Hey what up I’m CJ I’m in my 30s and I never fuckin learned how to read.
JK I do read and I write! I play a lot of D&D and do all kinds of nerd shit. Give me a follow if you’re into that or whatever.
I do some Stranger Things shit and as a resident of Indiana I am displeased at the lack of the Indiana staple food and beverage in the show so I will be sending the Duffers a strongly worded letter.
Anyway enjoy the madness. K thx byeeee.
I currently write for:
Eddie Munson
Damage Inc.
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5
Scholarship Annoying Husband
Dispensary Shadowfell. Eddie's Guitar Hellfire Quotes Dutch Ovened Ozzy the Raccoon Eddie’s Wife Makes a Twitter
I always see fics about Janitor!Eddie x Reader, but what about Janitor/cleaning lady!Reader x Eddie?
I work as the cleaning lady in an office. Some people have told me how my job is not serious enough, or good enough or no one would like me with that kind of job. I try to no pay too much attention to that but sometimes it gets very overwhealming. When people asks me about where I work or what I do for a living I don't like to talk about it cause I fear people would make fun of me.
So my request is about something like that, and maybe reader meets Eddie and they have a lot in common, she's a metalhead, a nerdy girl, and when they start to hangout she releases he works at a record store or a comic book store or some place cool, and when he ask her about her job she doesn't feel comfortable talking about it. How it ends it's up to you (I'll be happy with a happy or sad ending ❤)
(Sorry for the long ask!)
I hope you like this! Sorry it took me so long to finish.
Warnings: female!reader, reader is insecure about her job, fluff, use of "freak" as an endearing nickname, one "your mom" joke
WC: 1.7k
Divider credit to @saradika-graphics
There was nothing like the feeling of being in the record store.
It was your own little refuge right there in Hawkins: the bell jingling as you opened the door, the boxes upon boxes of vinyl records, the music that crackled over the stereo system that let you know who was working that day.
Today, Metallica’s new album blared throughout the store, which meant—
“Jesus, Munson; what the hell do you have in here?” Steve Harrington—former King of Hawkins High and current Rockin’ Records employee—heaved a huge box onto the countertop.
“That’s where I keep your mom’s panties. I take a pair every time I—oh, shit.”
Eddie’s eyes widened when he realized there was a customer nearby. “Welcome to Rockin’ Records,” he mumbled, unable to meet your eyes. His cheeks flushed pink.
You swallowed, trying not to show your own flusteredness. You’d had a crush on Eddie since high school; back then, you would watch him climb atop cafeteria tables and make grandiose speeches to whoever bothered to listen.
Before you could manage a hello, Steve bounded over.
“Hi there. Steve Harrington. Music connoisseur." He stuck out his hand, studying your face as though trying to place you. “Do I know you?”
“We went to high school together.” You introduced yourself; not that Steve would remember. He was always too busy gawking at Nancy Wheeler to notice anyone else.
Steve Harrington’s romantic pursuits never mattered to you. And it especially didn’t matter now with Eddie Munson standing twenty feet away.
“Oh. Right.” Steve pulled back his hand and raked it through his hair, composing himself. “Well, let me help you find your perfect match.”
He winked at you, rifling through the boxes of records.
“Actually, I just need—”
“Let me guess…Madonna? No, wait; what’s the band that sings ‘can you hooooold one for one more day?’”
You tried not to wince at his pitchy falsetto. “Wilson Phillips?”
“Yeah!” Steve snapped his fingers and nodded emphatically. “Yeah, Wilson Phillips. We’ve got them right here—”
“Oh my God, this is painful,” Eddie groaned. “Harrington, you’re failing an open-book test!"
When Steve furrowed his brow, Eddie gestured grandly to the Metallica patch on your denim jacket. “New album came out yesterday. We almost sold out, but…”
Eddie grabbed a cassette tape and a record from beneath the register. “Wasn’t sure which medium you prefer, so I saved you one of each,” he said with a shrug.
Your words caught in your throat. He’d saved them for you? No, you must have heard him wrong.
Still, you took the album with a grateful smile. “I didn’t realize Hawkins had such a large population of Metallica fans.”
“We’re small but mighty.” Eddie grinned. “I may have bought five copies for myself; in case I wear out the first four.”
“Makes sense.” You chewed on your lower lip before remembering you hadn’t paid for the record yet.
You’d barely reached for your wallet before Eddie stopped you, his hand strong but comforting around your wrist.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s on me.”
Steve muttered something unintelligible, but your head swam with too much excitement to pay him any mind.
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind—”
Eddie shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he repeated. “Us freaks gotta stick together.”
Right. That’s what this was; an act of solidarity between people with the same music taste.
You tried to hide the way you deflated with disappointment.
“Um, thanks,” you said.
The record suddenly felt heavy in your hand, and you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
“I should get home before someone tries to rob me,” you joked half-heartedly.
It landed just as well, with Eddie giving you an awkward smile. God, why were you like this?
“Guard it with your life,” he joked back, keeping his expression schooled as seriously as he could muster.
You nodded, trying to match his stoicness but failing miserably. A grin tugged at the corners of your lips as you tucked the record up under your arm.
“I will.”
You spent all of your spare time listening to the record. More than once, your neighbor living in the apartment next to yours pounded on your shared wall, but you just turned the music up louder.
You hummed “The Unforgiven” as you dragged a mop across the floors of City Hall, wishing you’d taken the cassette. Music was your saving grace during a long shift; your Walkman was your best friend.
Guess I’ll have to go back to the record store today, you thought, trying to contain your nerves at the prospect of seeing Eddie again. Of course, you’d have to shower first; you couldn’t show up reeking of Mop ‘n Glo—
“This is bullshit!”
A sudden outburst yanked you from your thoughts. You whipped around, eyes widening when you spotted Eddie Munson stalking through the social security queue. The chain dangling from his belt loops jingled with each infuriated step.
“This is the third month in a row that my uncle’s check has been late!” Eddie slammed his palms against Ken Turnbow’s desk.
Mr. Turnbow sighed, putting down a half-eaten candy bar and pinching the bridge of his nose. “And like I told you last month, Mr. Munson,” he said, “we do not control the speed with which the postal service delivers the checks. Your uncle will have to wait like everyone else.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “You know who doesn’t wait? The electric company, or the water company, or the gas company, or—”
“I get it, Mr. Munson.”
“I’m not finished.” Eddie continued ticking off the monthly expenses. “Or the grocery store, or the phone company. And cars don’t run on ‘wait,’ either.”
He started pacing, and you realized that if he pivoted enough, he’d be able to see you.
Shit. Eddie only knew you as one of the other rare metalheads in Hawkins. He couldn’t know that you were a cleaning lady, vacuuming the crumbs left behind by suits working for The Man.
You had to get out of this hallway. No, because then you’d have to wheel the bucket and draw attention to yourself.
Eddie was still going; now, he ranted about his uncle’s military service during the Vietnam War.
“Is this how we treat our veterans in Hawkins?” He posed the question like he had a full audience, despite Ken Turnbow’s sole, uninterested presence. “We make them default on their payments because we can’t get them to the post office on time?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Mr. Turnbow chewed the last of his candy and crumpled the wrapper in his hand. He started to toss it in the wastebasket below his desk, then stopped.
The older man’s eyes met yours before you could look away. “My trash is full.”
It was too late to dash out of sight. Not even leaving the mop and bucket behind could save you now.
Eddie faltered for a moment as he placed you. His irritation dissipated, his lips turning up in a wide grin.
“My favorite freak!” He threw Mr. Turnbow one last glare before bounding over to you.
Was it possible to sink into the floor? Maybe, if you wished hard enough, the mop bucket would turn into a well and you could swim to the bottom of it.
“I wish I knew you worked here,” Eddie said, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We just got a batch of limited edition Metallica t-shirts. I would’ve brought you one.”
You laughed shakily. “That’s…awesome,” you managed.
“Everything okay?” Eddie frowned. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like the new album. I mean, Master of Puppets still reigns supreme, but–”
“No, no. I mean, I love it. I’ll probably wear it out before next week.” You relaxed a little when the smile returned to his face. “Sorry, I…wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Eddie let out an annoyed grunt. “Wouldn’t have to come down here if these schmucks could just do their jobs!” He raised his voice pointedly, turning towards the clerk before smiling sheepishly back at you. “But at least now I can say I’ve seen you at work, too.”
“Yeah, but your job is cool.” You spoke without thinking, hoping insecurity wasn’t written all over your face.
He remained unfazed. “Not like I grew up dreaming of running a record store with Steve Harrington.” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “He knows nothing about music. You’d think he would’ve learned something from DJing over at WSQK, but nope.”
You steadied yourself, trying not to be pulled in by the scent of his oaky cologne. “At least you get to be around music.”
“Fair point,” Eddie acquiesced, “but most of my day is spent unpacking boxes, stocking shelves, or helping customers who think my tattoos mean I’m some kind of devil-worshiper. Not exactly the rockstar life I was hoping for.”
“I don’t think you’re a devil-worshiper.” Though the demon-head tattoo probably doesn’t help your case, you thought.
“And that’s why you’re my favorite customer. Well,” he ran a hand through his messy hair, “that, and your kickass music taste.”
You refused to meet his gaze; instead, you focused on a speck of dirt on the floor. You’d have to clean that up later.
“Speaking of kickass music taste.” Eddie nudged the toe of your sneaker with his own. “Could I pick you up after your shift? We could drive around and listen to the new album together? Maybe grab some food at, um, Benny’s or something? Do you like burgers? We could go to–”
“I like burgers,” you reassured him. You weren’t used to seeing him so nervous; he was always in his element at Rockin’ Records. He never even stuttered during his impromptu cafeteria speeches. “I finish at five, but I can manage to put myself together by six.”
Eddie shook his head, his curls bouncing with the movement. “I like you just like this.”
Before you could ask for clarification, Eddie pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. The touch of his lips spread a humming warmth through your body.
“I’ll pick you up here at five.” His eyes were wide with hope. You could only imagine that his heart was beating as fast as yours.
“I’ll be here. Just follow the scent of Pine-Sol.”
Eddie winked. “Good thing I like my women lemon fresh.”
I oscillate between "Eddie Munson only drinks black coffee and looks down upon anyone who uses creamer and sugar" and "Eddie Munson puts so much sugar in his coffee that the 'diabeetus' guy busts down the wall, Kool-Aid Man style, after he takes a single sip."
Steve Harrington x f!reader // part one / part two / part three / ongoing //
Outer Banks, summer 1995. Steve’s parents are celebrating their thirty year anniversary with a week of parties, photos, and perfect appearances. Steve shows up out of obligation - and brings you as his “girlfriend” for survival. In today’s exciting update - brain betrayal! An empty house! Firepit fun times! And Steve has precisely zero chill.
word count: 11.7k words
As always: Steve Harrington deserved better, so I gave him softness. 🌊
Thank you to @keer-y for being the greatest cheerleader.
Steve is dreaming. He recognises it, accepts it even, but that doesn’t make it feel any less real. The dream doesn’t ease in on him, and it doesn’t ask permission - it closes in around his slumber and consumes him.
He feels the heat at his back, immediate and unmistakable, a body pressed hard enough that there’s no room to doubt it. He can feel her without seeing her; the press of her hips against him, the solid weight of her thigh slung over his, locking him in place, the weight of her fitting to him like it was never in doubt.
An arm slides around his middle, not careful, not tentative. Fingers wrap themselves into the fabric of his shirt and pull him back, closer, until there’s no space left between them at all - until the line of her body fits flush to his, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Her mouth finds the line of his neck - not quite a kiss, not quite restraint - just warm enough, close enough, that he aches for the promise of teeth.
Just the warmth of her hovering there, the soft spill of her breath across his skin. The almost of it stretches time thin. The promise hangs suspended - teeth that could follow but don’t, pressure that could deepen but lingers instead. The restraint is what unravels him. The waiting.
Everything slows.
He feels her everywhere - through cotton, through heat, through the electric seam where their bodies meet - and yet it has that softened, dreamy distortion, where sensation blooms before contact and lingers long after it should have faded. Cause and effect slip their order. The ache comes first. The touch follows.
It’s too much.
It’s everything.
His body reacts without consulting him, heat flaring deep and low, his skin burning everywhere he feels her touch. He wants to turn, wants to see her, wants to taste her mouth and her skin properly - but the dream won’t let him. It keeps her just out of reach, all sensation and pressure and implication, a wanting that tightens instead of releasing.
He presses back instinctively, unguarded in a way he hasn’t let himself be in years. There is no audience here. No expectation. No armour to manage. The friction is slow and dizzying, the slide of fabric against skin, the measured increase of pressure that feels both languid and urgent at once. His hands flex against the sheets, searching for something solid to grip, but even the mattress feels insubstantial, like it might dissolve beneath him.
The arm around his waist slips lower.
His hips rise lazily to meet the pressure, as if the motion has been happening for longer than he realised, as if this moment has been looping and looping, building without ever quite cresting.
Stay, he thinks - not just to her, but to the feeling itself.
Just stay.
The word echoes strangely, as though spoken underwater. As though it belongs to someone else.
He lingers on that suspended edge as long as the dream will let him, caught in that charged half-second where the wanting is sharper than the having, where his body feels truly awake for the first time in years. The world has shrunk to heat and pressure and the unbearable stretch of almost.
The dream holds him there.
Right on the brink.
Where the idea of it is enough to -
- And the dream drops out from under him.
He wakes with a sharp breath, heart hammering hard and fast, the sensation ripped away so cleanly it leaves him raw. His hand jerks against his stomach, fingers fisting in his shirt before he realises what he’s doing.
There’s nothing there.
It takes a second too long for the room to make sense. The ceiling above him is white. Unremarkable. Solid. The dresser. The door. The line of the wardrobe. Everything exactly where it should be.
Morning light spills watery-pale and diffuse through the sheer curtains, staining the walls with diluted honey. The distant rush of the ocean, muted now, less commanding than it had been in the dark. No music. Not even any voices. Just the ordinary sounds of morning, indifferent to whatever just dragged him out of sleep.
It feels too early to be this alert. Too early for his body to still be charged with something that isn’t happening anymore.
Too quiet.
Steve lies there prone, cheek pressed into his pillow, with his jaw tight enough to ache, trying to convince his body it’s over. That it was just a dream. Just a lot of leftover adrenaline and bad timing and a brain that never stays in its lane.
His heart refuses to cooperate, still skittering behind his ribs. His throat feels thick. His skin remembers.
Jesus.
He shuts his eyes again, just to give himself a second before he has to be awake in a world where last night happened, and this morning seems to exist just to prove it didn’t stop.
He waits it out until his heartbeat settles and his muscles slowly relax, and only then does he roll over.
You’re here.
