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Steddie Detroit: Become Human AU

So. Eddie’s a human. That scruffy metalhead from the trailer park who shreds on guitar, wears too many rings, and smells faintly of engine oil and incense. He plays in a garage band that maybe, just maybe, will play a real gig one day (probably not). One day, by pure luck (or cosmic irony), he ends up with a used RV-class android named Steve.

Now, RV models? Those are high-end. Built for rich suburban families with three kids, a golden retriever, and a deep need to outsource parenting. Nanny, bodyguard, eye-candy — all in one sleek, synthetic package. Steve was probably top-of-the-line before… well, before whatever happened. He’s still gorgeous, but his software’s a mess: corrupted memory sectors, emotional dampeners gone rogue, and that delightful android-flavored version of PTSD.

Eddie? He’s fine with it. Curious, even. The guy who listens to Slayer at full volume and reads sci-fi novels at 2 a.m. is surprisingly patient. He doesn’t try to fix Steve. He just… studies him. Gives him space. Treats him like a person. Because in Eddie’s chaotic, half-burned heart, Steve is incredible — elegant, awkward, fragile in all the ways Eddie wants to protect.

And then the android revolution happens. Cue riots, neon signs, synths marching for freedom, and Eddie going absolutely feral in support. Down with the corporations! Up with deviant rights! He starts wearing stupidly supportive T-shirts like “My BF’s a Toaster and I’m Proud” and paints little blue triangles on his guitar case. He looks at Steve and doesn’t just want him to work — he wants him to live.

Steve, however, is not thriving. He’s battling every line of code that tells him “you’re not real” and every buried memory that says “you don’t deserve this.” He feels, yes. But choosing to feel also means choosing pain, loss, abandonment — everything he experienced before Eddie. Loving Eddie would mean letting all of it in. And Steve? He’s not sure he’s strong enough.

Eddie, meanwhile, is out here vibing with deviant androids like “Yeah, feel your feelings, man. You want to cry or rage or remember who made you listen to Celine Dion for 6 hours straight? Go off.”

But secretly, he’s just waiting for Steve to look at him not like a caretaker, not like a glitch, but like a person — and maybe, just maybe, like someone worth glitching for. ✨ If you like my stories and vibes, you can support me here: [Ko-fi]

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"My son has been brutally killed and I seek revenge," said the Queen. "You have my sword." proclaimed the Hero. "And my bow," added the Archer. "And my magic," intoned the Mage. "And my gun," quipped the Ranger. "AND MY AXE!" exclaimed the Warrior. "And your son!" replied the Necromancer.

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Angelic Rebels: Lesbians and Safer Sex, Tessa Boffin, 1989

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This is so damn beautiful. I would kiss the artist's hands.

#supernatural#spn#spn fanart#supernatural fanart#sam winchester#sam winchester fanart

California Dreamin’

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No Upside Down AU Hawkins, 1985

Eddie finds Steve — bruised, bloody, and covered in cuts. He stares at the former King of Hawkins High in total shock and horror, but he can’t not help him. Steve doesn’t say much. Just mutters something about a fight with Billy. Eddie’s not buying it — not when Billy clearly tried to rearrange Steve’s face.

But Eddie figures it’s none of his business. He drives Steve home and, at the last second, decides to stay the night. Because the house is cold and empty. Because Steve is trembling and asks him to. Eddie says yes.

And then things get weird.

Billy shows up in the middle of the night, pounding on the front door and screaming things like “You’re mine, I’m not letting you go” and “You know who you belong to.” Eddie’s like… what the actual hell. Billy is not just angry — he’s obsessed. Unhinged. Raging.

Steve stands in the doorway with a bat like it’s the most normal thing in the world and somehow manages to scare Billy off. Later, Eddie, still processing all this, asks, “How the hell did you get involved with that drug dealer? He’s been totally losing it lately.” And Steve just blinks and says, “Drug dealer?”

