#mimi wrote ✍️
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poltergeists for sidekicks | E.M.
summary: [2.3k] the kids drag eddie to the halloween store where you happen to work.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
warnings: fluff, pining, eddie being a lovestruck idiot, r wears big prescription glasses and is described as having messy hair
a/n: happy halloween! here’s something i’ve been working on for ages just in time for the end of spooky szn! xoxo
masterlist
Eddie doesn’t hate Halloween.
He used to love Halloween. He likes autumn. He likes watching the leaves change colors. He can appreciate the novelty of a hot apple cider and a hay ride. Hell, ever since he was old enough to go trick or treating, he reveled in it. Free candy and all he had to do was put on a costume and say three magic words? Sign him up.
As he got older, he started to like Halloween for a slightly different reason. Don’t get him wrong, he still liked the free candy, but he liked the excuse to be someone else for a night. He liked how he could throw on a Michael Meyers mask and go door-to-door and be greeted with glee and sweets.
It does a funny thing to a kid’s self-esteem, being treated better when he’s wearing the face of a fictional serial killer.
Now, though, Eddie Munson is decidedly too old for trick or treating. He’s resigned himself to spending the holiday like it was any other day by spending the night in his room, playing guitar, and coming up with new campaign ideas.
Which is exactly what he was doing when three freshmen started pounding down the door of the trailer demanding entry. Within moments, they are practically on their hands and knees asking, nay begging, for the older boy to take them to get last-minute Halloween costumes.
“Aren’t you guys too old to go trick or treating?”
“This is why we need to go to the store! If we wear masks, no one will be able to tell how old we are, hence extending our years of candy collecting.” Dustin explains, matter of factly.
Eddie sighs, leaning back into the sofa, steepling his fingers together. “What’s in it for me?”
The three boys huddle together, conspiring in a manner that is not dissimilar to the way they plan their counterstrikes during Hellfire. They nod in sync, turning around so that Lucas is standing front and center, flanked by the two other boys.
“That one girl you like is working there.”
Eddie remains stone-faced, quipping sarcastically, “That’s very specific.”
Mike lets out an exasperated groan, threading his fingers through his hair before yanking at the ends in frustration. “Y’know, the weird one. Coke bottle glasses, messy hair, always holding a book?”
Lucas’ eyes widen. Dustin smacks Mike on the chest and the hollow sound rings out through the empty trailer. They all start talking over each other, with two of them berating the third for A. being insensitive and B. expecting a good outcome from said insensitivity.
Eddie wants to make a comment that your hair is not messy, it’s actually more voluminous. Besides, his hair is messy and he likes to think it makes him look badass. The glasses comment was a little unfair. Sure, the frames are a similar shade to the iconic green of the bottles of Coca-Cola. But the magnification was endearing, leaning more towards doe-eyed than bug. Unfortunately, Eddie did not consider that while he was observing you, someone might’ve been observing him.
The assurance of your presence is how Eddie ends up here, parked outside of a hardware store turned seasonal shop. He’s helping his friends. He’s supporting a local business and therefore contributing to the local economy! You being here is just a bonus.
A bell rings above them as he swings open the door, the motion setting off a scratchy pre-recorded cackle. He’s gotta hand it to whoever is running the store. They’ve gone out of their way to transform the dingy overhead fluorescents and worn-out linoleum into something that actually resembles an eerie boutique.
“Welcome in! I’ll be right witch you!” Your voice lilts out from the depths.
You appear out of the darkness, expertly weaving under fake cobwebs and pushing aside fanciful drapes that have no doubt been strung up precariously around the store to add to the ambiance. You’ve got a witch’s hat on, tall and black and pointy, which further explains the pun you greeted them with.
“How can I help you?” You smile brightly, adjusting your glasses.
The younger boys barely spare you a glance, just a chorus of we’re good! before running off to the other side of the store, where all of the costumes are located.
You barely blink at their rudeness. Whether that’s indicative of your experience in customer service or due to your generally sunny disposition, Eddie isn’t sure. You turn your smile and magnified gaze at him, “What about you?”
Eddie startles only slightly. He begins to peek over his shoulder as if there’s somebody else in the mostly deserted store that you could be talking to. What about him?
“Oh, I don’t need anything. I just came here with–” He gestures vaguely in the direction that the boys wandered off to. “The little shits that left me in the dust.”
You bark out a laugh, a small smile settling on your lips. “It’s sweet of you to help them out.”
Eddie only blushes in response, murmuring a quiet it’s nothing, scratching the back of his neck like he might find a switch that’ll make him remember how to talk like a normal human being.
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”
You pick up a clipboard and a pen and start leisurely strolling down the decor aisle, making inconsequential markings on the paper. Whenever you come across gaps in the shelves you reach back into them, pulling the products to the front edge with a concentration that is quite adorable.
He’s definitely staring by now. Feigning interest in a skull-shaped candy bowl, Eddie scrambles for something, anything to keep the conversation going. “I’m surprised you’re not busier.”
“You just missed the afternoon rush.” You say, straightening a pair of plastic tarantulas that have gone askew. “Not too many people came today, though. I guess they realized that it’s so close to the holiday that the shelves would be picked over.”
“Really?”
You shrug, “I think by October 30th, most people figure if they’re gonna dress up, they’d rather just pull together something from their closets than spend money. We’re actually busier the day after Halloween because everything gets marked down and people want cheap candy.”
“Makes sense.” He nods. “So, I take it you’re a big fan of Halloween?”
Your smile is apprehensive as if you’re not sure if he’s making fun of you. Your fingers brush the brim of the witch’s hat. “What gave me away?”
He falls into step beside you, clasping his hands behind his back and puffing out his chest. “I just had a feeling.” Then, feeling much braver than usual, he adds, “I like your outfit.”
You look at him again, clutching the clipboard to your chest. For once, your eyes are leaning more towards bug-eyed. The black velvet dress has draped sleeves and a skirt that swishes with every step. Orange and black striped tights protect your legs from the inevitable chill that comes with October in Indiana. “You do?”
“I do.” He insists, “It totally adds to the magical vibe. If you told me that you were an actual witch and this was just something you do to pass the time I’d one hundred percent believe you.”
All apprehension has slipped off your face, replaced by a genuine smile that cracks open his chest. “Thanks…” You trail off.
“Eddie.” He supplies.
“Well thank you, Eddie. I’d tell you my name but I’m guessing I don’t have to.” You say, rubbing the plastic name plate on your chest.
Eddie does know your name, but it isn’t because of your name tag. He was far too proud to ask around for your name, and far too afraid of rejection to ask you himself. He’d been lucky enough to get a library book right after you. He’d pulled the weathered paper from the slip, seen your name at the bottom of the checkout card, traced the loopy letters with the pad of his fingers. It had definitely been more than a little pathetic.
Eddie coughs, clearing his throat, trying to maintain any semblance of nonchalance. “Do you have any plans for Halloween?”
Your face slowly lifts from the clipboard, twirling your pen between swift fingers polished in a deep burgundy. Directing your gaze at him, you peer through dark lashes and Eddie’s never been more thankful for the inventor of coke bottle glasses. The magnification allows him to see the spark of intrigue dancing across your pupils.
“I was just gonna stay home. Maybe help my mom pass out candy.” The implication of the last sentence seems to hit you. You look down again, scrunching up your nose. Eddie finds it endearing how your first instinct is honesty rather than anything else.
“Cool. That’s cool,” Eddie says in a manner that is decidedly uncool. He fiddles with his rings before shoving his hands into his pockets. “Actually, I was wondering if—”
Suddenly, Eddie feels stupid for getting lost in your eyes and not paying attention to his surroundings. Maybe then he would’ve noticed how the linoleum got ever so slightly softer under the soles of worn-out boots. He would’ve seen the cloaked figure looming in the alcove, waiting for some unwitting soul to step on the pressure plate.
Unfortunately, Eddie did not see any of those things. The poltergeist, or ghost, or whatever the fuck it is swings out. He stumbles backward, releasing a shriek that is so high-pitched, that he wonders if he should start tapping into his upper range. Maybe it would add more texture to Corroded Coffin’s Tuesday night sets.
Instinctively, his arms fly backward, as if to protect you. He stumbles right into you, and he’s sure that if you didn’t grab his waist from behind, you would’ve fallen right over. Unfortunately, the movement has both of you careening back into a shelf, sending bags of overpriced candy and shitty Halloween decorations tumbling to the ground in a cascade of all things creepy and corny. He quickly spins around.
“Shit, are you–”
“I’m so sorry!”
“I should’ve warned you–”
At that moment, chests heaving and hearts racing, you both seem to realize that your hands are still grazing Eddie’s waist. You spring apart, scrambling to clean up the display, haphazardly grabbing the fallen items and placing them back in their rightful places on the shelves. Among them is your hat, another casualty of the calamity.
“I should’ve warned you,” You say again, slightly out of breath. “That thing nearly scares me to death every other day.”
“It’s fine. I should’ve paid attention to where I was walking. It just added to the whole spooktacular experience.” He picks up the hat from the floor, dusting it off. “I think this belongs to you.”
You give a bashful smile, but instead of putting the accessory in your outstretched hand, he gingerly places it on top of your head. Your glasses have slid down your nose from bending over to clean up his mess, and his thumbs gently push the joints of the frames until they’re sitting in their rightful place.
“There,” He punctuates his statement with a resolute tug on your hat, making sure it’s securely on your head. “Perfect.”
You preen at him, eyes sparkling, before you cast them down at the floor. Dustin comes running around the corner, closely followed by Mike and Lucas. All of them are carrying armfuls of miscellaneous Halloween supplies, obviously alarmed at the clamor, but not alarmed enough that they didn’t take their sweet time coming from the opposite end of the store. Eddie takes advantage of your bashfulness and distinctly shoots them a look that says get the hell out of here. Dustin’s eyes dart between the two of you before they widen and his mouth forms a small oh. He sends Eddie an exaggerated wink, walking backward in order to not interrupt the private moment, dragging his two friends along with him.
“Thanks,” You smile at him. “For protecting me. I know who to bring with me if I ever want to walk through a haunted house.”
He gives a lopsided grin, “My pleasure.”
“Ahem.” You clear your throat, “Anyways, what are your plans for Halloween?”
This is it. This is the moment that Eddie has been waiting for since he put down his guitar and his notebook and opened the trailer door.
“That depends.” He clasps his hands behind his back, jutting his chin up in the air. “Are you working tomorrow?”
“I get off at four.”
“The Hawk is doing this continuous horror movie marathon. Maybe you would want to go?” Eddie’s fingers are practically vibrating with excitement. He nearly forgets the most important part. “With me? I mean— Only if you like horror movies, I just figured because I’ve seen you walking around with that Stephen King novel. NOT that I’ve been watching you or anything!”
You let out a small giggle. The fact that you’re laughing and smiling is a good sign, even if it is slightly at his expense. He decides to lean into self-deprecation, hoping it’ll seem more charming than desperate.
“I’d say I don’t scare easily, but I think we’d both know that’s a lie by now.”
You scribble something near the bottom of the paper on the clipboard, delicately folding it and ripping it off before placing it in Eddie’s palm.
“Well, I’ve heard horror movies are less scary if you have someone to hold your hand.”
It doesn’t even matter that a ghost animatronic essentially acted as his wingman. The note with your number on it sits heavily in his pocket, thumb tracing over looped ink. Even though it’s cold as shit, he embarrassed himself, and signs of the spooky season decorate every corner, Eddie has a smile that rivals even the best of jack-o-lanterns.
As Eddie turns off towards the dirt path that leads to Forrest Hills Trailer Park, the smile still hasn’t faded.
For once, the streets of Hawkins seem a little less haunted.
likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson drabble#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfiction#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things#stranger things fic#stranger things x reader#mimi wrote ✍️#poltergeists for sidekicks
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Never really over | S.H.
summary: [4.2k] you and steve fall apart, then fall back together.
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
warnings: so much angst, best friends to exes to lovers, language, gratuitous taylor swift references
a/n: exes to lovers is one of my fave tropes so i hope i did it justice! reader is vaguely asian-coded by accident (though there shouldn’t be any direct references to r's appearance!) lmao happy AAPI heritage month to all my fellow asians
masterlist
The day after your breakup, Steve shows up at your house with a bag of takeout and a six-pack. He kicks off his shoes at the front door while you’re in the kitchen, already grabbing napkins and chopsticks. The light on the floral rice cooker on the counter just turned from cooking to keep warm. Steve is nothing, if not right on time.
To most people, the situation would seem peculiar. But you and Steve were best friends before your break up and you had promised that you would stay best friends after it.
You settle in on opposite sides of the worn-down loveseat, a rerun of Golden Girls playing on the television. You’re just about to ask him if he remembered to get extra sauce for the chow mein when Steve, seemingly anticipating your question, silently hands you a small cylindrical container.
The night goes on as it usually would, with Steve lamenting Keith’s tyranny and Dustin’s antics. He helps you clean up when you’re done, scooping the leftover rice into a Tupperware container saying I gotta get myself one of these, it’s so convenient! He even does the dishes, washing while you dry, never commenting on the fact that you have a perfectly good dishwasher that you never use.
Once he’s standing in the entryway, shoes back on and keys in hand, he instinctively leans in for a chaste kiss goodbye.
You flinch, turning your cheek at the last second. The moment becomes a sobering reminder as to why you decided to break up in the first place. Instinct over time starts to feel like routine. Routine over time starts to feel like a chore. Another thing that you have to cross off your to-do list.
For a while, it was grounding. It felt good to be normal. Normal felt like warmth, like coming in out of the freezing cold and cozying up next to a blazing fire. But you knew from experience that the cold always comes back. As the days drew darker, the once roaring hearth settled into a pile of ashes. Being grounded can feel like being tied down. It’s only natural to want to break free.
You didn’t realize freedom would feel like this.
“Right.” Steve huffs out awkwardly, swinging his car keys around his index finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He shuffles out the door while you offer a weak goodbye. You know you’re letting the cold in by watching him as he gets into his car. You do it anyway.
–
Steve and Dustin have taken to visiting you while you’re on shift at the coffee shop. You’re not sure why. The arcade next door seems much more fitted to their shared interests, but they still come and visit you all the same. Usually, when you come upon them, they’re standing on the other side of the till having a whispered conversation that dies the moment they notice you’re there.
“A latte for me, and hot cocoa for the kid.” Steve says, ruffling the younger boy's hair.
“I’m fourteen!”
“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Maturity. Did you want a coffee? I’m sure our girl over here has some great recommendations.”
Dustin only grumbles in response, muttering insults under his breath. Steve refuses your offer to comp their drinks, paying and dropping his change in the tip jar.
You set both drinks down on the counter when they’re done. One is a simple steaming cup. The other is piled high with whipped cream and sprinkles, decorated with a tiny plastic snowman left over from the holidays.
“Thank you,” Steve says, leaning against the counter. “Y’know, you’re my most favorite barista in the whole world.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m the only barista you know, but you’re welcome.”
“So, would you be interested in movie night tomorrow?”
“Wow, let me think.” You feign contemplation, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I’ll have to check my schedule. I have a meeting with some venture capitalists but I might be able to squeeze you in.”
“It’s a date.”
“So… you guys are back together?” Dustin darts a confused glance between the both of you, his irises going back and forth as if watching a ping-pong match.
“No!” You and Steve both blurt out at the same time. Then you both take a moment to look at each other as if to say, I know why I said no but why are you saying no?
Is it really over?
Dustin, as observant and tactless as ever, gives off a little shrug. You mutter something about needing to go to the back to do inventory. As you’re walking away, you hear Steve say something that sounds a lot like Nice going, doofus!
–
Dustin answers the door when you ring the bell. Steve’s house has the usual suspects for movie night. Max and El are cuddled up together on the floor, practically laying on top of each other. Robin and Nancy are on the loveseat to the left, so wrapped up in each other that they barely even register your arrival. You presume that the sounds coming from the kitchen are Mike, Will, and Lucas, no doubt making one too many bowls of popcorn in the microwave.
Steve is sitting, his arm draped over the back of the couch. Before, there would’ve been no questions as to where you would sit. The empty couch cushion practically had your name on it. You would’ve already bounded across the room and snuggled up to the boy that felt like home.
You search the room for another option, but come up empty. Unless you want to pointedly avoid sitting next to him by crashing on the floor with the kids, which would undoubtedly draw attention to the very thing you want to ignore.
Taking a seat next to Steve, you toe the line between platonic distance and romantic distance.
“What’s on tonight?” You ask no one in particular.
“The Princess Bride.” Lucas replies, coming from the kitchen with a bowl of fresh popcorn.
He barely gets a chance to put it down before the three other boys tumble onto the floor and begin shoveling the savory snack into their mouths. Max and El whine about their lack of civility, yelling at them for having spilled popcorn on the floor before the movie has even started.
