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call-me-eds · 2 days

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Everyone in the league knows about Eddie Munson. He has the makings of a great pitcher, except for the fact that his slider has a 75% chance of sliding too high and his fastballs mostly end up in the dirt. His technique is wild, flailing, unrestrained. Which is why Steve is beside himself when he learns about the trade.

The owners, they think that Steve being the best catcher in the league means he can work with Eddie, settle him, make him a real prospect. Steve's input isn't needed with the decision already made, but Munson--with all his tattoos piercings and leather--looks like he'd rather hock a loogie at Steve than take directions from him.

And Steve is the best in the league, the glue that keeps the team together. They're a well-oiled machine, and Eddie is--Eddie is a squeaky wheel.

They meet for the first time, briefly, in the locker room. He's seen the guy before, of course, but now, like this, he can't help but be intrigued by his pale skin and long curls and brown doe-eyes, his lightly muscled frame. And they're in the locker room, Eddie with just a towel around his waist, exposing his toned chest and stomach and the black swirl of his tattoos.

"Steve Harrington!" Eddie reaches out a hand. "Great to meet you, man."

"You too. Excited to have you with us." The handshake is quick and firm and Steve is trying not to be surprised about how excited and genuine the guy sounds, keep his mind away from thinking of how Eddie is naked aside from the towel.

With only a few weeks until the start of the regular season, Eddie starts pitching to Steve. And Steve, he so expects Eddie to fight and grumble and refuse, that his head sort of spins when, on the first day, Eddie claps him on the back with his glove, says, "where do you want me, cap?" and that's that.

He wants to say that they dislike each other, that they're a bad fit, that Eddie is full himself and refuses constructive criticism.

Instead.

Instead it's easy.

Eddie doesn't complain, doesn't argue, just watches Steve, learns him, takes his advice and notes and implements them as much as he can. They like each other, have an easy rapport, get each other. He's tight with all the pitchers, but Eddie is different. They settle each other.

They're best friends. They hangout constantly. And he doesn't have a crush; he doesn't. It would be unprofessional. They're best friends.

But sometimes, sometimes he thinks he catches Eddie looking at him. It's impossible. Of course it's impossible. Eddie couldn't be into the guy Sports Illustrated called "baseball's Ralph Lauren model" in the intro to Steve's Body Issue photo spread. And it doesn't matter one way or the other because Steve won't make a move. He won't jeopardize the team like that.

They don't touch. He touches everyone on the team, often, and Eddie particularly is a physical guy, but aside from that first handshake, he keeps his distance. Steve's afraid--even though it's silly, he's afraid--that once they start touching, he won't be able to stop, and he can't let that happen.

The team is good, competing for first place in the National League. Eddie's success has made everyone else better.

It's late July, they're in first place in the league, and Eddie's pitching a perfect game. There's only been 24 perfect games thrown in the history of Major League Baseball, but it's the eighth inning and Eddie's doing it.

A pitch goes wild, veers high over the umpire's head. Eddie's shaken, Steve can tell with how his fist tightens compulsively around the ball. The next pitch swings wide, towards the batter's knees.

The count is at 2 balls, no strikes, and he can see, even from behind home plate Steve can see, that Eddie's losing it. He heads for the mound, refuses to let it end like this. He closes the distance between them, has a quick internal debate before he puts his hand on Eddie's lower back. They've never touched, this is it, this is--warmth bleeds from Eddie's skin, through the fabric of his jersey, goes straight to Steve's head.

Eddie frowns. "I don't think I--"

"You're going to do it, Ed. I know. I can feel it." He pats his chest, over his heart. "It's gonna happen."

Eddie's breathing settles and it's only then that Steve realizes he's rubbing circles into Eddie's back with his thumb. He's not sure when he started, doesn't want to stop, loves being able to feel.

"Okay," Eddie says.

"Okay."

Steve removes his hand, heads back to home, still tingling with the warmth of Eddie's body even as he crouches behind the plate.

He closes out the inning with three definitive strike outs. The crowd goes wild.

They take the field for the top of the 9th, the crowd is screaming, ready for this, the energy zipping through every player on the field.

It goes by in a blur. Nine pitches. Eddie's perfect game is wrapped up in nine phenomenal pitches.

As the ump calls the last out, there's a moment of complete and utter quiet in the stadium, Steve's heart a pounding hum in his ears, before pandemonium breaks loose. There's screaming, fireworks, someone is crying--

All he can see is Eddie. Eddie's who's thrown his glove to the dirt, is barreling towards him with a triumphant smile bright on his face. Steve stands, runs to close the distance. He sees the moment that Eddie decides to jump into his arms, catches him easily--will always catch him--but his legs are tired and the momentum gets him, sends them tumbling back into the grass.

They're both yelling, laughing, smiling hard enough to hurt. Eddie's hair has fallen out if its tie, tumbling around his shoulders, and Steve gazes at him, can't help it, in this moment can admit that he's so, so astronomically in love.

It's only then Steve realizes that the laughter's stopped, that Eddie's gazing back. Brown eyes shining bright with happiness, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted. Thoughtless, he reaches up to caress Eddie's cheek.

The team reaches them, streaming around them, yanking Eddie and Steve to their feet. The celebration stretches around them, the moment slipping away. He wants to finish what they started but there are interviews, champagne showers, congratulations, that keep them apart. Sometimes, from across the room, their eyes meet, and there's heat there that's new, that sparks something low in Steve's gut.

Hours pass, and finally he finds himself alone in the locker room. He's just pulled on his t-shirt when the door shuts behind him. He spins, finds Eddie, waiting, watching.

He crosses the room without a word, can't not, not now, not after everything. They grapple for a second, the wanting so strong that it takes a second to settle, to find each other. They kiss hard, desperate, seething with desire.

Steve hopes it never ends and it doesn't, just tapers into soft kisses, gentle nips. He can't bring himself to step away.

"Is this for real ?" Eddie whispers.

"I've been insane about you since the trade."

Eddie's smile is blinding. "I used to have those pictures of you--the ones with the little red shorts?--in my locker in the minors. Feel like I'm living in a dream right now."

It lights him up inside, knowing that Eddie wants him, has wanted him. "Let me take you home and show you just how real it is?"

He snorts, but his dimples deepen, eyes shining. "What a line, sweetheart."

"Yeah well, the baseball field isn't the only place where I hit home runs."

#I AM FUCKING SCREAMING #MY TWO LOVES #thinking of the Yankees no hitter like 2 years ago and just know this happened afterwards 🥵🥵#fic rec #more more more more more PLEASE

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call-me-eds · 2 days

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truth, dare, spin bottles you know how to ball, i know aristotle

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call-me-eds · 7 days

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requested closeups of the steddie tinder profiles

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call-me-eds · 9 days

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#no exactly

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call-me-eds · 10 days

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What if all I need is you? - S.H

Steve Harrington x female!reader

Steve doesn’t know that keeping it casual is making her fall deeper in love with him and on a weekend away with his parents they both can’t take it anymore

A/n: friends with benefits, friends to lovers, pinning, teasing

Warnings: strong language, kissing, touching

Word count: 4.3k

Spring,

It started out as one innocent kiss in Steve’s garden after some party. But then either her, or how it was most of the time, he, kept pulling them back into whatever they had started. One kiss, turned into one touch, which became one night, then they just lost track.

She thought a lot about that first kiss, if it was meant to happen or not, if it was a mistake. But it was hard when they were like this, just sitting in her bedroom, waiting around for his family to come pick them up, to imagine anything that concerned Steve Harrington as a mistake.

He was tying his laces, sitting on the carpeted floor, a slight hint of a kissed bruise forming right under his jaw and something akin to a sunburn showing up across the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t even summer yet and he had caught the sun somehow.

It was like nothing had happened now, like just an hour ago they weren’t in her bed. He was too relaxed about it all and it made her sick because why was she losing sleep over how good it felt to be with him like this. Her friend, her Steve. And he was just fine.

There was a bottle of some cheap wine accompanied with some strawberries in a basket sitting on her kitchen table. It felt wrong not to take anything with her, even if Steve laughed at her and told her it wasn't necessary.

They were heading just slightly out of town, staying with his parents for the weekend. Steve always invited her along with him, she always stayed in his room, he always insisted on sleeping on the floor under a soft blue duvet set and he normally drove them too.

But they hadn’t been doing this all those times before and she knew pretending she wasn’t completely falling in love with him was going to be harder when she was stuck in the same house as him for the weekend.

He had come over that morning, she was still asleep and he had woken her up with the softest of kisses dotted along her shoulder, pulling away the sheets that were wrapped around her, all before the sun had completely risen, and she was supposed to act like that's what friends did. How did he do it?

