#nascar!steve harrington

[rustedhearts]

Raise Hell (Nascar!Steve x fem!reader)

summary: nascar driver steve harrington is a hot mess. literally. but when he keeps coming into your diner, staggeringly drunk and adorable, you can’t help but grow fond of him.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

hot wheels masterlist main masterlist

tags: nascar!steve, reader is referred to as ‘bunny,’ just fluff and flirting.

author’s note: i don’t know much about the mechanics of nascar because i’m more of a formula one fan, so some of the racing terms/descriptions might seem a bit more f1. sorry!

raise hell, praise…harrington?

talladega, alabama, summer 1995

In Talladega, a girl’s got two things to be: a country beauty queen, or stuck at her high school job. Stupid or stuck. You were stuck—specifically, stuck balancing trays of sweet teas and cokes, and burning your palms on the underside of steaming hot burgers and flapjacks. Stuck in the same stupid powder blue uniform and frilly lace apron you’d been swearing since you were seventeen. Sometimes, you started to wonder if you were no longer stuck—just plain stupid.

But two years ago, Nascar saw a new face on the tracks: one Steve Harrington. Donned ‘Pretty Boy’ for his princely good looks and boyish charm, he burned rubber like nobody’s business, and Alabama’s been in an uproar ever since. You normally didn’t welcome midwestern men with such open and loving arms in a place like this, but as the folks say: he’s one of us, honey.

And one of you he became. He even had the slight slur of a southern twang to prove it, and you came to hear it firsthand when he sat at the end of your counter one night last October, bleary-eyed and pink-cheeked.

“What can I get you, Hot Wheels?” You hadn’t meant for the name to slip, but once it was out there, you couldn’t take it back.

Luckily, Steve just laughed. Slumped on his palm, draped over the counter full of old crumbs and sticky syrup, he pointed toward a laminated menu beside him.

“You guys sell fries?”

You gave him a basket of hot, golden french fries fresh out of the fryer, salted to perfection by yours truly. When Steve saw them sitting in front of him, practically overflowing in their red plastic, newspaper-lined confines, his eyes got huge. He devoured the basket in five minutes flat. You turned your back to clean the coffee pot, and when you went to check on him, offer a glass of water to rouse him from drunken stupor, he was gone.

Sitting in his empty, grease-splattered basket were two hundred dollar bills. It’s still the largest tip you’ve ever gotten on such a small bill to date (or…on any bill).

When Steve Harrington stopped by the diner, you went home with a thicker wallet, a swollen heart, and a burning blush on your face.

You always heard his arrival before you saw his face. The smooth, low grumble of his Ferrari engine. His headlights blared through the blinds on the diner windows, whipping with effortless expertise into the front spot near the door. The headlights cut off, and moments later the door chimed as his lean figure stumbled through.

Designer sneakers scuffing the floor, black leather racing jacket with endorsement patches ironed on neat gleaming beneath the white fluorescents of the diner. He smelled like gasoline and boozy cologne—or maybe that was just the booze. Steve's favorite bar was just up the road: a swanky wood-paneled joint with a mechanical bull, and girls just out of college in skimpy denim shorts and leather cowboy boots. He always left with pink-tinged cheeks and a sway in his step, and though you disapproved of getting behind the wheel under the influence, you didn't mind that he raced all the way here just to get to you.

Tonight, like every night, he strode straight toward the counter and took his seat on a squeaky metal stool at the end.

He patted the counter, shot a finger gun at you, and smiled a half-cocked grin. "Hey, pretty girl."

Cheeks blazing, you rolled your eyes as you collected the coffee pot—freshly brewed just for him—and his basket of sizzling, golden fries. You placed the fries in front of him and flipped over a porcelain mug, pouring a steady stream until it pooled around the rim. No room for cream or sugar: how Steve liked it best. He was already five fries in by the time you placed the coffee pot back.

"Hey, Hot Wheels. Catch anythin' good tonight?"

Elbows pressed against the counter, you leaned over the stack of sticky menus and extra ketchup bottles to flash him your sweetest smile. You always laid it on real thick for guys like him. None of 'em tipped like Steve did, and none of 'em were nearly as handsome. None of 'em made you laugh like Steve did. Jesus, how stupid was that?

"Nothin' worth bringin' home, Bun," Steve sighed, head falling to his palm as his fingers made quick work of delivering fries straight to his mouth.

"Better luck next time." You shrugged, though you knew what this game was.

"No," Steve mused, eyes narrowed with a twinkle of mockery, lips coated in shiny grease and flecks of salt. "No, I don't think so. Know who I'd love to take out, though?"

You pulled away from the counter, that familiar flutter in your chest. You reached for the damp rag previously soaked in lemon sanitizing spray, wiping at the crumbs behind the counter. Steve always came in right when you were closing up. The first time he stumbled in, you threatened to kick him out, but something about those stupid puppy dog eyes and that sly, halfway smile made you stop. You always agreed to close on weekends, just to stay back and clean up after the strays and Steve Harrington. The diner was quiet, only the buzz of old lights and the distant whoosh of cars on the road keeping you company until he appeared.

"Who?" you asked, eyes flicking his way as he munched on his fries. The newspaper in his basket crinkled with his eager snatching.

Steve lifted his head, movements slow and bleary, and in your periphery, you could see it follow your every motion. His jacket made his shoulders look broad and big. You could smell the cigarette remnants still on his hands when you moved in front of him again.

"Come on, Bun," he huffed, that poor, sweet attempt at an Alabama drawl clinging to every word. The way he said your given nickname made your heart squeeze.

"Come on, what?" You flashed him a smile, pursed lips and scrunched nose, and he shook his head amusedly at it. He thought you were so beautiful, even in this ridiculous 1950s getup, hair frazzled and face gleaming with heat.

"When are you gonna let me take you out, sweetheart?" he pouted, hand bumping his empty, grease-stained basket when he dropped it to the counter.

Though your insides were stirring and the back of your neck felt like someone was giving it a pinch, you spun on your heel and reached for the coffee pot again, feigning an air of cool ease. You never wanted a man to have the upper hand on you, no matter how pretty that man might be. Your daddy taught you better than that.

Pressing close to the counter, you held the pot midway in the air, hovering, and caught Steve's eye. His were all whiskey brown and muddy green, more hazel than anything. It was only at this moment that you heard the Willie Nelson song humming on the jukebox in the corner. His lips parted when your eyes narrowed, catlike and dreamily charming.

You inched closer, leaning in like you were fixing to whisper a secret. "When you come in sober, Mr. Harrington."

You topped off his untouched coffee, placed the pot back, and sashayed toward the tables to wipe them down (for the second time tonight). Behind you at the counter, Steve gnawed on his lip, head tipping to admire the backs of your thighs where they caught the plump flesh of your ass beneath your shorts. He scoffed to himself, snatching the mug thrumming with heat, slurping at the potent black liquid.

If sober was what you wanted, sober you would get.

♡ ♡

Nascar was always on channel two, and when your manager Rod was working, he insisted on playing it on the tiny television behind the counter. He paced between the office in the sticky kitchen and the space behind the counter, munching on peanuts and sipping a jumbo Pepsi from the morning.