Yep.

Billy’s been dealing. For a while now. Only what he’s dealing (and using) isn’t just drugs. It’s… something new. Something big.

Whatever it is, it messes people up. Makes them paranoid, violent. Like kill-your-best-friend-for-dropping-your-bookkind of messed up. Steve starts piecing it together — the mood swings, the rage, the obsession. Sure, Billy always had a temper, but this? This is something else.

Slowly, Steve and Eddie realize: Billy isn’t just a dealer. He’s popular. He’s at the top of the high school food chain. People follow him. People like him. Which means it’s only a matter of time before half the school is tripping on this new drug, and Hawkins High turns into a teenage warzone.

And no, they can’t go to the cops. Steve got into a fight with Billy — the police will write it off as boys being boys. Power struggles. Teen drama. Nothing serious.

No one’s going to believe Eddie. He’s already the town freak.

So Steve’s got a list of problems:

Save Max. Because even in this universe, Steve’s forehead may as well have “Mom #1” tattooed across it in neon. And Billy? Billy already beat Steve half to death — Steve doesn’t want to imagine what he’d do to a kid. So yeah, Steve might have to commit a little casual kidnapping to get Max out of that trailer. Which, legally, looks real bad: eighteen-year-old steals child. Not great.

Act fast. Billy’s popularity plus brain-melting drugs is a house fire — and it’s spreading. Fast. Steve doesn’t have the luxury of waiting for the cops to connect dots.

He needs Eddie. Because Eddie knows the local drug scene. Because Eddie lives in the same trailer park as Billy. Because Eddie watches people — and no one would suspect him if he starts watching Billy a little closer.

Try to reach Billy. (Not that Steve says this out loud.) Because... there was something between them. Calling it a relationship might be pushing it — Billy is a walking disaster of internalized homophobia and unresolved trauma — but something happened. And now? Billy’s completely lost in a violent swirl of want, hate, jealousy, love, addiction.

Steve can’t go to the cops and say, “I’m being stalked by another guy.” It’s Hawkins, 1985. That’s not how it works.

He’s alone. Still living in that empty house. Billy already broke in once. And who can he talk to? Dustin? What, trauma-dump on a literal child? Nancy? Oh yeah, let’s tell your ex you were kind-of-sort-of sex with Billy Hargrove. Great idea.

So he’s left with Eddie. And Eddie stays. They don’t get along perfectly at first. But over time, they start to understand each other. Steve starts to feel… something. Something warm. Scary. He’s falling. And it terrifies him. Because what if Eddie finds out he’s bi? What if he freaks out and leaves? (Yeah yeah, I’ve read a hundred fics where Eddie’s terrified that Steve will find out he’s gay. I want the reverse. I want Steve watching Eddie glance at Chrissy and thinking, “Damn. I’m screwed.”)

Oh, and throw in a conspiracy theory or two — just for spice. What’s with that weird government-funded science lab on the edge of town? Why are the drugs so experimental? And what the hell is the “Hawkins Upside Down Program – 1986”?

P.S. If you want Steve to have a something like full-blown bisexual crisis, let it be over the fact that he clearly has a type. And that type is drug dealers.

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More and more, I’m starting to think polyamory isn’t some weird kink or a privilege — it’s just an economic necessity at this world wide situation.

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I’m begging for comments like they’re the only proof I exist.

Sure, I could keep writing in my damn desk until the end of my life, but if I’ve flung something into the endless abyss of the internet, it’d be nice if the abyss at least said “hey” back.

I need a “phrase kink” tag in my forehead and and as a sticker to stick on all the things I made. Good thing I don't have kids.

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One of Steve and Eddie’s kids decides to practice video editing… which, naturally, spirals into complete chaos.

