🎃THIS is Halloween🎃

🍂🍭🎃All Spooky Season👻🪦💀 🐈‍⬛🔮🧙All the Time🧛🩸🦇 🦄🧚🧜🧝🧟🫈🧌🦉

[spooky-ooky-dokie]

👻🪦 If you like Halloween and Spooky Art I'm here for you! 🎃

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

reminder that ao3 does not recommend typing directly onto their site. the site doesn’t automatically save works for you. if the site crashes, if your wifi gets disconnected, if you lose power, if there’s a glitch, you risk losing everything you’ve typed down. type your work elsewhere. safe your work elsewhere. then copy and paste it onto ao3

[spooky-ooky-dokie]

Here's a post that explains how to save a copy of this Google doc, copy and paste whatever you're writing into it, then click the fancy button at the top that lets you convert it to html to preserve your formatting (like italics and whatever), so you can then copy and paste it into ao3.

It has changed my life and made my editing process so much less time consuming.

Reblog by @travelingtwentysomething · 1 image

💬 69  🔁 13378  ❤️ 20112 · oh thank god

[octoberofficial]

more halloween pins from The Button Museum in Chicago, IL

[spooky-ooky-dokie]

If you're afraid of a man pretending to be a woman and coming into a women's restroom to attack you, you're not afraid of trans women, you're afraid of men. So maybe take all that energy you have to fight to take away someone else's rights and dignity and redirect it toward fighting for your own rights and dignity as a woman. Fight the patriarchy, not your sisters.

[artwins]

champion

[ghosthing]

two pathetic and wet little blorbos

and bonus steddie for my soul:

[travelingtwentysomething]

Dear Santa,

I've been through a lot in the last 12 months, so it's been really hard to be good all the time, but I promise I did my best. If it's not too much to ask, this year for Christmas I would like,

1. A vintage typewriter, maybe blue, still works and has a case

2. Stranger Things Blu-ray Series Box Set (I don't really need the one with all the extra hooey, but if that's all that's left, I'll take it)

3. A night at the Drive-In to see Practical Magic 2 just after my birthday

4. A slow roasted pot roast dinner with red potatoes and carrots with fresh fluffy buttery rolls and Caesar salad

5. A little cabin in the woods that has a fireplace with lots of firewood and maybe a really nice bathtub and a nice window to sit by and read and watch snow falling with a cozy quilt and my dog curled up on me and no people for as long as it takes

6. A Job that actually pays the bills and doesn't leave me dead inside

7. A car that has AC and isn't going to cost me lots of repairs just to keep it limping along (also maybe has a perpetual energy spell, gas is archaic and expensive)

8. Family that cares about me enough to want to spend time with me regularly

9. A Best Friend

10. Unlimited Dole Whip Pineapple Soft Serve Icecream

(If none, then painless death while sleeping will do, thx)

Pretty please with sugar on top,

Hailey🩵

PS I wrote to you once already, but I misspelled your name and accidentally sent it to Satan instead. It's not a competition, but he made me a promising offer. I'm really hoping you pull through, but he also said you're not real and the Christians stole Christmas from the Pagans. I'm not sure what to believe anymore. Only 173 days to go, may the odds be ever in your favor.

[travelingtwentysomething]

[dankmemeuniversity]

[zuesue]

oh my GOD

[dumbassstupidblog]

[harrisonthefulgurite]

[velvet-jellyfish]

If you get into white work embroidery, you might discover cutwork. And when you start doing cutwork, you might get curious about incorporating detached elements. And before you know it the fabric is gone, you are making needle lace, and there goes the rest of your week.

Buttonhole stitch - not even once.

[sandmandaddy69]

[sahonithereadwolf]

I want to see the vampire who lives in this. I bet his name is Chad or Hunter.

[marlynnofmany]

And he's ready to crack open a boy with the cold ones.