"Rod, maybe you should have somethin' else to eat." You whooshed a platter of burgers and fries over his head as you rushed toward your table.

"Nah, I'm waitin' for that-that Harrin'ton kid to come on," he excused, motioning toward the tv with a salted peanut palm.

You bit back a grin, sliding the plates onto the table for your eager customers. Wiping your hands on your apron, you headed back to the counter and leaned on the other side.

"What, excited to watch his engine crap out again?” you teased, giggling at Rod’s offended expression before flouncing off toward the kitchen for your break.

“That kid might not be from here, but he’s one of us now, Bunny!” Rod called after you, accent thick and slurred loose.

You waved a hand, eyes rolling. “Why d’ you think I give him such a hard time, Rod?”

You heard his hoarse chuckle as you hopped up on the empty steel tabletop in the kitchen, snatching a soggy fry from a half-empty basket. The cooks all murmured about a table that sent back a burger (there’s always one), and asked you about your shift today. The occasional ‘how are the kids,’ and ‘your garden holding up well in this heat?’ ensued, but most of them knew that when you had a moment to yourself back here, you preferred it in silence.

Billy, a line cook a few years older than yourself, whizzed by with a greasy silver spatula and a plate of perfect, crispy grilled cheese. He slipped it onto your lap as he passed, eye dropping in a wink, before he returned to the grill. You grinned in thanks, picking up the warm, shiny sandwich.

You were halfway through the first triangular slice when a holler jolted you on the table. You dropped the slice, rushing to place the plate on the table and skitter into the dining room again. Head whipping around, you searched for some sort of disaster—a hurt child, a choking customer—and found Rod screaming at the television, red-faced and glistening with sweat.

Huffing, you collapsed against the counter. “Rod, what the hell?”

Rod didn’t tear his eyes away from the television as he smacked his hands together. “Aw, come on! His car’s crappin’ out, he’s gon’ have t’ leave the race.”

You shifted toward the television, preparing to scoff at the urgency of Rod’s statement when sparks skidded over the track on the screen. Even in their pixelated form, the sparks were bright and sharp as a firework on independence day. You watched the cherry red car bounce, jostling the driver inside—clear cause for a biting backache. The car veered left, then right, then toward the off track where Steve stopped it.

Rod cursed, slapping his knee and shaking his head.

“Got-damnit,” he shrilled, easing up from the stool. “When’re they gonna put ‘im in a car that actually drives?”

Rolling your eyes and attempting to ignore the ball of worry the size of Texas aching in your chest, you slid away from the counter and headed back toward the kitchen where your food waited.

“When are you gonna get t’ work, Rod?”

“Eh.”

♡ ♡

That night, you soaked the linoleum in lemon cleaner and scrubbed at the vinyl booths, lights dimmed to keep customer count low until you actually closed. Rod left a few hours ago, and only a handful of cooks lingered in the back, shooting the shit and sharing smokes. You liked having the dining room to yourself while you closed up, humming along the radio and watching the road through the windows. You fantasized about a life with enough money to never wipe a table again.

Given the day he had on the track, the last person you expected to see that night was Steve Harrington. So when the door chimed open and shoes squeaked across the freshly-cleaned tile, you whirled around with a customer-approved smile in preparation for a sweet but curt “we’re about to close.” However, the customer service facade dimmed at the sight of that familiar pretty face and those colorful ironed-on insignias.

“Hey, Bun.” He sounded breathless and beat.

"Hey," you squeaked, dumbfounded by the sight of him.

The outline of his helmet still sat on his face: aggravated red lines indented around his eyes, across his cheeks and nose. His hands, Ferrari-red and raw, trembled as they swept through his tousled hair. "Mind if I sit, Bun? Long day."

Which is how he ended up slumped in a clean booth, head of slick locks thumped against the glass. It felt odd to see him in an actual seat instead of his usual at the bar, but he needed the rest. You could only imagine the sort of strain a car going 200 miles an hour while jerking around had on someone.

You slipped into the kitchen, and with a meek and quiet plead, had the cooks make one last batch of fries fresh for Steve before they left. Just enough for the driver to get his strength back up and feel at home again. The fried pile of grease glistened and sizzled in their plastic confinement on the way out of the kitchen, a cold glass of Pepsi fizzing in your other hand.

You brought them to the man still drooped in the furthest booth, head tipping to find his eyes. "Steve?"

"Hmm?" Blearily, the racer sat upright and blinked at you.

Flashing him a fond smile, you pushed the basket of fries closer to him. "Food."

"Oh."

He munched on the crispy golden potatoes for a while in silence. The back door clinked with the absence of cooks. You thought about getting up to flip the sign over to 'sorry we're closed!' but you couldn't find it in yourself to leave the table. Eventually, you slid into the booth across from him and watched him eat. He sucked down the Pepsi through a striped straw like a toddler gulping apple juice.

"Why did you come here tonight? I mean...you're in no shape, Hot Wheels," you remarked, watching him rub his fingers free of salt.

Steve's eyes flickered toward you below his brows, chin tipped toward his food. He straightened up when he saw you watching, giving his shoulders a shrug. He smelled like scorched rubber, gasoline, and a bit of bourbon-whisky.

"Had a shit day," he muttered, eyes returning to his fries with urgency. "Knew seein’ you would cheer me up."

A flutter disrupted the rhythm thumping in your chest. You felt it in your throat, too, settling like indigestion. You swallowed harshly to clear it away, easing the wonderment in your face with a little grin. Steve went back to finishing the thin strips of fry remnants sitting at the bottom of his basket.

Stripped free of liquored charm and that 'pretty boy' suave, Steve Harrington actually seemed...sweet.

"Hey, Hot Wheels?"

Steve looked up, lips glassy with grease. "Yeah?"

"You can take me on that date now."

♡ ♡

[theshippirate22]

NASCAR!Steve/Mechanic!Eddie (Thinking of Someone For Whom He Still Burns)

this one’s for you @grimmfitzz my dear <33 you’re too good to me really I’m going to become undomesticated or something ;)

The house was still thick with gold. 

Eddie dragged his fingers down the cream walls on his way down the stairs, stepping softly so he didn’t break the perfect silence. Not that it was silent; Wayne left the windows open when he went out in the mornings. The white, transparent cotton curtains billowed out, bringing in the warm breeze with them. There was a lawnmower outside, giving some white noise to the gentleness of the house; must be Chrissy finding an excuse to have her headphones on all morning. She probably just got back from her run, still feeling the adrenaline, the restlessness, and electing to put it into something productive. 

The light was amber, the way it seemingly danced in through the walls to fill the house up with the same gold of the daffodils in the flowerbed right outside. The air smelled faintly of greenery, whether it was Chrissy’s grass shavings or Wayne’s precious flower gardens, Eddie couldn’t say. 

He filled a glass with water and sipped on it, washing the taste of sleep from his mouth. Flipped on the tv to add another set of lively voices to the sound of summer mornings. It was already tuned into the news, and he almost went to change it, switch it to cartoons or something, but he had already taken the toaster from the cabinet and suddenly breakfast seemed infinitely more important. 

