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dreamwatch · 13 hours

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When Steve gets to his last year at Hawkins High, it feels like some kind of veil has been lifted right in front him. Or maybe it’s more that the veil’s actually been slowly lifting for years, and he’s noticing it all the more because it’s no longer there.

Either way, when he receives his yearbook, it doesn’t seem like the huge deal that his younger self would’ve made it out to be; he flicks through the pictures half-heartedly, doesn’t even care when the candid ones taken at sporting events catch him in unflattering poses, lip jutting out in concentration.

If he tried to voice his disinterest, Henderson would probably spout off some precocious shit about societal expectations, and Steve would pretend to nod sagely before stealing whatever dorky hat he happened to be wearing—it’s not like he could let the little shit suspect that he occasionally had a point, Steve would never hear the end of it.

The yearbook signings are predictably inescapable: people passing their books back and forth in class or in the cafeteria—and that one’s a risky move, with the threat of drinks spilling on the pages, whether accidental or malicious.

Steve thinks the fever’s dwindled out until he spends a free period in the school library. The seniors typically all bunch together in one of the far corners, the spots with the comfiest seats—loners included, like the perks of age for once outweigh the usual ridicule.

But that silent truce is not exactly being upheld, Steve notes—Eddie Munson is sitting alone at a nearby table.

It becomes painfully obvious when the signing starts up again. There’s a cluster of girls on the yearbook committee who initiate it, and soon every senior in reach is either passing over their own book or signing one.

Almost every senior.

It’s not like Eddie’s the only person ever to be held back. He’s not even the only one to be held back for next year, either: John Nelson off the swim team is in the same position, and he’s still been asked to sign.

But Steve knows that’s not what the source of exclusion is, not really.

He’s gotten good at spotting silent cruelty—good at avoiding it too, before his popularity gave him a temporary shield.

It’s all just bullshit, he thinks. It’s been a recurring thought lately.

He brings out his own yearbook because he knows it’s expected. When it’s finally passed back round to him, he ends up right near the seat opposite Eddie’s, just by chance.

But actually sitting there is his own choice.

He can tell that Eddie has spotted him even though he’s not looked up from whatever homework he’s doing; there’s a silent tension in the way he’s holding his pen.

Steve mulls it over before he asks the question. It could blow up in his face, but what did that matter, really? In the grand scheme of things, it would hardly count as a major embarrassment; it’s not like it’d be any more mortifying than telling his dad that he didn’t get into any colleges whatsoever.

So he pushes his yearbook across the table, because what the hell.

“Wanna sign?”

Eddie glances up. There’s a guarded look in his eyes, and Steve can almost hear him mentally replaying the question.

“Pardon?” Eddie says with pointed emphasis, like he’s daring Steve, let it drop and we’ll say no more about it, Harrington.

Steve doesn’t take it back. He shrugs and flicks open the yearbook, finds a blank spot and taps it once with his finger, a silent offer.

Eddie stares like Steve’s a riddle, like he’s wondering just who the show’s for—but the other students have turned away, have gone back to their seats, yearbooks temporarily forgotten.

Eddie’s hold on his pen relaxes, ever so slightly.

“You sure, Harrington?” he says. There’s still a wary edge to his voice, but there’s an undercurrent of something else, too, like he’s secretly amused despite himself. “Haven’t you heard what folks say? I could curse you.”

Steve scoffs. “That all you’ve got? I’ve dealt with way worse, man,” he says mildly.

A corner of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a surprised smile. Then it’s gone almost like it had never been in the first place, his gaze turning thoughtful rather than defensive.

And obviously this isn’t Eddie’s first rodeo at the whole senior year thing. Steve wonders if there’s a veil that’s been lifted for him too, wonders if he can see straight through it right now.

The bell rings.

Eddie stands up, gathering his stuff.

Steve thinks that’s the end of it: something that’s neither a success or a failure.

But then, lightning fast, Eddie darts across the table and scribbles something on the open page. Slams the yearbook shut and pushes it back over, and it feels like a challenge, like some of his caginess is back—like he’s just daring Steve to reveal that it had been a joke all along—

“Bet you’re counting down the days till you can hold your own copy, huh?” Steve says dryly, as he stuffs the book into his bag.

It’s a risk; he knows Eddie could easily take it as pure ridicule, could misinterpret it as Steve throwing the failed school years back in his face.

Eddie just shakes his head, but he could be laughing—the moment’s gone too quickly for Steve to know for sure.

“Nah, Harrington,” Eddie says easily, thrown over his shoulder as he leaves, “those things aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”

Steve doesn’t check the yearbook until he’s home. He eventually finds Eddie’s signature, simple black ink right in the upper corner of one page.

Good luck, Steve. —Eddie

Some of the letters are bunched a little too close together, drifting upwards on the blank page, as if they usually need lined paper to guide them—left-handed, Steve thinks vaguely.

