No one knows who writes the Hawkins High Tattler. It comes out every week, without fail, has for almost two decades. Everyone reads it, even teachers, even parents. It's caused more the one suspension, grounding, and even--famously--a shipping off to boarding school.
Steve's never let the Tattler get to him much. He's in it, of course, practically a new story every week. But it's just silly gossip.
Of course, Steve is also, currently, the titular Tattler, so. It's not like he's surprised when his name shows up.
It's his third year, his last year, and he knows everything that ever goes on at Hawkins High. It's pretty easy, honestly. Everyone thinks he's ditzy and vapid; nothing more than hairspray and polos. People will say anything around him, assuming he's not listening or not interested, and then bam. It's in next week's Tattler. No one even suspects him.
The confessions locker probably helps. Down by the theater, busted and unusable, the perfect place for people to leave tips, to tattle on their friends (or enemies, as the case may be).
That's what he's doing right now, checking the confessions locker. After 9:30 on a Friday night, the place silent as the tomb, perfect time for it. Pretty standard fare this week. The only thing of interest is that Eddie Munson was the person who broke all Ms. Click's pencils and left the stubs on her desk. This one, he laughs at, can't wait to publish it; can't wait to talk to Munson about it.
He gets a lot of stuff about Eddie. Most of it he doesn't publish because it's bullshit about satanic rituals--the nerdy kids he babysits play dnd, and there's no way Karen Wheeler is letting anything satanic happen in her basement--or about his sexuality, and one thing Steve doesn't do is out people.
Gathering up this week's submissions, he closes the locker with a soft clink, and he swears, swears he hears the squeak of a tennis shoe on the polished tile of the floor. He freezes, heart in his throat. Nobody has been here this late before.
Seconds pass but there's only silence. Confident he's only hearing things, he heads out, the parking lot just as empty as when he arrived.
---
He sees Eddie a few days later, when he's picking up the kids from the arcade. They typically exchange casual greetings, but as Steve waits, Eddie stands with him, offers him a cigarette.
"Read that was you who messed with Click's pencils. Good one."
Eddie shrugs, gives a little bow and a smile. "Happy to be of service."
"It was my class, when she found them. Never seen her so mad."
"No way," Eddie laughs. "Not even when Hagan drew dicks on all the textbooks?"
"Not even then, man. She was throwing pencil stubs everywhere."
"Fuck, sad I missed it." Eddie takes a drag, Steve's eyes following the movement, lingering on his mouth. Something warm and tingling builds at the base of his spine and he forces his gaze away.
"How long you in detention for?"
"I'm not. Swore it wasn't me, and Click doesn't want to admit she reads the Tattler, so. Not much they could do. "
"I've seen it sitting on her desk!"
"I know! She reads it when she has detention duty!"
They lean against Steve's car, laughing, and Steve feels good. This is good. He likes Eddie. He's funny and dramatic and smart and kind. He's not deserving of any of the mean things that get submitted to the Tattler.
The kids come streaming into the parking lot then, and Eddie stubs out his cigarette, says "see you around, Harrington," and Steve finds himself flushing for reasons he can't quite explain.
---
He starts seeing Eddie around way more. He's in school most days, smoking in the parking lot after the last bell, chatting with Steve in the hallways.
It shows up in the Tattler; big news that the King and the Freak are hanging out. Most of the submissions are about it, increasingly elaborate rumors about their supposedly deep, close friendship.
He wishes he could tell Eddie.
Eventually, Eddie invites him to smoke at the quarry. He doesn't hesitate to say yes, doesn't even bother to try ignoring the swoop in his stomach, the speed of his heart.
They sprawl out in the back of the van, Eddie's loud, raucous music pounding around them, sharing a joint back and forth.
Steve gets hazy, boneless, can't stop watching Eddie, the way his lips purse around the joint, his long hair glinting gold in the weak light of the camping lanterns, the pleased shine of his eyes every time he makes Steve laughs.
He likes Eddie so much. Everything about him, honestly. Butterflies ping in his stomach, happy and slow, and he thinks how nice Eddie's lips are, wonders how soft they must be. And he thinks--he's read the submissions, right--he knows the things they say about Eddie, and he wishes it was true, he wants--he wants--
He wants
---
Steve's running late to check the locker. Lost track of time at the diner with Eddie, and it's making him panic.
He stuffs the submissions haphazardly into the pocket of his hoodie, dancing with nerves, willing himself to grab them all and get out.
Locker emptied, he sprints towards the exit. He has a second to process someone barreling towards him in the dark, but he's going too fast to stop, can only brace himself as they collide.
It sends him sliding across the floor, Tattler submissions spilling out of his pocket like snow. He hits the ground, scrabbling for the papers, praying that whoever is here with him can't see them in the low light.
Hands grips his biceps. "Stevie, Steve, we have to get out of here" and there's a second where he's comforted by the familiar rasp of Eddie's voice before terror spikes again.