Steve was now sitting, slightly cramped, in the back of his fathers car with her. There wasn’t nearly enough leg room for him in the back, everytime he moved, his knee knocked into hers. He had been fidgeting for a while, constantly putting his head in his hands or looking at the roof of the car.

He actually looked a little more flushed than usual. He placed his head closer to his legs again. She leant down, trying to see his face to see what was wrong. “You okay Steve?” He looked carsick and when she thought about it a little more, it was rare that Steve wasn’t always the one driving up front.

He forced a smile, throwing his head back against the headrest, she wanted nothing more than to push the loose curls sticking to his forehead back, to take a cold drink and hold it to his cheek, she wanted to help.

“Just feeling a little dizzy.” He looked over at her, hand touching her leg to give it a quick squeeze, letting her know he was fine even if she knew he wasn’t. His fingers burned against her bare thigh and she wished they lingered longer.

He looked behind her, at the passing trees, they were on a faster road so everything was going by quicker and he was looking straight out the window. She smiled softly, tapping his thigh a lot lighter than he had touched hers. “Maybe you shouldn’t be watching the road go past out of the window.”

He groaned and rolled his head back again, looking at the roof of the car, jaw tilted up. It was a horrible sight, because she knew exactly how it felt to kiss down his neck now, she knew how his skin tasted and how far his freckles disappeared under his shirt.

“You’re not just pretty, you know.” Her heart ached like it was about to give out on her. He had called her pretty before but that was in the confines of her bedroom or his, he had never said it so callously before. “You’re smart too, too smart for me.”

She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and avoided making eye contact with his mother in the rear view mirror. Everyone knew about her little crush on Steve, they taunted her for it every chance they got. Especially their friends, it was just the boy in question left out of the loop.

“Just look ahead.” She offered, in a slightly more hushed voice than usual, fearful of it breaking and giving her away. Ignoring her own advice, she glanced out the window. It was better to be carsick than lovesick.

Steve was smiling, she didn’t have to look to know it, she could hear it. “Whatever you say.”

When they pulled up to the house she got that same fuzzy feeling, that strange warmth at the back of her neck that couldn’t be blamed on the weather. And it didn’t matter how many times she saw the porch, the big windows or the painted fence, it always reminded her of the kind of houses you walk past and say that’s where I wanna live someday, familiarity never changed that feeling.

She didn’t know if it was her mind tricking her but the second she stepped out the car the air felt softer and fresher already. Like the sunshine was filling her lungs, the feeling was similar to that first sip of sparkling wine, and it was a completely stupid thing to think, but it made her smile.

And in turn that made Steve smile too. He had watched her, watched something shift the second they got out of town. It was his favourite thing in the world, that soft spring-like smile of hers. He was leaning against the car, his hands on his hips, she noticed he was squinting slightly as the sun hit him. At least he didn’t look so carsick anymore.

He always looked younger out here to her. Something about this house made her feel younger, like she was still seventeen and begging to go away for the weekend, her parents only giving in when they couldn’t take her asking anymore.

And it was comforting that even though she was clearly and obviously in love with him now he was still just Steve, his hair was just a little shorter and messier now, he tanned a little easier and his eyes were a little more sleepy now, especially in the early mornings. It didn’t matter that they were- that they had been- he could still just be her Steve here.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked, nicking her cheek with his knuckles so lightly it almost felt like a breeze. She wished he would just hold her face, cup her cheek, wrap his fingers around her jaw, just once to get attention outside of her room. But this was nice too.

She forced a smile the best she could, giving a quick nod of her head as a response. This weekend was going to kill her in the most dramatic of terms, a thousand little paper cuts right over her heart.

Steve stepped away, not looking entirely convinced but smiling anyway as he took her things from the back of the car, something he had always just done. She expected that from other boys now, he had set the standard.

Every and any boy she knew she compared to him and no one ever quite measured up. That was obvious when they sat down to lunch. They always had lunch outside, dinner too if it was nice enough. Right in the garden with its pretty view of neighbouring fields, sitting at a green table and chairs set with feet that curled into leaves. She wanted one just like it some day.

For now, Steve was still inside, along with his father, leaving his mother sitting beside her, staring at her so unabashedly that she could feel her cheeks heating up. She tried not to look, she tried staring at the lacy white table cloth or the open door that hopefully Steve would be coming through any second.

“Steve’s got this little bruise on his neck.” Mrs Harrington talked with her smile, just like Steve did. She made the girl beside her turn so fast her knee bashed into the table leg, she bit down on the inside of her cheek trying to pretend that it didn’t hurt and that there weren't images flashing through her head. Images of herself giving Steve that mark, that slightly red and purple bruise that made him throw his head back. “Did he hurt himself?”

“I think he-”

She cut herself off as Steve came back outside at just the right time.

He was carrying a tall glass of clouded lemonade that she hadn’t even had to ask for, he just anticipated that she would want one. He placed it right in front of her, leaving handprints behind in the condensation, which only made her think about how cold and slightly wet his hands must be right now.

Drinking it felt much sweeter than before when Steve had brought it to her.

He sat across from her, his trainers just leaning against her bare ankles under the table, his laces ticking her skin. Completely innocent but still making her lungs hurt with every breath. She could have easily moved away, but to put it simply, she didn’t want to.

It was impossible to focus on the conversation at hand. She kept slipping out of consciousness, wondering too much about how the breeze ran through Steve’s hair, how the sun kissed his cheeks, how the countryside agreed with him in ways their town just couldn’t compete with. Wondering if he would go without kissing her all weekend.

The rules were so vague and foggy, she wasn’t even sure if they had rules. More often than not Steve just kissed her and then she couldn’t help but pull at his shirt or his hair and then he slipped his fingers under the straps of her dress and then-

They didn’t talk about rules, about if mindless kisses were allowed, mindless touching was but kissing might’ve crossed the line. She didn’t know and it was driving her mad.

She missed the conversation moving onto sport, she missed the way Steve was grinning as he got an idea. She missed how he had been trying so hard not to look at her for too long. He hated staring at her, it made his stomach hurt and his throat feel tight.

The only time he let himself get lost looking at her was after, when he was sweaty and tired and not in control enough to look away. He took a deep breath, not wanting to think about that now.

He wanted to feel normal again and the only way to do that was to drag her past the fence and beat her at something, just like he always did. Steve tapped her foot a little harder, gaining her attention, a dirty ball in his hands for a few seconds before he tossed it over at her.

She flinched catching it, she hadn't even noticed where he had got it from. One second he was just sitting there, looking kissable, the next he was throwing a ball at her.

And it didn’t take much convincing for Steve to get her out in the middle of the field, a muddy ball in his hands and a cocky grin on his lips because when it came to anything athletic he was always better. But she couldn’t help taking the bait and following him, not after he leaned down, right by her ear and told her that he would let her win this time.

Steve already had dirt scraped across his knees, his shorts cut off on his thighs and it did nothing to help the fact he’d end up with a thousand little grazes over his legs that he would complain about later. He also already had sweat shining on his neck, it almost looked like glitter.

And finally he had already kicked the ball a little too close to her head numerous times, apparently it wasn’t on purpose. Her cardigan and his sweater were scrunched up on the ground, marking the makeshift goal but Steve had gotten bored of scoring and she was sure he was just trying to hit her now.

He was about to do it again and she knew it. He smirked, running a little further away just to kick the ball inches from her shoulder. “Steve!” She called out his name but it didn’t sound like a warning at all since she was laughing through it.

He shrugged like he was the most innocent boy in the world, only giving up his façade when she gave him a push as she walked past. It was nothing more than a screw you for almost hitting me, but he grabbed her wrists in seconds to keep her from doing it again and spun her around so her back was pressed to his chest. It was like they were two seven year olds who had put too much sugar in their lemonade.

“Oh come on I’m trying to let you win-” He said it so arrogantly and with such a smile that she wanted to hit him. And kiss him, she desperately wanted to kiss him when he used that voice.

“Don’t you dare.” She refused to let him finish. She refused to acknowledge how his arms around her made her feel and decided to focus on how annoying he was being instead. He was not trying to let her win, he never let her win.

He spun her around again, twisting their arms in a way that was slightly painful but easy to ignore. It had only been that morning that they had been in such close proximity, but to her it felt like forever.

Their laughter died out, slowly and softly. She was stuck in that one spot, unable to move, looking up at Steve like her was everything because to her he was. She so badly wanted him to kiss her, not because he wanted to sleep with her but just for the sake of kissing her.