Within a sea of scrawled nicknames and loudly enthusiastic messages, Steve finds that he kind of likes how mundane Eddie’s truly is. Likes the sign off with minimal fuss. Just “Eddie.” Likes how he was just “Steve”, too.

And yeah, if anyone needed to be told good luck, Steve thinks, with the kind of amusement that only comes from distance—pictures his past self, freaking out about monsters come to life.

He slots the yearbook into his bookcase. By summer he might forget about it all together, left to gather dust as he works for 3 bucks an hour, but for now he marks its significance: something real, hidden alongside the bullshit.

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dreamwatch · 1 day

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STEDDIE UNDERDOG MAY CALENDAR

A new month is here!! Time for more challenges, themes, and writer's spotlights!!

Upcoming Challenge Mondays:

5/6 -- Fics with five chapters (complete)

5/13 -- Fics that have playlists

5/20 -- Fics with 20 comments

5/27 -- Fics with ~300 hits

Upcoming Writer's Wednesdays:

5/1 -- @punkslovepoints

5/8 -- @wynnyfryd

5/15 -- @capriciouslyterminal

5/22 -- @sidekick-hero

5/29 -- @penny00dreadful

Upcoming Theme Weekends:

5/11 - 5/12 -- Kid Fic

5/25 - 5/26 -- Friends to Lovers

The Last Friday of every month will have a new calendar release!

CHECK OUT OUR LINKS BELOW TO PARTICIPATE!

Nominate an author for WRITER'S SPOTLIGHT here!

Vote on our next THEME WEEEK here!

Suggest a CHALLENGE for Challenge Mondays here!

Submit a fic through our ASK!

You can see our previously recommended fics here!

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dreamwatch · 1 day

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Eddie surviving and going to see The Princess Bride when it comes out in 1987—and it’s a tentative thing, still, between him and Steve; they haven’t named it, but their hands still brush in the space between their seats, and really if Eddie were pushed, he’d say that they both know exactly what they’re heading towards, that they’re just floating between the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. That’s fine by him; they have time now, so much of it.

And the movie is charming and funny, but it’s not the romance or adventure that hits Eddie in the chest. It comes on unexpectedly, every time there’s a scene with the man reading to his grandson who’s sick in bed: suddenly Eddie can feel the softness of the bedsheets he had when he was young, when the move to Wayne’s was still raw and difficult, and it’s Wayne who’s reading to him softly, back when stories of things turning out fine were all Eddie had.

“Let’s see… where were we?” the grandfather mutters, and Eddie laughs because he can hear so much of Wayne in it, that gentle, wry humour. “Oh, yes. In the Pit of Despair.”

Eddie laughs again, choked. He’s clawed his way out of that damned pit so many times. His breathing catches at the thought that it’s been over a year since the deepest pit of them all, when Eddie once thought that the walls were far too high to climb.

“Woah, hey,” Steve whispers, “what’s wrong?”

Eddie shakes his head, smiling. “N-nothing.”

Their row is empty, and in the dark Steve reaches out, fingertips gently brushing underneath Eddie’s eye. They come away wet.

And Steve gives a little shushing noise, so that only they can hear, and it’s him who makes the leap, easily turning the page into the new chapter.

To some people Eddie’s first kiss would mean nothing at all—in their eyes, a chaste peck of comfort in a movie theatre would be just a speck in the grand history of the kiss itself. But for Eddie, it leaves them all behind.

“Farm boy,” he murmurs, when the movie’s over, smiling because the great, terrible story is done, and he is here; he is here. “Take me home?”

Steve smiles back, winks out the corner of his eye. “As you wish.”

#sigh… so lovely #steddie #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson

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dreamwatch · 1 day

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roll for time-for-sex-in-the-beemer

Because Steve is right there to indulge Eddie in a backseat quickie indulge Eddie in a second pre-campaign-launch quickie help Eddie get his DM groove back, right?

or: Eddie didn't think 'happy' was in the cards for people like him. (Spoiler alert: he was wrong.)

✨CW: explicit content / NSFW✨

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< four: play 🎶

👑 🐍 five: climb 💦 🎲

It actually was kinda weird, the first time Eddie thought about it; weird in the best possible way but nonetheless weird: how just grinding dicks—not even unzipped, just through the denim—blows every other sexual, or hell, even not-quite-sexual-mostly-just-sensual encounter Eddie’s ever had before March: blows it out of the water. Bar none; no contest.

Like, he’d always basically categorized sex as increasing in both pleasure and quality-of-end-product as the clothes came off. Not that he had a wealth of experience, especially not in places or circumstances where there was much opportunity for clothes to come off so much as shoved just out of the way and tugged back up before the chance of sticking a little to the inside of your own fly was entirely off the table but like, he read a lot. He had a stash of mags under his bed like any other guy. And he listened to gossip, of course he did; there had to be some upside to being one of two polar opposites in high school: the center of attention, or part of the furniture.

But like, there was a reason porn wasn’t done clothed.

