#♠️ask

[dearestdrearilygirl]

Honest question because I'm confuzzled.

You have both radqueer and exclusionist in your dni. Isn't radqueer just someone who isn't an exclusionist, aka someone for all good faith identities? So it wouldn't make sense to be dni for those two because that would be like being "everyone dni"?

Asking because I want to know if I can follow and also if I'm defining myself wrong by misunderstanding a label lol

what ur talking about is radinclus or radinclusive-someone who accepts people with "contradictory" labels such as mspec lesbians and gays, gay girls (a label which i use for Reasons which I don't feel like explaining rn) and lesboys.

A radqueer on the other hand believes in harmful labels (i mean that literally and you'll understand why in a sec) that people can be things like trace (trans race, think oli london).

they also believe people can be transage and while i do believe in age regression radqueers often believe that a minor who's tranage is an adult can do things like consent to have sex with adults and stuff like that which noooo.

they also believe you can be trans neurodivergent or trans mentally ill. which as a neurodivergerent person that's just sooo ablest. I've seen radqueers say that trans autistic people (aka people who want to be autistic but aren't) are just as autistic as "cis autistic" people (acutally autistic people). I've even seen some say that transdisabled people deserve the same disability aids as "cis disabled" people (aka people with actual disabilities) if that acutally happened resources that could go to people who need them would go to people who are perfectly abled.

some radqueer labels I've seen are "transnazi" "transharmful" (like i said- literally harmful label) "transharmed" "transabuser" "trans abused" "trans cult survivor".

A "trans abuser" is someone who "wants to be or feels like they are an abuser even though they aren't". same thing with trans nazi. I've also heard some radqueers say you can be a trans nazi because you want to be a nazi but don't agree with nazism or like the "nazi aesthetic" (i wish i was joking but that's something someone's said). I shouldn't have to explain why that's bad.

and a "trans cult survivor" and "trans abused" are people that haven't survived a cult or been abused but want to or believe they should be. I also shouldn't have to explain why that's bad and extremely insensitive to people who've actually been abused.

I've also seen wayyy too many radqueers be pro contact for harmful paraphilias. I've seen some that are anti contact but in my personal experience most are pro contact.

[scoops-aboy86]

Southern Hospitality

Prompt Used: aftercare (@steddiesmuttyseptember) and and fluff (@softsteddieseptember) | Southern Hospitality | Rating: M | CW: weight gain, belly kink, stuffing kink, belly play | Additional Tags: chubby steve harrington, fat steve harrington, feeder eddie munson, alcohol, referenced spanking, masturbation, food as a love language, hedonism, steve harrington has bad parents, brief nancy being tactless

Steve’s parents make an implied appearance here, but not enough to fully tag for. He probably shouldn’t have driven home but no way was he staying overnight with them, so sorry for the suggested driving home intoxicated. 

The fluff is in how Steve feels instantly better when he gets home, even though Eddie is asleep. 🥰 

Also this was first inspired by an ask that I’ll post in a minute and link here. Thank you September challenges for giving me the kick to work on this again!

It’s not that Steve didn’t know Eddie knew how to cook before they’d moved in together. He just hadn’t realized the sheer scale—or he’d thought Eddie didn’t realize, at first. That the whole “It’s bad luck to have leftovers, Stevie” was a smooth redirect to encouraging him to enjoy more, savor everything, again and again. Eddie is phenomenal in the kitchen so it’s not like it’s a hardship or anything. 

Maybe it’s a little bit that Steve is still smarting from Robin moving clear across the world for school, abandoning him. Far be it from him to actually voice any of those feelings… He’d just thought they were forever, you know? Platonic soulmates, attached at the hip for life. A bond that even some super cool P.h.D program in Europe couldn’t come between. She’d never asked him to come along, not even as a joke. But he’s not… He wouldn’t say that he’s hurt, it’s not her fault that he has a life and a boyfriend here tying him down. He just misses her like a lost limb is all. 

Maybe it’s because when Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle had swung through Indy for a visit, and Nancy had eyed him up and down saying, “You’ve, um, grown!” Which Jonathan had elbowed her for, and Eddie hadn’t even heard because he’d been in the other room getting everybody drinks. Argyle might not have even been paying attention because he’d immediately asked if anyone wanted some Purple Palm Tree Delight—which, to be fair, had soothed Steve’s ruffled feathers immensely. He might’ve better if Robin had been there too,  agreeing wordlessly with him that sure, maybe he has put on some weight, but that’s because he’s finally able to sleep through the night again and can stomach three homemade meals a day instead of being hung up on Upside Down trauma all the time. The trusty old nailbat that used to live in the trunk of his car, or sometimes under his bed, has been retired to a cobwebby corner of the garage. Why can’t Nancy just be glad for how far he’s come?

(She is, Steve knows. It was just a blip, though a prime example of why they probably wouldn’t have worked out even without all the Upside Down crap. And Nancy hadn’t apologized—for that, or anything else really but that’s water under the bridge—but she’d at least let it go. Which is a lot, for Nancy Wheeler, Investigative Journalist.)

Anyway, that had just been one night. One night, when every day Steve has Eddie. Wonderful Eddie who always kisses him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Who makes him breakfast, lunch, and dinner so he doesn’t have to worry about it, and doesn’t shy away from the unhealthy but delicious side of Southern cuisine. They have chicken and waffles once a week, with Steve absolutely soaking his in syrup. And the desserts—holy fucking christ, Eddie has so many recipes and they’re all stored seemingly endlessly in his brain, every one of them a winner. 

Whatever the reason, either the little stings or the healing balm of things going wonderfully in his relationship, Steve hasn’t bothered to note the signs. Overall, everything is fine. Why worry about anything when he’s so happy?

