Call me Kittie || I’m Eddie Munson’s wife and you can’t convince me otherwise Legit teen in the actual 80s = definitely NOT a minor F, bi/omni, ♿️, chronically spoon-deficient (iykyk) || 18+ content so minors DNI
Hi, hello, I’m Kittie and I’m obsessed with Stranger Things. In my head I’m married to Eddie Munson. I write for Eddie Munson and Steddie, plus Corroded Coffin and very occasionally Joseph Quinn. I'm percolating ideas for other characters too, including Scott Clarke and the girls. I’m very friendly so please feel free to message or ‘ask’ 😊 and come be feral in my inbox about our favourite blorbos. If you enjoy what I write please let me know! I have general and series taglists, if you’d like to be on any just drop me a comment, ask or message 😊💗
My pronouns, etc.: She/her/they, cis F, bi/omni
More about me: I still feel relatively new to all this and I'm old IRL so I feel simultaneously like a matriarch and a baby, and I've not been writing for long so if I get things wrong please be kind. I have diverse interests and experiences including science (especially biology), dance, sci-fi/fantasy, true crime, glitter, anatomy, cats and pink. I have chronic illnesses of various flavours and recently discovered I'm ADD, and I'm totally down for chatting and supporting others going through similar things. I am a safe blog and do not tolerate hate, bigotry or discrimination, and I hope to keep my reader inserts as neutral as possible (feel free to call me out if I could do better).
🔞 Important: I post and share mature and dark content; DO NOT interact with my blog if you’re under 18 🔞 If you want to follow me please put something in your bio like your age/age range, or respond to my request for confirmation.
Asks: OPEN || Inbox: ALWAYS OPEN || WIPs: GROANING AT THE SEAMS 🫣 || Long fic requests: CURRENTLY CLOSED
Fiction Masterlists:
Eddie Munson
Steddie
Corroded Coffin
Joseph Quinn
Story Synopses/ WIP Graveyard
Stranger Things Bears
Non-ST writings:
If You Go Down To The Woods Today Freaky happenings in a forest featuring OC/RPG characters
Fic recs:
This section is a work in progress, but here are some to start you off:
Writers and artists whose work stays with me always
Authors and fics
Eddie fluff recs
Some of my fave authors
Blanket permission statement:
I welcome transformative works based off of my fan works! This could be art, edited images, translations, podfics, anything really! You don’t need to ask permission, but you’re absolutely more than welcome to go feral in my inbox about ideas. I do ask that you please tag tf out of me in WIPs and finished projects so I can see 😺 (And if you’re a minor I’d ask you to contact me first so we can discuss what content, if any, is appropriate). A note for fanbinders specifically: Please only share non-editable typeset files (such as PDFs) with other fans. It’s okay to send typeset files to a service for printing.
And in case it needs to be said, I DO NOT give permission for any of my works to be copied, edited, shared elsewhere (without asking first), otherwise plagiarised, or fed into any AI plagiarism machines
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rated T | written for the @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘three’ + 333 words | slice of life, injury, being goofballs as always
—
Three. That’s how many front teeth Eddie knocks out of his head trying to pull off some boneheaded trick at the skate park. “Owwwww,” he whines pitifully from the back seat of Steve’s car where he’s got his head in Robin’s lap, the sound muffled behind a bag of frozen peas pressed to his mouth.
“Yeah, well,” Steve says, stepping harder on the gas. Eddie’s teeth are in his pocket. “That’s what you get for trying to impress a little girl.”
“Excuse you,” Max glares from the passenger seat. “I’m fifteen tomorrow.”
“You’re a baby.”
“I have tits!”
“Ew.” Steve doesn’t want to think about her tits, for god’s sake.
“Steve,” Robin chides, adjusting Eddie in her lap as they round the last corner into town. “Don’t body shame.”
Max ignores her. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “It wasn’t even impressive.”
“Hey!!” Eddie sits up; takes the bag off his mouth to protest; ends up spraying blood across the roof of Steve’s car as they go over a speed bump. Goddammit. Goddammit, he’s lucky Steve would do anything for him.