If he just slightly leaned down, tilted his head just to the side a little he could have given into temptation and kissed her but as much as he wanted to, and from the look on her face, she wanted him to, he couldn’t.

It felt like he was doing something he shouldn’t be. But for just a moment he wanted to, he really wanted to. Instead he let her go, stepping back and praying not to trip over. “Please don’t look at me like that.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit.

She felt a sharp pain in her chest, unlike the feeling that someone had placed a knife there, more the feeling of someone’s hand holding her heart too tightly. The grass tickled her legs and suddenly she found the feeling irritating.

Steve laughed softly, awkwardly, like he didn’t know what else to do. She refused to look away, if he wanted to correct something she had done wrong he needed to tell her to her face. Even if all she wanted to do was sink into the ground.

“Why? You’re allowed to touch me whenever you want.” Her tone felt unfamiliar, she had never once sounded so hurt in Steve’s presence. She crossed her arms like a little kid, scrapping her shoes back and forth over the grass.

Steve’s shoulders dropped at the exact same time his eyes softened into a puppy-like stare. He stepped back over to her, hands gently pulling her arms away from her chest. His skin felt so warmed by the sun that the second he let go she felt a sharp shiver down her spine.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” His tone was no longer cocky and condescending, it was sweet and soft and almost coaxing her. He wet his lips and refused to take his eyes off hers. “I meant-” He swallowed down so harshly it hurt. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I meant-”

He couldn’t seem to figure out what he wanted to say, and Steve always talked a lot so the idea that he was tongue tied worried her. She wanted to tell him to forget about it, to pretend neither of them had brought it up, all just to make that look on his face go away.

He ran his fingers up and down her arms, almost drawing patterns. He just needed to calm down for a second and touching her seemed like the only way to do that. “It makes it harder.” He whispered and he hated that he did, he almost felt she deserved better than to hear how scared he was to admit how damn hard it was when she looked at him like that.

Her brows pressed together, “What do you m-”

“We should go back inside.” Steve cut her off, standing back, snapping into that other version of himself. He glanced back at the house, the sun was setting just behind it, another thing she hadn’t noticed because she was too busy looking at him. He smiled, like he wasn’t pressing his fingers into her heart. “I won after all, I get to shower first.”

He started walking backwards, smirking now. She hated that she had agreed to that, because he always got to use the bathroom first and it didn’t matter that there were others, she always waited then used his. She followed after him, whatever had happened just then quickly forgotten. It didn’t matter if she ran ahead and got back to the house first, he had earned the first shower.

And he seemed to be taking liberties with it that day. The only good thing about that stupid pact was that Steve was never too long in the shower, he took more time than any other boy she knew but he was always quick when he knew she was waiting. And yet she was sitting on the counter top, trying to fix a nick in her nail with a file, and it felt like he was taking longer on purpose.

“Steve, come on.” She shouted over the water, hoping to be heard, only knowing she was when she heard him laughing to himself. She just knew he was shaking his head at her too. Properly muttering something under the shower head about her being impatient.

She couldn’t see him through the tinted glass but her imagination plagued her, conjuring up pictures of Steve standing under the hot water. The droplets running down his ribs, dampening his chest, the soap caught in his hair, the steam turning his skin slightly red. His lips swollen and wet. She screwed up her nail.

Steve pushed the glass aside and she sighed ever so dramatically, as if he had been in there for hours. Shutting her eyes, she waited for him to put a towel around his waist. Seconds later she felt specks of water hitting her thighs, he must’ve been drying his hair because he always shook his head like a dog first.

He smiled, at the way she swung her legs and how her eyes were softly shut, how she didn’t even flinch when he got her wet. She looked so pretty like this and she wasn’t even doing anything. Steve found himself standing between her legs, his thumb smoothing over the height of her cheek as he held her face. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

His voice made her heart thump, she had felt him get closer, felt his towel rub against her inner thighs and his breath on her face. She still didn’t open her eyes, it felt better not to, if she looked at him her heart would’ve sank and she would’ve thought too much about how much he was hurting her without knowing it.

Instead of kissing her lips, he pressed a soft wet kiss right under her jaw, dragging his mouth down her neck and nuzzling his nose against her skin. He had done it countless times before, once in the back of his car too. She used to think he did it just because it made her dizzy, but it seemed like Steve could never get quite close enough.

Her hand held his shoulder when she felt his teeth lightly scraping her skin, never enough to hurt just enough to ache, and her head tilted to the side to allow him as much access as he wanted.

He stopped at her collar bone, fingers already slipping under the straps sitting on her shoulders. “Please-” He started, pressing a quick kiss to her lips because if he didn’t he might die. “Look at me?” He couldn't find it in himself to care how much he sounded like he was pleading with her.

She did as he asked, opening her eyes as her hand slipped to his neck to pull him in for another kiss. Her nails lightly scratched the back of his neck, and she teased him with the idea of her pulling his hair, making him groan quietly against her lips. There was nothing he seemed to like more than her playing with his hair.

She smiled, ending the kiss, pushing him back with her hands pressed to his chest. “I thought you didn’t want me to?” Biting her lip she felt rather proud of herself for not getting too caught up in kissing him, even if her head was screaming at her for asking silly questions instead of muttering his name under her breath.

Steve grinned at her, some part of her felt like he was proud too. He fixed the straps on her shoulders, making sure they were sitting right, his fingers just running over the thin material over and over again. He shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

She pushed his hair back, his curls were much tighter when his hair was wet, she adored it like this. He leaned into her touch like a purring cat, letting her pull out the tangles. “So I can look at you now?” She asked sweetly, purposely avoiding his eyes and focusing on her own hand.

He suddenly dropped to his knees, his mouth inches from her own. His hands found themselves wrapped around her ankles, his fingers digging into her soft skin gently, teasing her hem of her white socks. “You can do whatever you want, no matter how hard it makes things for me.” He kissed the side of her knee, hands slowly gliding up her legs.

“But why is it harder for you?” She whispered like they weren’t completely and utterly alone. She guessed she was scared he might say something awful, like he had no feelings for her at all and that’s why it was so difficult because she was so clearly head over heels for him.

Steve sighed, dropping his head into her lap, hands coming around the backs of her knees. She forgot how to breathe for a moment, something about it felt so domestic, so romantic. Steve Harrington had made sighing romantic.

“Because-I’m-in-with-.” He muttered into her skin and she could hardly make out a word. Laughing at him, just a little, she pushed his head up. “Because I’m in love with you.”

“You’re falling in love with me and you couldn’t let me have the first shower?” She tilted her head to the side like a confused dog, picking at her nails like they were having the most normal conversation.

Steve shook his head at her but to her it was the first thing that she thought of, if he was falling for her why didn’t he let her, or better yet why didn’t he let her win. He stood, hands at her waist taking her off the bathroom counter, spinning her around he walked her back into the shower.

“Steve-” He turned on the water, soaking her clothes and himself all over again. “What are you doing?” He pushed his hairs back and he was just as she imagined he would be, with water dripping down his skin and falling over his lips. One hand never left her waist, he must’ve know she would’ve tried to run.

“The quicker you get your shower the quicker we can talk about us.” He was being completely serious, already starting to unbutton her shorts, struggling at the denim stuck to her skin. “Fuck. These stupid-”

She held his wrists, stopping for him for a moment, as entertaining as it was to watch him try to undress her, she had the sudden nerve to tell him. “I love you, you know.”

She waited, looking at him with water splashing off her shoulders and onto her face. Looking at him like he was all she would ever need and for the first time he knew he hadn’t mistaken a harmless look for something else.

With both hands holding her face he kissed her, smiling through every second. Muttering through broken kisses in his breathless voice, “God I love you, love you, love you.” She laughed at him and he really didn’t seem to mind, he didn’t roll his eyes or torture her by stopping, he just gripped her hip until she stopped giggling against his lips.

#AHHHHHHH #I need him so bad Jesus Christ #fic rec

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call-me-eds · 10 days

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byler + jancy parallels

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call-me-eds · 10 days

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Based on this TikTok

Steve’s always said Eddie’s fingers are magic. Guitarists fingers. Strong and deft, he’s always been better than Steve at anything more precise than getting a basketball through a hoop.

Eddie’s the one who mends their clothes. The one who took apart their stereo and got it working again.

Who, now, has to squint hard when he does any of it.

But those skillful fingers are in Steve’s hair, now. Scratching against his scalp. Massaging the tightness in his neck. And every time Eddie does this it makes Steve drool. Makes his jaw unlock and dribble spit out of the corner of his mouth, makes his eyes close and his spine tingle because this truly has to be recognized as an eighth wonder of the world.