The sex they have after especially heavy meals have become Steve’s favorite; the kind where he’s left so full he almost doesn’t want to, could just as easily take a nap instead, but Eddie takes the time to tease him until he’s squirming, whining for it. Sometimes Steve plays up his reluctance a bit just to stretch things out even further, the thrum of anticipation in his veins and taste of good food and Eddie on his tongue. Sometimes he could swear that Eddie has extra hands because of the way he’s so comprehensively everywhere—buoying him up, holding him down, introducing him to pleasure after pleasure until Steve is spilling over with it and yet somehow Eddie still catches him, all of him. 

Though it’s funny… for someone who thinks leftovers are bad luck, Eddie always seems to prepare way too much food for two people. Steve has never been one to turn down a home cooked meal when he can get it so he always gamely does his best. It’s not like Eddie ever makes a big deal if he can’t finish, just sympathetically rubs his overtaxed stomach whenever he admits to being too full. 

And willingly hands him anything he changes his mind about if the rubbing soothes his burbling tummy enough. 

So yeah. Steve knows he’s gained some weight, but it doesn’t bother him. He’s happy, he’s healthy, and putting a relative value on his waistline would just be an exercise in manufacturing stress. He’s had enough of that shit to last a lifetime. 

The denial about just how much weight he’s gained lasts right up until a particularly long evening at his parents’ house. It’s one of those ‘social gathering’ things they like to do, basically a dinner party without calling it that. Steve only goes because there’s one last matter of his inheritance that he needs to clear up with his dad before he can basically cut ties with them indefinitely; he’s not there for the collection of eligible young ladies his mother has invited for the occasion, after all, and hadn’t even bothered passing along the half-hearted invitation to bring his ‘roommate’ along. Eddie hates these things almost as much as Steve, and has an early shift at the garage tomorrow anyway. 

The food is crap. He doesn’t bother telling his mom to fire the caterer, just drinks too much and goes home hungry despite making quick work of quite a few trays just for something to do between his lines in the mind-numbing small talk. Thinks he might’ve been rude to some of those poor girls whose only real fault was not being Eddie, but, oh well. At least now they won’t try to call. 

On the drive back to his and Eddie’s apartment, he cranks the windows and leaves them open the whole way in an attempt to sober up. It kind of works. 

~

Steve finally gets home around three in the morning, shuffling into the apartment, stripping out of his stupid formal clothes piece by piece and step by step as soon as the door shuts behind him. It’s expensive fabric, and it’ll wrinkle being thrown around like that—he doesn’t care. Had distantly registered hours ago that the suit was a little tight, even though he could’ve sworn the tailor at the dry cleaners had taken it out enough just last week. But, again, Steve doesn’t care. He’s distracted. 

His stomach is growling. He's down to nothing but his briefs and socks and he needs real food, not puff pastry appetizers with more air than filling or weird under-seasoned crap piled onto limp endives. Eddie is long asleep, but if he’s quiet…

Yes, jackpot. Steve leans into the glow spilling out the refrigerator door, scanning hungrily over the stacked Tupperware containers labeled with Eddie’s swooping, spidery handwriting and grins. Bad luck my ass. This is the best thing that’s happened to him all night. 

The only thing he bothers to put in the microwave is the gravy boat. Eddie’s gravy is so good hot he could literally drink it—can and has and will again—but the rest is good regardless of temperature. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself as he pulls a stack of containers out and starts popping lids. Pancakes and bacon and breakfast sausages from that morning, too eager to bother finding a fork and instead just popping each bite straight into his mouth with his fingers. Chicken salad from lunch, which he piles up between hefty slices of homemade bread and eats with one hand while fisting a beer in the other, eager to wash the taste of offensively expensive whiskey from the back of his tongue. Bite, swig, bite, swig, bite, swig… until he finishes the can with a muffled belch, crams the last bit of sandwich in his mouth, and sets himself back up with another of both. He can’t help it, Eddie’s food is so good, almost an acceptable substitute for the man’s presence. 

Almost. But Steve doesn’t want to wake him when he has an early day, so he’ll take what he can get. 

The microwave beeps, and the chicken salad is all gone so Steve redirects himself to fried chicken and gravy. Still not bothering with silverware, he dunks each piece straight into the boat and keeps having to lap up the gravy that drips down his fingers, his wrists, his arms. Wipes it from his face with the back of his hand and licks that up too with a little moan. Another beer, another few belches, and he has plenty of room left to empty the entire large container out. So fucking good—his tastebuds tingling, he barely takes the time to breathe between shoving more greedily past his lips. Steve loves leftovers actually, because they’re like bonus food. You don’t have to order it, or make it, or do anything other than get and eat. It’s perfect. Maybe that’s why Eddie always makes sure they have some after all, because he knows how much his sweetheart enjoys the extras at times like this. Eddie takes such good care of him…

Such good care, in fact, that behind all the Tupperware there is a pristine and exquisitely frosted cake. German chocolate, Steve’s favorite. His mouth waters, but. He’s not quite ready for dessert. 

First, he guzzles down the last of the gravy. It goes down thick and heavy, leaving him panting when he finishes and pleasantly aware of that heaviness in his stomach. The perfect antidote to a stuffy evening surrounded by pretentious assholes, he thinks, already feeling warm and hazy with the comfort of being full. And right back to the far side of tipsy now. 

