#steddie adjacent

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Eddie eventually makes Steve his own battle vest, but with all of Steve's favorite bands.

The back panel is an old Queen concert t-shirt. Robin helped pick out cute buttons and pins, including an ice cream cone, a BMW logo, and a baseball bat (of course)

But Steve's favorite parts are where the kids wrote their names and little doodles in between the patches.

[starshideurfics]

Captive, Captivating, Part Five

Part 4

into the steddie-verse, omegaverse, dubcon, while being sickly sweet, mpreg, pregnant sex, mdni 🔞

They return to Rome with little fanfare, Geta focused on keeping Stepan safe from prying eyes until they are ready to announce their mating. And with his condition so readily apparent, Geta is even more vigilant, the couple entering the city at night and in disguise.

He has to bribe some palace servants and threaten others to make it to his rooms unnoticed, but it’s worth it to finally help his mate get comfortable in a proper bed, this mattress so much bigger and more luxurious than the one in his tent. Exhausted from their travels, especially the push this final day, Stepan struggles to remove his tunica. Geta steps in to help, and freezes with his hand pressed to his mate’s belly.

Stepan smiles, warm and sweet, covering Geta’s hand with his own. “You feel it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Geta nods and sinks to his knees. “This must be a good sign, yes?” To feel his pup for the first time now he’s home seems auspicious, no matter how solid the pit in his stomach is at being within 100 miles of his brother again. The movement under his hand becomes his only care in the world, at least in this moment, and his minor jealousy that Stepan has felt the pup for nearly a month abates completely.

“I hope so.”

The kicks slow to a stop, their pup shifting into a new position. Geta presses a kiss to Stepan’s belly, and Stepan idly pets Geta’s hair. “I am sorry, my sweet, I know you are tired,” Geta murmurs, still holding his belly, needing to be close to his child.

“You can still hold us once we are in bed, Geta.”

He looks up to see Stepan smiling fondly down at him and his stomach swoops. “But I must let you go in order to get there, and I do not wish to.” Geta presses his face back into Stepan’s belly, breathing his concentrated scent and purring.

Stepan tugs hard at the hairs at the nape of his neck, forcing his gaze back up. “We need to sleep. So we are both ready for tomorrow.”

“You are right, mellitus. As always.” Geta forces himself to release his mate and get back on his feet. He helps Stepan from his tunica, then strips off his own, arranging pillows to make sure Stepan is comfortable and supported in their bed, before slotting in behind him.

Geta sleeps deep and dreamless, and wakes to golden sunlight entering through the windows. Stepan still sleeps peacefully in his arms, at least until the door bursts open.

His mother sweeps into the room, fixing Geta with a pointed glare, quickly taking in every aspect of the room. “Truly, Geta, you sneak home, no word to let me know you’ve arrived, but you have time to find a courtesan to warm your bed?”

He feels Stepan stiffen under his touch, and Geta leans forward to kiss over his bonding bite. “Sorry to surprise you, Mother, but I wanted to keep him to myself a little longer.” Another kiss to Stepan’s hair before he slips from the bed. Geta plucks up a robe, drapes it over his shoulders, but pushes it open enough to show off his bite. “Stephanos is my mate.”

“Is that supposed to be better? Choosing a mate without your father’s blessing! How do you know you were not summoned for a marriage? You could have ruined months of negotiations.”

Geta smiles, can tell his mother is not truly angry. “Because you would say so, Mother. And because Father is more worried with Caracalla and conquest.” He goes to her, takes her delicate hands in his, and flashes a conspiratorial wink. “Besides, my mate is a prince by birth, and more importantly, he is carrying your grandchild.”

“Then I am sure your father will be most pleased, just ensure he looks the part when you present him. We shall be eating together in an hour.” She cups his cheek, guides his face down so she may kiss his forehead. “Now introduce me to your omega.”

Geta fetches a robe for Stepan, keeps him covered as he crawls from the bed, and wraps him in the silk, keeping a hand over his bump as he presents him. “Mother, this is Stephanos. Mellitus, meet my mother, Empress Julia Domna.”

Julia’s dark eyes take Stepan in as she circles them. “He is quite lovely, Geta. And tall.” Her hands gently hold Stepan at the sides of his belly, silently gauging the progress of his pregnancy. She turns her full attention to Stepan and asks, “You have felt the quickening?”

“Nearly a month ago, your grace.”

“Good. We shall hire you a personal midwife, to make sure you and the pup are healthy.” Her hands move up his body, feeling his small breasts, along his neck and ears, pulling on his chin so she may look at his teeth. “And where are you from that you have such pretty Latin?”

“Scythia. We speak Latin for the sake of trade, and my father hired a native speaker to teach my siblings and me.”

Geta purrs, proud of his mate for being so well composed in front of his mother. Which, of course, draws her attention to him again. “I’ll leave you to dress; best you move quickly so you can beat your brother to your father’s dining room.” His mother pats his cheek, and turns to leave just as quickly as she’d arrived.

“Your mother is intense,” Stepan murmurs softly, fingers seeking Geta’s where they rest over his belly.

“She is clever. Like you, mellitus.” Geta turns him in his arms, delicately holds his chin, and kisses him lazy and sweet. “And she is right. You must look the part when you meet my father.”

He starts with jewelry—rings, bangles, armbands, and necklaces—all gold and set with pearls that practically glow against Stepan’s skin. Geta doesn’t know much, but he helps Stepan braid his hair, tying the plaits into a knot at the back of his head, making plans to find a skilled ornatrix for his omega. Finally, he fetches a tunica the color of the sea, made of the finest silk, so thin it clings to every curve. He removes one of the brooches from the neck, leaving it more open on the left side, the fabric draping beautifully to show off his left breast in imitation of Venus Genetrix.

To show what he is meant to be: The Mother of Rome.

🌙🏛️🌿

Stepan looks down at himself, confused. “This is how you want to present me to your father?” Among his people, baring a single breast would mark him as a warrior, and while he has been trained to fight, he does not see the logic in drawing attention to that.

“Yes. You have the beauty of Venus, and I want him to know exactly what you are to me.” Geta traces a finger around his mating bite, his other hand cradling the side of his belly. “And what you are to him. The continuation of his dynasty.”

Throat tight, Stepan merely nods, tucking his nose to Geta’s neck as his mate holds him close. Then he’s deposited on the bed to wait as Geta dresses himself in an imperial purple tunica, slipping golden cuffs on his wrists and studding his fingers with rings. But beside Stepan, he looks almost plain.

Hand in hand, they make their way to the triclinium, passing servants and slaves, arriving to an empty room. Geta makes himself comfortable, sprawling on one of the klinē, and has Stepan sit beside him, protective hand over his belly. “Everything will be alright, mellitus. You will charm my father, and then we may rest properly. Tomorrow, I thought we might go to the palace baths, and after that I will show you Rome.”

Stepan reaches to play with Geta’s hair, fingers sliding through his short waves. “What greater part of Rome could you show me than the palace?” he asks, only half teasing. The little bit of the city that he saw in the dark was more than he could rightly imagine before he passed through the gates.

“The Colosseum and the Circus Maximus. We’ll go to gladiatorial games, chariot races. The Forum and the Pantheon. There is so-”

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” a warm voice says from the doorway, drawing their eyes. Grey hair and a full beard show Stepan how his husband may look in a handful of decades, as Emperor Severus enters the room. He is handsome, obviously spry and strong as he crosses to stand before them. “My son may have gone behind my back to claim you, Stephanos, but I cannot blame him,” he says, taking Stepan’s hands in his. “We shall have to wed you properly here in Rome before my campaign in Caledonia.”

Stepan simply bows his head in agreement, caught off guard by Geta’s father already knowing his name. Looking up past his lashes, he sees Julia Domna in the doorway, cryptic smile on her face.

“Of course, Father,” Geta says, maneuvering himself off the back of the klinē while keeping a grounding hand on Stepan. “Are you certain you should be going so far north? Mother wrote-”

“Mother worries too much over my health!” He claps Geta on the shoulder, laugh booming. “It was a mere fever and I am fine now.”

“A fever that left you delirious for three days straight! That kept you abed for more than a month,” Julia counters fiercely, practically shaking with frustration as she enters the room.

Severus reaches for his empress, tugs her into his chest. “And I am fine now, mellita.” He kisses her brow, but she stares up at him with fire still in her eyes. “You do not worry so when I am on the battlefield, but a fever has you thinking I am a frail old man!” He laughs again and grabs her hips, all but ruts against her. “You know I am not frail.” More laughter as he relaxes his hold and turns out to face the room. “I do admit I am old.”

