Steveharrington - Blog Posts

apocalypse

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Model! Reader

warning: language and adult themes

events of upside never happened.

The first time Ethel saw Eddie perform live, it was from backstage, tucked in the shadows where no one could see her. The energy of the crowd was electric, a thousand voices screaming his name, hands reaching, desperate for even the smallest piece of him. But he was untouchable, all sweat and leather and raw power, his guitar a weapon, his voice a battle cry.

She should have expected it, but still, it knocked the breath out of her.

She wasn’t the only one watching. There were others—groupies, roadies, industry people—but none of them saw him the way she did. None of them knew the boy beneath the stage lights, the one who got nervous before every show, who doodled in the margins of hotel notepads, who laughed until he was breathless over the dumbest jokes.

When the set ended, when the last chord rang out and the lights dimmed, he practically ran offstage, his chest heaving, hair wild with sweat. And the second he saw her, standing there with her arms crossed and that half-smile he was starting to crave, he grinned.

“How’d I do?” he asked, voice rough, still caught in the adrenaline.

She took a step closer, trailing a fingertip down the collar of his leather jacket. “You were alright.”

He scoffed, pulling her in by the waist, pressing his lips to hers. “Liar.”

She laughed, and then he was kissing her, his hands slipping beneath the thin fabric of her dress, fingertips pressing into her skin like he was afraid she’d disappear. The noise of the venue faded, drowned out by the pounding of their hearts. It was reckless. Addictive.

Later that night, curled up in the dim glow of his hotel room, she traced lazy patterns on his bare chest, the sound of his slowed breathing filling the silence. “You’re kind of unreal, you know that?” she murmured.

He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her wrist. “You make me feel real.”

And just like that, she was his favorite addiction.

Tejano Blue

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Model! Reader

warning: language and adult themes

events of upside never happened.

They didn’t plan on seeing each other again.

But a week later, Eddie was in a different city, a different hotel, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the hum of a mixtape playing from his Walkman, when his hotel phone buzzed.

Ethel: you left your lighter in my coat. guess that means you owe me another late night.

He grinned at the note, thumbing the paper before grabbing the rotary phone beside his bed and dialing the number scrawled at the bottom.

“Hello?” Her voice was warm, like honey melting in tea.

“Guess I do,” he said, smirking into the receiver.

The next time they met, it was on the rooftop of some high-rise, the city stretched out beneath them like spilled ink. She was wrapped in a leather jacket way too big for her, one of his, even though she swore she wasn’t cold. Eddie watched as she lit a cigarette with the stolen lighter, the flame flickering against her face.

“You stole that,” he said, watching her take a slow drag.

She exhaled smoke into the night, eyes glinting. “Finders keepers.”

He laughed, shaking his head, then tugged her closer by the lapels of his own damn jacket. “Gonna have to take it back, then.”

She let him kiss her. Let him press his hands to her waist, fingertips tracing the silk beneath the leather. Let him memorize the taste of nicotine and something honey-sweet on her lips.

They sat on the edge of the building, the city sprawling beneath them like a glittering ocean. He played a song on his acoustic guitar, one he hadn’t finished yet, and she hummed along, swaying lightly, her bare knee pressed against his. When the night deepened, she fell asleep on his shoulder, and Eddie just sat there, staring at the skyline, knowing he was in deeper than he’d meant to be.

Eddie thought maybe, just maybe, he was in trouble.

Champanges Coast

Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Model! Reader

warning: language and adult themes

events of upside never happened.

Eddie Munson was a rockstar now. The kind who had stadiums chanting his name, who grinned from magazine covers with rings on every finger and a cigarette hanging from his lips. But some things never changed—he still played his guitar like he was exorcising ghosts, still laughed too loud, still never really believed any of this was real.

Then he met Ethel.

She was the kind of beautiful that felt like an accident, something effortless and wild, like ink bleeding into water. An up-and-coming supermodel, fresh off the Paris runways, with sleepy eyes and a voice like a sigh. They met at some party neither of them wanted to be at—dim lights, neon flickering against velvet walls, the smell of expensive perfume and liquor hanging in the air. Eddie had been lingering by the bar, nursing a whiskey on the rocks, when she walked past him, draped in something silk and barely-there, and smirked like she knew a secret he didn’t.

“Not your scene?” she asked, leaning beside him, her presence electric.

He snorted. “What gave it away?”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her cocktail. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Not anywhere,” he said, and he didn’t know why he said it, but the way she looked at him made him feel like maybe he meant it.

