There Should Be A Fanfiction With Eleven And Steve As Seven. In This Fanfiction Should Be A Joke About

After many years, my „first“ Day on tumblr again.

Fuck it, the Steve is bisexual because he ran out of women joke. Flip it. Steve fucked his way through the male population before he ever made it to women.

It was disguised as ‘getting ready for girlfriends’ but Steve was a majority of the boy’s first kisses.

Eddie, who came to the party late, had no idea about Steve’s queer past and assumes he is straight.

Hilarity ensues where Steve does not realize that nobody knows he’s not straight.

He’s flirting with Eddie and Robin is giving him the stink eye because she thinks Steve is playing with Eddie’s feelings.

Tommy, being Steve’s childhood friend, clocks the pathetic pining after being in family video for five minutes. He gives Munson the shovel talk because Steve was his best friend. Eddie on the other hand is just puzzled.

“But Steve is straight?”

“He did not seem that way when my dick was in his mouth.”

Eddie just stares at Tommy, slack jawed.

“Look, I was just experimenting. I don’t actually like men like that, Steve does and he’s all yours. But, you better treat him well, or else.”

Eddie nods, and Tommy leaves.

Eddie enters the empty family video again and screeches like a fucking hyena before jumping onto Steve. They both fall to the ground and just start making out on the floor.

Robin is horrified.

Yes just yes!

They are a band now

WIP Weekend WIP Snip Share!

Didn't have time to do any WIP games this weekend, but here's a bit I've written for my Steddie (-Jonathan) fic. Because I thought, "huh, you know what this steddie angst fic needs? A Stobin fight."

