greatunironic
okay sure
writing blog for greatunironic || she/her, currently into star wars + stranger things, recovering californian || prompts are dope, i don't care for these new nazis
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title: whatever fits together
summary: "There wasn’t a lot of time in the days that follow after that to think about it, to really turn it over in his head and hold that hanky in his hands and think, Maybe —? There wasn’t a lot of time in general, for Eddie, who’d been walking a knife’s edge of guilt and dark thoughts and shame and fear, and he was about to die, he figured, he knew, so he could die still pretending he knew exactly who he was, black hanky, left pocket, pretty boy in tears enthusiast, and not whatever the fuck it was that Steve Harrington had cracked open beneath his breastbone." After the world doesn’t end, Eddie has a few realizations about himself, and the things that he wants.
EXCERPT:
He thinks about Steve handing his bat off to him as he was about to go off again, Eddie feeling uncomfortably (hotly, deliciously) like somebody’s wife. He thinks about how their fingertips had touched and how Steve had said, “Do I need to say it again?”
“Say what again?” Eddie had asked.
“Don’t be a hero,” he had said, and Eddie had sucked on his teeth, shrugged. Their fingers had still been touching, wrapped around the hilt of the bat.
“I mean,” he’d said. “You don’t think I learned my lesson?”
He thinks about how huge Steve’s eyes had been when he’d said, “I think you’re a lot braver than people give you credit for.”
Eddie had swallowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah, so,” Steve had said. “Don’t try anything fuckin’ cute again, okay?”
“I mean, no promises,” Eddie had said, trying for a joke. “Just look at me!”
“I am.”
“What?”
“Looking at you.”
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title: whatever fits together
summary: "There wasn’t a lot of time in the days that follow after that to think about it, to really turn it over in his head and hold that hanky in his hands and think, Maybe —? There wasn’t a lot of time in general, for Eddie, who’d been walking a knife’s edge of guilt and dark thoughts and shame and fear, and he was about to die, he figured, he knew, so he could die still pretending he knew exactly who he was, black hanky, left pocket, pretty boy in tears enthusiast, and not whatever the fuck it was that Steve Harrington had cracked open beneath his breastbone." After the world doesn’t end, Eddie has a few realizations about himself, and the things that he wants.
EXCERPT:
He thinks about Steve handing his bat off to him as he was about to go off again, Eddie feeling uncomfortably (hotly, deliciously) like somebody’s wife. He thinks about how their fingertips had touched and how Steve had said, “Do I need to say it again?”
“Say what again?” Eddie had asked.
“Don’t be a hero,” he had said, and Eddie had sucked on his teeth, shrugged. Their fingers had still been touching, wrapped around the hilt of the bat.
“I mean,” he’d said. “You don’t think I learned my lesson?”
He thinks about how huge Steve’s eyes had been when he’d said, “I think you’re a lot braver than people give you credit for.”
Eddie had swallowed. “Oh.”
“Yeah, so,” Steve had said. “Don’t try anything fuckin’ cute again, okay?”
“I mean, no promises,” Eddie had said, trying for a joke. “Just look at me!”
“I am.”
“What?”
“Looking at you.”
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predictably, new pearl jam got my in my ed levy feelings at 5am.
thinking about eddie, pushing 60, family man, hair line in full retreat, angry again (always) at a system that only seems designed to fuck up, to leave people behind, deciding to write one last album, a return to the sound that start it all.
(says it’s his last album, but steve rolls his eyes, says, we’ll all believe that when we see it.)
(eddie sniffs, says, well i’m an artist you know how fickle we are.)
and thinking about steve, on the edge of retirement, who never followed eddie on tour, only came to shows + weekends when work allows, finally coming with him this time.
with bean, too, home schooled by steve because robin + madchen offered to keep them for a few months but they’ll be damned if their dads are off touring america + they don’t get in on this action.
and anyway: this has always been steve’s dream: a family, a road trip, and it’s smaller, a different time line, older, but like the woman said, years ago — he’d do it all again, everything, even the monsters.
