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queenie-ofthe-void · 10 months ago

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Hear Me Out, Keep Me Guessing

Steddie || wc: 2.5k || rating: T || tags: alternate first meeting, pre-S4, Eddie is a rollercoaster of emotions, Steve is over it, fluff and flirting || ao3

Inspired by my own post

☆☆☆

“Okay, Munson. What’s your fucking problem?”

Eddie hops on top of the wooden picnic bench to gain a slight height advantage over whoever’s decided to fuck up his day, when he spots none other than Steve Harrington headed towards him through the trees, fighting his way through brush and bramble.

“Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. Crawling through the dirt just to visit his former court jester.” Eddie smirks, hears Harrington mutter something under his breath that sounds a lot like jesus christ before he finally makes his way over.

Harrington’s looking up at him, squinting into the sunlight, and Eddie’s slightly repelled by his sudden desire to run a hand through King Steve’s hair. It shines in the sunlight, matching the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

Eddie takes a step to the left, casting him back into shadow again where he’s just his normal, asshole self and not the angelic image Eddie conjured from his horny, queer little brain.

He can’t remember if it’s his turn to talk or Harrington’s, but it seems the King’s lost the plot as well. Completely zoned out, he’s just standing there staring up at Eddie, mouth dropped open and eyes wide in a way Eddie will certainly not be thinking about later tonight. Absolutely not.

Eddie coughs. Loud and obnoxious enough to break whatever trance they’ve found themselves in. Harrington awkwardly chuckles, running a hand through his hair. An image of Steve leaning against lockers, towering over a girl with heat in his eyes and a hand in his hair floods Eddie’s brain before he can shake it out like an Etch A Sketch. What the fuck is even happening to him?

“Yeah, Munson. Like, what the hell is your problem?” It lacks punch and drama the second time around, but it gets them back on track. Harrington props his hands on his hips, his lip juts out into a tiny pout, and Eddie wonders if he thinks standing like a disappointed mom is effective in getting what he wants, or if being adorable just comes naturally to the former King.

“You’ll have to be more specific, my liege.” He watches as Harrington brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration and he makes a mental note to develop a better, more refined taste in men.

“The kids, man. Why aren’t you friends with the kids?”

“Kids? What the hell– what kids?” He hops down from the table. If this is going to be a legitimate conversation and not a shake down, he figures it’ll be easier on even footing. Harrington takes the seat opposite him, his shoe accidentally knocking Eddie’s ankle.

Steve doesn’t move his foot. Neither does Eddie.

“My kids, man. They said they tried talking to you all week and you wouldn’t even hear them out!”

Eddie watches his fingers tap absently on the table top. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s shocking that Eddie is just now realizing that Steve’s actually anxious. Normally Eddie considers himself better at reading people, when he’s not distracted with puffy, pink lips and a confusing line of conversation.

He looks down, rewinding the past week. He’d made it through his first week of his third senior year without anyone getting in his face. Maybe he’s old enough now that even asshole seniors like Jason Carver have decided to leave him alone. Thankfully it seems the offer also extends to Gareth, Kenny, and Jeff, who’ve only reported minor name calling and a light shove.

That’s where he spots them, stops the tape midway through lunch on Wednesday when a group of three freshmen approached the table. He’d spotted the curly-haired kid earlier in the week, bravely decked out in a Weird Al shirt and a hat from some science camp. The kid was enough of a freak to earn free admission to Hellfire, but the other two required a bit more thought.

Eddie clocked Little Wheeler through the station wagon window Monday morning when he’d cut Nancy off in the parking lot. The kid seemed alright, but with a priss like Nancy as a sister, it was a tough call. The other kid seemed a bit too sporty, and a little too interested in basketball tryouts.

When the three amigos started talking DnD, the guys invited them with open arms. It was a relatively peaceful lunch. Exciting even, at the prospect of adding new members to their campaign. They’d mentioned trying to convince a few of their friends to play. A girl named Max Mayfield, who turns out lives a few trailers down from Eddie.

But when the curly-haired kid mentioned Steve Harrington, the Hellfire boys clammed up tighter than nun’s ass. His named dripped from their mouths like it was covered in gold, the hero-worship rotting them from the inside and Eddie wouldn’t stand for it. No true freaks would stand to be friends with an asshole bully like King Steve.

