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hoes who don’t understand dustin in season 5 are the same hoes who didn’t understand nancy in season 2. hey guys do you want characters to be completely unaffected by the deaths of their loved ones 😀 that would be supremely awful writing!
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LOVEFOOL 💌 — ‘honey, i’m home’ with stevie please. no pressure at all and take ur time or feel free to skip it, idm at all. and congratulations again ml, ily xx
drew babyyyyy, i love u and i’m saur sorry this took so long!! i may have went overboard | 1.6k fem!reader
Robin is the first to insist that his party days are well behind him. It was supposed to be a lighthearted toast in some random corner of a vaguely familiar backyard. Keg King Steve has fallen from grace! Here’s to a sign of maturity!
The sentiment, much to Steve’s chagrin, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and it rivals whatever’s in his cup.
“So Harrington’s a lightweight, big deal! I still think you’re just as charming.” With a heavy hand and a tipsy grin, Eddie reassuringly slaps across Steve’s shoulders. The sheer force of it has his entire body jerking forward and his drink jumping over the plastic rim. It spills over his fingers, grossly sticking to his skin and foaming at the edge of his sleeve.
He’s not quite sure why it even affects his ego so much, but it’s feeling bruised and battered. Like something sour and unforgiving crept into his chest and delivered a hefty blow to his Pride.
It has him sputtering as he lamely pushes away the metal-head, “I can still—I mean, I'm not…a lightweight.”
Robin is usually pretty good at spotting his unease when she’s sober, but the cheap beer seems to make her hypersensitive to his changing mood. She shakes her head fervently and harshly swallows. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of!” She starts, “I’m just saying, you know…you’re not who you were in high school! Which is good! It’s a good thing. It’s just, like, your tolerance decreases as you get older and less athletic, everybody knows that. So it’s perfectly normal.”
He knows that she means well. It’s obvious in the way she attempts to soothingly rub his arm, the way she smiles at him as best she can. But he’s feeling like he just got all the air knocked out of lungs.
You’re not who you were in high school.
It’s loud. It echoes unkindly against his skull and penetrates the most vulnerable parts of his brain until the noise is smothered by something else. Something a lot less intelligible, almost barbaric.
The frenzied chanting over by the keg rings in his ears and grows louder with each weak breath he takes. Eddie’s trying to help now — says something about how Steve can still outsmoke half his regular customers. But his voice is static in the boy’s mind now as his attention is focused on a pair of ankles being held in the air in the midst of the growing crowd.
Just then, an old lightbulb flickers on in his head, his Pride is reanimated with a dizzying desire to prove himself. His chest increases in size, his shoulders are pushed back, his chin is held high, but the confidence doesn’t seem to reach his face. “I’m not a lightweight,” he mumbles before he’s striding across the grass and taking his place at the keg.
Steve is not a lightweight. He can certainly still hold his keg stand record. But he’s got enough alcohol in his system to fuel a garage full of cars.
It’s why he ends up hanging off your shoulders, humming some song by The Smiths, and making it entirely impossible to unlock your apartment door.
The warm skin of his forehead pushes into your cheek as he noses at the junction between your neck and your shoulder. Muscly arms are tightly wound against your middle, trapping your own arms underneath and pressing your keys into your thigh. His fluffy brown hair, uncharacteristically and boyishly disheveled, tickles the corner of your eye.
“Steve, I can’t…” You try to fight off his arms, but they only seem to tighten followed by a groan of protest from him. You huff before softly restarting, “I can’t open the door, Stevie.”
“Oh! Sorry,” he whispers. He readjusts himself so that one arm is around your back and the other lies limp at his side.
You’re finally able to unlock the door and push it open with the toe of your shoe before you’re helping Steve inside the darkness of your shared loft. As soon as he feels your hands leave his body, he frowns and slouches against the wall, mumbling something that you can’t quite make out. When you close the door and turn on the lamp, he’s abruptly jumping up and taking a harsh breath.
“Honey, I’m home!” His loud voice bursts into the empty apartment and reverberates against the walls.
He tries to stifle his giggle when he sees you flinch and consequently hit his chest. You press your index finger to your lips and glare at the boy, but he only snorts at the conspicuous smile you’re trying to suppress.
“Shh, Steve—”
“Shh! My girlfriend’s sleeping. Cool it,” he interjects lowly with his own finger wagging at you. Another snort and chuckle comes from him at his own joke before his shoulders slump again.