“Father!” Geta scolds. Stepan understands; he does not wish to think of his parents dying either.

“Even an emperor cannot live forever. Many hardly live at all.” Severus wets his lips and swallows hard. “It is good you have found a suitable mate, Geta. It strengthens my desire you raise you up, and will hopefully calm the senate.”

“What?” Geta breathes.

“I think it best both you and your brother rule with me now. Especially since there is a pup on the way.”

Another outburst from the doorway. “You cannot be serious, Father!” The opulence of his clothes may explain Caracalla’s lateness, taking far longer to dress in his elaborate toga, but the sneer on his face looks near-permanent. “Geta goes off, pups a foreign whore, and you want to name him Augustus!”

Geta growls. Stepan holds him in place, shifts his hand so his alpha can feel their pup moving within him. Anything to stop him from going feral and challenging his brother.

It is the empress who shouts first. “Antoninus! You are not to disrespect Stephanos! He has already done more for the future of the empire than your wife ever managed.”

“How long is it since you had Plautilla banished, Brother?” Geta asks, his tone falsely light. “Three years? Four? And still no replacement.”

Caracalla snarls and lunges.

Stepan flinches.

Severus growls, catches his eldest by the shoulder, and scruffs him. “Be grateful your brother has been fruitful. The pup in that omega’s belly shall be your heir as well.”

Caracalla whines, teeth still bared. Severus lets him go, snaps his fingers, and a slave enters with a tray of olives, grapes, and soft cheese. The tension in the room remains thick, but Severus smiles, confident in his control. He looks to Stepan and his smile turns apologetic. “I’m sure Geta already warned you about how he and his brother snipe at one another. Let’s not allow it to ruin our appetites; the pup must have you ravenous by now.”

Stepan smiles, nods, and forces himself to eat.

🌙🏛️🌿

Keeping his promise, after the mixed welcome from his family Geta takes Stepan back to their rooms, fully intending to let his mate rest until the evening meal.

His mother has other plans.

She swans into the room with a group of omega servants, chirping, “You cannot keep dressing your wife in your own clothing, Geta. He must have proper stolae and tunicae befitting his status.” She turns to Stepan. “Do you spin? Weave?”

“Yes, but I am not very skilled.”

“Then you shall practice. I shall have a loom set up for you next to mine in the atrium, but of course we do not expect you to create your own wardrobe.” She waves over an omega girl of about fifteen, has her gauge Stepan’s measurements. “We shall have to go to an artisan for something ready-made that is suitable for your wedding clothes.” She cups his cheek, tucks back a strand of hair that escaped his braid. “I’ve a girl who can see to your hair, I’ll send her to you later.” Her attention turns again to his pregnant belly, touch light as she holds him. “And I’ve sent for a midwife; she should be staying at the palace until after you deliver.”

In less than a day, she has secured everything Geta had planned to find for Stepan, when she hadn’t so much as known he’d existed last night. “Thank you, Mother,” Geta murmurs, stepping in to kiss her cheek before possessively wrapping his arms around his mate from behind. “We appreciate all you gave done and are doing, but Stephanos needs rest. The journey was hard and the pup disturbs his sleep.”

“I’m sure all you will do is rest,” Julia responds, knowing glint in her eyes.

“Mother!”

“There is no shame in an alpha wanting his omega, my son. And I’ve no doubt you are tending to his needs as well.”

Geta flushes hot and his mother laughs. “We will talk more at supper,” she finishes. Then with a wave and snap of her fingers, she leaves as quickly as she arrived.

Stepan turns in Geta’s arms to face him. “I quite like your mother,” he says, suppressing a giggle as he rests his head on Geta’s shoulder.

“I knew you would.” He’s desperate to kiss his pretty wife, equally desperate to keep him relaxed, and settles for nuzzling into his hair and pressing soft lips to his temple.

“And while I would like to have a nap, I was also hoping you would touch me sweetly, Husband.”

“You know I will do so gladly, mellitus.” Were he not worried about the pup, Geta would sweep Stepan into his arms and carry him to bed. But he is, so he carefully guides his mate back until he can sit at the foot of the bed, still looking like a goddess on earth. Geta can’t help himself then, moaning as he takes most of Stepan’s small, bared breast into his mouth, using his tongue and teeth on him. His goal is not to arouse, simply to connect, to be close to his mate and worship the place their pup will nurse.

Stepan sighs, fingers curling in Geta’s hair. “Harder, Geta. Please.”

His intentions shift, mouth suctioning around the stiff bud of Stepan’s nipple, hand coming up to grip his neck, to press his thumb into his mating gland. More little, mewling sighs follow. Geta pulls off with a gasp and groans, “Need to see you. All of you.” The clinging silk leaves next to nothing to the imagination, but Geta needs to gaze upon warm skin, to be as close as possible to his pup when his hands next cover Stepan’s belly.

Geta helps Stepan wriggle from his tunica, throwing the garment aside, hungry eyes roving over his naked body. He is still gilded, covered in gold up his arms and hanging from his neck, shining like the sun. “So lovely, my omega,” Geta murmurs, kissing him softly, bracketing his belly with warm hands. “Do you want my mouth on your perfect cunt? Or do you need to be filled? Should I seat you on my cock and suck your pretty tits?”

“Alpha…” Stepan whines, one hand clutching at Geta’s shoulder, the other fumbling for his cock under his tunica. “Fill me. Need to feel you inside.” He mouths wetly at Geta’s neck, kisses sloppily up to his ear and nips at the lobe.

Geta loves having his mate so desperate and needy, loves how good Stepan has become at asking for what he wants. Loves the feeling of Stepan tugging at his clothes, of a too-tight squeeze around his cock. Loves the slide of slick under his fingers as he teases Stepan’s already pulsing cunt. His tunica joins the silk on the floor, a regal mess of color ready to tangle together.

Reclining against the pillows, Geta gives his cock a few cursory tugs, and reaches for Stepan’s hand, helping him to his throne. No mater how many times he is engulfed by his mate’s sweet heat, Geta knows it will always overwhelm him to be taken into Venus’s embrace, to be taken into the cunt that was made for him.

Stepan sinks down with a moan, wordless yet Geta understands him perfectly. “I know, mellitus,” he croons, peppering kisses over his collarbones and kneading a soft breast. “Take what you need.”

He rides him slow, each languid shift of his hips just enough for them both to build towards a gentle crest, Stepan’s peak coming in waves as slick dribbles in a steady stream from his prick. Geta follows him, knot swelling, hands cradling their pup, little feet kicking under his palm. Tears fill his eyes, his body tingles as the intensity of his orgasm dissipates and his sweat cools on his skin.

Stepan’s hands cover his, holding their pup together. “Geta…” he whispers, collapsing forward to rest his forehead on his alpha’s shoulder.

“I know, amore. I know.”

[goodlittlerobot]

okay i gotta make a post thanking all of you who have read, liked or reblogged the steddie fic i posted.

thank you for the nice words, unhinged tags, hearts, comments and follows. it genuinely warms my ice cold cold, tiny little heart and i wanna send every one of yous one of those edible fruit bouquets i used to see commercials about.

thank you sm i hope to post more soon. if y’all ever have a prompt or request or even just a silly lil thought, my ask is always open.

[greywolfheirs]

I love being a fan but a canon hater. I've made a Star Wars post about this but I think I'm worse about Stranger Things. I took a Buzzfeed quiz and it asked what my favorite season was and I was like none of them??? Which one do I have the least amount of problems with you mean? And then there was a favorite relationship question and hoo boy Buzzfeed I cannot tell you how presumptuous you are asking me that

[space-invading-pigeon]

Dustin being mad at Steve because he caught the guy kissing Eddie

Steve and Eddie being hurt that Dustin is a homophobe

Robin finding out that Dustin is actually mad because he didn't know Steve liked Eddie, because Dustin thought everyone found everyone attractive

Steve has to apologize to Dustin for not keeping him informed on his love life while Eddie guffaws in the background like an asthmatic horse

****

"I'm in a very loving and committed relationship with Suzie but if Lucas kissed me I would thank him."

"Dustin, I will climb out of this hospital bed and kick your ass right now."

"Max, you would cry if El kissed you so I don't want to hear it."