Of course the freshies tried to argue, saying he’d changed. It didn’t matter to the Hellfire boys. Clearly the freshmen were corrupted, and they couldn’t be trusted. So he’d sent them on their way, and the three of them posted up in the corner of the lunchroom every day since. Far away from jocks and freaks alike.

Now, Eddie looks across the table and sees false bravado slathered over the anxiety etched into the former King’s face. He doesn’t know how three freshmen freaks found themselves under the wing of Steve Harrington, but it seems the feeling is mutual. Steve cares about these kids.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “I remember them. What’s it to you, Harrington? Aren’t they a little too old for a babysitter.” The joke falls flat when Steve sighs, heavy and exhausted, like somehow a rich boy from the Loch carries the entire world on his shoulders.

But he plays it off, trying to meet Eddie’s quip halfway. “Babysitters get paid, dude. I do it from the goodness of my heart or some shit.” Steve leans back, scrubs his hands over his face like he can erase whatever’s behind his eyes.

Eddie stares at him, hoping to catch a glimpse. The only consolation is Steve puts his other foot on the opposite side of Eddie’s, his ankle now fully cradled between Steve’s.

“They’re nerds, man.” Harrington states it like it’s a fact and not an insult he’s hurled at Eddie a hundred times over the years. “They’re freaks, you know– like you.”

Moment officially broken, Eddie scoffs, pushing away from the table wondering why he ever entertained talking with Harrington in the first place. As he grabs his lunchbox off the forest floor, he hears shuffling behind him.

“Wait,” Harrington shouts. “Just, fuck man, can you just let me finish?”

“Finish what, exactly?” Eddie snaps, whirling around to crowd into his space. He wears big and scary like how the King wears his crown and how assassins wield their blades. With enough power and confidence to scare off any enemy. “Finish listening to you shit on the little guy? Listen to you harp on the freaks of the world, or how you corrupted your little pions?”

“What?” Steve asks, lips pursed and eyebrows scrunched. Eddie’s not surprised his jock-rattled brain couldn’t find that word in its very limited dictionary, but what does surprise him is that Steve doesn’t back down. They’re practically nose to nose, so close Eddie can spot a small freckle on his lash-line, and Steve’s standing here like he doesn't have a care in the world while Eddie screams in his face.

It’s quiet again. He can hear the rustle of tall grass and birds overhead. He can feel Steve’s breath on his lips and Eddie can’t remember what they were talking about. Again.

Steve grabs his shoulders, and in his daze, Eddie lets himself be maneuvered back to sitting at the picnic table, while Steve stands in front of him.

“Are you always big and loud and obnoxious? Can you just cut the shit for like, five minutes so we can have a normal fucking conversation. Jesus christ, you’re practically perfect for them.” The last part is quieter, seems more like an unfiltered afterthought.

“Ok,” Eddie says. If Steve’s willing to take the crown off long enough to talk with Eddie, then maybe he can shed his own metaphorical battle vest. “Say what you have to say, then.”

Steve clears his throat, shuffles slightly as he gains his footing. He looks at Eddie with a determined set to his shoulders.

“Henderson, Sinclair, and even Wheeler– they’re my kids. I’ve spent the last nine months watching out for those little shits because all they’re good at is getting into the worst kinds of trouble.” Eddie tracks him as Steve paces the forest floor, rambling and raking a hand through his hair like it helps him think. “But I remembered you didn’t graduate, right? And you run that Dungeons and Dragons club–”

“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie interrupts. Steve stops, turns to face him, and shoots him the bitchiest glare Eddie’s ever seen, but before he can say anything, Eddie pushes on. “You, Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, leader of meatheads and bimbos alike, know what Dungeons and Dragons is?”

Steve sighs, hands back on his hips as he rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, Munson. Don’t worry it’s all against my will, okay? I’m not coming to steal your freaks and weirdos so I can lead them too.” He smirks, and it pulls a laugh out of Eddie, shocked that Steve’s willing to joke around with Eddie at all, let alone when it’s at his own expense.

“Now, quit interrupting me, you’re as bad as Henderson.”

Eddie mimes zipping his lips closed, only to open his mouth to swallow the imaginary key. Butterflies explode in his chest at the sound of Steve laughter, and Eddie wonders if bashing his head into a tree would be a decent excuse to explain the red flush erupting on his face.