He pulls himself from Eddie's grasp, searching for any dropped submissions in easy reach. "Wha--why--what's--"
"I ran into Jason Carver and his band of idiots at the gas station. They're on their way to here to try to catch the Tattler in action."
Steve freezes. "I don't--that's not--I--"
In the deep silence of the empty school, they both hear the slamming of a door, a bitten off giggle. Eddie grabs his wrist and they run. Into the theater room, through a door Steve didn't know existed, to the backstage area of the auditorium.
"You should be safe here," Eddie says.
Panic spirals through him. "I can explain. I was just--I forgot a--I needed--"
"Harrington! I know, okay? I already know."
Steve can only blink at him, swallows rough in his throat. "What--Eddie, I--"
"I saw you. Weeks ago. Forgot my notebook in the theater room after Hellfire and had to run back for it. You were there, at the locker."
"You can't tell anyone."
"I'm not going to."
"No, Munson, you really can't. Nobody can know. Nobody--"
"Swe--Stevie, I promise. The secret's safe with me." He rocks back on his heels, chewing on his lip for a second before he continues. " I--I couldn't figure you out, you know? I saw you around with those kids and it didn't make any sense. King Steve, babysitting tiny nerds? But I saw you at the locker and..."
"You're giving me too much credit, man."
"I don't think so. You're never--fuck, Harrington--you're never mean. At least, not in the last couple years. You spread gossip, but you don't punch down, and you're funny as hell. Mean as shit too, but only to the people who deserve it."
His ears burn and he looks down. "Just because I have fucking--fucking editorial standards doesn't mean that I'm anything special."
Eddie scoffs. "Remember, Stevie, I was reading it a year before you were here. Cruel, vapid garbage. Always the most vile, pointless stories about people who couldn't defend themselves. And how many submissions have you gotten about me, for instance, that you've never used?"
Steve clenches his fists. "I would never--"
"I know. Sweetheart, I know. That's why I li--You're so fucking good, Stevie."
He laughs, ears burning. "I'm really not, Eddie. I try to write about fun gossip that can't hurt anyone too much, and nobody's found me out because they think I'm too dumb--"
Eddie reaches out then, fingers connecting softly with the edge of Steve's jaw. He can't help but lean into the touch, eyes flickering closed.
"You don't want to hurt people because you're fucking kind. You know how I know for sure? You must get submissions every week about me, and you've never once printed that I'm--" Eddie stops then, swallowing hard.
Steve's throat goes tight. He rests his hand over Eddie's, still holding his face. "Me too," he whispers. "Kind of. I like--it's both. For me."
"Oh," Eddie breathes, mouth lifting in a bright, beautiful smile that Steve can't help but return.
He's watching, sees when Eddie's gaze drifts his lips, making his breath hitch. He doesn't really think about closing the distance between them, slotting their mouths together in a tentative, gentle kiss.
"You're just full of surprises aren't you, Steve Harrington? Eddie asks when they part.
Steve blushes. "That's sort of the last of them."
"Sure. Next you'll be telling me you've played dnd."
"I have a character."
"What???"
"Human paladin. Dustin worked on it with me. Ready to get out of here?"
"Human paladin," Eddie gapes. "You know--you said--what's happening?"
Steve twines their fingers together, leading Eddie towards the auditorium exit. "Well, first we're going to walk out to my car and then we're going to my house, and we're going to look through Tattler submissions. Maybe makeout a little bit."
Eddie giggles. "What the fuck? Like. What the fuck, sweetheart?"
He turns to face Eddie, smile big and pure and bright with happiness. "If you're really nice to me, I'll let you help write this week's issue."
"Oh, oh. You're going to wreck me." Eddie mumbles, almost to himself.
Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne photographed with an attractive younger man. Is this mystery man the billionaires new boy-toy? Or is Gotham’s most eligible bachelor finally settling down?
Tim *reading the latest Gotham gossip column with Dick* : Is that…Barry?
Dick *barely holding back laughter as he reads over Tim’s shoulder* : Boy-toy?! Oh wait till Bruce sees this.
Bruce and Barry *obliviously fixating over Snart’s newest freeze gun tech together at the Watchtower*
A Tim Drake × Reader Pairing (CEO Tim fake dating reader)
A holiday gala, a slow dance that lingers, and a shared drink that feels dangerously intimate. When Gotham’s society pages take notice, what was meant to be nothing more than proximity starts to look like something steadier — and far more tempting. Neither of you intended to be seen like this… but the city is already watching.
✨Return to Story Master List✨
The Wayne Enterprises Christmas party is not designed for warmth.
It’s designed for reassurance.
White lights drape the atrium in careful symmetry. Evergreen arrangements soften the edges of steel and glass. A string quartet plays something recognizable but unobtrusive — culture without demand.
Money behaves itself here.
Tim moves through the room with practiced ease, greeting donors, answering questions, absorbing commentary that pretends not to be evaluative.
He’s aware of eyes on him. He always is.
What he’s not prepared for is how quickly those eyes shift when you arrive.