[hitlikehammers]

tremolo

…what if instead of learning clarinet or percussion, you could learn to read the music of hearts? 💕

rating: t ♥️ cw: love at first sight, car crash (off-screen), SUCH FLUFF ♥️ tags: ✨magical realism au, musician eddie munson, paramedic steve harrington, kinda soulmates (it makes more sense with the magical realism part), character study, softness

for @steddielovemonth day one: "Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." —Plato

It was just like learning any instrument, really.

At least what they tried to convince Eddie to believe at the tender age of nine.

But it was all about finding an aptitude, apparently. Developing a talent. Fourth grade rolls around and he fucks up blowing with a reed, manages to give himself a tongue splinter. Nearly passes out on the brass. Ends up with the choir lady looking over horn-rimmed glasses and narrowing her eyes at him less like a teacher and more like a fortune teller or something, scrying what’s to come of him, like she can see through all that he is and will be, before she goes scribbling something on his little slip of paper already marking all the failed kinds of music he’ll never get to make and telling him: go to Room 011.

But no one ever goes to Room 011.

He meets a petite woman with mousy hair and clothes that look like they belong to someone else, somehow. She introduces herself as Miss L. She looks like a Miss L., so he doesn’t think any further on the point.

You will not play much, really, she tells him, and the way she talks is kinda funny, like she learned words but not from people actually saying them out loud. Eddie kinda likes it, though. The playing is only for emergencies, and if you find your True Note.

Eddie doesn’t know what most of that means, except for the fact that the whole point of trying—and failing—at all the instruments was to join the school band with something to play. So if that’s not what he’s going to learn, then what the heck is Eddie meant to be doing down here—is what he wants to ask.

He manages a little politer version of the same, his nan’d be proud. His dad wouldn’t care even if he was around and not behind bars. His uncle might be happy that Eddie’s kept his nose clean just this one time. So he figures he does okay.

But really, he just wants an answer. He was supposed to get to learn music. It was the one thing that was keeping this whole year feeling like he could maybe, maybe survive it.

It also means he doesn’t have to take the art class that’s mostly kindergarten crafts instead of real art, so.

“You will be learning music,” Miss L. answers, more patient than most grownups; “you are here to learn how to read the songs that hearts sing.”

And that is, by far, in all of his whole nine years of living, the most fucking absurd sentence that Eddie has ever heard.

——

He’d kinda thought it was a joke, when he left that first afternoon to get back before Language Arts.

Turned out: nope. It was not.

He’d maybe thrown something slightly less childish than a tantrum, when what he got was a big set of earphones and a box the size of an Easy-Bake Oven, where apparently he’d be playing some kind of recordings to start his lessons.

“Do you not wish to learn?” Miss L. asked so simply, and Eddie…

Eddie reminded himself that no matter how foolish and stupid this was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than making construction paper collages with Elmer’s glue, so.

He put the headphones on and pressed play.

——

His workbooks didn’t look like anyone else’s in band—in fact, Eddie didn’t think he was actually a part of the class band, like, he wasn’t expecting to play at the spring concert with the flutes and the trombones, anymore. When he had sheets of staves to fill out they didn’t have straight lines. He didn’t draw different circles with little flags and bridges connecting them. He…

“When there are no keys, and there is no time signature,” Miss L. had explained, and it took time to make any sense; “you are the rules, and you feel what is a melody,” she’d tapped something that feltbeautiful, like daffodils blooming, though Eddie couldn’t say why; “and what is a warning.”

And then she’d tapped again, and it clenched in Eddie’s chest like a tornado siren, and…yeah.

That was kind of the best explanation he could have asked for.

——

It’s in middle school, when everyone else gets new band directors while Eddie sticks with Miss L., that it starts to…well.

That’s when the fact that Eddie’s alone in his lessons, and no one seems to know quite what he does—and the other kids who get that kind of treatment are usually the ones who can’t add or spell right, who have some kind of problem to work on extra hard—but it’s around then that Eddie starts being called names for it.

It’s not too bad, at first. Eddie’s worked for his two full years of elementary school lessons to get through recognizing the songs, suffers the point where recognizing becomes unbearable, overwhelming—Miss L. never left his side when he held his head in pain for all the noise, all the songs because they were everywhere, in everyone, and how was he supposed to learn what was right and what was good and what was just okay but then what was also everything the opposite when he couldn’t even think—

But she taught him the tools, the ways to sift through the chatter, as she called it. Because not all of it was a warning; not all of it was bad just because it wasn’t beautiful.

Some of the noise just was.

She showed him how to trust his own ear; his own song in his own chest as a guide, because that’s why he was here: he had a gift, an aptitude, built in and in need of development. Liked they’d said in the beginning.

He’s nearly thirteen when she teaches him how to write his own songs, in the not-notes and the no-tempos. In the nameless flow of sound.

It’s when his classmates overhear one of those works-in-progress, the taunting gets worse, starts to hedge toward unbearable.

Until Eddie asks if he can just stop: quit this. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t want to be a freak.

“It is a rite of passage, to ask this,” Miss L. says slowly, no judgement, and weirdly no pity; “but I should tell you first,” and her eyes narrow more than Eddie thinks he’s ever seen them.

“Your skill is already greater than any I have seen, and is only getting sharper, more keen.”

And hell if a teacher’s ever said something niceabout Eddie Munson, let alone something that sounds like flat-out praise.

“They cannot hear the music, this is why they say those things,” she flicks her wrist less like conducting a chorus and more like shooing a gnat, like that’s the appropriate amount of consideration the comments deserve. “Your task has always been to teach them what they do not know, to show them the wonder they are ignoring as they live and breathe.”

And while it really would have been nice to know that before signing up for this…this what, calling? Vocation?

While that would’ve been nice, Eddie…Eddie can at least mostly understand he wouldn’t have understood any of it in the fourth grade.

He barely understands now.

But he can feel it. He understands how to feel the music that fills all those gaps.

“This is common,” Miss L. turns back to him, steeples her fingers while humming something from the radio: not bad, but not beautiful. That’s what she means, he realizes. The radio plays common.

“This,” and she puts a hand over her own chest and keeps time with her fingers on the tabletop as she hums a wholly novel thing out of thin air, and Eddie has never seen someone else recognize the music, has never watched someone compose in the veins where the songs that hearts sing are played, let alone in real time; maybe she never had because he had to lean for himself, first.

But it is kind of exquisite to witness.

“This,” she stops, and raises a brow pointedly in Eddie’s direction; “is human, built in your cells.”

Eddie couldn’t name why, precisely, but he feels…shamed, but also empowered. So different, but they make an almost compelling melody together as they clash.

“They will call you freak before they call you prodigy,” Miss L. says it like a fact, which…kinda sucks to hear, in all honesty.

“They will label you insane, before they recognize you as genius,” and the way she adds that part makes him feel like that was her personal burden to bear, and he aches for her in it.

“They will cry out garbage and nonsense,” and here, these words: these are the ones Eddie knows immediately he’s meant to be hearing, be weaving into notes the strongest, the ones she wants him to keep closest and never lose:

“They will cry out worthless,” she spits out with a venom he’s never heard her use; “before they will sob in the face of your masterworks, and how they will breathe magic in the soul.”

And…Eddie doesn’t know exactly what to do in the face of the conviction she says that last part with. To doubt it, as he instinctively wants to, feels vile; the most egregious disrespect. He can’t bring himself to even try. So, he asks instead, voice rough:

“When will it change?”

Because despite everything: he doesn’t want to be a freak.

“That I cannot say,” she sighs, and she does sound sorry; “and it may never change at all.”

Eddie doesn’t know if he’s built to handle that, the possibility of never.

“But even if you leave, here and now,” Miss L. cuts into his despairing; “even if you stop your learning, the songs will never leave you.”

Oh.

Oh, so did they…did they teach him to hear a endless goddamn curse, and as a fucking kid—

“You would always have come to hear them,” Miss L. must read his mind, or maybe just his face; “just never with any place to funnel the noise,” and he…guesses he should be grateful. He nearly went mad in those early years, before she taught him how to make new melodies, concertos the likes of which even the great masters hadn’t penned, because they played in a different medium. Their notes and structured time were useful, but limited.

And if they never heard otherwise, how would even the most brilliant talents know what they were passing over, leaving behind?

“Do you still wish to leave?”

Eddie turns, almost having forgotten Miss L. was still sitting there, watching him. Almost having forgotten what he’d come to ask, to give up.

There’s no question left, now.

He gets out his notebook, his pen, and starts as he always does.