“Ah, that’s my favorite!”
“I know.” Steve finally speaks up beside you.
“We’ve only seen it like a million times.” Max says, rolling her eyes and resting her head on El’s shoulder.
“Hey! Little shits who eat my food and use me as a taxi service don’t get to complain about my movie choices.”
“Whatever, Steve.” The redhead remarks, with an unmistakable fondness in her voice.
You settle into your seat. The January cold has seeped into the house and, despite the heating being on full blast, you’re freezing. Steve notices, tugging the comforter in his lap over your frame, enveloping you in a warmth you didn’t realize you missed so much. You murmur a quiet thank you that you’re almost sure goes unheard until he turns, giving you a small smile before returning his attention to the screen.
In order to properly share the blanket, you have to scoot in even closer. You tell yourself that it’s a perfectly reasonable platonic distance, that you used to do this all the time before you were dating. If Steve is experiencing even a fraction of your inner turmoil, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps looking ahead, paying far too much attention to the film. The palm that would usually come to rest upon your shoulder stays gripping the back of the couch.
Sometime after Buttercup and Wesley enter the forbidden forest, you fall asleep.
It’s hard to make out anything through the dense fog. The trees around you loom large, foliage so lush and thick that it blocks out the sky, making it unclear if it’s day or night. The only light source comes from an oil lamp.
The lamp casts a shadow over the face of the person holding it, emphasizing his strong brow and straight nose. You go to move toward Steve, but you can’t. You’re stuck. Ankle deep in sand, coarse and with the consistency of molasses, that slowly creeps up higher and higher. It takes you a moment to realize; the sand isn’t getting higher, you’re getting lower.
You’re sinking.
Desperately, you begin grasping at anything and everything that might get you out. It’s futile. The more you move, the further you fall. You’re waist-deep now. Steve is still standing there, stone-faced, oil lamp flickering. He turns, walking into the fog and taking the light with him.
You open your mouth, wanting to scream. Needing to scream. But only one word echoes throughout. It does nothing to stop Steve’s retreating figure.
Stay.
“Hey,” Steve is tugging on the sleeve of your sweater. “Wake up.”
The fog dissipates. Feeling slowly returns to your limbs. The first thing you realize is that you fell asleep on Steve’s shoulder. The second thing you realize is that, due to your impromptu nap, the distance between the two of you is practically nonexistent. You recoil, sliding yourself as far away from him as you can. Steve flinches at the sudden movement.
“Are you okay?” His voice is soft and comforting, like a childhood blanket that you can’t sleep without. “It seemed like you were having a bad dream.”
You blink your eyes furiously, trying to shake the sinking feeling that has settled deep into your stomach.
“Where is everyone?” You ask, avoiding his question. The once lively living room is now empty. Remnants of movie night surround you in the form of stray pieces of popcorn and a nearly empty tub of Red Vines.
“They all went home about twenty minutes ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You seemed so comfortable. I didn’t wanna wake you.” He shrugs, saying the next words gently. “Are you having nightmares again?”
Before, you would tell him yes. You always talked to Steve about your nightmares. Most of the time he was there to witness them firsthand, waking up to your shouting and thrashing. Some nights, he would be able to coax you back to sleep with soothing words and tender touches. Other nights, he would stay up with you for hours, talking about nothing. The next day, the deep bags etched under his eyes would serve as another reminder of just how tiring you could be.
“I’m fine.” You wipe the corner of your mouth, cringing at the slight dampness you find there. Great. Not only did you fall asleep on Steve but you also drooled on him. “I think it’s time for me to head out.”
Leaping from the couch, you get to the foyer in record time. Your shoes are already halfway on before Steve appears, standing in between you and the door.
“You don’t have to. You know the guest room is always made up for you if you want it.” He bargains.
“I— I have to go. I’m sorry. Goodnight Steve.”
“Please, you’re tired. At least let me drive you.” He’s practically pleading, already moving to grab his car keys.
“Just let me go, Steve!” Your outburst echoes throughout the empty house.
Steve takes a step back away from you. “I’m sorry.”
Regret washes over you like a tidal wave. You can feel yourself being ripped under the current. You curse yourself, not for drowning, but for dragging Steve down with you.
“No, don’t apologize. Fuck, I’m sorry. I just—”
“Have to go?” He supplies.
He sounds dejected like this is another battle with you that he’s already resigned himself to losing. You fumble through another apology, another goodbye.
You don’t dare to look behind you as you make your way to your car. It isn’t until you’re halfway down your street that you spare a glance at your rear-view mirror. Steve is still standing there, the door wide open.
You don’t know why you keep having dreams where you ask Steve to stay.
You’re the one who is always leaving.
—
“She was totally flirting with you!” You scream whisper, keeping in mind that the diner is mostly empty aside from the loyal patrons that come in every weekday for a hearty serving of beef and potatoes.
Steve showed up to the coffee shop today, sans Dustin, asking if you’d like to grab a bite to eat after your shift. You obliged, hoping to make up for your outburst from the other night. He still hasn’t mentioned it. For your sake, you hope that he won’t.
“No, she wasn’t.” You thought Steve’s obliviousness when it came to romance only extended to you. Apparently, you were wrong because he was completely ignoring the way that the waitress was batting her eyelashes at him.
“Yes, she was!” You take a fry from the basket and Steve pushes his strawberry milkshake toward you, already knowing that you were going to subject him to the gross combination and he might as well get it over with. “Y’know, if you wanted to ask her out you could. Don’t let me hold you back.”
“You’re not holding me back. Anyways, isn’t it weird, having your ex-girlfriend be your wingman?”
“I’m still your best friend. Besides, you totally helped me out with Brandon so I just thought I’d return the favor.”
“What are you talking about?” Steve asks, causing you to furrow your brow at him. Despite having loved him for a long time and having known him for even longer, his inability to read a room knows no bounds.
“Last week at Family Video?” You utter the words with slow precision, but recognition fails to make its way across Steve’s face. “Brandon Clayborn asked you for horror movie recommendations and you sent him to me.”
“And he asked you out?” Steve gapes at you from over the rim of his milkshake. The idea of grabbing the glass and slogging the pink confection at him crosses your mind, but instead, you clench your fists at your side.
“Is that so unbelievable?” At your response, Steve’s brows pinch together. He toys with the wrapping paper of his straw, folding it over and over again.
“And what did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“Oh.” Steve finally stops fiddling with the piece of paper. It’s shredded to pieces in a pile in front of him. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the bulging leather wallet. “I’ll be right back.”
With that, Steve slides out of the booth and walks up to the counter. The giggles of the waitress can be heard throughout the diner. You turn toward the window so that you don’t have to see her scrawl her number on the receipt, and you catch your muddled reflection. You don’t know if you look like you’ve seen a ghost or if you’ve become one.
–
Due to unforeseen circumstances, your second date with Brandon had to be rescheduled. A literal rain check. He’d sputtered out numerous apologies over the crackling phone line, saying how the picnic he had planned didn’t account for a torrential downpour. You promised him that it was fine, that you didn’t even wanna leave the house in this weather. You didn’t think anyone would want to leave the house in this weather, which is why you grew shocked at the sound of the doorbell ringing.
Then you promptly remember that this is Hawkins and that anyone or anything could be behind that door. Grabbing the old wooden bat you keep under the couch for emergencies, you inch toward the door. The frantic ringing of the bell matches the beat of your heart. Peering through the peephole, you sigh in both relief and frustration before flinging the door open.
“Are you insane?!” You practically scream at the soaking wet boy. “You scared the shit outta me.”
Steve stands in the threshold, shaking his head like a dog would to get all the water out. You flinch as the droplets inevitably fall on you. The fine mist and wind that he’s brought in with him chill you to the bone.
“Sorry.” He smiles sheepishly.
“How did you even manage to get this wet in the twenty feet from the street to the porch?” You ask, peering behind him to look for the familiar maroon vehicle. It isn’t there.
“I walked here.”
You balk at him. Sure, Steve has been known to act recklessly from time to time, but never without reason. Instead of taking the time to berate him for being so stupid, you take one look at the soggy shivering boy and shut the door, turning on your heel towards your bedroom. You don’t need to look behind you to know that he’s following you.
“C’mon, you’re gonna catch a cold if you stay in those wet clothes.”
You rummage through your drawers, managing to find a t-shirt and sweatpants that you had stolen from him long ago. Now is as good a time as any to give it back, right? Stuffing the items in your arm, you thrust them into Steve’s hands and direct him to the bathroom. He doesn’t need direction. He knows the floorplan of your house just like he knows you–all too well.
While Steve is in the bathroom, you go to shut the drawers that you had left open in the rush to find him something to wear. The bottom drawer has always had a problem, getting stuck at the most inopportune moments. Lifting it just a little, you slam the drawer back into place which causes the contents on top of your dresser to shake with the force. The silver picture frame falls on its face and you go to place it right side up.
It’s a photograph of the two of you from last summer. Robin had pointed the camera at you and at the very last second Steve grabbed you and placed a sloppy kiss on your cheek, causing you to squeal in delight. The memory stings. You almost want to put it face down again so that you don’t have to be reminded of what once was. Instead, you’re interrupted by the sound of a lock turning and quiet footfalls on carpeted floors.
The moment Steve steps into your bedroom, you’re drenched in nostalgia. It’s been months since you’ve seen him like this–standing in his pajamas in your bedroom. It’s moments like this that are the hardest. The ones where you can feel how everything and nothing has changed. It feels like relief and restriction.
You realize you’re still standing in front of the dresser and go to sit on your bed. You need to put space between you and Steve. He has this insane gravitational pull and you know that if you stay around him like this for too long, you’ll end up back in his orbit.
He steps cautiously around the room like he’s afraid of stepping on a landmine. One wrong move and everything could blow up. Standing in front of the dresser, he takes the dreaded picture frame into his hands. He’s still using a towel to dry his hair when he finally speaks.
“It’s a good picture.” He says, simply. The pads of his thumbs wipe away the layer of dust that coats your sunbleached faces.
“It is.” You manage to choke out. “Why are you here, Steve?”
He places the picture frame back down on the dresser. It’s perfectly angled towards you. The ghost of your smiling face taunting you in your own bedroom.
“It’s funny, y’know?” Steve lets out a mirthless laugh.
“What is?”
“We broke up and the only person I wanna talk about it with is you.”
All of the air has been sucked out of the room. Steve has always been good at taking your breath away.
“I mean, I get it. I get why we broke up. I do.” He lets out a deep breath before continuing on, not giving you a chance to interrupt. “Except, I don’t. I can’t wrap my head around how one day we were fine and the next day we weren’t. I know that I’m not good enough for you–I’ve always known that. I guess I just wanna know when you finally figured it out.”
His words make you ache. A tightness blooms in your chest and spreads all the way down your arms to your trembling fingertips. You want so badly to reach out to him. He’s on the other side of the room but he might as well be on the other side of the world. You don’t know how to bridge the ravine that you’ve put between the two of you. You know for him you’d make the leap, uncaring of the abyss below. The thought scares you so much that your fists tangle in your bedsheets, hoping for something to keep you from falling back in.
“The last thing I wanted was for you to feel like you weren’t good enough for me. You’ve always been good enough, Steve.”
You can tell from the shake of his head that he doesn’t believe you.
“I thought that maybe you just needed a little space, a little time. Then I have to watch you go on dates and move on like it’s easy. Like the fact that we’re not together anymore doesn’t eat you up inside.”
“It’s not easy! It’s killing me!” Tears collect in your eyes, blurring your vision. “I don’t know why I can’t just be happy with you. I want to be happy with you.”
“What are you so afraid of?” Steve begs, his question punctuated by a boom of thunder and a flash of lightning.
You found solace in the eye of the storm. Once the storm passed, you didn’t know what to do with the wreckage. Calm didn’t provide comfort. Instead, it only reminded you that there was likely another storm to come. Steve has always been better at picking up the pieces and patching things up. You didn’t want to become just another thing he had to fix. So, you pushed him away.
He still came back.
This time he brought the storm with him.
“I’m afraid that the minute I actually enjoy everything, it’ll all get taken away from me.” You confess, roughly wiping away your tears.
Steve crosses the room and kneels in front of you. His hair is still slightly damp, a stray strand hanging in front of his forehead. You brush it out of the way and he catches your wrist, placing a kiss in the palm of your hand.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He murmurs, lips still brushing your skin. He says it like a promise. You wish the words were tangible, that you could close your fist around them and hold them close. “Tell me what I can do to fix it.”
The words simultaneously endear and exasperate you. Here is this boy who loves you, sitting in front of you telling you to let him love you. Here you are, about to tell him that he can’t.
“What if you can’t fix it, Steve? What if I’m unfixable?”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes both of your hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles.
“Then I’ll still love you anyway.”
Steve looks up and the clouds part. You’ve been so caught up in your doom and gloom, that you’d forgotten what it felt like to see the light of day. You lean down, closing your eyes, pressing your forehead to his.
“Why?” The question comes out watery and wanting.
“I can’t help it.” He breathes out.
You understand the feeling.
You bridge the gap, uncaring of the abyss that lies below. You’d fall through eternity if it meant you got to do it with him. His lips feel exactly like you remember them–like home. He kisses soft and slow, hands anchored at your hips as if to prevent you from floating away. When you break apart, both of you gasping for air, there’s uncertainty in his eyes. It fades away as soon as you lean back on the bed, pulling at his sleeves and dragging him with you.
The night is composed of soft apologies and even softer sighs, accompanied by the din of rain against the roof. It isn’t until far into the night that the storm finally subsides, leaving the pavement to glow in the morning sun.
Waking up next to Steve is a revelation. You don’t know how you ever survived without it. He’s all sleepy smiles and tired eyes, drowsily pulling you closer to him. Resting your head on his chest, you’re soothed by the rhythmic thump of his beating heart.
“Y’know, you didn’t have to walk in the rain just to say that you wanna get back together. You’re so dramatic.” You joke, hoping that it isn’t too soon to start poking fun.
His chest rumbles with laughter, the reverberations quelling your fears.
“In my defense, it wasn’t raining when I started walking.” He says, voice still thick with sleep. “Besides, you love it.”
You smile contentedly to yourself, not offering up a response besides a hum of agreement. He’s right. You do love him. Rain or shine.
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#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington angst#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington blurb#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfic#steve harrington fandom#steve harrington fanfic#mimi wrote ✍️#steve harrington fic#stranger things
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love is kinda crazy (with a spooky little boy like you) | E.M.
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
summary: [2.4k] eddie takes you on that halloween date. it doesn’t go quite like you expected.
warnings: pure fluff, a little awkward date shenanigans, r is described as having frizzy hair and wearing prescription glasses, r also has an (unnamed) sister
a/n: ah! i’ve been dying to write and post a part two for this fic since halloween and i thought there was no better time to post it than now! happy valentine’s day 🖤
masterlist | part one
“There, perfect!” Your sister punctuates the end of her makeover with the snap of her powder compact and the flourish of a makeup brush.
You turn slowly, the pink cushioned stool a little wobbly under your unsteady frame. Your reflection looks comical, all blurred edges and wavy lines. Without your glasses, the bedroom vanity has turned into a funhouse mirror.
“What does it matter if I’m going on a date with him if I can barely see him?”
You don’t need glasses to know that she’s rolling her eyes. Even though you can’t quite see her, you can hear her exasperation in the way she’s loudly chewing her gum. “You’re going to the movies, you’re barely gonna be able to see him anyway. Besides, you’ll be able to see him when he’s close enough to kiss and that’s the whole point.”
You blink each eye one at a time, trying to gauge which one is better. Your left eye is slightly clearer, though the difference is negligible. “I think you’re severely overestimating my eyesight.”
“I think you’re severely underestimating my dating advice.” She blows a bubble, the view of her face becoming a bright pink smudge before it pops and she continues smacking. “Just trust me, it’ll all be fine.”
You do trust her. Even though she has spent the last two hours plucking and primping and preening, you want to take her advice. She’s not doing this to be condescending or controlling. She’s genuinely excited that you have a date, even more so that it’s with a living breathing human boy and not another library book.
You don’t have much experience. With dating, with seeing someone, with kissing someone. What it means to be dating someone versus what it means to be seeing someone. What you’re supposed to do when you kiss someone. I mean, are your lips supposed to be on top of each other or are they supposed to interlock like the teeth of a zipper? Yeesh, you didn’t even wanna think about how teeth and tongues factor into the equation.
These types of questions would usually be the kind that you would ask an older sister. You’ve just never had the bravery to say them out loud. Sure, you’ve watched romance movies and rewound and observed so much that you were afraid the tape in the VHS was going to break. And you’ve read enough romance that Ms. Marissa gives you side-eye when you pass the library’s reception desk. But there’s a difference between fiction and real life. A bridge you’ve yet to cross. You’re sure that you’re going to need all the help you can get.
