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what if: high school steddie, where Eddie is all too aware of the social hierarchy of Hawkins High and his standing in it—the lowest of the low—versus a Steve who either doesn't know or doesn't care.
Eddie knows he's at the bottom of the food chain. Knows he's the first to eat shit when some jocks are hungering for some violence. Knows he's about as good as the dirt on their shoes, as far as they're concerned.
And at the top of that mountain, just about the other side of the world, really, is Steve Harrington. Steve "The Hair" Harrington. King Steve. Double Team Captain. Mister Harrington Charm.
They shouldn't EVER interact. It's against the laws of nature, or some shit, Eddie's sure.
Which is probably why it seems like the world's imploding when Steve "The Hair" Harrington—Mister Harrington Charm, Double Team Captain, whatever the fuck else Gareth has on his endless list—asks him to prom.
It's probably a good thing they're alone, in the middle of the woods, on opposite sides of Eddie's favorite deal-making table, so no one's around to hear him yell, "What the fuck?"
It echoes around the woods anyways, maybe louder than he meant to be, which is good, because it's definitely a 'what the fuck' moment.
They've literally never spoken before. Actually, they've done less than spoken—they could live on opposite poles of the Earth, for all the interaction they've had. They don't share any classes. Hell, they don't even see each other in the halls.
And now Steve Harrington is staring at him like he's actually waiting for an answer.
Again: What the fuck?
A record scratches in his brain and yup, there’s Harrington’s voice again, smarmy little smile on his face, asking: “Will you go to prom with me?”
As in, Steve Harrington just asked, in this existence, in this reality, on this planet, for Eddie Munson to go to Hawkins High Senior Prom with him. For real.
For real?
No. No way.
Harrington’s joking, Eddie knows. Figures the day’d come he decides torturing Eddie is just as much fun as the rest of his shit-jock cronies made it out to be.
And then, suddenly, Eddie knows what it is. Has seen enough of those terrible movies on early-morning TV with Wayne. Has seen the same damn plot enough times to smell it coming from a mile away.
“You know what,” he says, leaning into Harrington’s space, too close, brimming with irritation and a disgusting desire to one-up the smug, cocky bastard, “You get me a bouquet of roses as black as your twisted, festering soul, and I’ll wear a pretty little dress for you, too.”
Harrington’s frown makes anger tighten Eddie’s jaw. “Do roses… grow in black?”
“I guess that’s for you to find out and for me to know, Harrington,” Eddie sneers. He gets up, snatches his lunchbox, and stalks back through the trees to school.
He throws a “fuck you” over his shoulder when Harrington calls out “Benny’s at six?” but doesn’t turn around because the last thing he needs is to eat shit tripping over a goddamn branch. As it is, he’s already waiting for any of Harrington’s little friends to appear out of the shadows and jump him. That’s how it goes, right?
Only, it doesn’t.
There’s no swirlies, no shoving into lockers, no missing clothes after gym, no brutal beatdown on late days after Hellfire. Eddie’s almost worried the meatheads have had too many concussions and forgot he was next on the hit list.
And then he realizes—oh. Oh no. They’re waiting for prom. Actual prom night to fucking flay him open on stage in front of the whole school or something equally psychotic. Drown him in the punch. Stomp him to death on the dance floor.
Clearly, they HAVE had too many concussions if they think Eddie would EVER show his face there. Fuck Harrington, and fuck his minions. Like Eddie’d make it that easy for them.
Except, in the days leading up to prom, weird things keep happening. And Eddie doesn’t know what to think about it.
There’s pudding at his spot at the head of the table. Once a week, because the cafeteria only has pudding once a week. Eddie loves cafeteria pudding.
Steve Harrington grins at him from across the goddamn cafeteria and Eddie’s gut curdles.
One of the Hellfire posters he puts up monthly (and is always shredded by first period’s end) is still up a week later. Sure, torn and taped back together, but it’s not slush in a toilet, either.