[phantasm-echo]

Happy late Halloween everyone, I bring thee vampire!Eddie Munson doodles because I am insane <3

[omnia-mors-aequat-nstrwa]

A Knights Dress by Frieda Lepold

[travelingtwentysomething]

Put a beautiful man in this right now

[without-ado]

Strawberry Full Moon over Ely Cathedral l VeronicaJoPo

[travelingtwentysomething]

👻 He's Got Soul 🎸

-> Ao3 <-

Chapter 1: That's Some Soul You Got There

The fluorescent lights of the recording studio didn’t just illuminate the room; they sterilized it. To Steve Harrington, standing behind the heavy, soundproof glass of the vocal booth, the light felt like a physical weight on his shoulders. It was cold. It was clinical. It was the exact opposite of how music was supposed to feel.

He adjusted his headphones, the expensive leather padding damp against his ears. On the other side of the glass sat Charlie Roth, a producer whose primary talent seemed to be wearing sunglasses indoors and sucking the life out of every melody he touched. Beside him sat Robin Buckley.

In this life, Robin was Steve’s "Personal Assistant," which was really just a fancy title for the only person in the industry who didn’t treat him like a product on a shelf. They’d met at Steve’s first Summer job at Scoops Ahoy in high school, had taken a few weeks of snark and banter to warm up to each other, and then promptly discovered they were Platonic Soulmates and were consequently terminally inseparable. She was currently chewing on the end of a pen, her brow furrowed as she looked at the soundboard like it was a ticking bomb.

"Okay, Steve, baby, from the bridge," Charlie’s voice crackled through the monitors, sounding bored and nasal. "And remember—more breathy. Think 'teen heartthrob who just ran a marathon but is still somehow perfectly hydrated.' We’re looking for that radio-ready shine."

Steve looked down at the lyric sheet. These were his words—well, they used to be. He’d written this song at three in the morning in his apartment, crying over a guitar riff that felt like a jagged piece of his own heart. It had been raw. It had been a ballad about the loneliness of being watched by everyone but seen by no one.

Now, the producers had added a four-on-the-floor synth beat that sounded like a caffeinated heartbeat. They’d shifted the key. They’d added a "catchy" hook that sounded like every other song on the Top 40.

"The bridge," Steve muttered, his voice sounding in his own ears.

The music kicked in. It was polished. It was shiny. It was, as Robin had once described it, "audio sandpaper." Steve opened his mouth and sang.

“I’m looking for the lighthouse in the dark, but the waves are keeping us apart…”

"Stop, stop, stop!" Charlie waved his hands frantically. "Steve. You’re doing that 'soulful' thing again. We talked about this. This is a summer anthem, not a funeral dirge. Keep it light! Keep it palatable! We’re selling to sixteen-year-olds in the Midwest, not beat poets in a basement."

Steve stepped back from the mic, his chest tightening. "But the song is about grief, Charlie. It’s about my parents moving away and leaving me in that empty house. It’s not a ‘summer anthem’."

Charlie sighed, sliding his sunglasses down his nose to look at Steve with genuine pity. "Steve. Kid. The 'real' version? The one with the acoustic guitar and the cracking voice? That doesn't move units. It doesn't get you a slot at the VMAs. We’re building a brand here. 'Harrington' is a vibe. It’s effortless. It’s gold. Don't overthink it. Just sing the notes."

Steve looked at Robin. She gave him a sympathetic wince and mouthed the words ‘I’m sorry.’

"Take five," Charlie grunted, turning back to his engineer to discuss how much "shimmer" to add to the snare drum.

Steve walked out of the booth, ignoring the bottle of expensive alkaline water Charlie’s intern tried to hand him. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the exit.

"Steve? Where are you going?" Robin called out, scurrying after him, her Doc Martens clattering on the polished floor.

"I need air, Rob," Steve said, his pace quickening as he hit the stairwell.

"We have the photo shoot for the album cover at four!" she reminded him, though she didn't sound like she wanted to be there either. "And the label execs are coming by to hear the final mix of 'Lighthouse'!"