Fast asleep, facing into the middle of the bed, curled near the edge like you’ve claimed that boundary deliberately. One arm is pulled in close, fist wrapped in the light sheet and tugging it tight against your body. Your mouth is slightly open, breath deep and even, hair a little wild where it’s been mussed overnight.
You look peaceful. Like you’ve gone somewhere he can’t follow.
There’s space between them - real, undeniable space. A stretch of smooth empty mattress in the vast bed that says nothing happened. No lines crossed. Nothing to worry about or to regret or explain.
Relief comes to him first, warm and grounding and sensible. Something else follows it, quieter and harder to dismiss.
Steve stays very still.
He watches the slow rise and fall of your shoulders, the way sleep has smoothed the tension from your face. You look wrecked in the best way - like someone who stayed up too late drinking and laughing with people who didn’t let you fade into the background.
His cousins, he thinks, fond and irritated all at once. Of course they kept you up.
He knows how they party. You deserve to sleep.
Carefully - beyond carefully - he eases himself out of bed. The mattress barely shifts. You don’t stir. He pauses anyway, hand hovering over the sheet like his body hasn’t quite accepted that the dream is over, then forces himself to step back.
The floor is cool under his feet, the thick pile carpet still holding the night, waiting for the morning sun to find it. He moves around the room quietly, gathering clothes with care - a t-shirt lifted, shorts folded once over his arm - closing doors and drawers slowly so they don’t make a sound.
He crosses to the window and pauses there, the pale morning light just beginning to chase off the dark. When he stretches, it’s long and unhurried, arms lifting overhead, spine easing open with a silent exhale. The hem of his shirt rides up, cool air brushing his skin, and the familiar pull follows - tight, insistent. Scar tissue doesn’t stretch the way the rest of him does.
He rubs at it absently, thumb tracing the raised line without looking, the gesture automatic. His body remembers before he does.
At the bathroom door, he stops.
He looks back.
You haven’t moved. Unaware. Peaceful in a way that feels removed from him, from the restless aftermath his body is still carrying.
He tells himself the dream doesn’t mean anything. That it was just the gin and the proximity, latent want catching up with him. That bodies remember things brains don’t agree to yet.
He lets himself believe it.
“Sleep.” The word barely leaves him. Then he slips out, closing the door softly behind him.
****************
The bathroom door clicks shut - quiet, but final. The sound settles into the room, like a line being drawn.
The routine takes over before thought does - turn on the shower, adjust the dial, step inside and brace himself for the first shock of heat. His muscles loosen by degrees as the water beats down, all surface, no meaning.
This is something he knows how to do. Stand still. Endure. Let it pass. For a moment, it’s all he can feel - the impact, the noise, the scald of it. Something real.
That helps him more than he really cares to admit.
The water tracks down his spine in heavy rivulets, gathering at the small of his back before slipping lower, and his body reacts anyway - not sharply, not urgently, but unmistakably. A heavy, warm rush of blood to the last place he needs it to be.
He rests one broad hand against the smooth shower panel and leans into it, fingers splayed, knuckles whitening as he forces himself to breathe.
The dream hasn’t burned off. It’s still there - low and wrong. Pressure where nothing’s touching him now. Heat pooling in places he didn’t ask for. His skin acting like it remembers something he’s trying not to.
Jesus.
Not this. Not now.
He tips his head back and lets the spray hammer down harder, like he can beat it out of himself. Water pounds over his chest, his ribs, his throat. He reaches blindly for whichever expensive shower gel his mother keeps lined up for guests and scrubs at his skin harder than necessary, like friction might reset him.
Nothing changes.
The heat spreads anyway. Under his hands. Down his spine. Every nerve louder under the water, wide awake when he needs it quiet.
This is supposed to kill it. That’s the point.
If anything, it leaves him more aware - of himself, of how long it’s been since his body has done this without being coaxed. Or scheduled. Or half-forced out of obligation.
He hasn’t even told Robin.
The gaps between bad dates got longer. Then they just… stayed that way. Easier to shrug when she asked. Easier to joke about being “busy.” Or “retired.” Like it was a choice. Like he’d decided.
He stopped keeping track somewhere along the way.
He told himself it didn’t matter. That maybe this part of him had just gone quiet. Powered down. A low hum he didn’t have to deal with. Safer that way. Less effort. Less disappointment.
It wasn’t misery, or heartbreak. It was nothing.
And now this.
It doesn’t line up with the version of himself he’s been running on for years.
Maybe it’s the hangover. Maybe last night’s still wedged somewhere under his ribs, all sharp edges and unfinished business. Maybe it’s just adrenaline burning through the last of it, misfiring, looking for somewhere to land.
That would be easier to swallow.
But the feeling doesn’t spike and vanish the way adrenaline should. It doesn’t flash hot and disappear.
It lingers, refusing to burn itself out.
A low, insistent awareness sitting heavy in his body, impossible to talk down. It feels almost deliberate in how calm it is, how certain - like it’s been there the whole time, waiting for him to stop pretending not to notice.
His body doesn’t seem particularly interested in context. Not in history. Not in caution. Not in the guardrails he’s spent years quietly putting up.
It just wants.
And that’s what throws him.
He stands there under the spray and lets the realisation settle into him, uneasy and unwanted, with nowhere obvious to put it.
It would be easy - far too easy - to stop thinking. To let the warmth and his hand blur the edges of everything else. To chase the simple, physical relief that’s right there within reach, uncomplicated and immediate.
He hasn’t trusted himself with that kind of ease in a long time.
The thought doesn’t repulse him - that’s the problem.
What unsettles him is how cleanly the want rises up. How little argument there is inside him against it. No panic. No moral outrage. Just a steady pull toward something he’s been pretending not to miss.
He closes his eyes for a beat and counts it off in his head.
No.
He isn’t doing this. Not here. Not with her asleep a few feet away, breathing evenly, unaware. Not with the morning still fragile and real around them.
He presses his forehead briefly to the tile, breath fogging the surface. The heat is sharp, almost punishing. Good. He can work with that.
The water pounds over his shoulders. Steam thickens the air, heavy in his lungs.
He focuses on what’s real - the burn of heat against his skin, the steady drum of water, the narrow confines of the shower pressing close around him.
Breathing in.
Breathing out.
He stays exactly where he is and lets the surge crest and fall on its own. Refuses to rush it. Refuses to feed it.
He knows how to stand still. He’s had practice.
Gradually, the sharp edge dulls. The heat recedes from a roar to something quieter, more contained. Still there - but manageable.
He waits until it’s fully under control.
Only then does he move.
When he finally turns the water off, the silence lands hard.
The rush and hiss vanish all at once, leaving the bathroom thick and damp, steam clinging to the ceiling and curling at the edges of the mirror. His skin feels over-sensitive in the sudden quiet, flushed from heat, every lingering trace of sensation exaggerated now that there’s nothing to drown it out.
He stands there a second longer than necessary, letting the cooler air settle against him.
Then he reaches for the towel.
He dries off slowly, methodically, grounding himself in the ordinary rhythm of it. Shoulders. Chest. Arms. Just skin and cotton and movement. By the time he’s done, the edge has dulled to something private and contained.
He brushes his teeth with more focus than the task deserves, scrubbing until the last trace of last night’s gin is replaced with minty freshness. Clean. Neutral. Presentable.
He drags the flat of his palm across the mirror, cutting a clear path through the fog. A blurred version of himself resolves in the streaked glass - damp hair, flushed skin, eyes still a little too bright.
He scrubs both hands through his hair, working it back by instinct, teasing the layers into something that resembles effort without trying too hard.
He doesn’t have the energy to care the way he once did - not about precision, not about perfection - but when the faint outline of the old Harrington hawk lifts at the front, stubborn and familiar, something like pride flickers low in his chest.
Still got it, Stevie.
It’s automatic. Half joke. Half reassurance.
He pulls on the clothes he brought in with him: swim trunks first, then loose shorts over the top. Nothing fitted. Nothing that clings. A soft t-shirt he’s owned for years, the cotton worn thin at the collar, the graphic faded into irrelevance.
Downstairs, the house greets him with fresh salt air and perfect quiet, the occasional call of a sea bird drifting through. The deck doors are wide, the coastal breeze moving lazily through the space. The place is spotless, not a glass or a crumb out of place.
The events team must have already been back for take-down and clear-out. The evidence of last night’s party has been completely erased.
Outside, the firepit has been scraped clean and restocked with fresh coals and kindling. The long bench table has been wiped down to smooth, bare wood. The yellow umbrella left open and patient, casting shade for no one yet. Beyond it all, the pool lies flat and blue and unreadable, like it’s holding its breath.
Steve stands at the island for a moment, hands braced on the counter, and lets the calm wash over him completely.
The dream hasn’t left him entirely. It lingers low and quiet now, coiled through him, but it hasn’t disappeared. It colours the way he moves through the kitchen, the way he measures the coffee grounds more carefully than usual, the way he lines the cups up by instinct.
Lucy’s.
Aunt Juliane’s.
Mom’s.
And one for him.
He stops himself before he reaches for another.
The act of it - of catching himself - sends a strange flicker through his chest. Not regret. Not quite relief. Just an awareness.
He hears footsteps from the rooms upstairs. Voices rise and fall, drifting down the stairwell - soft and a little tender-headed, laughter pitched lower than usual. The Harrington women appear one by one, sunglasses already perched on their heads or hanging from their collars, tiny leather bags slung from their shoulders, glossy hair pulled back in near-identical ponytails, all moving with the easy familiarity of people who belong.
“Morning, Stevie,” Lucy beams, warm as ever.
“Hey, Lu,” he replies, handing her a mug of fresh coffee before passing the others to his mother and aunt.
The women thank him like he’s done something special. Like this isn’t just what he does when he needs something to do with his hands. Annabeth leans against the counter, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of coffee like it’s medicine.
“You’re a saint, my love,” she murmurs through the steam.
Steve smiles at the rare, unexpected praise - small and reflexive - ducking his head shyly, like he’s been caught out by it.
“It’s no big deal, Mom,” he says, shrugging. “S’just coffee.”
Golf is discussed. Rick and Danny are already long gone, apparently - both left just after dawn, eager despite their hangovers, committed to the performance of it all. A day with the boys on the course. There’s a pause, brief but noticeable, where the invitation could settle.
Steve doesn’t let it.
“Golf’s not really my thing,” Steve says lightly, before his mother can tell him he has time to catch up. “I’ll pass.”
The decision feels easier than it should. He doesn’t examine that too closely.
The women’s plans shift smoothly around him - town, shopping, lunch somewhere breezy and overpriced, espresso martinis to chase any remaining fatigue away. The house fills with the noise of preparation. Bags being checked and gathered. Car keys hunted down. Jackets collected, tried on, and dismissed.
And then, like you’ve waited for the noise to thin, you appear in the kitchen archway.
Steve feels it before he sees you. That subtle change. His attention narrows automatically, heat flaring low and unwelcome in response.
You look rested and guarded all at once. Hair damp from the shower, pulled back loosely. Casual shorts and a Hawkins Tigers shirt - the newer style, one he’d picked up for you last Christmas from a school charity drive. You pause, taking in the room, the women, Steve already moving toward you with a mug in hand.
“Morning,” he says, too quick. Too bright.
“Hey, Steve,” you reply, voice still soft from sleep.
Your fingers brush when he hands you the coffee. It’s nothing. Barely contact. And yet his body reacts like it’s been waiting for the smallest excuse - like it recognises comfort before his brain does.
The dream flickers - pressure at his back, breath at his neck - and he shuts it down with brute force. Imagines his father on the golf course. Imagines Dustin eating pop rocks. Imagines the third-grade homework he left for future Steve to deal with after this hell-cursed week.
He looks beyond the deck to the ocean, watches the morning light on the waves.
This is daylight.
This is real.
This is manageable.
He keeps his expression easy. His tone light. He lets the Harringtons do what they do best - fill the space, make plans, move the day forward.
And all the while, under the surface, the heat stays with him.
Not loud.
Not demanding.
Just waiting.
****************
He’s certain he feels the house exhale when the front door finally closes and the Harrington women leave for town.
It isn’t silence exactly; the fridge hums on, steady and familiar; the wall clock ticks somewhere down the hall, too loud now that nothing else is competing with it. There’s a faint rattle from the fan above the stove, something loose his father mentioned once then forgot about. Ordinary sounds. Domestic ones.
But the pressure lifts all the same.
The performance is over. No more voices overlapping, no more plans being made at him, no more small, unconscious adjustments to make himself fit in the moment. The house settles back into itself, spacious again, like it’s remembering what it’s meant to be when it isn’t loud with people.
Steve stays where he is for a while, sun at his back, one shoulder leaned into the doorframe, coffee mug warm and solid in his hand. He doesn’t move right away. Just lets the quiet sink in around him, lets his breathing slow to match it.
His gaze drops to the island.
A ring from his mug has bloomed on the quartz surface - pale and perfect, a clean circle where the heat met stone. Temporary. Already starting to fade at the edges if he looks closely enough.
He tells himself that’s fine.
That it will disappear on its own if he gives it a minute. That nothing’s been marked permanently. That this - whatever this is - will lift just as easily, leaving no trace behind.
The thought doesn’t settle the way he expects it to.
He shifts his grip on the mug, thumb brushing the rim, and finally pushes himself away from the doorframe. The house waits around him, quiet and open, waiting for whatever comes next.
Across the room, you move more carefully now.
Not stiff. Not tentative. Just deliberate. The scrape of a chair nudged back into place instead of abandoned. The soft clink of a spoon set down in the sink, porcelain against metal, unhurried. You don’t rush to fill up the quiet the way most people do. You let it exist, give it room to settle.
He notices that even before he turns.
“You wanna…,” you start, then trail off, recalibrating mid-thought. A small pause - not uncertainty, exactly, just consideration. “I was thinking about going outside for a bit, sit by the pool. If that’s okay?”
It’s the if that gets him.
The need for permission baked into it. The way you’re asking, not assuming. Like you’re conscious of the space as much as he is - of the fact that the house is suddenly just the two of you, and that, after last night, your friendship rests on strange new terrain.
“Yes,” he says, a little too quickly, the word out of him before he’s finished thinking. Then he reins it in, softer. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
You nod once, easy, like that was all you needed.
Steve reaches for his sunglasses on the counter, mostly to keep his hands occupied, something solid to anchor them. He trails a step behind you, close enough to reach, not quite close enough to touch.
At the edge of the pool, the gate sits half-latched, the metal catch misaligned by a fraction. He notices it immediately. Not broken. Just wrong.
He steps in, lifts the latch, guides it home until it settles with a soft, definitive click. Small. Clean. He opens it. Closes it. Once more. Testing for drag, for slack. The mechanism moves smoothly beneath his fingers now.
Better.
He straightens.
The morning light is brighter than he expected. Not harsh - just full. The kind that makes everything feel already remembered. Shadows stretch wide across the deck, edges softened. The boards are warm beneath his bare feet, holding yesterday’s heat like it never quite let it go.