Now it’s time for cake. He really doesn’t intend to eat the whole thing… He’s finally starting to approach his limit, for one thing. It’s better, easier to eat dressed down like this, because any of his pants would be digging into his middle by now. That happens enough lately that he’s kind of getting used to it, kind of uses it to gauge whether he should stop—but tonight he has no desire to even touch the brakes, not now that he’s gotten going. Not when it’s a delicious overload in all the best ways, even down to the smears of achingly sweet frosting and perfectly moist chocolate cake around his mouth as he works his way through slice after slice. 

Halfway through (not that he’s keeping track), he pauses to get the milk out of the fridge too. Instead of pouring a glass he puts the cardboard spout to his messy lips and pours it straight down his throat in sloppy gulps, desperate to wash it all down so he can fit more. More, because it’s all so good and his full stomach feels good and this has been practically all he could think about all through that stupid party that wasn’t called a party and celebrated nothing. None of those people know how to fucking live. 

And yeah, Steve is also vaguely aware that his belly juts out and sags over the waistband of his briefs, pushing them down in front. He knows he’s reaching the point of overfull where he has to stand differently, big round gut moving as a unit with every breath because it’s packed so tight. He leans back against the counter and finds it bumping into the softness of his back sooner than he expected. His entire midsection hangs, and he keeps absently touching it, smearing chocolate where it juts out at top as he tries to coax more burps out. He’s hit that wall where it’s kind of a slog to keep going, an endeavor, a challenge; he keeps going. Ironically, following the same competitive urges that had made him a decently successful high school athlete. 

Because he’s hungry all the time now, even when he’s full. Doesn’t give it too much thought that his belly has taken over for his brain: there’s food, he wants it, he’s eating it. Loves the flavors and textures, the act of chewing and swallowing, having something in his mouth at any opportunity. 

And then, finally, he reaches for more cake and finds only crumbs and frosting that he scrapes off the platter with still-greedy fingers. Grabs the partly empty milk container, a whole goddamn gallon, and goes to work gulping it down. Feels it settling into the last of the gaps and his tired knees go weak; he slides down the kitchen cabinets to plop heavily on the floor while he finishes. 

Or, almost. There’s still maybe a cup or so left when he finally throws in the towel, because he can taste it in the back of his throat with every strained swallow. 

Steve’s head lolls back, finally sated and bloated from all that dairy, his skin hot and stretched and thrumbing. He gingerly feels over the top of his belly and it’s tight, no give at all. But the rest of him…

Okay. Maybe he’s put on more than just a little weight. His belly rounds out before him so far that he can’t see his own lap, and as firm as it is on top it’s soft on the bottom, teardropping between his meaty thighs to kiss the cool linoleum floor. He slips a hand underneath and lifts, testing; drags his palm over the more-than-just-a-spare-tire spilling over his underwear and bulging out over the sides until his hand passes the widest point and it drops free with a jiggle that affects almost every part of him. Gives it a slap, to more jiggles and a bitten-off groan because it jars his stomach, but not in a bad way. Like when Eddie spanks him, something Steve sometimes has to go out of his way being bratty in order to earn, and there’s pain but following it is a warm rush that makes his jaw drop and cock twitch. 

Like it’s doing now, and Steve realizes suddenly that he can’t reach it. His big, wide, doughy belly is in the way, too stuffed for him to comfortably manhandle out of the way. Too heavy to lug his weight off the floor. Too glutted to care, even as he rocks into the hang of his own fat, pressing wherever he finds provides a little extra pressure against his weak grinding. The fabric of his briefs, he realizes, is wet through with how much he’s leaking, as if his full stomach is pressing directly on the pleasure centers of his brain, a satisfaction so complete that it’s already got him halfway to the edge. 

And that’s how Eddie finds him, smeared with the evidence of his late-night-early-morning snack and breathing so heavily he’s practically moaning. Lazily humping his fat—because he is, Steve’s gotten fat and it feels so fucking good. He’d ignored all the signs because he hadn’t wanted to slow down. Still doesn’t want to, not ever. Indulging feels too amazing. 

Eddie finds him just in time to catch the finale, all of Steve shaking and quivering as he reaches his peak. Comes so hard in his briefs that it seeps between his thighs where they try to rub together on one final, savoring squirm. Bows forward a bit, but hiccups weakly between shallow gasps and sags back against the cabinets when it puts too much pressure on his distended gut. Heaving to catch his breath, blasted out of his mind on pleasure, floating but so decadently heavy at the same time. 

When Eddie comes to him, kneeling down and cupping his pudgy, chocolate-smeared cheek in one hand, Steve can’t even process what he’s saying. It’s like the adults in Charlie Brown, all wah-wah-wah or whatever. Instead of trying to make sense of it, he turns his head slightly and mouths at his boyfriend’s thumb. He sucks the whole thing into his mouth as soon as Eddie lets him and immediately wants more. 

He always wants more these days. It’s like he can’t stop. Even though he knows Eddie has work in the morning and should be sleeping, feels kinda bad that he must have woken him up, he’s by no means disappointed to see the man. 

“N-need you,” he manages between gasps and hiccups. Each of the latter is like another slap, or maybe a squeeze—something hard and fast, whatever it is, like a spanking but like. An internal one. He’s already twitching, starting to get hard again. 

What he wants is Eddie to fuck him, but there’s no way he’s moving right now. Instead, Eddie pulls himself out of his sweatpants and tucks the front of them behind his balls, lazily fisting his cock at about the level of Steve’s panting mouth. And oh, he thinks, starting to drool a little, even better. He licks his plump lips, groaning at the sweet smears of chocolate that light up his taste buds, then lets his tongue loll out in invitation. 

He’s willing to beg for it if he has to. 