“Anyways,” Steve chuckles. “They’re smart as shit but don’t know when to give something up just to get out of a fight. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten their asses handed to them already, and everyday I pick them up all I'm thinking about is which one of them I’m gonna have to stitch up. Sure, some of the guys in the grade below were alright, like Andy. But guys like Hargrove, like Carver.” Eddie can practically see the dark cloud form over Steve’s brow.

He remembers as well as anyone the fallout of Harrington v Hargrove, Fall 1985. There’d been endless rumors about what happened, each one more ridiculous than the last. Now he’s left wondering if it’s not really about Nancy, or drugs, or Billy fucking Steve’s mom, but about these kids. The timing checks out, nine months on babysitting duties lines up pretty well with when Steve showed up to school beaten and broken.

Maybe Steve isn’t all he seems to be.

“Guys like Carver won’t mess with you. They’re too scared you’re using DnD to worship the devil and get kids into sodomy and drugs and shit like that. I told them that you’d be cool. That you’re big and loud, that you play DnD like them. You're smart and you read the same nerdy books. I told them they’d be safe with you, man.” Steve rubs his face again, until his hands fall to the sides and he tilts his head up towards the sky. “I just need to know someone’s looking out for them. Please, Eddie, just–”

“Okay.”

Steve’s attention snaps back to him, relief written plain as day in the wide set of his smile. “You’re serious?”

Eddie can’t help but smile back. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Steve smile so unguarded, and never aimed his way. The sheer brightness of it fills him with warmth he wants to wrap himself up in.

All on top of the fact Eddie's never gotten this many compliments from anyone before, let alone from a guy as gorgeous as Steve Harrington. His ears are practically on fire.

“Yeah, Harrington. I’ll share custody of your little nuggets.” Before he knows what’s coming, Steve sweeps him up into a hug, lifts him fully off the ground and can feel the tinkling of his laughter on the shell of his ear.

“Thanks, Munson. Damn, you have no idea how freaked out I’ve–”

“What about the other stuff?” Eddie can’t stop himself from asking. He has to know, deep in his bones, that Steve is thinking this through. That Steve won’t change his mind in a few days or months and decide it’s time for Eddie Munson to eat dirt.

He lets Eddie go, but holds his shoulders at arms length to look him in the eye. Any lingering mirth has been replaced with intent curiosity. “What stuff, Munson?”

He can tell by Steve’s tone they’re both talking about the same thing. Rumors that’ve haunted Eddie since eighth grade after Davey Richardson beat him up under the bleachers. It didn’t matter that Davey kissed him first, all that mattered was he was popular and Eddie was weird.

He’d grown numb to the slurs over the years, but how could he forget hearing the reason why Byers beat the shit out of King Steve. The only surprise from that fight was it sounded like he never even tried to fight back.

“Harrington, if I don’t get to act loud and obnoxious, then you don’t get to play dumb.” The intensity of Steve’s stare reminds him of the few conversations he’d had with Chief Hopper before he’d died. The man could tear Eddie down to the bones with one glare, and he’s sure it’s the only reason the Chief brought him back to the trailer instead of a jail cell.

“Eddie,” Steve says, tone firm, “I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t care about the shit people say, especially self-righteous assholes like Carver. The only thing I give a shit about is you watching over the little gremlins and not selling them drugs, so I can breathe easier when I don't have eyes on them.”

Steve shakes him lightly, like it’ll sift this world-changing view into his brain, then pats his shoulder as he passes by him.

“Wait,” Eddie shouts, always a glutton for punishment. He spins around to catch Steve walking backwards away from him, hands in his pockets, effortlessly cool. The sun’s catching his hair again and there’s a smirk on his lips. “You really don’t care?”

Steve laughs, taking a step back. He chews on his bottom lip, and he smiles when he catches Eddie looking. Because he knows. Steve knows now, before Jeff or Wayne or anyone else.

“Eddie, whoever you decide to love or fuck– or not– is none of my business.” He turns to leave, and as Eddie relaxes he hears Steve call out, “unless you want it to be.”

Steve’s light laughter follows him out of the woods, and Eddie plops himself down in the same spot on the same wooden bench in the exact same forest as he always does every Friday after school. Except a twenty minute conversation with Steve Harrington leaves Eddie feeling like his world's been turned upside down.

Maybe ‘86 will be his year, after all.

