#toburnup

[bucksgreyhairs]

Baby's first fanart inspired by @toburnup 's Is Your Light On? on ao3 ❤️‍🔥

Prints available!

[cpressmn]

i love love love your prompts. 9 or 19, whichever you prefer <3

i was gonna try to combine them, but all i could think about was your fic so i decided to try and be original instead. hope it's everything you were dreaming it would be <3

19. sitting on each other's laps

“Nope, get up. That’s my seat.” Steve snaps his fingers at Dustin, other hand balancing his plate of pizza.

“You got up,” Dustin counters. “You forfeit all rights to your seat when you get up.”

Steve doesn’t bother arguing with the kid, knowing he’ll be met with a snotty, Those are the rules, Steve. What, you want me to change the universal laws of dibs for you? Get over it. Instead, he frowns at El, settled in between Dustin and Lucas on the couch in the Wheeler’s basement. “You were supposed to save my spot.”

She has the grace to look at least a little sorry. “I tried.”

“You have superpowers. Seems like maybe you could’ve tried a little harder.”

El shrugs, apparently done feeling apologetic.

“She just likes me more than she likes you. More than anyone, actually.” Dustin slings his arm around her shoulders, gummy smile on full display. “I’m her favorite.”

“Ha.” Max’s eyes are unfocused, but she still manages to fling an unimpressed look in Dustin’s direction, shifting in her wheelchair next to the couch.

“I’m her favorite boy,” Dustin corrects.

“Hey! What about me?” Lucas pouts.

“I’m literally her boyfriend,” Mike says from where he’s sitting on the recliner opposite Eddie, taking a break from their discussion about the latest campaign to scold his best friends.

“Tough shit. Still her favorite.”

El looks at Mike, then at Lucas, at Dustin, considering, and back to Mike. “Dustin’s my favorite,” she confirms.

“That’s messed up,” Lucas mutters, accepting Max’s consoling pat on his arm.

“Congratulations,” Steve says dryly, interrupting Dustin’s cheers of victory and Mike’s flustered protests. “Now where am I supposed to sit?”

“You can sit right here, princess.”

Eddie, comfortably sprawled in one of the recliners, pats his lap and grins smugly at Steve, like he knows his invitation won’t be accepted.

It’s been some kind of unspoken competition between the two of them lately, seeing who can get under the kids’ skin the fastest with their excessive displays of affection and pet names. It started with a co-parenting bit the kids developed several weeks back. The dipshits love to tease them, enjoy how frustrated Steve gets when they call him their mom and Eddie their dad, and the best way to get them to lay off, Steve had reasoned, was to lean into it. 

Instead of huffing or rolling his eyes the next time the kids told Eddie to “talk some sense into his wife,” Steve had said, “Eddie agrees with me. Don’t you, honey?” while unnecessarily straightening the collar of Eddie’s jacket, pressed close into his space. 

Eddie’s eyes had widened in surprise, but only briefly. Almost immediately, his hands were settled on Steve’s hips, and he was crooning something ridiculous, along the lines of, “Always, baby.” It had the kids gagging in response, making various faces and comments that all meant the same thing: they hated seeing the two of them act like this. 

Which is, of course, exactly why Steve and Eddie keep doing it.

It’s like a game of Gay Chicken, except the only people they’re trying to freak out are their obnoxious observers. 

So when Eddie offers his lap and looks at Steve like he knows he won’t do it, like this is too far outside the range of Steve’s comfort level, Steve rises to the challenge.

Like he does most things in his life, Steve doesn’t think it through very much, just shrugs and plops down in Eddie’s lap. “Thanks,” he says over his shoulder, relishing the surprised sound Eddie lets slip.

It’s more uncomfortable than he thought it would be, and he shifts around a little, fully blaming Eddie’s skinny ass legs. He’s never actually sat in someone’s lap before, though, so maybe he’s a little to blame, too. 