Because Steve has gone beyond wanting—he needs Eddie’s cock. It’s all he can think about as Eddie nudges against his wet tongue, smearing his blushing cockhead until all Steve can taste is  that familiar, musky bitterness. Needs to be filled even more, really unhinge his jaw and let everything Eddie cares to give him go straight down his throat just like all the rest. Whines around him when Eddie finally pushes in properly, sucking and licking and nibbling. Grabbing clumsily for Eddie’s hands so he can move them to dig into his hair. It’s already a mess, just like the rest of him. 

A moaning, quivering, empty-headed mess. 

And it feels so good. 

~

Steve comes back to himself some time later, smacking his lips absently and rubbing both hands over his swollen middle with a pleased sigh when he feels clean, recently lotioned skin. His throat feels rough, but no more sore than his jaw. 

He barely remembers Eddie cleaning him up with a series of warm, damp kitchen towels after they finished, murmuring a steady commentary on how flattering it is that Steve likes his food so much. His underwear’s gone, and the dip of the bed beneath his ass is a lot more forgiving and comfortable than the kitchen floor. Fuck, he must’ve been seriously blissed out to not even remember climbing the stairs like this, so stuffed that he aches. 

Working at the mechanic shop has really been paying off for Eddie to get him upstairs in that state, Steve thinks with a pleasant shudder. 

When he lifts his head, he can’t see over his domed, still quivering belly at all and that—

“How come you didn’t tell me I got fat?” Steve asks, slurs a bit, not sure if it’s because of the alcohol in his system or how wholly, blissfully sated he feels. He rubs hands over himself, grabbing and pawing and even slapping a little, transfixed by the idea of achieving perpetual motion, of leaving a handprint somewhere he can’t even see without the help of a mirror. 

Eddie’s hand joins his, a fingertip circling idly around his navel. Little electric jolts of pleasure roll through Steve whenever his boyfriend’s callouses from years of playing guitar rasp against the rim of his increasingly sunken belly button, nudging him towards another hard-on until he’s squirming from something so simple. 

“You really didn’t know?” Eddie murmurs, sounding amused. 

Steve burps, moans, shrugs. “Mm—sort of. Not really. Don’t care, though. Feels good. Your food is the best, Eds, I could eat it all day.”

A Cheshire grin spreads across Eddie’s face, but all he says is, “Thanks, sweetheart.” He doesn’t need to comment on the fact that Steve often does spend all day eating his cooking. That the excesses have started to paint red stretch marks on Steve’s belly and thighs—some of which Steve has found with his fingertips and is stroking, not concerned but definitely curious. 

“It’s like that new thing Robin keeps telling me about,” Steve continues dreamily. (There’s always a new thing for his best friend to talk his ear about whenever she calls, chattering fast to avoid wrecking complete havoc on their phone bill.) “About love languages? Like, how you show it to other people and how you want to hear it back… I think your love language might be food, baby.”

Because he’d come back from his parents’ house starving, and now he’s so blissfully full of his boyfriend’s cooking he’s had two orgasms about it, lazily contemplating a third. So that sounds about right, as metaphors or whatever go. 

“Making it, sure,” Eddie agrees, still teasing his belly button and eliciting the occasional shiver or gassy burp. “What’s yours?”

Steve grins beatifically and shifts to spread his legs, feeling over the lowest curve of his belly. He’s aware now that he’s had it, that he’s been big for a while; doesn’t know how he hadn’t quite realized before tonight, because the way his own body gives and squishes and springs back as he explores his fatness is electrifying, all-encompassing

Tomorrow he’ll track down a scale and see how much he’s gained. Maybe do some clothes shopping before his next shift, size up his wardrobe as needed. Most likely get more groceries. They’ll definitely talk about this: both Steve’s not so little journey of self-discovery tonight and how on board Eddie already is with it. 

For now, because he doesn’t remember the official love languages Robin had told him about, Steve just says, “Pretty sure mine is eating it and then wanting you to fuck my brains out. I know you have to be up early, but—”

Eddie growls deep in his throat, lunging for the lube in the nightstand drawer before shoving Steve’s thick thighs further apart and planting himself in between—exactly where they both want him. 

Permanent tag list (ask to be added/removed): @hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @sofadofax @irishvampireboy @oatmilk-vampire

@wheneverfeasible @hamiltonswiftie @grtwdsmwhr @yesdangerpls @theseaofdespair

[princeinsomniavoid]

@cutest-silly-nb

[bxxth1ll]

Hypothetically speaking if you were to wake up from stainless metal clanging and drill buzzin' and the first thing you saw when you open your eyes was me disassembling your stomach cavity and then I got surprised and accidentally (purposely) cut off your power supply and then got knocked out for 12 hours straight and then when wake up with your stomach is securely attached to your body so you think that whatever you saw was just a dream and continue to do your daily routine of being a galaxy ranger for 8 months straight and then when the final month came around you hear this constant beeping for your stomach cavity and get it checked up to your mechanic and to both of your surprise there was a small button being installed in your belly button area that keeps blinking red light and your mechanic now alarmed and skeptical of what that button would active if pressed did end up pressing it and your stomach cavity opens up as smoke (?) pours out of your said stomach cavity to find a robotic fetus peacefully resting in your stomach.

Also I was sitting next beside you holding your hand while holding a gender reveal cake :3

That's all thank you 🫶

~ ♠️

WHAT THE ACTUAL MUDDLEFUDGIN' FUDGE IS THIS QUESTION??!??