“-nvestigating the disappearance of the famous racer.” The newscaster explained eagerly. “While officials at California Speedway are still waiting for his arrival, his managers have been holding press conferences to ease the fans’ anxieties.”

Eddie popped two slices of wheat bread into the toaster, and leaned back against the counter to see what was going on.

The film switched from the newscaster lady in a pencil skirt and a blazer, to another woman in a pencil skirt and a blazer, backed by a man with more freckles than should have been possible- Carol Perkins and Tommy Hagan, the caption provided. “We have no reason to suspect foul play regarding our client at this time. We’re sure it’s nothing more than a miscommunication or misunderstanding of some kind. However, if anyone has any information regarding his whereabouts, we urge you to come forward immediately.”

The toast popped out. Eddie burned his hand throwing them onto the plate. 

The newscaster returned as voiceover to footage of the racer- not that you could actually see him; in every shot, he was either wearing his helmet or turned away- from “Tuesday’s Indianapolis Race,” as the caption provided. “Starting last season as a complete rookie-“

“Turn that NASCAR shit off.”

Eddie startled, dropping his toast back on the plate, before realizing Wayne had just gotten back and rushing to swallow the bite he’d just taken. “Just a sec, I wanna see...”

“When competitor Billy Hargrove was asked about his absence, he said:” The clip cut to the grossest man Eddie had ever seen, with long messy, blond hair and the kind of mustache that just screamed I-disrespect-women. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s probably blacked out in a ditch somewhere and he’ll show up hungover as hell. In the meantime,” He looked dead at the camera, as if he was speaking directly to the missing racer. “I’ll be here hanging out with The King, buddy.”

The way he said the last word certainly implied nothing congenial about the relationship.

“Fans line the streets outside the Speedway-” The camera panned to corroborate. “-to catch a glimpse of his car. In lieu of last week’s interview, some fans are afraid of a darker story. After announcing on live television that he identified as bisexual, then going missing after just five days has his supporters truly hoping this is just a misunderstanding on his teams’ part.”

And back to the press conference and Miss Carol Perkins. 

“We cannot confirm or deny the rumors of death threats being sent to the team at this time. However, with any large announcement from anyone of any fame, there is expected to be public backlash, and our client’s coming out is no exception. We have worked continuously with security and law enforcement to look into any and all potential threats and provide reasonable protection against them. We have no reason to believe the disappearance is a hate crime in nature or related to the coming out at all. Once again, if anyone has any information-”

The tv shut off, the sudden black of the screen swallowing any of the color and Eddie cried out indignantly. “Wayne! I was watching that!”

Wayne’s flat expression didn’t change, but he answered softly, “It’ll just upset you.” 

That was true-already, Eddie’s toast was starting to taste like sawdust- but it wasn’t like people didn’t get hate-crimed every day. Especially people like Eddie. Like...

Damn, Eddie hadn’t even caught the missing racer’s name. 

Maybe the slimy misogynist was right. Maybe he had just blacked out somewhere, so hungover he forgot what day it was. 

Hopefully.

Yes it’s the plot of Cars (2006). I’ve never watched a NASCAR race in my life. I don’t know anything about NASCAR. This amuses me though so I’m doing it anyway because that’s where I am in my life. Anyway! If you’re interested in more let me know!

[nburkhardt]

Needed a visual for an idea. Modern/Famous AU. Rockstar Eddie Munson and Nascar Driver Steve Harrington.

I won’t say the idea rn, because I’m already trying to write it out. But it’s a fun one!

[ladykailitha]

Steddie AU thought of the day.

A kind of like Gran Turismo, the movie based real life events. Basically it's about this guy that is so good at the video game Gran Turismo that with a bunch others like him get the chance to drive the cars for real.

The Scoops Troupe as they are affectionately called at NASCAR is the best pit crew in the business. They are the most sought after pit crew, with Steve Harrington as pit boss. Robin Buckley is his right hand with Erica Sinclair and Dustin Henderson rounding out the crew.

Dustin is the big brain of the operation while Erica is a legacy pit as both her dad and brother have worked in the pits of NASCAR for years. Lucas currently at a rival team.

Enter Eddie Munson. A man that had spent his youth and the majority of his college days in the arcade playing Gran Turismo. He had gotten so good at it he started getting sponsorships for gaming tournaments. This allowed him to buy his own machine and play professionally.

For a stunt in the off season, ten of the top players get assigned to pit crews.

Eddie who is the best of the best gets assigned to the Scoops Troupe. And Steve and Eddie clash hard. Steve resents being shackled to this arrogant nerd and Eddie hates the meathead jock who is his pit boss. He knows the Harrington name. Knows Steve comes from money.

What he doesn't know that Steve used to be a driver. But he crashed in his rookie season, which why the game doesn't have him in it. His dad disowned him when he decided to be mechanic instead because if he had had a good pit instead on built on nepotism Steve wouldn't have crashed. He still has the burn scars on his back.

It all comes to a head when the owners use Eddie and Steve's beef as reason to sack him to put Tommy in his place.

But Eddie gets the other game players to stage a walk out. They all line their cars up on the starting line and then exit their cars, leaving them idling as Eddie tells everyone what happened to Steve and that him and the other players won't get in their cars until Steve is brought back.

The owners last until the first commercial break. Steve is brought back and the race goes on without a hitch.

Eddie and Steve's relationship improves and when Eddie wins the cup, he kisses Steve.

And when Eddie is brought back as a regular driver in the on season, Steve is his crew boss.

[steddie-fanfic-recs]

fine-tuned supersonic speed machine

by hydrangea_bush

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, mechanic!Eddie, Race Car Driver!Steve, Flirting, Car Accidents, Crushes, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Requited Love, steve survives the crash dw Words: 6,331 Chapters: 2/2

Summary

“And how about a kiss for good luck?” Steve asked. "Do I have to remind you, Steve, that we're on national television?" // Steve is a NASCAR racer. Eddie is his mechanic.

[terranometry]

Mini Harringrove Week Day 3

July 31st Prompt: Handcuffed Together

read it on Ao3

Note: takes place between S2 and s3

***

“Running short on tools of the trade, are we, chief? Couldn’t afford an extra pair of handcuffs?”

Hopper didn’t rise to Billy’s bait, instead just fixed the boy with a level stare. “You sure you wanna talk shit with me, kid? Cause from where I’m standing, you’re the one with two unpaid speeding fines and unanswered court summons.” The police chief smiled, though it was clearly condescending. “Understand, Hargrove?”

Billy’s eyes narrowed, easy expression changing into a glare, but he bit his tongue. “Yessir,” he muttered, tonelessly.

For a moment the office was quiet, only the ticking of the clock on the wall and muffled sound of other people moving around the other parts of the station breaking the silence.

“Aw, c’mon, Hop, don’t blame it all on him, I’m the one that put him up to it.” Hopper’s gaze shifted to the teenager on the right of Billy, who had given up trying to look tough and was leaning forward, mouth open as if about to continue.

