summary: You keep disappearing. Remus keeps noticing. And somewhere along the way, Spidergirl is beginning to sound more familiar every day.
tags: fem!reader. spidergirl!reader. spiderman au. friends to lovers. slowburn. genderbend spiderman x gwen stacy? blood and violence mentions related to this universe.
series moodboard
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight
tags: fem!reader. rockstar!reader. modern au. rock band au. sort of nuisances to lovers, angst. eventual fame au.
a/n: ah yes, the honeymoon phase… it’d be a shame if something happened!
part nineteen ˚.⋆♪⋆ series masterlist
—
The wall vibrates with the force of the music, cold where it’s pressed against your spine. Your breathing hitches, but Sirius only smirks into the kiss, hands not pausing his flirty maneuvering up and down your body—when his thumb hooks over the lace peeking from the waistband of your trousers, you know it’s over for you.
“Sirius,” you warn, guiding him away enough to level him with a look. “Behave.”
Sirius flashes you an innocent grin, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where your lipstick has smudged. His doing. “I am behaving, aren’t I?” his fingers move to your waist, curling over the skin to pull you closer.
You roll your eyes, and he chases your lips before any arguments can come out. His lips curl around you when you gasp again. Remus looks up from your chest, sending Sirius a conspiratorial little wink before kissing the skin he marked.
“Yeah, Pads. Can’t you see she’s predisposed?”
“Stop taking the piss at my expense.”
“How dare you,” Sirius argues, muffled where his lips travel down your face. You guide him back up to meet his gaze. “Blame Moony.”
Remus laughs, breath warming your chest until he’s traveling down your torso. Your eyes slip shut at the little kisses he leaves behind before he’s drawing back, humming.
“What’s this?” he asks, voice laced with amusement. His thumb brushes the skin just shy of your belly button. “When did you get this?”
You and Sirius break apart to look down at him, Remus continues studying the delicate piercing in your belly button. A bit red even with the weeks you’ve had it.
“Oh,” you blink, slightly dazed before turning to Sirius. “Vegas, I believe?”
Remus’ eyes snap up. “You’ve had this for weeks?”
“It was supposed to be an end of the tour sort of surprise,” you mumble, a tad bashful. Your cheeks have warmed up at this, especially with the look on Remus’ face. “It’s still healing.”
Sirius, despite his visible struggle, breaks apart to stare down at your stomach. You swallow nervously at the way his pupils get impossibly wider when he spots the piercing.
“In my defense,” you start to say. “Lily is a very good negotiator. And she held my hand the entire time.”
“You planned to keep this hidden from us for weeks?” Sirius asks, his tone is a funny mix between disbelief and amusement. “Are you mad?”
“Or at least until it healed,” you amend as breathlessly. “How was I supposed to know you’d drag me here after the set?”
Remus hums, raising to his full height. It makes your knees buckle. “That’s what you get for doing that thing back there.”
You blink. “What? My job?”
“You know what.”
You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t, sorry.”
Sirius makes an amused sound, bordering on mischievous as he steps away from you. “Let her, Moons—that means she’ll miss all the fun,” he smirks, a quiet threat in his eyes as his hand coasts up Remus’ front, fisting his shirt to pull him closer. “Since she can’t participate.”
You roll your eyes at them. “I never said that,” you argue, watching in quiet agony as Remus chases his lips. “You’re not being fair—I thought you’d like it?”
“Oh, we do,” Sirius laughs, pulling away to meet your gaze. Blown wide pupils staring at each other. His hand returns to your waist, though careful this time. “Very much. Right, Remus?”
Remus makes a hum of assent, muffled where he’s trailing kisses down his neck. For fuck’s sake—you pinch Sirius’ jaw, erasing the smirk off his face with a bruising kiss.
The door to the green room rattles. “They should be—oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mary’s annoyed voice leaks from the other side. She knocks loudly. “Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing in there.”