They ended up sneaking out together. Ditching the party for the city streets, where the air was cold and sharp, where they could breathe again. The neon signs buzzed above them, painting their skin in flickers of pink and blue. They walked with no real direction, just the sound of their footsteps on wet pavement and the occasional flicker of a passing car. Eddie told her about the first time he played in front of a crowd, how he was shaking so bad he thought he’d drop his guitar. She told him about the first time she walked a runway, how the lights were so blinding she felt like she was floating.

“Still get nervous?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Every damn time.”

She grinned. “Me too.”

They ended up in some tiny 24-hour diner, sharing a plate of fries, Blondie playing softly on the jukebox. She slipped off her heels, stretching her legs across the cracked vinyl booth, her bare foot nudging against his under the table. He could still smell her perfume, something floral and sweet, and when she laughed, it curled around him like cigarette smoke.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said, tilting her head, watching him like she was trying to figure him out.

“Oh yeah? What’d you expect?”

She smirked. “More… rockstar.”

He scoffed. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’m plenty rockstar.”

“Mm.” She pretended to consider. “I don’t know… I think you might just be a boy with a guitar.”

Eddie leaned in, smirking right back. “Lucky for you, I’m both.”

And maybe it was the late hour, or the cheap diner coffee, or the way her eyes held the city lights in them, but when she reached across the table, lacing her fingers through his, Eddie Munson, rockstar, completely forgot about the rest of the world.

Steve Harrington has OCD. There are days when he can barely hear his own thoughts. Days when he can't focus on anything else but whatever is triggering him. Days when he just wants to crawl out of his own skin.

No one around him gets it. Like, really gets it. He loves having everyone over at his place, loves filling the empty house with joy and laughter he never experienced as a child. But over and over again, he feels like he can't really be present in the moment. Because he gets stuck in a never-ending loop of mental checklists, pinpointing every single item that will need to be cleaned or put back in its place after they leave. Crumbs all over the couch. Henderson touching everything in his general vicinity with greasy, pizza-stained fingers. People walking straight into the house after swimming in the pool. Rug on the bathroom floor always wrinkled and askew. Tiny specs all over the kitchen that only he seems to notice. He knows they're little things. Unimportant, right? A little mess can't hurt you? He knows... He just wishes his brain would get it, too.

And it doesn't just impact him, either. His incessant bitching sets others around him on edge. That's probably the worst part of it all. Nancy used to get so annoyed with him whenever he'd ask her to not sit on his bed in her 'outside clothes'. He's pretty sure Robin hates cooking with him because of all the rules he has in the kitchen, but she usually just sighs and rolls her eyes. Dustin deliberately misunderstands his requests or, better yet, pretends he doesn't hear him at all.

Not Eddie, though. Because Eddie notices. The way Steve seems unfocused at times, like he's somewhere far away. The way his eyes tend to dart around the room. The way his posture changes when someone unknowingly does something that triggers him. He makes little mental notes of all the triggers and makes sure to remember them. So he starts taking off his shoes at the door, placing them on the rack. He cleans up after the kids, quickly wiping the kitchen counter and floor as Steve's busy walking everyone out of the house. He straightens the bathroom rugs. He wipes the floor after taking a shower at Steve's, so that there isn't a single droplet of water to be found anywhere outside the shower cabin. He changes his clothes before lounging around on Steve's bed. It takes Steve some time to notice everything Eddie's been doing to help out with his triggers.

It's a little after midnight, and Steve has finally managed to kick the little dipshits out of the house. He walks back into the kitchen where he is met with the sight of Eddie crouched down, a whisk broom and dustpan in hand. Something clicks then, stopping him in his tracks.

"Wait... How long have you been doing this?"

Eddie freezes then and glances up quickly, looking every bit like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Oh, sorry, it's just- I noticed the stuff on the kitchen floor makes you kinda uncomfortable, so I thought I'd help out a bit," Eddie says softly, like he's scared he's done something wrong. Steve feels something warm spread around in his chest, followed by a familiar burning sensation behind his eyes.

"And the rugs? Was that also you?" Steve's voice is shaking now. But he can no longer prevent it. He's about to have a full-on breakdown in front of Eddie Munson.

Of course, Eddie, the perceptive bastard that he is, has already picked up on what's about to happen. He quickly sets the tools aside and straightens up, taking a few strides towards Steve, ducking his head to catch Steve's downcast gaze. To make sure he's okay.

"Hey, Steve, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I shouldn't have overstepped. I'm so sorry," says Eddie, gently placing his hands on Steve's shoulders to offer a reassuring touch. There are now silent tears rolling down Steve's cheeks, but he brings himself to meet Eddie's gaze nevertheless.

"No, no, Eddie, you didn't. It's just- How did you know?" Steve asks, somewhat hesitantly.

"Because," Eddie moves his hands up to cup Steve's face, looking at Steve like he's trying to see straight into his soul, "because I see you, Steve Harrington."