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steviewashere · 4 months

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Return to Sender

Slaps you in the face with this chapter of my new fic, Return to Sender. Which I will update every Saturday, or at least attempt to. Different first meetings, strangers to friends to lovers to strangers (and then endgame). Hope you enjoy, I'll add tags when necessary.

Characters: Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove (A Warning in Itself), Eddie Munson (E.M.)

Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

General Audiences (May Change, but Will Not be Explicit)

Tags: Pre-Season 2, Rewriting Canon, Though Keeping to Main Canon Events (i.e. Steve getting roped into finding Dart, Billy smashing in Steve's face, The junkyard, etc.)

Expanded from This Post!

Next Part is Out! ------>

Enjoy <3

------- Steve picks up a little piece of paper that somebody shoved inside the grates of his locker door. It's folded, crumpled, creased and stained. He glances around. If the messenger just left this, they must still be around, right? At the bathrooms, nobody stands. Or at the narrow opening that floods into the main hall of Hawkins High. Or even peeking from under the stairwell. He runs his thumb over the paper. It's soft, most likely worn down from being held onto for so long. From being in somebody's pocket. Pressed up against the radiating warmth from their naked thigh. Possibly held between their fingers, twirling and folding in the gaps.

Does he open it? He's curious, he should. But what if it's another one of Tommy's pranks, which have increased tenfold since they stopped being friends. What if it's Carol giving him a fill-in on gossip he no longer wants a slice of? Or...What if it's Nancy apologizing? He shakes his head at that. What does she shave to apologize for, he questions himself. If anybody should say sorry, it would be me.

Basketball practice is in ten minutes. He's got his sweatbands on. Retied his sneakers. Changed into shorts and a particularly revealing muscle tank. Slathered on deodorant, lip balm, and baby powder to prevent chafing on his thighs. He's ready to go. Gotta go, he hastily thinks.

But...

The note. Somebody left it just for him.

Oh, but what if it's to tease him? To poke fun at the fact that he lost his girlfriend to somebody the whole school deems as his rival. To laugh at the new cut near his hairline, pink and puckered, laughing at his inability to fight back (parents teach their kids the damndest things). From that insufferable guy, Billy, that's barreled in through town from California and shoved him on the spikes of his King Steve crown. From that band girl with choppy strawberry blonde hair that's always too observant. From somebody else...somebody who wants to see him bend over, gasp for air that's too sharp and fleeting, and cry with nothing else to do.

He blearily thinks, Fuck it. He thinks, Men don't cry. Though the voice is his father's and they're almost the same in intonation, does it matter who's ridiculing him? He thinks, I just want to go home and rest.

It unfolds without him willing. The paper still soft, not yet agitating his palms. Gently torn around the edges. Blue pen glowing up at him. He takes a breath and reads.

"You seem haunted. But you're lovely. I hope you find peace soon, Steve. -E.M."

Steve's watch beeps at him. Time to shoot some hoops. And all the while he will think, Who the hell is E.M.?

---- He's at the three point line practicing his free throws. Back wet with sweat. Hair drooping over the sweatband around his forehead, the prickly ends threatening to stab his eyelids. The ball is in his grip just under the tip of his nose. He gives it another couple dribbles for luck. Poises to shoot.

Just as his arms flex, he goes tumbling down to the ground. A thump across the waxed gymnasium floor. His head misses, thankfully, but the rest of him is in a gigantic sore heap. Limbs splayed out around him. The basketball bouncing off somewhere to his right. And the impact scared him into shutting his eyes. Opening them, blearily and blinking fast, he realizes he's now nose to calf with that asshole, Billy Hargrove.

The guy—broad, tall, muscular with an ugly shaggy mullet and a permanent sneer to his lips—has been consistently knocking Steve down. Whether it be on the court, as it is right now. Out on the track in gym class. In the hallways, slamming Steve's left shoulder into the closed locker doors, enough he swears it dislocated at least a couple times. Even once in the parking lot; leaving a ding on the trunk of Steve's BMW. It's one of the nicer things he owns and it made him see red the way the metal was dented in. He'd tried to fight back against Billy, but that ended up with him and a blood nose. He's retired all efforts in making this guy leave him alone. Too pussy to be the first to throw a fist. Too smarmy to confront a teacher.

Steve groans and tries to sit up, but is promptly shoved back down by the bottom of one of Billy's sneakers. He hears from above, "Fucking stay out of my way, Harrington." And then his presence is gone. Footsteps, heavy and quick, making their way away from Steve's supine, sweaty, adrenaline leaking body.