The air is layered - chlorine rising faintly from the pool, fresh cut grass sharp at the edges, salt drifting in from the beach beyond the trees. It smells like summer settling in. Like something staying.
A cicada starts up somewhere nearby, loud and unapologetic, sawing through the quiet as if it owns it. Steve exhales without meaning to. His shoulders drop a fraction.
He pauses just past the gate, sunglasses loose in his hand, and lets the moment press in.
The house behind him - quiet.
The open yard ahead.
You, a few steps away, turning your face toward the sun like you’ve already decided you belong here.
And that - that does something low and complicated in his chest.
He follows.
The pool sits there like an offering.
Blue. Still. Patient.
Steve squints at it, then at the stretch of empty chairs, the quiet sprawl of the garden beyond. No one watching. No commentary waiting to land.
“Oh, sure. Have fun,” you say immediately, easy. “I’ll be right here.”
His chest loosens anyway.
He nods once. Tugs off his shirt and shorts without ceremony, drops them over the back of a chair. The air kisses his skin - cool for a second before the sun takes it back. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t look at you again.
He steps to the edge and dives, clean and decisive.
For a moment there’s only the glide of him through blue.
Water closes over him, sealing off the world above. Sound collapses - cicada, breeze, house - replaced by the muted rush in his ear and the steady drag along his skin.
And it feels like relief.
Stroke.
Breathe.
Turn.
The rhythm catches him fast, slots into place like something his body’s been waiting for. His arms carve through the water, shoulders engaging clean and deliberate. Muscles wake in sequence - back, triceps, core - lining up and firing like they were trained to do exactly this.
They were.
There’s a ghost of muscle memory in it - early mornings under fluorescent lights, the slap of lane ropes, a whistle cutting through humid air. Chlorine in his hair all day. His name sharp and bright off the starter’s block.
Captain.
He’d been good. Not just decent. Not just reliable. Fast.
Stroke.
Breathe.
Turn.
The burn builds along his shoulders and down into his lats, steady and controlled. His heartbeat settles into the pace like it remembers the drill. Long reach. Clean catch. Don’t waste the pull.
Water presses and yields. Resistance, response. If he pushes, it answers. If he holds his line, it holds.
He starts counting without meaning to.
Twenty-five.
Thirty.
Forty.
Each wall exactly where it should be. Each turn clean. No almosts. No ambiguity. The body either does the work or it doesn’t.
Underwater, there’s no almost-kiss.
No steam curling off a mug.
No heat pacing behind his ribs.
Just effort and breath and the quiet certainty that he knows how to move through this.
By sixty, his shoulders are lit up, heavy in a way that feels well earned. His chest feels open, worked through. The tightness that had been sitting under his sternum has somewhere to go now - burned off, stroke by stroke.
He eases the pace, coasts the last few feet, palm sliding along tile as he reaches for the wall.
And that’s when he sees you.
You’re sitting on the edge of the deep end, legs stretched out in front of you, feet drifting beneath the surface. Sunglasses pushed up into your hair, catching the light. A book rests closed beside you on the hot concrete, abandoned after maybe three pages, the spine barely cracked.
You’re not staring.
Not exactly.
Just… there. Present. Watching the place where he surfaces each time, like you’ve learned the rhythm without meaning to.
Steve stays where he is, hands braced on the edge, water streaming off his forearms. His breath evens out. His pulse settles, solid and cooperative.
Nothing lunges at him.
He drags a hand through his hair, slicks it back. The movement is unhurried. Sunlight catches on the drops clinging to his shoulders as he pushes off and glides along the wall toward you.
“You’re a lifeguard now?” he asks, voice a shade rough from chlorine and breathing hard. “Didn’t realize I needed supervision.”
You smile and flick water at him with your toes. “Ha. Funny. No - this just seemed like the best seat in the house.”
He pulls himself up and out to sit on the poolside a few feet away, legs still in the water. The air bites immediately, sharp and welcome after the heat of the pool. Goosebumps lift along his arms and shoulders. Water runs off him in slow trails, darkening the concrete around him.
He exhales - long, deliberate.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The quiet settles easily. The pool laps at the edge. Somewhere beyond the trees, the cicada keeps its steady rhythm. The sun sits warm and unhurried overhead.
You’re close enough that he can feel it - your presence, steady at his side - but there’s space between you. Nothing pressing. Nothing demanded.
Just this.
Steve rests his hands on the stone beside his thighs, fingers splayed against the heat. Concrete under his palms. Water cooling his calves. The contrast pins him in place.
Heat. Cool. Solid. Fluid.
He focuses on that. On the way sensation keeps him here, in his body, not drifting ahead of himself. His breathing evens out fully, deep and unforced.
He needs this.
So he lets himself have it.
Then you break the silence.
“So,” you say softly.
Your hand slides across the tile, slow and unassuming, until your little finger taps against his. Barely a touch. Light enough that he could pretend it didn’t happen.
He doesn’t.
He taps back. Once.
“I just… I wanted to check in,” you add.
The words land gently. No edge to them. No demand.
Steve keeps his hand where it is. Lets your finger rest there. The contact isn’t heat. It isn’t pressure.
It’s choice.
He tilts his head slightly toward you - a small shift that feels like an answer before he gives one. His eyes stay on the water, watching the surface settle, then ripple again.
“How are you feeling?” you continue. “After last night - your parents, I mean.”
Not the almost-kiss. Just the ritual humiliation that led up to it. The performance. The commentary. The way the room always tilts when they walk in.
He tips his head back for a second, blinking up into the sun, then looks at you. His shoulders rise in a shrug before he’s fully aware of doing it - muscle memory, older than the house, older than the pool.
“Same as always,” he says.
Automatic. Smooth. Ready.
You don’t contradict him. You don’t let it sit untouched, either. You hum softly, considering it like it’s something worth handling properly.
“Yeah,” you say after a moment. “I thought as much.”
Not dismissive or pitying. Just accurate, and aware.
You already understand enough about his parents to recognise the pattern. Familiar doesn’t mean harmless.
You nod once. “Okay. Then we don’t have to unpack it.”
You pause, then look at him a little more directly. “But what do you need today?”
Need.
Not what he can manage.
Not what he can tolerate.
Not what he can perform.
Need.
The word settles somewhere low and unfamiliar. Not uncomfortable. Just rare, unused.
He pauses, twisting the cord of his swim trunks around his fingers. Not because he doesn’t have an answer, but because no one’s asked him that in a long time.
Sunlight fractures across the pool’s surface, blue breaking and reforming with every small shift of water. For once, he doesn’t grab for the first response that would close this down cleanly. He lets the question sit. Lets it breathe.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says finally.
The words land heavier than he expects. A refusal, yes - but a real one. His jaw tightens a fraction. “It’s not because of you,” he adds, quick, almost defensive. “I just… don’t wanna make it a whole thing.”
You nod immediately.
“Hey. I get it,” you say. “Thanks for saying it.”
No edge. No disappointment.
“We can do something else,” you add, easy. “Or nothing at all. The day’s all ours.”
There’s no disappointment in your voice. No flicker of hurt he has to brace for. You don’t ask him to reconsider. You don’t try to make it easier to swallow.
You just accept it.
“We can keep it not-a-thing,” you add lightly, like it’s an adjustment, not a sacrifice.
The ease of it catches him off guard.
He looks at you then - really looks. You’re loose against the sun-warmed concrete, one hand balancing your weight behind you, shoulders open. No expectation in your expression. No waiting. No quiet tally of what he owes you.
“And,” you add, softer now, “if there’s anything I can do to make this week easier, just tell me.”
A small shrug. “Or don’t. I’m flexible.”
Flexible.
That lands somewhere he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
He’s used to edges. To roles. To knowing where he stands because someone else already decided it.
Water slides down his wrist, cool and grounding. He feels it - the way he’s sitting here, open, sun on his skin, nothing between them but air.
“Just… hang out,” he says finally. The simplicity of it makes his mouth tilt, almost sheepish. “Like this. No agenda.”
He glances at you, then away again. “I don’t need a therapist right now.” A beat. Softer. “I just really need my friend.”
You don’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” you say. “I can do that.”
Your foot kicks out in the pool, toes breaking the surface. The movement sends a soft fan of ripples across the water, spreading outward until they reach him a second later, brushing against his calves - cool, easy.
Steve closes his eyes and lets the sun settle warm across his face. Lets the water lap at his legs. Lets his breathing stay slow.
The heat in him hasn’t disappeared.
It sits low in his chest, quieter now, banked instead of blazing. When he inhales, he can feel it there - steady, contained. Not urgent. Not demanding.
Just present.
It’s new. Not wild, not reckless - just unfamiliar enough to make him aware of himself in ways he hasn’t been in a long time.
Too much for today.
But it isn’t going anywhere.
And for the first time, that doesn’t feel like a threat.
****************
The day stretches long and loose around them.
They’ve been outside for hours without marking it - the sun climbing, stalling, beginning its slow tilt toward afternoon. Shadows slide across the deck boards and pale concrete, measuring time without asking anyone to keep it.
Steve has claimed one of the loungers near the water, sunglasses tipped low on his nose. The warmth settles into him gradually - not oppressive, just steady. It sinks into muscle, into bone.
He’s always loved summer.
The smell of it - sunscreen, chlorine, hot wood baking under open sky. The way heat pulls him out of his head and back into his body.
As a kid, it tasted like sugar and melted ice cream. Like soda gone flat in red plastic cups. Music spilling from open windows. Someone shouting his name across a yard. The slap of pool water against concrete. Laughter layered over everything.
He remembers liking it - not just the noise, not just the attention.
The ease of it all.
Being warm. Being wanted. Not having to think too hard about who he was.
He shifts deeper into the lounger now, one arm folded behind his head. The pool flashes and shifts just beyond his feet. The cicadas hum. Somewhere down the beach, a car door slams and distant voices rise and fall again.
It’s quieter than it used to be.
But the core of it feels the same.
Comfort in his own skin. Sun on his face. No one asking him to be more or less than what he is in this exact moment.
He lets the warmth hold him.
And with a simple, unshowy certainty, he knows he’s still good at this.
At summer.
At ease.
At being here.
Close enough that he’s always faintly aware of you without feeling like he’s keeping track. The awareness drifts in and out in small, ordinary ways. The soft rasp of magazine pages turning. The faint hiss and click of your Discman as you skip a track, a scrap of melody escaping into the heat before disappearing again. The shape of you in his peripheral vision - feet crossed at the ankles, knee tipped toward the pool like you might slide in without warning.
It’s easy.
Unremarkable in the best way.
At some point - he couldn’t say when - he realises he hasn’t thought about his parents in a while. Or the morning. Or even the almost-kiss from the night before. It’s still there, somewhere in the background, but it isn’t pressing at him.
For now, he’s just here.
Skin tacky with sunscreen. A thin sheen of sweat at his collarbone. His body heavy and loose against the lounger, muscles pleasantly slack. Nothing tugging. Nothing to manage.
The house behind them stays quiet. No doors opening. No one calling his name. Across the dunes, the ocean moves in its steady push and pull. A distant boat engine cuts through the air, then fades again.
Time loosens its grip.
Eventually, you stand, stretching without hurry - arms lifting overhead, spine arching as you ease the stiffness from your back. The shift pulls the light across the deck, and Steve cracks one eye open without meaning to, tracking you lazily as you pad toward the house.
“I’m gonna grab a drink,” you say, already halfway past him. “You want anything?”
“Yeah,” he replies, not lifting his head. “I’ll take a Coke. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
You don’t slow. You don’t make it an event. It’s just information, exchanged and done.
As you pass his lounger, your hand dips.
Your fingers skim lightly into his hair at the crown of his head - not a stroke, not quite a ruffle. Just contact. Familiar. Easy.
And Steve -
He leans into it.
Barely. A subtle tilt of his head, small enough to miss if you weren’t looking. His body answering before his mind bothers to interpret it.
There’s no flare of alarm. No rush to define it.
Just the simple, quiet pleasure of being touched kindly.
Sun on skin. Chlorine in the air. Coconut sunscreen. Cicadas buzzing steady in the heat.
His breathing stays slow. He doesn’t reach after your hand when it leaves. He doesn’t need to.
The warmth lingers.
When you come back, you don’t announce yourself. You step in close and press the cold bottle against his bare chest.
He yelps - higher than he’d prefer - shoulders jerking before the sound dissolves into a laugh. His hand flies up, trapping the Coke against his sternum.
“Christ,” he says, grinning now, fingers closing around it. “You’re a menace.”
Then, softer, warmer, once he feels the condensation slick against his palm and realises how thirsty he is:
“No, you’re a hero.”
You grin and drop back into your chair, hooking the headphones behind your neck as you start the disc, skipping through a few tracks before settling on one. Music filters out, tinny and imperfect - a song he half-recognises but doesn’t bother placing. It doesn’t matter.
The afternoon keeps going.
At some point, he drifts onto his stomach and falls into a light nap - stirring when a breeze kicks up, or when the sun shifts enough to find his eyes through the gaps at the sides of his sunglasses. Once, you move the umbrella without being asked, angling the shade so it falls across his face. He notices that later, when the heat eases, and the realisation lands quietly - a brief tightening in his chest, followed by something softer in its place.
Later still, you suggest food. Nothing fancy. Sandwiches scavenged from the fridge, eaten barefoot on the deck with crumbs brushed casually into the grass. He tells you a story about Dustin and Eddie while you eat - one of the harmless ones, amended and exaggerated just enough - and you laugh hard enough to almost choke, hand coming up to your mouth, eyes bright, caught in the moment.
The sound of it startles something loose in him. It hits low and sudden, a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun - familiar in a way that surprises him. He watches you catch your breath, still smiling, and feels the day settle more firmly into place around him.
The afternoon keeps giving without asking for anything back.
As the light finally starts to turn, gold edging slowly toward amber, Steve lies back with his eyes closed, the corner of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. The deck is warm beneath him. His stomach is full. Cherry Coke lingers on his tongue. The air smells like sunscreen and bread and summer.
He lets the moment exist without reaching for it, basking sleepily in the crumbs and the coconut of it all.
****************
But as with all good things, the lazy quiet of the day has to break eventually. The air splits with the sound of car doors slamming somewhere out front. Laughter follows, louder than it needs to be. Fridge doors open and close, ice clinks against glass, music flicks on inside the house and spills out onto the deck.
From his position on his stomach, one harm hanging off the edge of the lounger, Steve doesn’t open his eyes.
He hears you shift beside him - he’s tuned into it now. He hears the soft creak of your lounger as you sit up.
“Everyone’s home,” you murmur, not bothered.
He hums in acknowledgment, too lazy to shape it into a word.
He notices when you gasp, hears you lean toward the table, the rub of plastic dragged on metal.