“Be quiet, she’ll leave,” Remus whispers, lips curling as he nips at Sirius’ jaw. It drags a sound out of his throat that makes you smirk as well.
“I heard that, you twat!” Mary bangs the door. “We’ve got a tight schedule—you can continue your dirty tricks at the next stop.”
When Sirius tries to break apart from you to throw a quip at her, the door rattles louder. “Sh,” you bring his face back down to yours, chasing his lips to shut him up. “She doesn’t have a key.”
“Don’t make me bring Marlene,” she threatens. “Unlike me, she doesn’t have any problem with dragging your arses out here. Descent or not.”
Remus groans, letting his face drop to Sirius’ collarbone before he’s taking a step back. You do as well, sharing a knowing look with him at the dazed look on Sirius’ face. You thumb at his chapped lips before sliding out of the wall they backed you into, brushing your hair away in a useless attempt to tame it down.
Mary is scowling when you unlock and open the door. You flash her an innocent grin, one she immediately shut downs with an unimpressed eyebrow raise.
“Sorry,” you say, running a hand through your top and trousers. “I didn’t realize it was locked.”
“Yeah, right,” she sends you a mock smile before it drops back into a scowl. It deepens comically when her eyes fall to Remus and Sirius standing behind you. “Jesus fucking Christ—you’re not going out looking like this.”
Sirius looks down at his clothes, slightly rumpled and neck very clearly marked. “Why? It’s just my usual outfit?”
She waves her hands, already turning to walk away. “I want all of you back on the bus in less than an hour. Freshly showered and changed and ready to hit the road, you hear me?” she points at each of you. “And no funny business, Sirius Black.”
Sirius gawps. “Why are you singling me out?” he frowns, pointing at you, then at Remus. “These two are the ones being degenerates with me. Dragged me here under the pretense of winding down.”
“Please refrain from sharing your shenanigans with me,” Mary says. She points again, eyes holding a threat that neither of you have the courage to ignore. “Less than an hour. Now go.”
When she walks away, sending you one last look over her shoulder, you’re already swatting Sirius’ arm lightly. “Traitorous prick,” you grumble. “You two are the degenerates.”
“Yeah, well,” Remus says, running a hand through his own tousled hair. “I don’t think she believed him, anyway.”
“That means my reputation remains intact. Despite everything,” Sirius flashes you an innocent grin, turning to walk backwards into the hallway. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a schedule to follow.”
You share an unimpressed look with Remus, but eventually follow after him with feigned contempt. It’s no surprise when his arm comes around your shoulders, hand cupping the side of your neck for a quick kiss.
“It looks very good, dove. I forgot to say,” he whispers into your ear, kissing you again before stepping back. “Now I see who’s the culprit behind all my missing jumpers.”
“The piercer said only loose clothing.”
“Hm, right,” he nods, taking a deliberate step away as you round the corner. His arm uncurls from your shoulders. “For weeks, though?”
You shrug, biting down a smirk as you weave through the crew members and technicians walking past you. A secret moment in a crowded and very narrow hallway. Remus doesn’t have any qualms as his pinky brushes yours, flashing you an innocent grin as he spreads an arm open for you to step through the backdoor. Like he hadn’t been kissing and marking your skin moments prior.
Somehow, you manage to stick to Mary’s rule to be showered and ready inside the bus. Sirius is the last one to step back inside freshly showered nearly one full hour later—just barely missing the countdown Mary set for you. He winks at her as he bypasses her on his way to the bunk area to set his things aside.
You glance up from your guitar, sharing a quiet knowing smirk with Remus that has Mary burying her face into her palms. She snaps her laptop shut before retreating to the back lounge to continue with her work before you’re set to leave for the next stop. The last stop of the tour.