So, you heed her advice. You let her spray you with enough Aquanet to try to keep the flyaways at bay. You let her paint your lips with a shimmery pink lip gloss that isn’t too sticky and tastes like vanilla. You don’t, however, let her see you sneak the thick frames into your bag for emergencies. If it were up to her, the frames would be set out with Thursday’s garbage and you’d be wearing contacts like everyone else in your age group.
She drops you off at The Hawk with another smack of her bubblegum and a reassuring pat on the shoulder. She barely waits for you to close the door of the station wagon before she’s speeding away, her Halloween plans including a keg, a pushup bra, and a slightly inebriated Steve Harrington.
Eddie’s easy to spot. His silhouette sticks out against the brick building, white shirt, black leather, and blue denim against a red background. He lights up when he sees you and it’s the first time you’ve understood the meaning of the phrase. Since you can’t quite see his face clearly, you’re paying extra attention to his body. The way he pushes off the wall to stand tall. The way his shoulders visibly relax. You bet that they could see his smile all way in Indianapolis.
“I know you’re usually supposed to give flowers on dates, but this is the best I could do.”
He presents an origami paper flower in the shape of a rose. It’s made from binder paper, evident by the familiar feel of it in your hands. The folds are a bit unsure. There’s evidence of it being undone and folded again with a cleaner precision, you can feel the wear and tear on the paper with your fingertips. You’re dumbfounded.
“Thank you,” You whisper, twirling the stem between your thumb and forefinger, watching the rosebud spin. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.”
“Never?” He gapes at you in apparent disbelief before he schools his expression. “Well then, I’m glad to be the first.” He offers his arm to you like a real gentleman and you take it.
The leather in the crook of his elbow is cold to the touch, but being in such close proximity you can feel the body heat radiating off of him.
“It’s a continuous marathon, so they’re showing movies all night. We can start with any one that you want.” He gestures up to the marquee above the concession stand. When you look up to the sign, the words might as well be written in Cyrillic the way the letters all blur together.
After a trip to the concessions stand, the two of you eventually settle on The Exorcist, which you had decided to cling to after Eddie’s nervous yet adorable rambling about which movie would be better to start with.
Horror movies are even scarier when you can’t tell what’s going on. It didn’t occur to you how much you relied on sight to be able to mentally prepare for jump scares. Eddie must think you’re a total wimp the way you practically leap out of your seat at every flash on the silver screen that accompanies a discordant string of violins.
You jump when you feel a hand brush your bicep, your arms flinging out. It’s much too late when you realize that intimate touch was Eddie trying to figure out if you were alright. The large Coke that Eddie had gotten–two straws because he said he didn’t wanna be presumptuous–the casualty of your fright. The flimsy lid pops off like it has nothing better to do and the dark brown liquid splashes over the arm of the seat right into Eddie’s lap.
Eddie recoils, half-jumping and half-hovering in his seat because he just got a handful of ice-cold soda in his crotch. The people behind you are jeering, grumbling about the disturbance and Eddie half-whispers fucking shit under his breath, in what you’re sure must be a mixture of disdain and disgust.
You pull napkins out of your purse and thrust them in Eddie’s direction before rushing out of the theater, chest heaving and eyes stinging.
It’s a wonder you don’t trip and fall on your way out. You’ve walked these dimly lit halls hundreds of times, so luckily instinct and muscle memory win out and you make it out of the theater mostly unscathed, just with a few bruises on each shoulder. Nothing compared to the mortification of what had happened inside.
Because it’s October in Indiana and you can’t seem to catch a break, it’s raining. Only every so slightly, but enough that you’d be soaked to the bone if you walked home thanks to your sister’s insistence that you dress for fashion and not function. You huddle close to the payphone, pondering if you have enough change to call around and get your sister to pick you back up because no way are you waking up your parents for this.
The doors to the theater creak open behind you and suddenly you’re not alone anymore. The biting cold chills you to the bone but it’s Eddie’s presence behind you that sets you on fire.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last hour and a half in the dark with your nerves on edge, but the tenderness in Eddie’s voice makes your throat constrict.
“I’m sorry,” You blubber. “I’m so embarrassed. I just wanted everything to be perfect and I ruined it.”
“Hey. Hey.” Eddie repeats himself more forcefully when you don’t meet his gaze the first time, “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s just a little soda. I’ll live.”
His fingers rub the back of your hands in a soothing motion. Back and forth, thumbs caressing the valleys between your knuckles. He’s close enough that his features are almost in focus. You still have to squint.
“You keep doing that.” He points his fingers toward your furrowed brow before mimicking the action on his own face. The finger is not accusatory, it just seems like Eddie likes to talk with his hands.
You sigh, a resigned and weary sound. “My sister convinced me that I shouldn’t wear my glasses.”
Eddie makes a face that you can’t quite discern in the dark before letting out a soft hmph! “Your sister kinda sounds a little mean.”
“She means well.” You defend, weakly. You love your sister to death but there are times that your differences become much too apparent and that leaves you with nothing to do but suffer the consequences. This is one of those times.
“Did you bring them with you?”
“Yeah,” You reach into your bag, finding the frames folded into one of the inner pockets.
Eddie takes them and puts them on you. “You keep doing that.” You murmur, a repeat of his earlier accusation. Now, though, you both know it’s in reference to him adjusting your glasses not just once but twice.
“It gives me an excuse to be close to you.”
You can see him with unrelenting clarity now. The little crinkles next to his eyes as he smiles warmly down at you. The way the slight breeze has carried the miserable drizzle under the theater awning. The way that drizzle clings to his curly hair like dewdrops on morning grass. You almost robbed yourself of all of this, and for what? Eddie knows what you look like.
“Y’know what I thought when I saw you yesterday?” Yesterday, when you had been wearing a witch hat on top of your frizzy hair and the same Coke bottle glasses that sit on the slope of your nose now. “I thought that you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I thought I made a fool outta myself and that you wouldn’t give me the time of day, not in a million years.”
“The whole scaredy cat schtick was quite endearing I must say.”
He nods seriously, just a slight hint of a smirk on his face. “I try my best.”
You look down at the seat of his pants. Sure enough, there’s a dark stain splashed right across his crotch.“Oh god. I'm so sorry. Again”
“What did I tell you about apologizing?”
“You didn’t say anything about apologizing.”
“Well then, this is me saying something. Stop apologizing. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“It looks like you pissed yourself,” You wail mournfully.
“Well, that definitely makes me feel better.” Eddie jests before he tugs you into his chest and plants his chin on top of your head.
You nuzzle your face into his sternum, appreciating the soft hiss he lets out when your cold nose touches his warm skin. You inwardly groan because, quite frankly, there’s nothing more embarrassing than running out of a nearly full movie theater the way that you did. The only thing more embarrassing than that, you think, is going back inside after having embarrassed yourself. You tell Eddie as much, with the reassurance that you don’t want the date to end and if he really wants to, you can go back inside and finish the movie. He’s already tugging you toward his van that’s parked on the other side of the street, saying the six words that make your night:
“I own The Exorcist on VHS.”
You spend the entire time back in the trailer park cuddled up having quiet conversation about gory practical effects over a bowl of microwaved popcorn. The closest he gets to kissing you is when you duck into his chest to hide and his lips brush your temple. He could’ve lived off of that single brush for the rest of his life if he had to.
When Eddie pulls up to your house later that night, he really does mean to give you an innocent kiss goodnight. The neighborhood is quiet, seeing as it’s probably been an hour since the children of Hawkins had fallen into their sugar-induced comas. He turns the engine off and shifts towards you, his smile both giddy and shy while he tells you that he had a really good time tonight. You mirror his expression and tell him the same. You both lean forward, chests rising and falling in tandem, noses brushing.
When you finally make it past the front door, your lips are swollen and your glasses are fogged up. You kick off your shoes and pad up the carpeted steps two at a time, racing to your bedroom window. When you turn on your lamp and look out to the tree-lined street, Eddie waves at you, his rings glinting in the streetlight. You wave back, watching the van disappear into the distance.
“Hey,” Your sister is leaning against the doorframe, smiling like the cat who got the cream.
“How’d it go?” You’re already slightly aware of the answer since she’s standing in front of you with a freshly washed face and hand-me-down pajamas instead of in an empty house in Loch Nora.
She shrugs noncommittally, “It was a bust.”
You hum in solemn solidarity, trying to tug the grin on your face into a much more situationally appropriate neutral expression. You feel for her and you don’t want to rub it in her face that you had such a good time, despite her advice. Unfortunately, you do not seem to have as much control over your facial muscles as you think you do. Your sister sees right through you, grabbing the purple throw pillow at the foot of the bed and launching it at your face telling you to shut up. You catch it before it has the chance to hit you, huffing with righteous indignation at her before the two of you collapse onto the bed in muffled laughter.
“So, how’d it go?” She whispers in your direction, mindful of your sleeping parents down the hall.
You trace your cupid’s bow, feeling the chapped and swollen skin for the hundredth time that night. You turn your head toward hers, readjusting your glasses when they slide down your nose.
“It was perfect.”
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#eddie munson#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson blurb#stranger things#mimi wrote ✍️#poltergeists for sidekicks#love is kinda crazy (with a spooky little boy like you)
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I’m such a fool | S. H.
part one part two
Summary: steve has his own confession to make. you’re not sure how to take it.
Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
Warnings: language, angst with a happy ending, alcohol, underage drinking (reader and steve are both 20), friends to lovers, little women “you’re being mean” reference
Word count: 1.7k
Notes: part two of the linger duology but can be read as a stand-alone. pic is not mine all creds to the owner!
masterlist
—
“What are you doing?”
You’re currently cradling Steve’s face in your hands, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. The droplets of perspiration at his hairline are indicative of a typical day in Family Video, where the AC doesn’t work and neither do the employees.
“Making sure that you’re not sick.”
Steve murmurs a sound of confusion as you take your hand away and dramatically wipe it against the bottom of your vest. It’s been a slow day, the customers few and far between. On days like this you’re normally in the back, sorting through new shipments and cataloging them. Instead, you’re leaning against the counter and looking at Steve like he’s grown two heads.
“Two very pretty girls just walked out the door without a failed pick-up line or a signature smile. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” You ask, your brows furrowing in faux concern.
“Oh, fuck off.” He waves his hand in the air as if swatting away an annoying fly and turns to look down at his clipboard so that he doesn’t have to look you in the eye.
If Steve is being honest with himself, he hasn’t felt in the flirting mood lately. As much as he has pretended to be normal since your confession, he hasn’t been. In fact, Steve feels like all he has been doing is pretending. Pretending like he doesn’t notice the way your hair smells like coconut shampoo every time a scarce summer breeze pushes the scent in his direction. Pretending to sort the returns while you sit behind the counter reading a weathered copy of a romance novel he can never remember the name of. Pretending to curse the lack of AC in the store, when really he’s grateful for it because it means he gets to see you in as little clothing as possible.
Yeah. Steve’s gotten real good at pretending lately.
What he doesn’t know is that you’ve gotten real good at pretending too. You try to ignore the relief that settles over you at the fact that Steve seems to be in too weird of a mood to flirt. Hoping to lift his spirits you cast a sidelong glance at him.
“Are you doing anything tonight?”
~
Steve doesn’t even know why he decided to come to this stupid party. Actually, he does. The reason standing right in front of him, wearing a mini skirt and nursing a red solo cup of whatever the hell was in the punch bowl in the kitchen.
Robin’s arm is slung around your shoulder, the two of you wrapped up in your own little world when suddenly the song changes. You’re pulled out of the kitchen, hand in hand with your best friend as she slur-screams I love this song. You begin dancing together, albeit haphazardly, in the middle of the living room. Usually this is the part where you would turn around and beg Steve to join you, but he’s still standing in the doorway of the kitchen. You’re shining so bright tonight that he’s afraid if he gets too close he might get burned.
He sighs and looks down at the cup in his hand. It was more for show than anything because he promised to be the designated driver tonight but, god, if he didn’t wish he could drink right now.
The sliding glass door opens with little resistance, his drink forgotten on the kitchen counter. As he steps outside and sits down at the edge of the pool, he curses himself. Since when did he become this guy? He used to go to parties all the time. He used to have fun. Instead, he’s the guy who isolates himself and sits at the edge of the pool while letting the girl of his dreams dance the night away.
The door opens again and he hears the melodious sound of your laughter. You shut the door quietly, but the sounds of the party are only ever so slightly muffled. You’re still giggling when you join him, the slight sway of your walk giving away the depth of your inebriation. Clumsily, you drop onto the ground next to him and gently nudge his foot with the tip of your converse.
“What’s on your mind, Stevie?”
The nickname sounds easy coming from you.
“Where’s Rob?” He’s avoiding the question and he knows it. He hopes that you’re too drunk to notice.
“Vickie showed up. I thought I’d give the lovebirds a little alone time.” You give him a thoughtful look. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He huffs. He should’ve known that even in the state you’re in that you would see right through him. You’ve always been able to see right through him.
You let the silence hang in the air while you drop your head back and trace the constellations in the sky. You’ve gotten as far as Orion when he finally plucks up the courage to speak again.
“I think you know what.” He says it softly, as if the tone of his voice could ever cushion the blow he’s about to deliver.
The first look you give him is one of confusion. You’re still thinking about Orion and the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. The second look you give him is one of betrayal. A million responses run through your head. Some are angry. Some are spiteful. Some are, annoyingly, full of hope. Shaking your head, you decide to go with the simplest option.
“Why?”
“I think you know why.”
But that’s all that Steve does. He thinks. He thinks about your incessant need to always have a paperback in hand. He thinks about the mixtape that’s been on repeat in his car since you gave it to him. He thinks about the way your lips might feel on his. He thinks about how you might react to his confession, but he doesn’t know. You’ve always been able to read Steve like an open book. He still struggles to know what page you’re on.
Maybe it’s the moment. Maybe it’s the alcohol flowing in your veins. But the words flow out of your mouth as easily as the spiked punch flowed in.
“You’re being mean.” Tears begin to collect on your lower lash line. You lift your head and blink as if trying to will them away, but they fall down your cheeks anyway. Steve wants nothing more than to cradle your head in his hands the same way that you did that morning and brush them away. He doesn’t. His hands stay firmly planted on the ground.
“Baby-”
“Don’t.” You begin, your voice low and threatening.
You struggle to stand up because your entire body is shaking with anger. Or hurt. Sometimes one disguises itself as the other and you can’t find it in yourself to figure out the difference. Not when he’s looking at you like that.
“What am I? A last resort? You worked your way through the entire female population of Hawkins and thought you’d settle for a sure thing?”
“Hey-”
“Do you know how many girls I had to see you flirt with? How many dates I had to watch you go on?” You cringe at the hurt filling your voice and want anger to come back and take its place.
Steve tries to cut in again but you don’t let him have the chance. He may have been the one who started this conversation, but you were sure as hell gonna finish it.
“You don’t get to do this to me. Not when-” The tears are making your voice sound watery and garbled in a way that you despise. “Not when I have spent the past year of my life loving you.”
Steve is mentally kicking himself because he really needs to stop going to parties and letting the girl he’s in love with get drunk and break his heart. Once is bad luck. Twice is a pattern.
But against all odds you’re still standing there. The mascara you had so delicately applied earlier now smudged. Steve doesn’t know if you’re shaking from anger or from the cold but he shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders anyway. You don’t push him away or storm off and leave him in the dust. Instead, you trace the constellation of moles on his neck until eventually you’re looking into his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to figure out and I’m sorry that my timing is awful.”
You take a moment to really look at him. The alcohol that once clouded your judgment is long gone. It seems to have been swept away in the flood of your argument, taking the anger and hurt along with it. It’s been replaced by something lighter. Something that feels a lot like hope.
“I’m sorry too for, uh, basically calling you a whore.” Steve laughs and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your features.
“I kinda deserved that. I swear I’ll do everything in my power to make it up to you. You deserve the world. Hell, you deserve the entire universe and-”
When the two of you finally kiss, it’s something akin to a stellar collision. Hands desperately grasping at each other as if afraid you might slip from the other’s fingertips. The muffled sounds of the party, the chirps of the crickets, the slight gurgle of the pool filter all fade into the background. There’s nothing on your mind, only Steve. Steve. Steve.
Once you remember that breathing is a thing, you pull away and laugh at how Steve whines at the loss of contact and chases your lips. You press your forehead to his and close your eyes, toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck. He hums appreciatively, arms circling your waist to pull you ever so closer.
“You’re a fool, Steve Harrington.” You say, still trying to catch your breath.
The smirk that graces his features is nothing less than devilish. He uses the pads of his thumbs to wipe at the tear streaks that have since dried, cradling your face as if it were the most delicate thing he had ever touched.
“I’m a fool for you.”