You don’t make an entrance. You never do. You simply appear — coat checked, posture composed, presence registering like a familiar chord struck again.
Tim spots you across the room and feels the subtle click of alignment.
Relief is an inconvenient emotion.
“You didn’t have to come,” he says when he reaches you, voice low enough to stay private.
“I know,” you reply. “I wanted to.”
That lands harder than it should.
The evening unfolds around you.
You move together easily — not because you planned to, but because it’s efficient. You intercept questions he doesn’t need to answer. He redirects conversations before they turn sharp. Between donors and board members, you exchange brief, murmured debriefs.
“This one’s fishing.”
“Noted.”
“Careful with that offer.”
“Already declined.”
It feels… natural.
At some point, the music shifts. Slower. Warmer. Less ceremonial.
Tim glances toward the dance floor, then back to you.
“You don’t have to,” he says again.
“I know.”
You step onto the floor anyway.
It’s not dramatic. No pause. No audience hush. Just two people moving together in the space available to them. His hand rests at your back — steady, respectful. Yours settles at his shoulder, light and deliberate.
People notice.
They don’t stare.
It reads as appropriate. Comfortable. Reassuring.
Later, you’re standing at the bar, sharing a drink because it’s easier than shouting over the music. Your laughter is quiet. His smile is softer than it’s been all night.
It feels like a moment stolen rather than staged.
You don’t see the camera.
You don’t see the way the scene frames itself: close enough to suggest intimacy, distant enough to invite interpretation.
But Gotham does.
—
The photograph runs two days later.
Not loudly. Not on the front page. Just enough to settle.
Wayne Heir Spotted at Holiday Event with Elegant Companion — A Season of Stability?
The language is kind.
Tim reads it between meetings.
By afternoon, the subtext has arrived.
A donor thanks him for “setting a good example.”
A board member remarks on how “grounded” he seems lately.
No one asks questions.
They don’t need to.
—
You see it that evening.
Your phone buzzes while you’re halfway through reheating leftovers.
Your mother’s message is brief.
📱 This is… encouraging.
Encouraging. Eye roll.
Another text follows, this time from an Aunt.
📱 People feel better when things look settled.
You set the phone down and stare at the counter for a long moment.
—
You don’t text Tim right away.
Neither of you does.
When you finally do, it’s careful.
📱 You: I think the city has decided something on our behalf.
Three dots. Pause. Then:
📱 Tim: It appears so.
📱 You: Are you alright?
A longer pause this time.
📱 Tim: It’s… efficient.
You close your eyes.
📱 You: I’m sorry.
📱 Tim: Don’t be. No one’s said anything unkind.
That might be the most unsettling part.
📱 You: My family seems… relieved.
📱 Tim: So does my board.
Silence stretches — full, not empty.
Neither of you names what’s forming in the space between the words.
But the shape is there now.
Waiting.
Neither of you suggests anything yet.
But the problem has been identified.
And both of you are very good at solving problems.
Why does Riverdale High School's school newspaper have a "gossip column"? Is this regular thing in this country? Also, I think the columnist would be anonymous. "Mr. / Ms. X".
“New York,” said King, sententiously, “is a huge village with no town pump, no general store with cracker boxes, no sewing circle. People don’t know their neighbors, so they can’t hang over the back fence and gossip. But there’s a human craving for gossip that has to be satisfied, somehow."
—Lawrence Saunders, The Columnist Murder
Champagne Cholly: The Life and Times of Maury Paul by Eve Brown, 1947. This biography of the Hearst Newspapers society columnist Cholly Knickerbocker was written by his longtime assistant (Girl Friday, in 1940s lingo). By the time of its publication, its subject had been dead for five years.
"Like the champagne that he saw consumed by thousands of quarts (but which he seldom drank himself)," the Times wrote in its review, "this biography of the late Maury Paul sparkles and bubbles with intimate tales of New York's social world during the lavish Twenties and the thrifty Thirties. And unlike some vintages, it never goes flat.
"Permeating it are accounts of the Old Guard, when society life was dominated by a few first families, the advent of millionaire industrialists, and the rise of Café Society, a term Paul coined when society life became more liberal and, as he said, 'moved from the salons to the saloons.'"
Nancy Wheeler owns and operates a small local paper in Hawkins. It’s quickly become a formidable rival to the towns official paper the Hawkins Post. It’s very popular and caused the Post’s subscriptions to go down significantly since it started (in your face Holloway). The most popular section is the gossip column called Satans Dish secretly written by one Eddie Munson. He loves that he can finally put his years as an outcast/drug dealer to good use. He knows ALL the juicy secrets in Hawkins. Of course he doesn’t use real names but he includes enough details for people to figure out who he’s writing about. He writes the most about the Harringtons specifically Steve. Nothing too outrageous (Nancy won’t let him) but enough to cause quite a stir in town. Most of the stuff he writes about him is entirely made up but Eddies hoping it’ll become enough of a nuisance that Steve will want to know who he is. Not the most mature way to get your crush’s attention but it’s the only play he’s got right now