Steve Harrington tells him that he looks nice when he finds him smoking just outside the school, and Eddie’s skin itches like he needs to tear it off.
There’s a flower on the driver’s seat of his van the day he forgets to close the window all the way, a day-old daisy with the petals stained a dark blue, the yellow center dulled.
Steve Harrington says he’s got a nice voice and he’s really good at playing the guitar and Eddie wonders how the hell he knows that.
One day, Harrington drops down to sit on the curb next to him, in the parking lot of the shitty little convenience store that’s a five-minute walk from the trailer park. He passes over a pack of his fancy smokes and nabs one of Eddie’s cheap beers so they can drink and smoke together and neither of them say anything. Eddie wants to say it’s because he doesn’t want Harrington to realize exactly what he’s done and get his shit beer cans crushed over his head, but in truth, it’s because he can’t get a damn read on the guy.
Another, Harrington and Hargrove both come to school looking like they’ve been run over, then backed up over, and then run over again for good measure. Hargrove doesn’t haggle him for weed again, and Harrington still smiles at him from across the cafeteria like the pull of his cheek doesn’t make his broken nose and black eye smart.
Again: What the fuck?
He asks the guys. “What the hell is going on with Harrington?”
He doesn’t like how they look at him, mouths twisted and uncomfortable and unsure.
“Heard he and Hagan beat the shit out of each other a while ago. Haven’t talked since.”
Hagan. Not Hargrove. A while ago.
“Ditched Carol P. and Stacy C., too.”
…
What the fuck?
…
The day of prom comes. Vaguely, Eddie remembers: Benny’s at six. Yeah-fucking-right.
He doesn’t go. Doesn’t have a suit, anyway, and wouldn’t have gone even if he did. Obviously. He might be stupid, repeating senior year, but he’s not THAT stupid.
An hour later, the phone in the trailer rings. When he picks up, Gareth is on the other end of the line. Distantly, Eddie can hear the shitty pop that makes up the school’s prom mixtape.
“What’d Harrington’s face look like?” he asks. “Was he pissed?”
“He didn’t show,” Gareth admits. “I dunno, man, maybe he was being serious.”
Eddie’s laugh probably pisses off half the trailer park. He can’t hear Gareth’s through the phone. “Are you kidding me?”
“Don’t kill the messenger.”
“Messenger might get me killed,” Eddie bites back, and then he hangs up. He hopes the punch is spiked and Gareth gets so drunk he falls asleep in a bush.
He grabs his keys off his nightstand and the trailer door slams behind him when he leaves.
Outside Benny’s diner is dark, shadows over the parking lot, but Harrington’s beamer is still there, clear as day. Maroon and hideous. God-fucking-damnit.
Harrington is in the driver’s seat, arms crossed over his chest as his head lolls back against his seat, half-asleep and definitely getting there. He’s wearing a nice shirt and nice pants and his tie goes flying like a whip across his cheek when Eddie knocks his fist against the roof of the car.
“The hell’s your damage, Harrington?” He barks, before the guy can even get his bearings.
Harrington fumbles, flailing limbs punch a short blare out of his horn, and his tie ends up over his shoulder.
“Eddie, hi. Hi, Eddie.” There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. Eddie’s lips curl.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snaps again. Harrington’s window is half-down—he can definitely hear him.
“Um.” Harrington looks sheepish, now, doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “It was—Benny’s at seven. I was waiting for you. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens.
“It was Benny’s at seven, right? I thought it was Benny’s at six, at first, but I can’t really keep dates straight up here, anymore,” he knocks against his head with a knuckle, “All the pointless melon-splits of American sports, or whatever.”
Vaguely, Eddie remembers a long-winded rant on the top of a cafeteria table about the same subject.
“It was at six,” he acknowledges. “I didn’t bother showing up.”