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concept:
everyone experiences a time loop in their life. the duration varies, from person to person, loop to loop — the length of the loop window itself, and the times it, well, loops. the shortest window on record was a ten minute loop (the woman who experienced that nearly went mad, repeating those minutes for months) and the longest loop window was two years.
there are people, too, it’s said, who barely even know they were in a loop: two or three times, and a sense of deja vu.
but everyone knows that it must have been there loop, that moment, that feeling; because everyone experiences a loop, one way or another.
statistically, it’s most likely you’ll experience your loop sometime between the ages of 18 to 45. it’s rare that the loop happens before someone reaches puberty but not unheard of: only three in the whole of record history, though scholars allow there could be more that weren’t reported, not noticed.
the oldest recorded looper was a 92, and lived two weeks for five years. he died a few days later.
there are lots of theories about the loops, whole schools of thought devoted to why humans experience time like this, once in their lives. people spend their whole lives studying it, hoping maybe they’ll spend their own loop looking at it (though of course what you build in your loop is always left behind). books are written, movies are made, time loops romanticized and made more beautiful than they are.
because here is the thing: the point of the time loop isn’t to save or prevent something: it’s to embrace the things we cannot change.
they don’t know it until much later, but nancy, jonathan, and joyce have a rare semi-shared loop: will’s disappearance, the week after. it lasts longer for nancy than it does for the others, unable to stop trying to save barb.
hopper’s always been surprised he didn’t relive sara’s death: instead, it’s the moment he chooses to give eleven up for will, and the rest of them.
max experiences the third and fourth of july, 1985, over and over and over and —
eleven spends an eternity in that desert bunker, though really it’s only two days.
steve only realizes he’s in his loop when he goes to bed the night after they bury eddie munson in an unmarked and he wakes up next to nancy wheeler in 1983.
already too late for barb, he thinks, mind spinning, palms clammy. so what’s it gonna be?
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title: dear steve
summary: a letter, from one (almost) dead kid to another. (an eating in the underworld interlude)
excerpt:
Your headstone is really nice. I don’t know if you care about that kind of thing. Cared. Maybe you would’ve. It’s nice. I go see it sometimes. Not in like a weird stalker way, okay, just in a — I go see it sometimes. Your parents fuckin sucked but they at least got you a nice headstone. Someone leaves flowers there. I think maybe it’s Dustin’s mom. Or maybe Lucas’s.
Honestly could be anyone. Except your parents, those assholes are long gone, guess we have that in common sort of.
Everyone thinks you’re a hero, you know? That’s what the papers all said.
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title: dear steve
summary: a letter, from one (almost) dead kid to another. (an eating in the underworld interlude)
excerpt:
Your headstone is really nice. I don’t know if you care about that kind of thing. Cared. Maybe you would’ve. It’s nice. I go see it sometimes. Not in like a weird stalker way, okay, just in a — I go see it sometimes. Your parents fuckin sucked but they at least got you a nice headstone. Someone leaves flowers there. I think maybe it’s Dustin’s mom. Or maybe Lucas’s.
Honestly could be anyone. Except your parents, those assholes are long gone, guess we have that in common sort of.
Everyone thinks you’re a hero, you know? That’s what the papers all said.
#stranger things#max mayfield#steve harrington#eating in the underworld#just a quick return in honor of the series hitting 500 bookmarks the other day
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eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.
so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.
he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.
because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.
eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.
(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)
when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”
then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?
he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.
“you’re alive,” she says.
eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”
“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”
he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.
“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.
“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—
“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.
“maybe not.”
“don’t lie.”
“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”
“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”
“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”
“speaking from experience?”
“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”
“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“
“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”
“at the frozen four.”
“yeah, sure, that too.”
“what?”
“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”
“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”
“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.
eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”
“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”
“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.
the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”
“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”
steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“
“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“
“so,” says steve.
“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.
“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”
“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”
“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”
“coach! go time!”
“yeah?” he asks.
“yeah.”
“COACH!”
he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”
“pick me up in twenty?”
“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.
someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”
with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.
“damn,” he says quietly.
“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.
“how long have you been there?” he asks.
she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”
“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”
“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”
a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.
#stranger things#eddie munson#steve harrington#steddie#rockstar au#hockey au#two great tastes that taste great together tbh#cross posted on twitter#might clean this up later + pop it on ao3
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title: (i'll keep) my tongue behind my teeth
summary: “It’s some young guy,” she said. “Or, like, not super young. Our age, I think. Maybe a little older? From out of town. Or he is now, but used to be from here.”