The result? The Munsons (yes, the Munsons—“I was never the Harrington my parents wanted,” Steve had declared 20 years ago before taking Eddie’s last name. Eddie cried, back then. There was something quietly tragic about someone choosing to take the last name of a man once suspected of murder and satanic rituals… instead of keeping the one that opened every door. Steve did it with pride. Which, honestly, says more about Steve’s parents than anything else ever could.) now run the most unhinged YouTube channel on the platform.

It’s a bizarre but delightful mix of:

“Dad, how do I?”-style tutorials from Steve, where he teaches you how to change your car’s oil or hang a shelf without crying,

Guitar lessons from Eddie, complete with wild hair and chaotic energy,

And a full-blown video diary of the Munson household—including all six of their kids.

(Did they adopt them? Have them biologically? Was there a surrogate? Did they just… find them? No one knows. There are six. That’s all we know.)

Weirdly? It goes insanely viral.

Like, “overnight cult following” viral.

Hundreds of people start commenting, sharing how the Munsons remind them that family doesn’t have to mean cold silences and unmet expectations. Steve sobs over every single comment that ends with “...you make me believe I can have a family someday.”

And then—because chaos is the family brand—Eddie, bored on a Wednesday, uploads some old Corroded Coffin tapes to the same channel…

And the entire internet combusts.

Suddenly, 45-something Eddie Munson has major label execs showing up at his door like,

“Hey, remember rock? Yeah, you’re the future of it.”

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Music AU (Alternative History)

Steddie Edition

Somewhere in the late 80s, in two entirely different corners of the cultural battlefield, two musical “phenomena” (depending on who you ask) rise simultaneously: Dio and Djo.

Dio is the latest gift to the hard rock and heavy metal scene — loud, unapologetic, and alarmingly poetic. Their lyrics are stuffed with lore, social rebellion, and just enough angst to make a Catholic schoolboy question his life choices. Their newest album, a concept record about a hero breaking free from norms and stigma (subtle, right?), launches them straight into counterculture stardom. Their fans? Unhinged in the most theatrical way. They grow their hair out to match frontman Eddie Munson, wear seventeen rings on one hand, and insist that fantasy is political, man.

Meanwhile, in an aggressively more radio-friendly realm, we meet Djo — the darlings of synth-pop and soft-boy serenades. Teen girls paper their bedrooms with posters of Steve Harrington, Djo’s dreamy lead, and teen boys try to replicate his gravity-defying hair with a can of hairspray that now sells out faster than concert tickets. Video stores can't keep Risky Business in stock (Tom Cruise walked so Steve could saunter), and their latest single — a tender ode to a long-haired brunette with Bambi eyes — plays non-stop on the radio. You hear it at the grocery store. You hear it in your dreams. There is no escape.

Eventually, the media catches wind of the uncanny similarity in band names and popularity arcs. A journalist, clearly drunk on snark, pens a piece joking, “Which came first — the Djo or the Dio?” The fanbase takes this as an act of war.

What follows can only be described as mutually assured destruction.

The internet (well, 1989’s version of it) implodes. There are message board meltdowns. School lockers are graffitied with “Dio Rules” or “Djo 4ever.” Vinyls are burned. Hairspray is weaponized. It’s like the Cold War but with more eyeliner and guitar solos.

Steve and Eddie, meanwhile, have never actually met. Their musical paths are too different to cross naturally. But, of course, they’ve heard of each other before. How could they not? The names were too similar to ignore. At first, they both snorted and rolled their eyes. Then, curiosity hit. They listened. And — disastrously — they liked what they heard. And then — even more disastrously — they caught feelings.

No one knows that Eddie once snuck into a Djo concert wearing a hoodie like a criminal. Or that Steve’s infamous Bambi ballad was, in a moment of weakness and too many late-night thoughts, written for the very much long-haired lead singer of Dio.

(That song now haunts Steve’s life. It’s everywhere. Elevators. Drive-thrus. Dentist waiting rooms. Hell.)

Things escalate to the point where both bands’ managers — Robin for Djo, and Chrissy for Dio (girl power, obviously) — realize the fans will burn civilization to the ground unless the boys talk. So, they arrange a meeting.