—
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#steve harrington#steve harrington angst#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#mimi wrote ✍️#the linger duology#stranger things fanfiction#steve harrington fic#steve harrington fanfiction#stranger things fic#stranger things
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sweet dreams, tennessee
summary: [4.5k] Upon visiting your grandma for the summer, you're greeted by more than one familiar face.
pairing: cowboy!steve harrington x fem!reader
warnings: references to alcohol and death of a parent, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn (?)
series masterlist | navigation
Chapter One: Welcome home, Honeybee
An hour or so outside of Nashville is a town called Sweet Dreams, too small to show up on any map. The ones who want to make it out, bask in the irony. They say this town is exactly the place where dreams go to die.
Most people who have the privilege of leaving Sweet Dreams don’t come back. They watch the dust kick up in the rear-view mirror and say good riddance. But you’re not like most people.
You tip the taxi driver extra, even though he’s dropping you off at the edge of the property and you have to tug two suitcases and a backpack through a quarter mile of dusty road. The walk gives you time to think. Time to breathe. The air is different here, fresher. You can’t remember the last time you got to walk outside in the middle of the day and only have birdsong to keep your thoughts company. You’d thought that the vast emptiness would be a good change of scenery. You’d thought that the neverending din of the city was clogging up your brain, making your thoughts scramble like eggs in a hot skillet on Sunday. Now, they echo back to you, sung back in the form of mockingbirds. You don’t know if it's better. It’s just different.
By the time you make it to the paved driveway, your arms are aching and there’s a current of sweat making its way down your back. You’re barely twenty feet from the door when Nana appears in the open front doorway. Upon catching sight of you, she’s barreling down the porch steps, holding her sun hat to the top of her head so that it doesn’t fly off. Dropping the handles of your bags, you allow the woman who basically raised you to engulf you in the best hug this side of the Mississippi. She smells like fresh soil, powdery perfume, and everything that’s good about the world.
“You’re here! I told you that I’d pick you up at the airport! You didn’t have to call a cab,” She admonishes, before smacking kisses all over your face. “I missed you sweet pea.”
She looks older now, and the thought tugs at your chest. Her hair is more silver than anything and the lines around her eyes and mouth are deeper than in your memory. It’s only been a few years, but your grandmother wears an entire new lifetime lived without you on her face.
“I missed you too.” You let out a laugh but there’s a melancholy feeling to your words. You know that if you stir on them just a little bit more tears will start flowing out and never stop. You bury your face into the collar of her blouse, willing yourself not to cry.
“Well,” She says, taking a step back and putting her calloused hands on your shoulders. “Let me get a good look at you.”
You smile, doing a little spin for her amusement.
“Just like I thought. Even more gorgeous than the last time I saw you.”
Heat rises to your cheeks in response. You never quite knew how to take her constant compliments. Not only about your beauty, but your intelligence.
“How’s your daddy doin’?” Her words are casual but her tone is clipped. Her lips curl in and she busies herself with brushing imaginary dust off your bare shoulders, looking at you like she’s trying to commit the sight to memory.
You breathe out a sigh, “As good as he’s ever doing.” Which is usually not good, you think but don’t say.
Nana only purses her lips, nodding in agreement.
Both of you know that your dad hasn’t been the same since Mama died. Mama was a realist. That’s why she left Sweet Dreams in the first place. Your dad was a dreamer. Without your mom to anchor him to this world he was adrift. He was careless with what he had when he had it. Now, he doesn’t know what to do now that it’s gone.
You fiddle with the strap of your backpack, feeling the weight of everything you brought with you digging into your shoulders. You should probably call him to let him know that you got here safely.
“You must be exhausted after traveling,” Nana says, breaking you out of your reverie. “Let me just put my gardening stuff aside real quick, you can go ahead into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up something to eat.”
You nod and step inside the house, taking your baggage with you.
—
The fridge, or as Nana likes to call it the frigidaire, looks exactly the same as you remember it. Magnetic alphabet letters are used to hang up reminders and photos. She still has the same drawing that you gave her for Mother’s Day all those years ago, the crude crayon stick figures of the two of you standing side by side in a wide-open field. Now, there are signs of aging, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges.
Aside from your childhood art, there are wedding announcements and Christmas cards a plenty. You recognize one of the faces. James wasn’t related to you but that didn’t matter. In Sweet Dreams, everyone was family. He was getting married to a woman named Elizabeth at the end of the summer. You can’t help but smile at the picture of him, his future wife, and his daughter.
The last time you saw Winnie, James’ daughter, her mother had still been alive. The news of her untimely demise and James’ sudden status as not only a young widower but a single father had caused aftershocks that made their way all the way out to you in California. It was nice to see how happy the three of them looked together. You remind yourself to let Nana know that you want to see them soon.
“Miss Mellie? I’m done with the car. There was something wrong with the fuel tank.” A man comes into the kitchen through the back door, dressed in a white tank top and blue jeans, wiping the grease from his hands with a rag.
He stops, eyeing you curiously. “You’re not Miss Mellie.”
“I’m not,” You say, dropping your backpack onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
Just then the screen on the kitchen door bursts open. The bottom has been busted for years and never repaired, for the benefit of the four-legged basset hound that’s bounding towards you. You light up at the sight of him, but your joy is cut short by the comment of the strange man who has yet to introduce himself.
“Careful. Jackson gets nervous around strangers.”
Jackson only pants in response to the man’s statement, gleefully sniffing your shoes before licking the exposed skin of your calves.
“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a stranger.” You mutter leaning down to scratch the dog behind his ears. “You don’t have to tell me about my dog, I was there the day he was born.”
Jackson was the runt of the litter. You had picked him out, seeing how he was weaker and smaller, being trampled over by his brothers and sisters. Your father had given you a funny look when you pointed at the weak little thing and said that one! The look quickly went away once Nana gave him a look of her own.
“No shit.” The man leans back on the counter with all of the comforts of someone who knows this house like the back of his hand. He puts down the greasy rag, running a now clean hand along the sharp line of his jaw, his expression a mixture of disbelief and recognition.
“Now,” You huff, standing straight again much to the chagrin of the dog still panting at your feet. “Are you gonna tell me what you’re doing in my house?”
Your snippy attitude doesn’t seem to have the desired effect because he only looks right back at you with an easy smile.
“Y’know, I’m a little offended that you don’t remember me, Honeybee.”
Despite the heat of the Tennessee summer, you’re frozen. Only a handful of people have ever called you that. One of them bursts through the kitchen doors, holding a stack of mail in her hands.
“Steven!” Nana exclaims, confirming your suspicions. “You all done with the car?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Oh please Steven, you know you don’t need to call me that.” Her tone is lightly scolding but from the curl of her lips, you can tell that she likes it. Nana has always been a stickler for good manners. “I see you’ve found my grandbaby. Isn’t she a beauty?”
His smirk only grows deeper as he tips his head. “Must run in the family.”
She turns her attention to you. “You remember Steven, don’t you sweet pea? The truck was making a noise that was something awful. He offered to fix it up for me.”
Steve looks decidedly bashful, shaking his head and casting his gaze down to the floor. “It was nothing.”
Nana doesn’t even take into account his modesty, instead barreling through the rest of the conversation like she always does. It’s a wonder that she’s thrived in such a slow and peaceful town all her life when she constantly lives and talks at twice the speed of everyone around her. Everyone else is left trying desperately to keep up. “The two of you used to be thick as thieves, I swear. Could never find one without the other.”
“I remember,” You murmur, only chancing a glance at the boy across the room who seems to have turned into a man overnight. You guess that’s what six years apart will get you.
You remember Steve’s mother. She was a sweet woman when she wanted to be, if a little self-absorbed. Every summer they spent in Sweet Dreams her accent would fall into its natural rhythm and syncopation, annoying the hell out of Mr. Harrington. He always had a sneer on his face, screwed up like he had just taken a bite out of a lemon and was waiting for the sting to subside. He only showed up for the first and last week of the season, to usher his family in and out of his wife’s hometown.
Steve always acted a bit tougher with his father around, puffed out his chest, and forced his voice to go deeper. You once pointed this out to him and he gave you a nasty look and told you that he had no idea what you were talking about.
You apologized and Steve forgave you in the way that kids do, over brown lunch bag trading sessions, with plastic-wrapped treats being exchanged between sticky fingers. You never brought up his father again. For all of his father’s watchful eyes, his mother was the complete opposite. She was one of those people who believed that children shouldn’t be seen or heard. So, she pawned Steve off to the dusty streets of Sweet Dreams, knowing that whatever trouble he could possibly amount to was limited by the fact that the town was so small.
But Sweet Dreams didn’t always feel so small. In fact, when you were a kid the entire world seemed only to exist in a twenty-mile radius.
Steve clears his throat. “Well, if that’s everything I’ll go get cleaned up.”
“Oh! Actually, could you be a dear and take the luggage that’s by the front door into the guest room?” Nana asks.
Steve flashes an award-winning smile. “Anything for you, Miss Mellie.”
Nana shoos him out of the kitchen with promises of a good dinner and even more thanks. You’re still stuck on the fact that Steve Harrington is in Sweet Dreams and apparently has been for a while if the way your grandmother was interacting with him was any indication.
“He’s staying in the old shed.” She explains, sensing your confusion. She’s already opening the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of iced tea that immediately starts sweating in the Tennessee heat. Your mind is stuck on the soft thudding of heavy footsteps on the wooden staircase. The sixth step still creaks after all this time. “Fixed it up and everything. It already had a bathroom and a waterline, so all he had to do was make it livable.”
You can only think of offering a hum in response, grabbing one of the floral glasses from the cabinet, and pouring yourself a cup. It tastes like home.
“I’ve got you all set up in your Mama’s old room. Figured you’d like the sunlight. I pulled out the yellow bedspread, I remember that one being your favorite.”
Tears collect in your eyes. It’s been a while since anyone has paid attention to you long enough to remember anything insignificant about you. Nana collects every small detail like they’re precious, saving them for a rainy day so she can show you just how much you mean to her.
“Thank you, Nana.” You manage to choke out. You want to say more. You want to give her an explanation for why you dropped everything and showed up at her door. You’re not ready for any of that.
“Of course, darlin’.” She says simply, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “It’s good to have you home.”
“It’s good to be home.”
—
Nana tells you to go upstairs and unpack–she purposefully set today aside for you to relax and unwind, knowing that you would probably be exhausted after traveling for so long. The reprieve is temporary, though. She’s assured you that the entire town has been informed of your stay and that her birthday party will also serve as a welcome home party for you.
Despite your insistence that you don’t want to take away the spotlight from her, she only winked and told you no one can take the spotlight from me, sweetie. Everything’s been prepared for the party tomorrow night. You’re already dreading the questions that you don’t have the answers to.
You make your way upstairs, avoiding that creaky sixth step. The walk to the room is daunting. The bedroom door has been left slightly ajar, and rays of sun are peeking through the crack, the only source of light in the dark hallway.
Taking a deep breath, you push the door open. It looks exactly as you remember it. The curtains are drawn, allowing the north-facing windows to showcase the wide-open fields and dusty roads that you know and love.
The yellow bedspread is there, just like Nana said it would be. It’s sunbleached after so many years, but it still feels soft and comforting.
Your mother’s painting is still in the same spot. Looking at it, you can tell it’s never been moved the way the corners of the wallpaper around it give it away. Anyone with a keen eye can see how the pale sage green walls were once deep and rich, having faded away like so many other things in Sweet Dreams do. By sitting right where it always was.
Taking a deep breath, you move to unpack everything. The drawers in the vanity are all empty, except the one in the very center. It’s locked, and despite your best efforts, remains that way.
On the vanity, there’s an old picture frame. The photograph inside is of a memory you cannot believe you’d forgotten. You’re sitting cuddled up next to your mom. It was the day that you’d gotten Jackson, and he was so small you could still hold him in your little eight-year-old hands.
You’d refrained from smiling for weeks at that point, utterly mortified at the gaps in your mouth from losing your two front teeth at the same time. In that moment, though, you were smiling so wide. Jackson had gone from sitting quietly in your lap, to jumping up to lick you on the chin. The shock and subsequent squeal of laughter had been captured and kept.
You move the frame to the bedside table. It’s good to be home, you tell yourself. For the first time today, you’re not quite sure if you mean it.
—
“Is James coming tonight?” You ask in between bites of fresh strawberries and buttered toast.
The temperature in the kitchen is nothing less than sweltering. You’d been spoiled out in California, living near the bay and rarely having to worry about the weather climbing above seventy-five degrees. The room is in a state of organized chaos, with all of the food being prepared and cooked for the party. Nana stands at the back end of the kitchen, her back to you. She’s been up since the crack of dawn, placating your insistence to help her with food and conversation.
“Oh, I’m sorry honey. He called this morning. Winnie’s got a toothache and he and Betty decided to stay home with her. I know you were looking forward to seeing them.”
“It’s okay,” You assure her. “Just would’ve been nice to see a friendly face.”
She turns the dough on the counter before folding it over and kneading it. There’s flour all up and down her forearms and most likely butter under her fingernails. “Steven’s coming,” She reminds you as if that fact is supposed to be reassuring.
“Right, of course.” You try to keep the apprehension out of your voice. “Steven.”
The truth is that you don’t know where you stand with him. You’d heard his voice from the top of the stairs last night, all full of polite regret that something had come up and he couldn’t attend dinner. The next sight you caught of him was his back as he rode off into the distance.
“He’s single, y’know,” Nana says, punching circles into the dough and setting them onto a baking tray. “He’s been working on the farm for about a year now. Real helpful.”
You know the farm isn’t what it used to be. After the passing of your grandfather, a lot of the acreage was sliced up and sold off to neighboring farms. They give your Nana tiny cuts of the profit, something to do with southern hospitality and it being a widow’s homestead. She’s still gardening, though she probably shouldn’t given her old age. Trying to take gardening gloves from Nana Monroe is like trying to wrangle a wild horse. Still, Steve’s wage must be meager, all things considered. No wonder why he’s living in a shed.
“Nana, I didn’t come here to date.”
“Well, what did you come here for?” She says, turning around and crossing her arms. Then, realizing the harshness of her words, she sighs. Dusting flour off of her palms and onto her worn apron, she rubs her thumb across your cheekbone. You can’t help but revel in the gesture. “You know I love having you around darlin’, but I know you didn’t decide to come spend the summer with your grandma just for kicks.”
The truth of the matter wasn’t easy. It was hard to swallow and tasted a lot like failure.
“I haven’t figured it out just yet, but when I do I’ll let you know.”
—
Drinks have been poured, food has been served, and the birthday cake has been cut. It seems the entire population of Sweet Dreams has overtaken the living and dining rooms, and you wouldn’t be shocked if that ended up being the case. If you had to count the number of inane conversations where you repeated the same five facts about yourself to people who haven’t seen you since you were fifteen, you might combust.
Everyone assumes that just because you go to school in California, you must be living the high life. Beaches and parties and sunsets on the West Coast seemed like a dream to those who live and die in land-locked states, yearning for the smell of salt air and sand beneath their toes.
You know better. California does have all the glitz and glam and charm that they seem to think it does, but it also is an agricultural state. The cities that aren’t highly populated, with bustling nightlife and celebrity mansions, are mostly cow towns. You’ve seen these places while driving down the 5 highway. It doesn’t escape your notice that the exact places that remind you the most of home, are the same ones that people pass by in hopes of getting to somewhere better. They sit in their air-conditioned cars and breathe through their mouths, hoping to drown out the stench of cow manure.
Never mind the fact that the curtains for your dorm were too sheer to block out the city lights, leaving you up for all hours of the night. Or the fact that, while you loved the beach, sometimes you longed for freshwater and mud between your toes rather than salt and sand. You still brought back pictures from when you and your friends decided to take a weekend trip, forking over small amounts of gas money and bartering meal plans in lieu of cash. The pictures spin a different story. One of a girl who knows what she’s doing and living her best life. Never mind that the thread being spun felt more like you were coming unraveled.
The back porch has always been your refuge when parties get too loud and the temperature inside gets so hot that it seems like even the floral wallpaper has started wilting. You sneak out through the kitchen door, relieved that there’s no one there to catch you. Nana usually would have noticed your absence by now, but she’s distracted. Uncle Chuck brought out his acoustic guitar and your grandmother has never passed up an opportunity to perform for others.
You sigh, taking one last bite of rhubarb pie before setting the paper plate down on the ground next to you. Testing the porch swing, you’re delighted to find that it’s still just as sturdy as ever. It used to be that you’d have to sit at the very edge of the seat in order to get it to swing without help, the tips of your sneakers barely grazing the ground. Now, you lean back and your feet are planted steady on the wooden planks below.
You and Steve used to play pirates here, pretending that the sway of the swing was the rocking of the ocean against a mighty ship. You’ve never felt more unmoored.