Steve scowls at him in the rearview and pulls up to the dentist’s office. “You’re cleaning that up.”
—
They get Eddie in to see the dentist surprisingly quickly.
Steve goes back with him, hangs out at the edge of the exam room and horrifies the assistant when he fishes three teeth roots-and-all out of the blood-stained front pocket of his jeans. Eddie’s all loopy on laughing gas so they can reimplant the two front teeth — “we’ll need to replace the lateral incisor” — and the whole ridiculous ordeal is kinda worth it when, at the end of the appointment, just the two of them alone in a tiny room, Eddie looks up at Steve like he hung the moon, gives him a big gap-toothed smile, and says “hey” like ‘I love you.’
sometimes it just hits me like wow. we all fell so disproportionately in love with this silly little comic relief side character from one season of a tv show that we have dedicated hours and hours of our actual lives to giving him interiority and complexity and history and countless variations + interpretations and putting him through all kinds of situations and adventures and AUs and good times and bad times etc... and it never gets old because we are in love with him.
Thank you so much to all of you who are still writing about him and giving him all those precious moments and happy life he deserved. I seriously don't know what I'd do without your stories. Never stop sharing your writing and your love for him ❤️
to be clear, I believe younger artists and minors can write good fics (not to say “fanfic must always be good” either because it is a hobby and I still believe that as long as it’s done with love and the artist’s joy, it is good) and I believe it’s good when younger artists and minors start making art at young ages.
that said, a lot of fanfics out there that you read and love are done by adults with kids, jobs and responsibilities. adults who have years, decades of practice under their belts. adults who don’t let life and responsibilities take away their joy in creating.
someone’s love and passion don’t suddenly go away the second they reach a certain age. so if anything, I feel sorry for people who say “adults shouldn’t write fanfics or make fan art” because what these people really say is that they expect themselves to stop having fun and finding comfort in things that bring them joy and comfort the second they reach a certain age. it’s sad that they put an expiration date on their own fun and source of comfort.
For I wish you would write a fic where game—Steve has a little bit of a flashback to something while they’re in bed but is trying so hard to not let Eddie know and not ruin their night
In retrospect I'm not toooootally this fits what you asked for, but I tried. So did Steve but tbh I think Eddie did a better job than both of us.
1,578 words. (also on ao3)
(i wish you would write a fic where)
It’s the night after the Fourth of July, and Steve figures he should be safe. It’s a fucking Tuesday, who fires off leftover fireworks on a Tuesday? People have work and shit. And they’re at Steve’s house because Forrest Hills is a lot more prone to kids running around with firecrackers at the best of times. What are the fucking chances?
He hasn’t mentioned anything about the fireworks to Eddie because, like, it’s stupid. If Eddie sees a bat swooping around dusk he freaks out, but that makes sense because he was literally almost killed by bats. Steve, on the other hand, got the shit beaten out of him and drugged out of his skull by evil Russians… and freaks out about stuff that didn’t happen until hours after that, and he didn’t even get hurt during that part.
But not long after Eddie sinks into him for the very first time, Steve hears that telltale whistle followed by a high boom, and suddenly every muscle in his body is winched tight. Suddenly everything is so loud, from Eddie’s moan in his ear to every pop, whistle, and crack of artificial thunder that some jackass nearby is shooting off into the night sky.
“Oh g-god Steve,” Eddie gasps, his hips jerking faster and—
Steve is just cold, frozen goddamn through. He isn’t sure how much time has passed, only that his chest feels tight and each breath comes so fast it’s accompanied by a twinge in his side. His ribs hurt, his head hurts, he works for—
“Steve? Did you not…? Hey, are you okay? … Steve, can you hear me?!”
Someone is gripping his shoulders hard and Steve has his eyes screwed shut as he rasps, “S-scoops, I work for… Scoops Ahoy…”
He hears cursing, but in American not Russian. The pressure on his chest lets up and hands cradle his face, calloused but… he knows those hands, can feel skin-temperature metal against his jaw. When he opens his eyes, tears of relief start to leak out.