“Fallin’ asleep on me?” Eddie murmurs, above him, and it’s all Steve can do to crack an eye open.

“Feel s’good.” He slurs, and Eddie’s hand shakes as he laughs, adjusting, slightly, to comb a new pattern through his hair.

Steve closes his eyes again. Snuggles deeper into the pillow he’d laid on Eddie’s lap.

Their pillow smells like nothing, because their home—their home—is so familiar to him he can’t smell it, anymore.

His childhood home always smelled like linen.

Eddie’s hand adjusts again, gently twisting hair between his fingers. “You’ve got some grays back here, sweetheart.” He murmurs, not judgmentally, never judgmentally, he says it as fact. One that’s clear to anyone who looks.

Steve mumbles his affirmation, well aware of the cluster of grays sprouting in full force at the crown of his head. “Y’ve seen ‘em before.” He mumbles, and Eddie hums, continuing to twist the strands between his fingers.

“Just,” Eddie starts, voice just above a whisper, “did you ever think it was gonna happen? For us?”

Steve blinks his eyes back open. Comes to a little more at Eddie’s tone and wipes his chin off with his wrist, turning in his love’s lap. The fingers retreat from his scalp and Steve finds Eddie’s hand in the dim glow of their living room, squeezing tight, letting them rest on his chest. It’s a comment on their relationship, forged and cultivated through nearly two decades of friendship, of bone-deep trust and more love than Steve ever saw himself worthy of that not a single part of him is anxious when he asks, “what d’you mean?”

Eddie’s free hand comes to Steve’s temple. Strokes along the grays he is well aware rest there, too, hidden, at the right angle, by his glasses that now lay discarded on the coffee table.

“That we would get to grow old together.” Eddie whispers. And he keeps stroking that cluster of gray, looking as reverently down at Steve now, at forty, as he did at thirty. At twenty. Touches him with all the love he’s always had. Always held. All of the love Steve never thought he would find returned to him in kind, never thinking that his love for someone could be matched, could be held for him in return, but here they are. Eddie loving him with his glasses, his hearing aids, the wrinkles that have begun to creep onto his face and the grays sprouting through the hair he still can’t leave the house without styling, marveling at being able to see it at all.

And as much as Eddie loathes to admit it, being the one who always calls Steve the vain one, he can see the beginnings of Eddie’s own hairline beginning to recede. The start of wrinkles on his forehead. How his curls have grown wispier. But Steve doesn’t think there’s anything more beautiful than the visible reminder of their years shared.

And yeah. Steve gets it, now. They weren’t exactly counting on a tomorrow for a couple of years, there.

Steve kisses the back of Eddie’s hand, the scar tissue that’s still raised and puckered, even after all these years. “I’m glad it’s with you.” Steve murmurs back.

Eddie’s hand moves again. Begins scratching at the top of his head. “Wouldn’t want it with anyone else.” Eddie finishes.

They don’t say what they both know to be true. That neither of them would have made it here without the other. That without Eddie Steve may never have left Hawkins. That without Steve Eddie would never have made it out of the Upside Down. That either of those fates would have killed them, in the end. That without each other their lives would have followed paths so very different than the one they’re on. A path that still prickles the back of Steve’s neck to think about.

A path that will, thankfully, never happen.

Steve closes his eyes again. Turns into the pillow that smells like nothing while Eddie’s fingers resume tracing patterns through his silvering hair.

Tomorrow they’ll both be a day older. They will both have more grays. Steve’s back is going to hurt because he spent too long lying on this couch and Eddie’s bad knee is going to ache because he scratched the headache from Steve’s scalp instead of doing his exercises.

But they’ll always do it together.

✨Tag List✨

@hotluncheddie @hitlikehammers @hbyrde36 @littlewildflowerkitten @chaotic-waffle @westifer-dead @perseus-notjackson @theheadlessphilosopher @spectrum-spectre @itsall-taken @marvel-ous-m @bookworm0690 @acasualcrossfade

#hahahahahahah I’m sobbing #blurb

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call-me-eds · 22 days

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summary: you were way too drunk last night and said some funny things...so, of course, steve had no other option but take you to his place to take care of you. :)

read part 1 here

˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷

Your head hurts.

Everything feels a little weird, in fact, but especially your head, spinning and throbbing and, when you try to pry your eyes open, the sudden harsh light streaming into the room feels like it's physically boring straight through your brain.

"Fuck," you whimper pitifully, eyes squeezing shut once more. Your ears are ringing, there's a coppery film lining the inside of your mouth and, for a terrible second, your stomach churns dangerously. "Fuck."

Someone hums somewhere near your right ear. A low, gravelly, vaguely amused sort of hum. There is absolutely nothing and no one alive on this green earth that would hum in that particular fashion except your best friend.

You peel your eyelids apart with great difficulty. When you tilt your head to the right, you see Steve sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing down at you with a soft look on his face.

Naturally, you proceed to freak the fuck out.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you cry, scrambling backwards until you feel the back of your head slam against the headboard with a resounding thud. The dull throb in the back of your skull intensifies, and you have to fight back the urge to throw up. "Ow! Shit, I—What—what happened? Why are you in my—"

Hold on a second...this is not your room.

You cast an anxious, furtive glance around the unfamiliar setting of Steve Harrington's guest room. Panic floods your veins and has your heart hammering in your chest when you notice that you're clad in only one of his shirts and sweatpants that definitely don't belong to you.

Oh, Dear Lord.

Did something happen last night that you can't remember? Did something — oh, God, no.

Steve raises his eyebrows at you as though he can read your mind. "Relax. Nothing happened, relax, come back down," he coos gently, placing a placating hand on your arm. "And I...I didn't see anything, if that's what you're worried about. Nancy and Robin, uh...they helped you shower and get changed last night. Not me."

You cover your face with both hands, letting out a muffled groan as your memories come trickling back in. You don't remember every little detail from the previous night, but what you do remember is already more than enough to fill you with mortification and regret.

"...you said some pretty interesting things while you were drunk, though."

"Shut up," you mumble, peeking up at him through splayed fingers, "go away."

"Really, though," Steve continues, the teasing glint in his eyes a sure sign that he is very much enjoying your suffering, "who knew you found me so attractive?"

"Oh, Jesus," you mutter, groaning as you slide down to hide underneath the comforter, "where are my clothes? I want to leave now."

Steve snickers but makes no move to get up from his perch on the bed. You can hear the rustling of fabric, like he's adjusting his position as he waits for you to come out from under the blanket. "Clothes are in the wash, sorry," he says, sounding very much not sorry at all. "You, um, thought it was a good idea to lie down on the grass last night."

"Kill me now."

"Nope," he chirps, quite cheerfully so, "can't do that, because then who would watch Back to the Future with me tonight?"

You part the comforter just enough to peer up at him from beneath the thick layer of blanket.

"'Back to the Future'?" you echo, trying to ignore the fact that you feel a little lightheaded when Steve smiles down at you.

He looks nice. He always does, but even more so now for some reason — you're guessing it has something to do with the fact that you just woke up and haven't had the time to mentally prepare yourself for seeing him up close yet.

"Mmhmm. You up for it?"

"I'm pretty sure that my head is literally going to explode any time now."

It's really not that bad anymore, but Steve doesn't need to know that, does he?

He nods seriously in agreement. "Right, because you drank way more than you should've last night. Might have mentioned something about rules and...mhmm, what was it? Oh, yes, dying if I didn't let you touch my hair…?"

"No, I didn't."

"You really did," he tells you, leaning back on the heels of his palms, "but don't worry, it was cute."

"I am very much worried," you say miserably.

Steve lets out a quiet sigh and leans forward again, hands reaching out to tug the blanket down far enough to uncover your face completely. "Come on," he says, "do you need anything? Aspirin, maybe? Food? Water?"

You consider his offer, taking the time to mull it over while you avoid his gaze.

"Why did you bring me home with you?" you ask, curious despite yourself. "Why didn't you just take me home?"

"You, uh...really didn't want me to. Pretty much refused to let go of me all night."

"Steve."

"No, really!" he insists, holding both hands up in surrender. "It was like trying to pry a koala off a tree. You even asked—"

You let out a helpless moan of protest and turn away from him as much as you can, hiding your face in the pillow. Steve laughs, clearly delighted by the fact that he's managed to thoroughly embarrass you in less than ten minutes.

"You asked me if I—"

"I don't wanna know!"

"—would sleep in your bed with you."

"Nope," you whisper, your voice coming out a little garbled due to the way you've pressed your face into the pillows, "don't wanna hear it. Shut up, Steve, oh my God. Please."

"It was very adorable."

"I was drunk."

"Still. Cute."