“I’ll have to deduct a bit of your paychecks to get Mary a massage after this tour is over,” Regulus mumbles from his own seat at the table. His nimble fingers continue typing even as he sends you a pointed look over the screen.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hum, strumming absentmindedly. Remus’ chest vibrates with his laugh under you. “I didn’t do anything this time.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Those badly concealed lovebites are merely a vanity thing, then?” Lily hums from Regulus’ side, chin hooked over his shoulder as he continues working. “Nothing to do with the reason you disappeared after your set?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say anything if I were you, Evans.” Sirius says as he steps out of the bunk area, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “Not when you’ve dragged my girl into your body altering shenanigans.”
Regulus does glance up at this, turning his head to look at her sideways. “Body altering shenanigans?”
“It’s just a piercing,” you shrug, not quite looking up as you reposition Remus’ fingers over your fretboard. “And it was supposed to be a surprise—No, like this.”
Remus smiles, holding the note. “Like this?” he looks over your shoulder at the fretboard before glancing up at Sirius. “Don’t be a cry baby, you were far worse when you got yours.”
“Well, I didn’t get it in the middle of a tour, to begin with—oh!” Sirius perks up, doing a full turn to point at you. “Now we can match!”
Lily laughs. “No can do, Pads. The piercing can’t be changed until it’s fully healed—in a year.”
“I can wait a year.”
Regulus snorts. “Yeah, right. You couldn’t even wait a year to change yours.”
Sirius narrows his eyes at him. “A wager?”
You roll your eyes at them, returning to your secret and mindless mission of teaching Remus to play your guitar. Mostly to kill time, and you’re sure he knows it’s a quiet indulgence to keep holding his hand.
“Rem, you have to hold the note,” you instruct quietly, smiling when his laugh warms the side of your neck.
“My left hand is useless. I think we’ve already established this,” he says, but still lets you guide his hand.
You smirk, turning your head for him to hear. “Not really, if you ask me,” you kiss his cheek, significantly warmer before focusing back on your guitar.
Remus groans, dropping his hands. “Stop.”
“What?” you laugh, returning to play the guitar when he removes his hands from it. “Can’t I simply compliment my student?”
“Alright, done.” Sirius bangs a fist on the table before stretching hands with Regulus—it pulls you back to their wager and the negotiation of their terms. He turns to point at you. “Lovely, start picking our matching piercings.”
“That depends,” you hum, still strumming.
“Depends on what?”
“What do I get if you win?”
“Uh… matching piercings with your boyfriends?”
Lily hums knowingly, shooting a knowing wink in your direction. “Shouldn’t Remus get one as well for that to count?”
Remus laughs, shifting gears as his arms fall on your legs, tracing idle patterns under the blanket. “That’s not happening.”
“Not even a little hoop?”
“No,” he shakes his head, though his lips betray him with a subtle twitch. “Win the bet first and then we’ll see.”
Sirius’ smile is blinding as he bends down, kissing him quickly. “You’ve got it, Moons,” he winks, settling down on the floor by your sofa. He’s made a small camp for himself, with blankets and cushions thrown down in a makeshift bed. “Where’s Prongs, anyway? He must be here to cheer me on.”
“Sleeping,” Lily and Regulus mumble simultaneously, not quite looking up from the screen.
“God. When isn’t he?” he asks distractedly, shuffling on his knees to open the mini fridge. “He’s missing all the fun.”
“If by fun you mean antagonizing this entire room, then yeah,” Regulus murmurs, finally closing his laptop to level Sirius with a deadpan look. “How fun this is.”
You shake your head when Sirius immediately retaliates with a witty quip, focusing back on your guitar. Remus hooks his chin over your shoulder, studying the way your fingers move over the fretboard as you begin strumming an absentminded rhythm that sounds awfully similar to Mary Jane’s Last Dance.
“It’s fit you can just do that,” Lily says from the table, arms around Regulus as he leans against her. “With any song?”
“Do you have any requests?” you ask distractedly, lips twitching into an almost smirk. Sirius nudges your knee by his side, squeezing lovingly. “Reg used to make me play The Offspring a lot. Didn’t you?”