“There you are,” Eddie breathes, his hair wild and damp and his face still flushed. “Fuck, baby, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
Steve shakes his head. It wasn’t Eddie who had hurt him, the evil Russians had done that. Doctor was going to pry his fingernails off—he curls his fingers protectively into his palms.
There’s a pop-fizzle of the sparkly kind of fireworks outside and he flinches again. Eddie sees it this time, face falling in grim understanding. Realizing that the whole Forth of July thing is rearing it’s ugly head, even though it’s 1988 and Steve should be over this by now, what the fuck is wrong with him—
Eddie is cradling him in both arms, Steve resting on his chest where a moment ago they… they’d been in the opposite position, more or less, hadn’t they? Hand with the fewest rings smoothing over Steve’s hair, repetitive and soothing. Murmuring reassurances that don’t make any sense to Steve’s scrambled brain. Because he’s concussed again, isn’t he? No. No, that was three years ago. He wasn’t naked and sticky after being tortured.
Blood didn’t get sticky, it gets tacky. Important distinction. Important… ish.
Eddie is humming something in Steve’s ear, possibly Master of Puppets. It helps drown out the deafening static of waiting for more fireworks.
“Eds,” Steve sobs, forcing his hands to uncurl so he can grab on and, and warn him. “We have to—go, not safe, th-the vents, Dustin and—They’re just kids, it’s, this is all m-my fault—“
“They’re safe, they’re safe,” Eddie assures him quickly, cupping his cheek and tilting up until their eyes meet. Steve can see him through both eyes; this is important. “Robin too. Everyone’s okay, it’s all okay, it’s over.“
Steve tries to nod, but his eyes well up again and his throat feels too tight. “It keeps coming back.”
“I know baby, but not anymore. We ended it. Vecna is dead. The Mindflayer is dead. The Upside Down was destroyed for good.”
With a shuddering breath, Steve tries to internalize all that. Vecna is dead. The Mindflayer is dead. The Upside Down is dead. Dustin is safe. Erica is safe. Robin is safe. It’s 1988. Vecna is dead…
There’s another bang outside and Eddie starts humming again, loud, while petting Steve’s hair. Just holding and rocking him.
Vecna is dead. The Mindflayer is dead. The Upside Down is dead. Dustin is safe. Erica is safe. Robin is safe. It’s 1988, not ‘85 or ‘86. Eddie is alive.
Vecna is dead. The Mindflayer is dead. The Upside Down is dead. Eddie is alive. It’s 1988. Steve is naked. Eddie is naked. They were—
“Oh my god,” Steve whines, clutching at him tighter, mortification threading through the dread in his veins. “Oh my god I r-ruined it. Eddie I’m—“
“Nothing ruined,” Eddie interrupts gently. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize what was happening sooner, sweetheart. I’ll, uh… I’ll get you cleaned up in a second here, you just focus on breathing. Okay? In and out, with me. Feel that? In… and out…”
Steve just tries to breathe. His ribs hurt. They don’t. His head hurts. It doesn’t. Eddie is holding him and rocking him and showing him how to breathe like a person instead of pure panic with arms and legs.
He’s tired. It’s all so much.
The Upside Down is dead. It’s 1988 Everyone is safe, and alive. Eddie is here. Eddie is holding him. In and out. The Upside Down is dead. The Russians are long gone. Steve is naked and safe. Eddie is safe. Vecna is dead. The Mindflayer is dead. The fireworks will end. This isn’t Starcourt. In. Out. In. It’s 1988…
He’s so fucking tired.
By the time Steve feels steady again he’s cold, and Eddie is already pulling the blankets up in answer to his shivering. He grumbles wordlessly into Eddie’s chest—the mess that’s dripped out from his hole has long cooled and is probably getting on things that might not have needed to go in the laundry otherwise.
“Baby,” Eddie responds with a ghost of a chuckle, “don’t worry about it, I’m gonna strip the whole bed in a minute anyway. As soon as I get you in a warm bath, m’kay?”
“But we were… We were going to…” He holds back a sniffle. “For the first time.”
“We’re gonna have a new first time later,” Eddie tells him with a kiss to his forehead. “One without projectile explosives whistling through the air. I promise.”