You prop your head up on your elbow so that you can see him a little better, keeping the blanket held tightly around your shoulders as you do. "Sorry I called you. I don't even remember doing it, Tina just told me to and…sorry."

Steve looks down at his lap, shifting a little uncomfortably on the bed.

"I don't mind," he says, lifting his gaze up to meet yours briefly. "You said you missed me. At the party."

A dry, humorless chuckle leaves you and you cringe when the sudden motion sends a sharp pain lancing through your forehead. "Ow. Of course you would remember that," you say, cheeks heating up.

"Do you...remember everything?"

You blink, momentarily confused by the sudden change in conversation. "Everything?" you ask, more to buy yourself some time than anything else.

"You, um..." Steve trails off, clearly unsure of how to broach the topic with you, "you said I made you feel…stuff inside. That you felt stuff. Or something like that. Do you...remember saying that?"

You can practically feel all the color draining out of your face, leaving behind a blank canvas that hides none of your inner panic.

"Uh...no, no, I don't. Do you have a...I need to, um, use your bathroom, like, right now, if you don't mind."

Steve blinks. "Oh, okay. Sure. I bought you a toothbrush earlier, by the way. It's in the medicine cabinet if...if you want."

"Yep," you say, climbing out from under the blanket with as much dignity as you can muster (which is very little), "yep, okay, thanks. I'm...gonna go do that. Now. Okay, bye."

You spend a good five minutes inside the bathroom splashing water in your face while silently wishing for death to come claim you sooner rather than later. Then, you brush your teeth with the toothbrush Steve left out for you — which is totally not cute, it's not cute, why did he do that, ugh, damn him — before venturing out into the hall.

"Steve?"

"Kitchen," he calls out from somewhere at the bottom of the stairs, "you want pancakes?"

You hesitate.

The idea of staying to have breakfast alone with Steve Harrington seems oddly intimate after last night, a dangerous prospect that will undoubtedly lead to awkward small talk and more teasing. However, he did go out of his way to buy you a toothbrush this morning...

You swallow down the nervousness you feel and pad barefoot down the staircase into the foyer, following the sounds of clinking utensils and soft humming to the kitchen.

Steve looks up from his place at the stove when you appear in the doorway.

"Hey," he greets, giving you a quick once over. "How's your head?"

"Feels like there's a little person in there hitting it repeatedly with a little hammer," you admit, grimacing a little as you come further into the room and sit down at the island. "Thanks, by the way. For helping me out last night. And today. I really am sorry for...um, you know, that."

"'That'?"

You purse your lips and Steve grins.

"Yes, that," you mutter, swiveling your seat from left to right while you watch him attempt to read a recipe on the back of a box of pancake mix. "Drunk me is like, twice as embarrassing as sober me."

"Embarrassing isn't the word I'd use."

"Please," you scoff, "I was pathetic. I could barely walk by myself."

Steve glances back at you. "I didn't think you were pathetic."

You raise an eyebrow at him skeptically.

"Okay, maybe a little pathetic," he concedes with a little snort, "but mostly just…sweet."

"Sweet?"

"Yeah, sweet. Don't know if anyone's ever told you that before."

"Sweet," you say again, the headache suddenly no more than an afterthought. "That's how you'd describe me?"

Steve, apparently having given up on making sense out of the instructions on the back of the box, turns around to lean against the counter behind him and studies you with his arms folded loosely over his chest.

"Yes," he says, tilting his head to the side a little. "Not the word you expected me to say?"

There's something about the way he's looking at you. It's warm and piercing all at once, like he can see right through you. It makes it hard for you to breathe all of a sudden, hard for you to do anything but gape at him like a goldfish that's been pulled out of water.

"Uh, I'm...confused."

"Me too," he admits with a little huff of laughter. "I was thinking about what you said."

"About your hair?"

"No, well, yeah, but—" Steve pauses, dragging a hand down his face with a weary sigh. "Look, what you said to me yesterday, about the things I make you feel, I—"

"I said I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize," Steve interrupts, shooting you an unamused look, "I'm trying to say something here, come on, give me a sec."

"Right. Sorry. Go on."

"You're not supposed to apologize for apologizing."

"I'm s—okay, right. Mouth shut."

Steve purses his lips to stifle his amusement at your antics. You fold your arms in front of your chest and keep your gaze fixed firmly on the marble countertop as you wait for him to continue.

"I, uh," he says, pushing himself away from the counter so that he can wander over to the other side of the kitchen, where you sit, "I feel things too, you know. With you."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Steve chuckles, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck as he stops beside you, "'Oh'. Weird, right?"

You'd like to, but can't think of anything clever to say that would serve as a suitable response. You don't think Steve's looking for one, anyway, because he reaches out to tap his fingers lightly on the back of your hand, taking a seat on the stool next to yours.

"S'weird, 'cause I don't know if you meant what you said when you were drunk, or if it was just the alcohol talking, or what."

You shake your head quickly, and then wince because of the way the headache thuds behind your right eye.

"Robin says I'm an idiot and should stop being such a chicken," he continues, with a slight roll of his eyes. "And Eddie says if I don't 'shut up and tell you how I feel soon', he'll do it for me."

You nod, smiling despite your hangover. "Eddie's, uh, got a point, no?"

"Maybe," Steve allows, rubbing absently at the side of his neck.

He lets his hands slide down to the legs of your stool, fingers curling around the metal of each side. You don't quite understand what he's doing until he gives them a light tug, jerking you closer to him without warning.

You let out a little shriek of surprise as you reach up to clutch onto the first solid thing your hands find — his forearms.

"Ah! What—Steve!"

He's got an amused smile on his face, but his eyes are bright and nervous all at once. Steve pushes your stool even closer to him, until your knees knock against his own and he's forced to lean down to keep his eyes on you.

You hold his gaze steadily as he edges closer. "What are you doing?" you murmur, watching his eyes flit downward to track the movement of your tongue as it peeks out to wet your dry lips.

"Not sure yet," Steve hesitates when your lips are a hairsbreadth apart. He watches, half-dazed, half-entranced by the way you stare back at him, unblinking. "But I've got a theory."

"A theory?"

He lowers his head toward yours. You press your hands flat against the hard plane of his chest to steady yourself, fingers splaying over the soft material of his t-shirt as you curl them around the fabric. Steve exhales, and you can feel his breath on your skin, a soft tickle that raises the goosebumps all over your skin.

"Wanna hear it?"

You nod slowly, aware of the way his eyes darken as they trace your face. He's so close that you can make out the fine dusting of freckles and moles that litter his skin, the long fan of his lashes as they flutter to a close. If you moved even slightly, your lips would brush against his.

"What's your…your theory?" you whisper.

You can feel his heartbeat thudding in his chest as he releases his hold on your stool, lifts both hands up to cradle your face instead. He slides the tips of his fingers along the side of your neck, lets his thumb trace your jaw.

"I think," Steve says, and you can tell he's struggling to string two coherent words together when you feel his thumb quiver against your cheekbone. "I think that, uh, you're—Christ, I—"

His nose brushes against yours and you tilt your chin up instinctively, chasing the brief contact. You smirk. "Christ, you...?"

"Shut up," Steve huffs out a breathless laugh. "I'm getting to it."

"Are you?" you tease, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, your turn to pull him towards you gently.

Steve goes easily, moving his hand from your face to brace the back of your neck. "I think," he starts, eyes crinkling at the corners, "that I might be in love with you."

It's such an unforeseen, unexpected confession that your heart almost gives out in your chest.

You gape up at him, at his crooked grin, at his rosy cheeks. "You think?"

He blinks and then squints down at you like he can't decide whether he wants to be annoyed at your antics or kiss you. You hope for the latter, but he says, "What're you, a parrot?"

Shrugging, you're unable to keep your lips from quirking into a grin of your own. "Rude."

Steve's head falls forward and he rests his forehead against yours. You can feel his pulse thundering wildly against the hand you've pressed flat against his chest, and it makes you feel a little better about your own pounding heart.

"M'sorry."

You smooth a hand over his shirt and hook a finger under the neckline. "Forgiven," you tell him.

"Good," Steve says, nudging his nose against yours playfully.

You want to say something else, maybe tease him about his hair or something equally as inconsequential, but he doesn't let you. Instead, he leans down and closes the distance between you with a slow, tentative press of his lips to yours.

Now, Steve's mouth is soft and warm, and he kisses you like he's got all the time in the world. You shiver when he drags his fingers up the back of your neck, tangling them in your hair so that he can pull you closer yet.

You only pull back when the need to breathe becomes too urgent, giggling at the little noise of protest he lets out as you do. But Steve is nothing if not persistent, and he pulls you back in almost immediately, the movement so abrupt that you nearly topple backwards off the stool.