Hopper groaned. “Alright, first of all, Mr. Harrington, seeing as you’re both sitting here for speeding down the highway at eighty miles an hour – I didn’t even know your car could go that fast – I am certainly not blaming it all on him. And enough with the ‘Hop’ shit, that’s Chief Hopper to you.”

Steve Harrington scoffed and sank lower in his seat. He tried to cross his arms, but as he lifted his right hand up to do so, Billy’s left arm came with it; they were handcuffed together.

“Hey, watch it pretty boy, you’re gonna rip my arm out!” Billy jerked his arm back down. He rested his hand on his thigh, and Hopper didn’t miss how Steve laced their fingers together. It would be cute if they weren’t in here for breaking the law.

Have a heart, something whispered inside him, It’s still pretty adorable. Hopper wasn’t sure what he’d done to make them feel comfortable enough to do that around him, but he was glad they were. Didn’t mean he wasn’t sick of them being little shits and acting like the rules didn’t apply to them.

“You’re one to talk,” Steve shot back at Billy, though there wasn’t really any venom in it, “Maybe if we’d just gone up to drive where I said this wouldn’t even be happening–”

“Oh yeah? Well maybe if you actually listened when I was mapping out our route–”

And so it went on, the two of them bickering like some old married couple, and Hopper fought between the urge to bang his head down on the desk and burst out laughing. When Billy Hargrove had first showed up to town and recieved three traffic violations within the week, never had he imagined that fast-talking Cali boy would end up hanging out with Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes himself Steve Harrington. Now, however, the two were going anywhere and everywhere together and causing him no end of trouble. After hearing the story of the fight at the Byers, he was wondering if the schoolyard sentiment of bullying the person you had a crush on actually held any weight. It definitely did with these two.

“Okay, OKAY, shut it, lovebirds!” He yelled over them. That did the trick: they immediately went quiet, faces flushed – from anger or embarrassment he couldn’t tell. Probably both. “So, anyone care to tell me what, exactly, you two were doing racing your cars up past Highway 77 like it’s damn Nascar?”

Instead of giving an answer, Billy sat up from his slouch enough to drawl, “Isn’t that highway outside of your jurisdiction, chief?”

He had a sense of humor, this one. “Ah, so would you rather me hand you off to a state trooper, instead? Because that can be arranged. And they won’t hesitate to call your parents and have something written on your permanent record, either.”

Though he was speaking to both of them, he looked very pointedly at Billy. He knew what kind of home the kid lived in, had heard snippets of it from when Max would come over to hang out with El, seen the bruises under Billy’s collar whenever he’d be dropping his sister off or cruising around town. He also knew that the kid didn’t want sympathy or someone interfering. But Hopper wasn’t just going to throw him back to the wolves.

Something changed in Billy’s face, almost imperceptibly, almost like he was seeing Hopper differently for the first time. He shook his head. “No sir, this is fine.”

Steve looked between them for a moment, then sighed. He opened his mouth again and everything came out in a rush. “We were going to hang out at the lake, but then on the way back we decided to drive around a bit, and I leaned out the window and said to Billy that maybe we should race each other back, and I wouldn’t take no for an answer, so it’s my fault really, and that’s why we–”

“I get it Harrington, you’re dumb teenagers.” He deadpanned. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you and your boyfriend are a menace and need to get your act together.”

Now they really were red. “No, we’re not– he’s not– I mean– but–!”

He ignored them, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth in spite of himself. “So, what to do with you two, hm? I can suspend your licenses if I really want to, y’know…”

The boys held their breath.

“…but nah. You’ve caught me in a good mood.” He leant back in his chair.

Steve beamed, and even Billy cracked a smile. “Really! Oh my god, thanks Hop you have no idea–”

“Calm down, Hotshot, I wasn’t finished. I’ll be hanging onto your keys. Only for a few days,” he raised his voice a bit as they began to protest. “I think it’s only fair.”

“But, but, I mean, I promised I’d drive the kids to that party tomorrow.” Steve looked absolutely devastated.

“God, you’re such a mom, Steve, y’know that?” Billy teased, then he tensed. “And what exactly should I tell my old man, aye Chief? He’s going to be asking where the Camero’s at and it’s my ass–” he caught himself. “He’ll want to know.”

“I’ll send it up to Jerry’s and he can keep it on the lot. You just say that it’s in for an oil change.”

“I just changed the oil two months ago,” Billy mutters, but he meets Hopper’s gaze and nods. It’s a silent thanks.

Hopper stands up and grabs his hat. “Well, I’m headed home early, and with that taken care of you two can go.” He turns to leave.

Steve clears his throat. “Er… can you take the handcuffs off?” He holds up his (and by proxy Billy’s) arm.

“You two are smart, you’ll figure out how to open it.”

Billy snorts. “Do I hear the police chief himself condoning breaking out of handcuffs?”

“I think it shouldn’t be much of a change.” He looks over his shoulder and rolls his eyes. “You two are basically attached at the hip as it is.”

He left the office and could hear their voices rising up behind him.

“Steve, baby, if I didn’t know better I’d think he’s making fun of us.”

“Of course he is, you’re so damn snarky you deserve it.”

“Nah, I think it’s because you’re so obviously in love with me. It’s sickening.”

“You’re sickening.”

Hopper laughs, really laughs, ignoring the strange looks from the other officers as he heads out of the building. Out of all the shit that’s happened in the past year, at least the comedy relief that is Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove has come out of it.

He has to make a stop at the store on the way home – out of Eggos again, he swears they go through eight boxes a week – and drives past Billy and Steve walking up the side of the road, trying to to light two cigarettes, fumbling with the lighter between their handcuffed hands. Billy drops it and immediately goes to grab it, almost yanking Steve to the ground. They clamber upright, laughing. The last he sees of them in his rearview mirror is Steve leaning in to kiss Billy on the cheek.

Yeah, he thinks, the kids are alright.

[munsonology]

I’m looking for a top for Janet next week BUT

Send me your thots for smuterday!!!!!

Here’s a list of my multiverse of Eddie’s (and 4 Steve’s lol)

Eddie Munson

1. Cowboy!eddie and girlie

2. Biker!eddie and nun reader (nunny)

3. Rockstar!eddie and baywatch!reader

4. Noir!eddie and noir!reader (femme fatale Gloria glade)

5. Rockstar!eddie and ghost!reader

6. Gamer!eddie

7. Cut throat: eddie and Sinclair!oc (Freddie Sinclair)

8. Twenty one candles: eddie/black!Harrington reader (queenie Harrington)

9. The other Henderson: eddie/Henderson reader (bring it on au)

10. NASCAR!eddie/reader

11. Eddie/Lara Croft!reader

12. Bone dry: eddie/Sinclair!oc, sequel to cut throat

13. Eddie/hermione granger

14. Eddie/tinker bell!reader

15. Eddie/Barbie reader (spiderbie)

16. Waffle House!eddie/reader

17. penthouse!eddie/reader

18. sugar daddy!eddie/reader

Steve Harrington

1. Billion dollar baby: Steve/reader (2 versions)

2. Those crazy neighbors: Steve/alien!girl/space invader!reader

3. Steve/computer genius!reader

4. The strangest thing: Steve/reader, sequel to bone dry 🤭 the plot twist is insane, no I haven’t written it down

[gravegroves]

Can I ask about 2 and 8 for the wip tag game?

