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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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.
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#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!
Was thinking that we've sorta watched Steve have a little journey with food onscreen. he gives away his food at lunch to Tommy and Carol in s1, he awkwardly eats a chicken dinner at the Hollands (which symbolically was performative) in s2, pointedly tells Dustin that eating ice cream wasn't a good idea for him so he could 'keep in shape for the ladies' in s3 and was excited about food only when he was drugged, he happily and quietly snacks in the back of the station wagon in s4, and then very loudly and gleefully indulges in Boppers in s5. Anyway, I'm probably reading too much into little background moments but it feels like we watched him grow to enjoy himself. Good for him.
Rating: Mature
CW: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Homelessness, Unspecified Eating Disorder/Food Scarcity
Tags: Canon Divergence, Post-Season Four, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug and Gets One, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Pre-Relationship, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Eddie Munson Has Bad Parents, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington
I wrote most of this at 2:30 in the morning. Proofread it to the best of my ability.
🫂—————🫂
A hot summer's day, windows cranked down, and the road empty as far as the eye can see. Eddie's cruising through Hawkins as if he's running out of pavement, itching to get home and waste his college free summer away. That is until—
There's a red BMW on the side of the road. One he recognizes. Steve Harrington's red BMW.
Years back, he'd just drive right on by. Why would Steve Harrington need his measly help? So what if his car broke down? Surely he could find a way to get old daddy dearest to get a tow truck out here—pronto.
But that's not now. And they've fought monsters side by side. And...yeah, Eddie can admit, they're friends. Good friends, even. So, he stops. Shutters his van to the shoulder, lets the engine sputter out into nothing, and throws his gangly body out his van with all the risk of not looking both ways. He strides up to the driver's side of Steve's car.
It's...not empty. Far from it.
First of all, Steve is in the driver's seat passed out. So passed out he almost looks dead—if not for the rise and fall of his sweat soaked t-shirt. There's also a mountain of garbage in the front passenger seat: empty water bottles, crumpled up McDonald's wrappers that look weeks old, used napkins, and...hotel toiletry soap bottles, Eddie thinks? Blankets litter the backseat, along with two lumpy old pillows. And there's dirty, wadded up clothes along the floor, plus a few soiled shirts on hangers as if pressed prim and proper at a dry cleaner's.
There's a million questions rapid firing through Eddie's skull. He wants to get each one answered, but first—
He raps his knuckles on the window. Steve barely stirs.
He tries again, harder. This time, Steve shuffles in his seat. Eyes peeling open slowly, as if sealed shut by molasses. Eddie's able to get a better look at him, though. Eye bags, sweat drenched skin, sun burnt cheeks, greasy stringy hair, and...a few questionably healed wounds on his arms that definitely weren't there during their monster battles. Those aren't demobat scars or tree branch slits—whatever they actually are.
Steve startles once he sees who's at the window, clumsily rolling it down. Trying, with all his might, to make himself look better than he obviously is. "M-Munson!" he greets, faux cheery and too polite, "hey, man! What're you doin' out here?"
Eddie raises an eyebrow. "I should be asking you that, Harrington. You know it's like eighty degrees out right now, yeah? You're gonna die of heatstroke in this tin box." He leans in closer, eyes darting over the absolute sty of Steve's car. "The hell are you doing, Stevie? You on the run?"
"Just...uh...just camping."
"Camping."
"Yeah! Yeah, I'm"—
He scoffs. Doesn't mean to do it so loudly, so audibly. But, well—"Don't bullshit me, dude. This looks...jeez." Eddie sighs, runs a tired hand over his face, and squares himself. Bluntly, "This looks like homelessness, man. Like...got kicked out and ran out of options."
The sun beats down on his back as everything slows to sticky, awful tension. He hammered the nail right on its head. Steve breathes in sharp, goes wide eyed, goes scared.
Eddie continues, "No, you're not doing this. I'm not letting you do this. You camp out on the side of the road in the wrong spot one time, that's it. Cops are gonna get you and everything you own and you'll land somewhere far worse than a friend's couch. Come on. Get out of the car, grab your things, you're coming with me."
"But...but I can't"—
"You can't do what, Steve? Impose? Ask for a night?" Eddie yanks at the driver's side door handle, pries the door wide open. "I'd rather get knots in my back from sleeping on my shitty bedroom floor while you get the bed, instead of hear through the grapevine that you're in a holding cell. Trust me, Stevie, I've been there, done that. You don't want to be there. Not when you're already down at the bottom of the ladder, flat on your ass." He reaches inside, manhandles Steve's legs out from under the steering wheel, and brings them over the side of his seat. The meat under Eddie's hands is thin, bones noticeable, muscle mass gone. Sucking in a reedy breath, Eddie stands back up. "I'm not taking no for an answer, by the way. Don't even bother with protesting."