He always loved being the one with a lapful of the latest girl he was flirting with. He got to wrap his arms around her waist, tug her closer to his chest. It was easy to access her ear for whispered conversations and her neck for teasing kisses. And it was always nice, being that close to someone, the weight of them bearing down on him pleasant. Comforting, even.

This, though, being on the other end of it, isn’t as fun as he thought it would be. His thighs are tense, still holding himself up so he doesn’t crush Eddie beneath him, and he feels about two seconds away from toppling over. 

“You’re not gonna break me, you know.” Eddie’s voice is low, his breath hot on the back of Steve’s neck, and Steve fights like hell to suppress a shudder. He’s supposed to be the one with the upper hand in all this. “I’m stronger than I look. Relax.”

Eddie’s arm loops around his middle and pulls him in, and Steve finally lets himself melt into his hold, resting his full weight on Eddie. He wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and angles his body inward, keeping one leg tucked between both of Eddie’s and draping the leg closest to Eddie across Eddie’s other leg. He doesn’t resist it when Eddie grabs Steve’s outer thigh, keeping him in place. Steve would never admit it, but it’s almost…nice. Being held by Eddie like this. Possibly even better than being the one doing the holding. 

“Must you? There’s a stool, like, right next to you,” Dustin says, pointing to the stool that is, in fact, available and right next to them.

Whatever. Steve shrugs. “This is more comfortable.”

“Aww, sweetheart,” Eddie coos and taps Steve’s nose with his ringed forefinger. Steve narrows his eyes. Leave it to Eddie to keep trying to one-up him. Trying and succeeding, which is the most irritating part.

“Ew,” Max says after Lucas explains to her what they’re doing. “Can you not?”

“Seriously. We were in the middle of a conversation,” Mike adds on, eyeing Steve with disdain.

“And? I’m not stopping you.” Steve takes a bite of his pizza. Pretends like this is completely normal and not at all affecting him in any way.

He feels, more than hears, Eddie chuckling and has to bite back his own smile in response. “Continue, Wheeler,” Eddie beckons, and everyone resumes their conversations before Steve interrupted them so he could sit on Eddie’s lap.

At least, Steve thinks they do. It’s hard to focus on anything other than the way Eddie is unconsciously rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against Steve’s waist. It’s a little dizzying, and Steve blames his recent dry spell on his reaction to such a simple touch. To any of Eddie’s touches as of late. He’s just desperate for any kind of human contact, so it only makes sense that he’s more sensitive to it, no matter who it’s coming from. 

He’s startled out of his thoughts when El makes Dustin’s drink explode in his face. Dr. Pepper drips off his nose, and the room erupts into laughter as he lunges to wipe his face off on her sleeve despite her twisting away, squealing. 

Eddie laughs, delighted, never tired of El’s displays of her powers, and his grip on Steve tightens. When he turns to Steve with his bright eyes and dimpled cheeks, Steve is powerless to do anything but return his smile and hope it doesn’t look too dopey. 

Maybe Eddie would want to try this again during movie night this week. Steve reaches up to grasp his other wrist, properly encircling Eddie’s neck with his arms, and sinks further into Eddie’s hold. The kids would hate it. 

[redrosydiaz]

#30 for steddie <3

THANK YOU for sending this in, vio my dear 💕 i guess all i can say at this point is... i'm sorry...

#30 things I wish you’d said

Steve stops in front of him. “Hey,” he says, blunt, direct, without preamble. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he starts. Toes at the dirt in front of him. Realizes his mistake and draws his foot back. Stands up straighter. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. The las—” he swallows hard, “the thing you said right before.”

He looks at Eddie. Big and bold and right there in front of him. The ache doesn’t go away.

“‘Make him pay’,” Steve echoes. “That’s what you said to me. ‘Make him pay’. Except— except I don’t think that’s all you wanted to say.” It’s kind of a call out, but Steve doesn’t think it’s unwarranted. He’s done beating around the bush. He’s done enough of that to last a lifetime. So has Eddie. They’re way past that now. “I think— there was more you wanted to say to me. Something else you wanted to tell me. Something important.” 