“You’re gonna burn, Steve.”
He cracks one eye open, squinting behind his shades, trying to focus on whatever you’re doing. “M’not, s’fine.”
“You are,” you mutter, squeezing lotion into your palm as you slip from your lounger to his. “Hold still.”
Protesting seems like more effort than it’s worth. He stays where he is.
It’s automatic. Easy. The same way he’s leaned into your passing touch earlier, he yields to this without thinking.
Your hands land warm and slick across his shoulders. Slow, deliberate passes smooth over the back of his neck. Across the tops of his arms, down to his elbows and back up. Pressing gently into his shoulder blades, working the sunscreen into his skin, slow and methodical.
He thinks he might pass out from the bliss of it all.
“You’re lucky I caught you when I did,” you say, fingers working out a knot at the base of his neck.
Steve has no capacity for words. He hums low in his throat instead.
“You’re pretty pink.”
“M’not,” he groans into the cushion.
“You’re basically medium rare at this point.”
“And you’re rude.”
“Turn your head, let me get the other side of your neck.”
He obeys without thinking.
“You get bossy in the sunshine,” he sighs, groggy.
“Someone’s gotta look after you, Steve. These moles are not going cancerous on my watch.”
He cracks one eye open at that, shifting his sunglasses aside so he can get a good look at you. “Pretty sure I can look after myself.”
“Mm.” Your fingers press into the muscle at the back of his neck. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”
He makes a quiet sound - sort of a laugh, mostly something else entirely - as your thumbs work in slow circles, not caring that the sunscreen has been well and truly absorbed already.
“Do I need to pay extra for this?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On how dramatic you plan to be about it later.”
He smiles lazily, tucking his hands under the cushion. “Hey, I’m very brave.”
“You squealed at a Coke bottle.”
“That was tactical surprise. And it was cold.”
“Sure it was.”
Your hands drift lower, smoothing over warm skin before spreading out again across his shoulders.
He shifts under you, just a little - not away. Into it.
“You gonna take requests while you’re at it?” he asks, softer now.
“You’re pushing your luck, Harrington.”
He lets that settle between you. Then, quieter still, the words falling just this side of teasing:
“Don’t stop.”
Your fingers pause for a fraction of a second - not retreating, more like you’re gauging something. Then they resume. Slower.
Your palm glides once down the centre of his back, deliberate this time, thumb pressing lightly before sweeping outward again.
“Relax,” you say lightly. “I got you.”
Your hands move up and settle warm at the base of his neck, thumbs circling.
Steve’s body reacts before his brain does - a tightening low and sharp that has nothing to do with sun or sunscreen.
Footsteps spill out from the house and onto the deck.
“Well,” his dad’s voice carries first, amused and easy. “Looks like someone’s got it made.”
You don’t snatch your hands away. You don’t jerk back like you’ve been caught out. You just let them rest there a second longer, palms warm against his skin, as if the interruption is nothing more than background noise.
Annabeth laughs softly. “We leave you two alone for a few hours…”
“…and little Stevie’s turned into royalty,” his uncle finishes. “Getting waited on hand and foot.”
A ripple of laughter carries across the pool.
Your fingers resume, lighter now. Practical. Finishing the job.
Steve keeps his face angled down, eyes closed. He wills his body into stillness, into laziness - into something that looks easy.
“Hard life,” he drawls, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry. “Wouldn’t recommend it.”
It earns another chuckle.
His mom steps closer, her shadow cutting across the deck.
“You’ve been out here all day?” she asks, a note of faint disbelief threaded through it. “You didn’t take her into town? Show her around a little?”
The question lands differently. Not teasing. More like assessment.
Your hands pause, briefly, at the base of his neck.
Something tightens in him - not low and sharp this time, but higher. Older. A reflex that predates you, predates this house, predates the ocean and the warmth and the easy stretch of the afternoon.
He should have done something.
Planned something.
Been something.
Steve shrugs without lifting his head. “We were good here.”
She exhales lightly - not quite a sigh. “You just laid around the pool all day?”
The word just hooks.
Before he can decide whether to sit up, to justify, to explain - his uncle cuts in with a laugh.
“Pool? Sure,” he says. “Young and in love with the house to themselves - what do you think they’ve been up to?”
Laughter carries again, and just like that, the tone shifts.
Heat floods him, low and sudden. Not shame - not exactly. The feeling of being perceived, dragged out into the open and dressed up in someone else’s assumption.
They’re wrong, but the alternative - the truth - feels closer to something he’s not fully comfortable naming.
Your hands remain light and unbothered.
“It’s been great,” you say easily, as if this is the simplest thing in the world. “Steve’s taken good care of me.”
It’s a deflection. But it isn’t defensive.
Annabeth makes a small noise of acknowledgement - half concession, half still-not-convinced.
“Well,” she sighs, “at least take her into town sometime. There’s more to this place than the deck.”
Steve bites down on his tongue.
“Maybe she likes the deck,” he replies, voice still lazy, but firmer now.
That earns another snort of amusement from Uncle Rick.
Your hands smooth once more over his shoulders before lifting away.
The absence of them feels immediate.
He pushes up onto his elbows, rolling his shoulders like he’s adjusting to being upright, to being seen.
Behind him, the house is loud now - music drifting through the open doors, bottles clinking, someone asking where the good knife is.
The day has shifted, even if the sun hasn’t quite dipped yet.
He stays where he is for a moment longer, cheek pressed to the lounger, listening to the house reassemble itself around him. The scrape of chairs. Someone arguing about charcoal. His mom calling for a serving dish that’s “definitely in the second drawer.”
There’s a familiar tightening in his chest - not panic, not even dread. Just the subtle awareness of stepping back into a role.
He pushes himself upright slowly.
The movement feels heavier than it should.
His shirt lies crumpled near the leg of the lounger, sun-warmed cotton twisted in on itself. He reaches for it, gives it a loose shake before dragging it over his head. The fabric sticks briefly where the sunscreen hasn’t fully absorbed, clinging to his shoulders before settling.
He stretches and sighs and reaches for his shorts next. Steps into them. Pulls the drawstring tight. Double knots it without thinking.
Small, practical tasks. Anchors.
You’re already standing when he looks up.
Not hovering. Not impatient. Just there - one hip angled toward him, sunlight catching in the damp ends of your hair, expression open in that way that never feels like pressure.
The noise from the house swells behind you - cupboard doors, a burst of music, someone arguing about who finished the last of the ice and Danny could you please go out to the garage for more?
You step closer.
Your fingers brush the inside of his wrist first, tentative enough to be deniable. Testing whether he’s still where you left him.
His pulse jumps under your touch, and he knows you feel it.
Your gaze flickers, just briefly, and your fingers curl fully into his hand.
The contact is warm from the sun, a little slick from sunscreen, needed in a way that makes his throat tighten.
He looks down at your joined hands.
Your fingers curve into his palm like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t cost you anything at all.
Back up at you.
There’s a question there - quiet, unspoken, hovering between you.
Are we doing this? Are we pretending again?
Or is this something else?
You don’t smile. You don’t overplay it. You just stay close, chin tipped slightly toward the noise of the others gathering ahead. Solid. Unflinching.
You’re not asking him to perform. You’re giving him the choice.
And that feels more dangerous than the teasing ever did.
His pulse knocks once, hard, at the base of his throat. The world feels bright and exposed in the afternoon sun. Chlorine, salt air, the birds on the wing. His dad’s voice somewhere up ahead. Too close. Too familiar.
If he lets go now, it will read as hesitation. As doubt. His father will spot it. His uncle will smirk. Lucy will raise an eyebrow later and file it away for commentary. It will become a thing - a tiny fracture in whatever story they’ve been selling all week.
But if he keeps hold of you, this stops being optics. It stops being a prop. It becomes intentional. Chosen. And that’s the part that tightens his chest - because it means you matter.
He waits for you to waver. To pull back first. To give him an out he can take without losing face.
You don’t.
You stay exactly where you are, your hand resting in his without tension or demand. No pressure. No performance. Just presence.
It would be so easy to retreat.
But the steadiness in you makes something settle in him instead of flare. The usual instinct to joke, to deflect, to loosen his grip before anyone notices he’s holding too tightly - it doesn’t land. Or if it does, it fades quickly, drowned out by the simple fact of your palm against his.
He inhales slowly, giving himself that single second to back out - and feels the choice crystallise instead of dissolve. This isn’t muscle memory. It isn’t him playing along because it’s easier than explaining. It’s quieter than that, steadier.
He turns his hand, fits his fingers between yours, and lets them settle there as if they were always meant to. He doesn’t do it for the audience. He does it because somewhere along the line, he stopped wanting an exit.
He doesn’t squeeze hard enough to trap you there, doesn’t slacken either. He finds that middle ground - firm, deliberate - the kind of hold that says I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.
His thumb shifts, almost absently at first, then settles into the shallow space between your thumb and index finger. The movement is small, but it feels intimate in a way he hadn’t prepared for.
At some point - he couldn’t say exactly when - the background noise of the deck stopped registering as threat assessment. He isn’t scanning for who might be watching. He isn’t bracing for commentary or preparing a line to undercut whatever they say.
He’s thinking about the warmth of your hand threaded through his.
About how natural it feels.
The ease of it unsettles him more than the teasing ever could. Because if this were only performance, he’d still be aware of the stage.
Instead, he feels… settled.
And that might be the most dangerous part.
A whistle slices through the air, sharp and carrying, and the spell fractures.
“Well, would you look at that,” Uncle Rick calls from the railing, voice thick with amusement. “Don’t they make a picture?”
His dad’s laugh follows easily, familiar and satisfied. “Told you, Rick. Young love.”
There it is. The narrative handed to them, neat and smug.
Steve rolls his eyes on instinct, the gesture automatic and well-practised, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. He doesn’t step away. If anything, his fingers flex slightly - not possessive, not defiant. Just present.
Beside him, your thumb presses once against his knuckles. Not clinging. Not asking. Just there.
He glances at you then, expecting to find some flicker of self-consciousness.
He doesn’t.
“Ready?” you murmur, pitched low enough that it brushes only his ear.
The question isn’t about the house. Or the dinner. Or the waiting family.
It’s about stepping back into the performance without losing whatever this was.
He hesitates - not long enough for anyone else to notice, but long enough to feel the weight of the afternoon lingering at the edges of him. Sunscreen and salt air. The heat of the sun still sitting on his shoulders. The memory of your hands earlier, casual and unthinking, and the way he’d leaned into it without panic.
He could pull back now. Reset. Re-establish distance.
Instead, he tightens his fingers fractionally, grounding himself in the choice he already made.
“Yeah,” he says, softer than the moment probably requires. “Let’s do this.”
And together, still joined at the hand, you turn and walk toward the house - not quite pretending, not quite confessing, but something far more complicated in between.
****************
The noise hits them first.
Cool air conditioning spills over skin still warm from the sun as they step inside, the shift in temperature almost disorienting after hours on the deck. Music hums from the radio near the sink - something bright and overfamiliar - and the kitchen lights glow against the fading daylight, making everything feel fuller, louder, closer.
Juliane is already stationed at the island, lining up plates in tidy stacks like she’s building order out of chaos. Lucy leans against the counter mid-story, gesturing with a beer in one hand and nearly knocking over a bowl of olives with the other.
“There they are,” Lucy calls when she spots them. “The mysterious pool hermits.”
Steve releases your hand as you cross the threshold, the movement instinctive rather than intentional. He angles toward the fridge, grateful for something to do, pulling it open and scanning the shelves like he’s been tasked with a mission.
You don’t hesitate.
You fold yourself into the space as though you’ve been part of it all day.
“Need a hand?” you ask Juliane, already reaching for a stack of small bowls before she answers.
She looks up, faint surprise flickering into approval. “Actually, yes - can you pass me those serving spoons? And the basil, if you see it.”
You find both without fuss. You ask where she wants the bruschetta tray. You taste the dressing when she offers you a spoon and nod thoughtfully before suggesting a little more salt.
It’s seamless.
Steve watches you move through the kitchen like this is just another room you’ve always known. You deflect what needs deflecting - answering questions about the day with lightness, not detail.
“Yes, it was perfect out there.”
“Honestly, we didn’t need much.”
When Lucy tries to pry for specifics, you just grin and ask her about the server she’d been flirting with at the party. The attention shifts effortlessly.
It’s not avoidance.
It’s control.
Every time you pass him, there’s contact.
Your palm brushes low across his back when you squeeze behind him for a plate. Your hip nudges his when he blocks the drawer you need. Your fingers tap lightly against his hand when he lingers too long at the fridge like he’s forgotten why he opened it.
The touches don’t draw attention.
They read as habit.
Some of it is performance.
Some of it is something else entirely.
He mirrors you without consciously deciding to.
When someone asks you about work, his hand comes to rest at your shoulder, fingers rubbing once absently against your collarbone. When Lucy hands him the bruschetta tray, he passes a piece to you first, holding it just out of reach until you glare at him.
“Don’t,” you warn, already smiling.
“You’ve got tomato -”
You swipe at your chin too late.
He laughs, reaches forward, and wipes it away with his thumb before the thought catches up with him.
The room barely registers it. It looks easy. Ordinary.
But the warmth of it lingers at the edge of his awareness.
The playfulness from the afternoon hasn’t evaporated in the noise. It threads through everything - the way you lean into him when someone bumps your shoulder, the way he steadies you without thinking when you nearly drop a bowl.
He notices something strange then.
He isn’t pulled tense with it.
He isn’t tracking every shift in tone, every raised eyebrow, every subtle judgement in his mother’s voice.
The kitchen feels loud, yes - crowded, yes - but not suffocating.
Because every time the noise swells, your hand finds him again. A press at his back. A squeeze at his fingers. A silent check-in.
You good?
He doesn’t say it out loud, but he answers it anyway, shifting closer when he can, letting his shoulder brush yours, anchoring himself in that small point of contact.
When his dad launches into a story from college, louder than necessary and already two beats too long, Steve catches your eye across the island.
You roll yours with theatrical exaggeration.
He grins before he can stop himself.
And for the first time that evening, standing in the middle of his family’s noise and expectation, he realises he isn’t alone in it.
****************
Dinner drifts instead of ending.
Plates sit in uneven stacks along the table, someone promising to “get them in a minute” with no real intention of following through. The firepit is lit without ceremony, flames catching in deep reds and orange as the sky fades from amber into ink. Cushions are dragged into loose formation across the deck, bodies folding into them wherever there’s space - bare feet tucked beneath thighs, second drinks sweating in relaxed hands, the soft crackle of burning wood stitching the whole evening together.
It’s nothing like the stiffness of the previous night. There’s no arranged seating, no careful hosting choreography, just the low hum of overlapping stories and no one particularly concerned with following the same thread at once. Someone presses a beer into his hand that he didn’t ask for; someone else is already arguing about music. The noise is warm and unstructured, comfortable in its disorder.
