, but for the moment the only thing he knows is that his mum is gone.

He doesn’t know where, or how, but she is definitely not there.

***

Everything after that feels like a blur: one moment he is in the lurid bathroom and the next a man he has never seen before is taking him inside a trailer in a town he doesn’t know.

He said he is his uncle, but Eddie doesn’t like uncles, the last one he had killed his mother.

Thank god the little voices in his head arealways with him, whispering that everything will be alright, that he has his pocket knife hidden in his shoes, that if this strange man tries anything at all he will stab him in the stomach and run through the woods.

But the strange man never tries to touch him.

He offers Eddie his room, he buys a Garfield’s mug just for him and some new clothes, and slowly the voice starts to fade in the back of his mind.

For the first time, he attends school. For real.

He learns how to write his name and starts to write it everywhere, sometimes even on the trees with his pocket knife.

Wayne, that’s the name of the man he refuses to call uncle, doesn’t know that he has a knife. Adults don’t want kids to have them, Eddie doesn’t know why, so it’s a secret that he shares only with a kid he met at school.

His name is Garreth and he has a twin sister, a little miss-perfect with blond hair and blue eyes that easily capture everyone’s attention.

One time Eddie proposes to poke her with his knife, just a little. Just enough to make her cry.

Garreth thinks about it for a long moment but in the end, they decide that it’s not worth it. This is their secret and they don’t want to share it.

One afternoon, when Wayne is at work and they are playing in the woods, they cut their palm and shake hands, becoming blood brothers.

That’s the first real friendship that Eddie has ever had and it will last for years.

***

Garreth is the only one that gets him.

Everyone else avoids Eddie like he has the plague.

He tries to make friends with other kids, he even shares his secret showing his knife at recess to be cool, but the only effect is that the school calls Wayne who has to come to pick him up and scolds him for having such a dangerous tool.

He will never see it again.

The only thing that his mother left him, is gone.

The demons that live in his head, because now he knows that they are demons, not simple voices, are never satisfied.

He smokes more and more, trying to shut them up.

He decides that if he has to be an outcast, he will be the fucking king of the outcast.

The goblin’s king.

He is not a freak. He is the freak.

Eddie the Freak Munson.

He is in a band, he is the DM for his little nerd group, and he doesn’t care if everyone at school despises him.

He is different from them.

He has demons, like all of them, but he knows their names.

His demons are fear, rejection, and loneliness, and he knows them well enough to give them just the right amount of leash.

People who don’t know their demons end up like his mum.

That’s why he is not too surprised when a blond cheerleader, the queen of Hawkins High, comes to his place to buy something stronger than weed.

He knows he should offer her friendship, it’s cheaper and it’s nicer.

He will, maybe not today.

He invites her to his place, and when they get there he starts to look around, searching for his little bag, when he notices that his demons are quieter than ever, like dogs scared of a bigger dog.

He turns.

Chrissy Cunningham is on the ceiling.

He screams her name, trying to bring her back from wherever she has gone, but deep inside he knows it’s too late. Her eyes are empty, like his mother’s.

All he can do is run away from an invisible monster that’s hunting him.

He hears him call his name, as killing Chrissy was not enough for him, but Eddie is faster, he has lived on the streets, and he knows how to avoid problems and demons.

He runs toward the house of his dealer, hiding where he thinks no one will ever find him.

But he is wrong. There are voices. And people.

He tightens his grip on the broken bottle and gets ready to jump.

He has never felt so lost before.

He jumps, pushing the bottle at the neck of the intruder, a chestnut boy with wide eyes full of fear.

He sees the boy's demon in his eyes and lowers his makeshift weapon.

Eddie Munson may be a freak, but he is no murderer.

#stranger things #fic #stranger things fanfic #my fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #eddiemonth #eddiemonth day 4 #murder #violence #threats of violence #drugs #angst with feels #ambiguous ending #medusapelagia

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stobinesque · 10 months

Text

phryctoria | chapter 2: four by four (tau)

Sometimes your gay awakening is just having someone to show you it’s possible. Steve has just come out to Robin, and suddenly she's running around with ideas and schemes.

[1][2][3][4][5][6 & 7] | [Read on AO3]

“We should go to Indy this weekend,” Robin declares as she slams the beamer’s door behind her the next morning.

“Hello to you too, Rob. And you’re so welcome for the ride. My morning’s been great, how about you?”

Robin rolls her eyes with a put-upon little huff. “Yeah, yeah. Good morning and thanks for the ride, mom.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady,” he snarks back in his best ‘beleaguered housewife’ impression. It’s enough to make Robin snort and elbow him in the side.