"Tell them I’m dead," Steve said, pushing open the heavy door and stepping out into the humid evening air of the city. "Tell them I died of a terminal case of 'Palatable Bullshit.'"

🤘👻🤘

Steve didn't stop at the street corner. He didn't stop at his apartment. He walked straight to the parking garage, climbed into his new BMW—a car the label had insisted he drive instead of his dad’s old Beemer from the 80’s because it "fit the aesthetic"—and started driving.

He drove until the skyline faded into the rearview mirror. He drove until the towering glass buildings were replaced by the rolling, dark green silhouettes of trees. He drove until the GPS on his dashboard started to feel like a tether he wanted to cut.

He was twenty-one years old. He was on the verge of being a household name. He had a million followers on social media who claimed to love him, and yet, as he gripped the steering wheel, he felt like he was disappearing. He was a ghost in his own life, a hollowed-out version of the boy who used to sing into a hairbrush in Hawkins.

Hawkins.

He hadn't been back in three years. Not since his parents had packed up the last of the furniture and moved to Florida, leaving him the keys to a house that had never felt like a home. They’d told him it was a safety net in case the music thing didn't work out. It felt more like a mausoleum.

By the time he crossed the town line, it was nearly midnight. Hawkins hadn't changed. It was still the kind of place where the streetlights flickered with a rhythmic, dying hum and the air smelled like petrichor and pine needles.

He pulled into the driveway of the Harrington estate. The house sat back from the road, a dark, Tudor-style silhouette against the moonlit sky. The grass was overgrown, and the windows looked like soulless eyes.

He let himself in with the spare key hidden under the fake rock—a rock his mother had bought twenty years ago. The air inside was stale and cold. The furniture was covered in white sheets, making the living room look like a gathering of phantoms.

Steve didn't turn on the lights, he couldn't stand to see the dust. He just stood in the foyer, listening to the silence. It was the loudest thing he’d heard in months. No producers, no screaming fans, no Robin trying to manage his schedule. Just the sound of his own shallow breathing.

"I hate it here," he whispered.

The house didn't answer. It just felt colder.

Unable to stand the silence, Steve turned around and walked out the back door. He didn't get in the car, he just started walking into the woods behind the property.

The woods were thick, the moonlight barely filtering through the canopy of oaks and maples. He knew these trails. He’d run them as a kid, hiding from his father’s disappointment or his mother’s indifference. He walked until his designer shoes were stained with mud, until the sounds of the road were gone, and until he stumbled into a small clearing.

There, sitting under a massive, gnarled oak tree near the edge of the high school property, was a weathered wooden picnic table.

Steve sat down on the edge of it, the wood creaking under his weight. He felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest—a combination of exhaustion and a deep, gnawing regret. He’d signed the contract. He’d let them change the lyrics. He’d let them turn his soul into a product.

He leaned back, laying his head on the rough surface of the table, looking up at the stars through the branches.

And then, he started to sing.

It wasn't the breathy, radio-ready version– it was the real one. His voice was low, slightly gravelly, and full of the cracks Charlie Roth would have edited out in a heartbeat.

“I’m looking for the lighthouse in the dark... because the house is empty, and the fire’s lost its spark. I’m just a boy with a name that doesn't fit... trying to find a way to make sense of it.”

He closed his eyes, let the melody carry the weight of his frustration. For the first time in months, he felt like he was actually making music.

"Wow," a voice rang out, cutting through the night like a lightning strike. "Someone's got the Blues."

Steve bolted upright, his heart leaping into his throat. He nearly fell off the table, scrambling to find his footing in the dark.

"Who's there?" he yelped, his voice cracking.

Leaning against a tree across the clearing was a shadowed figure. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a 1986 yearbook—but the "cool" section that the teachers hated. He was wearing a white baseball tee with black sleeves and a red dragon crest that said Hellfire Club. His hair was a wild, glorious mane of dark curls, and his vest was covered in patches Steve couldn't quite read in the dark.