Steve pulls back a little to squint at him. “I feel like you should be more mad at me.”
“Okay? Well…” Eddie gives a halfhearted little shrug from where he’s half propped up on the headboard, arms slung low and loose around Steve’s waist, holding him without any impression of restraint because he knows about the Russian torture stuff. The broad strokes, anyway. “I’m not.”
“You’re all red,” Steve presses, a different sort of distress making his pulse pick up again. Because Eddie is blushing—and it’s not the cute bashful kind, it’s the avoiding eye contact and chewing on the inside of his cheek kind. Frowning, Steve musters his little remaining energy and starts to pick himself up, rising onto his knees. “If you’re mad at me I wish you’d just—“
Eddie groans and spares a hand to press over his burning face, and—Are those tears in his eyes? “Oh my god, Steve, I’m not mad. You got all tense and I… thought… you were, y’know, finishing, and I came. I came in my boyfriend while he was having a panic attack, like an asshole. I feel like you should be mad at me.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in, and Steve is tired. What were the chances there would be fireworks, all the way out here, tonight? Or the chances of Eddie surviving the demobats attack. Or the chances of Eddie kissing him for the first time. Or the chances of it working out, of them making it all the way to this, of Steve clinging on instead of lashing out, of… anything. What were the chances of being born?
Christ, his thoughts get weird when he’s this tired.
He sinks from his knees back down onto his side, leaned against Eddie again, and sighs, “Wouldn’t I be the asshole, and you’d be the dick?”
“I…” Eddie blinks too-rapidly down at him as Steve rubs a cheek sleepily against the remaining tattoo fragments across his scarred chest. “I guess?”
“Okay,” Steve says, as if that settles that. It does, for now. The pounding in his head and chest have stopped and that—along with just wanting to be held still—is about all he has the energy to care about. “We’re both getting in the warm bath. Do the bed when we get out. Please?”
He lifts his head, angling for a kiss, for comfort, and Eddie immediately gives it to him. Soft and searching, like they’re both simultaneously checking that the other is okay and they haven’t messed anything up.
Eddie is safe, and he’s Steve’s safe place, and no one is hurt or dead (except for the monsters, who should be). Maybe Steve will be more upset about spacing out through the technical loss of his guy virginity, or whatever, but for now this is enough.
They’ll try again later.
When the leftover fireworks have all been used up.
Permanent tag list (ask to be added removed): @a-drop-of-magic @cosycryptid @gambita7x @grtwdsmwhr @hamiltonswiftie
important reminder that most people you follow online are significantly lamer than you think they are including me. and if you feel insecure comparing yourself to someone online: DON'T. theyre probably also lame and weird. most people on the internet are
Having friends on tumblr is really great. I often refer to you guys in real life as “my friend from england/autralia/california/new york” and it makes people think I’m very well traveled when really I’ve just spent a lot of time on the Internet.
Oooh this is fun! Have some completely random ones to go wild with:
Steddie+soul mates+too many beds+good friend Carol Perkins?
Yes!
(send me a ship and 3 ao3 tags and I’ll make a little scenario for it)
Okay, soulmates au where you have the first thing you hear your soulmate say (not necessarily to you) written somewhere on your body in their handwriting.
Steve and Carol haven't talked since high school but she's pretty familiar with the scrawl on the back of Steve's wrist that declares something silly but non-identifying. She studied hotel management and hasn't spoken to Tommy H. since she surprise visited him at his college only to catch him in bed with a dude, laughing in his face when he followed her trying to insist that it didn't mean he was gay and that he still wanted to date her. (First of all, no way was she staying involved in that hot mess. Second, she has since discovered how fun it is to fool around with girls and the hearts dotting the i's on her soulmate's handwriting hidden on her inner thigh now makes a lot more sense.)
Anyway, it's been years. So Carol shocked to see Steve one night, checking into her hotel with Eddie the Freak Munson—who signs the guestbook in a scrawl she recognizes, holy shit. She makes eye contact with Steve and instinctively gets that he's seen her notice it, that he desperately does not want her to say anything, and that Eddie must have no idea.