He successfully sits up with the next groan and gasp from his lips. Rubs a firm hand on the small of his back. And decides, Fuck this. Rising from the ground is no ambitious feat. And choosing to barrel past his coach, give him the finger, slam the locker room door behind him, take a quick hot shower, and reclothe himself in a usual school outfit—none of that is ambitious either. It's freeing, in a way.

Sure, he loves basketball. Loves gym class. Loves working out in general. He's been on a basketball team every year since he was seven years old. Watches games from the middle cushion of his parent's three-seater sofa. Skims through Sports Illustrated every chance he gets. Has assisted with little league teams and the junior varsity tryouts annually since freshman year—always there to encourage and uplift nervous players, because he had been one once, so he gets it.

But, also, the amount of running up and down the basketball court. The amount of watching from his peripherals. Dodging and very nearly hiding away from other players. It all just reminds him of...Of that stupid flower-faced motherfucker that tumbled through the Byers' place. All the trouble for wanting to apologize. Now he's more scarred than a pink eraser some distracted kid uses in math class—puncture wounds in his brain where the images of blood, snarling saliva, and twirling some weaponized bat are permanently flashing. All the time. In his waking existence and in his sleep.

Playing on the sports teams also comes with expectations. Not from his peers. Or friends. Not even the coaches. But, rather, his parents. And damn it, if being bullied off the court is a way to try and get them off his back, then he'd fucking take being roped by his ankles and shook like a can of pop for his lunch money. He thinks, Fuck what they think. Fuck what the coach thinks. And fuck Billy Hargrove.

When he's finally out of the locker room and back at his everyday locker, he notices another little white paper making a minor appearance. It's a fresh piece. From the way it's bright in the light and sharp around the edges in his hands. Even the blue pen marks are smeared slightly, as if the person—E.M.—was in a rush to get away. To not be caught.

It reads now:

"I'll charge that dickwad more for his weed. It's fucking stupid that he thinks he rules the school now. Hargrove gave one of my friends a swirly last week. Tried to dump my lunch earlier today. Don't worry, Steve, I'll drain him for more than he's worth. -E.M."

His hand falls away, note still gripped, and slams against his thigh. Runs a hand down his damp face. And becomes dizzy with the implication of the last line; or at least, his interpretation.

Now, Steve's smoked before. Came home one time from the quarry smelling like it and knew what it was like to be caught by a ring on the face when he'd walked through his front doors. But...that had been weed that Tommy's cousin brought around during the summer they were in town. Steve isn't aware of anybody in Hawkins who would be dealing. And, if he's honest, marijuana isn't a top choice for unwinding. He prefers a beer or a cigarette, something that won't leave a trail of evidence behind.

So, now he's aware that somebody—a stranger—is watching him from a distance. Somebody who goes to school with him. Somebody who deals drugs, maybe even does them. And...their initials are E.M.

He almost wants to shout out for the person to make themself known. But the mystery behind it all is intriguing, to say the least. Like they're playing hard to get. And, Steve doesn't usually go after people that make anything—friendship or romantic relationships—hard on him, but the lack of info, the observance, the knowing somebody has their eyes on and out for him...

Well, that makes something stir in his gut.

And he doesn't know what that says about him. To be swooning, slightly, for somebody without a face. Somebody who could be a stalker if he thinks about it. They're protective, though. And that's not something Steve usually gains from somebody else.

It's frustrating, though, not knowing who this person is. Maybe if he can ask around, maybe get Billy to slip up about his smoking habits.

He wants to put a face to this mystery person.

Wants to...see if they're just as attractive as their instincts.

--------

Next Part is Out! ------>

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #pre-season 2 #different first meeting #passing notes #canon divergence

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katt-sports · 2 months

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MattBuro passing notes

Orange = Matt, blue = Saburo

#miiblr #wii sports #wii sports resort #cpu mii #cpu miis #saburo wii sports #matt wii sports #Matt x Saburo #MattBuro #passing notes

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loop-deloo · 1 year

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spatula vs soap

don’t know where this came from but damn. set several years later.

^thought this was going to be sad/grief-related but it was not! enjoy

for prompt “cherish” @wolfstarmicrofic

read part 1, part 2, part 3 ! (to find out where the note comes from and just how much sirius and remus blushed back then)

Sirius comes back to his present self as Remus calls to him, “Pads, get your arse in here.”

