Mess that you wanted

Don’t let the color coordination fool you, I have no idea what i’m doing

[nancywheelesbian]

My parents told me that they have a reputation for starting a conga line whenever a party starts dying. And. Steddie would.

[howell-about-that]

phil "I love lying" lester

[fangirlycupcake]

I’m sure it’s been said before but period horny has got nothing on ovulation horny cause why am I on Pinterest looking up garter belts and considering being collared or getting a thigh tattoo

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

A Mirage

Prompt #23 - Acid Wash | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Some Friendly Stalking | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Eddie & Steve, Pre-Steddie If You Squint, Steve & Dustin, Eddie & Dustin | Tags: Post Series, Fix-It, Eddie Munson Lives, But They Don't Know That, Witness Protection, Reuniting

Eddie watches from afar. Standing under a tree on campus. Cap pulled low.

They look good. Happy. Both of them. Even if Henderson is wearing some loud-ass shorts. Kid has never shied away from being himself. Weird Al shirt wearing freshman, to right now. 

Harrington's now wearing acid wash jeans, fashion always changing. He can picture his closet. Polos shoved to the back, making room for this stuff. For Guess and Z. Cavaricci. Pepe.

Eddie's been in the mall. He sees what they're selling at Brass Buckle, and Steve looks like one of those store mannequins right now. Eddie misses the Levi's. 

Eddie misses everything.

He knows he's not supposed to be here, not supposed to be stalking them. But Eddie has kept an eye out, and an ear to the ground. It's been harder than he imagined to let go of everything. He hated Hawkins, and only wanted out. And now that he is? All he wants is to go home. 

By following Henderson, he's inadvertently followed Harrington. And Steve stayed. It puts an ache in Eddie's chest. Everybody else scattered, but Steve stayed, and now Eddie is unfathomably jealous.

Henderson has tattoos, his tattoos. Eddie grips his own forearm, palm pressing hard.

He misses them.

But he can see the stark black proof on Henderson's arm that he's missed, too.

Eddie has made it a mission to check up on everybody in a loop. Wayne. Gareth, Jeff, Goodie. Henderson, Harrington. And then he starts all over again. He isn't living, because he's stuck in this holding pattern watching everyone else live without him.

Time is passing, and Eddie Munson is dead. A ghost.

Not literally, but he might as well be. He didn't realize how much it would hurt to take the shut up and disappear deal. Whoever he is right now is a mirage. Prone to disappearing if he, or anyone else, gets too close.

Henderson hops into Steve's pickup, and they're gone again. Pulling a travel trailer behind them.

Eddie is standing in front of the pre-packaged sandwiches. Looking at the dire options. He wonders what the risks are of eating tuna salad from a gas station. He gets bumped into, and he takes an unsteady step forward, his stupid fucking leg, getting ready to brace himself against the cooler door if he stumbles.

"Sorry, man. My bad," the voice says, and Eddie's whole body tenses.

Steve. That's Steve Harrington. No question about it.

"It's okay," he says, and doesn't turn to look. He can't. He just clutches the handle of the cooler door. He fucked up. Thought they were gone. Out of town. Off on some adventure together. Thought, well, fuck. Thought he was stealth enough, but he should have known he'd be dumb enough to get himself seen eventually.

He wants to be seen.

"Mind if I just grab something real quick?" Steve asks, patting Eddie on the shoulder. Friendly. 

Eddie nods, and steps aside as best he can. He can't really move laterally too well these days. He's not steady enough on his feet for that. But he gets out of the way, only stumbling a little, dragging that foot that doesn't always cooperate, and then limps straight for the bathroom, locking himself in the single stall.

Breathing hard and uncontrolled.

That was a close call. Too close.

Boat shoes. Pretentious, stupid boat shoes are standing in front of the stall.

"Uh, hey, man. I know this is weird. But. Here," Steve says, and his hand appears over the stall, a plastic bag dangling.

Eddie takes it. It's heavy.

Inside there are three different sandwiches, a couple bags of chips, some candy bars, and different cans of pop. 

"I didn't know what you wanted. And it seemed like you were having trouble deciding before I nearly knocked you down. Sorry about that. So. Here."

The tears burn Eddie's eyes. 

"Thanks," Eddie chokes out, and he reaches up and grasps the top of the metal door. Hanging on, like he's drowning.

Maybe he is.

"No problem," Steve says, and stands there a beat longer, waiting to see if Eddie is going to say anything else. When he doesn't, Steve turns to leave. Eddie watches his feet until he can't see them any longer.

Eddie takes a deep breath. Then, he loses the war. He's won the battles, but here? Now? This close and this tested? He fails, spectacularly.

"Steve."

Steve's footfalls stop.

And it's quiet, too quiet.

"Yeah? I'm Steve," Steve finally says. "How'd you…?"

Eddie flips the lock. The sound echoing in this enclosed space, where the tension is high. Steve is Steve Harrington. 

And Eddie is Eddie Munson. Once, now, and always.