The stranger took a step forward, the moonlight shimmering off the silver rings on his fingers. He had a smirk that was both mischievous and strangely kind.

"Sounding good though," the guy said, tilting his head. "That's some real soul you got there. A bit mopey for my taste—could use a heavy distortion pedal and a double-kick drum—but the pipes? The pipes are solid."

Steve stared, his panic slowly giving way to confusion. The guy looked… Well, he looked like a freak. A beautiful, terrifying, 80s-metal-head freak.

"Oh, I… I didn't realize anyone was out here," Steve stammered, wiping a hand across his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating from lack of sleep. "Sorry. I shouldn't even be here. I was just leaving."

Steve jumped down from the table, turning to head back toward the trail that led to his house. "Wait, NO!"

The voice didn't just move; it teleported. One second the guy was twenty feet away, and the next, he was standing directly in Steve’s path, his eyes wide, his hands raised as if to calm a wild animal.

Steve let out a strangled yelp. There was no way a human being could move that fast. It was physically impossible.

"You can SEE ME?!" the guy shouted, his voice vibrating with a weird, metallic resonance.

Steve’s brain finally hit its limit. The stress of the label, the drive, the empty house, and now a teleporting metal-head in the middle of the woods—it was too much. The edges of his vision blurred, the ground seemed to tilt at a forty-five-degree angle, and the last thing Steve saw before the world went black was the stranger’s face, turning from excitement to absolute horror.

"Oh, shit," the guy muttered. "Don't die. That would be super awkward."

Then, Steve Harrington fainted.

🤘👻🤘

When Steve opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the moon. The second thing he saw was a pair of very large, very brown eyes staring down at him from about six inches away.

"Well," the stranger smirked, his face upside down from Steve’s perspective. "That was a little dramatic, but I can't blame you for swooning at my good looks. It’s a common reaction. Or it was– in 1986."

Steve groaned, grabbing his head. His scalp throbbed where it had hit the dirt. "Oh my God... what happened?"

"You had a little disagreement with gravity. Gravity won," the guy said, fluffing his curly locks with one hand. He looked genuinely delighted. "But hey! You're awake! This is huge. This is monumental. This is the most interesting thing that's happened since they put in that new parking lot at the high school."

Steve looked at the guy’s hand. It was pale—unnaturally pale—and as the stranger reached out to help him up, Steve instinctively reached back.

"Thanks," Steve muttered, his fingers closing around the stranger’s hand.

Except they didn't.

Steve’s hand didn't meet flesh and bone– it passed straight through the stranger’s palm like it was moving through a cloud of freezing mist. A sensation like icy spiderwebs clung to Steve’s skin, a cold so deep it felt like it echoed through his very bones.

Steve froze. He stared at his hand, then looked up at the stranger. He could see the grass through the guy's "Hellfire" shirt, the bark of the trees through the guy’s bicep.

The stranger looked down at their joined—or rather, overlapped—hands and winced. "Oh. Sorry. Yeah, not really corporeal anymore. That's my bad. I keep forgetting the etiquette."

Steve’s heart began to pound against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic thud that he could feel in his ears. He tried to speak, but only a small, pathetic squeak came out.

"Hold on, Pretty Boy, don't pass out on me again!" the ghost—the ghost—said, waving his hands frantically. "Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Think of… I don't know, puppies? Spandex? Whatever you kids like these days."

"You're… you're a ghost," Steve whispered, his voice trembling.

"Give the man a prize!" The ghost did a theatrical bow. "Edward Munson at your service. But you can call me Eddie. Everyone did. Well, everyone who didn't call me 'The Freak' or 'The Spawn of Satan.'"

Steve scrambled backward on the ground, his heels digging into the dirt. "This isn't happening. I’m dreaming. I’m in a coma. Charlie put something in my alkaline water."

"Hardly," Eddie said, sitting cross-legged in the air—literally hovering three inches off the ground. "You're the first person who's been able to see me in ages. I mean, there was that weird bald girl in the late 80s just after I died—scary kid, could move things with her mind, total badass—but since then? It’s been pretty boring around here. Just me, the squirrels, and the occasional teenager coming out here to smoke weed and listen to terrible music."