Sirius chuckles and folds the note back up.

“Moony,” James groans, “C’mon, we’re trying to wait till he’s at least five before Harry’s entire vocabulary is vulgar.”

Sirius keeps the folded note in his hand as he closes the box of cherished notes and trinkets he has unearthed from the depths of his wardrobe.

“Oh piss off, you are no better than me.” Remus starts and then it’s just James and Remus bickering like the old married couple that they aren’t. Peter is cackling behind them, bouncing a grinning Harry on his hip when Sirius walks into the kitchen.

“Look what I found,” He starts. Remus, in front of the stove, looks up from where he was waving a spatula at James and James turns from the sink where his arms were thrown up in the air, water and soap flecking the cupboards around him.

Through his laughter, Peter asks, “What’s that Pads?”

James and Remus are still frozen, Harry giggling at the shenanigans and Sirius smiles, “Just some old notes."

#wolfstar microfic #wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #james potter #peter pettigrew #cackling peter #harry potter #kitchen chats #passing notes #cherish

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inventedbymelvin · 6 months

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Hey, Melvin. I just have to know, are you into any sort of science fiction novels or movies?

"Blight Future, Star Trek any generation is good, Godzilla any movie, something like that."

#passing notes #nerdchildmc2

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therealrjlupin · 9 months

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The first of some additional content from I wanna feel the way I did back then by myself and @neondomino

Note passing!

#wolfstar #pre-wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #peter pettigrew #passing notes #additional content

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everythingaboutbiotech · 2 years

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How Do Antibiotics Work?

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beautiful-littlefool · 6 months

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I want to ramble on and on and on about a universe that I have created that other people don’t know about and couldn’t possibly know about because I know these people haven’t read this and they don’t know the characters and their backstories because it’s a background character so their backstory isn’t a part of the main story so it isn’t written out anywhere but I want to be able to talk to someone about this world and these peopleeeeee

#author #passing notes #rahhhhh #adhd #neurodivergent

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draconic-ichor · 2 years

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If you're still taking requests; Morgott and the Tarnished dirty talk? I need to read sexy banter 🥺

I had a bit of fun with this one!

Distraction

Morgott/female tarnished

Elden Ring dabble

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, suggestive speech

Summary: Morgott and the Lady Tarnished try to drum up a bit of fun during a boring assembly

It was customary for the royal couple to attend assemblies within the capital. Morgott and the Lady had been sitting through the one currently for a good few hours now, the speaking nobles droning on and on seemingly endlessly.

Even Morgott was beginning to tire, the tarnished bored beyond measure. She began to shift about in her chair, organizing and reorganizing the desk they were both sat at.

“Peace, beloved mine.” Morgott whispered, placing a hand on her thigh under the desk.

The Lady Tarnished stilled, giving him an impish look. She spread her legs a bit, urging his hand on.

She didn’t quite know what she was after, any type of spice to this day would be welcoming; Morgott was less than accommodating, however. He simply pulled his hand away, trying to sooth, “We’ll have time for all that later.”

The tarnished deflated a bit, listening to the dry speaker for a time more. Unable to condemn herself to death by dullness she shifted a bit closer, getting Morgott’s attention.

“And what would his Lordship do exactly?” She whispered, giving him a look both challenging and sultry.

“I have some ideas…Nary a word of which should be uttered here with so many prying ears.” He whispered back.

The Lady slid a blank paper along the desk until it was on Morgott’s side, smirking, “Then write it.”

“My Lady can’t possibly wish to hear my secrets so badly?” He chuckled quietly.

“Humor me.” She leaned on her folded hands, not yielding.

Morgott sat still for some moments, seemingly paying renewed attention to the assembly. With a huff he suddenly took a quill to the paper, face stone. From any outside perspectives it would seem he was just writing up any common letter of business.

The Lady knew better however, having to bite her lip to contain her ever bubbling excitement.

Morgott slid the paper back, gaze forward.

The tarnished attempt to glance at it as smoothly as possible.

It reading:

‘Firstly, I shall put that beautiful mouth to better use than distractions during business. My beloved finds herself quite the hungry little creature…I intend to quell that appetite fully.’

The tarnished read it over, taking up the quill herself to scratch a response. She slid the paper back once finished, proceeding to pretend interest in the assembly once more.

Morgott’s good eye shifter down to read:

‘I’ll gladly put my mouth to my King’s uses, although his assets may require more than simply my mouth. He is quite an endowed King after all.’