But he can't make his feet move. 

Steve can, however. He walks back over to the stall and pulls the door open. Brave. Always so fucking brave. 

Eddie meets his eyes, and one of them makes a noise. Eddie thinks it was him, but maybe it was Steve. A wounded sound.

"What the fuck?" Steve says, but he doesn't wait for an answer. Doesn't hesitate. Not for a single second. Because Steve's a good dude. Arms wrap around him, hugging him tight, something Eddie hasn't felt in a long fucking time. Nearly five years.

It's like he's been brought home.

"What the fuck?" Steve says again, but he doesn't let go, and Eddie laughs wetly.

"Surprise," Eddie says, hugging him back just as tight.

The bathroom door bangs open, "What the fuck, Steve? Did you fall in—are you hugging a stranger? In a bathroom?"

Henderson.

Eddie laughs.

"No fucking way," Henderson says as he squeezes around Steve, squishing through the open stall door, shoving them over as he forces his way into the hug. 

Eddie wraps a hand around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Laughing. Crying. Both at the same time.

"Is it really you?" Henderson asks, face pressed firmly into Eddie's chest.

It's really him. 

He's Eddie Munson.

And once upon a time, he had friends.

Correction: Has friends.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

[milf--adjacent]

Nothing in the rule book says a dog can't play basketball. There are a couple rules against trans women, however, so she'll have to leave.

[babystarrbunny]

⋆𐙚 ̊.the lamb and the butcher⋆𐙚 ̊.

i got this idea when i watched the ii reaction vid but i cant draw that fast TwT still i drew it a bit simpler just to get it out of my head

[fangirlycupcake]

Oh by the way I just yelled “GODDAMNIT” like 16 times in a row

[captain-price-returns]

At least one member of the British government is doing their job.

[argumate]

I'm sympathetic to the idea of funding the humanities and the arts but I think most of the arguments for doing so are overstated; they tend to either try and tie them to something we care about more, like national greatness or making loadsa money (or uplifting the human spirit lol), or threaten exaggerated risks of their disappearance, like failure of critical thinking and the collapse of democracy, which seems like a stretch that itself lacks critical thinking and is also (ironically!) ahistorical.

I think I would ground support for funding the humanities and the arts on the basis that they are rich and complex endeavours that bring great satisfaction (and torment) to those involved in them, and a better world even for those who aren't, who also benefit from having them around.

I suppose that's a proof by contradiction: go around saying there should be less art here, nobody should understand history, I think reading sucks so stop teaching people to write, music? forget it, linguistics? we don't need it, philosophy? too much talking, etc. etc. that's just super dumb, that's an impoverished world, I think failing to understand the benefits of having these fields really does demonstrate a blinkered lack of imagination; these things might not directly contribute to the work of material logistics or sound governance but one of the reasons we do that work is to support this work.

[lustcannibalism]

you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for a nuanced reason

[drops-of-universe]

*genuinely absorbed zero information* got it

[liberalsarecool]

Either way, we win.

[ultrareginarules]

GOOD

[charmwasjess]

Having someone ask ChatGPT in a meeting is like being a grown-ass professional adult in a room full of other grown-ass professional adults trying to solve a problem, while a colleague with one of those baby toys that makes animal sounds repeatedly presses the cow button. And we all have to stop what we're doing and listen to cow go moo and say "wow hm yeah that's not really what we're asking but the cow does definitely go moo, good thoughts"

[baddywronglegs]

Except increasingly the cow is being treated as a respected contributor to meetings as we pivot to a moo-centric business model that principally produces bullshit

[bebx]

[dizzyghoast]

every so often i remember how awesome the modern interconnected multicultural world is. i grew up getting to hear fairy tales from all over the world. africa, asia, europe, america. everywhere in between. i can have bagels for breakfast, curry for lunch, and ramen for dinner without even leaving the city limits. music and art and philosophy and technology that originated thousands of miles and years apart from eachother have come together and interwoven into something greater than the sum of its parts. its hard not fall into despair when thinking about the horrors but god. god the wonders.

[lydjah]

selling out

for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt Day 22: “Clap on, clap off, The Clapper!” | Word Count: 997 | Rating: M | CW: push and shove, language | POV: Steve | Pairing(s): Steddie | Tags: i’m borrowing Band Manager!Steve but making it enemies to lovers, Famous Corroded Coffin, Eddie calls it Selling Out, Steve calls it Paying Our Damn Bills

“Absolutely f–”

“Language!” 

“–ucking not. Absolutely not, Harrington. I don’t care what they offered.” 

“What did they offer?” Gareth asks, curiously. 

“Traitor,” Eddie hisses. 

“A lot,” Steve says, arms folded, the world’s bitchiest expression trained directly on Eddie – the lone dissenter. “Like enough to have us on the road for a year, easy. Enough to replace your kit–” Gareth’s drumkit has seen better days, and those better days were like two decades ago, “–enough to replace all your instruments if you wanted.” 