With the listening.

——

It’s a genuine distraction—the songs get louder with time, but Miss L. tells him that’s a sign of his skill growing, his notice of the equivalents of key signatures and ligature notes in the heartbeats he passes every day—but it costs him passing senior year once, and then again, and almost a third time until by the skin of his teeth, he manages. While every other teacher shames him for it, derides him as incurably stupid, or at the very least unambitious to the point of embarrassment, the extra years mean more time with Miss L., and Eddie…most days, Eddie is nothing but thankful.

More time means Eddie also learns that the songs he hears are as much a public service as they are an art form, as much a defense mechanism as a craft. He knows when bullies are on the prowl, and to make himself scarce for their screeching cacophonies. He knows when he has to be less of a coward and step in when a wild rhythm makes him sick with its fear.

The more he pays attention to the not-quite-beautiful songs—especially when he thinks on them later and stumbles upon nuggets of the exquisite inside every way they weren’t—the more he remembers years ago, out of almost nowhere, but maybe…maybe everywhere, like it’d been written in his heart’s song the day she spoke it:

“My first day,” he enters the same room—not the same-same room but the one in the high school that’s as abandoned as all of them have been, always Room 011—but he enters the room close to the end of the year, the last year, with the question thick on his tongue, and woven the same in his song as he closes the door and feels his heartbeat quicken for no reason and every reason, like he’s long learned these songs always do.

Miss L., for her part, just nods; waits.

“You said,” Eddie rolls his lips together; “emergencies.”

It’s a delay tactic. They both know it.

She’s kind to play along.

“Mmm,” she hums; “the slightest bits, yes, you can shift the rules to change the song, because you made the rules to begin with,” she eyes him carefully, then. “But only by bits, and in only the most dire moments.”

Yeah, yeah, sure. He never thought he could like…write lines to coax a heart to sing itself back from the dead or some shit. He gets the point.

Again, they both know: that’s not the point he’s here for, heart pounding high in his throat.

“But then you also said something else.”

This time, she doesn’t nod at all; just stares. Eddie has to clear his throat twice to make a sound so as to ask:

“What’s a True Note?”

Because Eddie’s had a couple flings here and there. And the idea of anything real with someone else, alongside the weight of this…talent of his, this training that’s defined half his life by now: it’s really nothing more than a stray idea. But Eddie can’t really hide from the fact that, somewhere along the way, he’s suffused that idea with so much promise and potential, but with no legs for it to fucking stand on.

And he’s about to graduate. About to go out into the world and…who the fuck knows what.

He needs to either hold onto this insane, silly notion of some cosmic meant-to-be match waiting for him somewhere, that it’s at least possible, and then hold on to it like burning—or let it go, and get on with the rest of his fucking life.

“Do you know how I said you could sway the rhythm just the littlest bit, in the greatest of need?”

Of course he did. She literally just said it.

“Your True Note will sing like you have never heard before,” she tells him like it’s not something…immense; “and that song will sway your rhythm so much more than the littlest of anything.”

She just fucking says it, like it isn’t already swaying the rhythm his heart sings in. Here and now.

“That heartsong will change your world.”

And all Eddie can even think to ask, to make more plain in it, is just one thing:

“Will I change theirs, too?”

Miss L’s eyes lock to his and hold for enough seconds where it should be uncomfortable, where his chest starts to grow unbearably tight.

“Hmm,” she considers finally; “if it is meant to be that way.”

Eddie wants to scream. It’s not enough.

And still somehow, it will have to be.

——

In the months that follow his freedom, he misses Miss L. Kinda desperately.

But the lack of structure, the openness of knowing he has to find a way to piece together all the snippets of song he’s bombarded with: it is the reason he ever picks up a guitar. It’s the whole learning heartsongs thing that he has to thank for it, a roundabout journey toward the destination he’d wanted from the beginning.

Or else, that he thought he did.

It’s not just guitar, though. He eventually learns the woodwinds without ending up with a splinter in his mouth. Figures out the different harmonies at hand in making sure he tempers the way he breathes for the brass. He loves the piano, and the cello especially, alongside guitar and double bass: he makes a trip back home specifically to see her and ask—Miss L. tells him it’s probably because of their strings, like hearts have, too.

It feels right in a way things haven’t felt in a very long time.

Which is really how he comes to not only understand, but to accept in his bones: no matter if they ever call him prodigy or genius, if he ever plays a concert hall or anywhere but on a street corner with an open case for change, he was made for this; built for this. The woman with the horn-rimmed glasses who sent him to the basement music room saw it in him. Miss L. proved it to him by teaching him to prove it to himself. He doesn’t know if he’d have picked it, but he knows it was never something he could have picked or turned down in the first place at all: it’s who he is.

He is the music. He is the songs that hearts use for singing. And maybe someday he’ll meet someone who sees it in him, and hears his song, and sings ecstatic. Maybe.

He hopes.

But either way: this is his life.

This is his melody.

——

It takes years before they do sob for his masterpieces, for them to be ready for a style and cadence they don’t understand because they will never comprehend the language, that speaks deeper than the logic required for any of those rules. It takes a long fucking time before they start listening with the lens of the first song any of them ever learned. But the time does come, and Eddie is grateful, because he’d genuinely feared the maybe-never he’d been warned about. He’s glad that’s not where he is, now.

But now? Things start to happen almost unbearably fast. Shows here and flights there, guest appearances and interviews, record labels and live recordings, a book deal he can’t even begin to think about. The world tips on its axis and Eddie only really considered that happening to him for one reason: because of a song so beautiful, in a Note so True—this isn’t that.

But everything still feels upside down anyway; totally off-kilter.

He’s crossed ten time-zones this time. He’s exhausted, but he has a performance tonight, just like he did in the tonight of the place he just left. The car he’s in on his way to the next venue is sleek, like they all are now; his team is already there preparing, so it’s just him and some local hires he hasn’t even had a chance to learn the names of yet, which he hates. He hates being privy to their songs and not even knowing their names, let alone their stories.

He jots the notes he gleans from how they sing without their words on the drive across town anyway. Waste not, and all that.

Eddie has the pen in hand, cap between his teeth, when the truck plows straight into them.

What follows would be unsurprising, if Eddie could process it from a bystander’s point of view—as it is, the only thing he knows in the melee is the music.

He is devastated, as he reaches out for the slowing songs around him, knowing in the back of his mind what their slacking tempos mean, and marveling with something like horror at how beautiful each one is as it starts to fade: still unique, still something Eddie could braid into a piece, certainly one to draw tears.

His own song is ebbing, he knows, but it’s less important than the sweet melodies around him, especially—

Oh.

Eddie thinks, with what may be the last thought left to him as pressure and heat and pain tingle at the edges of the music, almost too strong now to be drowned out by the notes that are what Eddie is at his core: but he thinks he may be too far gone already, because what he begins to hear is…

Exultant. It’s…

If Eddie believed in a heaven, this would be what the hosts there sang. When the idea of divinity is bandied about, they can only ever be talking about some cheap imitation of what Eddie hears now. Luminous. Effervescent.

Beautiful in a way that exceeds the word itself so deeply that it barely fits, obliterates the notion on sight.

And what a gift, Eddie muses as everything dims to black, to hear such Notes, such perfect music as the last thing he has to hold onto in the end.

To end on something that’s True.

——

The next tones Eddie hears are mechanical. He winces—not bad but certainly not beautiful—and then winces harder because wincing itself fucking hurts.

He holds himself still, seeks the song he knows in his own veins: yes, and he’d been so sure it was gone, because there’d be an accident, a crash, he’d been thrown, crushed, songs all around him were dying and he’d heard the magnificent symphony of otherworldly perfection so—

“I’m technically not supposed to be here,” a voice interjects, or no: drips in leisurely, like comfort, like honey; “because you’re a patient, and I’m,” and Eddie forces his eyes open to see the voice come out of a man, who is pointing at his chest: a uniform. Medical.

“I’m not dead?”

All signs do point that direction but…Eddie had been kinda fairly sure he was done for.

“God,” the man chokes like he’s pained, like the idea hurts him, and why; “no,” and he says that a little fiercely, protective almost; “though not for lack of an effort.”

He looks tired, as Eddie’s vision starts to clear some more. He looks radiant. Exquisite.

Beautiful.

“You saved me?”

Because Eddie clocks the uniform now: paramedic. The ones who come onto the scenes and try like hell to save who they can. Heroes.