She heard him make a sound before the paper was slid back for her to read. The couple playfully wrote back and forth, all while pretending to keep up with the assembly and maintaining stoic expressions:

‘How dost thou wish to service her Lord, hm?’

‘By mouth, by breast, any part my Lord finds purchase. I’ll kneel before his throne pliantly.’

‘Thou art quite…pliant.’

‘Only for his Lord.’

‘An honor I hold dear. I quite enjoy twisting thee upon thyself like a sugared confectionery.’

‘I enjoy when you press me into the bed like a beast.’

‘Perhaps we can indulge both fancies after the assembly?’

‘I’ll have to check my schedule, his Lordship keeps me quite busy.’

‘I’m quite positive he would not miss thou for an hour.’

‘Just an hour?’

‘After all this banter, the possibility is likely.’

‘Does the descriptive use of ‘horny’ apply to my Lord in more that his appearance as of late?”

‘It would be an adequate use of the term…”

‘Poor thing.’

‘Doth thee value thy current dress?’

‘Not particularly. Why?’

The Lady received the paper back, now quite full of delicate inked words. But as her eyes glanced down to read his response her cheeks reddened. She looked quickly up at him, in shock. Morgott sat unmoved, a shadow of a smirk painting his lips. The Lady looked back to the paper:

‘As soon as this damned assembly comes to a close I’m going to tear it away piece by piece with my teeth. I promise thee.’

#i hope this is what you wanted #like highschool kids #passing notes #morgott/tarnished #tarnished oc #spicy dabbles #elden ring dabbles #answered asks

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etherealluceras · 10 months

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How Haru and Andrea pass notes during class...

(At the back of the paper)

#ocs #andrea #haru #passing notes

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unwashedace · 2 years

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#digital art #art #passing notes #notes #diary #friendship #babies #weird art #deirdre sokolowska #photoshop art

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steviewashere · 3 months

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Return to Sender

Characters: Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove (A Warning in Itself), Eddie Munson (E.M.)

Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

General Audiences (May Change, but Will Not be Explicit)

CW: Use of the word Queer (as a slur, from Tommy) mentioned briefly and not at all lingered on

Tags: Pre-Season 2, Rewriting Canon, Though Keeping to Main Canon Events (i.e. Steve getting roped into finding Dart, Billy smashing in Steve's face, The junkyard, etc.), Eddie Munson has ADHD, Steve is Self-Deprecating, Teasing Banter (sort of), Steve has Shitty Parents

This is Part 2! To read Part One, follow the link here!

-------- It dawns on Steve that trying to find somebody by their little hobby of drug dealing is going to be tougher than he thought. He can't just ask anybody. And it's not like he can make some bulletin board statement or put an advertisement in the newspaper. What would that even look like?

Local Teenage Boy Who's Seen Some Shit Is Now Seeing Cute Little Locker Notes! Looking For Inquiries About A Drug Dealer With The Initials E.M.! Will Give "The Best Sex" You've Ever Had a Run For Their Money as Reward!

Yeah, he can't imagine that looking very well.

Not for him. Not for the other person involved. And he doesn't want to lose these little notes that he now looks forward to every time he goes to grab an assignment or a textbook or his lunch money. Because, what he's still reeling about, the notes keep coming. With not a single sign of stopping.

Little things. Like telling him how amazing he looks in his new polo shirts, to not listen to the scoffing of Tommy Hagan—who keeps telling Steve that he looks like a "Queer little prep." (Which, Steve's not sure how he's been found out in that regard. He hopes Tommy can keep a secret. But, knowing the history they share, he definitely can't.) And there was one with the answers to the math homework he was doing last minute at breakfast in the cafeteria, which were all correct, and Steve found himself giddily smiling over the big fat letter 'A' on the header of his paper. So, the notes are getting to be more frequent. They're nice. He loves them.

The only question is:

How the fuck is he supposed to find this person?

He began with the, albeit, dumbest way first. Standing vigil near his locker. Watching for anybody that looks like they're about to leave a note. A few girls wander near, but they don't mess with his locker. No, they flock to the other side of the hall to mess with Billy's. He scoffed when they did. And while he was busy watching them, he noticed at the glance back of his own locker, a new note.

It wasn't a very long one. Just:

"Have a good day, man. Also, stop watching random girls. You look like a creep. -E.M."