“Whatever, dingus.” Robin throws her feet up on the dash as he pulls out of the Buckleys’ driveway, utterly ignoring Steve’s resigned protestations. “I don’t know what’s got your knickers in a twist when I’m trying to help you.”

Steve raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “And how would a 3 hour round trip to and from Indianapolis help me, exactly, Buckley?”

“Well, Harrington,” Robin starts, with a tone that mock-suggests that he’s the stupidest thing on the face of the planet. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Hawkins isn’t exactly crawling with queers.”

The last word comes out of her mouth a little wooden and self-deprecating, and Steve seizes up at it—the idea that ‘queer’ includes him now. It’s a truth he’s always instinctively flinched away from (and, oh, shit, he owes Byers a whole new round of apologies now)—but Robin just keeps barreling on, while he feels like he’s about to be pulled under by a riptide.

“I was thinking last night— Okay, so, you know how you’re kind of a slut?”

Steve shoves aside the cresting wave of panic (if he can take on Billy Hargrove, demonic-gorgon-dogs, and murderous Russians, he can handle fucking homophobia, right?) and lets himself settle into the familiar banter. “I would take offense to that, but you are, factually speaking, correct.” The brightness in his tone isn’t even faked. “I thought we weren’t talking about my sex life anymore, though?”

“Right, well—” Robin gestures dismissively like he’s missing the point. “—the grace period has been extended.” She pulls down the visor to start messing with her hair. “Anyway, I figured—you learn by doing, yeah? And regardless of how you actually feel about women, you know you’re good at sex, right?” Robin draws up short and turns to shoot him an intense look. “…And that is literally the only time I’m ever gonna say anything even remotely positive about your ‘sexual prowess,’ and if you try to bring it up around anyone else they’ll never find the body, Harrington.”

“Threat acknowledged, Buckles.” The corners of his mouth turn up into a helpless smile. God—how does she manage to make the end of the world so easy?

“Eugh—Buckles??” Robin looks ready to grab the wheel and steer them off the road.

Steve shrugs. “It felt right in the moment.”

“I hate you,” she says, shoving a finger in his face to emphasize the point. She falls back into her seat and continues, “Anyway, back to your gay crisis—”

“Yeah. About that.” He frowns as the dark edge of his thoughts is drawn back to the forefront to be held up for inspection. “Did you…did you, like, turn my coming out into a science experiment? Are you trying to code break my gay awakening?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations.”

“Rob.”

“Okay, look.” Robin flips up the visor and turns to look at him straight-on. “You have an opportunity in front of you that I bet most gay people don’t get to have!” The look on her face is so painfully earnest it’s almost hard to look at. “I’m pretty sure most of us realize we’re fucked up by age eleven, and then spend the rest of our lives hating ourselves so hard we can’t see past our own navels. Or we just make it everyone else’s problem. Or repress the shit out of it until we get stuck in a loveless marriage with two-and-a-half kids, a dog, and a white picket fence!” The anxious edge to her voice has Steve sitting up straighter: muscles tensing up, spine going stiff.

“Robin,” he says, slowly, delicately. “Have you…met another gay person?”

“No? I thought we’d already established that. Also, I don’t see how that’s relevant here.”

Steve drums the fingers of his left hand against the steering wheel as he reaches over with his right to fiddle with the radio. On every inhale he can feel his chest going tighter and tighter as his lungs struggle for air. He feels like he’s back in the tunnels, breathing in pores of the Upside Down’s death-ridden atmosphere, wondering between heartbeats if his next one might be his last. “Is that …do you think we’re fucked up?”

Steve is very pointedly staring at the road ahead of them, but he can still feel the way Robin’s face falls as she continues to look at him with what he knows will be too much sincerity.

“I…” The way Robin’s voice trails off into quiet uncertainty is what finally makes Steve turn to look at her.

She’s wearing an expression he doesn’t think he’s seen before. Sadness, yes—but tied up with confusion, and anger, and—well, he looks in the mirror too often not to know what self-loathing looks like on a person. The two of them are too alike, he thinks.

“Robbie.” He reaches out a hand to her, palm outstretched and expecting. The comforting weight of her grip tightening in his follows a moment later, and he squeezes her hand twice, like a heartbeat. For courage, maybe. Or just to say I’m right here. And, I’m not going anywhere. Robin squeezes back twice in return.

“I used to,” she whispers. “I still do, on bad days, y’know?”

Steve nods.