The screen door creaks as it swings open, and you brace yourself for Nana’s lilting voice, telling you to come inside and entertain guests. It doesn’t come. Instead, a deep timbre casts itself out into the night air. Despite the lingering warmth of the day’s heat and the lack of a night breeze, you feel goosebumps rise up on your arms.
“Not having a good time?” Steve asks. His figure is backlit, bathed in the golden light of the kitchen.
“No, I am. Just–” You take a moment to think of an explanation that won’t give too much away. “Needed a breather, I guess.”
He hesitates. “Maybe I should go then.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been told I take people’s breath away.”
You roll your eyes in annoyance, but you can barely hide the smile that tugs at your lips. “You are insufferable, Steve Harrington.”
The smirk on his face grows into a full-blown grin. “It’s one of my better qualities.”
Steve sidles up next to you, hand wrapped around a beer. It’s amazing to think that the last time you saw him, the two of you would have to bend backward to sneak the bitter liquor out of the coolers without anyone noticing. Now, you’re both of age to where nobody blinks an eye. The thought makes your chest feel tight.
“So why are you out here?”
“Do you mean why am I in Tennessee? Or why am I on the porch?”
He shrugs. “Either one.”
You shrug your shoulders, sitting back and letting your feet swing and scrape across the wooden floorboards of the porch. “I just felt like I needed to come back. Remind myself of some things I felt like I was forgetting.”
Steve nods like he gets it, and opens his mouth as if to say something but decides against it. What instead comes out is an olive branch.
“I’m sorry if I offended you with the whole Jackson thing yesterday.” He offers sincerely. “And about missing dinner. I was so busy working on the car yesterday that I forgot I had to fix the Tillman’s chicken coop.”
You put on an air of faux contemplation. “I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”
“Thank god, I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t.” He playfully puts his hand over his heart before letting it drop to his side, lingering in the limited space between you. “Took me a second to recognize you–you look so different.”
Steve looks different, too. Baby fat has melted away to reveal high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Once gangly limbs have filled out into broad shoulders and muscles that strain against the cotton of his t-shirt. He was always cute, you’d be remiss to pretend that he wasn’t. But the year in Sweet Dreams seems to have been treating him well because now he resides on this side of ruggedly handsome.
“Good different or bad different?” There’s an underlying current of something in your question, but you’re not sure what.
“Good different.” He casts a sidelong glance at you before looking out at the backyard, saying the next statement into the lip of his beer bottle. “Same bratty attitude though.”
“Hey!” You squeal in mock offense, lightly smacking the back of your hand against his chest. The movement comes like a second nature, remnants from childhood squabbles. In the microseconds it takes for you to draw your hand away, you take notice of the solid mass of muscles hidden underneath his white t-shirt.
He’s full-on smirking now. “Nice to know some things never change.”
“You’re one to talk,” You retort. He quirks a brow at you. “You’ve always been such a charmer. I’m pretty sure you’ve got the entire female population of Sweet Dreams wrapped around your finger.”
He gives you a meaningful look. “Not the entire female population.”
You have a sharp reply sitting at the tip of your tongue, pointing directly at Steve, when someone calls his name from inside. It’s Uncle Chuck, insisting that the man sitting next to you join him in a duet.
“Well,” He stands up, brushing his palms on his denim-clad legs. “I should probably head back inside.”
You hum in acknowledgment, only ever so slightly disappointed, but make no move to leave your spot on the porch swing. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Steve opens the screen door but props it open with his foot. The golden light from the kitchen is on his face now, and you can see the soft edges of the boy you once knew.
“Welcome home, honeybee,” He says simply, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
With that, he steps back inside and the screen door slams shut. You’re left alone on the back porch, breathless.
—
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#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington x you#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington blurb#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfic#steve harrington fic#stranger things#mimi wrote ✍️#sweet dreams TN#cowboy!steve harrington
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old friend | E.M.
summary: [1.5k] eddie walks into a diner looking for the past. he doesn't expect for the past to find him.
pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x waitress!reader
warnings: angst, missed connections
a/n: i can’t believe it’s been one whole year of eddie! here’s a little something that’s been swimming around my brain for a while. should i write a part 2?
masterlist
Blue Diner sits lonely a few miles off the interstate. It’s the outskirts of Indianapolis, surrounded by industrial compounds and office buildings. The patronage of the place varies. There are the regulars, who wear down the same booths and bar stools so much that they leave a lasting impression. And then there are those who come in for a quick bite to eat, dressed in pajamas, only deciding to eat here because they didn’t plan their road trips out well enough.
Eddie knows that he’s a part of the latter, but he used to be the former. He used to live in diners as a kid. That first summer he came to live with Wayne, the older man took him trucking with him. He hadn’t much in the way of childcare and was hard pressed to find a job on such short notice after his brother-in-law unceremoniously dumped the kid on his doorstep.
Eddie spent the summer of ‘78 in passenger seats and diner booths. He learned to appreciate the taste of burnt coffee, though he always snuck in more sugar when Wayne wasn’t looking. The long drives were spent looking out the window and trying to draw what passed by in the blink of an eye. The fact that they never spent more than a day or two in one place didn’t bother him much. Eddie was used to moving around a lot. He was used to packing up and going without a moment’s notice. He was used to waking up alone, with nothing more than a tattered blanket and the hum of a television. But this summer wasn’t like that. In fact, he saw Wayne in that one summer more than he did his father in his whole life.
The thing that Eddie loved most about diners is that no matter how different they were, they were all the same. They all smelled like coffee beans and bacon. They all had the same pink packets of Sweet’n Low at every table.
When Wayne quit trucking to work at the plant, Eddie was heartbroken. He knew it was for the better, that the man did it so that he could be there for Eddie in a way that no adult had ever been. Still, the reality that he was the reason Wayne was tied down weighed heavily on him. Johnny Cash never sounded as good when he was sitting in the driver’s seat and there wasn’t a gruff voice humming along.
Now, Eddie is walking into the diner, his heavy boots thud thud thudding on linoleum floors. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that this is the summer of ‘78. That Wayne has just gone to the bathroom to freshen up and he’s still a wide-eyed kid who found whole worlds in windshield landscapes.
But that was a lifetime ago. So Eddie takes a seat at the counter, longing for his trucker companion, and waits for someone to come take his order.
You’re looking down when you step in front of him, pencil and pad in hand. Your voice sounds tired as you welcome him, already asking him if he wants to know today’s specials. He can see the name tag pinned just below your collarbone, but he doesn’t need to read it.
Eddie came here looking for the past. He didn’t expect the past to find him. He says your name without thinking. It comes out of him like the sun peeking behind the clouds on a stormy day, warm and unexpected.
It takes a second. You look up, features clouded with surprise, a wrinkle between your brows. Eddie almost wants the floor to swallow him up for embarrassing himself. He doesn’t know what’s worse, if you don’t remember him or if you’re pretending not to. He wouldn’t blame you for either.
Then you smile.
“Eddie Munson… as I live and breathe.” His name hangs from your lips like he used to.
He lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. His hand comes to rub the back of his neck, and he feels like a bashful kid again, wanting so badly for you to think he’s cool.
“And here I was thinking that you’d forgotten all about me.”
The warm smile on your face grows melancholic. Eddie tries his best not to read into it.
“You're a hard one to forget.”
It’s not like you hadn’t tried.
You tried to forget days and nights colored by calloused hands. Whenever the sticky scent of Marlboro Reds was brought your way from a wayward wind, you changed directions. If a metal song came on the radio, you were quick to change the channel, feigning a disinterest in electric guitars and heavy drums. You tried to pretend like it wasn’t senseless, like there was a method in the madness of forgetting.
The reason is sitting right in front of you, looking at you like you hold the meaning of life in your hands and not a pen that barely worked and a pad of paper used to take orders.
It was only one summer, but Eddie came and went with it. Blowing in when the temperatures got too hot to be comfortable, and leaving just when the cold got biting and you actually needed something to keep your bed warm. You shake the thought of your head, lest the bitterness set in your mouth like a cup of black coffee and you say something that you don’t really mean.
“What brings you to this fine establishment?”
Eddie considers telling you the truth. The full truth. A kindness that he hadn’t properly extended to you all those seasons ago. It doesn’t come out.
“Good food.” He replies simply, before deciding to add on. “And good company, I hope.”
You make a show of looking around the diner, eyes passing over every person trying to eat their lunch in peace, unaware of the hurricane that just walked in the door.
“Well, we have good food.” You say, smartly. “But as for good company, I think you might be stuck with little ol’ me.”
Eddie’s grin burns twice as bright as the last time you saw him. You’re not sure if that’s true or if the memory of him has just faded as the years have gone by.
You tell your manager you’re taking your lunch after you put Eddie’s order in. You notice that he’s ordered enough for two people, but decide not to be presumptuous, just in case his stomach is bigger than the last time you saw him.
It’s not, and you find comfort in the aspects of Eddie that you memorized. All of that time spent forgetting has been wasted, because you still know him like the back of your hand. He slides a plate of pancakes over to you. You catch up over coffee and hashbrowns. He evidently still has a sweet tooth, the way he tries to distract you with conversation as he pours half of the sugar container into his cup.
It’s easy to fall into a rhythm with him. Eddie is a beat that your heart can’t quite shake. You both tiptoe around the big things. You don’t ask him about California. He doesn’t ask you how all of your big dreams landed you eighty miles from your hometown.
You don’t ask him why he left without saying goodbye. He doesn’t tell you that if you told him to stay, he probably would have.
Seeing as the lunch rush has passed, you manage to slip out of the doors of the diner without a hint of protest from your manager. Your eyes search the parking lot for that familiar black van, but it isn’t there. Instead, Eddie sidles up beside a sleek red sedan. A joke sits on the tip of your tongue, I guess being a rockstar pays well, huh? You decide against it. You’ve spent the entire time with him avoiding the topic. It’s too late to bring it up now.
Boxes are piled high in the backseat, just like you thought they would be. This is what you’re used to. You don’t ask Eddie where he’s going, he doesn’t tell you when he’s leaving.
“It was nice seeing a friendly face.” His words hang heavy in the air, hands jammed into his pockets like he’s afraid if he reaches for you that he’ll never be able to let go.
“It was nice seeing you too, Eddie.”
He doesn’t ask for your number. You don’t offer it to him. You both know that goodbyes have never really been the strong suit between the two of you.
His van kicks up dust as he pulls away, waving at you through the windshield. You try not to think about how that’s how he always feels to you. Behind glass, impossible to reach.
As he drives away, Eddie thinks about how much better you’d look in the passenger seat than in his rear-view mirror. He almost stops the car. Every red light before the interstate, he thinks about turning around and running back to you. He doesn’t. He keeps driving.
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#eddie munson#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things#stranger things fic#eddie munson angst#mimi wrote ✍️#eddie munson fandom
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I’m in so deep | S.H.
part one part two
Summary: liquid courage allows you to finally tell steve how you feel
Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
Warnings: talks of alcohol and drinking, angst, unrequited love
Notes: this is the first piece of fanfic i’ve EVER published so pls be nice 🫶 and enjoy my steve brain rot
masterlist
—
The TV hums in the background. Robin is on the floor, mouth agape as soft snores escape her.
Steve is sitting against the couch, facing the film that has long since been forgotten. The staticky glow bathes his face in an array of colors. Every moment it shifts. Blues to greens to oranges to reds. You don’t need to look at him to know that he looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful.
It’s so unfair.
Instead, you stay sprawled out on the couch and trace constellations on the living room ceiling. The only thing you can hear is the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. The weight of your confession has caused the once light air to be thick with tension.
I think I’m in love with you.
You saw the realization sink in. It wasn’t a look of reciprocation and relief. It was a look of consideration. A look that was trying to figure out the best way to let you down easy. That was hours ago. Or minutes. Or seconds, you’re not really sure. Time seems to have frozen despite the fact that the slow progression of the film on the television proves that it continues to race forward, just like the beat of your heart.
Steve sighs a soft sigh.
You finally find the courage to speak. The slurred words spilling out of you like the beer you knocked over on the coffee table. Sticky and sure to leave a residue.
“Just do me a favor.”
He turns to look at you but you’re still staring at the ceiling. Still tracing constellations.
“When we wake up tomorrow, can we pretend this never happened?”
He murmurs a soft sound of agreement. You close your eyes. The constellations have finally seemed to burn out. An entire universe has been obliterated and the fucking movie is still playing.
You turn to face the couch cushions and let the silent tears slip out. Only one phrase is on your mind as you drift off to sleep.
I’m in so deep.
—
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#steve harrington#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington angst#stranger things fanfiction#mimi wrote ✍️#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#the linger duology
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Starstruck and Metal | E.M.
Summary: [4.3k] you meet eddie for the first time. it doesn't go quite like you expected.
Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist!reader
Warnings: none!
Notes: huge thank u to my bestie chuck for beta reading 🫶 also if you solve the crossword hint i love u
previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter
InStereo magazine was not The Rolling Stones, but it was a start. The modest music magazine had a humble following, enough to earn some hums of recognition whenever someone made the mistake of asking what you did for a living. Most days, it’s great. You relish in the joy of working in a field some people only dream of entering. The leap from column writer to main article was a large one, but you insisted that you were ready. Your first assignment as a music journalist and of course you got stuck with Eddie fucking Munson.
Any self-respecting music journalist, anyone with some skin in the game would have laughed in the face of their editor. But instead, you smiled. You nodded enthusiastically, mimicking the bobblehead that has since been removed from your desk. When you decided to become a music journalist, you wanted to write about people who were changing the field. Instead, you were being tasked with writing some puff piece being used to save a wannabe rock star’s reputation. God forbid you gain the reputation of being a difficult woman–in a male-dominated industry no less–by turning down such a great opportunity.
Even if that opportunity included spending a day with Eddie fucking Munson.
You paid out of pocket for the cassette of Corroded Coffin’s debut album that was currently underscoring your drive to West Hollywood. You refused to meet the frontman without having listened to their music beforehand. They were good. A little rough around the edges, but it was to be expected. Outside of the occasional headlines, you hadn’t heard much about Eddie or his band. Corroded Coffin was making ripples, not waves. Of course, no one really cared about the music when they could be reading about who and what their lead vocalist was doing.
Still, you find yourself parking outside of a humble ranch-style home in a neighborhood full of similar housing that likely cost a fortune to live in. The modest proceeds from Corroded Coffin’s tour have obviously paid off, considering that nice area and affordable don’t usually exist in the same sentence when talking about LA housing. The June sun is beating down on the empty street, and you’re thankful that you decided to wear a T-shirt and jeans. You tell yourself that the sweat collecting on your brow is from the heat and not nerves.
Double-checking that you have the right address, you slam the door shut on your sedan and take a deep breath. The air feels cleaner here, less smoggy. You’re not sure if it’s because of the altitude or the tax bracket of the people who live here. Probably both. You reach into your purse and feel around for what you already know is inside. Pen. Notepad. Tape recorder. The holy trinity for a music journalist.
There were very few topics that Eddie wasn’t willing to talk about. You guess that when you’ve had your insides strewn across the pavement for everyone to see, you don’t bother trying to uphold any semblance of mystique. Beginning the daunting trek toward your assignment, you remind yourself of two things:
1) Don’t ask about his father
2) Don’t ask about what happened in Hawkins, Indiana in 1986
The first rule seemed simple enough. As far as the public was concerned, Eddie Munson came to Hawkins at the age of 12 to live with his Uncle Wayne like how a fully formed Venus sprang up from sea foam. He wasn’t and then he was. End of story. The fact that Eddie’s management went out of the way to make sure his father wasn’t brought up only made you more curious.
The second rule was a little harder to accept. Anyone who knew anything about Eddie Munson wanted to know about 1986. Despite the fact that his highly publicized murder charges and subsequent exoneration are part of what caused Corroded Coffin to skyrocket to fame, he’s remained very tight-lipped about the whole situation. He plays off every question about it in interviews with a smirk and a sly comment. Just charming enough to get away without answering. Just vague enough to keep people guessing. Maybe his publicist wasn’t such a waste after all.
Eddie Munson opens the door a few moments after you ring the bell. Using a ringed hand to shield his eyes from the midday sun, he squints at you. A pair of sweatpants hang low on his hips. He has a severe case of bedhead despite the fact that the time on your watch indicates that it’s nearly two in the afternoon. The confusion that draws his brows together also indicates that he has absolutely no idea who you are. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you state your name and purpose before realization graces his features.
“It’s you! Shit, yeah! You’re here for the– the thing!” He tosses a careless look over both of his shoulders before widening the opening. “Come on in.”