Steve physically slapped himself on the forehead when he reread it. Of course he missed his opportunity. Because he was distracted with some other mindless thing. That thing not only being those girls, but also stupid fucking Billy Hargrove. He always manages to find a way to ruin Steve's day, even without physically doing or saying something. He grumbled with the note tightly in his grip and stomped away to his last class of the day.

Then, when standing by his locker proved to be futile, he lurked in the cafeteria. Watching the tables. For somebody who was nose deep in a slew of little slips of paper, scattered near their hands, a blue pen secure in their hand. But—

He was the only one truly alone at a table. And the crowds of people at the other lunch tables made him nervous. So, he stopped watching. Besides, everybody was too busy talking to one another.

His locker didn't have a note at the end of the day. He was bummed about it.

Steve came to the conclusion on that day, Random person doesn't want me to be lurking. Or at least, that's what it seems like. Either he gets caught doing something he shouldn't be doing, or he can't actually see anything. Because there's nothing to see.

Some of his other ideas fell through.

Looking through last year's yearbook. Asking a few random students in the hallway if they knew an E.M., but they only rolled their eyes and shoved past him. (He's not used to that. Being ignored by the people around him. Maybe with his parents, but school life is supposed to be different than his home life. He doesn't like that the two are now bleeding together.) He even attempted the phone book. But that was a bust. There were probably thirty names to go through. And he didn't know which ones were teenagers in high school. And he seriously didn't want to call each one and ask: "Hey, are you the person that's leaving notes in my locker?" What kind of creep would that make him? An obsessive one, probably.

At least the student obsessed with giving him notes isn't bothering tons of other people in the process. At least this elusive stranger has morals and values.

He's growing frustrated, though. The longer this drags out. But he just has to...wait. Be patient. See if he can catch his secret admirer off guard.

In the mean time, he attends his classes. The ones that hold all the information for him to graduate, but all the knowledge goes into one ear and leaks out the other. He falls asleep at his desks from time to time. And since he's no longer on the basketball team, his schedule is wide open for after school detentions. Great, he thinks as he holds the pink detention slip in his hand today. Because what I need is proof that I'm still a failure, no matter what I do.

But he swallows his pride. Well, what's left of it. Some meager crumbs and a couple laps of liquid bravery that paint his insides like dried acrylic paint. Shuffles over to his locker at the end of his fourth period. Stuffs his oversized backpack onto the hook. Rustles around with some textbooks—maybe he can attempt his math homework; attempt is a strong word. He'' probably just stare at it and doodle a few drawings in the margins, hoping for time to pass.

There's a white slip of paper wedged between two books.

"Tough luck, Stevie. Maybe you'll get a proper nap at home once you power through detention. Believe me, the pent up frustration will knock you clean out. -E.M."

Steve scoffs. Crumples up the little thing into an even smaller ball. Tosses it at the metal backing of his locker. And watches as it bounces down pathetically to the floor. Embarrassingly, he finds himself on the verge of tears. Could my senior year get any worse, he asks nobody. But groans aloud as he picks up the paper once more and pockets it instead.

Textbook in hand and a wrinkled homework sheet in the other, he's on his not so merry way.

When he gets to the detention classroom, he's the only senior in it. Well, other than that overtime senior, Eddie Munson. He takes his seat next to Eddie, near the back, a textbook and homework sheet dutifully laid out on the desk, and his eyes stubbornly locked to it. Just to make sure it looks like they're not talking. Because he seriously doesn't want to be the only one in here. Sure, there's what appears to be a couple sophomores spaced out on the left side of the classroom. A few girls that he recognizes from Nancy's school year, all huddled around each other and whispering not so soft under their breath. But it's just him and Eddie in the back right corner. And hopefully he doesn't get reprimanded, forced to sit somewhere else, he isn't sure he can take anymore awful shit in his day.

However, it seems like it can get worse. His calculus homework. It's not something he knows well, having cheated off of one of those locker notes. Sparing his life of cognitive embarrassment, having to prove himself to maintain his average 'C' grade for sports this year. I'm not getting accepted to college, why the fuck do I have to do this shit, he has to wonder. It's giving him a dull headache.

The problem that's getting him:

What is the integral of the function f(x) = sin 2x?

He wants to slam his head onto the surface of his desk until he's just a mound of bloody, pulpy meat. He's better with English literature, surprisingly enough. Even if the words move a little bit, it's better than whatever garbage he's looking at now. It's like the problem knows he doesn't understand. It's like it has teeth, gaining and baring and wanting to chop off his fingers. It's like—

Something taps on the corner of his desk.