“I helped,” the beautiful man says, like a hero would, of course. But…it still doesn’t make sense. If the man does this for his job, then Eddie isn’t special, so then why is he so vehement, and then what of all the fading songs Eddie remembers, because Eddie had heard—

“What about,” he starts, but there’s a hand over his quickly, soothing.

“Everyone’s here, different wards,” the hero-beauty tells him in lows tones; “we don’t know if they’ll all make it through the night, but,” he nods, like…this is enough.

And it is. Except…

“How?”

And where Eddie is baffled, his hero just quirks a brow.

“Don’t tell me you never covered emergencies?” he asks skeptically. “Most dire moments, greatest of need?”

And it’s with those words that Eddie’s world slows very quickly to a halt. The music swells in a way he’s never known: because it’s always present to hear.

Buts it’s never been so tangible to feel, not like this, and with such…magnificence, no lesser word could touch it. Maybe he truly is closer to death than not, maybe that’s the reason for the fervor in this man he doesn’t know—the choirs of the angels Eddie wasn’t banking on swells and is visceral, and this hero sits before him, speaks the words that have haunted Eddie more days of his life than not, and—

“This was where the music took my life,” the man pulls at his collar, indicative again: the heroism. He…he saves people, because he, he also hears…

“But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His hand on Eddie’s tightens, like gratitude, and Eddie…gapes like a fucking fish, and then—

“There’s something else.”

“Not just here to check up on the fruits of your medical miracle?” Eddie’s tongue feels heavy, thick in his mouth; he feels sluggish all over, weighted down and like he can barely move because…this man hears the music that hearts make.

Can he hear the ineffable beauty, like Eddie can? He must, that’s how it works, so why is he not in the same amount of awe—

“Not just,” the man smiles small, but real, a little hesitant. A little…shy, maybe, before he straightens, leans a little closer.

“Watch that screen,” and he tracks Eddie’s gaze until Eddie’s fixed upon the ECG, the most disappointing distillation of the songs he’s learned to find so much wonder in.

But then the man is pressing Eddie’s hand to his own chest, which…is forward, given they don’t even know each other.

Eddie is maybe still on, or at least just-recently-off, death’s door, and either way he’s fucking thrilledwith this development, warm beneath his palm.

“Now count.”

It only takes a moment, to put the gestures together into a statement.

The beat under his touch matches the line across the screen. Exactly.

But this man’s not the one attached to the monitor.

“Got it?”

Eddie nods, and the man doesn’t hesitate, lifts Eddie’s hand and presses it back to Eddie’s own chest.

“Again.”

And that’s…that’s not the same rhythm as the one on the screen; the songs don’t match at all.

But Eddie can still hear the one that does—the beauty. The exaltation.

“Can you,” Eddie asks, lifts his finger that’s got a clip on it, and the man’s a professional, he’ll understand—looks less than conflicted about disconnecting Eddie from wires and leads before clipping his own finger and letting the screen shift to a new cadence.

The same one under Eddie’s hand, in Eddie’s own chest.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” the man barely breathes, and Eddie notices now how intense his eyes are, focused solely on Eddie, and…Eddie remembers the words that came after the ones about emergencies. About how little he could help, but that he could still do something.

But with only one person, it could be—

“You didn’t just sway my rhythm,” Eddie half-gasps; “you made it your own.”

And oh: Eddie never tied the song of hearts to the song of laughter, but from this man, the huff of incredulous joy that slips from him now—they’re made wholly of the same stuff.

Symphonic. Staggering. Weeping to feel this much, in the soul, to be privy to such a…

Masterpiece.

“Worked both ways, it seems.”

“I heard you,” Eddie blurts out, because it makes sense now; “before I, when I thought I was,” dying, when he thought it was all over; “like I’ve never heard anything before.”

And now: of course this man hears the heavenly movement Eddie thought was a mercy before the end but was instead the arrival of everything he’d ever hoped to one day find, literally coming to rescue him in more ways than one; but that song is somehow commonplace to this unfathomable angel on the earth.

And what this man hears stronger, louder, dearer seems somehow to be Eddie, the song he sings from the chest, in how it’s causing those caramel eyes to glimmer, and to barely blink lest they miss something in just…Eddie.

“You never stopped,” the man says with urgency, with feeling; “your song never stopped,” and then he’s closing his eyes and laying both his hands over his own chest, where Eddie’s heartsong is ringing full and maybe changing his world, because the song in Eddie’s chest sure as hell has already changed his, and—

“It’s extraordinary.”

And Eddie, in years of ridicule, in months of celebration, in all the ups and downs and doubts and hopes this life of songs and hearts and rhythms and beats has left him with, in all of it—

Those two words rewrite his whole fucking being.

“True Note,” Eddie mouths more than speaks before he scoffs; “shit, but that seems like a really fucking inadequate thing to call it,” and his eyes lift to take in the man who he knows, he knows is going to be his magnum opus, or more: is going to write the magnum opus they will be and breathe and share from here to all ends:

“To call you.”

And there’s the clearest sense of a trip in a beat, but who it belongs to isn’t clear, and maybe that’s the reality for them both now: every subtlety of the song is now shared, now theirs.

“You could start with Steve.”

Eddie looks up, breath a little heavy, but the smile on the man’s face is broad and kind of overjoyed, kind of looks like Eddie’s chest feels:

“My name’s Steve.”

And that?

Best damn title for a symphony Eddie’s ever fucking heard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @rebellatlas @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[wheneverfeasible]

A random plot idea that came to me suddenly. Please feel free to use this idea, just credit me if it inspires you and send a link with any story written!

-

I’ve read a few fics with the premise but it’s like a She’s All That AU where King Steve is bet to make The Freak, Eddie Munson, fall in love with him, or make him popular, or get him to prom so that they can Carrie him. And of course Steve goes along with it because he’s still trying to be what people want him to be or whatever and he doesn’t like it but he does it, only to end up catching feelings for Eddie.

And okay yeah. Cue that heartbreak angst when Eddie finds out. But…BUT…

Imagine that AU but Eddie knows about the bet. They don’t know he knows, but he discovers it quickly. He’s King Freak after all; the gossip gets back to him before the popular jocks even get to putting the plan in motion, or he overhears it himself, or whatever. But he knows.

He knows and he plays along. He lets Steve woo him, acts first like he’s wary and annoyed about the guy, makes him work for it, but he lets himself pretend to fold and accept the dates. Accepts the kissing. Accepts the more.

Because yeah, he knows it’s fake, knows Steve could never actually want him, but he still has King Steve’s mouth around his dick, and he honestly has to congratulate the guy for going so far for a bet. And hell, he’s not going to pass up the chance to see just how good the fabled King is with his dick either.

Eddie figures he’ll have some fantastic sex, eat good food and get some dope gifts like a new amp for his sweetheart all courtesy of Harrington money, and…yeah, okay, even if it’s fake, Steve’s actually pretty good company. And Eddie even makes friends with one of the cheerleaders and isn’t that fucking bizarre but she’s sweet even if her boyfriend is an ass.

And Steve is still friends with his ex and through that he knows some dweeb kids, and damn is Harrington actually kind of good with kids, kind of…nice? And he’s funny in a bitchy kind of way, and his family life actually kind of (a lot of) sucks. And he helps this band geek who was being bullied by one of his teammates, and…and maybe, in another life, Eddie might have thought King Steve was actually a good dude instead of the douchebag he knew he was.

Because this was fake. It’s all just a bet. And Eddie is going to laugh when, after all of this, he gets to pull the final prank on Harrington and all his court. Because he knows it’s fake. He knows Steve doesn’t actually like him. He knows that, even when he laughs in all their faces at the end because he got to fuck King Steve in the ass, he’s going to be leaving it all alone and…and without Steve.

And that’s fine. It’s fake. It’s fine. Steve could and would never actually like him. The King and The Freak. And it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

And the truth is revealed, and Eddie laughs at them because he’s known all along, and Eddie pretends his heart isn’t breaking while Steve does the same. And it’s okay and it’s fine.

Except it isn’t.

But it is fine, because Steve’s ex? That band geeked he helped? Eddie’s cheerleader friend?

By god they’re going to get these two idiots to realize what’s been right in front of their eyes this whole time.

And this is only the beginning of the royal love story of King Hair and King Freak and how they turned Hawkins High upside down.

I guess you could say they really are all that.