An hour or two after they check in, Steve wanders back into the lobby. Carol pulls out the small bottle of liquor she keeps in the desk during slow night shifts and doctors both their coffees and they chat. They exchange their stories of self-discovery like it's hot gossip, and yeah, Eddie has no idea because Steve doesn't want to risk their friendship. But Steve is also completely head over heels.
Carol is very aware that they're in a room with two twin beds—which is obviously one too many for anything to happen. After a while she takes pity on him and passes him a tampon from her purse. "Go back to your room and flush this," she advises with a smirk. "Since you're both guys it'll just get written off as something the previous occupants did. When the toilet overflows, I'll get you a room with just a queen bed so you two can get all cosy. Turn on the charm, cuddle up, and see what happens. And if it doesn't go well, you can always come back out here to the open arms of Jim Beam."
She doesn't know if he'll have the nerve to do it, but she hopes so. One of Eddie's rings had slipped while he was signing the book and she'd caught a peek of Steve's cramped scribble across one of his knuckles. 😉
Permanent tag list (ask to be added/removed): @a-drop-of-magic @cosycryptid @gambita7x @grtwdsmwhr @hamiltonswiftie
@iridescentrylandgrace I always love your tags, have I told you that lately? ❤️
I love “have at thee” for the words on Steve’s wrist, and maybe he heard them his freshman year when he was still trying to get in good with the popular jock crowd so once he realized it was that weird sophomore guy he started wearing a watch to cover it up. Still feels kinda guilty about that which is why he’d never bought weed directly from Eddie before s4 and still hasn’t made a move until now. But he’d always kind of liked the playfulness of the words, and even as a freshman privately kind of hoped he could at least get to know Eddie someday.
Eddie’s words would have to be pretty short to fit under a ring… Maybe he was horsing around with his friends in the hallway one day in his second senior year and Tommy comes around a corner on a tear and zeros in on the school freaks for some stress relief, and Eddie hears the fallen King Steve mutter “ah shit” under his breath before moving to intercept. That day Tommy made himself feel better by ragging on Steve instead.
None of Eddie’s friends heard it, but he’d been covering up the words for years already because, well. He just always figured he’d say some words that appear on someone else’s skin and immediately hear an “ah shit” of disappointment as they realize. So no one else knows realizes that Steve is his soulmate. The following year Dustin Henderson arrives to constantly talk Steve up, and the tips of Eddie’s ears go bright red every time because he’s thinking of the day Steve diverted a bully for some nerds he didn’t even know. He’s not holding out hope that Steve has his words on his skin, making his peace with just being friends and loving him from arm’s reach.
Steve does take Carol’s advice and puts the tampon in the toilet, but it doesn’t work right away. He flushes and stares down at the swirling bowl, disappointed when nothing happens but… that’s fate for you. An hour or so later Eddie shuffled into the bathroom and ends up screeching an unfortunately literal “oh SHIT” when the toilet overflows. He’s muttering to Steve as they go into their new room that Carol must’ve recognized him and given them the room with the finicky plumbing on purpose, only to stop short when he sees this one only has one bed.
“It’s late, let’s just crash, come on,” Steve encourages with a yawn—not even faked. He’s sleepy, but there’s no way he’s going to just nod off when Eddie is so close. So warm. He scoots closer as an experiment, and when Eddie doesn’t protest he does it again.
Eddie is dying a little bit. It feels like heaven to have Steve this close, practically cuddling up, but he’s acutely aware that he doesn’t get to have this. And basically Steve is scooting towards him back to front, making Eddie the big spoon—god, he wants nothing more than to wrap an arm around his friend’s waist, pull him even closer, and inhale the scent of Steve’s fancy-pants shampoo straight from his head. Thinks he could get high off it, if he’s not already. He wants to roll over in self-preservation but he’s stuck, body too heavy under the stiff hotel sheets. Suddenly all too aware that his rings are on the bedside table and his words are bare in the dark room.