#and then eddie follows him to the bimmer and they bang it out #steve's bad with words except when he's flirting with a pretty boy #good babysitter steve harrington #eddie munson has a crush on steve harrington #even though he kind of hates himself for it #alternate meeting #excessive flirting #pre season four #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #stranger things au #steddie #steddie ficlet #queeniewritesstories #stranger things

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amtrak12 · 5 months ago

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After a conversation with a friend about this weird trend of fic readers who only want epic length fics (and also what seems to be a massive misunderstanding between parties on terms and their definitions), I went searching for the fandom sources I cut my teeth on. I don't have much bookmarked from those days anymore, but googling got me to this fiction length/terminology breakdown from a Livejournal blog. (Which also has good fandom definitions for other terms like A/N and fanon too, so if you're super new to fandom, go check that out.)

The definitions come from the publishing world (hence the page counts), but fandom and fanfic has always borrowed heavily from official publishing terminology. Flash fiction (aka, anything less than 1k words) is called a 'ficlet' within fandom. We call everything else a fic until it reaches the novella mark -- which may start at 20k words but as synecdochic breaks down on their Dreamwidth blog, there's a lot of overlap between short stories and novella word counts. Because, when you're not constrained by physical page counts, the real dividing line between short stories and novellas are the number of plots and themes you're using. (Seriously, go read their meta on this topic. It's fantastic!) Either way, once you're hitting tens of thousands of words, you're in longfic territory. And then if your fic is even longer than that -- 100k+ like shown in the screenshot above -- it's called an epic fic.

And these terms, longfic and epic, are important because they're used to differentiate these stories from the average fic. Because, at least in the 2000s up until the 2020s, the most common fic lengths you ran into were between 1k-20k words. "Fic" made the reader assume only a few thousand words at most. It's only when you changed the term to drabble or ficlet or longfic that they would realize 'oh this is going to be shorter or longer than normal'.

I don't really understand why that baseline assumption has changed amongst the newer demographics (and maybe amongst some long-running fandom members too?). I've seen a lot of theories and 'tiktokification' complaints, but I honestly don't know what's true. And I don't want to start a fight or even try to change anyone's minds if they are dead set against reading short story length fics. You can do what you want!

Just maybe shift your attitude about it a little bit? Remember that it's a personal preference the same way tropes are, and that one story length isn't better than another. Just like tropes, each story length serves its purpose. Some stories are best told in 1-2k words. Some are best told as 100 word drabbles -- or even a single sentence! And then, yes, some stories do need to be 100k+ in order to be told properly.

But that's not every story. And it shouldn't be expected of fic writers to pad a 1500 word plot into some sprawling epic just because they left it on a cliffhanger. The cliffhanger is probably the point of that fic! Short stories are an entirely separate art form to novels and as such are able to cover different topics than novels can or cover the same topics differently. And that's what makes them special!!

And look at that word count breakdown by genre! That's mainstream publishing standards! Now, go back up there to the definition of a novel and notice that the average published novel is 80k words long.

Let me repeat that:

The average length of a published novel is 80,000 words long.

Could a novel go longer? Sure! And if you're dipping into adult sci-fi or fantasy, absolutely it will be longer! But does your fic need to be longer than the average novel in order to be good? In order for you to feel satisfied when you finish reading it? Why does the length of the fic matter more to you than the content?

idk just some rambling food for thought, but I guess too long, don't read:

~✨~ Every story length is valid ~✨~

It just depends on the plot you have and the structure you want to use to tell it.

#fandom history #writing #fanfiction #my meta #I mean my god people Big Bang challenges traditionally required 50k because it was a CHALLENGE #and most people didn't even try to attempt them and only like half the people who signed up actually completed their fics on time #BECAUSE 50K WORDS IS A FUCK TON OF WORDS!!!#And do you know what Big Bang challenges did in order to survive all these years? THEY LOWERED THE WORD COUNT REQUIREMENTS!#The femslash challenge I just signed up for only requires 10k even though they're still giving us months to finish it #And there are people out there pooh-poohing on that effort because it's not novel length???#FANFICTION HAS NEVER BEEN NOVEL LENGTH #Those were always the exceptions! Never ever the rules!#I just don't get it #Excepting more from writers feels so disrespectful of their time and energy and skill #No one's expecting full color art with multiple subjects and detailed backgrounds from fan artists every week!#(Or I don't know maybe they are which would really suck too.)#😩

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