"Eddie, man, come on"—
"Nope. You need good, hearty, warm food. And a nice, long, lukewarm shower. An A/C unit, a bed, maybe a good neck massage with how fucked it's gotta be from sleeping on that damn headrest. Hell, I've got a mattress in the back of the van. I'll drive slow, you can just swaddle up back there and let yourself be cozy."
Steve looks up at Eddie. Big, sad, droopy puppy eyes. A wrinkle between his eyebrows. A quiver to his bottom lip. "I could eat," he breathes out. "But...are you sure?"
"I'd be furious if you refused, Steve. Now, get up for me, sweetheart. Get your things, grab your keys, all that good shit. We'll come back for her later with some garbage bags and a jerrycan, get her back to her rightful state."
Some minutes later, a lot of backpack carrying and shut-downs of loathing, Steve's in the front of Eddie's van. He's frowning, eyes shiny, as he looks out the passenger window. Entire body tense and thin and shaky. His hair's longer, Eddie notices now, curling down to his shoulders—vaguely, he recalls a conversation about how Steve hated his hair being long like that, how the feeling of his hair on his bare shoulders bothered him.
Wordlessly, Eddie reaches at his own wrist, plucking a stray hair tie from his arm. Then, he reaches toward Steve and gently, cautiously, wrangles his hair up. Steve makes a quiet noise of whimpered surprise, but otherwise lets his hair be tied up.
"Thank you," he mutters at Eddie, "it's been bothering me for weeks."
"I'll cut it for you when we get to mine, okay? I'm super careful about hair, I promise."
Just as he's pulling back on the main road, Steve speaks a little more clearly. More forcefully. "Why are you helping me?"
"Stevie, I love you and I know you're smart, but that was the dumbest question I've ever been asked," Eddie immediately answers. "I'm helping you because you're a good friend of mine. And good friends? They don't let their good friends sleep in cars on the side of the road in the middle of a summer heatwave. Or at all, for that matter. So. That's why." He sniffs, keeps his eyes pointedly forward. "I don't know why you think you're somehow not able to be helped, like it'd be a disservice on my behalf to give you half of what I own, but it's bothering the shit out of me and I want you to knock it off. Get it through your head, man, there are people who care about you. Like...the kind of care where they'd throw themselves into imminent danger, but also throw you a surprise birthday party just for the sake of seeing you smile.
"I, for one, happen to be one of those people. Despite pasts or histories or whatever the fuck. This is real life, not high school. Even then, if we were back in that shithole, and I found out you were living in your car? Yeah, I'd have a couple of questions—maybe crazy insensitive ones because I have a stupid mouth—but if there was a way to help you, I would." Eddie glances briefly at the passenger seat. To his absolute horror, Steve is facing away, staring through the window again, quietly bawling his eyes out. He forces himself to look away, to breathe. Even softer, "I don't know what happened recently, Steve. I don't know how long you've been in that car. I don't know much of anything, but I do know that you'll always have a safe space with me. If something happens, you can come to me. You can come to Uncle Wayne. You can just show up and make yourself at home, whether we're home or not, doesn't matter. I just...I've been in your shoes, okay? I don't want you doing what I did."
With a noisy sniff, lodging snot back against his brain, Steve turns back and wetly asks, "What...what did you do?"
"Hm?"
"You said...you said you've been in my shoes. Been there, done that. You...you were kicked out? What did you do?"
Eddie shrugs nonchalantly. "Lived in my van," he answers, "I didn't start living with Wayne until I was eighteen. My dad had full reign over my life before that. And...when he found out some, uh, things about the kind of person I am, that was that. Threw me out by my scruff.
"All my shit ended up in this very van. I lived off of free hotel breakfasts and gas station water, couldn't really afford anything else. Sold my guitar, except for the one I got from my mom—the acoustic—and did what I had to do. Only showered when I had gym days, really the only reason why I didn't fail that class. Any change I found, or bargained from the school's vending machines, all of that went towards laundromat money.
"I squandered. Lived off of the side of the road. That kind of shit.
"Until the cops found me. Arrested me. Impounded the van for a while. Only had one call, so I dialed the only number I even bothered remembering. Wayne. He bailed me out. Got my van back. Gave me the shirt off his tired, aching back.
"Hospitality saves lives, man. Either I would've been in jail or I would've died on my own. And...I just don't want to see the same thing happen to you, Steve. I don't want to read the morning paper and...and read that, y'know, your body was pulled from your car and that you were...dead." Nasally, Eddie takes a deep breath, blinks the wet away from his eyes. Voice shaking, "Fuck, man, just thinking about it makes my chest ache."