Eddie closes the door behind you and rushes down the hallway in order to put some real clothes on, leaving you standing in the empty living room. The inside is surprisingly clean for someone who’s gained the reputation of being a hot mess. It smells like cigarettes, weed, and lemon pledge. The lemon scent is strongest as if someone was trying–and failing–to use it to cover up the previous two. A record player is tucked into a corner, the vinyl still spinning. A line of electric guitars is propped up against the back wall, each of them no doubt costing more than your monthly rent. One of the stands is noticeably empty and you glance to your left to see a beat-up acoustic resting on the couch. On the coffee table, there are piles and piles of scrap sheets of paper. For most of them, the handwriting is too illegible to read or it’s been crossed out. Eddie seems to write lyrics like he lives his life: fast and all over the place.
Stepping closer, something along the upper corner catches your eye. Slyly lifting up a pile of paper, being sure not to disturb the configuration, you find that your suspicions are correct. Eddie received the same copy of Sub Rosa as you did. Obviously, it didn’t go over well. He’s used a pen to black out his eyes. Much to your amusement, you see he’s also drawn horns and a tail. The hand that’s flipping off the camera is illustrated to be holding a pitchfork.
That’s not the full extent of Eddie’s doodling, though. On the bottom right-hand corner of the magazine, there’s a smaller picture of him standing next to a certain brown-eyed beauty. You’re quick to note that he’s drawn a crude halo and angel wings on his long-legged companion. They’ve been scribbled out as an afterthought, making the halo look more like a crown of thorns.
So, you think to yourself, he’s a little immature. You can work with immaturity. Immaturity means that he won’t be as guarded as some of the other celebrities your coworkers have had the misery of meeting. In fact, from what little you know about Eddie, you wonder if he even has any guard at all. He did leave you alone here with stacks of potential songs for his band’s next album. If you were a better journalist and a worse person, you would probably take the time to decipher his chicken scratch and see if you could glean any insights into his creative process. But you don’t. Instead, you release the stack of papers and wait.
For a moment, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You’ve never been inside of a famous person’s house before. You’re not sure if you should sit down and make yourself comfortable or if Eddie has something else planned for the two of you to do. The specifics of your assignment were intentionally vague, most likely to accommodate Eddie’s spontaneity.
Venturing further into the living room, you come to stand in front of a shelf. Brushing your fingers across the collection of vinyl, you tilt your head to read the names along the spines. There are the usual suspects–Dio, Metallica, and Judas Priest–but what surprises you is that, in the midst of all the metal and hard rock, there’s an array of old-school country music. At the end of the lineup is the most surprising one of them all; Sentimentally Yours by Patsy Cline. It’s exceedingly worn, cracks and creases litter the empty sleeve. If you were a betting woman, you would say that the record is currently on the player across the room.
A muffled crash followed by a string of curse words breaks you out of your reverie. Eddie opens the bedroom door with the finesse of someone who is obviously used to being the center of attention. He’s traded his sweatpants and tank top for a pair of ripped black jeans and a v-neck. It felt reassuring to know that you hadn’t underdressed for the occasion.
It also gives you a moment to drink in the blinding light that was Eddie Munson. He’s leaner in person. Though he always looked lithe in every photograph you saw of him, his frame seemed more imposing and large. Maybe all the stars just look that way when they’re so high above you.
He was taller, too. The boots on his feet surely aided in that, given that the soles were at least an inch thick. Still, you didn’t anticipate how much you would have to tilt your head up just to look him in the eyes.
There, standing in Eddie Munson’s rented living room, you realize something; You’re absolutely starstruck.
Although you had turned up your nose at the prospect of interviewing him and regarded his reputation with the same disdain you reserved for bad drivers and shitty landlords, you were still a person after all.
With all of the stars around, it’s easy to think of Los Angeles as the center of the universe. But you are not a star or anything even close to it. You’re some space debris, hopelessly floating and waiting for something bigger to come around and influence you with its gravitational pull.
Eddie is a heavenly body. You can’t help being pulled into his orbit.
“So, I see you’ve found my collection.” His voice is still rough with sleep. The sound makes you weak in the knees.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop.” You mumble, tucking Patsy Cline back into the shelf. “You’ve got some really good stuff here.”
“Don’t worry about it. Actually, that reminds me, I have something for you.” He swiftly turns and stalks back towards what seems to be his bedroom, motioning for you to follow him.
The blood rushes out of your cheeks. The terms of your interview suggested that you would have a lot of access, but this was different. This was up close and personal. Your feet seem to have a mind of their own because while you’re still wrapped up in the fact that you’re gonna see Eddie Munson’s bedroom, you’re already following him down the hallway and through the open door.
It’s about as messy as you would expect. The furniture is all pale wood and earth tones, fitting the mid-century modern stylings of the rest of the house. You suspect that Eddie took the time to clean up a little while you were rifling through the stacks of paper. The bed is haphazardly made. There’s an ashtray on his bedside table, filled with the remains of a few cigarettes.
“I’m not supposed to smoke inside. Shh.” He brings his index finger to his mouth, pink lips barely brushing the skull ring he’s wearing. “Don’t tell anyone.”
You let out an airy laugh. Being reprimanded for smoking inside is the least of Eddie’s worries and you both know it.
Eddie’s nimble fingers skim the top of the dresser, brushing aside even more sheets of scrap paper. A couple of guitar picks plummet to the floor, but he pays no mind.
“I heard that metal isn’t usually your thing.” He remarks, still sifting through the clutter.
That much is true. While you dabbled in a little bit of everything, not only as part of your job but also as part of your interest in music, metal wasn’t usually the genre you gravitated towards. In fact, the most metal album that you had listened to recently was written and produced by the man standing in front of you.
“It’s not, but I’m open to everything.”
“Aha! Here it is.” Eddie holds up the cassette like it’s the key to the universe. Handing it to you, you can see that the writing on the sides is reminiscent of what you saw in the living room, though slightly neater. You’re familiar with some of the bands listed, but the songs don’t ring a bell. “I thought I would broaden your musical horizons.”
You gawk at him. For someone whose job is about words, you can’t find any. He took the time to make you a mixtape?
“Track five is a personal favorite.” Eddie says, leaning towards you and tapping the tracklist, obviously unshaken by your inability to form a coherent thought.
“Thanks. I’ll give it a listen.” You manage to choke out, tucking the cassette into the front pocket of your purse.
Looking around the room, you see that there’s a battered copy of The Lord of the Rings on his bedside table. The corners are frayed, and you’re certain that you could accidentally tear the cover off of the paperback if you’re not careful. Cautiously, you trace the spine with your finger, waiting for Eddie to say something. To tell you that it’s the one thing that’s off limits. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching you. Opening it, you can see Property of Eddie A. Munson written underneath the title in a childish scrawl.
“You like books? I mean–you’re a writer, so of course you like books–I mean, have you read that one?” Eddie is visibly flustered, the words coming out of his mouth at an alarming rate. It almost makes up for the way he rendered you speechless moments ago.
“I’m more of a Dune girl myself. But, I love The Lord of the Rings. My dad used to read it to me before bed every night.”
“Yeah?” A small smile tugs at his lips before he practically whispers his next words. “Mine too.”
A flash of something you can’t quite decipher crosses Eddie’s face.
“Right! Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?” He shuffles out of the room like his life depends on it. You’re still reeling at the fact that he brought up his dad unprompted. Keeping a brisk pace, you put the book down and follow him into the kitchen.
“We have…” He trails off, opening the door to the refrigerator. “Nothing.”
He shuts the refrigerator and dashes to the table by the front door. He mumbles to himself before grabbing a few things, shrugging on a jacket, and finally turning to face you again. A pair of sunglasses covers the half of his face that isn’t plastered with a mischievous grin. From the tips of his fingers hangs a set of car keys.
“You hungry?”
–
You should’ve known that Eddie Munson would try to kill you within 20 minutes of meeting him. Lifting up the garage door, he reveals that the car keys were in fact, not car keys but keys to a motorcycle. The vehicle in question is an absolutely stunning deathtrap. It shines so beautifully that you can see your terrified face in the warped reflection.
Putting his helmet on, Eddie straddles the bike and looks at you.
“C’mon.” Eddie smiles wolfishly, tilting the spare helmet towards you. “I’m a safe driver. Promise.”
You’re still standing frozen. His wolfish grin melts into something more patient.
“Hey, if you don’t want to take the motorcycle, just say the word. I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do.”
Despite the sincerity in his voice, you can’t help but take the words as a challenge.
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” You profess, though the shake in your voice is evident. Grabbing the helmet out of his hands, you ignore the way your face heats up when your fingers brush.
Eddie takes gross advantage of California’s lane-splitting laws, leaving you clinging to his leather-draped torso for dear life. Outside from the occasional shout of assurance that you can’t understand, the ride is quiet but for the roar of the bike and the wind in your ears. You’re vacillating between being absolutely terrified of crashing and secretly relieved at the fact that you didn’t have to make small talk on the drive from his place to wherever he was taking you.
You were very close to liking Eddie Munson. Now, you were sure that he was sent as some kind of karmic punishment.
“Parking in L.A. is always a pain. That’s why I love this baby,” He gingerly pats the handles as he kicks the parking brake down. “She can fit basically anywhere.”
You hum in agreement, mostly just happy to have made it to your destination in one piece. While Eddie hops off the bike with ease, you have a little more trouble. Swinging your leg over, your toe catches on the fuel tank, causing you to stumble and nearly fall to the ground. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that Eddie is biting back a smile. He offers a calloused hand out to you. You brush it away out of embarrassment, planting both feet firmly on the ground and taking in your surroundings.
You had expected Eddie to take you to one of L.A.’s finer dining venues. Somewhere with fancy mood lighting and clientele with pockets so deep that they don’t even bother to put the prices on the menu. His management was footing the bill, after all.
The building that sits before you is none of those things. The diner is old and slightly dilapidated. Graffiti mars the stucco that hasn’t already crumbled away. The neon sign that says Zazie’s! blinks drowsily, more of an eyesore than eye-catching.
Eddie opens the door for you. As the bell above it jingles, you’re hit with a rush of conditioned air and canned nostalgia. The walls are covered in artifacts from a bygone era of poodle skirts and letterman jackets. A lonely jukebox sits in the corner, playing a soft hum to a Billie Holiday song you have long forgotten the name of.
A plump woman sits behind the counter doing the crossword in the newspaper. Likely, the same one you were doing that morning. A thoughtful look is etched into her soft features, and you wonder if she’s also stuck on 57-down: Idle during the heist. The ten-letter space confounded you so much that you were almost late. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like Eddie is the type of person to care too much about punctuality. At the sound of the bell, she looks up, squints, and smiles.
“Is that you, Toto?” The glasses that sit on the tip of her nose are attached to a chain around her neck. She lets them fall to her chest, her voice bright and amiable.
“You know it is, Dorothy!” Eddie gushed, an award-winning smile back on his face.
They fall into easy conversation, making it obvious that he’s a regular here. You keep glancing at him trying to find hints of ingenuity but there are none. Eddie regards the woman with the warmth and respect that you would expect from a boy scout, not a rockstar.
Sliding into a booth, Dorothy hands you both a menu and leaves to make a fresh pot of coffee.
“You have to try the french toast, it’s divine.” Eddie barely steals a look at the laminated folder before folding it back up and putting it down on the table.
“I’ve never really been a french toast person. I don’t know if I wanna risk it.”
Eddie gives you a pointed look, sunglasses slipping down the slope of his nose. “You rode a motorcycle. How much more risky is a plate of french toast?”
“Maybe that was all the risk-taking I had in me for one day.” You force yourself to shrug noncommittally. You don’t know why breakfast food is the hill you’ve chosen to die on, but you’re going down swinging.
“Well, you already trusted me with your life.” Eddie takes the sunglasses off and tucks his fist under his chin, forcing you to look into his deep brown eyes. “Think you can trust me with this?”
Suddenly, all of the fight in you disappears. There’s that sincerity in his voice again. You realize then that the best and worst thing about Eddie Munson is how genuine he always sounds.
“Yeah, I do.”
The smile on his face is so bright that you feel compelled to look away. Eddie orders for both of you. It’s enough food to feed a small army, but it seems that Dorothy is used to it because she leaves the table with a wink and says if y’all need anything just holler!
“Do you mind?” You say, pulling out the notepad and pen from your purse.
Eddie freezes for a fraction of a second. It’s almost imperceptible. Almost. In the small amount of time you’ve known him, it has become abundantly clear that Eddie wears his heart on his sleeve. Recovering quickly, he gives you the go-ahead and smiles. For the first time today, his grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“So,” You begin, clicking the button on your ballpoint. “I have to ask. Toto?”
Eddie barks out a laugh. He goes on a whole spiel about how he was having a terrible day and walked into the diner feeling homesick and hungry. When he first came to L.A. he felt like Dorothy stepping into the technicolor world of Oz. Once the novelty wore off, he found himself missing when the world used to be so black and white. Upon telling the wise waitress, aptly named Dorothy, she lovingly told him, Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. The nickname stuck ever since.
The story almost sounds rehearsed. A perfect sound bite that shows how you can take the boy out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the boy. And yet, you feel inclined to believe him. Eddie just seems to have that effect on people.
The food finally arrives and you’re amazed to find that Eddie’s eyes are not bigger than his stomach. He talks about music and his band in between bites of pancakes and hashbrowns, both of them drowned in an inch of syrup. He speaks of his friends back in Indiana with a certain fondness, but you can’t help but notice how avoids naming his hometown. He also never refers to Hawkins as back home, instead saying where I’m from.
Conversation between the two of you flows as easily as the never-ending coffee from Dorothy’s pot. It’s almost too easy to forget that this is an interview. Remembering yourself, you take a moment to ask Eddie one of the harder-hitting questions you have in your back pocket.
“What about Evelyn Chau?”
Eddie winces. The open book that was sitting before you shuts tight with a resilient slam. The mouthful of pancakes and syrup seems to turn to sludge as his chewing slows. Despite having no regard for table manners earlier, he points at his lips and holds up a finger to indicate that he needs a minute to swallow.
After taking a sip of coffee and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, he slouches in his seat and crosses his arms defensively.
“What about Evelyn Chau?” He repeats your question back to you but with an unmistakable air of forced nonchalance.
You want to crumble under his pointed gaze, but you don’t. You steel yourself with the reminder that asking uncomfortable questions is part of your job description. Besides, it would raise many more alarms if you didn’t ask about the raven-haired model spotted painting the town with him than if you did.
“Everyone wants to know if you’re together.”
“Everyone.” He exaggerates the word, using his index finger to trace the lip of his coffee cup. “Does that include you?”
The smirk on his face indicates that he’s either messing with you or flirting with you. Maybe both.
“Well,” you demure. “are you?”
“Evie is just a friend.” Eddie’s still perfectly composed, but the familiarity with which he says her nickname betrays him. His face twitches when he catches his slip-up. “A really close friend.”
It’s already too late. He couldn’t convince you that she was just a friend if he tried. A flash of a crossed-out halo and crooked angel wings comes to mind.
You’re about to ask him another question, but Dorothy and her impeccable timing interrupts the moment by placing the check on the table. Eddie throws down a few bills from an old leather wallet, while you’re trying to figure out how you can spin a two-hour diner date into an entire article.
Eddie stretches as he stands up, the hem of his black v-neck raises to expose a tattoo on his right hip that snakes down further than you’re supposed to look. On the other side, you catch a muddled array of purple and red scar tissue. Averting your eyes, you look up and are met with a stony gaze. He caught you staring.
“What do you say we get outta here?”
Because you’re a very stupid, stupid woman, you agree.
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taglist: @twisted-wonderland-of-wren
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson one shot#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#stranger things#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfic#mimi wrote ✍️#can i ask you a question?
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Head over wheels | S.H.
Summary: steve takes you roller skating for your first date
Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
Warnings: fluff, (minor) roller skating-related injury
Word count: 0.8k
Notes: written in celebration of steve's birthday <3
masterlist
~
Max had warned Steve that this was a bad idea. When he told the redhead that he wanted to take you to the roller rink for your first date, she told him straight-up that he was gonna fall on his face and make a fool of himself. But, he insisted that his ninja-like stealth would make rollerskating second nature.
It’s just walking but on wheels, how hard could it be?
Apparently very fucking hard.
You had already done a few laps by the time you get back around to Steve, who is about ten feet from the entrance to the rink and gripping the wall for dear life. The referee has been pointedly yelling that Everyone has to keep it moving! and Steve has been resisting the urge to rip the skates off his feet and chuck them at him. His face is flushed a rosy pink from a combination of embarrassment and exertion. He can’t help but cringe at how sweaty his hand is when you go to grab it.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Stevie?”
“Me? Pff, yeah it’s just been a while. Just getting my bearings, that's all.” The high-pitch of his voice gives away the fact that he’s definitely lying, but you don’t seem to mind and it makes him fall in love with you even more.
“Well then, I better hold your hand until you get your bearings then, yeah?” The sly smile that tugs at your lips as you interlace your fingers with his almost makes Steve forget how mortifying this whole situation is.