You settle into the corner of the couch and jump into the nearest conversation, natural as breathing.
He finds himself on the deck at your feet without consciously choosing it, lowering himself between your knees and leaning back against the cushion as if it were the most obvious place to land. The position feels easy, unremarkable - his weight resting naturally against you, the firelight warming his bare legs, the ocean breathing somewhere beyond the dunes.
For a while he lets the soundscape carry him: the weave of conversation to his right, the pop and shift of burning wood, the distant rush of tide rolling in and out of the dark.
Then your hand slips into his hair.
You don’t announce it or even look down. Your fingers simply find his crown while you continue talking, nails grazing lightly across his scalp in an absent, unselfconscious rhythm.
Something in him loosens.
Rick’s voice cuts cleanly through the hum. “So there’s really enough demand for stained glass restoration out there? In rural Indiana?”
Steve doesn’t bother opening his eyes. He feels the slight pause in your hand - not withdrawal, just adjusting - before you answer.
“After the quake?” you reply calmly. “Yeah. More than anyone expected.”
Your fingers resume their slow path along the curve of his head as you speak.
“The first phase was structural. Plain glass. Hospitals. Schools. Housing. That had to come first. But once the emergency response settled…” You shift slightly behind him, fingers flexing without disrupting the contact. “Beauty got left behind.”
Your thumb brushes the base of his skull, and he feels the difference immediately.
This morning, touch had felt like something happening to him - sudden, sharp, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. Now it moves through him differently. There’s no urgency to it, no edge. Just warmth spreading beneath his skin, steady and unthreatening.
“A lot of those church windows had been there for over a century,” you continue. “People weren’t just grieving buildings. They were grieving memory.”
He lets his head tip fully back against your thigh. The warmth of you there is solid and grounding. You adjust automatically to accommodate him, fingers spreading slightly without breaking your sentence.
“So they sent you in for that?” Rick asks.
“My company did. Right after the quarantine lifted. I moved out to assess what could be saved.”
He exhales softly as your thumb presses at the base of his neck.
“We started with the churches - stabilising what hadn’t shattered, rebuilding panels from old photographs. Then the city commissioned a memorial for the new town hall.”
The fire pops; laughter flares briefly from the far end of the couch.
“It’s a layered piece,” you explain. “Some of the glass fragments are from the original buildings. You can still see the fractures if you look closely. It’s not about pretending nothing broke. It’s about letting the break be part of the new design.”
Your hand slides forward, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.
He opens his eyes.
From where he’s sitting, the firelight catches along the curve of your jaw and the edge of your cheek. You’re focused on Rick, patient and unhurried, gesturing lightly with your free hand - the other still resting loosely in his hair.
You’re not trying to impress anyone. There’s no sharpness in the way you speak, no performance to soften or dramatise your work. You’re explaining it because it matters to you.
He realises he’s listening less to the content of your words and more to their cadence - the quiet certainty threaded through them. You don’t rush to justify yourself. You don’t shrink your work to make it more digestible. You simply speak.
Your fingers scratch lightly at his scalp again, and this time the sensation doesn’t spike. It settles. Warms. Spreads slow and heavy through him until he feels it in his chest.
He becomes aware, gradually, that he’s smiling - not the grin he uses when he’s playing a part, not the smirk that buys him distance, but something softer and unguarded.
You glance down, perhaps sensing the shift, and find him already looking at you.
Your smile changes, only slightly.
Warmer. Private.
You keep talking to Rick, but your thumb traces a small, absent circle near his temple as if to say, I know.
For a moment the noise of the deck recedes into texture. The fire becomes background glow. His dad’s voice blends into the wider hum of conversation. There’s no calculation running under his skin, no clenching for commentary or performance. Just the soft press of your thigh beneath his head and your hand in his hair, anchoring him there.
He isn’t analysing it. He isn’t trying to decide what it means.
He’s just here.
There’s a click.
Lucy lowers the Polaroid camera from her face, triumphant. “Oh, that one’s good.”
He barely registers it. Lucy’s been snapping photos all evening - shaking them gently to coax the images into clarity, lining them up on the table to pass around. They curl slightly at the edges as they develop, colours blooming into place.
He turns his face a fraction deeper into your thigh, eyes drifting closed again, and listens to you finish your explanation while the fire burns lower and the sky deepens overhead.
****************
As the fire burns lower, the conversation loosens.
The volume drops without anyone announcing it - stories trailing off, laughter coming softer now, Rick nursing the last of his drink instead of launching into another anecdote. The night stretches long and comfortable around them.
Lucy is still on the far end of the couch, carefully shaking a fresh Polaroid before setting it down beside the others. Juliane leans toward you, asking another question about the memorial, and you turn slightly to answer, still warm and intent in a way that hasn’t dimmed all evening.
Annabeth, meanwhile, has begun gathering the developed photos into neat stacks on the low table. She studies each one with quiet concentration before deciding its fate - some slid into a small scrapbook beside her chair, others lifted ready to be carefully arranged inside the wide wooden frame resting against the sideboard. She adjusts their spacing more than once before settling on a configuration that satisfies her.
She doesn’t rush it.
She chooses.
Steve notices the deliberation in the way she handles them - the slight tilt of her head, the way she steps back to assess the composition before committing.
The evening isn’t ending so much as settling.
When he finally shifts, it begins as a stretch - his head lifting from your thigh, your hand sliding from his hair with a soft drag of fingers through it, unhurried, as though you’re both reluctant to break the shape of it. He braces a palm against the deck and pushes himself upright, brushing off the back of his shorts before stepping carefully around the low table and the scatter of legs toward the house.
“I’m gonna turn in,” he says, easy.
“Already?” Rick calls, though there’s no real protest in it.
“Old man,” Lucy adds, not looking up from the photo she’s inspecting.
Annabeth glances up from the frame she’s adjusting, one hand still resting along the wood. “Alright, Steven. Sleep tight.”
You’re angled toward Juliane, mid-sentence, explaining something with the same quiet focus that’s threaded through you all night. You don’t stop speaking as he circles behind the couch on his way to the door.
He could walk past without touching you.
It would be easy. Casual. Unremarkable.
Instead, as he passes close enough to feel the warmth of your shoulder through the thin cotton of your shirt, he lets his hand drift.
His fingers brush along the curve of your shoulder first - a light, testing sweep - then settle there for half a second longer than necessary. Not possessive. Not performative. Just a quiet confirmation.
You lean into it instinctively, like you were expecting it.
Your hand lifts without looking, catching his wrist before he can pull away. Your thumb presses once against the inside of it - small, deliberate - and the contact lands heavier than the gesture should allow.
Not for the room.
For him.
“I won’t be too long,” you murmur, still half-turned toward Juliane, your voice easy enough that no one else would hear anything in it.
Your fingers tighten once - brief, certain - before releasing him.
The absence of your touch follows him the last few steps to the door.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.
The sliding glass door closes behind him with a soft hush.
Outside, your voice carries faintly through the glass - animated, warm. Inside, the house has quieted. The music has been switched off. The kitchen smells faintly of woodsmoke and citrus.
He pauses in the hallway, intending to grab a glass of water before heading upstairs.
That’s when he sees them.
The Polaroids.
They’ve already been slid into the frame on the sideboard - the one his mom updates obsessively every summer with what she calls “this month’s memories.”
Danny and Annabeth, posed but relaxed, arms linked with easy familiarity.
The sunset spilling molten light across the water.
Lucy, Juliane, and Rick collapsed together on the couch, caught mid-laugh.
A seagull balanced one-legged on the fence, eyeing a scrap of leftovers below.
And then -
He steps closer.
There it is, positioned squarely in the centre.
Him on the deck floor, head tipped back. You above him, fingers tangled in his hair, looking down at him as though nothing else exists beyond the frame.
He doesn’t look like he’s pretending.
He looks -
He swallows before the word settles fully in his chest.
Happy.
Not the curated version of it. Not the polished grin he gives cameras out of habit. Something unguarded. Something that hasn’t been adjusted for anyone else’s comfort.
Annabeth has chosen that one.
Chosen to display it - to display them - in the middle of her carefully curated summer house.
She didn’t pick the sunset.
She didn’t pick the posed ones.
She picked this.
Picked him like that.
The knowledge lands slowly.
His mother, who notices everything. Who edits relentlessly. Who arranges and rearranges until the story of the week looks just right.
She saw this - and decided it was the one worth framing.
Worth keeping.
Something tight pulls low in his chest, unfamiliar and dangerously close to emotion he doesn’t have a clean name for. It isn’t embarrassment. It isn’t pride. It’s something softer. A quiet, disorienting sense of being… approved. Not for performance. Not for potential.
For this.
Upstairs, a tap runs briefly. Floorboards creak. The house settles into night.
Steve stands there longer than he intends to, staring at the image that feels both entirely ordinary and impossibly exposed - like someone has held up proof of something he hasn’t fully admitted to himself yet.
Then he reaches up, turns off the hallway light, and heads for the stairs.
summary: You and Eddie are nothing but miserable as your pregnancy progresses but at least you have some comfort.
word count: 2.5k
Thank you @glassbxttless for helping me out with this one!
You can find part one here!
September 1989
Corroded Coffin continues their tour as you go to your appointments and shop for all of the baby necessities. You don’t even think about Eddie anymore, the support and love your roommates have given you is filling the hole he drilled into your heart. They help you pick out clothes and decorations for the nursery. You’re so busy that you don’t even have time to think about the asshole who broke your heart.
Eddie still thinks about you, though. All the time, actually. He tries to forget about you with drugs and alcohol and other women but it all just seems to make it worse. Whenever he takes a girl back to his hotel room, all he pictures is your tear-soaked face and he suddenly can’t get hard. So he sends her home and tries so hard to not think about you as he attempts to get his release but he never can.
You fucked everything up for him and he’s going to blame you because, of course, he refuses to believe that he’s the problem. He’s the one who got you pregnant (even though he’s still in denial that you’re pregnant at all) but he still won’t accept that he did this to himself.
He’s got yet another girl back at his place and as she stands naked before him, he’s suddenly disinterested. She’s perfect, but she’s not you. She never will be and that’s the problem. He keeps comparing every woman he sleeps with to you and he has no idea why. It was one night and he can’t seem to forget about it. He thinks it might have been the best sex he’s ever had and he can’t get the way you pulled on his hair out of his head.
Your moans replay in his head on repeat and he fucking hates it. He actually thinks he’s starting to hate you because you won’t go away. You’re always lingering in the back of his head and he doesn’t know why. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t want to admit it. He feels horrible for the way he treated you when you told him that you were pregnant. He behaved terribly and he just knows that Wayne would be so disappointed in him for speaking to you that way.
He wonders if that’s what he needs-to talk to Wayne. That’s always who he goes to when he has a problem and Wayne almost always has the answers. So he excuses himself to do just that, hurrying to his bedroom while the poor girl sits on the couch to wait for him.
He dials the very familiar number, feeling tears well up in his eyes as the phone rings. He honestly can’t remember the last time he talked to Wayne. It has to have been months. His heart rate picks up as it rings and just when he thinks that Wayne’s not going to pick up, he hears the man’s voice.
“Hello?” Eddie feels his heart rate instantly go down when he hears his uncle’s voice. There’s something so calming about it-it makes him feel like everything will be okay no matter what’s going on. Wayne is always the calm in Eddie’s little storm.
“Wayne!” He’s trying not to scare the poor man but he’s just so happy to be able to talk to him even though the reason why he’s calling isn’t exactly ideal.
“Eddie?” Wayne hasn’t heard from his nephew for months, the only indication that he’s alive is the checks he gets in the mail. And he honestly doesn’t have time for this right now, especially when he knows a favor is coming. That seems to be the only reason why Eddie ever calls anymore.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I only have a few minutes before I have to leave for work so what do you want?” Wayne’s words come out harsh but Eddie supposes that he can’t really complain. He should be grateful that Wayne even picked up at all.
“I have some news.”
“Well, lay it on me, boy.”
“It looks like I’m gonna be a dad.” He feels sick saying it as he never saw himself as a father but he guesses he shouldn’t be so surprised. He’s been so reckless that it was only a matter of time that he knocked someone up. “Wayne? Ya still there?”
“Sorry, I swore I thought I heard you say that you’re going to be a dad.”
“I did and I am.” Wayne sits down at the table in response to the news. He figured this would happen eventually but he thought that Eddie would have settled down first. That’s what he’s always wanted. But that was before he got famous and turned into a kind of person that his own uncle is ashamed of.
“Jesus, boy.”
“I fucked up, Wayne. I completely brushed her off when she told me.”
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“What should I do?” The old Wayne would have dropped everything to help his nephew but not now. He takes advantage of Wayne’s generosity any chance he gets and the man is sick of it. He can figure this out on his own.
“Oh, no, no, no. You’re not gonna ignore me for months then call me up just because you fucked up. This is your problem and you’re going to fix it.” The line goes dead and Eddie just sits there, stunned. Wayne has never behaved like this but this is what Eddie deserves. He’s been a fucking dick and he’s finally being treated the way he should have been from the beginning.
He lets out a loud sigh and sets the phone back in the receiver before heading back into the living room to have some very lackluster sex that definitely won’t get his mind off of you. But when he opens the door to his bedroom, his guest isn’t on the couch. In fact, she isn’t anywhere to be found. He knows he has no right to be angry because he left her alone for so long, but he’s actually kind of pissed.
Ever since you broke the news, everything has fucking sucked. You ruined his life and he wishes that he could tell you so. He can’t do anything without thinking about you or the baby and it’s driving him crazy. Part of him wants to reach out and apologize but he’s got too much pride for that. He’s just going to continue to blame you because that’s what he does best-accusing everyone of being at fault when really, he’s the villain.
-
Your room is completely dark, the only source of light being the ones on the street that are streaming in through your curtains that you’ve drawn. It’s late nights like this when you’re feeling you’re lowest that you really wish you had someone laying beside you. Sometimes you wonder what your life would have been like if Eddie had decided that he wanted to help you raise the baby.
You move your hands up to your stomach, feeling her move around and wonder how the hell someone could decide how someone couldn’t want her. Well, you guess it’s good that you’ll love her enough for both you and Eddie. You love her more than you’ve ever loved anyone and you haven’t even met her yet.
You hate yourself every time you think about it but you’re just so scared to be doing it alone-well, as the only parent. Your roommates have been nothing but angels throughout your pregnancy but you just can’t help but wonder how much more confident you’d feel if you had someone to raise her with.
And you feel sick when you think about how he did this to you and then ran off after you told him the news. He’s probably forgotten all about you and his daughter and you hate him for it. Well, the way he handled it. You don’t think you have the right to blame him for not wanting to be involved but you wish he hadn’t been such a dick about it.