Steve goes quiet. Except for hitches in his breath. Eddie peers over and immediately pulls the van over at what he sees. He leans across the way, rips napkins from his glove box, and offers them out to Steve who takes them a broken, muttered, "Thanks."
"Can I, um, can I ask how long you've been on your own?" Eddie hesitantly asks.
Even quieter, "Two months," Steve responds.
"T-two?" He shakes his head and has to look away, back out the windshield. Swallows a lump at the back of his throat. "Fuck," Eddie exhales. "Okay, shit. How did...god, how did nobody notice?"
"Made myself small, I guess. Worried so much about what the fuck I was going to do, lost my job. Told everybody that I was working on getting a new one. Lied and said I found one, that I've just been busy. Then, I don't know...stopped making appearances at hang outs and stuff.
"Nobody noticed, not really. If I said I was busy, they took it as me working or going on dates or something. Let them believe I was shallow and that I didn't care about them anymore. It was...easier to let them believe the worst of me than just admit that I was struggling. To admit why I was struggling." Steve blows his nose in the napkin, sighs moistly into it. "You're the only person to, like, piece together what happened. Plus, it's not like I can blame most of them, right? Robin's away at college, so are Nance and Jon. The kids are busy blowing through senior projects and applying for college. They've got, like, actual important shit going on. Why the fuck should they drop everything to care about me?"
Eddie squawks in disbelief. "Because we're all friends!" he exclaims. "Fuck, man, if something actually happened...Fuck. Oh, Stevie, shit. You could'a been dead. You could'a been super dead and we wouldn't have found out until word got around through the rumor mill. Until somebody would've had to claim you for a funeral, man."
"Eds, come on, I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "Why the fuck are you apologizing? It's not like you asked for any of this. I just...shit, we should've been a little more curious. Even if you never talked about it, just knowing that you had somewhere safe to go would've been enough. And we could've given that to you as soon as we found out."
"But it's my fault that nobody knew. It's not like I wanna talk about it."
"I know, shit. I know. I'm sorry, Steve. This isn't. Nobody should have to go through this, let alone rehash everything. Shit."
Once more, Steve goes absolutely silent. Quiet like he's been scolded. It's unnerving.
"Hey," Eddie says, voice calmer, steadier, "this isn't your fault. Whatever happened, it's not your fault."
"I mean...it kind of is, Eds. It's because of who I ended up being."
"Well...whoever that is, Steve, it doesn't matter. If I'm assuming correctly here, then you were kicked out, yeah?" Steve nods, resolute. "Yeah, that's what I thought was going on. Your parents are your parents, they're supposed to look out for you. Take care of you, love you, cherish you. They chose to turn their backs on you. That's on them. That is their loss. You didn't do a fucking thing to deserve this."
Steve swallows. Whispers, "Do you wanna know why?"
"You don't have to"—
"I'm queer," Steve states. Voice soft and broken. "My dad, he uh, he found me in bed with a guy. I tried to tell him, y'know, it's not what it looks like, but...I don't know, guess I'm dumber than I thought. We were obviously naked. We were obviously run through. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. But also, I don't know what I was thinking, nothing gets past my dad. And if my dad says something is the way that it is, then my mom follows. She's loyal to him like an abused dog.
"I just thought..."—he blinks down at his hands, clenches them, sighs—"...I don't know. They were never going to let me stay. They were never going to love me the right way. They were never...I was just hoping that maybe something would change. Like something would just...click in their brains. That I was it. I was their son. That me being alive was enough for them to wanna stick around and pay attention and maybe...I just wanted them to love me.
"Which is so...it's so pathetic of me to want that," Steve cries in earnest, "to want them to pay attention to me. And I know I've fucked up a lot, I know that. I didn't make the best of the best when it came to sports, I didn't get high grades, I didn't graduate as a valedictorian, I didn't get into college, or get a more cushy job. Could never stick with the same partner for more than a year. Couldn't just do what they wanted. But I...I wanted things, too.
"I wanted them to love me and they couldn't do that. I wanted to find somebody to love, and when I did, they told me it was wrong and disgusting and that I was going to Hell. And if I didn't get out of their sight, they were going to make me. They were gonna"—Steve gasps, looks Eddie head on—"conversion therapy, Eds. They were gonna send me away to get fucking shocked and...and tortured into their ideal son. I just wanted to live. I just wanted...I wanted more than what they could give me and they could barely handle me at my minimum." He shakes his head, brings up his hands, and presses his palms into his eyes. Shakily, "They used to leave me home alone for months. With barely anything. I had to fend for myself, even though I was basically a baby. I was just a kid and they wanted nothing to do with me. I just...I don't get it. Why have me at all, y'know? If they were never going to love me? What's the fucking point?"