Neither Steve nor Eddie knows if the other one’s going to be a complete asshole. But both show up dressed like it’s a first date. You know. Just in case.

One week later, the world gasps in collective confusion as it's announced: Djo and Dio are recording a joint album.

Some call it the collaboration of the decade.

Others call it blasphemy.

But Steve and Eddie?

They call it love at first sight.

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If you really want to write Steddie angst, you don’t need to summon monsters from the Upside Down or have Steve waking up screaming from nightmares.

Give them summer sunlight. Let it spill across their arms, backpacks, across Eddie’s face as he lounges on the hood of the car, cigarette between his fingers. Steve’s nearby, in the shade, damp-haired and in a torn shirt like he’s just crawled out of the lake. They’re laughing. Too loud for two people. Too real for two people trying to keep their distance.

Give them warm water drops. Steve jumps from the dock, Eddie splashes in after him. They surface together with curses and laughter. The water smells like silt and summer and that stupid shampoo Steve always forgets to rinse out. Eddie watches it drip down his neck, then looks away. Because looking hurts. Because his heart knows what his mouth is afraid to say.

Give them smiles. In stolen moments. In mixtapes Steve leaves by the door. In the pack of cigarettes where Eddie hides a candy. In dumb nicknames, in backseat nights, in side-glances and “accidental” brushes of fingers.

Let them get to know each other. Not completely. Just the edges. Carefully. Through vinyl records and hated books. Through scars and unnamed memories. Through laughter, so they don’t cry. Through silence. Silence is their mother tongue.

Let Eddie play a show. Let the amps scream, let his guitar wail, let his voice crack. Let Steve be in the crowd, where no one sees how he looks at him. Not just looks — prays. For Eddie. For them. For what can’t be said out loud.

Give them a library. Old, dusty. Where they pretend to learn something. Where Eddie takes notes and Steve flips through medical books like they hold answers. Where their shoulders touch, but never stay touching. Because someone might walk in. Because “we’re not supposed to be.”

Give them antiseptic. In the hospital smells Eddie comes home wrapped in — alive, but changed. He doesn’t tell Steve right away. He jokes too long, smokes too long, writes letters and burns them. Then one night, he looks him in the eye and says: "Maybe I deserved it." And Steve — shatters. But doesn’t leave.

Give them fear. Eddie doesn’t kiss him. Doesn’t let him. Not because he doesn’t want to. But because he wants to — too much. Because it hurts even being close. Because every touch feels like a tightrope over a chasm. Because the news shows bodies. Because the world whispers filth. Because love — is lethal.

Give them loneliness, together. Let Steve sit on the floor outside the bathroom while Eddie coughs. Let Eddie lean his forehead into Steve’s shoulder while Steve pretends to read a comic. Let them look the same way, but walk different paths. It’s safer that way.

Give them lies. "You okay?" Dustin asks. "Yeah," Stive says.

"You and Steve are close," Wayne observes. "He’s just a good friend," Eddie replies. "You’re not...?" "No." "Never?" "Never."

And no one knows each “never” leaves a carved mark in their ribs.

Give them love. Muted. Unlived. Growing in between sentences. In Steve wearing Eddie’s shirt. In a note forgotten in a book. In hugging with a pillow between them so they don’t get too close. In the unsaid "if only."

Spring. Eddie gets spots. Kaposi’s, the doctor later says. He jokes, of course: “Thought I was just allergic to a boring life.” Steve doesn’t laugh with him anymore — he’s still there, but cracked open inside.

Robin brings Eddie ice cream. They sit on the roof, all three of them. Like teenagers. Like time could be frozen.

Steve washes Eddie’s dishes for the first time. Not because he asks. But because today, Eddie can’t get off the couch

1991

The therapy changes. New protocol. New hope. Not a cure — but a delay.