I've already talked about 8 (search #tag game in my tags and you'll find it).

But omg thank you for asking about 2!!

2. Like a Bat Out of Hell, Indiana

Oh man, oh man. This. This right here? This is my baby. My precious. The one I wrote so self indulgently that even if no one else likes it, I LIKE IT. And I'm completely okay with that.

El and Hopper fail at closing the gate at the end of s2, Billy appears at the Byers' house just in time and so begins a mad dash across the country, trying to outrun the end of the fucking world.

Tw: death (no one we care about though)

Excerpt:

The sound of a car roaring into the driveway has Steve's heart crashing up into his throat and they all turn to watch as headlights dance across the living room walls, sharp and blinding, like a goddamn beacon of hope.

And Steve doesn't have time to think about why the deep rumbling of the engine sounds so familiar.

He moves the kids now or they die.

"Get to the car, now!" Steve screams, just as the window at the end of the hall explodes inward.

Max gets to the door first and tears out of the house, sprinting toward the high beam lights with the boys hot on her heels.

"Billy!" She screams and goddamnit she can't mean--

She reaches the car, yanks the passenger side door open and pushes the front seat forward, shoving Dustin, Mike and Lucas into the back before diving in herself, righting the front seat in a practised move just in time for Steve to jump in after her.

And yep. There he is.

Hargrove's expression would be hilarious if they weren't seconds away from being overrun by a horde of carnivorous monster dogs.

"What the fuck do you losers think you're doing?!" Billy roars, eyes bugging slightly when he recognises Steve.

"Harrington?!"

Steve grabs him by the collar and screams into his face: "Just fucking drive!" 

A loud crash has them both snapping their heads to the side just in time to watch as a hundred Demodogs or more come rushing out from behind the Byers' house, heading straight for them.

Without another word, Billy yanks the car into reverse and accelerates before hitting the breaks. Steve's stomach swoops as their momentum lets the wheels slide over the gravel to land perfectly on the road.

He grabs Billy's arm, yanks on it like it might shake some urgency into him.

"Hargrove, go!"

"Seatbelts! Get the seatbelts" Max yells at the others.

That's what she's worried about? Steve thinks, even as he reaches over his shoulder to strap himself in.

Then Billy puts the car into gear and guns it forward and they go from 0 to 70 mph in ten seconds flat, zooming down old, twisting back roads and Steve honestly can't believe that Hargrove's insane, wannabe NASCAR driving is gonna be what saves their asses tonight.

"What the hell are you doing all the way out here with my sister, huh?" Billy yells, taking his eyes off the road to look over at him and Steve might seriously have a fucking heart attack.

"Eyes on the road!" He exclaims, foot searching the footwell for a break pedal that isn't there, "For real, man? You want to do this now?!"

"Or you can get out and fucking walk, amigo," Billy snarls, swerving around another Demodog leaping for the hood of his car, "What the hell is up with these dogs?"

"Billy, stop it! Can you jus-- look out!" Max shrieks, her arm shooting between them to point straight ahead and the kids all begin yelling as the flower-in-bloom-faced ugly fuck grows larger in the windscreen at an alarming speed.

Smooth as butter, Billy avoids the gaping creature in their path, not taking his foot off the accelerator for even a second. Steve's heart beats a drum solo against his adam's apple. His fingers feel fused to the edges of the seat, holding on for dear life.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck was that?" Billy turns to look behind him and Steve clenches his teeth so hard his jaw hurts, barely restraining himself from yanking Billy around to face forward again.

"Hargrove, I swear to God--"

"Oh god, look."

Steve turns his head the slightest amount to see Lucas pointing out of the window at the treeline to their right.

Demodogs.

Lots of them.

So many slimy, greyish bodies that the forest floor has all but disappeared and transformed into a churning sea of dark, slick oil.

More worryingly, they're all running in the same direction as the Camaro.

Fuck.

"What the…" Billy falters when he looks out of the window at the treeline, then seems to shake it off, placing his undivided attention back on the road for once.

He speeds up to pass a whole group of the beasts trying to cross to the other side, narrowly misses being cut off entirely by the mass of Demodog bodies. Steve releases a hand from the seat only to clutch at the grab handle on the door. He closes his eyes, swears he can feel his stomach fall out of his ass when the wheels on his side of the car lift into the air for half a beat.  

"Shit, we're gonna die!" Dustin wails, voice wobbly as Billy jerks the wheel again to avoid a creature charging straight for them. If the kids weren't already packed in like sardines they'd be sliding around back there, seatbelt or no. "We're definitely gonna die! This psycho is gonna kill us before the monsters do!"

Billy scowls into the rear-view mirror and grits out "Hey kid, you're welcome to get out and walk."

"You literally tried to run us off the road a week ago--"

"Not the time, Dustin!" Max snaps and shushes him.

"We need to get to the gate!" Mike blurts out, leaning forward to speak directly at Steve. Demanding. "We need to help El!"

Steve doesn't even have the faintest idea of how to begin doing any of that.

"Dude, we can't just go back there, are you crazy--" Lucas pulls him back and they continue to argue in harsh whispers.

"If you losers don't shut the fuck up, I'll crash this goddamn car just so I can take you all with me." Billy barks, knuckles white on the wheel.

"Oh my god, see! What did I tell you?" Dustin exclaims, "He's dangerous, Steve!"

Yeah, well, he's all that we've got, Steve doesn’t say. "Shut up, Dustin."

They turn into the first proper residential street and Billy misses a tree by an inch as he tries to avoid colliding with five demodogs hunched over something on the road.

Oh god, was that a body?

"Harrington, where the fuck am I going?"

Steve closes his eyes, overwhelmed and completely out of his depth. They might have been the B team, but there hadn't actually been a plan B--

"Fuck, fuck! I don't know--"

"Billy," Max pleads, voice shaky with terror, silencing them all, "My mom…" 

Billy sighs explosively before turning down a side street, barely slowing down.

"Shit."

*****

It's not just Max's mom, but Dustin's mom, too. Lucas's family. Mike's family. 

They reach Old Cherry Road first and Billy barely allows the car to come to a full stop, Demodogs further down the street are taking notice of them already, stalking forward, mouths blooming excitedly. Steve eyes them warily until a garbled oh fuck from the back seat draws his attention to the other side of the street and--

It's bad.

The porch light sets the stage for a grizzly scene at the Hargrove residence. A woman lies directly beneath it, like the opening shot to a fucked up play, her head of red hair spilling over the top step.

She's very obviously dead. Steve can see where she must have tripped on the welcome rug -- awkwardly stiff and upturned between her feet -- and he can only hope she got knocked out in the fall and didn't feel a thing that came after. There isn't much left between her head and her knees except for a dark patch of gøre.

The headless body of a man lies slumped against a truck parked in the driveway, one arm stuck through the open car door, half torn off within his jacket. Blood still running down the concrete incline, pooling in the roadside gutter.

"Oh, you Bastard," Billy spits, barely a whisper.

The longer Steve stares, the more horrifying the scene becomes.