So, or else he figures: what makes the reality of this—back of the Beemer, panting enough to steam the windows, Steve’s palm braces on Eddie’s chest and that’s like, kinda how they always end up, no matter the place or position, one hand on a chest not like Eddie’s previous partners, yanking him from the hips, but more like bracing, balancing more than just their weight, more than just bodies, this unspoken intimacy where when it’s Steve’s hand on Eddie’s chest he’s keep Eddie steady so he can fucking soar, and Steve just wants to feel it as it happens, Steve just lights up and comes alive in whole new ways like it’s a privilege and what the fuck, y’know, but it’s that and then second, except how could it ever be considered second, but it’s secondary how Steve uses that hand as leverage to grind them just right, the lengths of them caught deliberate, a planned sort of taunting in how they’re both wholly dressed, not even a top button popped and Jesus fuck is is everything—but Eddie figures that this, and so much else, is wholly believable as more and better and bigger and right beyond anything he’s ever known before this, and them, even without a stitch of clothing removed—it boils down to the singular fact of his boyfriend, the love of his fucking life, Steve goddamn Harrington, who rewrites every rule there could ever be.

“Not gonna be able to hold on if you keep going, babe,” Eddie keens, cants up so the perfectly-painful strain of his cock presses into where he knows the vein of Steve’s own dick throbs in those sinful goddamn jeans, even before Steve gasps for it, then groans so low that Eddie has to throw his head back against the window where Steve’s shoved both their coats for cushion; so deep that Eddie has to clench his teeth close to cracking and yes, fuck yes he whines a little for it; is so far past being embarrassed by it for both the arousal coursing through him and causing the goddamn problem in the first place, and the comfort he has in all of this, with this man pressed against him: there’s so very little he has left to be embarrassed about, and fuck: even less of a reason for it, because even when he’s at his most humiliating, he gets to feel loved.

And that’s just fucking wild, man.

Which is probably how Eddie processes what happens next in slow-motion with at least a five second delay: puts together based wholly on sensation when Steve only answers not by stopping, because they’re in the high school parking lot and yeah, sure, it’s the back lot, all the sports have away games, save for the basketball team who’s basically locked in the weight room for the next half-hour, it’s long enough after the last bell that everything’s cleared out save for clubs and Hellfire had delayed their session on account of the aforementioned basketball commitments because sometimes Eddie learns his goddamn lessons: but no. No: Steve doesn’t stop even though they don’t have fucking changes of clothes and Eddie’s gonna, he is gonna—

Nope: Steve slips down, wedges the base of his dick somehow into the seats beneath them and presses hard, holds himself back as he yanks Eddie’s zipper down and slides a warm hand practiced straight into Eddie’s boxers, coaxes him like a goddamn pro through the flap while it nearly sends Eddie over the edge just for his touch save Steve pinches the head the slightest bit to keep him there, just there at the edge until he doesn’t grab Eddie’s hips, more slips his hand right under the globes of Eddie’s ass and lifts Eddie’s dribbling cock in between Steve’s ready lips and let’s go of the pressure beneath the crown, lets his thumb drag that ridge so Eddie jerks for it before he starts jerking full-body, hit straight down Steve’s throat and holy goddamn shit.

Eddie’s only left uncovered from the middle of his dick, all Steve needs to suck him dry before they collect themselves to leave the car but Jesus H. fucking Christ: Steve’s kinda fucking everything lays Eddie wholly bare every time, and Eddie never expected that kind of nakedness to feel so sweet, but.

Y’know. Steve Harrington. Just out here rewriting all the rules.

And Steve, Jesus fuck: but Steve licks at the slit after he’s cleaned Eddie just spit-damp with his mouth, then he kisses the very tip before he tucks Eddie back in, zips Eddie back up, then slides all graceful-like up Eddie’s chest to kiss him on the lips this time, lets Eddie taste himself before he reaches to fluff his hair—and it bounces right back into place, too, goddamn him—and pop the lock on the door as he shuffles off of Eddie’s thighs and lands on his feet the stretch just outside the car, groan when he gets his back to pop just right and wink at Eddie with a grin before he tugs his shirt into place, adjusts his own not-at-all-flagging hard-on, and shakes a familiar key ring in Eddie’s direction where, yes: he’s still boneless on the back seat catching his breath, and apparently still operating on delay because it takes arguably too-long of a time to notice that those keys are his, and Steve swiped them sometime between crawling on top of him and sucking him dry.

And he’s now on his way to the back of Eddie’s van to get the supplies they’d packed in there, that Eddie’d protested shoving into the backseat he’s currently occupying.

Jesus.