"Steve—I..." you manage to say, between your giggles and the heated press of his lips against yours. "I still...need to breathe, mister."

He huffs out a little laugh against the side of your neck, nips at the sensitive skin in retaliation. You squeal in delight and jab him playfully in the stomach, laughing as he recoils in mock agony.

"Stop laughing," Steve complains, the warmth of his own laughter tickling the underside of your chin when he nuzzles his nose into your neck once more, "come on, you're ruining the moment."

"Wait," you breathe, right before his lips meet yours again, "so...no pancakes, then?"

He drops his forehead against your shoulder and shakes with quiet laughter."You," Steve mumbles into the side of your neck, "are something else, you know that?"

You grin. "Apparently, you like that. Love that...no?"

You can feel him smile, the stretch of his lips curving against the skin of your shoulder.

"Apparently...yeah, I do. I do."

#oh I’m GIGGLING #love love love #fic rec

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call-me-eds · 24 days

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the babysitter’s club is my favorite TV show

#SEASON 2 EPISODE 7 MY BELOVED

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call-me-eds · 24 days

Text

The Boy is Mine (call-me-eds version)

I was not tagged in @carolmunson 's writing challenge, and encourage with her for other small writers to jump in and participate in anything that sparks interest or creativity! Find the guidelines here and check out her ongoing masterlist to see all of the other incredible editions :)

Masterlist

A romantic night in at the trailer.

Fluff | WC: 2.5 K

“I ran out of, like, nice cups, is this okay?” Eddie extended a plastic souvenir cup with the Cubs logo half chipped off, and it took everything in you not to slap it out of his hand.

The gravity of this night was not being taken seriously by anyone, and it was driving you up a wall. You could only give your own 100%, nothing more, but apparently you’d need to drag the effort from the Munson’s with your bare hands.

“No, it’s not okay! This is a date, you need to make a good impression,” you abandoned your station at the counter to start rifling through cabinets. There were three open bottles of whiskey in the trailer but not a single cocktail glass. Eddie’s soft voice barely pulled your wandering thoughts from wondering how long it would take you to run home to get two of your own glasses.

“Baby, do I need to remind you that neither of us are going on this date?” he asked, avoiding the urge to come behind you and put his hand on your shoulders to manually relax them. He didn’t want to lose a limb and you were dangerously close to the knife block. He looked on, feeling helpless in his own home while you ran around like the queen was coming over.

Whatever, it could have been possible that you were going a little overboard, but all you wanted was for Wayne to have a good night. He was so kind and hardworking, and putting up with Eddie was an exhausting job. The man was a saint.

So you messed with one of the lightbulbs to dim the light, fluffled the one throw pillow that the men had, and convinced Wayne to take his time getting ready while you and Eddie made a round of drinks that didn’t come with a tab or need a bottle opener.

“We don’t have time for reminders, just line the rims,” you said, carefully putting down the only two matching drinking glasses. They weren’t the martini glasses in your vision, but they would have to do.

“Vanilla frosting?” he confirmed. “What, is this Christmas-themed?” he joked, but took care in looking at the photo on the recipe you ripped out from an old home magazine you found. He gently inserted the glass and spun it around. No matter how much he teased you, you knew that he wanted the night to go well for his uncle just as badly as you did.

“So what if it is? Who doesn’t love Christmas?” you asked, going back to arranging the food you put on a tray you found that might have been older than Eddie. He finished his task, taking the care he knew you would have, quickly swiping his finger through the sugary substance when you were turned away.

“Everyone does, it’ll be a hit,” he said, maybe just to make you feel better, and licked his finger clean before you could catch him. “But if you don’t relax, you’re going to hit the floor,” he side-swiped you and pressed a kiss to your cheek, going to the sink.

With the self-imposed expectations you put on yourself to ensure your boyfriend’s father figure had a great night was the guilt that came from forcing your man to anticipate your wants for the night. There weren’t any canceled plans, and just a few snippy comments, but you were sure there were other ways Eddie would want to be spending his Saturday night off from work. Between ironing the one tailored shirt in Wayne’s closet and taking your own laundry down from the clothesline, you told Eddie to call Steve and make plans to meet him and Robin at The Hideout for a few drinks.

Non-peppermint drinks. Which smelled like Macy’s in December and were definitely from the holiday edition of the magazine. You didn’t have time to overthink your out-of-season choice, though, because Wayne was coming out of the bathroom smelling suspiciously like Eddie when you went out on special occasions. A mental note fleetingly popped into your head to buy your boyfriend his own, different scented, bottle of cologne.

“I could have sworn I told you two to scram,” Wayne said, a hint of sincerity in his mocking tone. His eyes scanned over your spread with equal parts appreciation and confusion. Fine, maybe wintery cocktails, carrots, and crackers didn’t exactly go together, but you were working on a tight timeline and whatever you could scrounge up from the Quick-Mart.

“We’re going soon, I swear,” you promised, mixing the combination of ingredients that you thought might be on the sweet side for Wayne’s preference, but were sure that his date would prefer to a Heineken. There wasn’t a cocktail shaker at your disposal, a measuring cup and a fork would have to get the job done.

Eddie could read the two of you like a book. The nervous energy you were emitting had him wanting to stay out of the way, so he washed and dried the few dishes you dirtied in record time. The domestic act may not have been as exciting as ripping a guitar solo, but it was just as sexy to you, especially when you didn’t even need to ask. Not that you were paying a speck of attention to him at the moment.

“Now Sally’s just coming over for a little while before we go to our rummy game,” Wayne said, sounding like he was warning you both to behave before leaving you with a babysitter. “So you don’t have to be out all night, but I don’t want you making her feel crowded,” he pointedly looked at Eddie this time, who couldn’t even pretend not to understand.

The last time the two of you had been around when Wayne’s “friend” Sally came over, Eddie wouldn’t stop asking her questions about her job, her family, her weekend routine, and you feared he was getting dangerously close to inquiring about her medical history and savings account.

“We’ll be out of your hair, don’t worry,” you confirmed, doing one last sweep to make sure there wasn’t a trace of Eddie in the living room. As endearing as he might be, your boyfriend had a tendency to leave anything that belonged to him in the shared space of the trailer.

“Now listen, here, partner,” the dark-haired Tasmanian devil strode up to his uncle in imitation and smacked a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not going far, so if there’s any funny business going on under this roof I will know about it.” The two of you heard a version of the same speech any time Wayne was going to the bar or leaving for a shift and you two would be by yourselves. It had the opposite effect, making you act all the more quicker so you’d be put back together when he came back home.

“Son, I was getting into funny business before you were born,” he responded, knocking Eddie’s bravado right off its kilter.

“Oh, ew, I don’t want to think about that!” he whined, blush appearing faster than his hands could cover his face.

“Well, if you don’t quit it, we’re going to have a problem, then.”

“Leave him alone, let’s go,” you said, grabbing the bag of snacks reserved for you two from your grocery trip. “Have fun, Mr. Munson,” you smiled. Even though you were setting him up for a night of romance and intimacy, you still couldn’t bring yourself to call him by his first name.

“Thank you, Darlin’, I’ll see you later,” he said, reaching out to ruffle Eddie’s hair before he was out of reach.

“Hey!” You opened the door to separate the two before a wrestling match broke out and a button popped or a hair came out of place.

“And if you don’t start opening doors, boy, you won’t even be in amusing business, nevermind funny!” he called after the two of you, making you laugh. He kept walking, grabbing your hand and waving it around so his uncle could see the small act of romance.

The two of you strolled in between the trailers as the sun was dipping below the horizon. You let the stillness of the evening come over you, decompressing from your few high-string hours. The adrenaline seeping out of you made you more tired than you should have been before sunset, and you accepted that your actions were a bit overkill. But you just couldn’t help yourself.

“Your uncle looked really nice,” you commented, smiling at the thought of him deciding what to wear and pulling out his fanciest belt buckle. “Like a real gentleman.”

“And you like that?” Eddie asked. “You’re not exactly dating the swankiest guy in town,” he flicked the hand that wasn’t holding yours up and down, gesturing to his sweatpants and t-shirt. You wouldn’t dignify his self-deprecation with a response, so you just squeezed his hand.

“He was nervous, it was cute,” you deflected. Eddie sat down in one of the chained-down adirondack chairs that the trailer park had surrounding a few singed logs that were last tended to before you had even met the Munsons. He reached down to grab the security measure and tug another chair as close as it could possibly get to his.