You kept it from him for months because you were so afraid that he would react badly and now you suppose you should have known. You had heard all sorts of things about him and still decided to sleep with him.You ignored all of the warning signs and look at where that got you.
You open your eyes, looking across the room at all of the baby stuff that you’ve already bought and cry even harder, wondering how the fuck you’re going to do this. All of the mothers make it look so easy
There’s a quiet knock on your door and you don’t even have to ask who it is because you just know. When it opens, the light in the hallway streams into your room, causing a yellowish hue to cover your floorboards. You watch as Steve makes his way over after he’s closed the door. He crawls into the bed with you, laying behind you as he moves your hair from your face. He then lies behind you, helping you calm down by getting your breath to match his-nice and slow.
He wordlessly pulls you to his chest, wrapping his arms around you as sobs rake through you again and again. And when you turn and bury your face into his neck before apologizing for getting snot on the collar of his shirt, he just shushes you.
You sound like you need a good cry so that’s what he’s going to let you do. He’s here to be your literal shoulder to cry on and he doesn’t even have to ask what you’re crying about. He just knows and has half a mind to go and kick Munson’s ass for what he did to you. The only thing that’s keeping him from it is that he doesn’t know where the fucker is.
He’s watched you get hurt by men before but not like this. He knows he shouldn’t be so worked up about this but he can’t help it. You’re his best friend and he hates seeing you so upset even though you have every right to be. He knows you’ve felt like this for months, hiding beside the smile you’ve plastered on. He knows you better than that and can’t believe you thought that he wouldn’t pick up on it.
He knows why you haven’t but he wishes that you would have told him the truth. Not because he feels like he deserves the vulnerability but because he would have been there for you. He would have comforted you just like he is now and he wouldn’t have judged you. He’s held your hair back after a few too many drinks at the bar so why is this any different?
You pull back to look at him and turn on the lamp, suddenly very aware of how awful your probably look with your smeared makeup and tear-stained cheeks. But all Steve is thinking about is how gorgeous you look, especially in the glow of the warm toned lamp. Even in the state that you’re in, he’s still convinced that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
You don’t know if it’s just the headspace you’re in but you can’t stop looking at Steve’s lips and how much you want to kiss them. They look so inviting and pink and when he runs his tongue over them, you have to know if they’re as soft as they look.
You’ve never felt like this about him. He’s always been-well, Steve. But the more you think about his lips, the more you want them on yours. You want to finally know if he’s as good of a kisser as all of the girls in high school claimed he was.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you lean forward, eyes fluttering shut as you get closer and closer. You chicken out at the last second and wind up pecking the corner of his mouth before pulling away in horror of the stupid thing you’ve done.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks warm in embarrassment. You just fucked everything up, you’re sure of it. And when you see him chuckle, you feel a pit forming in your stomach. Steve would never be so cruel but you’re in such a sensitive state right now, hearing his laughter echo in your ears.
“Do you want to try that again?” Your eyes widen at his question and he can’t help but laugh some more at how adorable you are.
“What?”
“You missed. Do you want to try again?” He scoots closer, closing the space you created, his hand resting gently on your cheek. His eyes bore into yours as he waits for an answer. You’ve always appreciated how gentle he’s been with you, especially right now. He’s letting you make the first move and you know he won’t be mad at you if you decide to back out.
You slowly lean forward, pressing your lips to his in a gentle peck. You’re acting like you’ve never done this before and Steve thinks it cute, slotting his lips between yours as he guides you. It’s nice and slow and everything you wanted.
He pulls away before your ready and chuckles when you let out a whine. He’s dreamed about this for years but he doesn’t want it, not like this. You’re in a vulnerable state and he doesn’t want to take advantage of it. And he hopes that you won’t take offence to that because the last thing he wants to do is hurt you, especially unintentionally.
“It’s late and we should go to bed. Don’t look at me like that. Maybe sometime we can try again when you’re not so vulnerable.”
You’re giving him that pathetic kicked puppy look that you know he can’t resist and the worst part is that it’s kind of working. The woman he’s loved since he was twelve is begging to kiss him and he’s saying now? He must be much stronger than he initially thought.
You know he’s right and you’re trying so hard to not take offence to it. He’s being a gentleman and you’re not going to be upset with him for doing the right thing. Even though you kind of want to. But instead of arguing, you watch him get up from the bed, feeling your heart ache as he does so.
He helps you get under the covers and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead accompanied by a murmured “I’m sorry” before he pulls away and makes his way towards your door. He lingers in the doorway for a second and just when you think he’s going to change his mind and stay, he shuts the door and makes his way to his own room.
You switch off the lamp and stare at the ceiling, heart pounding as you replay the kiss over and over, reaching up pressing your fingers to your lips. The disappointment fades as you smile to yourself because you just kissed your best friend and you think you liked it. You’re not even thinking about Eddie, your mind now filled with Steve and how badly you want to kiss him again. Maybe if you play your cards right, he’ll let you.
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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)
♫ Summary: The Death's Echo concert was supposed to be the performance of a lifetime. But it wasn't only Eddie's life that changed that night. (3k words)
♫ CW: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v, slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, allusions to classism, fluffy confessions
♫ A/N: The penultimate chapter! One more after this (and then maybe an epilogue?).
♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult
chapter nineteen: fight for your right
The air at The Garden thrummed with excitement. Your own heart beat loudly against the backstage pass that dangled from a lanyard around your neck.
“This is insane.” Nora’s eyes were wide as she took in the stadium. The show was sold out; hordes of fans wearing matching Death’s Echo t-shirts flashed their tickets as they hurried to their seats.
Ben was just as awestruck, nearly colliding with another concertgoer carrying a beer in each hand. He swiped at where a few droplets of beer landed on his forearm.
Eddie had mailed the tickets and backstage passes along with a very explicit note detailing how he wanted to spend his free time in New York.
Rented a suite…penthouse…California King bed…kiss you all over…worship you like I’ve been dreaming about…
Your whole body heated up at the thought of it. That letter was currently tucked away at the bottom of your underwear drawer, far away from prying eyes.
One of the ushers, a short woman in a fitted pantsuit and the skinniest stilettos you’d ever seen, led the three of you backstage.
Led you to Eddie.
He sat on an amp, fingers idly plucking at the strings of an electric guitar. Staring straight ahead at nothing, his mind somewhere far away from Madison Square Garden, he mouthed the words to a song you didn’t know.
“Hey.”
Eddie blinked, taking an extra beat to focus on his surroundings. He managed a small smile when he saw you standing there.
“Heiress. You made it.” He stood up, wiping one hand on his black jeans. His gaze flicked over to your friends, flanking either side of you. “Nora. Boris.”
Ben sighed. “It’s Ben,” he lamented.
You offered Ben a sympathetic look before placing your hands in Eddie’s. His palms, slick with sweat, held you like a lifeline.
“You okay, Eds?”
Eddie nodded reflexively, but his deep brown eyes told a different story.
You gently tugged Eddie to the other side of the green room, leaving Nora and Ben to peruse the bar and talk to the rest of the band.
A spring in the back of an old chair dug into you when you sat down. “Talk to me.”
“S’nothing,” Eddie mumbled, twisting a silver ring around his middle finger as he sat in the chair across from you. “Just pre-show nerves.” But his inability to look at you gave away his fear.
You weaved your fingers with his. “No more secrets,” you reminded him. “I’m not gonna run away.”
Eddie drove his free hand through his wild curls. They’d been styled to look effortless, but you could smell the hairspray from a mile away.
“I don’t wanna do this anymore.”
You froze, your breath halting in your lungs.
Eddie took one look at the way you’d gone still and immediately clocked his mistake. “No, no. Not you, Heiress. I still wanna do this. Us,” he clarified. You felt your body relax with each word.
“I meant…I don’t wanna do this tour anymore. Not with them,” he glanced over at his bandmates, “and not with these bullshit songs that have no fucking meaning behind them.”
“I thought you wrote your own songs.” He’d kept those papers, the ones you’d accidentally almost turned in for a final assignment.
Eddie shook his head. “They don’t use ‘em.”
Your heart sank at the notion of his words remaining unheard, just ink on a page without anyone to witness their beauty.
“We’re out there singing about ‘fuck the establishment’ and ‘fuck the system,’ and then this morning, they started fuckin’ laughing at this homeless guy asking for change.” Eddie shot his bandmates a glare, though it went wholly unnoticed. “And then they go buy shit they don’t need. They don’t even care.”
He took a shaky breath, his eyes holding equal parts disappointment and rage. “I can’t go out there and play along with whatever fake anarchist bullshit they’re gonna spout off tonight.”
“Then don’t.”
Eddie blinked in surprise at your suggestion.
“That’s your expert therapist advice?” He balked. “Jesus, Heiress. You’ve gotten rusty in these last few weeks.”
You gave him a little shove. “I’m serious. Stop going along with it. Fuck them, fuck the record company…” you wiped where his eyeliner had smudged under his waterline, “and fuck anyone who forces you to conform to their stupid expectations.”
Eddie’s face lit up at that. “You’re perfect.” Cradling his face in your palms, he stared at you with complete reverence.
If you could have bottled the comfort of his thumbs gently dragging against your cheeks, you would’ve been the happiest woman in the world. For a few untainted seconds, you let his warm touch lull you into a sense of ease.
“No matter what happens tonight,” you said, your voice soft yet steady, “I’m here, and I’m yours.”
Eddie brought his lips to yours in a searing kiss, stealing the breath from your lungs. It was as though you were the only two people in the room, lost in each other’s taste, until a wolf-whistle pierced the air.
“Fuck’s sake,” Eddie grumbled. His glare locked on Ben, who guiltily lowered his index finger and thumb from his mouth.
Eddie scrambled to his feet, his fists clenched at his sides. “What the hell is your problem, man?”
Ben put his hands up in surrender. “I was joking, man,” he stammered, glancing at you and Nora for help.
“Well, it’s not funny,” Eddie snapped. “Just admit that you’re jealous.”
“Eddie—” you started.
“Whatever issue you’ve got with me is one-sided, Eddie.” Ben cut in, rolling his eyes as he spoke. “I’m not trying to steal your girlfriend.”
Your eyes darted between the two men as they volleyed retorts back and forth.
“And I’m supposed to believe you…why?”
“Because I’m more likely to flirt with your drummer,” Ben flung back.
Eddie’s brows furrowed. “But Todd’s a…oh.” His cheeks reddened in realization. He looked at the drummer, who was applying more gel to his mohawk. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t. He’s a total douchebag.”
“That’s my type,” Ben said wryly.
A disembodied voice crackled over the PA system, reminding Death’s Echo that they had thirty minutes to showtime. Onstage, the opening act was warming up the crowd.
“I gotta go warm up.” Eddie pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. Your skin tingled at his barest touch.
As much as you hated to let him go, you knew you couldn’t keep him here. He had to be a rockstar alongside Todd the Douchebag Drummer and Fiona, the latter of whom was eyeing Eddie like he was a cut of filet mignon.
Not that you could blame her. Still, an unfamiliar possessiveness filled your lungs and made each breath laborious.
“I hate her,” Nora hissed in your ear. “I hope she shits herself tonight.”
You bit the inside of your cheek in a feeble attempt to stifle your laughter. It wasn’t quick enough, because Eddie caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Tonight is for you,” he mouthed, his lips moving exaggeratedly to ensure you could read them.
“I can’t wait,” you mouthed back.
You weren’t sure what Eddie had meant when he told you that tonight was for you. You’d assumed he would give a kickass performance; a small, romantic part of you considered that he’d debut some sort of love song.
But four songs in, when Eddie slung his guitar over his shoulder and stepped up to the mic, you knew that this was something bigger.
“This is usually the time when I ask everyone to yell out what they wish they could destroy.” The audience cheered, but Eddie waved his hands to cut them off.
“I’m gonna do something different tonight.” A buzz of confusion filled the arena. Even the other members of the band—Todd, Fiona, and the bassist whose name you couldn’t remember—exchanged nervous glances.
Eddie squinted through the stage lights until he saw you standing in the wings. He gave you a quick nod, a silent I’ve got this, his fingers gripping the microphone even tighter.
“It’s my turn.” His grin turned wicked as the crowd egged him on. “And I want to destroy the contract I signed to tour with this stupid fucking band.”
There was a collective gasp, one that included you and your friends.
“And these posers might say they’re ‘against the system.’ That they’re 'anti-establishment.” Eddie hooked air quotes around the words and pitched his tone into something obnoxiously nasal. “But they are the fucking system.
“See Todd?” He pointed to the scrawny drummer, who promptly ducked behind his drumset. “He says that poor people should ‘just get jobs.’ And Howie?” So that was the bassist’s name. “He likes to throw his trash on the ground because ‘the janitors will clean it up anyway.’”
Eddie made a sweeping gesture towards his ex-girlfriend and back-up guitarist. “But it’s the incomparable Fiona Weis who refuses to drive anywhere unless it's in a limo.”
From all the way in the wings, you could see Fiona’s body tense, her jaw steeling in place as Eddie exposed her. Nora and Ben both shook with laughter, but you were too engrossed in the scene to do anything but gawp.
The crowd was going wild, booing and flipping off the three offending band members. Eddie, however, wasn’t done.
“But I’m not innocent, either.” Eddie sighed directly into the microphone. “Because I just played along. Acted like they weren’t giant fucking assholes. I thought that maybe I could pretend hard enough to fit in. I guess…I guess that makes me a poser, too, huh?” He laughed dejectedly.
“So let me be clear: My name is Eddie Munson. I grew up in a trailer park in Hawkins, Indiana. My mom died and my dad walked out, and my uncle raised me. We lived paycheck to paycheck, but he gave me the best life he could.
“I probably got fifteen seconds before security drags me off this stage, but before I go, I just want to say this.” Eddie looked directly into the audience as he spoke. “If people ever glared at you when you used food stamps to pay for groceries, or if the mailman ever rolled his eyes when he delivered your welfare check, I fucking see you. And if you make fun of people because they wear hand-me-down clothes or eat ketchup sandwiches, you’re just a cog in this capitalist machine, and you can eat shi–fuck!”
Two beefy security guards hoisted Eddie up and carried him offstage. The microphone feedback shrieked as it hit the ground, but it was barely audible over the audience roaring their approval.
EDDIE! EDDIE! EDDIE!
The chanting still rang in your ears as Eddie tugged you down 34th Street. Your feet nearly flew off the sidewalk until he stopped you in front of an ornate building.
“What are we–”
“I told you.” Eddie nudged his nose against yours, kissing you right in the midst of all of the foot traffic. “I got us a penthouse suite for the night.”
Your eyebrows pinched together. How was he going to afford a penthouse suite? He’d just publicly quit his job, which meant the record company wouldn’t be footing the bill.
The concierge stood behind a teak desk that probably cost more than your parents paid for the entire motel. His face was drawn, lines around his lips that signified a heavy smoker. Sure enough, the scent of tobacco overwhelmed you as you approached.