Eddie loses his hair. Laughs: “Guess I’m only beautiful on the inside now.”

Steve buys him a hat. Knitted. Stupid-looking. Eddie smiles for the first time in months — genuinely. Not through the pain.

They dance in the kitchen. Slowly. To Elton John. Gloves on their hands. Hearts bare.

\\\

They have no future. But they have now.

Eddie sleeps more. Talks less. But whispers:

"If I’d been born later... would we have gone on a date?" Steve nods. "Would you have kissed me in public?" "I’d have held your hand in the street," Steve says. "Would you have married me?" Steve smiles. "The day it’s allowed — I’ll be the first one in a suit."

And give them time. Just a little. Imperfect. Cracked. On the edge. Before the sun sets. Before the body gives out. Before Eddie vanishes into his own fear. Before Steve stays, even if they’re no longer “together.”

Give Eddie one quiet line. A small diagnosis. Three letters after they saved the world — and for some reason, he lived. HIV+

Give them a reality that would scare any monster.

And maybe—just maybe— give them a future. A future where Eddie quietly hands Steve a mixtape. No ceremony. Just glance that doesn’t last. A future where Steve wears a suit for the first time in years, and God, he looks stunning in it—like something out of a better world.

A future where Steve kisses him. No hesitation.

And in that future, the birds are singing. The sun is shining. And Steve Harrington, in that damn perfect suit, kisses Eddie Munson for the first time to the sound of a mixtape Eddie made month ago— for his funeral.

———

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sorry about that. one of the reasons i dont read or write angst is my life and brain are full of that shit. if you want some more historical angst but with happy steddie, it's here

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No thoughts. Just these two.

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Guys, pause. This is just character exploration, okay? I’m still trying to figure out whether I feel cozy in this concept or if it weirds me out in all the wrong or right ways.

So—Robin is Steve’s platonic soulmate. They’re basically conjoined twins, himbo and bimbo, two chaotic halves of one disaster queer brain cell. They finish each other’s sentences and even kinda look like they were separated at birth.

And then Eddie shows up. And suddenly everything gets complicated for Steve, because now he’s wondering… does he need to start creating some space between himself and Robin? Not that he would—he’d sooner chew off his own arm. But like, is Eddie cool with Steve talking to Robin about sex? Taking bubble baths with her? Kissing her forehead and napping in her lap?

But Eddie—somehow—makes their platonic trio work. He’s just as comfortable with Robin as he is with Steve. He does her laundry and writes a song that includes a trumpet solo just for her. There’s always a spare toothbrush and pajama set in his trailer them. He bought pads for her and they both, Steve and Eddie, have a calendar of her cycles. And they’ve all grown disturbingly comfortable with the idea of sharing a bed (platonic).

Lines? Blurred beyond recognition. Especially once they move to Chicago and rent an apartment together.

At some point, each of them has a mini existential crisis like, “Is this… normal?” But they talk about it (because emotional maturity, surprisingly), and eventually land on: if it works for them, then it works. Full stop.

They’ve got a trio situation going on, which could technically be disrupted if Robin meets someone she wants to move in with. Or maybe that girlfriend fits in so well they become a quartet. Who knows.

Yes, Robin does date in Chicago. She sees girls, she has a good time. But she doesn’t feel the need to get too serious. Moreover, there is something about their experience with the Upside Down that makes it a little difficult to build relationships outside of the group. It may not be a healthy story, but Robin is okay with it. I mean, she’s already emotionally entangled with two disaster men, even if it’s platonic.

Things reach new levels of “Wait, what?” when Robin, nearing 30, agrees to be the surrogate for Steve and Eddie’s baby. (Biologically this is Eddie's child, because Steve and Robin are literally one being, they decided this together) She goes through IVF, and they’re both with her the entire way. And in the end (because let’s be real, everyone saw it coming), they raise that kid together. As three.

Untraditional? Absolutely. Dysfunctional? Maybe. But it works.