Steve wishes he’d been brave enough to do this facing Eddie, so he could see the other man’s reaction. Such an expressive face—he loves the way Eddie wears his heart on his sleeve, in most situations except for when he’s DMing. So Steve decides to be brave, despite knowing that if he messes this up he’s going to go sleep in the bathtub or something out of humiliation, and rolls over.
Straight into Eddie’s arms. He hadn’t realized he was that close, and opens his mouth to apologize only to pause when he realized that’s where Eddie’s eyes have zeroed in. Pausing, he licks his lips and watches Eddie track that too. Deciding again to be brave, he murmurs, “Hi.”
“Hey Stevie,” Eddie whispers back, transfixed. “Can’t sleep?”
“No. Um. Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you… Do you ever think about soulmate stuff? Like, finding yours?”
Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. “Yeah, well—I, um, kinda already know mine.”
“Oh.” Steve wills his face not to fall, figuring that either means Eddie’s soulmate is someone else or it’s him but Eddie hasn’t brought it up before because he doesn’t want it to be. “Is that… Um, anyone good?”
“The best,” Eddie replies earnestly, hope blooming foolishly in his chest. “He’s, uh, pretty out of my league though.”
At least it’s a he. Steve had been pretty sure Eddie liked guys, and at least now he knows his radar for that sort of thing isn’t total shit. A consolation prize for when he has to go out looking for someone to fill the void when Eddie inevitably rejects him. “If he doesn’t want you he’s an idiot. You’re great, the leagues don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Oh yeah? Leagues are just like that?” Eddie teases to cover how flustered he is. A big chunk of that is due to Steve not freaking out that he’s gay—but then, there is Robin. She might have inoculated him against that kind of shock. “Careful big boy, flattery works with me.”
Steve bites his lip. “What if I want to flatter you, Eds? What if… What if I think you’re really great, and I’d do anything to keep you around, any way I can get?”
“You’ve got me, Steve. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay. I—Okay. Here’s hoping you’re right.”
And Steve kisses him.
Permanent tag list (ask to be added/removed): @a-drop-of-magic @cosycryptid @gambita7x @grtwdsmwhr @hamiltonswiftie
Written for the first of the @steddiemicrofic 3rd year anniversary celebration prompts, three | WC: 333 | Rating: E | POV: Steddie, but ambiguous | CW: 18+, SMUT, NSFW, MDNI, explicit sexual content, allusions to homophobia
Steddie masterlist | General masterlist
“Baby, it's our third anniversary. I know you can do this. Will you try? For me?”
“Please, I– I don't know if I can.”
His voice is strained, he sounds in pain. But he loves his boyfriend, so he's willing to try.
It's been a hard three years.
To start with, they dallied around each other for ages, too shit scared to admit how they felt in case the other didn't reciprocate, and wasting so much time in the process.
Then, they had to navigate coming out to their friends, revealing their relationship, and deciding how much affection they could safely express in public.
After, there was the excitement, and anxiety, around shared accommodation, not least the necessity and extra expense of renting a two-bed lest people asked questions.
But it's also been amazing. Joyful. Wondrous. Having a loving boyfriend to come home to, to build a life with, and give just as much love back to in return? Worth it.
But this boyfriend isn't above asking for demanding what feels like the impossible.
He’s already made him cum twice. First with his mouth on their shared sofa, cumming in his pants as he humped himself against his leg.
Then again in the shower as they cleaned up, this time with fingers in his ass as his wet body trapped his still-sensitive cock between his belly and the cold tile.
And now, as his beau rails him into their shared mattress, their hard work and adoration and devotion flowing between them, he falls over the precipice one final time as the love of his life spills inside of him.
He's rewarded with tender kisses peppered all over his sweaty, aching body, knowing the aftercare will be just as sweet. And yet his boyfriend is still somehow of the opinion that he's the lucky one, as he squeezes his ass cheek one last time and mumbles into the crook of his neck,
“Thank you, baby. I knew you could do it. Best. Gift. Ever.”
Thanks so much for reading!
Who did you put where? (I couldn't decide so I thought I'd let you choose 😉)
A/N: Hmm, I only have 333 words for this most meaningful of microfics, what shall I concentrate on? *slams hand on table* SMUUUTTT!!!