Enjoy (or... you know)

~~~

Context: As Robin finally convinced Steve to tell Eddie how he feels, they're shocked when they go back to the party and find Jonathan and Eddie making out on the couch.

“Everyone’s gone home,” Robin consoles, tone grating against his skin. He doesn’t need her pity, or anyone else’s. Besides, Steve wouldn’t even be in this mess if it wasn’t for her. Meddling in his love life has never worked out for Steve in the past, and he doesn’t understand why he convinced himself it would be different this time just because it was Robin.

Because why would anyone, let alone someone like Eddie, be interested in dating Steve Harrington, King of Assholes and Jocks. Compared to someone like Jonathan, someone who is so clearly a better match for Eddie, Steve brings nothing to the table.

He laments himself for believing anything she ever said about how Eddie apparently looks at him when his head’s turned, or how he always goes out of his way to make Steve laugh. None of it was real. It was all just lies. Bullshit.

“Then why are you still here?” It’s colder than he meant. Steve can already feel the crown sliding back into place. It’s sickening how much he misses it, an old, awful comfort he worked so hard to shed. And yet, it feels so fucking good to wear it again. 

If only it wasn’t Robin.

Heavy silence weighs against him. It’s not the response he expected. People always have a reaction when they meet King Steve– whether it’s disdain from the kids he tormented, pride from his asshole friends, or disappointment from people like Nancy. 

Steve still hasn’t turned around, his back to the door Robin had come through to find him. The inability to read her eats at his nerves. He denies the sharp urge to look at her– to consume and study every twitch of her mouth, every crinkle of her eyes– to know what she’s thinking right now. But that would mean giving her the same opportunity which is something Steve can absolutely not allow her.

The crown is a cold comfort if yet still a bit ill fitting. It’s been too long since Steve’s had to wield it as a sword and shield to fend off the people closest to him. He’s forgotten how. It wobbles on his head no matter how hard he clings to it. The heat of shame still stings behind his eyes. Steve hates it. So he clings to the anger, if he can’t cling to anything else.

He’s ripped from his seething by a firm hand on his shoulder. Robin’s next to him now, appearing almost out of nowhere. Steve wonders how long the silence lingered, if she said anything to him as he was stuck in the swirl of ruminating thoughts.

“Steve, look at me.”

Brushing her hand off his shoulder, Steve storms across the kitchen. She can’t look at him, she can’t see him. He can’t talk to her with all the shit clogging his throat. It’s all bubbling up inside him, the way it always does, thoughts and feelings he can’t name or pin down long enough to examine, not that he’d ever want to in the first place. Robin needs to leave before it bursts from him like a monster crawling through a hole in the ceiling, ready to hurt anyone in its path. Like a stupid, bigoted boy willing to throw a punch in an alleyway.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

He’s not entirely sure what wakes him, something between instinct, experience, and the dreadful gut-feeling that something is very, very wrong. A voice in the back of his head calls it the telltale sound of nightmare, of fear, of a child that seeks protection. That same voice wants to call it the sound of fatherhood, but it’s shut away before it becomes too loud every time.

Either way, they wake him. The groaning of the bed springs, the creaking of the floor board just behind the door before it opens with a squeak. And then the sound, barely there, of slow steps, old wool scraping over polished wood and worn carpet.

They come to a stop six paces before the couch.

Hopper counts to five before he turns to look which one of the kids it is.

Steve. Of course. El doesn’t come to him, not really. She goes to Steve if she can’t sleep, knowing he’ll be awake. The kid is always awake — and Hopper is almost glad for it, having heard his nightmares. For how quiet he is throughout the day, he sure doesn’t hold back at night.

El mentioned something a few days ago about visiting him in there to make it quiet, but they haven’t figured out how to do that yet. Steve mentioned something about sensory deprivation, but Hopper hasn’t gotten around to finding out more without being suspicious.

Really, the silence of the night should have been a dead giveaway that Steve wasn’t sleeping. It’s the third night, as far as Hopper knows. Three nights without sleep is grounds to worry, sure; but then the things he worries about are countless, so really it’s just one thing among many.

Steve rarely comes to see him, though. It must be really bad then. They made a deal after Christmas.

You come to me. Next time you wanna run, you come to me, understand that? I won’t pick you off the floor half frozen to death again next time, kid, so you got a problem, you come to me, alright?

Steve had only shrugged, and Hopper had wanted to punch him, to pull him in and hold him for a while and then shake him and command him to just fucking talk. He had pulled him in, clapped his shoulder and ruffled his hair before sending him to go eat his dinner.

And now there he is, standing in the middle of the cabin that seems to get tinier by the day, wringing his hands in the dark.

“What is it?” Hopper grunts as he sits up, wincing at how rough his voice sounds. Way to go getting him to talk, idiot.

“Uh…”

Hopper waits, but Steve doesn’t say anything more than that, and understanding dawns. The pit of dread grows, and Hopper sighs, leaning his head against the backrest of the couch.

“It’s Wednesday.”

Steve stares.

“Wednesday, February twenty-second.”

Steve stares, and Hopper hates this.

“It’s Wednesday, February twenty-second, 1984.”

Steve stares, but he inhales now. He breathes. He’s alive. Hopper wonders if he needs a reminder of that, too.

But then he nods, slowly, a little too long. Hopper doesn’t know what to do. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this. The urge to punch something is strong; but at least this time he doesn’t wanna punch the kid. He never actually wants to punch the kid.