[lifesteal-headcanons]

I was sendind a headcanon but for some reason it kicked me out, so here it is but actually finished this time:

I like the headcanon that ClownPierce is human, he's just a little weird and offputting (he just like me fr) so players think he's not, but I also like the headcanon that he's some sort of shapeshifter void monster/creature! I don't know how to explain myself but the closest thing I can think of would be Kedamono from Popee The Performer, except that he also has some kind of face to look human, kind of like mask > fake humanoid face > actual mouth. Sorry my explanations kinda suck, if I ever get motivated enough I will draw and post the concept

During fights, he can't just take off his mask to eat gapples since it would take too long and it would make him vulnerable, so I think he would just lift his mask up a little then eat them in one bite. Other lifestealers have pointed out how it looks like they just dissapear right in front of them but no one has actually asked Clown.

Sorry for bad english! It's my second language, also, could I please be ♠️ anon if it's not taken? or 🎭. Thank you!

.

[lostemperorjoey]

Hello.

[Xornoth's voice is strange, almost like it's a mimicry of a human voice. It's a weird thing Joey was used to, but not positively. This is not the Xornoth that exists today.]

oh

hi

[voided-selfships]

WHEN DOES THE REASON BECOME THE BLAME

[TAGLIST]

@fagthesis @comfycozycirrus @ghost--girlfriend @kylilah @fireborns @lovebandit42069 @love-birds-stuff @permafrown @cherry-bomb-ships

[lostinthenight-snow]

awww we’re doubling up i’m crying /pos 😭😭 welcome sae and snow :))

I didn't realise there was already a blog for Sae 😭 But it turns out other people don't actually mind, so I'm super glad about that. Thank you so much for the warm welcome!!

[jadekat5ever]

Jadekat balling

im the ask answering warrior

[syb-la-tortue]

Hey Syb, what's your opinion on Kirishima x Mina?

:0 a ship ask! it's been so long! always liked answering those on my old blog~

KiriMina is fine with me, though it's obviously not my fave haha I have unusual headcanons about the ship too that aren't very compatible with what I've seen of the ship in the fandom (or even in later canon lmao), so I don't really seek it out most of the time!

my personal opinion is they'd be more fun as a sort of rival ship, I feel it's something that could happen naturally with the way their personalities clash, how Kiri saw her being so naturally talented while he had to work hard and had all his insecurities, and the way she was teasing him when they started at UA? that's something that could spark a sort of rivalry imo

[askafton85]

oh thank god.

hey. it's henry. another version anyway.

-♠️/@henryemily1948

Oh hello! My Henry told me about you I think. You’re trying to kill your William, right? Glitch?

[scoops-aboy86]

♠️♥️Famous Rockstar Eddie leaving the spotlight mysteriously and going off the radar for the next 10 years. Unbeknownst to the world, it was because he broke up with his then secret boyfriend Steve Harrington. Steve wanted to settle down, Eddie wanted to play for the world. The love never left but they both had dreams they wanted to pursue. Then very randomly he's spotted by paparazzi with a cute hubby, a wedding band on his finger, and 100lbs more than he had 10 years ago, enjoying brunch like he wasn't quote unquote "missing" to the public. 😂

Aww. I’m picturing a mostly amiable breakup… They’re both bummed to do it, but Eddie wants to leave and Steve wants to stay. It’s the 80’s, so no cell phones, no email… Much harder to keep up a long distance relationship. Both of them feel like they’re setting the other free. 

~

Cut to ten years later. Corroded Coffin made it big, and they’re coming up on the end of a tour that they’ve already said will be their last public appearance in a while. Gareth has a fiancé he wants to settle down with, Jeff is already married with a kid on the way, and Freak is thinking about going back to school for… something, he hasn’t decided what yet. 

Eddie is toying with the idea of doing a solo album or something, nothing big, but music is his life. It’s basically what he replaced Steve with after the breakup. He’s maybe leaned into food a little, especially during tours, but mostly burns it off with his on-stage antics. Over the years, he’s stuck pretty exclusively to hookups and situationships, nothing serious. As long as he has his music, everything’s fine. 

Which is why he’s dreading the end of the tour. After the second to last concert, right after they get to the next city, he does something he doesn’t usually do: he goes out and gets fucked up. (He saw what drugs and alcohol did to his parents when he was little and things were starting to fall apart, and No Thank You, but. It’s not bad if he only does it once, right? It’s fine.) 

The city happens to be Chicago. Eddie goes out, accepting just about anything anyone hands him like a moron… and wakes up having blacked out on everything except the vague impression of pop music blasted too loud for even his concert-hardened ears. The bed he’s in is comfortable in a very not-hotel-room sort of way and smells like the essence of a warm hug. He burrows into the blankets and pillows on the principle that maybe if he snuggles in deep enough he can hide from the raging hangover. 

It doesn’t work, of course, and a few minutes later he drags himself across the room on all fours to hurl his guts out into a waste basket. Which turns out not to have a liner. Oops. 

That’s when the door opens, and a mildly exasperated voice says, “Eds, seriously? I left you a bucket on your side of the bed.”

Blearily, Eddie turns and sees, of all people, Steve Harrington. Standing there in a yellow sweater and both hands on his hips like a blast from the goddamn past. He’s still handsome, still has the amazing hair, and the glasses he’s wearing lend a new kind of adult-ness to his face that hadn’t been there when he was twenty. He looks good. 

Eddie, meanwhile, feels like a stepped-on cockroach. It’s not fair. 

“Woke up facing this way,” Eddie rasps, but his heart leaps at the way Steve says your side. Like it’s still his. And it’s true, he does still prefer the left side of the bed, despite usually sleeping alone. “How are you… here? Where am I?”

Steve brings him a glass of water. “This is my apartment, I’ve been here for about three years now. I brought you here last night after you propositioned me because, and I quote, ‘You look just like the love of my fucking life that I walked away from like the dumbest idiot alive, wanna fuck and maybe marry me if my dick’s good enough? I’m kind of rich and famous, I could write so many songs about your eyes.’”