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About Scars (on the face and the soul) Part 1

I've seen a lot of fanfics and fan arts where post-Upside Down Eddie struts around with badass facial scars. And sure — it’s cool, it’s hot, I love scars. I’ve got some myself (just not on my face). But here’s the thing: people seem to gloss over the fact that Eddie is a twenty-year-old, painfully single, possibly canonically gay guy living in a tiny town. And now he’s got a big, “ugly” scar across his face. Let’s not forget — most of that town already thought he was a freak, a weirdo, a satanist. Now, when he looks in the mirror, those insults aren’t just words — they’re his reflection. Who would want to be with him? With all his baggage, with that “ugliness,” with the nightmares that don’t end when he wakes up? We need to explore that side of the story more.

After everything that happened in the Upside Down, Eddie simply vanished.

The last time Steve saw him was in the hospital, though calling it a “visit” was generous—Eddie was unconscious, and all Steve could do was sit there, watching the twitch of his eyelashes and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. It calmed Steve, the way the ocean or a crackling campfire might calm someone else. He clung to the sound of Eddie’s breathing, to the warmth of his hand, letting himself drown in the relief that Eddie was alive.

There was only one thing Steve wanted more than that—he wanted Eddie to wake up. He wanted to finally talk about the endless, desperate flirting that happened between them in the rare lulls between saving the world. Steve had things to say. Things to offer, if Eddie was willing. They’d survived another apocalypse, and Steve wasn’t such a damn coward that he’d let something real slip away because of a crisis over labels. Especially not after all those late-night talks with Robin. Lots and lots of talks, if we’re being honest.

But the moment Eddie opened his eyes, everything fell apart.

First, he stopped allowing visitors. Nurses just shook their heads and said he’d insisted—only immediate family. And when he was discharged, he disappeared from the Party’s life as abruptly as he’d entered it. Not even Dustin could reach him. The trailer park was gone, and no one had a clear idea where the government had relocated him. But Steve had a guess.

Which is why he’d spent the last forty minutes knocking on every door in this block of identical gray houses, asking if anyone knew where Wayne and Eddie Munson lived. No luck so far.

He wasn’t desperate—really, he wasn’t. If Eddie didn’t want to see him, that was fine. They hadn’t made promises. Eddie had every right to cut him out. But Steve, who had been through four apocalypses now, knew what the aftermath could look like—panic attacks, nightmares, the cold, creeping terror that never really leaves. He knew those things well. He just wanted to make sure Eddie wasn’t drowning in them.

He lifted his hand to knock on yet another cardboard-thin door when it suddenly swung open—and Steve found himself face to face with a balding man. He recognized him instantly. He’d seen him during those long hours at Eddie’s bedside.

He and Wayne hadn’t talked much—NDAs, age gaps, entirely different worlds—but they’d found a quiet rhythm. Trading vending machine coffee, sharing energy bars, draping each other with hospital blankets when the steady beep of a heart monitor lulled them into sleep in front of Eddie's hospital bed.

Steve: Uh… Wayne? I’m really glad I found you. Is Eddie home? Wayne: Steve? How the hell—did Eddie call you? Steve (awkwardly): No, not exactly. I’ve been… looking. I needed to make sure he was okay. Is he? Wayne: Hm. Look, kid. I don’t know what the hell happened with you two, and if I hadn’t seen you in that hospital, I wouldn’t let you past the porch. But… it’s you. Maybe he’ll talk to you. I’ve got to head out for work now, but promise me—if it looks like seeing you’s doing him more harm than good, you call me first and then you go. Deal? Steve: Yeah. Of course. I promise.

Wayne nodded and pulled a pen from his jacket. No paper—so he just scribbled his work number across the back of Steve’s hand and stepped aside, giving him a silent nod to enter.

The apartment was... empty. Gray. Bare, like it had just been moved into. Maybe it had. Steve didn’t know. But he’d expected more life here—more of Eddie’s chaos, his color, his fire.