“The Offspring?” Lily chuckles, smile blinding at the way Regulus pretends to not have heard. But the tips of his ears are pink as he continues pretending to write. “Of course you had a punk phase.”
“Had?” Sirius jokes, just barely dodging the pen Regulus throws at him. “Oi!”
“You’re a nuisance,” he says with no real rancor. You huff under your breath, switching gears to begin strumming The Kids Aren’t Alright. Regulus glances at you with betrayal. “You too, I’m kicking you out as soon as we get back.”
You laugh, startled. Remus takes your distraction to pull you closer, hand under your thighs until you’re fully settled on his lap. At the placating sideways glance you send him, he pretends to be focused on your fretboard—Sirius laughs louder at this.
“Not that anyone cares, apparently,” Regulus makes a show of sighing, long and suffering like you’re already costing him his patience. Lily squeezes his middle in a placating manner. “I need you up and early tomorrow—the signing isn’t supposed to start until noon, but I want you to try and do more content beforehand.”
Your arms fall, careful of your guitar. “No more content.”
“Yes, more content,” Regulus fires back immediately, without so much as acknowledging your feigned contempt. “It has actually worked very well so far—the narrative’s turning.”
“Yeah, ‘cause the comments consist mostly of everyone wagering who’s dating who.”
“That’s a good thing,” Regulus nods, more confident this time. “Of all those comments only a few are negative, and even then—your fans shut them down under the same post,” he pauses, deliberately searching for all your gazes to make sure you understand. “So, yes. More content.”
“Fine,” you grumble. “No dancing, though.”
“Well, that depends on Marlene.”
Sirius chuckles at your crestfallen reaction, squeezing your knee lovingly. “Best to start preparing those dance moves, lovely girl.”
“As for the record signing—you’re sitting in specific order.” Regulus goes on, knowing well the bickering could go until the morning. “James, y/n, Remus and Sirius. No changes. And no funny business.”
“That’s for you, Pads.” Lily says.
“Why is everyone on my case today?” Sirius asks, putting on a show. No one believes him when you run a hand through his hair, placating and for something to do with your fingers. “First Mary and now my own brother. This reeks of conspiracy.”
“I’m saving your arse,” Regulus says, letting Lily pull him up. “If I let you sit next to y/n, you’re going to traumatize everyone in that event. Therefore, James, y/n, Remus and you at the very far end—you keep your hands to yourself, and everyone’s happy.”
“Um, I won’t be?”
“You’ll survive. Goodnight.”
“Reg!”
“The keeping your hands to yourself bit?” he pauses, leveling Sirius with a deadpan look. You look away, pretending to focus on your fretboard. “It starts now. Some of us want to sleep.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius waves him off. “This is a dictatorship.”
Regulus waves him off as well, drawing the curtain closed to separate the bunk areas from the lounge.
“I can’t believe this,” he says, shaking his head with disbelief. “Pointing fingers at me when you’re the one who cannot keep his hands to himself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Remus hums. His fingers haven’t stopped tracing shapes on your leg. You send him a deadpan look that mirrors Sirius’. “What?”
“Alright,” Sirius mumbles, carefully taking the guitar from you to set it on your case. You part your lips in surprise, but he doesn't so much as glance back at you. “My turn—scoot over, gorgeous.”
“What—Sirius!” you gasp, delighted but very surprised at his outburst as he pulls your legs. You slide down Remus’ lap with a nervous fit of chuckles.
Remus tuts. “Wait, love, remember her—”
“Her stomach, yes,” Sirius nods, careful of his movements as he settles by your side. His back is pressed to the sofa, cheek nuzzling on your chest. “I’m being very, very careful. Aren’t I?” he drops a kiss to your collarbone.
“Yeah,” you smile, raising a hand to brush his hair away. Mostly dried now. You curl a finger around an inky black strand. “You always are.”
Sirius shuffles closer, and you raise a hand to your navel as reflex. But he only guides it away before kissing you softly. A placating smile curling against your lips when you go lax under him.