Eddie hauls himself up to sitting and squints at Steve’s ass—yep, his own keys are in the back pocket, hard to fucking miss—before he pulls himself out of the car and locks the doors behind him, then makes to help Steve unpack the little extras he’s prepared, scenery and shit made of cardboard and science fair trifolds. He slides up next to Steve, who’s delicately stacking the poster boards that’d been propped near the curve of the wheel-well, and reaches for the mass-ass camping backpack Steve had got for all his various supplies with enough separate zippers to keep all his dice and manuals and miniatures safe and separate and yes indeed: Steve had gotten so many fucking blowjobs that weekend as a thank you that Eddie wasn’t sure his jaw was gonna survive it, but hell if it wasn’t more than deserved for his gratitude.

“Careful,” Steve warns in the now with a glare when Eddie knocks the bulk of the bag against the other pieces as he drags it with enough force to sling it over his shoulder; “you’re gonna fold ‘em!”

“It’s fine,” Eddie huffs and shakes his head, grabs what he can of the smaller cardboard builds before he fears he’ll start dropping them; “makes ‘em look rugged.”

It’s only once he’s got almost too many stones piled into a hollow-box tavern mock-up that he notices how still and silent Steve’s gone, and looks up, concern first at the front of his mind but—

Then he sees Steve’s face. That’s his bitch face.

The concern kinda does stay in place but, it shifts significantly.

“We legitimately took two vehicles here because you said they couldn’t fit in the back without, like, creasing them or something,” Steve narrows his eyes at Eddie, tone flat.

“Ah ah ah,” Eddie picks up quick because this, this he actually has a very honest and ironclad answer to: “you may wish to revisit your recollections, my dearest beloved,” and Eddie risks falling flat on his face and crushing all the shit he worked so hard on just to smack a kiss to Steve’s frowning cheek while they’re still hidden from view by the van doors;

“I believe I said wouldn’t fit in your backseat,” as in, he refused to do so; “which was wholly true,” because he’s very bad at lying to Steve, established fact;

“Because I had other, much more important plans for your backseat,” and if he meets a little at the still-slightly-foggy windows, like only if you knew to look and suspect and Eddie did in fact knowvery nearly drop all his shit this time when he feels the sharp nudge of something long and thin against his ass.

He swings his head back around to see Steve holding all the poster boards in a stack, and swinging them back to hit Eddie’s ass again.

“What,” Steve deadpans; “you want them to look rugged.”

And Steve overtakes him, walks right past and fails at stifling a snort as he flicks the poster boards back against Eddie’s shins in the process and, and…

It’s like this, right: there is not a single red blooded human person with a pulse and a sex drive who hasn’t caught a glimpse of Steve Harrington and imagined, Eddie is convinced of that. The straight men and the lesbians, sure, they don’t imagine long, and they probably think about it all very differently, but Eddie doesn’t even think he’s being biased, here. Seeing Steve Harrington jumpstarts ideas what his hair smells like (sweet, so long as the aerosol’s faded), how his moles feel to touch (delicate, like little kisses of something that holds you before you’re born but these marks stick around; better question would be how they taste), whether there are flecks in his eyes (so many), how he treats his dates (The Harrington Experience was legendary, after all), what kind of husband he’d be—

Okay, fine, but Eddie was clear: just because he’s firm in his belief that everyone imagines, he never said he was some exception; that he didn’t ever imagine the same.

But Eddie was an exception, on at least some level, because when it came to thinking about dating, about relationships—which it almost never went that far, he wasn’t so delusional: because people like him didn’t get happily ever after, but then fuck—people like him didn’t get happily. People like him got maybe a number scrawled on a napkin for when you’re back in town, that even connected to a real person half the time; people like him got a preferred back alley less trash-drowned than the others, and people like him, no matter what other reliefs or tastes of something got collected, built up toward a word like real if only real-for-now: all of it was rooted in wholly logical fear, closer to fucking terror when the high faded and the booze left your system. People like him didn’t get…this.

Because Eddie thinks the bubble of joyful, chaotic bliss between his ribs has to be made of something heretofore unknown to man, because it’s squeezes through the spaces in the cage more and more every day for how big and full and bright it’s growing but it never bursts, just sends little current of warm and right and, and love through him to beat through his veins with every swell of the feeling, lasting whole-on until the next press of more against those ribs to let a new wave consume him. Eddie never dreamed it could be joyful. But more than that:

Eddie never dreamed, never even dared to have the passing thought, that he could have love, and it could be playful, like normal people, like smacking the ass of your partner with a stupid little poster board because he contrived to leave your backseat free for a car-quickie.

And for the way Steve glances back at him where he still stands a little dumbfounded and starstruck for it all, his heart throbbing heavy and filling up that bubble of blissfulness with every pump; the way Steve looks back at him not wholly different, wide-eyed and beaming awestruck, Eddie thinks maybe this is the Steve Experience, the real one, and maybe it surprises Steve to have found something so damn precious, too.

He trips over his own feet a little to catch up to Steve, who waits for him, and they walk together the rest of the way into the high school, shoulder brushing innocent but deliberate, Steve holding the door.

Eddie ducks his head and bites his lip, no hands free to hide behind his curls: it’s all just kinda…magic.