-

Tagged: @derythcorvinus

[corrodedcoughin]

just thinking about musician eddie who ends up doing country music under a pseudonym similar to Orville Peck. Eddie having his rock and metal band but the influence of Wayne and his upbringing doesn’t leave him. So he puts on a mask and picks up an acoustic to be this character. A character that’s closer to his real life than he lets on. A deep voiced cowboy singing about the difficulty of growing up gay but how comfortable he is with his identity.

He only ever does small gigs under this name and the audience isn’t huge. But there’s one regular that turns up to every show, he’s never stayed to talk to Eddie after and Eddie’s never been brave enough to go up to him. He knows he’d let all his secrets out under the attention of those hazel eyes and pretty boy smile.

Tonight though? Tonight he might just risk it all because the gif is over. Eddie is standing at the bar and he’s being handed a drink he definitely didn’t ask for by a man he definitely wants to know more about.

Or!!! Alternatively!!!!!

Steve as an Orville Peck style country singer. Going it to gigs and shows and getting a name for himself as the mysterious masked singer who is a proud queer cowboy. Creating a character to share his emotions and experiences. He doesn’t think it’ll come to much, just a way to let himself be heard.

Only he ends up gaining a strong following. His audiences are small but they are dedicated, understanding the idea steve has created and the importance of it. He loves this group he’s made for himself and how comfortable everyone feels at his shows. There’s often full conversations between him and the crowd, letting everyone be involved in his performances.

Steve has every intention of this being a small time thing that gets him through the long work week. What he doesn’t plan for is one of his tapes being found by corroded coffin front man eddie munson. Eddie Munson who loves a mystery, Eddie munson who might be in a big time metal band but has grown up listening to country and know Good Music when he hears it. Eddie Munson who might be Steve’s number one fan and is planning on finding out who is behind the mask

[suspiciouslackofclowns]

I don’t particularly post a lot of (monogamous) Steddie stuff but I just had this idea beamed into my brain that I don’t think I’ve personally seen anyone explore before?

By no means am I a furry, but I am a bit of a Clown Person™️, which means I totally understand the appeal of having a little themed persona/wanting to dress up just for fun or expression, and I just started thinking about Steddie and… fursonas… I guess.

I’m a fan of autistic!Steve more than I’m a fan of autistic!Eddie, because I guess I like to try and explore/learn about different types of neurodivergence and the related experiences? So I’m thinking about autistic!Steve and perhaps adhd!Eddie or even OCD!Eddie, and different ways both of them would regulate their emotions.

Specifically, I am thinking about Eddie having a fursuit and Steve finding it in the closet after they move in together somewhere down the line after becoming official, and he’s immediately like what the fuck is this.

There are a lot of weird things about Eddie, but a fucking… what even is that, a fox? A wolf? Turns out it’s a coyote, and after pressing the issue about a million times, Eddie reveals that his name is Yip-Yap. Based on the sounds that coyotes make in the night, of course.

The character was originally a D&D character, he explained, and that it became more important to him than that at some point, so it stuck around.

The suit is really just paw gloves, a clip-on tail, and the mask, which Eddie made himself, and aside from the obvious initial shock, Steve is impressed with the quality of it.

He knew Eddie could sew on account of his various patched clothing items, but he didn’t think he could sew.

Maybe after the reveal, Eddie becomes less anxious because he doesn’t feel the need to hide it anymore, and he starts suiting around the house again every now and then. When he’s practicing guitar, when he’s listening to one of his audio books, etc.

Maybe Steve gets curious and tries the mask on one day, and it’s weird… but he kind of gets it. It makes him feel silly, in a good way, and he starts thinking about what animal he would be if he had to choose.

Long story short, I think Steve would find his own comfort in it eventually. He gets to bond with Eddie while he teaches him how to sew, he gets to feel goofy and whimsical when he has his own suit, and maybe the two of them even go to cons together.

It’s just a thought, so I probably won’t expand on it in a fic or anything, but I like toying around with silly little concepts sometimes.

[kickassfu]

Help! I'm not in the stranger things fandom (I only watched the first season couldn't get into it) but a while back a really cool fanart series came across my dash. It was about if Robin got pregnant at a gay club and her and Steve co-parent the kid (there were hints of steddie but I can't remember if they were dating yet or not) I can't remember what I tagged it as and didn't follow the author 😭

ok i'd love to help but i'm not sure about this either LOL and i've been kinda vanished from the fandom a bit as well alksdjskf

the most I can do is answer the ask and hopefully someone will see it and help! if nobody answers i'll ask around on the discord that i'm still technically in 😂😂😭😭 and hopefully that'll help! just give it a bit of time 🙏

anyway guys help a friend out pls!!!

[ent-is-indecisive]

id : a digital painting of steve dressed as a mermaid along the side of an aquarium tank and eddie, outside of it, dressed as a pirate. steve has a long blue tail, ribbons, pearl and coral jewellry, and blue makeup. eddie has a curbed sword, a white pirate shirt, and a lot of silver and red jewellry, with a red strip of fabric braided into his hair. they are looking at each other and smiling slightly, eddie, apparently mid sentence, is signing the word "cute" in asl. /end id

saw this post and got haunted by merman steve and his coworker pirate eddie so here's, like, this

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 3

Part 2

The comfort is here! This is just a morsel of the Nancy chapter, which means even MORE comfort with a pinch of angst.

~~~

It took a few weeks after Max and Lucas’s surprise visit for Eddie to work up enough courage to fly to Boston to knock on his sister's door-- technically sister from another mister, but he doesn't think that matters much.

Nancy's always believed in him, encouraged him to follow his passions no matter where it took him. Because even if you try and fail, Eddie, then at least you tried, and she’d always be there to catch him. In this case, maybe his passions took him a little too far.

It’s been almost eight months since they’ve talked, and he’s worried she won’t be there this time. Nancy is the fiercest person he knows, ready to stand up for what’s right regardless of the consequences. Hell, it’s what made her such a successful journalist. 

Which is why he’s worried he’ll buckle under the same scrutiny. This isn't a little mistake she can lecture away. Eddie has well and truly fucked up. If he could barely get through conversations with Robin and Max and Lucas, he has no idea how to navigate a conversation with Nancy Wheeler when she wants answers.

Before he can chicken out, the door’s ripped open by the woman herself. She’s different than he remembers. Her hair’s grown out, long and straight without her signature perm. The light pink pajama pants and matching pink slippers soften her edges. She looks good, aside from the bloodshot eyes.

This counts the fourth time Eddie’s ever seen Nancy cry: her freshman year when their cat died, a particularly nasty blow out between her and Mike before she moved for college, and two years ago when Jonathan finally proposed– happy tears, thankfully.

Now she’s standing here, staring at him through red-rimmed eyes and drowning in an oversized Corroded Coffin crewneck. He’s absolutely gutted at the sight. Only the fourth time she’s ever cried, and it’s his fault.

Another hard reminder of his many mistakes.

“Nance, please, can we talk?” He doesn’t know what to say that’ll fix it, but he has to try, she’s too important not to.

She suddenly throws herself at him, practically choking him with the grip of her arms around his neck, and for a moment he thinks she’s about to fight him. But her hand’s cradling the back of his head, and her other’s fisted in the back of his jacket. 

Nancy clings to him and shoves her nose into the crook of his neck. He wraps her up in a fierce hug in return, holding her as she shakes against him.

“Edward James Munson,” she says, forcing the words out around the tears, “I am so, so fucking mad at you.” Nancy lets go of his shirt just to emphasize her point by socking him in the shoulder. Only to grab at him again, like he’ll disappear if she lets go.

“I know, Nancy. I’m sorry.”

She coughs, and Eddie can feel where her tears have soaked his hair through, sticking it uncomfortably to his neck. “I missed you so much.”

He lets out a ragged sigh of relief. She still loves him, even after everything he’s done. Nancy Wheeler is too good for him– the whole world, really– but especially him. He doesn’t deserve someone like her, a sister like her, but he’s also selfish. So he holds onto her tighter, hoping that when he lets go she doesn’t change her mind

She leans out of his grasp to look him in the eye. He doesn’t know what she finds, but Nancy eyes are soft around the edges, filled with love, and she shoves his shoulder again. Not hard though, so she laughs when he dramatically falls backwards clutching his afflicted arm to his chest. He moans and groans, bottom lip jutted out in a firm pout as he bats his eyes at her, waiting for an apology.

“You’re such an asshole,” she says, but she’s smiling at him now and holding out her hand to help him up. He takes it, of course he does. Eddie relaxes, knowing that even though it's his fault she's cried, Nancy Wheeler will always be there to catch him whem he falls- metaphorically at least.