He doesn't want Max to see this. Or Billy.

Max doesn't make a sound.

Billy slams his fist against the steering wheel a couple of times, then peels away from the curb before the Demodogs can get too close.

*****

Dustin's house is dark. There's no car in the driveway.

"I told her Mews had been seen in Loch Nora. She must still be out looking..." Dustin trails off quietly. Shellshocked.

It's almost midnight. Steve doubts she's still out looking for a cat. And if she is...

"I wanted to keep her out of the way."

No one says anything.

They drive.

*****

The Sinclair house is dark, too, no lights on except for the motion sensor activated ones over the empty carport.

Billy doesn't bother slowing down. The area is absolutely swarming with creatures already.

"It's so late. Where..." Lucas falters, scanning the houses they pass, like he made a mistake and his home will appear any minute now. "Where did they go?"

"I'm sure they're okay, man," Steve tries, but it feels flat, false, "If they're in a car they could make it out. Your mom too, Dustin."

Billy grimaces, but says nothing.

"What?" Steve demands.

"I was just here looking for Max. They were home." 

He keeps a laser focus on the road now, on avoiding the monsters spilling out onto their path, growling when he's forced to change down a gear before aggressively working his way up in speed once more, jaw clenched tight.

"You probably caught them on their way out." Steve insists.

Billy looks doubtful, but he nods anyway. Neither of them enough of an asshole to take a kid's hopes away like that.

They move on.

*****

"Let me out," Mike says, quietly. Trembling. Hands pushing against the back of Steve's seat like he'll be able to bend it out of the way through sheer force of will.

No one moves.

The front door to the Wheeler home is open, door splintered where the deadbolt held, but the wood didn't. The car is parked in the carport. All the lights are on. 

Karen Wheeler's corpse lies forgotten and half devoured on the front lawn.

In the driveway, a tiny yellow sock lies next to bloody drag marks disappearing into the grass--

Oh god...

"Let me out." 

Steve's lips move, but he can't seem to draw breath enough to produce sound..

Billy seems to shake himself out of a daze, takes a deep breath beside him. "Nah, kid."

And Mike just snaps. 

"Fuck you! Fuck you!" He screams, punching and kicking the seat in front of him.

Steve leans forward out of the seat and puts his head in his hands. 

"Let me out! LET ME OUT!" Mike shrieks, begs.

"No." Billy says again, evenly.

Mike's voice breaks on a wordless scream.

Steve wants to do his own bit of kicking and screaming, but someone needs to keep their fucking head in the game or they're all going to end up dead.

By some twisted turn of fate that someone is turning out to be Billy fucking Hargrove.

Hysterically, he remembers hearing about Billy abandoning Carla Green to walk home alone from the quarry after she'd scratched the Camaro's dashboard with her fake nails by accident.

Mike kicks the back of the seat again. Billy says nothing.

All the kids are crying, now.

Mike's screams eventually taper off into babbling sobs and Dustin does his best to comfort him through his own half-choked cries. Lucas is whispering to a sobbing Max, his own breaths hitching and heaving uncontrollably, on the edge of breaking.

Steve's eyes sting, hidden behind his hands.

He lifts his head up and glances over at Billy, still tracking the side of the road, the edge of the trees. He looks so normal that it almost throws Steve for a loop. He wants to grab Billy by the collar again. Shake him. Scream: what part of this aren't you getting?

"The fuck is going on?" Billy hisses, almost to himself and oh, right.

"Later," Steve promises, hoarsely, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars.

"You know what they are?"

"Yeah." Steve says after a great deal of swallowing past the lump in his throat.

If Hargrove's voice betrays even a hint of emotion Steve knows he's gonna fucking lose it. Luckily, the guy keeps his shit together so Steve can keep a lid on his.

"You know what kills them?" Billy continues.

"Heat," Dustin says, voice thick, "And, like, bullets."

Billy nods, "Alright, how warm are we talking?"

"They don't like warm weather or daylight, but I don't think it kills them. Weakens them, maybe. Sends them underground."

"Fire will." Steve says, pulling at his hair until it hurts, dragging himself out of foggy despair and into the present where he's needed. He accidentally runs his gaze past Karen's body and tries not to dry-heave.

Mike is still crying behind him and god fuck, they should get out of here. The kid shouldn't be seeing this.

"Where do we go?" Max whispers, like she read his mind. She sounds as lost as Steve feels.

Billy revs the engine and turns to Steve, "Any requests?"

Steve thinks about the huge empty house waiting for him, a gaping nightmare at the edge of the woods. He balks at the thought.

Where the fuck do we go?

"Just get us out of Hawkins."

[screensirenfic]

Black Leather - Chapter 1

Life had remained largely the same, despite the obvious overhanging changes over the last year. I mean; life had always been hectic; disastrous even, taking turns and downright derailing at the worst times. We’d experienced loss again and again, been chewed up and spat on, but got up fighting; because that was what being a Hopper meant, being too damn stubborn to die. It was in the genes.

Life had gotten weirder. The discovery of real, living and fucking breathing monsters had been a big ole’ “fuck you” to logic, but science seemed to back it up with the uncovering of Hawkins lab and whatever sinister experiments they were running there. Of course; that wasn’t a concern any more, considering old Uncle Sam had shut that down quicker than the health inspector at Benny’s; God rest his soul.

But even with the finality of the death and burial of Hawkins greatest catastrophe/mystery; it still left a lot of bodies in its wake, one of which I was currently adjusting to calling sister.

Eleven. El. Jane. Whatever people preferred to call her; she was currently sharing a home with Me and my dad, as we all played happy families in the darkened depths of Indiana woodlands. I liked the kid; I’d admit it. She was sweet in her own way, and knowing she could toss shit around with her mind made her much cooler than the average thirteen year old. Of course; all of that was a secret. Everything about El was; as far as the government knew, she didn’t exist. It was the price that had to be payed for safety, and God knew dad valued that above all else: including our sanity.

So instead we stayed shut inside that little wooden hut forgotten by time and space, sneaking in and out at the rising and setting of the sun, like criminals or bats in the night. It was enough to drive you crazy; and trust me, dad was already half way there. Tensions ran high all the time; higher than they had at the height of his PTSD, and God; sometimes I just wanted to scream. For someone to address that shit wasn’t normal, rather than sitting around and pretending that it is.

The only true bit of normality was school and work. Mainly just school, as the arrival of a new dependant meant my work hours were seriously fucked. Wasn’t the kid’s fault; dad was a workaholic, didn’t know when to call it a day, and that left me picking up the pieces. It was Sara all over again. At least back then things were normal. There was still trauma, but it was the kind normal families had. A missing parent; semi-alcoholic father; that was shit everybody had to deal with, but this. This was the stuff that only happened in B movies.

—————————————

God; sometimes I really loved having a motorcycle. The wind slapping your face like a Californian wave; that rush of adrenaline when you take a corner a little too fast, when death seems just moments away. It was like flying; soaring through the air without limits. No; it was more visceral than that. Like free falling; the absolute relinquishment of control as you hurtle through the ozone, the earth rising up at you as the void closes in; death approaching at a hundred miles per hour.