“Reservation for Munson.” Eddie slapped a platinum credit card down on the countertop with enough force to make the other man flinch.
The concierge cleared his throat, taking note of Eddie’s smeared eyeliner, ripped jeans, and t-shirt with the sleeves methodically torn off. “Yes, Mr. Munson. Of course.” Even as he swiped the card, he never stopped looking at Eddie.
Instinctively, you wrapped your hand around Eddie’s exposed bicep. In your own syrupy customer service voice, you asked the concierge. “Is there a problem with my boyfriend’s card, sir?”
He shook his head. “Not at all, miss.” He handed the credit card back to Eddie, along with a set of room keys. “Elevator is down the hall and to your left.”
The second the elevator door slid shut, your lips were on Eddie’s.
“You,” you said, already toying with his belt buckle, “were such a badass tonight.”
Eddie laughed against your mouth, the hum reverberating through your body. “All thanks to you.” His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw. “Every time I think about you, I just wanna…be better, y’know? Be a man you deserve.”
You shook your head. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you said, the soft reassurance speaking volumes.
Eddie’s pants were already unbuttoned, your dress zipper already tugged halfway down your back, when the elevator dinged and bumped to a stop. It was a race to the suite, Eddie swearing under his breath as he fumbled with the key.
The moment the lock clicked, his hands were all over you again.
“Thought you said we’d take it slow this time,” you teased.
“Well, that was before we were racing against the clock.” When you looked at him in confusion, he explained, “record company’s gonna realize they never confiscated my card sooner or later.”
“Worse comes to worst,” you paused to nibble at his lower lip, “we go back to the motel and continue there.”
Eddie scoffed and unzipped your dress the rest of the way. “Last time we did that, Phyllis made bed-squeaking noises when she saw me.”
“We should probably fix those bedsprings,” you acquiesced.
“We should probably have sex far away from Phyllis.”
Fair enough, you thought, but you didn’t have time to verbalize it before he was pressing you to the wall.
“Oh, Heiress.” Eddie hissed, grinding his hips against you. “Fuck, I–I want you. I need you. Y’know how many nights I laid awake in that tour bus, hard as a fuckin’ rock, just thinking about this?”
Slipping your hand into his boxers, you gently stroked his growing length. “I thought about you, too,” you confessed. “Thought about you kissing me–”
“Where?” Eddie cut in. “Where did you think about me kissing you? Here?” He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Or here?” To your neck. “Or…here?” He pulled down your dress until it pooled on the carpet in a heap and kissed your bare breasts.
Your fingers might have left indents in the cream-colored wallpaper. A moan floated out of your throat as Eddie kissed down, down, down…
“Eddie!” You gasped, barely cognizant of him draping your leg over your shoulder. He kissed your clit, pulling back with a triumphant grin when you whined.
“Huh. Looks like it was there.” He smirked and kissed between your legs once again. His tongue brushed against you, torturously slow.
This was his way of rushing things? At this rate, you’d be a puddle on the floor before you even got him naked.
Eddie mumbled something incoherent, practically making out with your pussy. He was on his knees for you, worshipping you like you were a deity standing before him. Like he wasn’t the actual rockstar who had just flipped off the music industry in front of a gigantic audience.
Your leg began shaking, desire taking a stronghold as you remembered his biceps flexing when he gripped the mic stand. For the first time in weeks, you came not just at the idea of him, but at the feel of him, too.
“Mmm. There…y’go.” He groaned at your fingers tangling in his curls. “Gonna rip my hair out, honey.”
“S-Sorry.”
“Didn’t say I hated it.” His lips, shiny with your arousal, turned up in a smile. Or maybe he’d been smiling the whole time. Given his position, it was hard to tell. “Bed?”
You nodded, unable to form words. In record time you were on your back, Eddie completely stripped of his clothes. Only a guitar pick necklace dangled from a chain around his neck.
He hovered over you, leaking cock in hand, but he didn’t move any further.
“You okay, Eds?” The sudden urge to cover yourself in the duvet rushed over you.
“Yeah. Yeah, I just…” Eddie let go of himself and kissed you, his lips soft and tender. “I didn’t wanna say this now–like, with my dick out, but I…I love you, Heiress. And I don’t wanna waste another second with you not knowing.”
You propped yourself on your elbows and kissed him again, laughing when you felt his erection pressing into your thigh. No, this was definitely not the ideal place for a love confession: A hotel room that you could be evicted from at any moment while your boyfriend was hard and about to enter you.
To you, there was no better time.
“I love you, too, Eddie.” Your chest rose and fell with each heaving breath you took. “I love you so much that it’s kind of ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous, huh?” He lowered himself, pushing into you with the utmost care. His eyes didn’t leave yours, watching to ensure that he brought only pleasure and comfort. “You wanna know something ridiculous?”
He didn’t wait for your answer before continuing. “All I could think about besides this,” he gestured to your body and the way he was seated inside you, “was that shelter idea. Using H-Harrington’s money to…to…”
“Later.” Your fingertips dug into the flesh of his ass, drawing him deeper and silently urging him to thrust. “Talk later, okay? Right now…let’s just focus on this.”
“This.” Eddie found a rhythm that made you both sing, a tempo that kept you in sync. “I…I can do this.”
Your bodies danced in unison, chests so close that you couldn’t tell his heartbeat from your own. I love yous punctuated each wanton moan, each gasp for air, each sweat-slicked movement.
He loved you. Eddie Munson loved you. No caveats, no asterisks, no ‘buts.’
Just you, Eddie, tonight, and the promise of an open future.
I grew up in a small town where I’m related to 2/3 of the population
I currently live in Indiana. (And I have a personal beef with the duffers over their lack of Indiana things in their fuckin show. Where’s the goddamn ski and grippos Matt and Ross)
I play a SHIT TON of D&D. I’m currently in 3 campaigns and I’m potentially going to run a game for some friends here soon.
I am always coming up with ideas but don’t always have the time or the mental capacity to put hand to keyboard to type the fics out so I’m ALWAYS down to collab with other writers or provide info on things I have knowledge in.
A lot of my writing (esp damage inc) is an outlet to process things that happened in my life. Damage Inc especially was my way to process the loss of my brother Russell who passed in 2022.
I frequently stat out random tv and movie characters for D&D. (I statted out Eddie and even gave him a custom weapon co designed by Russell before he passed)
Round the Bases (Coach!Steve Harrington x Female!Reader miniseries)
⚾︎ Summary: A summer in Hawkins, Indiana was supposed to be mundane, spent with your younger cousin and his overbearing parents. Enter Steve Harrington: Little League coach and the man who turned your world on its head. Too bad fate seemed determined to keep the two of you apart. (2.5k words)
“Is it always this hot this early in the morning?”
Your question was rhetorical, but your twelve-year-old cousin had no problem answering it.
“Yup. Unless it’s raining.” JJ scrunched his nose, wistfully adding, “I wish it would rain.”
You gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. JJ wasn’t an athlete; he preferred reading books well above his grade level and playing board games. And while he had the vocabulary of a dictionary, his lack of hand-eye coordination was a constant disappointment to his parents.
“Your mom said the coach was really nice,” you tried. But even JJ knew you were grasping at straws; he just shrugged and dragged his feet towards the field.
“JJ! You made it!” The team’s catcher offered your cousin a toothy grin before pulling his mask over his face. “Coach Steve was worried you weren’t coming.”
The name Coach Steve made you picture a balding middle-aged man who wore shorts that sagged at the waist and ratty t-shirts with various condiment stains.
You weren’t expecting Coach Steve to be a gorgeous twenty-something with a full head of luscious brown hair. He wore a fitted Hawkins Cubs shirt and his cargo shorts were definitely well-fitted.
Steve waved at JJ. “C’mon, J-Man! You’re just in time for the team huddle!”
Before JJ can join them, you whisper in his ear, “win or lose, I’m proud of you. Just have fun.”
He glanced at you with a pained expression. “But my mom and dad said—”
You shook your head. “I’m the cool older cousin, remember? And I’d never lie to you. So if I say that having fun is more important than winning, that’s the truth. Okay?”
JJ managed a small smile and jogged over to his team, nearly tripping over his feet in the process.
You cringe, expecting a wave of cruel laughter from the other kids. But there’s nothing except the sound of Steve giving a pre-game pep talk.
“Alright, Cubs.” Steve rubbed his hands together. No ring, you notice. “I know you can do this. Practices have never been better. You guys are a team. A well-oiled machine. You go out there and show those Rangers what you’re made of!”
The team erupted into cheers; even JJ mustered up some enthusiasm as the catcher clapped a hand on his shoulder.
You were walking back to the stands when you heard Steve call out.
“Hey! Uh, JJ’s…adult person.” Steve jogged over, dust from the field coating his sneakers. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
Your stomach flipped when he took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Are, uh, are JJ’s parents coming?” Steve asked, anxiously glancing back at your cousin.
You shook your head. “No. JJ asked me to bring him. I’m his cousin; just visiting for the summer.”
There was no missing the way his shoulders sagged with relief. “Right. Good. I mean, they can just get a little…intense with him sometimes.”
Intense was an understatement, and you both knew it. Hell, even JJ probably knew it. Based on Steve’s pep talk and the way all of the other kids eagerly greeted him, it was evident that the source of JJ’s stress wasn’t from any of them.
“He’s not really athletic,” you carefully said. “I know he likes competition; he kicked my ass at Risk yesterday. But I don’t think—”
“Wait!” Steve paused, then put his hands on his hips and leaned in. “Sorry, I just…Risk, like the board game?”
You nodded. “Do you play?”
“Nah, but I—” Steve winced as someone blew a whistle. “Shit. Just, uh, don’t leave after the game, okay?”
He scampered off before you could answer. You watched him as you took your seat on the bleachers, barely registering the heat biting the backs of your thighs.
Every kid on the Cubs, whether they hit a home run or struck out, was met with the same level of enthusiasm from Steve. He cheered them on, hooting and hollering until his face turned red.
When it was JJ’s turn, Steve crouched down next to him. You could see Steve’s lips moving, but his words were inaudible to you.
Whatever they were, your cousin’s scrawny knees stopped knocking together long enough to hit the ball. It didn’t go far, but Steve acted like Babe Ruth was out there breaking bats.
“YEAH, JJ!” He whooped. “RUN, JJ! RUN!”
The rest of the team cheered JJ on as he made it to first base just in time.
Steve glanced over, finding you in the crowd immediately. He gestured to JJ with an impressed face. Look at him go.
Your smile warmed your face when JJ gave his coach a thumbs up, which Steve promptly returned. It was like seeing a different kid than the one who had dejectedly flopped onto the passenger seat of your car that morning.
The Cubs won against the Rangers, 4 to 2. The catcher–Derek, according to the middle-aged couple shouting for him in the stands–led the team in a painfully off-key rendition of We are the Champions.
“No time for loooooosers, ‘cuz we are the chaaaaaampioooooons!” Derek crooned, slinging a jersey-clad arm around JJ’s shoulders and swaying back and forth.
JJ looked like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Not because he played exceptionally well; in fact, he’d been tagged out trying to run from first to second base. Still, there was no hiding his tiny smirk as he shuffled back over to you.
“You were great out there!” You almost pulled him in for a hug but stopped yourself; preteens were notoriously too cool for hugs. Instead, you settled for a reluctant high-five.
“Yeah, I guess.” JJ averted his eyes, determined to look anywhere but at you. “Can we get ice cream before we go home?”
Your heart sank; as much as you’d hoped that his parents were the whole problem, it was increasingly obvious that he simply didn’t like baseball.
“Hey, JJ!” You and JJ both whipped around to see Steve motioning you over. “C’mere for a sec.”
Offering a sympathetic smile, you nudged your cousin in Steve’s direction. “We’ll get ice cream right after this,” you promised.
Steve’s grin tied your tongue into a knot. Was this what it was going to be like every time you got near him? Would he always set off butterflies in your stomach, flapping their wings at one hundred miles per hour?
“Nice work out there, man.” Steve studied JJ’s face, noting his hesitation to accept the compliment. “Listen, JJ, be honest with me. Do you actually like baseball?”
JJ paused before answering. “I like the guys on the team and stuff—”
“Let me put it this way.” Steve crouched down slightly. “When you’re up at bat, standing on home plate, the crowd cheering your name…what are you feeling?”
“I dunno. Fine, I guess.”
Steve’s nostrils flared when he let out a long, despondent breath. “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” His hands framed his hips. “My friend’s little sister runs a Dungeons & Dragons group at the library. Wednesdays at three p.m. And you,” he pointed at JJ, “are going.”
“But we have practice on Wednesday at three.” JJ’s brows furrowed in confusion, glancing between you and Steve.
“Look, JJ, I love having you on the team,” Steve started, “but I know you’re only here because your parents are on your a–case about it. Right?”
JJ nodded, keeping his gaze trained on the ground.
“And your cousin told me that you’re really good at Risk. So I think you’ll like D&D.”
“But my mom said that that game is for devil worshipers.”
Steve laughed amusedly, and you had to bite back your own wry smile. Of course your aunt would believe such a ridiculous notion. Apparently playing a board game was enough to condemn someone to Hell, but not pushing around her own son. Right.
“There’s nothing wrong with D&D,” you reassured your cousin. When he still seemed unconvinced, you opted for a compromise. “Let’s go next week. Just to try it. If you totally hate it, we don’t have to go back.”
JJ chewed on the inside of his cheek, contemplating his options. He’d always been the straight-laced kid, doing what he was told and never straying from his parents’ expectations, no matter how absurd.
Now, a glimmer of excitement twinkled in his eyes. “Just don’t tell my mom and dad.”
You grinned. Maybe there was a chance for you to salvage JJ’s summer.
And seeing Steve Harrington again couldn’t hurt, either.
The scent of old books hit you as soon as you walked into the Hawkins Public Library. You inhaled it like a sweet perfume. Even JJ, who had been tense since breakfast that morning, seemed to relax. He’d looked like he wanted to drown in his bowl of cornflakes when your aunt reminded him that he had baseball practice after school.
“Hey.” Steve stood up from a nearby table. He wore a Hawkins Cubs polo with the word “Coach” embroidered on the right side of his chest. “Glad you made it.”
Your gaze lingered at the curve of his lips. That smile wasn’t for you; it was for JJ. Steve was happy that JJ decided to give D&D a try. At this point, you weren’t much more than a chauffeur.
You trailed behind Steve, careful not to step on the back of his sneakers, as he led you and JJ to one of the study rooms. A few kids were already inside, setting up game pieces and flipping through notebooks.
At the head of the table sat a girl, not much older than the rest of the kids, but she was definitely the leader. She sighed irritatedly when she saw the three of you standing in the doorway.