“Oh.” Harrington’s eyes drop, take in his pajama pants and his threadbare tee. “But you did. Now.”
“Yeah, well.” Eddie turns the words over. “Call it a lapse of judgment.”
Harrington nods. He’s not looking at Eddie anymore. It sours something in his gut that he doesn’t acknowledge.
Eddie looks past him. In the passenger seat, a bouquet.
Of black roses.
Harrington’s fingertips are stained a shade darker, black stuck underneath his nails.
What the actual fuck.
“What the hell was your plan here, Harrington?”
Harrington blinks up at him with those stupid big eyes that Eddie definitely, absolutely hates.
“Dinner, and then, you know, prom? Isn’t that how is usually goes?” He asks, like Eddie would have any fucking clue.
Eddie grinds his teeth. “You realize you’ve wasted your only senior prom on this dumb joke, right? And I didn’t even fall for it? Way to have your priorities in order, King Steve.”
Harrington’s face scrunches. Eddie bites his tongue.
“I’ve had the misfortune of having two, and I didn’t subject myself to either. So you can cut the shit—”
“Wait, hold on,” Harrington cuts him off. “It wasn’t—what joke, Eddie?”
Oh. Oh no. If Gareth’s right, he’s gonna have to throw himself from the quarry cliffs.
“You know,” he spits, like it doesn’t affect him, that every last goddamn person in fucking Hawkins sees him as a freak, like a bug to torture and then squash, “Lure me to prom. Dump a bucket of pig’s blood over my head or however that movie goes.”
Harrington—Harrington looks horrified.
Well. The quarry’s always empty at seven in the evening.
“Even I’m not that dumb, man.” He ignores how the words come out, slower, an edge of uncertainty.
“That’s fucked up,” Harrington whispers, “There’s a movie like that? I wouldn’t—that’s not what I—”
“Yeah, I think I’m starting to get that.”
Harrington’s jaw shuts with a click, and they’re both quiet for a minute. And then, like a curse he doesn’t want to say aloud lest he bring it to life, Eddie asks, “That was you, wasn’t it? With the pudding and the posters and the flowers.”
“I broke Tommy’s nose when I caught him trying to let the air outta your tires, too,” he says, hollowly, like it doesn’t matter anymore.
Fuck.
There’s no one in the parking lot, and Eddie tells himself its the only reason he rounds the car and drops into the passenger side seat. The flowers are saved by Harrington’s quick reflexes, and Eddie kind of wants to curse him out for having his doors unlocked.
“Okay.” He hypes himself up like he’s seen Harrington do in PE, a quick breath in and out. “I didn’t know you were being serious. I thought it was just a dumb joke.”
“Yeah, I got that part.”
He twists his fingers together. “Those were for me, right?”
Harrington hums. Hands them over. “Kinda makes it worse, but sure. Yeah, they were for you.”
“Worse?”
Harrington laughs, scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought it’d be funny. You said you’d wear a dress if I got you black flowers, but I—I didn’t mean it that way. I just wanted to get you flowers you’d like.”
Fuck. Eddie does remember that, now.
The stems are still thorny and prick at his fingers when he hold them. He likes them better that way.
“You’ve been… practicing these,” he realizes. Remembers the little blue daisy.
“First ones came out a really gross kind of green,” Steve admits.
God fucking damn it.
“I don’t do prom,” Eddie says.
“Yeah, I figured that one out,” Steve replies. Dry. Still isn’t looking over at Eddie.
“No, I mean—I wouldn’t have gone even if I’d thought you were being honest from the get-go. I don’t DO prom. It’s the death of counter-culture and individuality.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“What I’m saying is,” he takes a deep breath, a little part of him still praying Steve won’t punch his damn lights out, “I’m not gonna go to prom. Ever. That’s an invitation to douchebags like Hargrove and Hagan to split my skull open on the gym floor. I don’t want my last breath to be weeks-old jock socks.”