Looking up from his paper, agitated and exhausted, he finds the eraser end of Eddie's pencil clacking against the wood of his desk. Growling, he asks, "What the hell do you want, Munson?" Adding, huffed and close to giving up, "I'm trying to do my homework."

Eddie just grins at him. "I know, dude," he snarks. "We're in Mr. Nelson's class together, remember? I've got the answers, if you want them."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Yeah, right," he mutters. "Like you'd know. I know for a fact that you have an F in calc, why should I trust that you actually have the right answer?"

"Oh, that's simple," Eddie chirps. "I know my shit. Just don't turn in my assignments. You know—" He gestures vaguely at his head. "—I got that new diagnosis, ADHD. The thing that sort of makes you forgetful, or whatever? I know it, I'm just...Not on the money with turning it in on time."

"ADHD?" Steve can't help but asks, somewhat suspicious. "What does that even mean? Are you just making that up? There's no way—"

"Look," Eddie interrupts, voice short and firm, "do you want help on your homework or do you want me to explain shit that I know you won't retain? Because I could sit here and describe the whole thing, get you bored and distracted, and send you off on your way even more dumb and lost than when you entered in here. Or...I could tell you the answers and make you look better in front of Mr. Nelson and your basketball team."

Steve huffs. "I'm not stupid," he argues, voice weak. "And besides, I'm not on basketball anymore. So..." He sighs, defeated. His eyes fall back to his blank homework assignment. And he can feel his eyes begin to burn from embarrassment. Maybe I am stupid, he thinks, Maybe I'm no better than some super senior. "Can you just show me what to do, without making fun of me? I get that I was a jackass in the past, but this week has been rough. I just need to get through the end of it." He knows that to his own ears that he sounds like a petulant, begging little kid. And knows, too, that it's not a good look on him. His dad doesn't like it. Coach didn't like it. Mr. Nelson and Nancy Wheeler and Tommy Hagan and...Nobody likes it when he sounds like this. When he's a sight for sore eyes, down on his luck, ready to just curl up in a ball and melt into the floor.

He drags a hand quickly over his eyes, trying to wipe away at the wetness barely coating him. Sniffs back whatever emotion is still souring his throat. And keeps his line of sight pointed downwards. “I—Never mind, you probably don’t want to help some jerk. Especially one that just made fun of whatever you…whatever you said. God—“ He chuckles something deeply self-deprecating. “—You were right. Can’t even fucking remember what you just said. Can’t remember how to do math. Can’t remember…My head hurts and I’m tired and this just sucks. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to come off so shitty,” his voice strains, though spits. Guess wiping my eyes did nothing, he notes, watching something wet drip down onto the desk.

“Steve,” he can hear Eddie breathe. “It’s fine, dude. I didn’t take any offense. Nobody knows about my shit, it’s fine. I was just giving you a hard time.” Steve looks up briefly at that. “I don’t even know why, if I’m being honest. You seem like you’re better, but maybe I’m wrong?” Eddie shakes his head. “Just let me see your paper. Act like you’re studying your textbook, I’ll do your assignment.”

“How am I supposed to learn if you do it for me?” Steve asks wetly.

“You’ll learn, I’m sure of it. Just give it here.”

At the end of the detention period, his homework is completely filled out. It looks correct, better than what Steve could ever possibly do. He has to go to the bathroom, stops inside, erases some of the correct math and fills in with his own scratchy handwriting, goes through his whole restroom routine, and returns to his locker.

Only to find another note.

“See? Detention wasn’t that bad, you survived! Now, take a nap at home. Relax. You’ll be alright. Senior year will be a breeze for you, I’m sure of it. -E.M.”

If only mystery person knew that taking roses to Nancy Wheeler leads to weird creatures that eat raw meat, tunnels and fire, and a beaten face.

If only he knew how to lick his own wounds. When he gets to his locker the day after him and Billy fight, he finds one more note.

“Okay, maybe I was wrong about this being a breeze. Meet me in the woods, picnic table, sit and wait for me. Think it’s time I show myself. Get you a friend around here. Someone who’d be willing to kill Hargrove if asked. -E.M.”

-------- Some Notes:

Did you know that ADHD was not an official diagnosis until the 1980s? So it's literally brand new here. Also, gotta get them to have a little bit of rivalry—something akin to a rivalry, at least, before they can be buddies and then lovers and then rivals again. Hehe, I love angst. <3

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #season 2 #different first meeting #passing notes #canon divergence

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