He glances at the clock when they close the drama room door behind them—Eddie has permission to use it, because Eddie had permission for a lot of things this year; the school wanted to be assholes about granting his degree while recovering, but the Feds forced them to let him try one more time, even if the technical limit was three-strikes, and they had to be fair, Eddie even had an overseer from the Department of Education to make sure everything was above board and, in all honesty, he likes that DoE better than…the other one.

But either way: the clock’s broken, still, hasn’t been fixed in his absence as he walks in for this first campaign after…after everything. He grabs Steve’s hand, checks his watch and nods; okay.

Okay, he can do this. This being setting up, and then…then also more than just the setting up.

But if he's learned anything these past months? One thing at a time, man. Baby steps.

He gets to work, moves smoother now than he honestly expected, getting most of his dexterity back, just more sore more often. He brought his baby Dragon Slayer to give the bard some extra oomph, finally able to hold his guitars long enough to play a short fucking set, thinks he’s close to a full length show when everyone’s ready, if they’re ready. Another thing he’s learned is some patience—at least, as it counts for someone like him. Who started with negative patience points, basically.

And so he flits around, sets up the table, asks for a hand up onto his long-missed throne just in case is balance fails him—he’s pretty confident, and he hasn’t wobbled in a bit but like hell he’s going to compromise the work he’s put in here to have everything just so; that Steve’s put it at his side because he knew as well as Eddie where things were meant to go and there it goes again, the warm joy filling up his heart to beat through his every limb—Steve’s hand in his as he climbs to the vantage and appraises the stage: perfect.

He sighs, and squeezes Steve’s hand as he drops down and sighs.

“Think they’ll be okay with it?” Eddie asks, a little breathless as leans back to survey the table again from the lower vantage point.

“Eds,” Steve keeps hold of his hand but swings up behind him, puts hands on his shoulders and grips tight and talks just below his ear: “they’re gonna be over the goddamn moon, man.”

And Eddie grins, because he’s, he thinks he did pretty good but he’s still, he’s just, it’s just…still—

“I,” he sucks at his bottom lip and rolls his weight back into Steve’s body behind him from right, almost like a lean into his warmth:

“It’s only a oneshot though,” which is true. And which is shorthand for all the ways he’s afraid this, the story, the set up, the concept—him, now, how he is and what if he’s less now, what if he can’t do this or maybe even worse: what if he can’t do it the same and then he’s a whole different kind failure because they know what he used to be and can see the decline, the knock-off version that’s left, he’s rusty and anxious, yeah, but what if he’s just not able anymore, even at his very best and they’ll smile and they’ll stay and they won’t say shit but Eddie will be able to see it, see the pity and the disappointment and—

“Which is better anyway because it’s almost Christmas break,” Steve reminds him, in fact, uses his own words; “you said yourself that two weeks between is a blow to the narrative momentum and compromises the structure of—“

And then Eddie’s pulling him from his hand, over the back of the chair and yeah, it pulls weird as shit and kinda hurts but it’s worth it, more than worth it to catch Steve’s lips just so, to suck at the sweet.

“I love when you’ve listened enough to my rambling that you can talk nerdy to me,” Eddie exhales with a unquenchable grin and Steve matches it, Eddie relishes the feeling of the stretch of his lips for it;

“I always listen to your rambling,” Steve says like it’s simple fact and Eddie can’t help but chuckle, kinda marveling.

“Doesn’t bore you?” Eddie asks; thinks he knows the answer as he strikes a thumb along Steve’s cheekbone.

“It matters to you, and that’s matters to me,” Steve sighs, leans into Eddie’s gentle touch and says it all so simple. “You love it,” and Steve reaches, catches Eddie’s hand now and kisses his knuckles before he goes to playing with Eddie’s rings and murmurs low:

“You look good in love,” and Steve’s not meeting his eyes because they’re not talking about a game at all.

But that means Eddie isn’t going to stand for not looking Steve straight on, letting him see the full extent of how Eddie’s heart belongs to him in pull, before he draws Steve in for a gentler, deeper kiss as he whispers between their lips:

“Flatterer.”

And Steve laughs a little, kisses back as tender but volleys the point like a pro:

“Don’t think I don’t know you asked Lucas to teach you about basketball.”

Eddie pouts dramatically, but it has very little effect when their lips are still pressed close.

“Little fuckin’ snitch,” Eddie huffs, and glares at the seat set aside for the elder Sinclair; “his character dies early, then, that’s handy.”

“He didn’t say shit,” Steve chides, grinning, nuzzling the nip of his nose to Eddie’s; “which is how I knew. He’s the only one of those dipshits that could keep their mouth shut. Plus the obvious option, in terms of experience, but then suddenly you know what a fucking free throw is?” Steve tsks playfully. “Does not take a Dustin Henderson to puzzle that one out, babe.”

And Eddie does smile at that, can’t keep up a ruse of annoyance as he swings Steve around by his hand to hold him to his side over the arm of the chair, leaning into him maybe a little too heavy, probably a little too telling but: Steve would pick up on his mood, read his mind either way.