He ducks, tries to catch Steve’s gaze. Doesn’t manage. He ends up pressed against the dashboard like a moron.
“But there’s this bar I go to,” he continues, “It doesn’t really check ID. I think they’d go out of business if they did. They let us play on Tuesdays.”
“I know.”
He knows? Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe Eddie needs to buy the flowers. About six dozen. Fuck him.
His leg jostles, knocks against Steve’s door. He finally looks up.
“That’s more my speed,” he admits, in a big rush. “It’s… probably better than prom as a first date, anyways.”
Steve’s eyebrows jump up into that famous hair, perfectly styled. Eddie’s is a mane of despair and hopelessness, wilder than a tornado.
“Really?” he asks, like Eddie didn’t just say he’d thought he was a piece of shit in seven different ways. “That’s—you’d—really?”
“I mean, not right now,” Eddie scoffs, and Steve’s face drops. He hurries to amend, “I’m not really dressed for the occasion. But maybe, like… tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Steve repeats, and Eddie flushes. “That’s soon.”
“Or never,” he snaps, because he’s a goddamn moron, “That works too.”
Steve’s grin splits his face and Eddie has to look back at the flowers in his lap. “Tomorrow’s good,” he agrees, too easy.
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, kicks the door open, probably leaves a scuff, but Steve doesn’t say a word. “Better be.”
Steve’s still grinning as he gets out of the car, slams the door closed, rounds the side again. He’s not scared of a gaggle of dipshits ready to jump him because they’re not there. And he’s got a bouquet of black roses pressed to his chest.
“See you then, Eddie,” Steve chirps, as Eddie climbs back into his own van, and Eddie—Eddie has to hide his smile behind a curtain of hair as he throws the piece of shit into reverse and backs out of Benny’s diner.
…
He leaves the flowers on their tiny kitchen counter and the next morning, Wayne’s put them in a vase Eddie didn’t know they had, with water and that weird flower-food crap and everything.
one of my favorite things about campaign 4 is the un/intentional allegory of dol-makjar, a city of orcs who can see in the dark because of darkvision, getting overtaken by humans who "wield the light" and have absolutely no darkvision. and it got really hammered down in episode 31 when the sons of the dawn and the grey tower guard were surrounded by magpie orcs and the wind snuffed out all the lights.
Welcome to our fair city. I hope that you enjoy your stay.
absolute fucking banger. i'll be forever thankful that brennan made araman and campaign 4 as a love letter to the orcs of lotr, the first and greatest victims of sauron.
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So what I think is that there's this default belief in patriarchy that men are superior to women and therefore the "masculine" sphere is superior to the "feminine" sphere. And so, as feminists have fought to expand the number of allowable female activities, men (on the aggregate over generations) have retreated from those activities because they're now seen as "feminine", and so partaking in them is incommensurate with their belief in their own superiority. And, unfortunately, as this has progressed, this has resulted in a lot of men sectioning themselves off from, frankly, everything that actually makes being alive worthwhile. It's a misery spiral, and the only way out is to abandon male supremacy.
#men gave up deep friendships and reading and poetry and colourful fashion#all things that used to be considered manly in the 19th century#they're currently giving up on studying law and medecine#it's so stupid and sad
(I mean, the colourful fashion was more of an eighteenth century thing, but yeah)
#more women in higher education meaning fewer men is incredibly depressing to me. funny in a sad way#what happens when women will finally get into trades? will they just stop working
Eddie making fun of Steve for his taste of music, specifically for his seemingly oversaturated love for Bruce Springsteen.
But then Steve shows up one day, tape in hand, and slams it into Eddie's chest.
"What"—
"Nebraska. Springsteen. Listen to it and then tell me if you think he only writes bullshit top 40 crap." He takes a breath, like he's hesitating. And then tells Eddie, "My Father's House. That's my favorite track. I don't know, maybe we can find common ground."
