#king hellfire

Hi there!  Are you age 21 or over, ship Steddie, and like making R rated fan content? You should absolutely check out our brand new server collection!  We’re actually called King Hellfire but in the spirit of our new fest, we’ve temporarily changed our name!  The collection is unrevealed until April 29th - 10am GMT. 

For fics, the min word count is 500 (no max) and for art, the min requirement is 1 piece (no max). 

part of our nano NaNo 30-day steddie prompt challenge; day 5, prompt #31: "Please let me help you. I’m begging you to let me help you.” Rated M

[read on AO3 or below the cut]

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“Fuck,” Eddie scowls, just barely resisting the urge to throw his guitar clear across his room. He eases her onto the floor beside his bed, the twist tugging uncomfortably at the tight, pink skin surrounding his bat bites - not nearly so metal now that they’ve rendered him a fucking invalid, Jesus Christ - and falls back against his pillows with a groan.

“This sucks, man,” he tells Steve as he stretches the weakened tendons in his forearm. Steve, who’s perched at the foot of his bed, nursing a joint and paying no mind to the way Eddie’s got both feet jammed under his thigh for warmth. Steve, who’s still healing from his own bites and scrapes and goddamn strangulation bruises, and who keeps playing the unwaveringly kind and patient caretaker anyway while Eddie just sits there and selfishly whines about his own problems.

Steve, who looks like Autumn incarnate, so pretty in the low lamplight with his smooth, olive skin, his rose dusted cheeks, his marigold sweater. His hair is the color of cinnamon roasted pecans and kettle corn and candied apple caramel.

Steve hands him the joint.

This year, I participated in the King Hellfire Discord Server's Halloween event, creating a Steddie "The Purge" AU art. 

Are you looking for a new Steddie server? Are you 21+? Join our Kings and Hellfires!

Steddie fans, one and all, if you’re looking to create some festive centric Steddie content this December, why don’t you join us on our 21+ Steddie discord? We have prompts, community, and incredible emotes. All works must be submitted midnight December 24th GMT and will be revealed on Christmas Day, no min / max WC / pieces of art. 

Please only join if you’re age 21 and over. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he started “jogging” around town. Hah. Jogging. More like he’s running. Running from his confusion. Running from his mausoleum of a house. Running from his fears and nightmares. Running from his dreams and desires. Running from his own damn hypocrisy.

He’s been running down street after street after street, each building and lamppost and sign blurring together in an unending loop of civilization. He hasn’t been able to run through the forest like he used to do ever since finding out that monsters are real, and not just the ones wearing human faces.

He knows he’s made progress. Where once he spat the same poison as his father and Tommy goddamn Hagan, where he used to target those who were different, call them fags and queers and dykes like it was a crime, regardless of whether or not they actually were, he knows he’s better than that now. Knows he accepts his best friend fully and wholeheartedly and loves her deeply regardless or in spite of or maybe because she’s a lesbian. Knows he’d willingly and unashamedly and unapologetically break his knuckles on the face of anyone that’d make a target of little Byers the way he himself once did bigger Byers.

Point is, point fucking is, he’s a goddamn hypocrite. Any time he hissed or said or spat or shouted or otherwise called people slurs for being different? He should’ve been facing a mirror and hissed or said or spat or shouted or otherwise called those slurs to his own damn face. Sure, he loved Nancy. Except in hindsight, was he really in love with Nancy? And sure, he loves sex, loved making all those girls before and after and Nancy herself feel good. But none of them, not Jessica Rogers who gave him his first kiss in eight grade, not his first blowie from Belinda Walters in junior year, not Caroline Hawke, not Suzanna Johnson, not Nancy Wheeler, not even Phoebe goddamn Cates have ever made him feel like this. Not like his palms were sweaty and itchy and dry, not like his tongue belonged to someone else, not like his heart was fluttering and pounding and moving up and down in an elevator between his throat and his gut, not like just the thought of them made him short on breath, not like just seeing them smile could make him high.

And yet. And yet, and yet, and yet. Why couldn’t he just… give in? Surrender to the itch to do anything to see that dimpled smile? Give anything and everything for those dark, expressive, gorgeous eyes to truly see him? All his life he’s rolled from one type of misery to the next, avoiding his own truth. Misery that could be so easily taken from him. All those days of misery that someone could so easily take from him. If only he just… gave it all away. So why? Why, why, why, why can’t he?

Each encounter he feels the question burn on his tongue, constrict in his throat, yet it never comes close to flying free, and it all just builds up and up and up. Each time he lays eyes on his… his crush, each time he hears that precious name, each time those beautiful curls cross his mind, each word of praise the shitheads practically sing about their other older friend. It builds and builds and builds until he wants to demand the other to tell him...