~~~

Part 4

[starshideurfics]

Captive, Captivating, part 2

part 1

into the steddie-verse, omegaverse, dubcon, we’re all in the same imperial rome/war prize gutter together, mdni 🔞

It takes nearly three quarters of an hour for Geta’s knot to go down, and he smiles smugly as his pretty little omega wriggles in place. The way he shifts just so, startling at his body’s reaction, the clench and pulse of being stretched open so perfectly for the first time.

Geta pets over Stepan’s flank, cups the firm cheeks of his round bottom, thinking about how nice it will feel to slam his hips against that plushness when he has his omega present and takes him from behind. How deep he will be able to delve into that sweet cunt to sow his seed. Deep enough it has to catch.

He refrains from slipping his fingers between those cheeks, no matter how much he wants to stroke over the tight furl of Stepan’s asshole. To make him shiver. To whisper, ‘All your holes will be mine, and soon enough you will beg for me to fuck you here.’ His barbarian prince has been through enough for the morning, Geta does not actually wish to terrorize him, especially not with all he has planned for the rest of the day.

Once he finally slips free, Geta plucks up Stepan’s cast aside loincloth, the linen roughspun, and uses it to wipe his cock clean. He smirks when he notices the pale streaks of red mixed with the slick and seed; their couplings will be easier now his maidenhead is broken.

Stepan has curled up on his side, legs squeezed tightly together, arms wrapped around his chest. Geta grips his knee, whispers, “I need to see, mellitus. Make sure the bleeding has stopped.”

He does not speak, simply allows Geta to lift his leg and bare his cunt. The lips are puffy, must be sore, and he’s careful as he gently feels around Stepan’s entrance, pleased to only find slick and seed when he pulls his fingers back. He sucks the shine from them, revels in the taste of them both mixed on his tongue, bitter and sweet and musky, and slowly lowers the omega’s leg. Draping the sheets back over Stepan, Geta stands, pulls on a robe, and goes to the entrance to the tent, ordering hot water and a wash basin be brought at once, along with food to break their fast after.

Sitting at his desk, Geta looks over the reports that will leave with the morning’s courier. He considers scribbling a note to his mother, to tell her of his plans, but quickly thinks better of it. There is little she can do for him from the capital, and surprise will be far more helpful to him when it comes to his brother.

When the water arrives, he tends to himself first, only really worrying about his groin as he washes away the last bits of drying cum. Then he returns to his bed, offering Stepan a hand, and helping him to his feet. Geta has the omega stand in the basin, and drags a warm, wet cloth over his body, washing away the dirt and sweat and slick. He’s nearly finished when Stepan stops his hand, trapping the cloth at his hip. “I can see to myself, Dominus.”

Geta preens at the word, how easily Stepan has begun using the title. My lord. Master. “And I care for what is mine.” Still, he passes the cloth to Stepan, watches as he wipes gingerly between his legs. It’s such a waste, washing all that beautiful slick away when Geta would happily lap it up and swallow it down. But there is not time for such indulgences.

Fetching a larger cloth, he wraps Stepan in it and squeezes his shoulders. “Dry well,” Geta orders, going to dig through a trunk and retrieving a tunica in deep, rich blue, tossing it casually onto the bed. He plucks a wooden comb from a side table, and returns to Stepan, careful as he pulls the fine teeth through his hair. He starts at the ends, working his way up to the roots, breaking up strands held together by sweat and oil, detangling a small knot at his nape. Once he’s satisfied with his work, Geta turns him towards the bed. “Dress. Quickly if you do not wish Caius to see your pretty ass when he brings our food.”

Geta does not take his own advice, robe open and showing off his soft cock, unbothered by his servants seeing him in any state of undress. His focus is again on compiling his reports, rolling up scrolls and slipping them in the courier’s case. He hands the case to Caius after he sets down the tray of roasted goat, bread, dates, and wine that is to be the morning meal.

Caius bows as he is dismissed, casting a furtive eye over to Stepan, the omega looking every inch a prince now he is so richly dressed. Geta suddenly desperately wants to gild him—gold at his throat and wrists, on his fingers, at his ankles and on his head, a chain dripping rubies and pearls around his waist…

Soon enough he will show off his prize, but first, he must stick to his plan.

Which first now means filling his stomach. He takes one chair next to the small table, nods to the other. “Sit. Eat.”

Stepan does as he’s told, his bites small. Even with his nerves quelling his appetite he must be hungrier than that. But Geta does not worry. He will ensure his omega feeds himself properly at the evening’s feast.

His own hunger sated, Geta retrieves a tunica for himself, this one in imperial purple, dressing to meet with an equal, even if Ricardius Spear-Handed is a lesser king of a small kingdom. He finishes with a gold circlet in his hair. He almost realizes too late that Stepan is barefoot, and fetches him a pair of leather sandals that tie in place at his ankle.

“Come, Stepan,” he whispers, offering his hand again, which the omega lightly grips, fingers loose. “A runner has already been sent ahead, and we had best be on our way. Your father will be expecting us.”

🌙🏛️🌿

The roman puts Stepan on a gentle mare, the horse following easily behind his own stallion. Silently, he takes in the familiar forest road, the verdant life and scents of his home in summer surrounding him. At least for the length of the journey he can pretend that this is any other day—that he will go home to sleep in his own nest when night falls, and this will all have been a strange dream.

But it’s not so. He will leave with the romans and almost certainly never return to his homeland. And he shall do so gladly if it will buy safety for his people. If it will keep his siblings from being sent into a losing battle.

His father’s hall comes into view and Stepan wants to leap from his horse and run inside. To fling himself into his mother’s arms and weep against her breast.

The dull ache between his legs is a potent reminder of why he cannot. His master has despoiled him, his value now locked to what this one alpha wants with him.

Fortunately, they do not need to wait long, his father’s personal guard coming out to meet them and escort the romans before their king. But Dominus is the one to offer Stepan his hand and help him from the mare’s back. “I have not chained you to my side, little prince,” he whispers in his ear. “You may go to your parents when we enter the hall. They are sure to be worried after your wellbeing.” He presses a soft kiss just below Stepan’s ear, like he can’t help himself from taking this small liberty. “Show them you are unharmed.”

“Yes, Dominus,” Stepan whispers back, dropping his hand and turning toward to doors.

Yakiv waits there, Master of the Guard, the man who taught Stepan how to hold a sword, to defend himself with a dagger. The one who carried him home when he fell from an apple tree at 8 years old and broke his arm, the one to hear Ravna’s shrieking when all he could do was lie on the ground and whimper in pain.

Stepan keeps his pace even as he crosses to meet him, Yakiv grabbing him by the shoulders as soon as he’s close enough. “Oh, pup, what did you do?”

“I was only… I know the woods so well! I only wanted to come back with information, but-” Stepan stops, swallows, lowers his voice back to just above a whisper. “I was angry. And I thought it would be more help than it was, and I got caught.”

“Yes. You did.” The disappointment in Yakiv’s scent burns in his nose. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“I know. But the romans knew of Father…”

“And your Latin is good.”

“Yes. And I’m an omega.”

The disappointment turns to concern, but Yakiv does not ask. He simply gathers Stepan to him in a bear hug, then ushers him into the hall.

His parents sit on their thrones, waiting, but as soon as he’s through the doors, his mother—stepmother, but the only mother he can remember—is on her feet, rushing to meet him. She kisses his cheek and wraps her arms around him. “Styopa, my heart, what happened? We’ve been sick with worry.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He hides his face against her shoulder. “But I’m all right. Everything will be all right now.”

“Styopa…” His mother doesn’t say anything more, she simply strokes his hair, kisses his forehead, and leads him back to the dais. She takes her seat, and he stands behind her, at her left shoulder.

Even though it is normally beneath his duties, Yakiv announces the roman’s entrance, Dominus followed by his own guards and contingent of soldiers. “My king,” he calls, “Caesar Septimius Geta thanks you for your hospitality and for welcoming him so quickly.”

Stepan’s blood turns to ice as he finally understands.

He is Emperor Severus’s younger son. Brother to Emperor Caracalla. Heir to the whole of the Roman Empire until his brother finally has children of his own.

And he wants Stepan.

The room tilts on its axis, and Stepan only stays upright by clutching at the backrest of the queen’s throne. His father will surely reprimand him for the disrespect, and for showing weakness in front of a foreign ruler. If only his father knew how weak he has already been before Geta.