His confidence wavers, just a fracture. Enough that he hesitates. That his gaze drops, down to his shoes. They’re the same pair he’d worn— that day. Evidently, they hadn’t made the donation bin. Or the trash one. Steve stares hard at the dark stain on the canvas. The one he hadn’t even tried to scrub out.

When it becomes nothing more than a blur in his vision, he finally tears his gaze away. But he doesn’t fix it back onto Eddie. He can’t look at him. Not if he wants to get this out.

“I don’t know what you were going to say, though,” he finally continues, “and that— it fucks me up, man. Because I think— I know it was important. You looked so… so… I don’t know. I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “But I noticed.”

Steve still doesn’t look. But his eyes flicker over to the bunch of flowers hanging limply at his side. He should hand them over, but he clutches them tighter instead. They’re kind of sad, small and drooping and made of flowers that are well past their prime, hanging onto life by their last will. Dogwood and dandelions. It’s not much, but Steve hadn’t had the chance to go to a proper florist. Just plucked what was there in his front yard and wrapped them up in a discarded page of yesterday’s newspaper. He’d picked the comic section; thought that Eddie would appreciate that. He’d probably appreciate the makeshift bouquet more than a real one anyways too.

There’s a wilted leaf hanging off of a stem, just above the paper. Steve picks it off. Rolls it between his fingers. Flicks it away.

“Sometimes I wonder if you were going to say—” His words cut off. His breath hitches. He bites down, hard. Swallows harder. He takes a second, two seconds, three. Lets his breath out in a slow, steady stream. He chances a glance up, finally. Steels himself. Decides he can be brave too. “I wonder if you were going to say the things that— that I wanted to say.”

He doesn’t get a response. He didn’t expect to. So he goes on. Says the things he wanted to say then, now, because he can. Because he should.

“Keep yourself safe, because I’m not there to do it,” Steve starts. “Come back to me in one piece. Come back to me, period.” He presses his lips together. His jaw clenches. “I just got you. I just got you and I can’t lose you yet.” He ignore the crack in his voice. “I’m not done with you, I’m— I’m only just starting— we’re only just starting.”

His chin falls to his chest. His eyes squeeze shut. He stands still. Except he isn’t entirely still; he can’t stop the tremor in his hand, the flowers trembling at his side. Or the shake in his shoulders, the rustle of his jacket giving him away.

Until he collects himself. Sucks in a shaky breath and lets out an even shakier exhale. "I wish you would have." Then, “I think you would have,” he corrects, and it comes out unexpectedly steady. “Said it, I mean. Maybe if— if Nancy and Robin and Dustin weren’t there… I think you would have.” He cracks a small smile. “Because that’s the thing about you— when it comes down to it, you’ve always been a lot braver about that kind of stuff than me.” 

Steve holds the flowers up, twists them in his hand. Brushes a thumb against one of the petals. 

“I don’t think I knew what it meant then, that I wanted to say all of that,” he admits, and his smile turns somber. “But I do now. And that’s— that’s the fucking kicker, isn’t it?” He asks. “I finally figure out what’s going on,” he waves his hand nebulously next to his head, “up here, and it’s—” he lets out a bitter, bereft laugh. “too fucking late. It’s too fucking late. Oh god.”

He takes in a gasping, hiccuping breath. Reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Turns away. Shields his face with his other arm. The flower petals graze against his cheek, gentle and soft, like the touch of a lover. 

(Like the touch he won’t get.)

Steve gives himself a moment, lets himself lose just a little bit of that control for just a little bit of time. But then, just as quick, he sniffs. Wipes beneath his eyes. Sets his jaw. Straightens up. 

Quietly, delicately, he bends down to lay the flowers at the foot of the headstone. The one with no body buried beneath it.

The words stare back, big and bold and right there in front of him.