The two of you push forward at a snail’s pace. In the time it takes to travel another ten feet, he’s seen other couples complete revolutions around the rink. You don’t seem to mind. You’re still holding his hand and leaning into him as if you need the support, which he knows that you don’t. Before long, he’s so distracted by the light conversation between the two of you that he doesn’t have to think too hard about not falling.
Whether that previous thought is about roller skating or about you, he can’t really tell.
Out of the periphery of his vision, Steve can see a blur of limbs that’s coming straight for you. You’re distracted, looking over at him and giving him tips on how to distribute his weight. Instinctually, he wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you toward him just as the blur breezes past with a muttered ‘scuse me! thrown over their shoulder. Steve’s right arm flies behind him, hoping to somehow regain his sense of balance, but it’s already too late. It’s almost comical the way his skates fly out from under him as he lands on his left wrist with a sickening crack.
A whistle blows.
In any other situation, Steve would be really happy about the fact that you’re breathless and on top of him. He would use the opportunity to make some smooth comment, something along the lines of You should at least let me buy you dinner first. Unfortunately, all he can think about is the pain that’s radiating up his arm and the fact that he’s made a complete and utter fool of himself, just like Max said he would.
You clamber off of him, evidently unscathed by the absolute trainwreck this date has become. The music stops as everyone lines up against the walls, clearing the way for the referee who makes his way to Steve with a smug look and a first aid kit.
The snack bag of vending machine ice that you had so graciously gotten him is now mostly water. You’re simultaneously cooing over him and berating the asshole who decided to show off during a beginner’s skate session. The neon glow of the strobe lights paints the furrow of your brows a lovesick pink.
“This is a pretty lousy first date, huh?” Steve scratches the back of his neck. A nervous tick he can never seem to be rid of.
“Are you kidding?” You say, giving Steve an incredulous look. “You saved my life tonight. You’re practically my hero.”
Coming from anyone else, the words might sound ingenuine. Steve is used to sarcastic comments at his expense. He’s learned to take them in stride. But you’re not making fun of him. In fact, the earnestness in your voice gives him the confidence to lean across the table and plant a soft kiss on your lips.
“I guess you could say I literally fell for you.” Steve is already cringing before the words come out of his mouth. This time you really do laugh at him and he thinks he would make the joke a thousand times over if it meant he got to hear you laugh again.
Brushing a strand of hair away from his face, you bring your hand to cup his cheek.
“Maybe next time though, we can just go watch a movie?”
Sure, his pride is a little bruised and his wrist is going to hurt like hell tomorrow, but Steve can’t stop himself from being so incandescently happy that there is going to be a next time.
~
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#steve harrington#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington blurb#stranger things fanfiction#steve harrington fanfiction#mimi wrote ✍️#steve harrington fic#stranger things fic#stranger things#head over wheels#steve harrington x you
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Can I ask you a question?
an au based on funny you should ask by Elissa Sussman
Summary: Los Angeles, 1990. eddie munson is a promising rockstar with a less-than-stellar reputation. you’re a budding music journalist who has been tasked with strengthening his social standing. what started as a mutually beneficial assignment turns into something more, as you both blur the lines between professional and personal.
Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist!reader
prologue: big city, wrong choices
A-side: off the record
★ starstruck and metal
★ lectori salutem
★ a little confession
Interlude
★ august
★ reply 1994
B-side: for the record
★ high fidelity
★ you and i
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#rockstar!eddie munson#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson masterlist#stranger things fic#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x you#stranger things#eddie munson x fem!reader#mimi wrote ✍️#can i ask you a question?
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Lectori Salutem | E.M.
Summary: [5.1k] you and eddie shoot pool and spill secrets.
Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist! reader
Warnings: drinking, language
Notes: things are finally picking up! next chapter will include some 18+ content so you must have your age in your bio for the taglist!
previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter
Eddie clambers into the passenger seat of your car. Upon leaving the diner, you managed to convince him to let you drive to your next destination, citing a general need to live.
The drive back to Eddie’s was considerably less nerve-wracking. This go around, he decided to obey the speed limit and not split lanes like a maniac. Not only did he give you peace of mind but he also spared the delicious french toast that you ate from making a reappearance.
Turning the key, the car starts with a light rumble. The sound of electric guitars and heavy drums shatters the silence between the two of you.
Fuck.
You still had the Corroded Coffin tape in your stereo.
Eddie is turned away from you, grabbing the seatbelt. At the sound of his own voice being played back to him, he slowly turns around to look at you. The grin on his face would put the Cheshire cat to shame.
“I didn’t know you were a fan, sweetheart.” The nickname is saccharine coming out of his mouth.
“I–” You sputter, trying to come up with a good defense. “I’m thorough in my research.”
Eddie is obviously amused at the fact that he’s caught you red-handed. His seatbelt is already buckled, but it’s stretched thin as he leans across the center console. He smells like syrup and cigarettes. For a second, you consider turning the stereo off completely.
“Should I be scared? Do you have a shrine to me in your room? Do you have my face tattooed on your ass?” With each question his voice gets louder and louder, filling the tiny space with his velvety timbre.
Though your face is hot with embarrassment, you’re secretly relieved. Any semblance of tension from bringing up Evelyn at the diner has dissipated. It’s been shredded with every strum of a guitar. You find it’s easier to be around Eddie this way. It’s easier to give in to his playfulness, rather than try to maintain the facade of professionalism.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You say, casting him a sideways glance.
Eddie, for the most part, remains stoic. But you catch the twitch of his mouth and see the tell-tale shade of pink flood his cheeks. If anything should be indicative of the fact that you’ve stunned him, it’s that he’s stopped talking for the first time since you met him. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: He never shuts up.
You release the parking brake and peel off into the streets. If Eddie is at all bothered by listening to his own music, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he takes the opportunity to quietly sing along, only stopping to pepper in commentary about the track or to give you directions. The richness of his voice is so distracting that you haven’t even noticed that you have no idea where he’s taking you.
Trying to find street parking in East Hollywood is a fruitless endeavor. You almost wish you had taken up Eddie’s offer to ride his bike. Eddie directs you around the backside of a building where a sign indicates that it’s a private parking lot, not meant for public use. He assures you that you won’t get towed.
The Blue Line is a bar tucked in between a Thai restaurant and a dry cleaners. Walking up to the doors, you’re hit with the clashing scents of peanut sauce and fresh linen.
There are very few people inside, given that it’s a bar and it’s barely even five o’clock yet. The soles of your shoes stick to the floor, making a quiet but awful velcro-like sound with every step you take.
“Buckley!” Eddie’s voice booms as you enter the establishment, echoing off the concrete floors and exposed brick walls.
A tall, freckled girl springs up behind the counter. At the sound of her name, she grins, her dark lipstick contrasting pearly white teeth.
“Munson!” She yells back. The few patrons that linger around various areas of the bar are evidently disturbed by the sudden change in volume, turning their heads and scowling. She doesn’t seem to care. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just looking to shoot some pool in the best bar in L.A.” Buckley audibly snorts at the last part of his statement. “My tab still open?”
“Always.” She shakes her head and raises her brows at him as if to say, of course. She turns to look at you. “Who’s your friend?”
Your mouth opens, but the words die on your tongue. You and Eddie are not friends. At least, you’re not supposed to be. But you don’t know if you want to tell this woman, who Eddie is clearly close with, that you’re here on assignment to try to cherry-pick the best parts of him and turn them into something palatable.
At your hesitation, Eddie swoops in and makes the introduction for you. He doesn’t mention the fact that you’re a journalist. Whether the omission is for your benefit or his, you’re not sure.
“Nice to meet you,” She throws the rag she was using to wipe down the counter over her shoulder and extends her hand. “I’m Robin.”
Her handshake is firm, but her eyes are soft. The fine bottles of liquor behind her are backlit by an unseen light source, giving the illusion of stained glass. She quickly turns around and rummages through the minifridge and grabs two beers.
“You know the rules, Munson, don’t get too rowdy and clean up when you’re done.” She says, popping the caps off of the beverages and setting them down on the counter.
“Me?” Eddie grasps his chest in faux incredulity, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Too rowdy? Never.”
Robin sticks her tongue out at him in response right as she’s being flagged down by a customer at the far end of the bar. She salutes the both of you, flouncing away to refill the man’s old-fashioned.
To your right, there’s something akin to a hall of fame. A collage of pictures of different celebrities that have visited the very room you’re standing in. You wonder if Eddie is up there, but you don’t dare to go see for yourself.
“Can you play?” He asks, walking towards the pool table.
You make a noncommittal noise. You had played your fair share of games of pool, sure, but never in a setting quite like this. Never with someone like Eddie. Setting your bag down on one of the empty tables that lined the perimeter of the room, you pull out your tape recorder.
“You mind?” You ask, holding up the device in Eddie’s direction.
Eddie grimaces and shrugs off his leather jacket, draping it over a bar stool at the opposite end of the table. The motion draws attention to the plethora of ink that litters both of his arms.
“Do we have to?” His face scrunches up as he asks the question, a slight whine in his tone.
You almost feel inclined to say no, if only just to see the wrinkle that has formed between his brows disappear. Another thing you’ve learned about Eddie Munson: he is very hard to say no to. That’s how you ended up in this bar in the first place.
It would be easy to forgo the tape recorder and pretend that the two of you are just friends hanging out. But if there’s one thing that you know, it’s that the human memory is fallible. You can't risk the quality of your article for the sake of his comfort.
“It’s what I’m here for.”
Eddie bristles at your response but says nothing. He takes a square of blue chalk and thoughtfully rubs it on the end of his pool cue. The sunglasses he took off are tugging down at his v-neck, exposing sharp collarbones and even more ink.
“I have a proposition for you.” Eddie declares.
You raise an eyebrow.
“For every ball you sink, you get to ask me a question about my life. For every ball I sink, I get to ask you about yours.”
You let out an incredulous laugh, thinking that he can’t possibly be serious. But he just stands there, staring at you as he sets the blue piece of chalk down at the edge of the table.
“Final offer. Take it or leave it.” He throws both palms up in the air, pool cue tucked into his side.
For the second time today, you take Eddie’s words as a challenge.
“You’re on.”
Eddie takes his time setting up the game. While he’s leaning over the side of the table gathering the scattered spheres, you can’t help yourself from admiring his silhouette. The back of his shirt rides up, revealing a strip of skin that you cannot tear your eyes away from.
Oh my god.
Eddie Munson has a tramp stamp.
A chaotic collection of branches and thorns surrounds a Latin phrase: lectori salutem. You rack your brain, trying to remember the one semester of elective Latin that you took back in freshman year of college when Eddie suddenly turns around. You quickly look up to meet his eyes, but the smirk on his face reveals everything.
For the second time today, Eddie has caught you staring.
“Ladies first.” He says, grandly gesturing toward the table.
You break the rack. A blur of colors bursts forth in every direction. Despite your best efforts, none of the balls make it into a pocket. Looking back at Eddie, you see he’s still got that smirk on his face. He leans over and effortlessly knocks a ball into a pocket. Stripes.
“Where did you go to school?”
“NYU.” You reply, having been asked this question so many times that the response is practically automatic at this point.
Eddie lets out a low whistle. “Out-of-state tuition must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“I had a scholarship.”
“Wow. Pretty and smart. You’re kind of the whole package, aren’t you?” The teasing lilt in his voice doesn’t take away from the sincerity in his words.
The compliment flusters you, which you’re sure is the whole point of Eddie’s making it.
“Only one question, remember? It’s still your turn.”
Eddie sees right through your attempt to deflect. Graciously, he doesn’t point it out. He just leans down once again and lines up a shot. Stripes Twelve. Right lower pocket.
“Why do you hate New York?”
The sureness with which he asks the question throws you for a loop. Whatever you had expected to come out of Eddie’s mouth, it definitely wasn’t that.
“What makes you think I hate New York?”
“Tsk tsk. I’m asking the questions here.” Eddie scolds, but his voice is devoid of any real ire. He plants his hands on the table, leaning towards you. You can just barely see the faint outline of a gravestone on his right forearm. “You don’t hate it, but you don’t love it either.”
In the five minutes that have passed since he started questioning you, Eddie has managed to see right through you. You’re starting to wonder if you’re actually that transparent or if he is just that good at reading people.
“I don’t know. My dad is from there. Whenever he talked about New York, it always seemed like some mythical place. He always said ‘Don’t live in New York so long it makes you hard. Don’t live in California so long it makes you soft.’ I guess I went to New York to prove to myself that I could, y’know. Prove that I could leave the nest and not fall flat on my face.”
Heat blooms in your chest during your ramblings. The pressure you feel is so much that you’re surprised steam hasn’t started coming out of your ears. Despite knowing exactly why you went to New York, you’ve never said the real reason out loud. It didn’t seem like it mattered to anyone but you.
Eddie has a thoughtful look on his face. “3,000 miles is a long way to go to prove a point.”
You shrug. Eddie pauses for a moment, waiting for something. At the realization that you’re not going to say anything more, he leans over the table and shoots.
Stripes. Thirteen. Top right pocket.
“Did you?” Eddie posits, elaborating on the quirk of your brow. “Prove your point?”
You want to laugh. That’s the same question you’ve been asking yourself since you made the move back west. The prodigal daughter returned with nothing to show for it.
“I proved that living in California my whole life made me soft.” You admit, gazing down at the table, the floor, your shoes, anywhere but his face.
Eddie frowns in your periphery. He has a clear shot at the far end of the table. You wish he would take it already.
“It’s not a bad thing, y’know.” Eddie’s fiddling with his pool cue, generously rubbing more blue chalk on the end. You don’t know much about pool, but you doubt that it’s necessary. It seems like he’s doing it more to prolong the inevitable. “Being soft.”
“Isn’t it?”
You’re almost sure that he’s joking. Actually–you’re sure that he’s making fun of you. He must be. The notion makes you angry. Oh, of course, the heavy metal rockstar is extolling the virtues of being soft! You look up, a snide remark already on the tip of your tongue. But when you finally meet his eyes, his gaze is intense. Contemplative, even. You take another sip of your beer and hope it washes away the lingering bitterness.
Eddie Munson and his damn sincerity.
He looks as if he’s about to say something, but then decides against it. He leans over, lining up that clear shot that you had spotted earlier. His necklace hangs from his neck, the red guitar pick grazing green cloth.
Stripes. Nine. Middle left pocket.
“So,” Eddie starts, smiling satisfactorily to himself. “Do you actually have my face tattooed on your ass?”
If his earlier question about hating New York shocked you, then this one was like being struck by lightning. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You should’ve known that this would come back to bite you.
“It’s just a question.” He defends. “I’m genuinely curious.”
“No, Eddie, I do not have your face tattooed on my ass.”
“But you do have a shrine of me in your room.”
“I am this close to using this pool cue to poke both your eyes out.” You threaten, absolutely buzzing with mortification.
“Fine! Fine, I’ll let it go.” He concedes, before saying the next few words under his breath. “For now.”
Eddie is the opposite of a bad sport when he misses his next shot. He only clicks his tongue and gives a slight shake of his head. You’re relieved that you finally have the chance to get out from under his microscope.
Solids. Four. Bottom left pocket.
“What do you like most about living in LA?” You ask. You know that it’s cliché, that everyone who moves here is asked the same question. But you can’t help but want to hear everyone’s answers. Each person you meet paints a picture of your hometown with vibrant colors. It’s always refreshing to hear a new perspective.
“The food, oh my god, the food!” He practically moans. “I swear whatever bullshit they were passing off as Mexican food back in Indiana should be investigated.”
Eddie goes on a whole tangent about tortillas that could easily be used in a commercial advertising the food scene of southern California. All of the talk about tortillas reminds him of his favorite food truck, located in East Los Angeles. It’s parked right across the street from a record store. He discovered it while trying to visit every record store in the city.
“And speaking of record stores… I mean, fuck, you can’t find half the obscure shit that you have here back in Indiana. There’s no point in shipping your shit out to the midwest if no one’s gonna buy it I’m guessing.”
“I never even thought of that.” You admit. Every time you walked into a music store, there was always a new shipment waiting for a band you had never heard of. “Growing up, my favorite thing was always to go to the record store. Even if I didn’t buy anything, I would just sit in one of the booths and listen to vinyl.”
You smile at the memory of the sun streaming through windows and chunky headphones too big for your adolescent head. The nostalgia clouds your mind so much that you fumble the next shot, accidentally knocking a striped ball into a pocket and giving Eddie the chance to ask you yet another question.
“Do you regret going to NYU?”
“No.” You say, and you mean it. “I think it’s good to get out of your comfort zone. I think… I think it’s important to figure out what’s wrong for you. Maybe even more important than figuring out what’s right.”
Eddie hums in agreement and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. You take the opportunity to eject the tape from the recorder and put in a fresh one. Tucking the tape into your bag, you remember that you still have the mixtape Eddie made for you. You make a mental note to listen to it on the way home.