How little he has to hide.

“Well met, Caesar!” Rikhardt calls, smiling as the roman advances. “Your emissary claims you come with terms of peace. Terms far fairer than our neighbors have been granted.”

Geta smiles with too many teeth. “I do, Rikhardt Spear-Handed. Bend the knee to Rome, and retain all your rights and sovereignties as king here. You will have the protection of Rome without giving up any of your lands or powers.”

Stepan looks to his father, sees his skeptical smile, knows the offer sounds too good to be true.

“And what do you ask of me, Septimius Geta?”

“I, of course, require that you offer hospitality and safe passage to any roman citizen passing through your lands, that you give quarter to legionnaires on campaign, and…” Geta pauses, glances around the room, dark eyes locking with Stepan’s for a long moment before he turns his attention back to the king. “I ask for your eldest son’s neck. I wish to take Stepan as my mate.”

A mating is more than a marriage, especially amongst romantic nobles as far as Stepan has learned. A marriage is an arrangement between families, built on politics and trade rather than attraction or intimacy. Stepan had not thought he would even be offered marriage, just the comfort of being a pampered concubine, one who could be a spy because who cares what is said before an unlearned foreigner.

But a mating—

“Stepan, come,” Rikhardt says, motioning with two fingers, and Stepan rushes to comply, certain he’s missed some of the conversation as he circles around to stand beside him.

“Yes, Father?”

Rikhardt takes Stepan by the hand, looks up into the eyes that match his own, and asks, “Do you accept this alpha’s offer for your neck?”

Stepan does not hesitate in his answer. There is no other choice. “I do.”

“Good. Then it is what shall be!” Rikhardt stands, puts an arm around Stepan’s shoulder, and turns his gaze back onto Geta and his wolfish grin. “We shall prepare the wedding feast, for tonight you will marry him before our gods, and then his neck will be yours.”

Part 3

[qprstobin]

Everyone loves the 'eddie has been crushing on Steve off and on since sophomore year' trope but honestly love me an Eddie who is like "yeah Harrington is hot, I've got eyes, but prep isnt my type" and honestly just doesn't think about Steve that much! Outside of, like, school gossip, especially during/after Steve's fall from grace. Really kind of love the idea of Eddie not giving the time of day to Steve up until his little sheep come to him every day weaving wild tales about the shit Steve has done, and even then it isn't really until he sees Steve go teeth first at a demobat that he starts reevaluating Steve and seeing him in a new light.

Because Eddie honestly kind of gives the impression that he's just as much caught up in his own world view as Steve was pre upside down/even pre S2. And like I know that we love Steve but Steve hasn't really done anything to give most of like his classmates any reason to love him aside from the generic jock stuff lbr. Especially for someone like eddie who is extremely anticomformist to the point of monologuing on the lunch tables.

And it's not so much a 'love at first bite' (heh) situation either but just all the things during and after s4 and the friendship they develop that makes Eddie reevaluate not only Steve but his world view and what he wants from the world! It makes him think. Fighting interdimensional monsters has a way of bringing out the best and the worst in people. And Eddie finds he likes what he's seeing. I'm not necessarily saying I want a slow burn either, but having them both have time to be like "huh maybe this person isn't what I thought i would want but he is want i want, isn't he?"

[stobinesque]

galaxy brain moment: Eddie is Steve's bi awakening but then he gets over it and the two of them settle into a fun queer friendship. Steff endgame.

[gayphob1a]

November 6th, Getting High

It’s a hard day every year. The anniversary effect, Joyce tells him. It’s been six years since the day Will went missing and set off the chain of events that changed Steve’s life forever. He wasn’t even there for that part of it, but getting to know Will, adopting him into his little troup of kids, and watching him fall silent on this day every year sets them all on edge. But this year feels different.

The anxiety is still there, and Steve thinks it always will be, but this time there are no tingles on the back of necks, no chill in the air that alights every sense into fight or fight mode (Steve is almost certain he has no flight or freeze reactions anymore). Plus, now he has Robin, and Eddie, and to the shock and awe of everyone involved, Jonathan and Nancy too. So this year, they get to celebrate.

Steve spends all day in the kitchen making Will’s favorite foods. Mac and cheese with a baked top of breadcrumbs, rotisserie chicken because Will loves the drumsticks, green bean casserole, which Steve isn’t a fan of personally, but it reminds Will of the dish Joyce makes on thanksgiving from cans they get at the foodbank, and he wants to spoil them with a version using fresh ingredients from the farmers market. There’s even a cake cooling on the counter and homemade cream cheese frosting, which Steve has had to swat Eddie’s sneaky fingers out of at least three times now. Eddie sits on the kitchen counter the whole time, keeping Steve company with a fondness in his expression that softens Steve to letting him lick the beaters he used to whip up the frosting. He’s a mess, and Steve loves him.

When evening rolls around, their apartment fills with the whole party. Even Argyle made the trip back to Hawkins to celebrate. He brings a bag of Cali weed with him, stronger shit than they can get out here, and Steve is completely fucked when it hits his bloodstream and looks at Eddie because Argyle’s weed always has a way of putting him in horny bitch mode, and Eddie with smoke streaming from his nostrils, giggling about how it makes him look like a dragon doesn’t help.

When the kids are full of food and piled up in front of the TV to watch Never Ending Story and mock Dustin mercilessly, Steve drags Eddie into their bedroom, unable to keep his hands off of him for another minute.

“Steve. Steve, oh my god.” Eddie pants as their hips roll together in a clumsy rhythm. “If you keep doing that you’re going to lose, baby boy.”

“Don’t care,” Steve pants into Eddie’s skin, intoxicated by the weed and the scent of his cheap cologne. “Just want you. Eddie… god I can’t believe I agreed to this being the word. Let me nut?”

“Fuck, okay.” And Steve can tell Eddie is just as desperate as he is after almost a week without making him cum. Eddie reaches a hand between them, cupping his hand around Steve’s cock to give him more friction to grind against, relishing in the wanton moans it draws out of him. Steve never thought the sounds of children screaming from his living room while he’s trying to get off would be a good thing, but well, he’s not exactly being quiet, and he’s dreading a lull in their shrieks that will inevitably get him caught.

He keeps moving his hips, his hands gripping at every inch of Eddie’s skin, squeezing his hip bones and digging his nails into the exposed skin of his shoulders. They keep the apartment hot just so Steve can see his boyfriend in those slutty tank tops he cuts down to his navel. And yeah, they’ve been playing, but not finishing for a full week is sending Steve teetering towards the edge faster than he expected. When Eddie’s hand flexes around him, he nearly cries, nearly cums on the spot.

But then there’s a knock at the door.

“Steve? Eddie? Are you guys okay in there?”

Will. Shit. Steve comes crashing back down to Earth in an instant. The worry in his voice is clear, and Steve is filled with guilt for worrying the kid today of all days. He reaches down and stills Eddie’s palm, giving it a squeeze in apology before opening the door a crack and leaning out to see the kid… smirking?

“We’re fine. Are you okay?” Steve adjusts himself behind the door and smacks Eddie’s shoulder for laughing silently.

“I’m fine. Eddie told me to check up on you guys when you snuck off. Do you guys… need anything?”

“No,” Steve says, shooting Eddie a glare that would make him drop dead if looks could kill. “No, we don’t need anything. We’ll be out in a minute, okay?”

“Okay.” Will says, slinking away with a look on his face that is far too knowledgeable about their escapades.

Steve closes the door quietly behind him and rounds on Eddie. “You enlisted a CHILD to keep me from coming?”

Eddie shrugs. “Sorry baby, I didn’t know you were going to actually back out. I couldn’t let you lose this early on.”

“You know I hate you, right?”

“Aw, that’s not true. You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’m proud of you for telling me what you need, Stevie, and if you really want it we can end this later tonight after everyone leaves.”

There’s no debate, Steve wants it, but competition has pumped through him like ice in his veins since his very first basketball game. And, okay, maybe Eddie had a point about the build up, the anticipation, because so far the play has been like nothing he’s ever experienced before and as much as he’d love to paint Eddie’s chest in thick stripes of warm cum and play with it like a finger painting, he wants to see how this month ends more.

“No! I-I mean, it’s okay. I want to keep going, really.” Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, and goes into the ensuite to calm himself down. There’s no way he would be able to walk away from Eddie’s evil smirk and he promised the kid they were done.

For now, at least.

@steddievember