“What? Who is?”
“That bought the Radioshack. Turning it into a bookstore? Some guy,” Robin continued. “That’s why Vickie even knows. They were trying to keep it all hush-hush because he didn’t want to buy it without, like, zoning permissions so he could do a full scale remodel to turn it into a bookstore. Otherwise he didn’t see a point, or so Vickie said Mrs Wheeler said.”
Or: Steve owns a movie theater, and a bookstore moves in across the street.
#stranger things#fic#steddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#the small town movie theater + bookstore au#explicit fic#she’s here at last
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got tagged by @sharpbutsoft for the first lines of the writing patterns, and @jewishrat420 for the last lines of the writing patterns, so just gonna smush them all together here!
(also not gonna tag anyone because, as usual, i've been absent + idk who's done what -- so if you haven't, and you want to, consider you're self tagged!!)
Writing Patterns 🏁
rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there’s a pattern! / list the last line of the same 10 fics you shared opening lines for and see if there's a pattern!
“So, you gonna put out tonight or what?” asked Robin from where she was reclined on his bed, painting her toenails and drinking his pop. // “Yeah,” said Eddie. He kissed him again, even softer, sweeter. “Yeah, a promise.” (the valentine experience)
It started when Eddie said, “Seems kind of like a lot of bullshit that I’m about to die a virgin, man,” and Steve’s brain sort of spun out — because what? How? Eddie? He was a what? — as they sat in the middle of the woods, hotboxing the beemer in the late afternoon of what very well might be the day they died. // Eddie pressed his thumb to the corner of Steve’s mouth, said, “Guess we’d better live then, if we’re gonna go to Nationals or whatever,” and Steve said back, “Cool,” and then, smiling, Eddie replaced his thumb with his mouth. (in the backseat of your (boy)friend's car)
Eddie wakes up to sixty-eight unread text messages in his group chat with the boys. // “I mean,” says Eddie, and rolls him, laughing, over into his sheets for round two. (they're going to send us to prison for jerks)
At this point, Eddie’s life had really just sort of become an Aristotelian confluence of events. // “So gimme a sec, baby, and we’ll see if we can’t get this migraine sorted, okay?” (i give myself to you (as long as we move on the floor))
There’s laughter coming from the living room still as Eddie ushers Steve through the open door with a gentle hand at the small of his back. // For now, Eddie tucks his face into the soft, quiet juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder, holds him close, and breathes, and it’s enough. It’s perfect. (your house is waiting)
On July Fifth — though she learns that after — Heather wakes up in a hospital bed. // “Yeah,” she says, and she means it. “I think we did.” (saint of ongoingness)
Hop buys a house in the Berkshires, after. // He thinks he’s going to like him. (these traces of available light)
November 1st, 1986 | Eddie, Well, man, you fuckin called it: fully got “gang-pressed” or whatever into hosting a Halloween party for the twerps last night. // “Well,” he repeats, the sun on his skin, the future like the ocean stretching out before them, way out and past the horizon. “Here’s to firsts then.” (scheming on a thing)
Ever since they walked out of Hawkins Middle for the last time in June, Lucas has been thinking about what high school is going to be like. // Maybe Max will show up for it, if he asks, he thinks. Maybe they all will. (zen, and the art of three point throws)
Getting shot, Eddie thinks, sucks balls, and not in the fun way. // With his hand still on his wrist, and Steve’s smile small and warm across from him, he’s kind of leaning towards a happy ending. Why not hope for the best for once? (three inches above the floor)
#fic#stranger things#tag games#first lines#last lines#apparently i like some in medias res#and ending on some dialogue#also hopeful open endings i think
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six sentence sunday
Did he hate Steve’s predilection for bright colors, for mismatched furniture, for his lack of coherent style? The Shire was so cohesive, so cozy, felt so much like a vision. Steve’s home was just filled with stuff that had caught his eye, his attention, that made him think of his friends and the little family he stumbled into by accident and chance. Robin said Steve liked stuff, because his parents never let him have things, and he wondered if Eddie would think it was too much — if he was too much. A lot of people said Steve was too much: old girlfriends, old boyfriends, teammates, coaches, teachers, his parents. It’d break his heart, he thought, if Eddie felt the same, but it wouldn’t surprise him.