“Having fun?” Robin appears next to you, gathering a few bottles that hapless patrons have left behind. She lifts Eddie’s off the table and adds it to her collection. You hadn’t even noticed that he had finished it.
“Eddie is absolutely kicking my ass at pool right now.”
She barks out a laugh.
“I know the feeling. We used to play with each other all the time back in Hawkins. I think I only won once, and that was because he was high off his ass.”
Your ears perk up at the mention of the small town in Indiana. You could tell from their interactions that they were close, but this was a whole other level. Does she know about 1986?
“Maybe he’ll have mercy on me.” You muse, slightly wincing at the doubtful look Robin gives you.
“I have faith in you. Don’t let Edward get into your head.” She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, the glass bottles clinking in her wake.
So, you think to yourself, Eddie stands for Edward. It’s a regal-sounding name. A little too refined for the rockstar who’s rough around the edges.
When Eddie returns from the bathroom, he holds two more beers in his hand. You’re about to say that you still haven’t even finished your first one. That you think one is enough. You still have to drive back, after all. But he sets both of them down next to his leather jacket, making it clear that they’re both for him. He sniffles as he approaches, giving a small cough to clear his throat. His knuckles brush the tip of his nose until it glows an angry red, even in the dim lighting. He pulls up his pool cue right to the edge of the green-striped ball. He’s got a clear shot.
He shoots.
He misses.
You quietly breathe out a sigh of relief. Despite the fact that your job is to get into the nitty-gritty of people’s lives, you’ve never been on the receiving end. It’s unnerving. There’s a reason why you’re a writer. You like the control of rough drafts and rewrites and edits. It leaves less room for misinterpretation.
Circling the table, you hope to find an easy shot.
“You have to actually hit the balls with the stick for them to go anywhere,” Eddie says, taking a long sip from his second beer. “Just wanted to make sure that you knew that.”
You roll your eyes at his obvious attempt to psych you out. Leaning over the far end of the table, you balance the pool cue delicately between your fingers. When you finally make the shot you smile to yourself as not just one, but two of the balls go careening into pockets at opposite ends of the table.
“You know, I’ve half a mind to think you were hustling me, sweetheart.” Eddie takes a long sip from his second beer, the condensation dripping down his hand.
“It’s not hustling if you just assumed I would be bad at it.” You’re so proud of yourself that you can’t help the smugness in your voice. “What’s your middle name?”
“Now you’re crossing the line.” He deadpans. “That’s just too far.”
“Oh come on, Edward.” At the sound of his legal name, Eddie’s facade drops. The reaction encourages you to continue your teasing. “It can’t be that bad.”
“How do you know that’s what Eddie stands for?”
“I have my sources.”
“Your sources could be wrong. It could stand for Edison. Or Edmund. Or Edgar.”
“Something tells me my sources are correct.” Your eyes flick over to the freckled girl behind the counter. Eddie catches your glance and kisses his teeth, shaking his head in exasperation.
“What if you’re secretly a fairy who’s trying to get me to say my full name so that I’m indebted to you for the rest of my life?”
“Fine. Don’t tell me your middle name.” You concede, trying to come up with a better question. “How did you know that I was a writer? Back in your room–when I picked up the book–you called me a writer.”
“Isn’t that like, your whole thing?” Eddie waves his hand flippantly.
“Yeah. But there’s a difference between journalistic writing and fiction writing. How did you know that I do both?”
Eddie takes another drink from the beer in his hand, thumb grazing the label.
“Maybe I’m ‘thorough in my research’ too.” He says, quoting your words back to you.
It’s a non-answer and both of you know it. You decide not to press the issue. Maybe Eddie isn’t such a good sport after all. You started winning and he stopped playing fair, dodging your questions left and right. For someone who is supposed to be getting interviewed, he isn’t doing a very good job. You settle on a topic you hope he’s willing to actually talk about.
“Patsy Cline.”
“What about Patsy Cline?”
“She didn’t exactly fit in with all of the metal.”
“My Uncle Wayne loves Patsy Cline. He would always play her records whenever he was cooking or cleaning. I guess listening to it reminds me of home.”
“So do you actually like it? Or do you just find it comforting?”
“Is there a difference?” Eddie muses at you from behind the lip of his beer bottle, before taking a long swig. “Wayne actually gave me that vinyl as a parting gift. He said it’s for ‘when you want to listen to real music’. He was only joking. Kinda.”
Eddie visibly softens while recalling the man who raised him. His tense shoulders have drooped and his jaw unclenches. He speaks of the older man with an unmatched fondness.
“Wayne sounds like a funny guy.” You smile, sidling up to Eddie. “What’s he like?”
“He’s the best. He took me in when I was just about this big.” He juts his palm out at his waist. “I had big ears, a buzzcut, and a gigantic chip on my shoulder. I was so– I was so angry at the world. He was the first person who told me it was okay to feel that way.
He was a trucker before I came along, but then he quit and started working at the plant so that he could be there for me. Everything I do, it’s all for him.”
The words make your heart clench. Sparing yourself the embarrassment of revealing just how much his words got to you, you take your next shot. With misty eyes, you see the flash of blue make its way across the table and into a pocket. You already know what you’re gonna ask him.
“Say you get everything you want. You win Grammys. You sell out Madison Square Garden. What next?”
“Shit, I don’t know.” Eddie polishes off the third beer. “I’d probably start by buying Wayne a house, but that’s if he’ll even let me. He’s always saying that I’m the kid and he’s the adult. That he’s supposed to be taking care of me, not the other way around.”
He lets out a quiet burp, which he muffles with his fist. His pool cue has been long forgotten next to him. The configuration on the table before you tells you that you can win in just two more rounds. You’re not sure if you want to. You try anyway.
Solids. Three. Middle right pocket.
“Does your reputation actually matter to you?”
“That’s a loaded question.” Eddie leans backward. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, the effects of the alcohol seeming to finally kick in. “Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
You make a show of grabbing the tape recorder and clicking the stop button. You slide it over the wooded lip of the table, proving to him that the device really isn’t recording anymore.
“Of course, my reputation matters to me. Anyone who says they don’t care about their reputation is lying. Sure, you learn to brush it off. You learn to expect that everyone you meet is gonna have preconceived notions about you. Whatever. People have always had some shit to say about me, I say let ‘em talk.
But it never gets any easier realizing that everyone you meet thinks they know you just because of some shit they read in a magazine. It never gets easier knowing that nothing you do belongs to you anymore.”
Eddie’s words weigh on you. Whether or not he realizes it, you fall into both those categories. You had turned your nose up at the lousy headlines. You had thought he was just another reckless rockstar. Now, you’re tasked with writing him a new one, one that’ll make people like you see him in a better light. It's still the same. He still doesn’t get to control how this story ends.
“Is that why you agreed to this interview?”
You know you’re essentially wasting a question. Whatever his answer will be won’t matter in the long run, because you won’t be able to use it. You want to know the answer anyway.
Eddie looks down at the table and then back to you. You know that he could tell you that you used up your question. That if he was a little less drunk he would probably diffuse the tension by quipping back to you, only one question, remember? He doesn’t. He sees that you have the winning shot perfectly laid out for you. This time, he doesn’t prolong the inevitable.
“Yeah, it is.”
You make the shot. Just like that, the game is over. Your victory feels hollow.
A blue-striped ball sits lonely on the table. A question left unasked. An answer left unheard.
Eddie puts his leather jacket back on and brings the empty beer bottles back to Robin. You pick up the tape recorder. It feels like dead weight in your hands.
You meet Eddie at the counter, where he’s happily chatting with an amused Robin, all previous tension regarding your last question seemingly forgotten. You bid your goodbyes. The two of you shuffle awkwardly together towards the entrance before Eddie gets distracted by something.
“Oh my god, I love these!” Eddie regards the gumball machine full of small, shitty prizes with a childlike wonder.
He grabs his wallet from the pocket of his jacket, dutifully pulling out two quarters. He shoves them both into the coin slots and cranks the handle. The machine spits out a plastic capsule with a bright green lid. He takes the prize and thrusts it into your hands.
“For you.”
You’re confused by the sentimental gesture but decide not to question it. Shaking the contents out into your hand, the prize reveals itself to be an 8 ball keychain.
“Hey! We match!” Eddie pulls out the motorcycle keys from his pocket, and sure enough there’s an 8 ball hanging from the key ring that’s identical to the one you’re holding in your hand.
“Yeah.” You smile to yourself, twirling the small sphere between your fingers. “We do.”
The drive back to the house in West Hollywood is quiet this time. You elected to switch from the cassette to the radio as soon as you got in. The sounds of classic rock drift between the two of you. Eddie spends the entire drive looking out the window, proving himself to be a quiet and contemplative drunk rather than an obnoxious and outspoken drunk.
Pulling up to the curb, you feel slightly awkward. You’ve never been good at goodbyes.
“You doing anything tomorrow?” Eddie’s head flops in your direction, his body language giving away the depth of his inebriation.
“Um.” You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he might be planning. “It depends. What time?”
“Around noon? We have a recording session tomorrow and I just thought maybe you’d like to hear some of the stuff we’ve been working on. Plus you’d get to meet the other guys. It would be good, right? For your article.”
He says the last sentence as if it’s an afterthought.
“For the article.”
“It’s at the recording studio near Sunset? Big red sign, can’t miss it.” He’s using his hands again as he talks. The silver rings glint under the yellow of the street lamps. “Can I have your number, though? Just in case it gets canceled or something. I don’t want you to show up and think I’m sending you on a wild goose chase.”
“Sure.” You rattle off the number for him. Eddie continues looking at you, glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked. “Are you sure you don’t want me to write it down for you?”
“I have a good memory.” He grins toothily, tapping his temple with his index finger. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, he tumbles out of the car and stumbles to the front door. You watch his retreating figure with the realization that you’ve barely scratched the surface of who Eddie Munson is.
You remember to swap cassettes before pulling away. As you begin mentally writing the beginnings of his article in your head, the mixtape plays softly in the background.
Living in a world of make believe
I can hide behind what's real
But wearing your emotions on your sleeve
And they all know what you feel
taglist: @twisted-wonderland-of-wren@cloudroomblog@amira0303@forrestfae6@aysheashea@vintagehellfire@poisonedluv @kimmi-kat@mmunson86
if your username is crossed out it means tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you 💔
#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson imagine#stranger things#stranger things fic#stranger things fanfic#mimi wrote ✍️#can i ask you a question?#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fic#rockstar!eddie munson#rockstar!eddie
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sweet dreams, tennessee | masterlist
summary: the sleepy town of sweet dreams holds many childhood memories for you. in the summer of '88, you make your way back to your hometown to visit your grandma and figure things out. when you get there, you're surprised to find you're not the only one who's taking a walk down memory lane.
pairing: cowboy!steve harrington x fem!reader
chapter one: welcome home, honeybee
chapter two
chapter three
a/n: this fic is shamelessly (and loosely) inspired by the Hannah Montana movie so all credit where credit is due, this is just for fun! :)
#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington x you#steve harrington masterlist#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fic#sweet dreams TN#cowboy!steve harrington#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington fanfiction#mimi wrote ✍️
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˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ masterlist ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗
steve harrington
i'm in so deep
liquid courage allows you to finally tell steve how you feel.
i'm such a fool
steve has his own confession to make. you’re not sure how to take it.
head over wheels
steve takes you roller skating for your first date.
never really over
you and steve fall apart, then fall back together.
sweet dreams, tennessee [multi-chapter]
the sleepy town of Sweet Dreams holds many childhood memories for you. in the summer of '88, you make your way back to your hometown to visit your grandma and figure things out. when you get there, you're surprised to find you're not the only one who's taking a walk down memory lane.
eddie munson
can i ask you a question? [multi-chapter]
Los Angeles, 1990. eddie munson is a promising rockstar with a less-than-stellar reputation. you’re a budding music journalist who has been tasked with strengthening his social standing. what started as a mutually beneficial assignment turns into something more, as you both blur the lines between professional and personal.
old friend
eddie walks into a diner looking for the past. he doesn’t expect the past to find him.
poltergeists for sidekicks
the kids drag eddie to the halloween store where you happen to work.
#steve harrington#eddie munson#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington masterlist#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington one shot#eddie muson x reader#eddie munson masterlist#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson one shot#stranger things#stranger things masterlist#mimi wrote ✍️#navigation
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Prologue: Big City, Wrong Choices | E.M.
Summary: [0.8k] A tedious tabloid brings you and eddie together.
Pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!music journalist!reader
Warnings: talks of drug and alcohol use (nothing graphic)
Notes: took some major creative license with this one but I think it pays off, hope you enjoy!
series masterlist | main masterlist
Stars behaving badly!
Truthfully, Eddie wanted to laugh when his manager threw the gossip rag on his coffee table. This was the reason that Mitch was knocking down his door so early in the day? Sure, the pictures of him in the article were less than flattering. One of them in particular showed him bent over, spewing his guts outside of The Viper Room. Definitely not a moment that he wanted to share with the world, but it was being shared nonetheless.
So he got a little drunk and disorderly sometimes. It's what rock stars do. It’s part of the lifestyle. It’s a part Eddie plays and he knows he plays it well. A tabloid or two detailing his sordid exploits were par for the course. Still, he covers up his chuckle with a clearing of his throat, but it’s obvious that Mitch doesn’t buy it.
“This is not a good look, Eddie” Mitch begins, running his hands through his thinning head of hair. “This is the kinda shit you do when you’re running the game. Not when you’re some kid from buttfuck Indiana trying to make a name for himself.”
Eddie recoils at the word kid. He already hates the fact that Mitch is not only his manager, but also his de-facto babysitter.
“I’m twenty four years old.” The whine present in his voice isn’t doing him any favors in making him sound more mature and grown up.
“Then act like it.”
Eddie sighs and slumps into his seat. He tries to bring the whiskey glass he’s holding in his right hand up to his lips, but Mitch maneuvers around the couch and snatches it away. Usually, Eddie would put up a fight. Or, if he wasn’t in the fighting mood, he would go over to the bar cart and drink straight from the bottle out of spite. Sensing the tension in the room, Eddie concedes. He doesn’t want to be yet another reason why Mitch’s hairline is receding.
Bracing himself, he walks to the kitchen where Mitch is brewing a fresh pot of coffee. The two of them exist in the symbiotic silence. Eddie pulls out two mugs from the cabinet and Mitch dutifully pours them both to the brim before sliding one over. They take turns passing each other milk and sugar. After taking a sip of his shitty coffee, Eddie clears his throat and asks the question of the hour.
“So, how do we fix this?”
For the first time since arriving at Eddie’s apartment, Mitch smiles.
~
Stars behaving badly!
The magazine lands on your desk with a thump, jostling the pen holder and making the Snoopy bobblehead wobble. Eyes glazing over the headline, you scoff. Of course Eddie Munson is up to his usual antics. Whoever his publicist is should be fired, you think, because this isn’t even the first headline you’ve seen about him this week. It is, however, the first time he has graced the pages of Sub Rosa. There’s no doubt that the photos of Eddie being drunk and disorderly are currently lining every grocery checkout aisle in Los Angeles county. You wonder if he lives by the words bad publicity is good publicity.
You look up to see the cause of the disturbance, only to see the face of your editor staring down at you. Melinda is bright and cheery, somehow glowing in the fluorescent lights that manage to wash anyone else out.
“We’re doing damage control.” Her perfectly polished fingertip taps on Eddie’s face.
You laugh, “I’d love to see the poor soul that has to do damage control for that trainwreck.”
The older woman looks at you expectantly, a coy smile gracing her lips. Uh oh. You’ve worked at InStereo Magazine long enough to know that look. It’s the look she gives when she wants something and Melinda always gets what she wants.
You take a moment to respond. You could refuse and waste the opportunity to leap from lowly column writer to actual music journalist. Melinda is still looking at you. Her cherry red glasses slide to the tip of her nose, emphasizing that she has to look down on you to have this conversation. Except it’s not a conversation. It’s more like a sentencing and she is judge, jury, and executioner.
You look back at your desk. Snoopy is still nodding his head emphatically.
“I’ll do it.”
“It’s so cute that you think you could’ve turned this down.” Melinda says, only the slightest bit of condescension in her tone. “We’ll go over details later, okay?”
With that, she flits away. Once she is safely out of sight, you bury your face in your hands and let out a small scream. Snoopy's rhythmic bobble breaks you out of your reverie. You grab the offending object and stuff it in the last drawer of your desk.
You were going to regret this.
~
taglist: @twisted-wonderland-of-wren
likes are appreciated, comments and reblogs are cherished ♥️
#eddie munson#eddie muson x reader#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson oneshot#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things fanfiction#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson fic#stranger things fic#stranger things#mimi wrote ✍️#can i ask you a question?
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