rating: G | wc: 333 | ao3
also inside: pov wayne, steve's chevy, secret-ish relationship
The first time Wayne sees the strange Chevy, it’s in their driveway. He assumes Jeff finally got that car his folks have supposedly been promising for three years. Inside, instead of finding Eddie and his buddies watching TV, he hears voices back in Eddie’s room, muttering curses and whispering indistinctly about him being home early. Eventually, the shh-thunk of the window opening precedes a couple of yelps as someone climbs out.
That’s not too bad. Eddie’s twenty-three; if he’s fooling around with someone, it’s not Wayne’s place to intrude even if he wanted to.
The second time he sees it, it’s parked outside Claudia Henderson’s place. That still isn’t odd—Eddie and her Dustin run in the same circles. What Wayne isn’t counting on is who’ll walk out the front door just as he’s passing the house.
Steve Harrington waves over his shoulder to Claudia, who laughs at something he said while he climbs into the driver’s seat.
Since when does Harrington’s boy drive a truck? Wayne thinks, followed by, My Eddie is fooling around with Harrington’s boy?!
Wayne isn’t going to butt in, but this is one of those instances that reminds him despite how loud and uninhibited Eddie is, he’s far from a great communicator. Steve’s never been anything but polite to Wayne in passing, but he can’t help worrying about the implications of the two of them sneaking around.
The third time Wayne sees the Chevy, it’s back in his driveway. He steels himself to enter the house.
Eddie greets him with an enthusiastic, “Wayne!” Steve stands beside him.
“How’s it going, Ed?” Wayne tries.
“Great. Listen, I…want you to meet my boyfriend. Steve.”
Boyfriend. The word fills him with relief. It’s serious enough; it means something.
Steve smiles and offers a handshake. “Sorry it took so long. I’ve been begging Eddie to introduce us for weeks.”
Wayne smiles back as he accepts it. “Boy sure can be stubborn.” He raises an eyebrow at Eddie, who purses his lips in defiance.
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rating: G | WC: 481 | ao3
tags: future fic, parent steddie, family fluff (the tooth-rotting kind)
The patter of feet on the stairs precedes a yellow blur past the entrance to the living room. Steve smiles to himself as he marks the page in his book and sets it aside, knowing he might lose his place if he doesn’t take care of it now.
Sure enough, he hears giggling from around the corner, followed by a badly contained whisper: “I don’t think he saw me!”
“What’s he doing?” an identical voice hisses from above.
Steve doesn’t look, but he assumes whichever of the twins is downstairs takes a peek into the room, because there’s a pause before she replies, “He’s just sittin’ on the couch.”
“That’s perfect. Sounds like a great opportunity for an ambush.” An impossibly wider smile stretches Steve’s lips at the sound of Eddie entertaining the girls’ new obsession.
The onesies had been a birthday gift from Papaw Wayne, who not only puts up with daily rewatches of The Lion King while Steve and Eddie are at work, but who managed to spin the obsession into an interest in real-life big cats. Every night for the past week, they’ve begged Steve to read to them from an issue of National Geographic in lieu of a bedtime story, and they’ve started spouting off fun facts at every opportunity.
“Dad, did you know a mountain lion can jump more than forty feet? That’s almost bigger than our yard!” was parroted to Eddie while he was buckling Gwen into her car seat yesterday.
“Girl lions do all the hunting, Mr. Chief Hopper,” was deadpanned to Jim at Steve’s birthday party, after they overheard him insinuating he was a better shot than Nancy.
“A lion family is called a pride, too!” Beth chirped to Robin on the way to the festival in Indy last week, swinging their joined hands back and forth.
“Bengal tigers roar so loud you can hear it…well, I can’t remember, but it’s really far away.” They mentioned this one to Eddie yesterday, too, as he did his best to corral their lack of volume control away from Steve’s migraine.
At the moment, Steve is sure Eddie knows how not-sneaky they’re being, but he still plays along and stage whispers, “Alright, my little cubbies…”
The girls titter and protest. “We’re not cubbies!”
“Oh, that’s right! My apologies to the powerful lionesses,” he amends, which makes them laugh some more before he continues, “On the count of three.”
Steve tries to brace himself for the roughhousing without making it too obvious. He’s lucky his migraine is gone, so he can enjoy his family’s wonderful chaos.
“One…two…”
The twins stifle their giggles, getting ready to pounce.
“Three!”
Both girls run into the room at top speed, little voices roaring, with bared teeth and clawed fingers. Eddie is on their heels. Steve puts on an exaggerated expression of terror and lets them tackle him into the couch cushions.
The only actually bad writers are the ones who use AI in their stories
Bc deadass aside from that what even is a bad writer anymore
How do we define it and how do we divide the community of writers with it
The wars are endless. Writing comes from passion in general. We're all shitty writers and we're all amazing writers and idc anymore, you're only genuinely bad if you use amalgamations of others stolen words and have a bot write for you instead of you writing for you
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