(from the secret fourth thing, aka the small town movie theater + bookstore au, dropping next week)
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tagged by @sharpbutsoft for the last line game!
rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (for any work of fiction) and tag as many people as there are words
“Those don’t sound like sacrifices for a job you love, though,” said Steve, quietly.
i’ve been mia lately so idk where folks are/who has done this recently so if you see this + you want to, consider yourself tagged!!
#wip game#the secret fourth thing#which has recently been revealed over on the bird app as#the small town movie theater + bookstore au#stranger things
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title: the valentine experience
summary: "Mike had scoffed, again, and Steve tried not to be insulted when he’d said, “Steve? Why Steve?”
“Because Steve’s had more Valentine’s than any of us combined!” Dustin had said.
“Yeah, because he’s a serial monogamist —”
“Shut the fuck up,” Steve had said. “Also, who taught you those words?”
Eddie had teetered his hand back and forth in the air. “Personally, I think there’s a certain stolen RV confession negates that, but —”
“You shut the fuck up right now even faster —”"
In which Mike and Eddie have a bet, Steve is the victim of circumstance, and he's not super mad about it.
#stranger things#steve harrington#eddie munson#steddie#steve/eddie#fic#explicit fic#unhinged valentines day shenanigans tbh
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I am so sorry to bother you with this stupid question, but Bisan has asked for a complete stop in economic activity. Can I still donate to help Palestinians or is it better to avoid any transactions for the week ? Thank you so much for what you're doing
hello anon. don't apologise, you're a breath of fresh air after the recent visitors in my inbox. I think a slightly more accurate description of Bisan’s ask is to stop or minimise all economic activity not in direct support of Palestine. Now more than ever, I would encourage people to donate to escape funds for Palestinians, to direct aid organisations like CareforGaza and the PCRF, and to buy e-sims as they’re running low.
Below I’ve compiled a list of resources below but this is definitely just a small sample size of what you can do to help during this strike. This post here is an extremely comprehensive resource that I’d recommend you have a look at.
credible organisations that are doing work on the ground in Palestine:
Care for Gaza:non-profit charity that distributes money, food and other resources directly to families in Gaza.They maintain a regular presence on Twitter and Instagram. You can donate to them via Paypal here.
PCRF / Palestine Children's Relief Fund: non-profit organisation that distributes essential food and resources to families in Gaza. Most recently, they delivered 30 tons of vital medicine, and 82,000 pounds of flour.
Medical Aid For Palestinians: deploys medical teams to treat Palestinians suffering under Israel's malicious bombardments.
Donate e-sims to Palestine: massive post with tutorials and relevant links, with discount codes included in the post and in the replies.
help people leave palestine (donate what you can)
Help a Family Evacuate Gaza (GoGetFunding)
Save Sanaa and her Family (Gofundme)
Save Amjad Saher and his family (Gofundme)
Help a family of 13 escape Gaza (Gofundme)
Help a Palestinian children's book illustrator save her family of 12 (Gofundme)
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(glittery bushbaby eyes) the secret fourth thing….
i just finished the outline for this, and am tucking into writing, so please enjoy a snippet under the cut with absolutely zero context lol:
That was where Steve had gotten hauled, Cafe Sara, that was. He’d been dropped into a corner booth and their mysterious short order cook, Dmitri, had piled what was probably at least twenty dollars worth of hashbrowns on a tray in front of Steve, along with a fruit cup and an entire pot of black coffee. Hop had pancakes and a side of way too much bacon, which Joyce promptly appeared to snatch half of before she dropped a kiss to Steve’s head and disappeared again, sighing almost inaudibly to Steve’s hearing aids when Hop had decided his opening gambit was, “Kid, you need to get your fucking shit together.”
She’d left them to it, though, and Steve had glowered at Hop through a mouthful of hashbrowns. “First of all, go fuck yourself.”
“Yeah, right back at you, bud —”
“I think I’m kind of allowed to have my shit as not together as I want,” he’d concluded.
He’d gotten a particularly hairy eyeball in return for that. Steve had stuffed more hashbrowns in his mouth.