Eddie is returning Steve’s stare with equal intensity, and Steve hates that his gut heats every time Eddie narrows those big brown eyes at him. Steve might be bitchy, but Eddie’s brand of mean is bratty; the gorgeous rockstar who can get anything he wants, who can always get his way, hamstrung by the band manager who tries to keep the four of them on earth. 

They’re kind of friends? In that they’d die for each other – almost did – and Eddie had decked that skeezy club manager who’d been so horrible to Steve that one time, and Steve had gone nuclear on that chick Eddie had briefly dated who had not only been using him for the advancement her quote-unquote acting career – and Steve uses the term acting very sarcastically, because she was shit – but also fucking another guy on the side. Eddie is protective, and possessive, and Steve is jealous, but if you’d asked them they’d say they fucking hate each other. 

Maybe it’s fairer to say they just know exactly how to push each other's buttons and rile the other up after all these years, but the mortal enemies angle is good for media attention. It lets Eddie say bitchy things – “Our manager you know, he’s a penny-pinching asshole, you’ll have to ask him directly why we haven’t done Oceania yet,” – in the press, without grievously offending anyone important in the industry. 

Jeff sing-songs, “Clap on, clap off, The Clapper!” and Eddie hisses at him too, but is ignored. “That’s easy. We should do it.” 

“It’s selling out,” Eddie says loudly. No one listens. 

“Can we sing it rock ‘n’ roll style, not jingly?” Frank asks, like Eddie isn’t even there. 

“Of course,” Steve says congenially. He loves when the boys take his side over Eddie’s. He knows they’re sick of the both them, of their bickering and their tension. Jeff has said more than once, you know there’s a thin line between love and hate right, and Frank, who’s far less subtle, has outright told Steve to just, “Fuck Eddie, or get fucked by him, it doesn’t matter, but maybe it’ll calm you both down.”

“They want you to do the ad in your style,” Steve adds, ignoring Eddie’s louder, “Absolutely not!” 

“Ed, come on,” Jeff says, ever the voice of reason. “Think of the money.” 

Corroded Coffin are on the rise, and fast, but money like that would make the next year so much more stress-free. It’s easily enough to take their time recording their next album, to tour, or even to take a break from touring if they’re exhausted, without having to worry about cashflow. 

“It’s selling out!” Eddie repeats, shouting, and he’s such a fucking idiot, Steve can’t take it. 

“Munson, hallway, now,” he snaps, not waiting to see if Eddie follows him. 

He does, arms already crossed, his expression thunderous. “I’m not letting my band join the ranks of corporate sellouts, making soulless garbage, Steve, we’ve been over this before, about the integrity of the–”

Steve shoves him, and that shuts him up quick. Eddie blinks, those life-ruining eyes all wide and shocked and Steve loves that look on him, can easily imagine it as his view from above while Eddie’s on his knees and– focus Harrington. They’ve never come to physical blows before. 

Eddie’s lush mouth presses into a thin line; he uncrosses his arms and shoves Steve right back. 

“Have I steered you wrong yet?” Steve says, with another shove. “Have I done anything that’s not in the best interests of this band?” Shove. “I know it’s your baby,” shove, “I know–”

Eddie shoves back again, his fingers curling in Steve’s shirt and holding on. “You just have to push me don’t you, you just have to push–”

Steve doesn’t think Eddie’s talking about the physical pushing at all, and Steve’s half-hard already because this is years of tension, years since he’d been shoved against a boathouse wall and has thought about that physical dominance ever since – at first thinking he hated it, hated the way it made him feel weaker, but then thinking about the way Eddie’s grip on his collar had yanked at the last second so Steve wouldn’t hit the back of his head on the wall… 

“Just trying to get you to admit you actually want it,” Steve hisses, and he’s not talking about the band or the lifestyle or the fucking clapper ad either. 

“Oh fuck you, Harrington, you already know,” Eddie snarls, and then he’s shoving Steve against the wall again and his mouth is on Steve’s – hot and hard, despite the softness of his lips, demanding and taking and not fucking asking anymore. Steve answers in kind, fisting his hands in Eddie’s hair and tugging, because they’ve been asking each other for too long – dancing around their feelings, both asking the other through inaction to make the first move, arguing like it’s fucking foreplay. Steve laughs into Eddie’s mouth, and gets kissed harder for it – maybe it was foreplay. 

“I’ll do your fucking ad,” Eddie breathes against Steve’s lips, “if I get something in return.” 

“You already know you can have anything you want. Everything you want,” Steve snaps. Eddie’s thigh slides between his own and he bites out a moan. 

Eddie’s grin says he knows Steve isn’t talking about just payment for doing the ad. Steve doesn’t give a fuck anymore. Eddie’s mouth is worth his pride. 

[scaryhagmother]

White people be like: I have to take my french bulldog to the chiropractor

[scaryhagmother]

[scaryhagmother]

White people be like: I have to take my elderly cat to acupuncture