You couldn’t compare it to any other sensation. I’d seen kids trying to mimic it on tiny dirt bikes painted up like NASCARS; their little legs spinning the pedals like turbines as they tried to reach just a lick of that speed. To feel the breeze on their face; the closest you could get to freedom in the tiny township of Hawkins, Indiana. That rush didn’t touch the one I felt when I rode my Triumph, hitting 80 as I threaded through standstill traffic; the reaper breathing down my neck.

But like all great rides; it came to an end too soon, the nondescript flat roofed shape of Hawkins High rapidly approaching. I pulled into the parking lot, cruising through row after row of dusty cars; from the beat up old Pacard, to the shiny new Chevy.

I parked a couple of rows before the school, swinging my leg over my saddle as I finally accepted my joy ride was over and I’d have to land back on earth.

“Hey; Lola!” A familiar voice rang out as I pulled off my helmet, shaking my hair loose, less the dreaded helmet hair take hold.

Nancy Wheeler; Hawkins High’s very own Miss Perfect, the princess of Indiana. She was the daughter fathers dreamed of; pretty in a girl next door kind of way, well behaved, a high achiever; the kind to bring home boys who got her back by ten and kissed goodbye at the door. I got called other things. Jail bait, wild child; a lawsuit waiting to happen. Well meaning grandparents used girls like me as a cautionary tale to expecting parents on what too little discipline did to ‘nice little girls’.

Not that I didn’t like Nancy. She was nice, and Steve’s girlfriend too. Besides, being a princess was hard; a lot of expectations to live up to, a lot of hopes to let down. I never had that problem, and with her cotton candy smile; I couldn’t help but give one in return.

“Hey Nance” I chirped, placing my helmet on the back of my motorcycle and knowing damn well no one would dare touch it.

“Steve was just wondering if you’d take a look at his college application...” She began, and I could see the flustered figure in question trailing behind her.

“He’s been finding it hard to find the right words, and we know how you never get tongue tied.” She joked, and I took it at face value; I was getting A’s, despite the perception that girls like me were only good at one thing and one thing only.

“Is that so, Steve?” I asked, unable to hide my smugness as I stared at him, despite his insistence on avoiding eye contact.

There was nothing I enjoyed more than really digging into him. It was just too easy; to push all his buttons. Of course; he did the same in return, but who really had more to lose? The self proclaimed king of Hawkins High, or his leather clad sidekick?

“Yeah, sowouldyoutakealookatit?” He mumbled, rubbing his nose as if he could hide the words as you would a cough.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t quite get that.” I purred with all forced sweetness and sacharine smiles. I could never resist the urge to really twist the knife.

“I said, would you take a look at it...” he sighed; a visible strain on the admission of inferiority.

“Please...” He added, drawing a smile to my lips. Sweet, stubborn Steve; too good to ask for help, and  just desperate enough to need it; but then what are friends for?

“Sure thing Harrington...” I grinned, finally plucking the crumpled stack of papers from Nancy’s grasp. “Would love to.” I removed my gaze from him, savouring the rare look of humbleness on his face, and turned it upon the paper.

——————————————-

Steve Harrington was many things. Charismatic. Caring. Rich. Good looking. A great guy with almost endless good qualities, but smart wasn’t one of them. I’d spent the best part of a quarter of an hour troweling through his paper with about as much joy as a prospector in a dry well, but was yet to strike gold.

It really was garbage, and that was treating it nicely, but still both me and Nancy tried our best to revive a corpse; not because we felt there was anything worth saving, but because it was Steve, and we cared about his future; even if it was doomed to culminate behind a deep fat fryer in a fast food joint.

My eyes trailed across line after line of smudged ink; much of it crossed out and rewritten in the margins, trying to make sense of whatever it was he was trying to convey in a comparison between WW2 and a basketball game between us and Northern.

“And did you...” I said; pointing out a particular eyebrow raising line, talking about the all American value of victory.

“Yeah; that’s what I thought...” She agreed, picking up off my tone and honing in on the line in question.

“Uh huh” I mumbled reading onwards on what was a virtual mine field of badly used metaphors and poorly linked  stories.

Steve didn’t seem to fare much better than his essay, pacing restlessly up and down a small stretch of parking lot, reminding me distinctly of an expecting father in the delivery room. However; his midwives were much more willing to take our time perfecting the delivery of his academic baby.

“And don’t you think...” Nancy trailed of, redirecting my attention to a sentence circled in red marker. Another misused simile courtesy of the genius that is Steven Harrington.

“My thoughts exactly.” I concurred, knowing that we were both desperately avoiding as coming across as purposely nitpicky with his work.

A loud, impatient sigh interrupted our conversation as Steve’s nerves finally reached their limit.

“I’m sorry, but are you girls anywhere near done?” He asked, drawing our attention away from the paper and up to his signature Steve Harrington pose; hands perched on his hips.

“We were just trying to find some constructive criticism to give you...” She began her tidy little avoidance bullshit; the kind that came with years of forced diplomacy beneath the perfect four bed suburban roof. The kind of bullshit I couldn’t stand; let alone tolerate. I had to put an end to it.

I strolled up to Steve, shoving the proverbial toilet paper he’d used as an application to his chest in a way that told him loud and clear what the truth about his efforts were.

“She means your paper sucks, man...” I translated; my words holding none of her polish, but all of the dirty intentions beneath.

“I wasn’t going to say that. I was...” She said; already backpedaling the hard truth I’d spilt onto the table.

Steve just gave her a look. He knew she was lying; if only to save his feelings. He may not have been smart, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Okay; it’s a little suckish, but nothing we can’t fix...” She offered in consolation; a weak smile the most she could offer in her lie.

I was about to object, knowing the hole she was digging the both of us was deeper than we could deliver upon, when a grisly roar overshadowed all thought. I knew the sound well; all eyes turning to it’s source, the newest arrival to Hawkins.

A Chevy Camaro; older, probably fixed up by some dedicated hobby mechanic with too much time on his hands. I’d seen hundreds of them in the shop in varying states of rustiness; most beyond repair, but still, some insistent gashead would insist it could be done, sinking fistfuls of dollar into what was essentially raising the titanic.

“Nice car.” Nancy remarked, and for a princess like her to notice, it must be true. It was in good shape. Baby blue with just the slightest of wear on the paint; someone took a lot of care with their baby. Fuck; if I had one, I probably would too!

“Yeah, but I bet the backseat is a nightmare.” Joked Steve; insecurity seeping into what was meant to be a light dig.

Not the only man with a nice ride on the block now.

His dig fell short when the driver stepped out, hard rock pounding in his stead.

Pretty; was my first thought. Like his car, he had all the well tailored ruggedness that created the perfect balance between pretty boy and rebel. Blonde haired, blue eyed; think James Dean if he had a mullet.  His clothes looked good too; double denim that clung to him like a second skin, with a white t shirt that really left nothing to hide.

Smoking a cigarette with movie star casualness, if I’d seen him in a movie, I’d be drooling. But this wasn’t a movie; this was Indiana, and I’d seen too many of his type roll up to Charlie’s in pretty cars with prettier faces thinking it meant the world owed them something. That that something was hidden somewhere down the denim shorts I wore so religiously.