More rewritten rules, and that’s shit.

“Hey,” Steve leans and kisses the crown of Eddie’s head through his curls; “they’re gonna love it.”

“But it’s,” Eddie starts, because he’s still unsure, even if the doubts are shrinking with every ounce of warmth bleeding into him Steve’s side pressed against him.

“They,” Steve cuts in, and squeezes Eddie closer; “are gonna love it.”

And it’s so…absolute. Steve doesn’t even allow space for it to be questioned. Eddie…feels really fucking grateful for that certain hand, just now. It steadies him. Helps him breathe deeper.

Then Steve’s climbing over him, settling in Eddie’s lap with his legs spread around him, knees hooking near the bends of Eddie’s own.

“I know you don’t like dwelling on it,” Steve’s gaze flits all around Eddie’s face; “but Eds, this is as good as you’ve ever done, if I understand any of it,” and Eddie reaches up to tuck Steve’s hair behind his ear even if it’s not styled to lie there, a comfort and a reassurance—Eddie loves how much Steve’s come to actually get so much of the game.

“But the fact that you’re still here, to do it,” and Steve’s tone doesn’t get more serious, but the beat of his heart bleeds into it, dips extra solemn before he tries to smile, and doesn’t even fail the attempt: “fuck, man, you could ask them to play fucking Yahtzee with the big dice and they’d be over the moon.”

And Eddie? He fucking snorts. Full body, fall straight into Steve chest and cackles.

“I,” he tries to catch his breath; “it feels kinda sacrilege but,” and he shakes his head between Steve’s legs because he can:

“I kinda want to figure out the rules for Yahtzee with a d20.”

“Maybe for April Fool’s,” Steve suggests and it sets Eddie off all over again.

“Holy fuck, that’s insane and brilliant,” Bevause it is, but then Eddie breathes deep, settles, and he’s still held tight to Steve’s chest so the only thing he can say is:

“I am so in love with you.”

And then the only thing he can do is thread a hand around the back of Steve’s head, tug at the hair and kiss him so goddamn hard. With everything he’s got.

“Also,” Steve adds, a little extra breathy when they break for air, foreheads tipped together; “don’t act like there’s not a whole notebook with ideas for the full campaign you're planning to start for them in January.”

“It’s epic,” Eddie agrees, but like even that’s not foolproof, not quite enough; “it has to be, because it’ll be my last—“ and Eddie doesn’t love saying it out loud. Admitting that he is on the road to graduation, ‘87 is gonna be his year, but leaving this, leaving all of them—

“You know they’re family, right?” and of course Steve feels it emanating from him, knows him that well, reaches to hold his face, to cup his cheeks and draw his gaze.

“You’re graduating,” and there’s a thrill in how he says it so sure, a fact to plan your life around, that he’s planning around, for the two of them; “and you’ll pass the club on, but the kids are our family,” and Eddie knows, he knows but…hearing that, too, is something he needs, means something so big for the undeniable truth of it, the way they’ll all live and grow and never not be in each other’s lives no matter where they end up—

“And I think your friends are warming up to me, especially the guys in the band,” Steve adds, hopeful, like there’s a question—

“The band adores you,” Eddie says without hesitation. “Dougie feels weird saying as much, and Gareth’s confused about it,” he concedes, because those boys aren’t great with emotion generally; “but they kinda think the world of you.”

Steve takes a beat to look dumbstruck, then his smile, so cute and little and…oh he’s gorgeous. Eddie wants to eat him, Eddie wants to tuck him straight inside his chest.

“That’s,” Steve swallows, soft and beautiful; “that’s good.”

“The rest of the group would probably marry your ass just for the baked goods,” Eddie tags on with a grin; “so they’re sold on you too,” and when Steve eyes him dubiously Eddie snorts and doubles down:

“Once they know you better, you’ll have ‘em asking you to prom before you know it.”

Steve chuckles and shakes his head, holds Eddie a little tighter before he replies : “The only person I’m saying yes to,” and he speaks so low: “is already right here.”

And Eddie…Eddie doesn’t think he’s being entirely delusional to think that answer’s speaking to more than…prom.

And Eddie can’t help but kiss him more, pull him close, deeper, chest to chest and devour—

“Nope,” Steve pulls back suddenly, and Eddie whines; “we agreed,” he eyes Eddie sternly, holds back his attempt to renegade with a palm on his chest: “unless we have a full fifteen minutes before they show or—“

“A locked door,” Eddie sighs; “yes.” That was the rule. Neither of them relished being caught in the act by the D&D club.

“Won’t be the first time I’ve DM’d with a boner because of you,” Eddie shrugs, and Steve’s eyebrow reaches impressive heights.

“Told you I had a crush forever,” Eddie grins, and just shrugs again because really, that’s it.