Eddie leaned forward, his translucent face inches from Steve’s. "But you? You can see me. And you can sing. Like, really sing. Not that 'lighthouse' crap you were humming at first, but the stuff you did right before you saw me. That was the good stuff, Harrington."

Steve blinked. "How do you know my name?"

Eddie gestured vaguely toward the town. "I’ve been around. I heard a couple of girls talking about the 'famous Steve Harrington,’ –hometown hero. Though, looking at you now, you look less like a pop star and more like a guy who’s about to have a very long, very strange night."

Steve looked at his hands, still shaking. The coldness from Eddie’s touch lingered on his skin, a phantom chill that wouldn't go away.

"This is crazy! This is crazy! This is CRAZY! –I have to go," Steve said, scrambling to his feet. "I have to leave. Now."

"Hey, wait!" Eddie called out, standing up. On the ground this time, though his feet made no sound.

Steve didn't wait, he turned and bolted toward the trail. He didn't care about the mud or the branches snagging his expensive jacket. He just needed to get back to the house, lock the door, and wake up from this nightmare.

He ran through the brush, his lungs burning. He reached the edge of the Harrington property, burst through the back door, and slammed it shut, slowly backing away from the glass, searching the shadows outside for any trace of the menacing phantom.

He stayed there for a moment, gasping for air.

"Okay," he whispered to the empty house, "You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’re having a psychotic break. It’s fine. Totally normal. Just go to bed."

"I wouldn't recommend the master bedroom," a voice said from the living room. "The wallpaper is hideous. Seriously, who picks beige on beige? It’s a crime against aesthetics."

Steve screamed.

Eddie was lounging on the sheet-covered sofa, his boots kicked up on the mahogany coffee table. He looked perfectly at home, despite being partially transparent.

"How did you get in here?" Steve shrieked, clutching a decorative vase like a weapon. "I locked the door!"

Eddie gave him a look that was half-amused, half-pitying. "Steve. Buddy. I’m a ghost. Walls are more of a… suggestion to me. But more importantly…"

Eddie stood up, his expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. He took a step toward Steve, then stopped, looking down at his own chest.

"I tried to stay in the woods," Eddie said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding haunted. "When you ran, I tried to stay. But it felt like… like I was being pulled by a fishing line. The further you got, the more I started to feel like I was disappearing. Like I was being stretched thin."

He looked up at Steve, his dark eyes wide. "I think… I think I’m stuck to you, Harrington." Steve dropped the vase. It shattered on the hardwood floor, but neither of them looked down.

"Stuck?" Steve repeated, the word tasting like lead in his mouth.

"Stuck," Eddie confirmed. "So it looks like wherever you go, I go. Which is a real bummer for you, because I have very strong opinions about your discography."

Steve looked at the ghost of Edward Munson, the 80s metal-head who was currently haunting his living room, and realized that his quiet retreat to Hawkins had just become the most clamorous thing in his life.

Inspo // Ch1 // Ch2 // Ch3 // Ch4// Ch5 // Ch6 // Ch7 // Ch8 // Ch9 // Ch10

[lavender03]

Vampire steddie is the only thing fueling my life rn

[raynecreates]

Spooky boys 👻

This was the last print choice for October over on my Patreon ♥️ now I can finally get to posting Novembers pieces 🤣 thank you all for your patience with me, I’ve been a bit on the struggle bus lately.

[blablasfemma]

I had to set all my other ideas aside because of my current steddie-Addams fixation. I was just doing my thing and my brain was randomly like ‘how’s Eddie gonna even get out of this insane Morticia dress if there’s a row of little buttons on the back? He might need some help’, so I dropped everything and went with the help.

They could dance some silly little tango while undressing one another from the costumes, I can see it so clearly.

@whimsicalwadewinstonwilson this is for you!