“Jesus H. Christ.” Eddie takes a sip of water, feeling like he might throw up again from embarrassment. “Did we…?”

“Nah, you passed out practically before finishing that second sentence. I carried you here to sleep it off, and answered your cell when Jeff called to check on you.” Steve, helping Eddie stand up at this point and guiding him back to the bed, raises an eyebrow. “He was extremely thorough in explaining that you don’t usually do things like this.”

Eddie groans. “Fuck… Is he sending a car or something? We’ve got a concert in… in… soon.”

“Two days,” Steve fills in easily. “Don’t worry, you have time to recover. I’ve made breakfast, if you think you can stomach it.”

Groaning again, Eddie face-plants into the pillows and realizes that wonderful scent is Steve and that’s why it was so nice when he first woke up. That smell still means home to him, even after a decade apart. “No, can’t do cereal and pop tarts right now.”

Steve snorts. “Excuse you, but one of us has learned to cook over the years and Jeff assured me it wasn’t you. There’s bacon, eggs, pancakes, and fresh strawberries. Vanilla ice cream in the freezer, too, if that still helps settle your stomach.”

“…It might,” Eddie mutters into the pillow. 

“Okay. Well, whenever you’re ready, there’s clothes at the end of the bed, and Advil and more water on the desk. I’m just going to, uh, take this basket out to the dumpster.”

Sorry, Eddie bites on his tongue to avoid saying. He’s just now realizing that he’s stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, which, like. Doesn’t even show off the coolest of his new tattoos. Not that that’s important, fuck, but it’s the first thing his hungover brain spits out about the whole situation other than, you know. 

The fact that he randomly ran into The Ex of All Time while so loaded he doesn’t even remember it happening. And Steve is acting like this is just normal even though they haven’t even been in contact for years. 

Eddie falls asleep while freaking out about this, and feels marginally more human by the time he wakes up. The clothes Steve left him are… Christ, it’s one of his old Metallica shirts, and the sweatpants that were technically Steve’s that Eddie had always stolen to sleep in, back when they were together. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. Stumbles his way out of the room to a bathroom, noticing along the way that the couch has a pile of folded blankets at one end. Because Steve probably slept there instead of his own bed. 

“Coffee?” Steve asks when Eddie finally puts in an appearance in the kitchen, passing him a mug that’s already doctored exactly the way he likes it. Eddie takes it and sips cautiously, but his stomach seems to have settled now and nothing bad happens, so he takes a longer, grateful gulp. 

The food is still waiting for him, kept warm in the oven with tin foil over the plates and heat set to low. Eddie sits down and feels something well up in his chest, in his eyes, at the first bite of scrambled eggs; it’s like eating clouds, they’re so damn fluffy. 

“‘S good,” he mumbles through a full mouth, then swallows and turns his tired eyes towards Steve. “I… I didn’t even know you’d moved to Chicago.”

Steve gives him an amused smile. “It wasn’t exactly news worthy of Rolling Stone, dude. Don’t worry about it.”

“Kinda have to,” Eddie mumbles, and jams bacon in his mouth. “I mean, I—Holy fuck, Steve, this is good. Are you a chef or something?”

The smile turns sheepish. “Sort of. It’s a long story, but I kinda teach cooking classes now? It’s a program for teens and preteens who’ve had trouble at home or with the law and need, like, better outlets that are also practical life skills. Robin’s girlfriend hooked me up, she teaches yoga and self-defense stuff at the same place.”

“Wow.” Eddie stares blankly at him for a second, before physically shaking off the surprise and looking back down at his plate. Steve had spent the past decade learning new skills and helping kids, whereas Eddie has written songs about sex, drugs, rock and roll, and… Steve’s eyes. “That’s great, Steve. You sound really happy.”

Because he does. And Eddie feels really, really bad about barreling accidentally back into Steve’s life, probably throwing a huge monkey wrench into it since there’s no way a guy this handsome and this good and this fantastic in the kitchen isn’t seeing anyone. He’d be snatched up in a second by any discerning man or woman with, like, eyes and a heart and taste buds. Which is what Steve deserves, really. He deserves someone who won’t run off at the first whiff of potential fame and fortune somewhere he can’t follow. 

“I do alright,” Steve replies modestly. 

“I’ll replace your waste basket,” Eddie blurts out. Because Steve deserves someone who doesn’t ever get fucked up enough to puke in and ruin his stuff, even if it’s not something he does regularly. “And, this is great, really, thank you for breakfast, but I should get out of your hair. I’m… sorry for ambushing you last night, or whatever it was I did, I can’t even remember—”

His hand is clenched around his fork so tight that his knuckles have gone pale, and he almost jolts out of his chair when Steve puts a hand over it, massaging his grip into loosening slightly. “First of all, I got that thing at Costco,” Steve informs him. “It’s not a big deal. Second, you didn’t ambush me. I mean, I was surprised, for sure, but… it was nice to hear that I’m still the love of your life.” Steve gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Really nice, Eds. And third, you didn’t exactly walk away. You asked me to come with you, I was the one who wasn’t ready to leave Hawkins then. We agreed, remember?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. He feels like careening back into Steve’s orbit now must count as some sort of violation of that agreement, or something… and yet Steve is still holding his hand. 

“I actually…” Steve hesitates, looking unexpectedly shy for someone who Eddie must be bothering. Then, instead of finishing the sentence, he lets go of Eddie’s hand to pull something from his back pocket and lay it on the table.

It’s a ticket. A VIP meet and greet pass for the Corroded Coffin concert in two days. 