“Let’s go join her, then, yeah?” You coax him, gently pushing at his back so that he’s walking forward. His footsteps drag the entire journey to the bedroom until he lays eyes on the unmade bed that’s just screaming his name.
As soon as his hand reaches down to touch the mattress, his limbs turn to jelly and he gracelessly flops into the sheets. A groan of relief and exhaustion is pulled from his throat as he lets himself sink further into the pillows. Once you’ve turned on the light, you lean down to take his shoes off before you’re yanking him back up to you. He’s standing, but he’s slightly rocking back and forth on his ankles with his eyes closed.
You’re untucking his polo and pushing it up his torso, but his arms remain stuck at his sides. You sigh and pat against his chest to get him to look at you, which he does. “Steve, baby, I'm gonna need your help.”
Wordlessly, he throws his arms up and grabs at the hem of his shirt once you’ve pushed it up his arms. He flings it off and grabs at his undershirt to do the same, but freezes when he feels you unbuckle his belt. His face is burning up now as he watches you tug the leather out of the belt loops and reach for the button of his jeans.
“Woah, take me t’dinner first.”
A lazy smirk and glassy eyes are pointed your way and a laugh is pushed from your mouth before you can stop it. Every ounce of smugness is gone within a second and all he can do is stare at you with a big smile.
“If you behave, we’ll go to dinner tomorrow. Benny’s ‘cause they have your favorite burgers.”
He doesn’t even register what you say because he’s too focused on your laugh. The way your chest rumbles and the way these cute little wrinkles start to form by the corners of your eyes. Even when you dip your head away or cover your mouth to hide from him. The sound itself is enough to have him smiling, but you just look so pretty when you’re laughing, he’s practically starstruck.
When he comes to, you’re tapping at his calves to step out of his jeans. As soon as you’re upright again, he points out, “I’m making you laugh. Am I funny?”
“Oh, yeah,” you say it like it’s obvious, “This is supposed to be a secret, but…you make me laugh a lot actually.” The admission prompts a happy puff of air from him as he sits back down on the bed. He’s looking up at you with wide eyes.
“Good. I like when you laugh. When you’re laughing at me.”
You tug at his tank top to signal for him to lift his arms, and he happily obliges.
Scars run across his abdomen and glisten with each movement he makes. When he feels your fingertips gently kiss at the edges of the marred skin, a sobering feeling of vulnerability washes over him. A feeling that he’d tried so hard to get rid of tonight, hoping to drown it with a wave of something, anything else. And you seemed to bring it right back without even trying. Only it doesn’t feel suffocating like it did earlier. It feels safe.
“You’re so good t’me…” His voice is much softer now. He leans into your touch, shivering as you drag your hands up to his face, but his eyes are unmoving as they gaze into your own. “I love you.”
You beam down at him and push his wild hair back to leave a kiss on his forehead. “I love you, too, Steve.” And though you’ve said it a million times before, always teeming with warmth and fondness, his brows still pinch together.
“Really? You love me? You’re not lyin’?”
Your expression mimics his. But you only get closer to him, reassuring him, “‘Course I love you.”
“But…even though I get like this? Even though I can’t—hicc—though I’m not Steve from high school?” He grimaces. The words from earlier in the night faintly resurface in the back of his mind and he’s feeling bitter all over again. But as quickly as they came, you’re just as quick to snap him out of it.
“Mhm, I love every version of you. I love you, now.” You drop a kiss to his cheek. “I love drunk Steve.” A kiss to his other cheek. “And tomorrow, I’m gonna love hungover Steve.” A small peck on his lips.
His eyes are slow to open when you pull away, and he reaches for your hips like he’s going to fall over. But he doesn’t. He gives you a gooey smile and juts his chin forward in a silent request for you to kiss him again. Even though he still has the faint taste of liquor lingering in his breath, you do it anyway.
“That’s good. Because I’m definitely gonna be that guy tomorrow.”
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synopsis: eddie is more than eager to cheer you on at your derby matches, and just as eager to help patch you up afterwards (implied fem!reader)
word count: 1k
authors note: yet another old work revival! this is a little more on the niche side, but i thought eddie would think jammer!reader was badass saur i had to write it teehee
Every single bone in your body is begging you to stay still. Your joints practically screech with each movement, sending shocks of dull pain through your limbs. But, ironically, you’re too exhausted to care. You just want to be comfortable and you just want to sleep.