Edward Munson

1966 - 1986

Beloved son and friend

Steve reaches out, brushes his fingers over the engraving. Rests his hand over the arch of the granite. Gives it a squeeze, like it’s Eddie’s shoulder.

(Like the touch he won’t feel.)

“I’m not done with you, Eddie. I’m coming back to you. I promise.”

send me a pairing and one of these and i'll write a mini fic (accepting!)

[kickassfu]

"You ran?" Eddie says, "God, Harrington, you're worse than me."

"He scared me!" Steve says, breathing hard.

"That's - that's kind of the point." Eddie says, unhelpfully. He nods his head to the next turn in the dark hallway, doesn't hide his teasing tone. "We gotta keep going though, you gonna be able to make it?"

"Yeah, just- give me a second." Steve says, pulls himself up. The scare got under his skin and he looks around, flinching when a cobweb brushes his shoulder. This is so stupid.

"Here." Eddie holds out his arm and Steve might be more spooked than he realized because he doesn't hesitate before he takes it.

Based on the fantastic fanfiction lead the way by @toburnup (adure). It's a fun fic of the boys going through a haunted house. And maybe Steve bites more than he can chew, but at least he has Eddie with him to give him a hand 😉 seriously recomend it. It's just a good time all around.

[toburnup]

about me 💙 i'm vio, they/them 🪐 30s. multishipper <3 💫 adure on ao3, ☁️ toburnup on bluesky 🌀 nsfw and i don't always tag 📫 asks always open

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most recent work wild card | eddie, carol, and twenty four hours | rated e, 15k

[hexiewrites]

for the fanfic ask game, i'd love to hear how you landed on the very last line of 'make this inn our own' - "Two roads diverged, and he had finally found his way back to the path he was supposed to be on."

i feel like it can be extra tough figuring out the final words, especially in a longer fic! 💙

ooh vio thank you!! and you're TOTALLY right, I struggle a lot on final words and honestly endings in general because I want them to land just right.

prepare for ummm way too long of an answer which involves a deep reading of a robert frost poem, oops? but you caught one of my central themes of the whole fic so of course I'm going to ramble.

spoilers ahead for make this inn our own!

the theme of two roads diverging started for me at the very top of the fic. I was thinking about Steve, and about the fact that this fic at it's whole is kind of my interpretation of what would have happened without him, in seasons three and four. and I couldn't stop thinking about the robert frost poem "the road not taken", which obviously comes up throughout the fic.

the first time we hear steve reference it is in chapter five (aptly named "two roads diverged"), after spending the day with dustin, with this passage:

He was having that feeling again. Not quite deja vu, but… the feeling that his life had diverged, two roads, and he’d taken the safe one. The brightly lit, clear path. The life his dad had wanted for him. The obvious choice. But the other road—dark, less well trod—he felt the ache of it, the regret of not taking it. Something in his brain screamed that there was a poem just like it, two roads in a yellow wood, but he had never had the brain for poetry and he couldn’t remember it if he tried. Two roads and Steve picked the easy one, the safe path, pavement and nepotism. But here, in Hawkins, looking down that other road… He wondered, and not for the first time, if he’d ever not regret his decision.

Steve doesn't really remember the poem well, but he knows he's heard it (likely in school), and he thinks it fits his situation. of course, we as the reader know he didn't really have the choice in the way he thinks he did, but for steve it's the moment when he realizes like, oh shit. I could have stayed, I could have been part of the party, maybe I could have helped.

the sentiment comes up again in chapter seven ("the letters"):

Maybe if Steve had come around more. Maybe if he hadn’t— Steve broke, truly that time, letting the sobs pull him under and away. Finally, for the first time in his life, he let them come, hard and painful, as he cried for the life he could have had. Two roads diverged, and he had chosen wrong.