“Everybody pitched in and got this for my birthday,” he says sheepishly. “They went on presale on the exact day, Dustin kept saying it was a sign.”

Eddie, who’s never paid much attention to ticket sales in general, much less the dates they become available, can only stare at it. His throat feels tight knowing that he would’ve seen Steve anyway, that it could’ve happened while he was riding the adrenaline high of performing instead of feeling like roadkill freshly scraped off the asphalt. 

“Which, if it was a sign, I’m guessing it wasn’t on purpose, since you didn’t even know I live out here now,” Steve continues. “But, well, they got it, and… I told Robin I wasn’t sure if I’d go, but I knew from the second I opened the envelope it was a done deal.”

“What about… A-aren’t you seeing anyone?” Eddie asks. He remembers, in wistful, rosy detail, Steve being in his element as a boyfriend. Knows that he loves having someone to share everything with, to learn through and through, to kiss and murmur I missed you even if it’s only been an hour, even when it wasn’t safe for two guys to do that openly in small town Indiana and he’d had to limit himself to a fleeting touch and saying it with his eyes. 

“No.” Steve shrugs. “I tried putting myself out there on and off, but there was never enough of a spark to make it past three or four dates. I always knew you were it for me, Eddie, even if we never got another chance. And this…” He taps the concert ticket. “I was going to ask if you wanted one, because god knows I’d give it to you. You don’t have to answer now, because going by how you look you must feel like crap—”

“Oh fuck you, dude.” Never one to sit stoically through Steve’s teasing, Eddie groans and hides a grudging you’ve got me there smile behind a handful of his own hair. 

Steve grins. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding or looking sorry at all. 

Which is where they leave it, for now. Eddie finishes his breakfast, clearing his plate and dishing up seconds because once he starts eating in earnest his stomach settles and he’s starving, and it’s all so good. And it’s not like they’re magically back together—Steve had slept on the couch instead of in the bed with him, they haven’t been close enough to share so much as a meal and conversation like this for ten years, but it’s a start. A chance to get to know each other again, see if they still fit. 

~

Fast forward another ten years. Eddie’s solo career is doing well but he doesn’t do public appearances, got all of his recording done at home in his private studio. He’s pretty much a homebody, which surprised some of the people who know him but not the ones that know him well. 

Steve still has the same job, not because he needs to work but because he loves it. He’s also Eddie’s de facto private chef, and he loves that too. 

But he’s not cooking today, because it’s their anniversary and Eddie is dead set on painting the town red. “Of course I still want to,” Eddie assures him again, nuzzling sleepily up against his unofficial husband (they’re holding out until it becomes legal in either Illinois or Indiana, whichever comes first) when Steve wakes him and asks if he’s still sure about their brunch reservations. “I want to take you out and show you off. Remember how I promised you how rich and famous I am and how cool that would be?”

Steve huffs in amusement, leaning into the nuzzling. “First of all, it was more of a statement than a promise. The actual promise was to write so many songs about my eyes. Second of all, you don’t remember that.”

“Kept the promise either way, didn’t I?” Eddie nips at his collarbone, bare because Steve never was one for sleeping with a shirt on, even when the weather turns cold. “I’ve written songs about your eyes, your smile, this ass…” He grabs at it with a little growl, leaning more of his weight onto Steve to reach and enjoying the way his sweetheart happily squirms. 

“Mmm, yeah,” Steve sighs. “But we could still stay in… have breakfast in bed…” His own hands find Eddie’s love handles and settle there. “Not have to get dressed.”

“Nope.” Eddie props himself up on one thick arm and kisses him on the nose. Then yawns hugely. “It’s about time I get some fresh air, and I’m taking you out, baby.”

So Steve crawls out of bed, fetching Eddie the clothes he asks for and gamely taking suggestions for his own outfit—though he anticipates every article with a smirk, starting to grab each hanger before the words are fully past Eddie’s lips. Jeans that are just a little on the tight side and highlight the ass that Eddie so loves to grab (and sing about grabbing, the horny lovesick goblin man), a t-shirt that shows off his muscles and broad shoulders (because he may be turning forty next month but he takes damn fine care of his body), and the leather jacket from Eddie’s Corroded Coffin days that no longer fit their original owner. 

Because Eddie, who loves Steve’s food, has put on at least a hundred pounds in the past decade,maybe more. Most of it has gone to his belly, but he’s pretty round and soft all over—except his ass, for some reason, which is his excuse for how much attention he regularly bestows on Steve’s. 

That’s not why he’s stayed out of the public eye for so long though. It’s more because he got his fill of being a rock star, being recognized everywhere he goes, being photographed all the time and known for his wild antics. He’d wanted that when he was younger, so badly, needed the accolades and acknowledgement as someone who hadn’t gotten a lot of that as a child. But that rock star life took him away from Steve for so long, which he both regrets and doesn’t because it all worked out in the end. He’d been in it just as much for being able to make and share his music, too, which he can still do, so he’s happy. Happy and so, so in love. 

Their day is back to back reservations at various restaurants, all selected by Eddie because of dishes he knows that Steve will want to try and recreate at home. “Inspiration for your craft,” Eddie tells him with a wink, his own cheeks pink and grin lazy with the pleasure of overindulgence. 

Pictures are taken, more by cell phones than paparazzi because it’s the 2000’s now (not long before the Supreme Court of California issues a finding that allows that state to start issuing same-sex marriage licenses out on the West Coast, and Steve and Eddie fly out for Robin’s backyard wedding). They circulate the internet, with thousands of people weighing in on whether that really is Eddie Munson, the “missing” front man from Corroded Coffin. There are comparisons between old photos and these new ones, in depth analyses that range from “he wouldn’t get that fat” to “wow he really let himself go” to “looks like he’s living his best life.”