I’d had it with pretty boys. They could all go jump off a bridge.

And as if he was already decided to live up to the cliche, he went and cemented it when he strolled past us, dripping sex and arrogance; his eyes trailing up and down me like I was something to be bartered for, like I could be bought.

“What an asshole.” Sneered Steve, taking the words out of my mouth, and I almost smiled; because of course he’d be the one to say it.

But I didn’t; not when the new kid was leering at me with all the restraint of a hungry dog.

I watched him lick his lips; that’s right, lick. his. lips. Pink tongue peaking out past too perfect teeth, running across a full bottom lip. I tried telling myself it wasn’t sexual. That it was just a private little tick that he couldn’t control. But his eyes had never left me; a dark grin that promised any number of sins stretched across a heartbreaker’s face.

“Yeah. An asshole.” I agreed; the word rolling off my tongue automatically, but I don’t think my heart was in it. That frightened me.

That, and the small itch in my stomach that grew every time his bright baby blues met my green.

Finally; those blues relented, tongue disappearing behind white teeth as he shot me a smile that could’ve sent knees buckling. A quick wink and he was done, strutting into Hawkins High like a stormy breeze that was sure to rock the entire school.

“Hey Lo. You listening?” Came Steve’s voice through a fog of cigarette smoke and gasoline; the smell reminiscent of home, despite its cause being far from homely.

“Yeah. Sure...” I replied, tearing my eyes from where the newcomer had disappeared into the school.

“Let’s get to class before we’re late.” I said, shouldering my bag as if it was any other Monday morning. And it was.

Just another manic Monday.

[kitschykay]

what can I say, he’s a hell of a babysitter.

(An accurate description of my love life right now.)

[CHORUS]

I want a boy like NASCAR

Always on a roll, but he never goes far

Road rage bad like the shawty on his arm

I want a boy like Steve Harrington

Big brown eyes that you never can miss

Hair as high as my love for him

[ROUND 1!]

I had a dream me and you

Afterschool

Where you tell me that you thought it through

Cuz, see, I wrote you a letter

Sayin I’ll find no one better

And now you’re sayin that you like me too

(He’s so cute!)

But it’s back to reality

Where you live in a fantasy

And I’m all alone.

Cuz after what that boy did to me

Heart stays safe under lock and key

Better on my own.

[ROUND 2!]

So I live in my imagination

Plotting dates around radio stations

Cuz in my mind I built chemistry

With a boy who can’t get to me

And I can make him be anything, anything

[CHORUS]

I want a boy like NASCAR

Always on a roll, but he never goes far

Road rage bad like the shawty on his arm

I want a boy like Steve Harrington

Big brown eyes that you never can miss

Hair as high as my love for him

[ROUND 3! FIGHT!]

In my head

I’m safe and sound

But I want someone more alive

So I know one day I will meet that guy

Cuz I,

[CHORUS]

I want a boy like NASCAR

Always on a roll, but he never goes far

Road rage bad like the shawty on his arm

I want a boy like Steve Harrington

Big brown eyes that you never can miss

Hair as high as my love for him

[rustedhearts]

hot wheels: nascar steve harrington

set in nascar hot spot talladega, alabama in the mid 90s: midwestern-born nascar driver steve harrington has a crush on you, a small town waitress just trying to make ends meet. you can’t ignore his charm for long.

✶ raise hell

main masterlist

✶ disclaimer: i don’t do tag lists. ✶

[theshippirate22]

Thinking Of Someone For Whom He Still Burns

written for ‘cake’ wc: 311 | rated: G | cw: Descriptions of the band Cake ;)

a/n i really wanted to do this for @steddiemicrofic because i love the concept but i’m like kinda super nervous ngl that i didn’t get the rules right so please let me know if i messed up and i can take it down

“I’m sorry, do you wanna run that one by me again?”

Steve huffs indignantly and crosses his arms, focusing on kicking a pebble as he walks. “Why, so you can just make fun of me more?”

“I won’t!” Eddie laughs. “I won’t! I just… need some explanation on this one.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, then Steve mutters, “They call me Cake.”

“And why do they call you Cake?” Eddie glances around casually.

“My ass, mostly.”

He snorts, ducking his head to hide his chuckling but Steve looks over for a minute and mirrors it.

“It’s not my fault, you know.”

“Your ass isn’t your fault?”

He shoves lightly him with his shoulder. “Look, I’m going to assume you don’t watch a lot of NASCAR.”

“You’d be right.”

“Whenever the big names go out on the track, they play like… their theme song. So the King’s is We Are the Champions and Hargrove’s is some shitty rock song and I wasn’t even supposed to have one, you know? They didn’t think I was gonna be good because I’m the rookie.” The rock bounces off to where he can’t kick it anymore, so instead he passes a jab at every stone his toes can meet and they all go flying off like a crowded pinball machine. “My PR team chose one for me when they realized I was actually kinda good. And it was The Distance. By Cake. Kinda classic.”

“Not even a little.”

“And what would you suggest?”

Eddie muses for a moment. “Enter Sandman.”

“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes again. “Some girl on TikTok made an edit of me… well, my ass at least. To that song. So, they call me Cake.”

Eddie stops walking.

“What are you doing?”

“Turn around! I’m seeing if they’re right.”

He catches up again, grinning.

“What do you think?”

“I think they’re definitely right.”

[nburkhardt]

✨ A famous au ✨

Eddie Munson: lead guitarist for Corroded Coffin.

Steve Harrington: Nascar driver.

When you’re bored at work and the words aren’t wording for a fic, you make mood boards for the WIP that was a silly little thing but refuses to get out of my head.

[ao3feed-harringrove]

come on, pretty boy

https://ift.tt/35BexJl

by SunshineA

Steve's afraid of heights. And fast vehicles, like NASCAR fast. And getting breathless from the wind blowing in your face because of the speed. And getting his clothes wet, too. So, basically Steve is afraid of rollercoasters. He's never been on one, he watched people ride those, watched them get out and puke almost immediately. He also watched that Final Destination movie, where almost everyone on the rollercoaster died, so, like, he's never ever gonna ride one. Because of reasons.

Or is he?

Words: 1832, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Dustin Henderson, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Lucas Sinclair

Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, rollercoaster, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Fluff, Billy being nice

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/35BexJl

[ao3feed-strangerthings]

come on, pretty boy

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/35BexJl

by SunshineA

Steve's afraid of heights. And fast vehicles, like NASCAR fast. And getting breathless from the wind blowing in your face because of the speed. And getting his clothes wet, too. So, basically Steve is afraid of rollercoasters. He's never been on one, he watched people ride those, watched them get out and puke almost immediately. He also watched that Final Destination movie, where almost everyone on the rollercoaster died, so, like, he's never ever gonna ride one. Because of reasons.

Or is he?

Words: 1832, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Dustin Henderson, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Lucas Sinclair

Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, rollercoaster, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Fluff, Billy being nice

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/35BexJl

[crarsports]

18 Mind Numbing Facts About Steve Park | steve park

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