“I don’t understand why we couldn’t have just stayed in my room or something,” he said as you sat down. “I could have behaved myself.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, his mumbling was evidence even he didn’t believe it. “Whatever, I’ll just read about it in his little notebook later that he pretends isn’t a diary.”

“Eddie!” you laughed. “Let him have some privacy, he’s a grown man.” As you and Eddie got older, he tended to treat his uncle more like a roommate than an elder. When you first started dating he would have taken his arm from being around your shoulders when Wayne walked into the room, where now he tried to convince you that walking around in his boxers wasn’t weird, it was like wearing your own shorts.

“You love him more than me,” he deduced, flopping in the chair like a depressed fish.

“Aw, don’t be like that. that’s not even true,” you swung your leg over the arms of your chairs, and his hand drew like a magnet to your calf, starting to rub it with the amount of pressure he learned you preferred.

“Yes it is, that’s why you always want to come over to my place. You’re using me to get to him and his union insurance,” he teased, sending you into a further fit of giggles.

“Would someone that bought you your nasty snacks be using you?” you asked, handing him the plastic bag with the beef jerky he loved so much.

“You do always say this will give me a heart attack,” he smiled, ripping open one of the packages with his teeth. The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, Eddie’s massaging hand lulling you into a level of relaxation that let you both know you wouldn’t be joining Steve and Robin at the bar like you originally planned. With all of his talk of malintentions on your front, you were pretty sure that he was trying to lull you into the state you were in now so he wouldn’t want to go out.

Eddie talked a big game, but when faced with the decision to hit the town or stay curled up in bed with you, he was hiding your shoes, boiling water for tea, and putting a blanket on the radiator for maximum comfort.

“Hey, you know I appreciate it, right?” he asked through his chewing.

“What, the snacks? They were like, two bucks,” you told him. He pinched your skin lightly, chastising you for making him talk about how he truly felt,

“No, you doing all of that for Uncle Wayne.” You kept your eyes on the stars that were starting to dot the sky. It was always so much easier to spot them from the trailer park, even more so with Eddie by your side.

“I was happy to,” you reassured. It wasn’t a secret how much you loved spending time not only with your boyfriend, but with his uncle. He always made space for you in his home and trusted you with the most important thing in his life.

“I know, but it still means a lot, Sweetheart. I love you,” he lifted your leg slightly so he could lean down and press his lips to your ankle where your leggings separated from your sock.

“I love you,” you answered automatically.

“Next week I’ll make sure he goes out so I can give you a romantic evening,” he promised.

“This is a romantic evening,” you hummed.

“Baby, I know I’m white trash, but don’t let me drag you down into thinking this is romance,” he laughed. You sighed and finally took the bait from all of his negative quips.

“Okay, what’s your idea of romance, then?”

“Not helping my uncle get laid,” he scoffed. You pulled your leg from his grasp to lightly kick at his chest. “Alright, alright. If I had unlimited cash I would start by hiring a chef to cook for us so we wouldn’t even need to leave the house,” he started, cajoling your leg back into his grasp to continue his massage.

“Does that mean I wouldn’t have to dress up?” you asked.

“Ideally, you wouldn’t be wearing anything,” he said, fully meaning it. “I’d have a new piece of jewelry come out with every course, so I guess you could wear that. And after we ate, maybe I’d hire someone to play us a concert, like Prince or someone. Then we’d go fly to France for dessert on my private jet and come home to the penthouse and watch the sunrise,” he finished.

“That’s not romantic at all,” you said. “That’s just expensive.” You pulled away this time not to punish him, but to get closer. His hand was warm from the work it was putting in on your muscles as opposed to the normal chill.

“Okay, so then what was the right answer?” he asked.

“This, just being together,” you said, knocking the air from his chest and the canned response from his lips.

It was a simple answer that held much more beneath the surface. What you weren’t saying was that every time you were with him felt like you were winning the lottery. The idea of a five-star meal and some diamonds were nice, but you’d take Eddie heating up a can of soup on the stove, a bracelet made of string and beads, and him playing the same guitar riff over and over for hours over anything he could cook up in his mind.

Despite the nice picture he painted, running through his mind was a more similar scene to yours, except there was a ring on your finger.

“I guess that sounds good, too.”

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson blurb #writing prompt #st4 #stranger things fic #my writing #eddie munson fluff #wayne munson

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call-me-eds · 26 days

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can someone please write a fic with bridesmaid reader x groomsmen eddie, and they broke up a while ago and i don't know the rest but then they hook up and it's really sweet and all, with the song we've got tonight

#UGH my heart #fic rec

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call-me-eds · 27 days

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Thinking about him (Steve Harrington)

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call-me-eds · 1 month

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Power's Out

My hand slipped this morning. This is for @sweetsweetjellybean because her power's out and she deserves it.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Wordcount: 1442

Warnings: making out, Eddie Munson is a cock-block

Navigation • Masterlist

---

Third day of Spring and you were wrapped under a comforter and three quilts. Your feet were shoved into wool socks and tucked under you for warmth. Your poor fingers only escaped the blankets to earn you a sip of water or to turn the page on the steamy novel you’d been reading.

Luckily Snowmageddon provided ample lighting when your windows were open, sun cascading in rays off the snow.

You snuggled in tighter, brow furrowed at the main character bickering with her love interest, when you were startled by a knock at the front door.

You glanced down at the tangle you’d trapped yourself in, and then back up at the door when the wrap of knuckles grew more frantic.

“Alright,” you heaved yourself from the couch. “I’m coming.”

You slouched to the door, wearing the comforter like monk’s robes. Peering through the peephole, you found a set of broad shoulders and a mess of dark hair.

The door opened with a burst of frigid air, and Steve grinned, holding up a to- go box. His legs bounced from the cold, canvas tennis shoes dipped dark wet from the snow. “Pizza delivery.”

You stepped aside to let him in, a familiar grumble matching the flip in your stomach when you saw who had arrived.

The pizza smelled amazing, and most importantly warm.

“Power’s on about two miles from here.” Steve explained, stripping out of his shoes and jacket before carrying your lunch to the kitchen to serve on plates.

“Lucky bastards.” You grumbled, peeling a cheesy slice from the grease- stained box before he had a chance to dirty another plate. He offered you one and you waved it away, taking a large moan-inducing bite.

Steve tucked his head, and you noticed the reddening of his ears as a smile split his features. “That good, huh?”

“So fucking good,” you nodded, mouth full.

His smile was shy, sweet, and he leaned against the counter across from you, ankles crossed. “I’m glad.”

He looked tall like this, in your kitchen, long limbed. His hands dwarfed the pizza slice as he careful dipped his head forward for a bite. You hadn’t remembered him looking so... big the last time he was here.

Well, that’s a lie.

You felt your face warm, tucking into another bite, forcing your eyes away from his hands and the curve of his throat as he swallowed.

The last time he’d been here, you’d had power, though you hadn’t used it. Stumbling in from a St. Paddy’s celebration, with matching top hats and shamrocks painted over your tits on your T-shirt. Steve nearly tripped backing over your couch, and you crawled on top of him to pull a Kelly green sweater over his head. He tasted of whisky and beef, and he moaned into your mouth as his large hands palmed beneath shamrocks and tangled themselves into your hair.

You coughed to clear your throat, too big of a bite taking up space in your cheek like a chipmunk.

“Cups?” Steve gestured at a cupboard near the sink.

You nodded, mopped grease from the corner of your mouth and wiped crumbs on the leg of your pajama pants.

You blinked and glanced down at your attire. You were an adult woman, and why you owned a pair of pajama pants with cows jumping over the moon, you’d never know. But you made a mental note to burn them after this. At least your hoodie qualified your alma mater.

Steve filled two glasses from the sink and offered you one before taking a large gulp from his own.

Without the buzz from the refrigerator, the house was painfully silent. So much so that your ears began to ring as you sipped your water and washed down the rest of your slice.

Steve set his glass on the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. His ankles uncrossed so he could slide a socked foot to yours. “So other than a power outage, how’ve you been?”

“Good, yeah, good.” You stammered, but your face reflected the smile growing on his.

“Good.”

He’d rested closer to you, just a step away, and if you were brave enough, you’d cross the little linoleum tile and curl your hand around his tricep.

You cleared your throat again, smiled. “How about you?”

He grinned at that, uncrossed his arms. They were longer than yours, and he was brave enough to loop gentle fingers around your wrists. “I’ve been really good.” His thumbs brushed circles into your forearms, and he tugged you ever- so-closer.

“That’s good,” you replied, a little breathless.

He hummed, face tilting to just meet yours. His amber eyes begged for permission, and one large hand came to meet your throat. His thumb continued its ministrations on your job. “I’m even better now.”