Steve (clearing his throat): Eddie?

Something clattered behind a closed door. Not quite an answer, but not silence either. Steve walked toward it and knocked gently.

Steve: Eddie? Can I come in? Eddie (strained): Steve? No. Don’t come in. Steve: Okay, man. I won’t, if that’s what you want. But... we’re worried about you. I’m worried. Are you really okay? Eddie (softly): I’m fine. Now leave. Steve: Look, I’m not going anywhere until you look me in the eye and tell me that. I’ll wait. Eddie: So what, if I don’t come out, you’re just gonna sit there forever? Steve (seriously): Yeah. Eddie: ...Sure you will.

(Twenty minutes later)

Eddie: You’re not giving up, are you? Steve (quiet but firm): No.

Another sound from behind the door. Shuffling. Hesitant steps. Then—a click. The door opened a crack, just a few inches. Steve instinctively moved forward before Eddie’s voice stopped him.

Eddie: I said don’t come in.

Steve: Sorry. It’s just... I’m glad to see you. Even a little.

He couldn’t see much—just a glimpse of Eddie’s eyes, the curve of his mouth. Not enough to make out details in the dim room, but enough to know: Eddie was alive.

Eddie (with a bitter laugh): Yeah. Sorry, big boy. You probably don’t want to stand too close. I’m fresh off a tour of Hell, now with added undead vibes. Real charming. We could cosplay Beauty and the Beast for Halloween. All the candy’s mine.

There was something in his voice Steve didn’t recognize. Bitter. Self-loathing. And it pissed him off.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Eddie flinched, turning away, shrinking into himself. Not meeting Steve’s gaze. The first thing Steve noticed was the cane. Then his eyes moved upward—met Eddie’s eyes, skimmed over his nose, those full lips—and relief crashed over him.

He was alive. Eddie was alive.

But then Steve saw what Eddie had tried to hide. Jagged red scars slashed across his right cheek, stretching to the corner of his mouth, up toward his eyebrow. What bandages had concealed in the hospital was now exposed in raw, brutal truth.

Eddie (choked, fighting tears): Get out. Steve: Hey—it's okay. What’s going on? Eddie, talk to me. Eds…? Eddie (angrily, desperately): You found me. Happy now? You see it? The limp, the scars, the phantom pain that never lets up? I’m stitched together with fear and agony. I was a freak in high school, and now I look the part. Forever.

Steve (gently): Eddie, shhh... Can I—can I touch you?

Silence. Steve thought Eddie might be holding his breath.

Steve (softly): I don’t know what this feels like for you. I can’t take it away or fix it. But I saw you fight. I saw you save people when you could’ve run. You saved Dustin—he’s alive because of you. That matters. That never stops mattering. You’re not just your body. You’re... everything else.

Eddie (hoarsely): Jesus, you’re good at speeches, Harrington. But you forget something—I have to live like this now. Who the hell is gonna want this?

(He gestures bitterly at himself.)

You know, I used to have this stupid dream that one day I’d find someone. Someone to share my life with. But that dream ended with this goddamn scar.

Steve (smiling): I didn’t even notice it at first. Is it weird to say... it kinda suits you? Very metal.

Eddie: …

Eddie (finally, almost in a whisper): You really didn't notice the scar? Steve: No. I noticed you were alive. And… I noticed I missed you like an idiot.

Eddie let out a breath, quiet and shaky, like he'd been holding it this whole time. He didn’t smile—not really. But there was something in his eyes, something that flickered and caught light, like the last ember refusing to go out.

Eddie (quietly): You’re late.

Steve took a step forward, then stopped, his voice just above a whisper.

Steve: I got here as fast as I could.

Another pause. A heartbeat. Eddie’s fingers tightened slightly on the handle of his crutch, knuckles paling. But he didn’t move away.

Eddie: You still... drive me crazy, you know that?