And the album fucking shatters Eddie's pinpoint world view of Jock Stereotypes. Completely shreds the last bits of his Munson Doctrine. 'Cause this album is devastating.
Imagine if Shen Yuan transmigrated as Gongyi Xiao's shizun instead.
Imagine him doting on Gongyi, at first because he feels bad for him, being destined to be overshadowed, replaced, and unceremoniously tossed offstage by binghe in the future
But then he does actually grow attached to him. Gongyi is so sincere, he admires his kind shizun and looks at him as if he hung the moon. He's a righteous and upstanding young man. And Shen Yuan adores him.
Now imagine the immortal alliance conference. Imagine the Binghe who was mistreated by the original Shen Qingqiu catching a glimpse of Gongyi Xiao and his doting teacher and he sees a life he was never meant to have.
Maybe he just sees them for a moment before the event, Shen Yuan giving his head disciple a little pep talk before hand. Letting Gongyi Xiao know that he's already proud of him, no matter how he preforms, but he knows Gongyi will excell regardless. (He doesn't want him to feel too discouraged when binghe outperforms him.)
Or Binghe happens to witness Shen Yuan rushing to Gongyi Xiao's aid once things have taken a turn for the worse. He sees Shen Yuan check Gongyi over for injuries, his brow creased in concern.
And when Binghe is pushed into the abyss by Shen Qingqiu that's what his mind goes back to. The huan hua disciple and his kind shizun. Why couldn't he have that? Why did he have to be treated the way he was? Why why why
And the thoughts persist through his time in the abyss.
When he breaks out of the abyss after 5 years those thoughts bring him right to the huan hua palace doors.
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Jeff can’t put his finger on it, but something’s wrong with him.
He’s never the first one to arrive for band practice, let alone early. But here he was in the garage tuning his guitar.
Jeff is watching from across the room. He’s punctual. He’s been playing his music at a lower volume. He hasn’t killed anyone’s character out of spite in at least a month. And Mike actually deserved it last week.
Jeff even heard him make comments about the cubs/cardinals game to Wayne in passing.
And there’s something wrong with Eddie’s hair.
It’s not frizzy like it normally is. It looked … soft. Defined. Conditioned —
“You’re sleeping with Steve Harrington!” Jeff snapped, pointing accusingly to Eddie.
Eddie’s face dropped.
His eyes darted between their friends — when did the other guys get here?
For a moment Jeff felt bad blurting it out, catching the fear in Eddie’s eyes. But just like everything else Eddie has faced, he’s replaced the fear with confidence.
Eddie’s eyes narrowed angrily at Jeff. “So what if I am?”
Jeff shrugged, plucking at his strings. “Good for you, man. Just hit me, that’s all.”
That made Eddie physically stumble. Like he wasn’t expecting that. “What?”
“You’ve been different,” Jeff said. “Not in a bad way. Good actually. Just — made me realize it.”
The garage was silent. As if everyone was afraid to make a move.
“Is there — is there gonna be a problem?” Eddie asked, all bravo drained from his voice.
“Nope,” Jeff said. “Like that we’re not waiting on you. Bring him by sometime.”
Eddie stood still, still trying to process everything.
“How did — how did you know?”
Jeff pointed to his own curls. “Your hair. Looks nice. Figured Steve washed it, huh?”
Eddie blushed, pulling a strand over his face. There was a mumbled of a ‘yeah.’
Gareth scoffed. Eddie’s glare quickly went to him. Gareth threw his hands up defensively. “No, it’s just that if anyone can take that mane of yours, it’s Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington.”
Eddie let out a laugh. “Whatever. Just play, bozos.”
Yeah, something’s different about Eddie.
He’s happier than he’s been in years. And Steve Harrington is to thank for that.
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I failed to notice the original tweet below and i just assumed this post was just about the artistic process in general, not nsfw art specifically, and just accepted that yeah sometimes you gotta rub that thang till the job is done
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