“Erica, this is JJ.” Steve nudged your cousin further into the room. “Uh, I asked Lucas to tell you—”
“That was your first mistake.” Erica crossed her arms. She took another glance at JJ and softened at his nervous demeanor. “You ever played before?”
JJ shook his head, too shy to speak.
Erica’s grin bloomed. “Fresh meat. Nice. Well,” she glanced between you and Steve, “you two can go now.”
“But I—”
“No babysitters,” Erica cut you off, leaving no room for argument. “You can wipe his nose and pinch his cheeks when you pick him up in two hours.”
With that, she whisked JJ into the study room. Despite the abrupt dismissal, his rigid posture loosened as he took a seat.
Worry still crept into your heart. JJ was a shy kid, often too sensitive for his own good. It would serve him well someday…but not as a middle schooler.
“Hey.” Steve’s voice, though soft, broke through your racing thoughts. “He’s gonna be fine. Erica’s…intense, but she doesn’t let anyone get picked on.”
He lowered his voice even more, leaning in to whisper in your ear. The tickle of breath sent a shiver down your spine.
“Rumor has it that she got one of the librarians fired for trying to end their game early.”
A laugh caught you by surprise. You clapped your hand over your mouth, desperate to suppress it before you drew unwanted attention to yourself.
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Maybe.” Steve smirked, leaning against a bookshelf. “But it’s believable, isn’t it?”
You refused to give him the satisfaction of being right. “Don’t you have to get to practice, Coach?”
Steve put up his hands in surrender. “Yeah, yeah. I’m leaving.” He started towards the exit, before stopping so suddenly that you almost bumped into him. “You, uh, you’re not from here, right?”
You shook your head. “Just visiting for the summer.”
In truth, you hadn’t planned on spending your time between semesters here. But when JJ called you up a few months ago and, in a fit of tears, pleaded with you to come stay in Hawkins, you couldn’t say no.
Even if it meant seeing people you definitely didn’t want to see.
Steve, oblivious to your inner restlessness, nodded in contemplation. “Maybe we can hang out or something before you go back home?”
Was that a date? No–he said hang out. Not go out. There was a difference; no doubt Steve would have asked you to go out if he wanted a date.
“Yeah, sure.” You swallowed your disappointment, hoping it wasn’t visible in your expression.
“Cool.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Call you soon.”
Call you soon. His words echoed in your ear, playing over and over like a melody. Not even the car radio nor the sound of JJ chattering about how amazing D&D Club was could tune out that promise.
It wasn’t until you pulled into the driveway that you realized that Steve hadn’t even asked for your number.
And, as you were about to find out, that wouldn’t even be the worst part of your day.
Your aunt stood at the doorway, hands on her hips, scowling as you and JJ clambered up the stoop. You were too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice how terrifying she looked: lips pressed into a thin line, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed.
“Mrs. Turnbow called,” she snapped the second you had a foot inside the house. “She wanted to know if Derek should pick up JJ’s schoolwork tomorrow, since JJ was ‘too sick’ to go to practice today.”
JJ stumbled over his own feet. “Mom, I–”
“Where were you? And why weren’t you at practice?” She shook her head in disgust, not even giving her son time to answer. “You owe Coach Steve an apology for missing practice. You’re not going to get any better if you don’t–”
“I don’t want to get better!” JJ choked back tears. “I hate baseball! And Coach Steve was the one who told me I should go to D&D Club instead.”
His mouth clamped shut as soon as he realized what he’d just admitted. He looked to you for help, but you couldn’t find anything to say.
“Go. To. Your. Room.” Your aunt hissed through gritted teeth. “I’ll talk to your father about this when he gets home. As for you,” her gaze pierced your face, “you’re here to be a good influence for JJ. Not to let him run amok and get involved with devil worshipers. I have half a mind to kick you out.”
“I-I’m sorry. I…” You blinked back the mist coating your own eyes. “It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure he gets to practice from now on.”
The older woman chortled. “Oh, no. I’ll be doing the dropoffs until you can be trusted again. You’ll need to prove yourself to us, young lady.”
That was that. No room for discussion. For JJ, there would be no more afternoons spent in pretend battle, woven into an epic story by Erica Sinclair, the–what did he call her? Dungeon Master?
And for you? There would be no more Steve Harrington.
Okay so The Upside Down is basically a mirror dimension of Hawkins right? What else is a mirror dimension? The Shadowfell. In D&D lore, the Shadowfell is a mirror dimension of the physical plane. There's no color, landmarks are usually recognizable but altered in some way. It's often frequently subjected to small earthquakes, and lightning storms. Portals to the Shadowfell don't just appear, nor are they created by accident, they're intentionally made by very powerful magic. Any mortal who visits the Shadowfell is forever changed.
Now think about the Upside Down. Lightning storms, when it overtook Hawkins it was allegedly an earthquake. It's almost as if it's stuck in time, with recognizable landmarks that are significantly altered ("it's like she was made for another dimension") Portals are created intentionally via powerful magic.
And don't even get me started on the whole Vecna connection. Stay tuned for more
I grew up in a small town where I’m related to 2/3 of the population
I currently live in Indiana. (And I have a personal beef with the duffers over their lack of Indiana things in their fuckin show. Where’s the goddamn ski and grippos Matt and Ross)
I play a SHIT TON of D&D. I’m currently in 3 campaigns and I’m potentially going to run a game for some friends here soon.
I am always coming up with ideas but don’t always have the time or the mental capacity to put hand to keyboard to type the fics out so I’m ALWAYS down to collab with other writers or provide info on things I have knowledge in.
A lot of my writing (esp damage inc) is an outlet to process things that happened in my life. Damage Inc especially was my way to process the loss of my brother Russell who passed in 2022.
I frequently stat out random tv and movie characters for D&D. (I statted out Eddie and even gave him a custom weapon co designed by Russell before he passed)
summary: after robin shows up at his game, steve leaves the baseball field in a panic and finds himself in a hospital room holding everything he’s ever wanted.
tags/warnings: mild teasing, pregnancy, hospital, post season 5, so much fluff, steve going lots of crying, henderson!reader
wc: ~6.5k
a/n: this can be read as part two to warmth in hawkins, (the timeline is just a little different) or as a standalone! hope you enjoy :)
───୨ৎ───
The baseball field buzzed with late afternoon noise, the low hum of parents talking in the bleachers and the sharp crack of a bat slicing through the air. Steve Harrington stood just outside the dugout, hands on his hips, trying very hard to look like a guy who had his head in the game.
He absolutely did not.
His thoughts kept drifting back to the house. Their house. The new one, still half-filled with boxes and that faint smell of fresh paint. The nursery they had spent weeks putting together. The tiny crib Steve had assembled himself, even though Robin had hovered nearby the entire time, deeply skeptical of his skills and loudly offering “constructive criticism.”
Robin was in town for the weekend, staying with them to help while Steve worked. She had insisted on it, claiming it was practical, but Steve had caught her more than once just standing in the nursery, staring at the walls like she was trying to memorize the moment.
Nothing had happened yet. No contractions. No signs. Just waiting. The kind that sat heavy in Steve’s chest and made every second feel loaded.
“All right, eyes on the ball,” Steve called to the kids on the field, clapping his hands. “Let’s go, we talked about this. You can’t just stare at the ball just hope it behaves.”
A few parents laughed. Steve managed a smile, then checked his watch again.
That was when tires screeched.
Steve looked up just in time to see a familiar car fishtail into the parking lot, pulling in way too fast. The engine cut off, the door flew open, and Robin Buckley came sprinting across the grass like she was being chased.
“STEVE,” she yelled.
His stomach dropped.
She didn’t slow as she reached him, bent over with her hands on her knees, sucking in a breath.
“Okay,” she said, pointing wildly back toward the car. “So. Not a drill. Her water broke.”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“She’s at the hospital,” Robin said. “Her mom took her. You need to go. Like, now.”
The world tilted.
“Right now,” Steve repeated faintly.
“Yes,” Robin said. “Now now. Go go go.”
Steve dropped the clipboard. The whistle clattered to the ground. He shouted something incoherent to the assistant coach and took off running.
Robin was already in the passenger seat by the time he reached the car.
“I am not okay,” Steve said as he started the engine.
“That tracks,” Robin said. “Drive.”
The ride felt unreal. Steve gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“She was fine this morning,” he said. “We were folding baby clothes. She told me to stop refolding them because they were already folded.”
Robin smiled softly. “You did not listen.”
“No,” Steve said. “They were uneven.”
“You’re gonna be such a dad.”
He laughed, then immediately looked like he might cry. “I’m terrified.”
“I know,” Robin said gently. “But she’s okay. And you’re gonna be there.”
The hospital lights were blinding. Steve barely noticed anything except the sound of his own heartbeat as they rushed down the hall.
Then he saw her.
Y/n was sitting up in the bed, hair pulled back, face flushed but steady, still as beautiful as ever. Her mom stood nearby, worry etched deep into her features. The moment y/n’s eyes met Steve’s, her shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Steve,” she said.
He crossed the room in seconds and dropped into the chair beside her, taking her hand like it was instinct.
“Hey,” he said, voice thick. “Hey. I’m here.”
She smiled at him. “You look like you ran the whole way.”
“I would have,” he said, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Robin hovered near the door, arms crossed, eyes shining. She looked like she might burst from secondhand emotion alone.
Labor was long and exhausting in a way Steve hadn’t fully understood until he was living it. He stayed glued to y/n’s side, whispering encouragement, letting her squeeze his hand until his fingers went numb, completely unbothered.
“You’re doing amazing,” he told her again and again. “I mean it. You’re incredible.”
At one point, between contractions, she laughed breathlessly. “You’re gonna cry when she gets here.”
“I am already crying,” Steve said. “This is pre-crying.”
Hours later, when the room finally settled and the air felt different, Steve barely registered anything except the sound of a tiny, fragile cry.
Lily.
She was small and perfect and real. Steve stood frozen as y/n held her first, awe washing over his face.
“Steve,” y/n said softly. “Do you want to hold her?”
His breath hitched. “Me?”
“Yes,” she said. “You.”
The nurse guided Lily into his arms, and the moment her weight settled against his chest, Steve went completely still.
“Oh,” he whispered.
Her fingers curled into his shirt. Warm. Real.
“Hi,” Steve said quietly. “I’m your dad. I’m Steve. I’m probably gonna mess things up sometimes, but I swear I’m really good at loving people.”
Y/n watched him with a soft, knowing smile. She had never been more certain of anything in her life.
“She’s perfect,” Steve said, voice breaking.
“She is,” y/n said. “And so are you.”
Robin wiped at her eyes from the doorway. “I hate you both,” she muttered. “I am emotionally compromised.”
Steve hesitated, then carefully passed Lily back into y/n’s arms. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of the baby’s head like it was already second nature.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “I promise.”
Y/n smiled at him. “Go.”
Robin immediately crossed the room, hovering near the bed like she was afraid to breathe too loudly.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “She’s real.”
Steve stepped into the hallway, hands shaking as he wiped his face. He stared at the beige hospital phone for a second, then picked up the receiver.
He dialed from memory.
“Hello?” Dustin’s voice crackled through the line.
Steve swallowed. “Hey. Uh. Henderson.”
There was a pause. “Why do you sound like you just ran into traffic.”
Steve huffed a weak laugh. “Okay, so. Don’t freak out.”
“That sentence has never once been followed by good news.”
“She’s here,” Steve said. “The baby. She’s here.”
Silence.
“…Steve,” Dustin said slowly. “What.”
Steve smiled so hard his face hurt. “You’re an uncle.”
“You are lying,” Dustin said immediately. “You are lying for attention.”
“I am standing in a hospital hallway crying into a phone,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”
Another pause. Then, louder, “WAIT. YOU’RE SERIOUS.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, voice cracking. “Her name’s Lily. She’s perfect. I don’t even understand how that’s possible.”
“I’m coming,” Dustin said instantly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m getting in my car right now. I’m driving responsibly, but fast.”
Steve laughed, pressing his forehead against the wall. “Okay. We’ll be here.”
“Tell my sister I love her,” Dustin added, softer.
“I will,” Steve said. “I promise.”
He hung up and stood there for a moment longer, breathing, then headed back into the room.
The room stayed quiet for a while after that. Lily slept between them, chest rising and falling in soft, steady breaths. Steve barely moved, afraid the moment might break if he did.
Then the door flew open.
“OKAY. NO. THIS IS INSANE.”
Steve flinched.
Y/n laughed as Dustin Henderson burst into the room, hair wild, jacket half-on like he had forgotten how sleeves worked.
“You cannot just call someone and say ‘you’re an uncle’ and then hang up,” Dustin said, pointing at Steve. “That is emotional terrorism.”
Steve looked up at him, eyes red, smile immediate and soft. “Hey, man.”
Dustin stopped short, taking in Steve’s face.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “You’re crying.”
Steve nodded. “Yeah.”
Dustin opened his mouth, clearly ready with a joke, then glanced down at the bundle in y/n’s arms.
“…Is that her?”
Steve smiled. “Yeah. This is Lily.”
Dustin stepped closer, reverent despite himself. “She’s tiny. Why is she so small?”
“That’s rude,” Steve said weakly. “She’s perfect.”
Y/n smiled. “You want to hold her?”
Dustin’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not, I am not qualified.”
Steve laughed softly. “I wasn’t either and they still gave her to me. You’ll be fine.”
The nurse transferred Lily into Dustin’s arms. He froze.
“Oh my god,” Dustin whispered. “Steve. I am holding a tiny human.”
Steve wiped at his face. “I know.”
“I’m gonna teach her everything,” Dustin said quietly. “Science. D&D. How to not trust you.”
Steve laughed again, softer, crying harder. “You’re gonna be the coolest uncle.”
Robin sniffed loudly from the corner. “I cannot believe I’m witnessing this.”
Steve reached for y/n’s hand, squeezing gently.
“I love you,” he said, voice raw and unguarded. “Both of you.”
Y/n watched him with Lily, watched Dustin hover close, watched Robin pretend she wasn’t completely undone.
She knew it, with absolute certainty.
Steve Harrington was going to be the best dad in the world.
This is how Stranger Things would have ended if I wrote the show:
In the back of the box truck, everyone is trying to figure out how to smuggle El out without the military knowing she's still alive. They're all stumped until Jonathan says, "I know what we can do."
Then they blow up the Upside Down, El vanishes--same as the canon version.
Except...
El goes into her little hidey-hole until the military clears out. When they're gone, she and Kali come out of the hole and make a run for safety.
The van waits for them, its driver drumming his fingers to the beat of a Musical Youth song, and he grins when he sees the girls round the bend.
reblogging bc the list has been updated a few times as she continues to post. i don’t want to keep bringing attention to her, because she obviously loves it. but i do want to focus on these writers and give them the credit they deserve. so i won’t say much else about her, but i’ll gladly keep updating this list.