Steve is sitting at the point where he realizes why the path was chosen for him, why Richard made him leave Hawkins and his life behind, and in this moment he knows for sure that the other path would have been better for him (again, us as the readers remember what actually happened in season four, so in my mind steve really dodged a bullet here, but...).

we see the poem come up again in chapter thirteen, with the letter Otis leaves to Steve:

And: I can only hope that one day you’ll know a love as strong as mine and Tony’s. One day you’ll step back and look at what you have in the world, your family, your belongings, the path of your life, and you’ll see a choice to take. And I can only hope that when you’re faced with that choice, you make the decision that is the most right for you. One of my favourite poets, Robert Frost, has a very famous poem. It ends as such: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I— I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference. I see this poem, Steve, as a map for life. When you are one day faced with this choice, when you’re staring ahead at yourself and you can see one path, a path that is perhaps easier, and may please more people, and may make life run smooth and sure, and a second path that is less well trod, less well understood, but that you think may lead to your happiness? My recommendation, and you may take it with a grain of salt, is to make your own path through the wood. Dark and scary it may seem, but if you are with the ones you love, the ones who truly love you back, you will never regret it for a second.

And this does a few things for us, at this point in the fic. First of all it's another point of connection between Otis and Steve. Another reminder of how similar they are as men, and a way for Steve to see yet again that he has this connection to his family he never thought possible. Otis is a sap at heart (we already know of his love for Oscar Wilde) and I can see him reading this poem and feeling it ring true in his own life. He took the safer road, of Margite, and likely spent many years wondering if he had chosen right, or should have taken the more difficult path.

It's also another way for us as the readers to get a sense of what Steve is thinking through someone else's eyes. Otis tells Steve not that he should take the safe easy path, or the hard one either, but to make his own path through the woods. To be his own man, and not allow the pressure of the external world influence how he decides to live his like.

But ultimately, the thing I love about this poem is (and I suspect Otis would have known this too): it was written as a joke. Frost says it right in the poem that actually the roads are basically worn down about the same - neither is "less traveled" in a way that makes a meaningful difference: "Though as for that the passing there / Had worn them really about the same".

And that's because choice, here and in much of life, is both an illusion and an impulse. Steve had no choice on the road he took, for those first few years. He says it himself - he was 18 with no money, no house, no support (that he knew of), what was he supposed to do? And yet still he stands looking back on his life and wonders if he could have done things differently. But the reality is: even if he had been free to make the choice, how can any of us know if we've made the right one? For Frost, his traveler chose 'right', "and that has made all the difference". But the reality is, either road, either choice, would hopefully have led to a good life. I could have skipped a party at 18 and I would be an entirely different person today, but not a lesser one, or a worse one. But where I sit now, I made the right "choice", even though the choices we make are never long enough to see their results.

But ultimately, at the story end and the line you chose, we reach an end:

Two roads diverged, and he had finally found his way back to the path he was supposed to be on.

Steve has gone from wondering, to doubting, to knowing where he's meant to be. The roads had diverged, but Steve no longer laments that he has "chosen wrong". Because if he had stayed on the first road (the road of the show, perhaps), he may not be where he is in this moment, with Chrissy and Ness and Eddie at his side. But instead, he followed Otis's advice, and carved his own way through the forest, and here has landed exactly where he was supposed to be: home.

Thank you for letting me ramble! I loved getting to do this deep dive.

[juicinmyjams]

ghosting along for the WIP game :)

...ten years later (got smacked by adulthood but this happens)

first!! thanks for the ask!!!

second is honestly while this one is a monster in my brain, I've only got one really fleshed out scene and tbh i sort of... hate it? and its also kind of a hook up (a stancy hook up no less) and you're like the gold standard of smut writing so I Am Embarrassed but here it is:

Warnings: It's got a lot of a stancy half-way hook up, my complete lack of confidence that I can write people hooking up, and the very beginnings of a hint of the plot

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Alright, let’s see those lock picking skills then.”

She turns in his grip, keeps the keys firm and steady, like she’s on a mission, and gets the door unlocked, even as Steve does his best to distract her with his lips on the base of the back of her neck. There’s a burst of cold air as the door swings open. It’s always freezing like this, but he can’t seem to mind. Not right now. They stumble into his house, and this time, he's the one who gets backed up against the door. 