Eddie sucks hard on his bottom lip, unbuckles his seatbelt, and promptly leans into Steve's space. With his arms open, he beckons, "C'mere, Stevie." Once he gets with the program, Steve accepts the offered hug, head digging straight into Eddie's shoulder, openly weeping. Murmuring, "Sweetheart, that's not on you. That's...that has nothing to do with you. What they did, what they chose to do, how they handled you—that's not your fault. It isn't. Even though I know it feels like it is. I swear on everything, it isn't. If they actually cared, and took the time to care, then they would've. They aren't those kinds of people, but that isn't because of you." Gently, he clasps one hand on the back of Steve's head, fingers curling into his hair. He whispers, "It's not your fault. There's so much of you to love. It's their loss. They're the idiots, not you. Never you."
As his sobs begin to peter, turning from wet gags to whimpered breaths, Steve slumps. All the tension he'd been holding dissipates. Leaving behind him, his too long hair, his exhaustion, and the lightness of his weight. He sniffles, but doesn't say anything.
"Also, Stevie," Eddie then adds, "you aren't alone, okay? That's the same reason my dad canned me. Guess he just couldn't handle it."
"Why do dads suck?" Steve croaks.
Dryly, Eddie snorts. "Ain't that the million dollar question. But, hey, we don't have to worry about that. Never again. I think Wayne has enough in his heart for the two of us."
"You think?"
"The day he turns down somebody is the day Hell has frozen over. I swear, sweetheart, you'll be plenty welcomed." He leans back, just enough to stare into Steve's eyes. They're heavy, tired, bloodshot. Eddie can't help but coo at the sight. "I think Vecna should come back just to get your son of a bitch dad."
Steve squeaks out a peal of laughter. It rasps and chokes off too quick, but Eddie heard it. He swats at Eddie's chest, rests his head back down, and hums. "Vecna doesn't have the balls," he breathes out. "But it's the thought that counts."
Just as Eddie opens his mouth to add on, Steve's stomach lets out a grouchy, roaring growl. He chuckles. "Why don't I get you on home and make us some good old macaroni and cheese, huh? Then, once you're showered and feeling like yourself, I'll trim up your hair, we'll lay down for a nap, and then...who knows? A couple of movies, maybe? Maybe you can kick my ass at Uno."
"I always kick your ass at Uno," Steve mumbles tiredly.
He runs a soothing hand down Steve's arched spine. "Yeah, I know you do. Food first, though, okay? We'll get around to everything else."
They pull apart, stubbornly, like strings of marshmallow in a s'more. Eddie situates himself back at the wheel, buckled once again, and gets back on the road. It's not even a minute later when he hears, "Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate you."
"What would I do without my favorite babysitter in crime, huh? Can't just leave you in the dust, Stevie-O."
"Is that all I am to you?" Steve jokes.
Eddie blows a raspberry, playfully rolls his eyes. However, all too earnestly, he says, "No, you're a whole lot more to me. So much more."
In his peripheral, he can just see the wide smile on Steve's face. The bunch of his cheeks, the squint of his eyes, the blossoming blush to his face. Already, he looks healthier. Steve murmurs, "Funny, I think of you the same way."
I want Stobin’s next job to be a fast food place with absolutely horrendous health and safety practices. I don’t know why it would just be funny for me
Eddie comes by to see if someone in this godforsaken town will hire him in spite of his reputation and Steve is like, “Well, the fry cook just lost a finger and quit, so… sure. By the way, don’t order anything. We haven’t found it yet.”
He’s got a thousand yard stare paired with visibly strained customer service smile. Behind him, Robin is wearing a similar expression.
This doesn’t scare Eddie off (though there are lunch or dinner rushes later on when he wishes it had), but he does start making an exception to his no-sharing-weed-for-free rule for these two. They’ve earned it.
Re that last post I’m thinking about Steve dating someone who showed his nudes to the whole basketball team. So when he does it for Eddie he just assumes that the entirety of corroded coffin is gonna see him naked but it’s a small price to pay
Eddie is so flabbergasted that he barely manages a "what?!" and quickly recovers when his next question pops in his head "why would you have shown them your dick? Did you all go skinny dipping without me?! Why are you even asking me that?"
Steve is more confused than he is relieved, because skinny dipping is Eddie's knee-jerk second question
for the love of god, write all the self-indulgent scenes you want. be utterly shameless about including every last fantasy. i know everyone likes to share quotes and quips about how miserably hard writing is, but please please try thinking of it as a joyful act where you get to be a messy human who makes art rather than some pain filled quest for icy perfection.
Clingy Steve who desperately needs physical affection constantly. It’s annoyed everyone else he’s ever dated but Eddie’s happy to wear him like a backpack