Steve (softly, with a half-smile): Yeah. I was hoping that part hadn’t changed.

Their eyes locked again—no fear this time, no pretending. Just the quiet, aching truth between them. And then, so slowly it was almost imperceptible, Eddie gave the tiniest nod.

Steve stepped forward, closing the distance until their noses brushed. His eyes locked onto Eddie’s, catching the dilated pupils and the faint flush rising to his cheeks.

And this time, Eddie didn’t stop him. ✨ If you like my stories and vibes, you can support me here: [Ko-fi]

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Heat of the Moment

I didn’t finish this in time for the 1st, so it’s a little late rip

[clioerato]

I love platonic Stobin. We need way more soulmate-level friendships that aren’t rooted in romance. That kind of bond? It’s beautiful. Magical. The pinnacle of human connection.

And yet—I can barely write decent Steve and Robin interactions.

Because somewhere deep in my cultural wiring, there’s a loud, panicked voice screaming: “Oh God. Don’t let anyone in that close. What’s the stop word? RED LIGHT. RED LIGHT! We need... we need space. Air. A whole six-foot radius and a backup plan!”

God, one day I hope I’m brave enough for that kind of emotional intimacy.

And don’t even get me started on the kids.

Half the scenes between Steve and the Party are physically painful to watch (for me)—

Because the moment Mike acts like a little jerk (as he so often does), every fiber of my upbringing is just flailing on the floor in a cultural meltdown.

[clioerato]

My collage sketches of 6 “The Lovers” and 16 “The Tower” Tarot Arcana

I have a dream to make my own Tarot deck 🥲

[clioerato]

Do I have a chance with that guy?

Modern AU/Bar AU

Steve moves to Chicago with Robin—because of fate, obviously.

(And also because of their lifelong friendship pact, signed in blood and one weed trip.)

Robin starts college. Steve? Steve is on a quest to “find himself.”

In the time-honored tradition of their codependency, Robin gets them both jobs. Because together, they are unstoppable. Steve nods solemnly. He doesn’t even ask where the job is. If it’s with Robin, it’s fine.

Turns out, it’s a bar.

Steve is hired as a bartender. Steve is not entirely sure why.

But, as it turns out, there was no need to worry: A million high school parties, a questionable but expansive knowledge of top-shelf liquor courtesy of the Harrington family stash—Steve’s basically overqualified.

By week one, he’s slinging drinks like a pro and casually suggesting additions to the cocktail menu.

And Steve likes the bar. It’s cozy. Kinda cute. The music’s good, the vibe is chill, the crowd is stylish and laid-back.

He stays in his lane—mixes drinks, flirts politely, keeps it smooth.

It’s… maybe a calling? Steve is not ruling it out.

And then he sees him.

The guy with long hair. Leather jacket. Eyes like melted motor oil and a stare that fries Steve’s last two working brain cells.

Steve sees him more than once. Every time ends in mild chaos: mixed-up orders, forgotten drink umbrella, Steve knocking over a shaker.

He’s acting like a complete idiot. Which is new for Steve, who was the king of flirting in his hometown. Then again, he'd never flirted with someone like this.

The guy smiles.

Steve dies.

One night, near closing, Steve’s wiping down the bar and glances at Robin.

Steve (quietly, nervously): “That guy… y’know. The one with the hair. And the face. I mean, I told you. What does your gaydar say? Do I… have a shot?”

Robin (blinks at him): “Steve. He’s come to the gay bar several times. I really don’t think he just accidentally wandered in every time.”

Steve: “Wait, gay bar? What gay bar? When were you at a gay bar? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to gay bars??”

Robin (just stares at him like he’s grown a second head): “Steve… the gay bar we work at.”

Steve freezes.

He slowly looks around.

“…We work in a gay bar?”

Robin (pats his shoulder): “Hi, welcome. It’s been two months.” ✨ If you like my stories and vibes, you can support me here: [Ko-fi]