The entire ride back to Eddie’s has been filled by his old cassettes, the audio being muffled by radio static. Your hand rests in his own, over the middle compartment, and he gently squeezes your fingers every so often. As soon as you park, the fatigue and dejection hits you ten times harder.
“Wayne’s not here yet,” he observes aloud, resting his hand on your lower back for a split second, “You can go to the room, I’ll be right there.” You shoot him a quick smile as he places a kiss on your forehead before trudging down the hall.
Carefully sitting down on the edge of Eddie’s bed, you kick off your slippers and lean back to throw your feet up—the pull on your back muscles making you wince. You can hear his voice increasingly become louder as he nears the room. The sound is accompanied by the clanking of a spoon against glass as he mixes whatever liquid in the cup.
“It was totally badass. I thought you actually knocked her out cold,” he chirps ever so excitedly. The spoon twirling halts and he sets the glass down onto a nearby surface with a proud huff.
It’s chocolate milk.
He drops down onto the mattress and mindlessly grabs at your socked feet to massage the soles. Your legs twitch and shoot up before you call out defeatedly, “Eddie, my feet are probably gross and sweaty!” You try to gently kick his hands away, but he tightens his grip and leans down with a feigned expression of seriousness.
“S’fine. I like it.”
“Ew.” You grimace playfully and he looks at you to mimic your expression, chuckling as he does so. He moves closer to rest your legs over his lap and runs his fingers over your shins.
“What’s that for?” You nudge your head in the direction of glass. A hint of a smile plays on your tired lips at the question and it makes his cheeks burn red.
You only really ask him to get a reaction. After countless practices and drills, you’d have a small bottle of store-bought chocolate milk to quell the oncoming ache in your muscles. Eddie, ever the observer, caught on quickly and suddenly the Munson household remained stocked with milk and cocoa powder. Though he was inexplicably hesitant to admit that it was for you.
“I heard chocolate milk helps. Supposed to help sore muscles, I think.” Eddie speaks so softly, you can barely hear him over the ripping velcro of your knee pads.
He holds one hand to the side of your calf as he slides it off and gently caresses your taut skin with his thumb.
“Christ,” he hisses, “They really got you good here, huh?” His fingers run over a particularly harsh bruise beginning to blossom on the outside of your thigh. The cold metal of his rings make you flinch under his touch and he immediately pulls away, whispering a small apology.
He moves your legs off his lap to go back into the kitchen. You hear the fridge door opening, plastic rustling, drawers sliding open and shut, before he’s back in the room. In one hand is a blue rag while the other holds a gel ice pack—another new addition to the Munson household since your arrival.
You scoot over slightly to make room for him next to you and he wraps the pack before pressing it down to the tender skin on your leg. Your jaw clenches at the temperature and Eddie caresses your knee in hopes to comfort you. It does, it always does.
After a while, he asks, “You okay?”
“We lost,” you state plainly. The words taste bitter on your tongue, the consonants sharp and unforgiving. You actively avoid Eddie’s gaze once he looks up at you after that.
It’s not necessarily that you think he’s disappointed in you—he never could be. Given the chance, he’d brag about the mere fact that you even have that much balance on roller skates. So you knew he was proud of you tonight, even though it didn’t end in your favor. You just can’t help feeling embarrassed.
He hums in acknowledgment and quickly bows his head to leave a quick kiss to your knee. There’s a pause where his mouth opens to say something before closing again. He clears his throat before finally saying, “His grief he will not forget; but it will not darken his heart, it will teach him wisdom.”
When you don’t respond, he smiles. “Lord of the Rings,” he clarifies, tapping against your leg. “It’s okay to lose. It’s how you get better, and I know you’re going to be even more badass next time. Don't be so hard on yourself.”
“I looked badass?”
“Oh yeah, you’re a stunner. Had to remind myself you were beating people up,” he jokes, but he looks at you with every ounce of admiration. “I’m proud of you. Y’know that?”
It’s nice to have someone be kind to you when you forget how to. And Eddie’s always been so gentle and kind and attentive, it almost makes you want to cry. You smile, bigger than you have all night, and reach for his hand on your knee to interlace your fingers.
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erm hello back from the dead I see?!?!!? how are u my long lost bff <3
i’ve arisen!! dude i’ve been missing my creative outlet so bad, it feels like im visiting a graveyard every time i log on. and i’ve been missing my favorite little friends on here <3 how are u !
synopsis: eddie is more than eager to cheer you on at your derby matches, and just as eager to help patch you up afterwards (implied fem!reader)
word count: 1k
authors note: yet another old work revival! this is a little more on the niche side, but i thought eddie would think jammer!reader was badass saur i had to write it teehee
Every single bone in your body is begging you to stay still. Your joints practically screech with each movement, sending shocks of dull pain through your limbs. But, ironically, you’re too exhausted to care. You just want to be comfortable and you just want to sleep.