And Eddie didn’t intend for the truth to have the effect that is does but when Steve grabs onto him at the hips and tilts just so, fucking growls—

“Fuck it,” and presses down a little, like he’s surveying the lay of the fucking land and then grinds hard and gives his estimation: “think you’re close enough,” well.

It’s not like Eddie is complaining about breaking their rule, here. As if he would ever.

“Holy fuck,” Eddie gasps as Steve crawls off of him and starts to undo his jeans, again: “am now, baby.”

And Steve smirks so fucking sly; the both know they’re on borrowed time and they’re pushing the boundaries of getting caught but, but—

“An exhibitionist streak,” Steve purrs as he works Eddie out to the root of him, holds him as his dick twitches hard; “I like it.”

“Don’t act like it wasn’t obvious,” Eddie grits through clenched teeth, his head thrown back; he cannot help it—

“Not for this,” Steve counters, but ducks to lick at Eddie’s tip, judge his angle as Eddie rasps:

“Only ‘cause it’s not safe, here,” at the school, in the town, in the whole goddamn world, with the way he is—

“But I’m always safe with you.”

Eddie doesn’t even mean for it to come out, let alone as starry-eyed and reverent as it still manages while he’s already panting but: again with the rules, and how they’re different, now.

Also Eddie cannot lie to Steve to save his life, so: also that.

But it does its job, whether intentional or otherwise and between blinks Eddie’s dick is at the back of Steve’s throat, twitching, needy and desperate like he didn’t just come down in less than an hour ago. And he spills quick enough to be laughable, really, given the givens.

“Holy Jesus fuck,” he gasps with his head tipped back against the wooden line of his drama-prop throne.

“Good?” Steve asks, innocent as hell save for the way he licks his lips as he watches Eddie through his lashes, and gives himself away: he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“I think that answers it’s fucking self, Steven,” Eddie huffs, still too breathless for more than a shove but Steve laughs, stands and straightens his shirt while Eddie zips himself back up and tries to, you know. Breathe air correctly?

The fuck, man.

Then, once his pulse has calmed so he can hear the world around him, even if he’s still floating on that hazy orgasm high even a quickie with Steve send him on, he hears it:

Rubber soles on cheap-ass school tiles.

Fuck. Fuck, yeah, okay, Eddie sees it. They had that rule for a reason.

The quickly-approaching shitheads being the reason.

But Steve? Head enforcer of said rule? He’s cool as a cucumber, pats Eddie’s shoulder with a smirk that Eddie tries to scowl at but fails, still too up on that come-high, then he presses that smirk against Eddie’s temple and melts him all over again, the devil:

“I’ll go ask them to help haul in the drinks,” he shakes his head like it’s nothing, all in a day’s work; “give you an extra couple seconds,” and he nods down at Eddie’s thankfully limp-dicked crotch before he kisses Eddie’s cheek this time and squeezes his thigh to Eddie’s involuntary moan:

“Love you,” and then he’s striding toward the door at the far end of the room.

“How’d you learn to do that?” Eddie calls when he’s halfway there and Steve stills, turns with a tilted head.

“Hmm?”

“Have a stiffy in those fucking jeans,” Bevause Eddie could feel it, and can squint to see, and Steve hasn’t come once this afternoon, oh god, he’s a horrible selfish boyfriend isn’t he, but also he’s curious to a painful, near lethal fault so, so:

“How do you do it, and still strut like that?”

Steve turns fully for a second, crosses his arms and surveys Eddie from the distance like actual royalty sizing up their hoard. Tickled fucking pink . And then he’s walking to the door again, but now before tossing over his shoulder:

“I’m not the only one who’s been stuck with a hard-on in this shithole and had to manage the rest of a lunch period after somebody, I dunno,” he shrugs, but his grin’s too sharp; “spent his own strutting over the top of my food.”

And then, like the demon spawn he is, he leaves Eddie all alone to process the implications of that and not get painfully hard again, and this time end up stuck with it.

“Fuck me, you can’t,” Eddie splutters as he makes it to the door, palms the handle; “you can’t just drop that bomb on me and leave, I—“

Then he grins, steps through the opening, and lets the latch catch behind him, leaving Eddie open-mouthed with far too tight a fit at the crotch of his jeans.

“Steve!” he calls out for absolute fucking nothing, the room’s unintentionally almost soundproof and, and: fuck. He glances around a little desperately.

At least his DM screen will hide the damning bulge if it decides to stick around longer than Steve can keep the gremlins at bay.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson

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#love this!#steddie #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson

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dreamwatch · 2 days

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Do you have any tips (or previous posts) about how to write a young person who’s first-time cane user? This one is for a character who escapes a lifetime of being experimented on, and learns in the aftermath of being rescued that this rather compromised her ability to walk well again. I’ve written characters with other mobility devices for getting around. But never canes. I myself am physically disabled but have never needed anything like these before. I’m always eager to learn.

Hi!