“So you’ll have to kill me now, right? Or something like that?” He asks, grinning down at her, past where she has a hand pressed to his sternum. She’s cast in all the reds and blues of he and Robin’s home, in the lights they keep on so they don’t have to  come home to a dark house. 

She lifts an eyebrow at him. 

“Or something.”

And then she’s got her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him down. Steve will never admit it, but he loves the feeling of the wall behind him, the way he feels pinned up. Supported. 

“Worse ways to go.” He breathes against her lips. 

She’s small, tiny, and he’s got at least half a foot on her, so it isn’t hard to stoop a little lower, get his hands around the backs of her thighs and hoist her up. Settle the weight of her against him. 

“You’ve got some moves yourself.” She says. Brushes the hair away from his forehead and Steve does his best to not press into the warmth of her touch. 

Instead, he navigates them through the dim light of his home. Skips the stairs that lead up to his room and heads straight for the couch, sitting down carefully, so she has time to adjust. She laughs and he swallows the sound of it, wrapping an arm around her back and sealing her to him, so it can’t escape. 

Steve’s in no rush here. He’s got time and a half, with Robin out for the night, and it’s been so long since he’s done this. It doesn’t stop him from playing with the hem of her shirt, from tugging it out from its firm tuck into her skirt. He relishes in the shudder his fingers inspire against her skin. 

She breaks away, pulls back to help him get her shirt up and over her head. He spares a second for her bra, a utilitarian thing, before heading straight for the dip of her clavicle. Keeps and iron grip around her waist as she shifts in his lap. 

He loves this. Missed this. The feeling of hands in his hair, of a steady rhythm starting up as she moves again. The sound of someone in his ear. 

He migrates away from the bone, heads up her neck and gets teeth right on a tendon. She gasps and the feel of it zings straight through his skin. Goes for it again, this time with intent. 

And then she goes rigid in his grasp.

“Shit.” She hisses, rolls off of him to the side so she’s laying down. Steve follows, skin still singing, settling into the cradle of her hips. 

Her arms come up immediately. Defensively. One covering herself and the other firm on Steve’s chest, keeping him at a distance. 

“I thought you said your roommate was out for the night.” She hisses at him. 

“She is?” He says, and wonders what that has to do with anything. “She’s out tonight.”

“Well, she clearly came back early.” She says, looking a little bit like he might be stupid. “She’s on the stairs.”

Steve frowns. 

Robin doesn’t really come back early. She actually has a reputation for closing out the bars. And if she doesn’t and she’s alone, she’s calling Steve, bullying him into a ride. 

It’s his luck that the one in a million chance of Robin coming home early happened tonight, of all nights. And maybe she heard him and decided loitering on the stairs was the best way to let him know she’s home, with the added bonus of making the whole thing as uncomfortable as possible. It’s well within her playbook. Nancy, he thinks her name is, tilts her chin up and narrows her eyes at him, hand still keeping him at bay. 

He gives her a smile. “Don’t worry. She’s just doesn't know how to use words like a normal person when we have guests over.” He says it loud, clear. So Robin can hear.

But no indignant squawking happens. He rolls his eyes. She’s really leaning into this. 

“Robin.” He says, pushing up and away from Nancy and looks over his shoulder. “C’mon-”

There’s no one on the stairs. 

Not Robin. 

Not even the reflective eyes of their cat. 

He sits up all the way. The stairs lead up to the hallway, completely cast in stark shadows. He stares at it, hard, like maybe Robin’s head will materialize in the dark, peeking around the corner to spy and make sure her prank worked. 

But she doesn’t pop out and he’s left staring into the void of their upstairs. 

He sits up. 

“Rob?” He calls out, even louder this time. “You home?”

Their home doesn’t echo, the walls are solid, but Steve swears it reverberates in the silence. 

[userglitched]

hardly recognized u without ur fox ears