The entire ride back to Eddie’s has been filled by his old cassettes, the audio being muffled by radio static. Your hand rests in his own, over the middle compartment, and he gently squeezes your fingers every so often. As soon as you park, the fatigue and dejection hits you ten times harder.
“Wayne’s not here yet,” he observes aloud, resting his hand on your lower back for a split second, “You can go to the room, I’ll be right there.” You shoot him a quick smile as he places a kiss on your forehead before trudging down the hall.
Carefully sitting down on the edge of Eddie’s bed, you kick off your slippers and lean back to throw your feet up—the pull on your back muscles making you wince. You can hear his voice increasingly become louder as he nears the room. The sound is accompanied by the clanking of a spoon against glass as he mixes whatever liquid in the cup.
“It was totally badass. I thought you actually knocked her out cold,” he chirps ever so excitedly. The spoon twirling halts and he sets the glass down onto a nearby surface with a proud huff.
It’s chocolate milk.
He drops down onto the mattress and mindlessly grabs at your socked feet to massage the soles. Your legs twitch and shoot up before you call out defeatedly, “Eddie, my feet are probably gross and sweaty!” You try to gently kick his hands away, but he tightens his grip and leans down with a feigned expression of seriousness.
“S’fine. I like it.”
“Ew.” You grimace playfully and he looks at you to mimic your expression, chuckling as he does so. He moves closer to rest your legs over his lap and runs his fingers over your shins.
“What’s that for?” You nudge your head in the direction of glass. A hint of a smile plays on your tired lips at the question and it makes his cheeks burn red.
You only really ask him to get a reaction. After countless practices and drills, you’d have a small bottle of store-bought chocolate milk to quell the oncoming ache in your muscles. Eddie, ever the observer, caught on quickly and suddenly the Munson household remained stocked with milk and cocoa powder. Though he was inexplicably hesitant to admit that it was for you.
“I heard chocolate milk helps. Supposed to help sore muscles, I think.” Eddie speaks so softly, you can barely hear him over the ripping velcro of your knee pads.
He holds one hand to the side of your calf as he slides it off and gently caresses your taut skin with his thumb.
“Christ,” he hisses, “They really got you good here, huh?” His fingers run over a particularly harsh bruise beginning to blossom on the outside of your thigh. The cold metal of his rings make you flinch under his touch and he immediately pulls away, whispering a small apology.
He moves your legs off his lap to go back into the kitchen. You hear the fridge door opening, plastic rustling, drawers sliding open and shut, before he’s back in the room. In one hand is a blue rag while the other holds a gel ice pack—another new addition to the Munson household since your arrival.
You scoot over slightly to make room for him next to you and he wraps the pack before pressing it down to the tender skin on your leg. Your jaw clenches at the temperature and Eddie caresses your knee in hopes to comfort you. It does, it always does.
After a while, he asks, “You okay?”
“We lost,” you state plainly. The words taste bitter on your tongue, the consonants sharp and unforgiving. You actively avoid Eddie’s gaze once he looks up at you after that.
It’s not necessarily that you think he’s disappointed in you—he never could be. Given the chance, he’d brag about the mere fact that you even have that much balance on roller skates. So you knew he was proud of you tonight, even though it didn’t end in your favor. You just can’t help feeling embarrassed.
He hums in acknowledgment and quickly bows his head to leave a quick kiss to your knee. There’s a pause where his mouth opens to say something before closing again. He clears his throat before finally saying, “His grief he will not forget; but it will not darken his heart, it will teach him wisdom.”
When you don’t respond, he smiles. “Lord of the Rings,” he clarifies, tapping against your leg. “It’s okay to lose. It’s how you get better, and I know you’re going to be even more badass next time. Don't be so hard on yourself.”
“I looked badass?”
“Oh yeah, you’re a stunner. Had to remind myself you were beating people up,” he jokes, but he looks at you with every ounce of admiration. “I’m proud of you. Y’know that?”
It’s nice to have someone be kind to you when you forget how to. And Eddie’s always been so gentle and kind and attentive, it almost makes you want to cry. You smile, bigger than you have all night, and reach for his hand on your knee to interlace your fingers.
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