If your character is a first time cane user, here's some things that could happen:

She will need to learn how to walk with the cane first. When you're starting, it's easy to mess up (though it could be my dyspraxia speaking) and overfocus on how you should walk because you're just getting used to it. She could randomly stop and correct her gait, or look down a lot to check if she's still doing the motion (left arm and right leg forward, or the other way around).

She's probably gonna drop that thing a lot. Especially if she has a weaker grip in the cane hand - now, I don't have this problem (the opposite, rather) - but the overall thing is a really common occurrence for most of us. Walking and hit the smallest pebble imaginable? Cane on the ground, somehow. Tried putting it against the wall or table? It's on the ground. And then you need to reach for it... it's a struggle sometimes.

If she's not helped in picking the cane, she will spend some time figuring out what grip and height are comfortable for her. (Grip depends on personal preference, no one's preference has ever been the doorknob handle, height is generally to the person's wrist from the ground up.) I think that this could be an interesting opportunity to talk about disabled communities - maybe she's frustrated with the process and goes to an older (more experienced) cane user to help her?

If it's during the winter, her hand is gonna be freezing - and the opposite in the summer - and she might not be prepared for it. The handle can get HOT and it can be an issue. Depending on what her actual disability is, she might try switching which hand to hold it in. If she's able to do that, another character could warm up her cold hand :)

The first couple of times walking with a cane are an Experience. You feel way better, but also everyone is suddenly staring. Some people care about that, some don't. But it can be somewhat overwhelming either way.

Spatial awareness is gonna suck at first. She will bump into what feels like everything with the cane. Especially doorframes. It's always doorframes for some reason. Or mess up and have her cane slip down because she hasn't realized how close to the curb she was.

She will hit her shin. It will hurt.

She's probably going to be speedy with that thing! Getting a cane is like getting a speed boost. Without it, I have episodes where I'm extremely slow (my highest, extreme-pain speed would be slower than a person walking very casually) and with it, I'm faster than a lot of able-bodied people! It's fun and she would have fun with it.

She will not know what to do with the cane when she doesn't need it. For me, using backpacks always cause issues because I don't know how to hold it without dropping it, but I also need to swap hands, something gets stuck on the handle... it's a whole process that takes a comical amount of time at first. Same when going to the public bathroom, where are you putting it when you aren't using it...? It's a lot of trial and error and a lot of "eww, my cane just touched the dirtiest surface humanly imaginable".

In the real world, people are (overly) interested in young cane user's business and tend to stare a lot. Now, it doesn't have to be like this in your story, but it's often just an annoying part of life. Your character might feel awkward and feel like she needs to explain herself, but this goes away after some time. You just get desensitized after a while.

In the real world, people are sometimes interested and nice about it! For example, a lot of older people can be insecure about using a cane, exactly like younger people. I've heard stories about older people asking younger users where they got their cane from, how are they so confident with it, etc. Another opportunity for a disabled community moment!

I hope that my suggestions were helpful, it's been a while since I was a first-time cane user so I wrote down what I still remember, haha.

Mod Sasza

Hi!

I agree with Sasza on pretty much every point and wanted to add some things from my own experience.

It's really, really hard to hold both a cane and an umbrella at the same time. Sometimes I'll give up and get wet. Sometimes I'll give up and store the cane. She might do either of those, depending on what she hates more: being wet or walking without the cane. Or she could get a raincoat if that works for her.

Speaking of umbrellas, sometimes you need your umbrella and you need your cane and you also need a free hand. This Sucks. What I do for this sometimes (and maybe she or other people have better, smarter, more useful solutions than this) is shove my umbrella into my shirt or backpack strap or something, so the umbrella is Held Up by it. This is not very effective, and will not last long. But if I need to look up a map on my phone or adjust something on my clothes or get my keys, it can work. Sort of.

Just like mod Sasza said, people will take interest in your cane, younger and older alike. I've had people of all ages compliment my cane (it has flowers) as well as people of all ages tell me I'm too young to need a cane or ask what's wrong with me. An older woman once asked me where I got my cane as she had been wanting a 'pretty' one, and that was a nice moment.

She might develop a new awareness of mobility aid users. When you're new at using one and trying to figure it out, you're probably going to be frustrated, because it's a new skill like any other. But it might make her (like it made me) notice more people using canes. It's not that I never saw them before, but that they were more common than I ever thought, and I never would have noticed how common it was if I hadn't had to slow down and practice my skill.

Cane tips get dirty, and cane tips wear out. These both depend on where your character is using her cane (outdoors vs indoors, scratchy asphalt vs smooth wood) as well as how often. A cane with a worn-out rubber tip really sucks and is more unstable and if the cane is made of aluminum and the tip is worn out and you hit the cane the wrong way, you can damage the cane. Ask me how I know.

That's all I can think of right now that I had to learn to deal with when I started! As you can see I still don't have a solution to the rain thing and it's been like two and a half years...

- mod Sparrow

#writing resources #disability #writblr #writeblr

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