Eddie and his sweetheart—who is a total unknown except to some of the kids at the program who see the pictures and flip out because since when is Mr. Harrington so close with a famous metal guitarist omg, he’s so lame with all his sweater vests and dad jokes—remain unaware and unbothered as Steve helps Eddie tuck his already full belly back into his pants, get him all zipped up again, and leave brunch for their next stop. 

And they have a very lovely day.

Permanent tag list (ask to be added): @hotluncheddie @tangerinesteve @lawrencebshoggoth @sofadofax

[localwarlockunion]

I've obtained the Edward Gorey tarot deck...who wants their miserable fortune read?

Send me a "♠️" followed by your query.

I will pull a single random card for you & include the booklet text.

Fair warning; there are no happy fortunes here.

[pilots-log]

I think it's cool that y'all run a blog together. As someone in a DID system myself with introjects/fictives as well, I was wondering if you'd be willing to share a little bit about how you both differ from the game's canon, or how you're the same. I always find that interesting, since for us, it usually feels like a homogeneous blend of both. Also, I like y'all's art!

I really like this question, because honestly I haven't thought about this super hard aside from looking at something from the game and saying “That's wrong.” to myself.

The game itself almost feels like a caricature of my own experiences, which I guess makes sense since it's a game and wouldn't have the time to cover everything. It feels like an exaggerated and almost theatrical recount of what happened in some aspects. Most of the conversations depicted I remember going differently, and the Tulpar itself was a bit different too- more lived in I suppose. Like, for example, those stupid fucking Polle posters Pony Express plasters everywhere were only on the wall for the pre-flight inspection and were otherwise replaced. We never left those ugly ass things up for a whole flight, we only put them up when we were leaving and when we were docking because those were the only times corporate was looking. (That stupid statue is too inconvenient to move though)

But you were asking about differences with us in particular, not the Tulpar or other stuff, and that answer is more complicated. Obviously I can't answer for Curly because our memories differ but it's hard to answer for myself too.

Appearance wise my hair is a little darker shade of brown, my skin is more tan too. I'm less lean, my eyes are a silvery color (I can't remember what they were in game though, so that might be the same) We don't see most of my skin but I have a few scars here and there, including one on my stomach from an emergency appendectomy (Ow.) it's hard to think of physical differences because you really don't see much from that one outfit.

I see a bigger difference in how they portrayed- or didn't portray- my mentality and emotions. Things were a lot more complicated. I'd go into it but my half of the answer is already super long.

-♠️

I also like this question, and I think Jim got it down with the game/canon feeling like a caricature. It’s like adapting a book into an hour long movie, the events and characters are similar, but often times have less depth to them. If my memories were a book then that’s what it would be like.

The little bit of conversation and quips you get from canon-Curly I feel are pretty accurate to myself, and I look pretty similar too. I don’t think we get enough info on him pre-crash for me to say if I’m super different or anything— though if we’re going off of things the devs have said, I actually do like sweets. Whenever I eat out at a restaurant it’s almost a guaranteed I’ll order dessert and make whoever’s with me have some too, because life’s too short to not share a sweet treat with your friend after a nice dinner.

There’s also some differences between my injuries and medical junk post-crash, and in general a lot of stuff during that time was different. Jim was a lot more involved with my care than they portray too. Though my memory can only be so trusted from those couple months.

I find all of this interesting too, so if you want us to expand on anything then you’re always welcomed to ask!

-☀️

[baede-6]

3, 4, 12, and 19 for the mundane guardian asks!

3.Is their house/"home base" mobile, interim, or permanent? Do they invite people over?

❤️-She tends to fly bigger ships (Callisto Lancer,Archangel,Colonel's Lament) she has a bunk on all of those for when she has need of it,but she does have an apartment near the Tower. 

I've always liked to imagine it's in one of those windows near where Suraya is. A short walk to an amazing view of the Last City.

Being "The Guardian" keeps her pretty busy,but she does invite friends over on occasion... and certain Hunter Vanguards.

4.Would they rather be asked about their love life or their job?

♠️-She would 100% rather be asked about her job. If it's a mission,she knows the details inside and out and is willing to go over those details. Even if a mission went sideways,if someone else can learn from it,she'd rather talk about that. 

She hates feeling vulnerable and she's built fortified walls around her heart. If she lets someone truly in at all to see that vulnerability,it's rare.Cayde was an off limits subject for a long time after he died. It's gotten better since The Final Shape,but even then, it's usually only with people that truly knew him,and that's usually about him as a person, and not what they had.

12.What kind of hobbies do they have? -OR- how do they fill their downtime?

🎨-She paints,sketches and sings along to music. Sometimes she flies out to the Farm and stargazes when she needs to clear her head.She also enjoys watching movies when she has the time for it. Sometimes she'll fly out to the EDZ or Neomouna and just ride around on her skiffboard as well.

19.Are they close to their Ghost?

✨-Yes. Ghost is her closest friend. Her family. He knows her better than anyone else (probably even better than she knows herself at times, if we're being honest.) He's the only one that knows how to pull her out of her own head,and calls her out when she's being stubborn or closed off. (He tells her to let people in...a lot.She's trying.😄) She's fiercely loyal and protective of him,and he feels the same.

Thank you so much for the ask!❤️♠️

[lostemperorjoey]

Joey, why on earth are you talking to Xornoth? He treated you horribly. You’ve literally said he treated you horribly.

- @elvenkingsmajor

well if I knew why he was out of the crystal that’d be a lot easier