The thing about living in a small town that Steve had forgotten in his comparatively short time away was this: everyone knew everyone else business. It was kind of like being part of a group chat you’d never actually asked to be a part of, and Steve knew that Hopper felt the same, if not stronger. But it didn’t preclude him from wielding what information he knew about Steve like a broadsword, and Hop certainly knew quite a bit.
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Ello friend! Longtime fan of your work here, i know this wasnt on the list for the wip game, but curious to know if you still have any plans or interest in completing your wishbone series? Totally cool if not, just hadnt heard anything about it for a while, so I wasnt sure if the pegging continuation was still happening. Hope all is well and you have a lovely evening! Thank you so much for your kindness and generosity in sharing your work with us <3
thank you for the lovely message!! i do still think about wishbone, so i would love to continue that series a little further -- there's a fic idea from joyce's pov for the 'verse, as well as the pegging story. the joyce one will be significantly more heavy vis a vis the content and ideas explored, but part of what intrigued me with the idea of stevie is what her character would experience transposed onto steve's arc. the pegging story, conversely, would just be a raunchy good time.
and yes it's not a wip option but i do have google docs for both of them in the concept stages, and because you're so nice (and also not the first to ask i've just been avoidant), have a snippet of each below the cut!!
It wasn’t really Joyce’s place to be lecturing anyone on having unprotected sex on the eve of the apocalypse — that would be a real pot calling the kettle black sort of situation — but she remembered being nineteen and doing dumb shit all the same. She had the great kids and terrible divorce to show for it.
and
He’d just stared at her, charmingly flushed, and stammered out that sure they could try it sometime but he didn’t, uh, didn’t mind a little mess if that was the problem, and Stevie had never been with a guy before who said he didn’t mind so she’d said okay. And, turned out, she liked getting fucked on her period same as Eddie liked fucking her on it, which was to say: a whole fucking lot.
So the offer had been on the table for her, at least, and he hadn’t picked it up then or even after; and it just didn’t occur to her that she could, like, flip it and reverse it or whatever.
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would love to hear about this valentines exchange
the winter exchange i did over on the bird app is doing a valentines one, and i had such a blast with that i figured i’d go for another round! this one is still in planning stages (i’m currently working through the outline) but i have a little bit written so far, which i’ll share, once again, below the cut!!
“So, you gonna put out tonight or what?” asked Robin from where she was reclined on his bed, painting her toenails and drinking his pop.
Steve, halfway in his closet, rolled his eyes and dignified her with the only response he could — a stiff middle finger over his shoulder — while he used his other hand to paw through his polos and button downs. He wasn’t sure why he was in a real “hate everything he owns” kind of funk, especially for tonight, but here he fuckin’ was.
“That is neither a yes nor a no,” she said.
“It’s a fuck you, which I think is fine,” he said. He grabbed a charcoal gray one way at the back and jammed it over his head. It was a little tight across his chest and belly; he couldn’t remember the last time he wore it. He was honestly surprised it had made the move to the little double-wide on the lake Hopper helped him pick out after his parent’s place cracked straight down the middle with the earthquakes, let alone survived, you know, the earthquakes to make that move. He asked, “Does this look okay?”
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everything in its right place pls?
this bad boy is definitely a lower on the wip list but it holds a special place in my heart, and it's all for the same reason: it's the start of another series of interconnected au fics with steve at the heart of it. it is also another scrapped big bang idea, mainly because i knew it was going to grow into something much larger. and if you recognize where the title comes from, you'll be able to tell just what au it is before you read the snippet below!! (and the end of the snippet won't be quite as alarming...)
It is a small, private affair. The Harringtons, when they’d moved to town years ago with Danny’s work, had kept mostly to themselves: Lane had never been the friendliest of women, desperately shy and content to spend her time in the company of their baby boy only; and Danny himself had never had time to make friends, between the demands of his research and the demands of his family. Neither of them had minded this, and Steve had loved it — loved his parents’s affection and single-minded attention, their devotion. They were all each other needed, and they liked it that way.
So when Steve gets sick, there’s really no one for Danny to tell besides Martin and Sam and Cathy.
So when Steve gets worse, there’s Lane, alone in the house with their only son, and Danny, in his lab, desperate for a cure, Martin and Sam helping when they can.
So when Steve dies, there’s just the five of them, Cathy with her arms around Lane’s shoulders, and the little casket that some nameless cemetery worker is lowering into a hole in the ground.
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