You hummed in agreement, falling into the warmth of him, sturdy and propped against the counter. The comforter fell from your shoulders, and a shiver wracked through you at the whoosh of cold air it offered.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you all week.” He confessed, thumb and forefinger idling at the earring in your ear lobe.

You leaned into his touch, fingers grasping at the forest green sweater covering a broad chest. “So kiss me then.”

His lips were softer than you remembered, the frantic removal of clothing the weekend before only allowed room for teeth and tongues and moans. Now was less frantic, sweeter, the press of his mouth to yours as one hand tucked around your waist to hold you even closer. God, he was blissfully warm.

When he pulled away, you found yourself not wanting it to end, and you chased his lips until his muffled moan entered your mouth. Then, you were like jelly, pliable under his fingertips.

A sturdy hand tangled into the hair at the base of your neck, and he opened your mouth with his tongue. His other hand pressed you tighter between his thighs, against the bulge in his jeans.

“This okay?” He breathed, but you caught his lips again in your response. You trailed one hand down his chest to meet the tent of his pants.

He moaned louder into your mouth, tugging at your hair to expose your throat to him. He curled over you, pressing sweet, damp kisses to your pulse points, fist balling around the fabric of your hoodie.

Your free hand found his hair.

“We should slow down,” Steve’s voice was strained, rough against your sternum, but he made no move to stop. “Want to take you on a date.”

“You can after.”

You gasped as he adjusted, wedging his thigh between your legs and rolling your hips against the rough denim. You murmured his name and coaxed his mouth back to yours.

Warm hands found bare skin beneath your sweatshirt. They fanned the expanse of your back and rib cage, held you tight, safe.

He kissed you slow and sweet, like he had, releasing your lower lip with a pop to stare down at you. He was smiling, pupils blown. His hair stuck up at odd angles.

“I’m serious.” He said, and the tenderness of his gaze made you squirm. You fought to wipe the grin off your own cheeks.

“Me too.”

Then came the pounding at the front door.

Steve released you, both of you clutching at the countertop in surprise.

You held one finger in apology, frowned, and crossed the living room for the front door.

When you leaned forward to look out the peep hole, the pounding started again, followed by a familiar voice. “It’s fucking cold out here, will you just let me in?!”

You glanced back at Steve, who waited patiently by the kitchen with a large frown furrowing his brow.

With a sigh, you opened the door to find Eddie Munson with a large to-go bag of Chinese food. His nose and cheeks were red from the cold, and he lumbered past you without saying hello, a waft of black leather and snow.

“Did you know the power’s on like two miles from here?” He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and toed out of heavy leather boots.

You coughed and scratched at the back of your neck as you watched the exchange between house guests when Eddie finally looked up to find Steve waiting in the kitchen, arms crossed over his broad chest.

Eddie’s lips quirked up into that wolfish grin, shaking damp hair from his eyes. “Well, I’ll be dammed, Harrington. Isn’t this a surprise?”

With a sigh, you closed the front door and rested your forehead against the frigid metal. This was going to be a long day.

---

Hope your power comes back and you have a better day, Jelly, my dear xoxoxo

#oh I love #blurb

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call-me-eds · 1 month

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Eddie Munson doesn't know what he looks like.

Sure, when he looks in the mirror, he sees a guy with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes to match. He sees two arms and two legs and a scar-crooked smile.

He sees all the parts that he has, all the parts that he knows he's supposed to have.

And he's capable of recognizing that they belong to him. It's not like he thinks he's inhuman, some beast of otherworldly nature.

(At least, not on good days.)

It's just... well.

Sometimes, when Eddie looks in the mirror, all he can really see is his face.

Like, sure, he can see the rest of his body. He knows his face is attached to the arms and legs that he's capable of recognizing in some separate, distant sense at some separate, distant time.

But when he tries looking at himself as a whole (after buying himself a full-body mirror to hang on the back of his door), it's like his face alone is magnified a hundred times over.

Like all he can see are the hollowed-out sockets where his eyes sit, the heavy flush of his cheeks, how stark it is against the rest of his pale skin.

It's like he zoomed in too far and got stuck there, unable to refocus and look at the picture as a whole.

All he can see is each individual pore that travels like a lightning rod through his skin. All he can see is the curve of his nose and how big it looks when his brain doesn't recognize its place on the rest of his face.

It's like he sees each feature individually. His eyes are miles away from his lips, his chin and forehead a stretch farther than that of the sun to the moon. Hopelessly revolving around each other in the desperate attempt to cross paths, understanding the inevitable and fighting against gravity to change it.

He recognizes that he has a face. That his eyes and nose and mouth and cheekbones and pores all belong in the same place, on the same body, to the same person.

But it's like there was a wire cut somewhere in his head. Like the connection that reminds him that all those separate parts actually go together was severed. That reminds him he's more photograph than Picasso, less alphabet soup and more a well-structured sentence.

It's worse when he looks at his body.

Because there's so much more to it than to his face. There are so many parts, so many varied pieces that somehow fit together and make him the gangly, skeletal, off-center human he knows himself to be. The sack of bones and blood that moves when he tells it to.

He looks in the mirror and sees his arms, how they hang and where they fall. And then it seems like they keep going, and rather than focusing on where they end (just above the jutting curve of his waist), all he can see is how little space there is from the tips of his fingers to his feet.

And then his arms look ten feet tall, stretched out to fit the entire length of his body, and when he turns away from the mirror, he swears his nails are going to drag along the carpet.

He doesn't know why he feels like this, but he knows he's been this way since he was a kid. He didn't know it was any different than how everyone else felt, assumed in that childlike way that he was just like all the other humans on this planet.

And then, one day, Wayne told him he should probably trim his hair. Said it was getting real long.

And Eddie had looked at him, confused, because his hair hadn't really grown for as long as he could remember. Kind of just stayed the same length, always at the same place on his body.

So Wayne led him to the tiny, clouded mirror in the yellowed bathroom of the place he'd learn to call home, his calloused hands big on Eddie's shoulders. He'd trailed a path with his finger from Eddie's scalp all the way down to the middle of his back, drawing a horizontal line where his hair ended.

"See, Eds? S'all the way down your back."

And Eddie remembers seeing this, even today. Remembers how confused he felt trying to connect what he saw in the mirror with the image his brain was showing him. Fighting reality with his own imagination— a battle he would soon learn cannot be won.

Because his hair did fall halfway down his back, objectively.

But it was also three feet off the ground, too, and that's pretty high up.

So it must not have been too long after all.

Because it still didn't look long, not to Eddie, not until years later when he and his uncle would bring out one of the scrapbooks and he'd finally see what the rest of the world did, if only for a moment.

It was then that Eddie learned he'd never quite see the world the same as everyone else. The way it was meant to be seen, by people who were meant to see it.

He'll see what's really there, eventually, but only after that version of him is no more than a fleeting memory. Only after he's adjusted to the way he looks in the present, to the vision his distorted eyes show him when he enters the hallway of mirrors.

It gets worse with the scars.

Because now his brain has something else to play with. Something else that convinces him that the thing whose limbs move around when Eddie tells them to isn't actually the person he calls "himself."

That they're actually three separate entities:

Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson's body, and the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.

Three separate things, none of which have ever existed in the same world, let alone in the same person.

It doesn't bother him. Not always.

He doesn't need to know what he looks like, as a whole, the way other people see him. That's not for him.

No, Eddie Munson's Body is for the people that turn away when they see it in the grocery store. For the people who will peer upon its pale face in an open casket and mourn the thing that was inside it. The thing that Eddie knows to be himself, the thing that's begging to be seen for what it is.

But there's not much that can be done about it.

And most of the people in Eddie's life are there for him, for his brain, for the thing that floats inside Eddie Munson's Body. They don't care about what it looks like, only that He's in there.

Still, sometimes when Eddie looks in the mirror, he thinks he sees it. Him.

Eddie inside Eddie Munson's Body, hidden behind the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body.

He thinks he sees it, him, buried somewhere deep. Small, naked, crouched in the corner. Shaking with its hands clasped in front of its chest like it's praying.

He wishes he could do something. Wishes he could reach in and grab it, hold it in the palm of his hand (the one that really belongs to him, the one that he can see) and nurture it until it's bigger than the Thing, bigger than the Body, bigger than the whole world.

Big enough to be seen.

But every time he tries, it disappears like sand between his fingers.

So he gives up.

He drags his nails on the carpet and cuts his hair when Wayne tells him to.

He fills the Thing That Calls Itself Eddie Munson's Body and plasters a smile on the face he thinks is his.

original post

#oh fuck this was haunting and gorgeous #blurb

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