“And, yeah.” Robin sighs and turns to lean her head against the passenger side window. “Up until now I’ve been figuring it out on my own. And, like, there are books and stuff? But anything I read I’ve gotta make sure to do at the library, but without anyone seeing me. And there are, like, two pulp novels—that are literally disintegrating—where the lesbians die at the end—and holy shit I think that’s the first time I’ve said that word out loud—and one book of gay history that I have to assume was ordered by accident in 1976. And I’m pretty sure if we were literally anywhere other than bumfuck Indiana I could probably find more…more anything. But. Uh.” Robin shoots him a halfway sheepish look. “I don’t have a car?”

Steve laughs, the shock of it unraveling the inky vines of panic that’d been working their way across his chest. “Oh my God,” he gasps through the laughter. “I realize I’m gay, and somehow the fact that I have a car is still the most interesting thing about me. Also, hold on a second— Robin, you don’t even have a license.”

Robin throws her hands up. “Exactly.”

“Thirdly—”

“Thirdly? Since when were we making lists!”

“Thirdly—” Steve over-exaggerates his steering on the turn he’s making to emphasize his point. “I can’t believe I’m being saddled with a field trip in exchange for baring my soul to you.”

Robin snorts. “We find the right bar in Indy and you can bare more than that.”

Steve blinks, thoughts grinding to a halt again, but this time he’s flashing hot with something closer to interest than shame. “Are there gay bars up there?”

Robin shrugs. “I mean, yeah? It’s a city, right?”

“Oh my God.” Steve stares off into the middle distance as he comes to a horrifying realization. “Oh my God. We really are just two idiots up against the world together. Doomed to symbiotic cluelessness for the rest of our lives.”

“Think of it this way: it’ll be an adventure! This time with at least 70 percent fewer drugs and torture.”

“Yeah, that’s comforting,” Steve scoffs as he pulls into the parking lot outside of Hawkins High.

“Oh, come on, Steve. We won’t be the first gay teens who’ve stumbled into the city with no idea what they’re doing. We’ve just gotta…look the part?”

Steve bangs his head against the steering wheel with a resigned groan. “Fine. Let’s go on a big gay field trip to get me laid, and get you…gay…summer reading? Also we should probably talk about that whole ‘this is the first time I’ve even said the word ‘lesbian’ out loud’ thing at some point.”

Robin swats at his arm, and he snaps his head up to glare at her in confusion.

“You’ve concussed yourself enough without willfully banging your head against things, asshole! Also, it definitely doesn’t count as summer reading anymore.” She pushes open the door with a dramatic flourish, and Steve doesn’t bother to say anything when it bangs open with just a touch too much force. He’s already accepted that he’s never going to meet another person who treats his baby the way she deserves. Robin turns to plant an obnoxiously loud, smacking kiss on his cheek with a manic grin on her face. “But yeah, sounds like a plan! Except for that last part, I’m pretty happy to just keep ignoring that.”

Steve gazes heavenward as Robin slams the door closed again. He’s not sure what he did to deserve Robin Buckley, but if he ever finds out he’s gonna thank his past self, and then firmly smack him across the face.

Actually—maybe in the opposite order.

“Have a good last first-day, Rob,” he calls out the driver’s side window.

“Yeah, yeah, see you at three, Steve!” She waves back at him without really paying attention as she runs to catch up with a couple of students he assumes she must know from band, or something.

Steve smiles after her, and then catches sight of the kids all nervously congregated by the bike rack. Dustin turns to face the lot, beaming his toothless smile back at Steve, and Steve waves back in response. Once the warning bell rings, and they’ve all dragged themselves into the building, Steve pulls away, wishing, for the sake of them all, a happy and uneventful year.

Notes:

We are simply handwaving away the fact that in season four Steve reveals that he didn't realize that Robin doesn't have her license. As funny as that is, it simply does not make sense for how close I have written them here. …and also I wrote that bit of dialogue before remembering it was technically non-canonical, but I liked it too much to rework it. Steve being out as gay already breaks season four canon and also this series will more majorly break from season four canon down the line so you can just consider this the first (second?) casualty. The inspiration for the line about a history book getting purchased accidentally in 1976 is a reference to Gay American History by Jonathan Katz, which did in fact come out that year. Also, while Robin is at least a little nervous about her parents potentially finding gay books she's brought home, her refusal to check anything out from the library is more because she's worried about the librarian seeing them/having a paper trail of what she's borrowed (even if no one should be looking at her browsing history). Also, to be clear (and also as a warning for chapters to come): while Robin and Steve did kind of forget about the AIDS epidemic for a hot second, I very much did not. They've got a lot going on in their little traumatized, teenage minds, is all.

#steve harrington #robin buckley #stobin #stobin fic #gay steve harrington #read writes #phryctoria #semiotics 'verse

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