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve says then, and it’s a whisper into the cold night that damn near breaks Hopper’s cold, tiny heart in two.

He’s struck by deja-vu. His daughter standing by his bed at night, her bunny clutched tightly to her chest, a sniffle interrupting the silence and waking him up. A nightmare woke her up, and the rain sounded scary, and she wanted to go back to sleep but she didn’t know how.

“I don’t know what to do, daddy.”

“Come here, that’s what you do.”

“Come here,” Hopper says, lifting his blanket in an invitation, and he wonders if Steve even sees it in the darkness. If he even has his eyes open. If his vision isn’t blurred with those silent tears he’s so good at hiding.

After a moment, silent steps approach him, and Hopper is surprised that he listened. The kid must really be tired, then. And scared. Shitless, probably.

But he comes. And he didn’t run. And he’s not freezing to death outside in his pyjamas.

It feels like a win. A heartbreaking, angry little win that leaves Hopper with the urge to burn this whole world to the ground and rip reality to shreds. But still, somehow, a win.

Just think about an artist using this and nobody can read it or understands that there is really meaning. They could write whatever they would like and nobody would know!!!

I just found the funniest font ever

Like. What is this. Why is this. Who is the target audience of this?

November 1984

“Harrington?”

“Sorry, I didn’t—I thought this was the office.”

“Uh, next door. Since… always?”

“Right, yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just—I’ve got the register. Gotta hand it in. Shit.”

“Oops. Don’t worry, think that book’ll survive a fall or two, I swear it’s—”

“Oh, shit.”

“Dude, are you—? You really don’t look—”

“Just gotta. Gotta sit down.”

“Woah, you’re good, it’s—okay, the floor, great choice! Um, should you—? Shit, man, I don’t know any first aid. Is, um, putting your head between your knees, is that, like, a thing?”

“You’re kinda bad at this.”

“Hey, I’m trying my… Okay, you’ve gotta tell me if you’re dying.”

“Jesus Christ. M’not dying.”

“Famous last words.”

“Um. Water would be great, though.”

“Sure! I can do that. If you’re gonna ralph, feel free to do it over my homework, it’ll probably improve it.”

“Gross.”

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

“So. Why’re you even here, you look—”

“I’ve already had a week off. Thought I’d be… never mind.”

“I know.”

“Hmm?”

“I know you’ve been off for a week. It was… kinda hard not to notice.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

“It, um. It was Hargrove, then?”

“Back off, Munson.”

“Hey, I’m only—”

“I’m not giving anyone any more gossip material. Cafeteria’s already a fucking nightmare.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I was only—I wasn’t trying to—”

“You’ve not sold to Hargrove yet, have you?”

“…Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“I can’t exactly—”

“Eddie, I’m serious. Just—just don’t give him a reason, y’know? He’s dangerous.”

“Fine, fine. I’ve got it.”

“Like, what happened to me is small-fry compared to what he could’ve… Just trust me.”

“That’s kinda hard to believe. Jesus, don’t look at me like that! All right, I swear on… on all my campaign notes that my hero’s journey shall never dare cross the path of Billy Hargrove.”

“That’ll do.”

“Woah, don’t stand up so quick! Look, don’t spread it around that I’m still doing this, ‘cause I couldn’t keep up with supply and demand last year, so. Anyway, I can whip up a doctor’s note? Get you another week off?”

“No, that’s—I don’t need another—”

“Just, like, a couple days, then. C’mon, Harrington, this is a once in a lifetime deal.”

“Fine. …That was fast.”

“I’m nothing if not resourceful.”

“God, this looks good.”

“I’m offended you doubted me.”

“I don’t, I just—”

“Hey, gimme the register. Haunting the office is my specialty.”

“You don’t have to—I’m gonna go there anyway—”

“Seriously, Harrington, just take a breather. And you better not be in school tomorrow, don’t waste my handiwork.”

“I won’t. Hey, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Like, really, don’t, or I’ll get overrun with forgery requests, and I’ll have to run away into the woods just to survive.”

“I won’t. …Weirdo.”

“Ha, I heard that!”

“You were meant to! …Oh, hi, Mr Mundy, sorry, I’ve—yeah, I handed in the register. So, I forgot, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment—”

Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.

It’s ladies night at the gay bar Eddie works at which means no men allowed, which means, ‘how the hell did this dork in a polo make it pass the bouncer and how the hell has no one complained about him yet?’

Eddie watches the admittedly gorgeous guy approach the bar and ask for a drink. Eddie responds with, “How did you get past Frank?”

“The bouncer?” Pretty boy asks. “Oh, I asked if I could come in.”

“You asked?”

“Yeah?”

“And he let you?”

“Yeahhh?”

“None of these girls are going to go for you,” Eddie tells him in case he somehow missed that this was the queerest bar in town. “They’re lesbians. They like women.”

“I know!” The guy - Steve, Eddie will find out later - smiles, bright and big. “Isn’t that great?!”

Something in Eddie curdles with disgust because, “Nice try, buddy. You’re not going to ‘turn’ a lesbian.”

“Hope not,” Steve laughs and then pulls a stack of Polaroids out of his pocket. “Look at this.”

He holds one out to Eddie, showing him the image of a girl looking done-as-shit with the camera in her face. There’s a phone number written at the bottom.

“This is Robin," Steve says fondly. “Shes my best friend, and a lesbian, and the best person I’ve ever met, and I love her…she deserves a girlfriend so I’m-“

“Advertising her?”

“Helping get her a date,” Steve finishes. “This will make a great story at their wedding.”

“That’s insane…and strangely endearing.”

“Yeah, I’m like that,” Steve says, sliding over a Polaroid of Robin giving the camera the bird. “That’s my phone number too. Just so you know.”

This is touching my heart and soul.

Sometimes all we need is just some Happiness.

a comic about fix-it fanfics