she/her, queer, 37. welcome to my weight gain and belly kink blog. send me steddie asks, i'll write things! (eventually, i'm not always the fastest so i've got a backlog)
This is basically a fandom wg kink blog. Posts along those lines will be tagged #wg steddie (or "wg [pairing]" in general) so that, in the spirit of "don't like don't read," it's just as easy to block as it is to follow.
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I do have a permanent tag list for when I post fic. If you would like to be added to that (or a tag list for a specific ongoing story), let me know in a comment, hashtag, or message.
Make Me Write:
I take prompts! My ask box is open in general, though I... am not necessarily a fast writer and also work 40 hours a week, so it may take me anywhere from five business days to six months to answer.
I also sometimes do #wip weekend or #wip game or #make me write and will most likely answer asks from that with greater speed.
Other tags:
#chubby eddie munson and #chubby steve harrington - because I swing both ways 😜 and these are kind of catch-alls regardless of weight (i.e. chubby vs fat), since they seem to be the most popular tags
#scoops words - all of my writing
#ask - replies to asks, I'm always open to rambling about my brainrot!
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Steve pulls up at Eddie’s place for the first time since he realized “oh shit I like him” and he’s so nervous he accidentally locks his keys in the car.
With the engine still on.
He’s inside for at least half an hour before he realizes even half of this.
It should 100% be illegal for companies to make you give them your payment information when you sign up for a free trial version of their product. It is not necessary and there is no good fucking reason for them to do it. It’s blatantly just so they can steal forgetful customers’ money.
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Asking him if he still loves you while he's balls deep in a post-orgasm bliss and he just groans and goes "christ, I bought a ring last week" and that's how you find out he was planning to propose 👍
like i quite literally have never been more passionate about anything than i am about the human race’s invariable desire to tell stories and the fact that we always find a way to do it, through spoken language and written language and body language and visual art and theater and poetry and oral tradition and a million other things. there are so many things we take for granted about the human experience that we never stop to think about but i really want you to take a step back and consider how fucking amazing it is that our need to tell stories transcends all boundaries of time and geography and borders and language. it is one of very few things that is legitimately intrinsic to human nature and i will never stop being completely in awe of humanity for that.
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always such a struggle when you get to the sex scene part of the fic you're writing and you're not horny at all. i don't know. their things were touching. without ANY underwear. the end.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
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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