“And ‘sides,” he says, dropping little ones down your lips, your chin. “I must make the most of this if we’re going to be apart of so long.”
Remus makes an amused sound. “The most it’ll take is three hours.”
“Too long. Unbearable,” Sirius goes on. “How will I be expected to function under those conditions?”
You roll your eyes, letting your head drop back on Remus’ stomach. Sirius chases your lips with a saccharine smile.
…
“Wait, wait, I’m not done—give it back.”
You laugh, sending the girl a conspiratorial look that has her giggling nervously before turning away from James. He makes a show of trying to take the record from you, but Remus swats his hand away without so much as sending him another glance.
“You had your time,” he says, smirking. You shoot James a triumphant smile before returning to finish signing the girl’s copy.
“Sorry about that,” you smile down at the record, searching for a space to sign. James’ signature takes up most of the corner. “Jamie—what’s this?”
“A smiley face.”
“On my face?”
“What? I wasn’t going to ruin mine!” James smiles, winking at the girl in a way you’re glad she’s sitting down. You nudge his side with your elbow. “But you’re right—this eye is a bit bigger.”
You swat his hand away, signing with the other one before sliding it to Remus. If his hand brushing yours does something to your insides, a flash going off in the distance is a great reminder to rein yourself in. Still, Remus’ lips twitch into a smug smirk as he signs the copy. Right under yours.
When he slides the copy at Sirius, you’re mildly surprised when he does a show of acting offended on your behalf. “Who did this?” he raises the copy for you to see.
James reaches behind you and Remus to swat his head, but his fingertips just barely brush his jacket from the distance. The girl in front of you watches the interaction with a starstruck and slightly amused look.
She clears her throat when she catches you looking. “I… um, I really loved the arrangement for Don’t Delete The Kisses,” she says, fiddling with her bag. “It felt very nostalgic, like when you don’t want the night to be over.”
Your smile is blinding enough that you feel Remus hooking his ankle with yours under the table—all you’re allowed to display.
“Yeah? Thank you,” you fiddle with your marker in return. The side of your hand is smudged from all the signing and fresh ink. “That’s our producers’ doing—we used a synthesizer to give it that nostalgic feeling. That’s exactly the vibe we were going for,” you go on, hands flailing in excitement and completely missing the way Sirius has already finished his signing and is handing the copy back to her. His smile is borderline smitten as he listens to you speak. “Exactly—and when the night is over, and you drive home already feeling nostalgic about it?”
“Yes!” the girl points excitedly. She hugs the signed record against her chest. “Will you perform it later today?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, and thank you for signing. And your time,” she points at the record. “I hope you come back soon for your own concert.”
“Oh,” you blink, fingers stilling around the marker. A small laugh slips out of you, startled but very touched by her blatant support. “Yeah, that’s… that’s really sweet, thank you. We’d love that.”
“Hopefully next time it’s our name on the poster,” Sirius nods, already capping his marker. He winks at the girl. “Mine at the very top, of course.”
You roll your eyes at him, brushing your hair away before turning to the girl again. “Thank you for coming—see you tonight.”
She smiles, eyes flickering from each of you before nodding one last time. You wave at her as Regulus guides her down the steps in your makeshift stage/signing table. The rest of the team starts working as the event comes to an end.
You roll your wrist, feeling it cramping from all the signing and writing and doodling you’ve done in the past three hours.
“That was sweet,” James says, leaning back on his chair to stretch. “And she didn’t care that I drew on your face.”
“What was she supposed to say, Jamie?” Remus shakes his head, huffing a quiet laugh. “With the way you were flirting? Just be glad she didn’t drop dead.”
Regulus hums as he bypasses you. “That’s true.”
You chuckle quietly at the look on James’ face, he pushes himself to stand to follow after Regulus. Placations and apologies spilling out of him even when Regulus hasn’t shown any real upset about it—clearly too amused with the sight to mind.
Sirius pushes himself to stand as well, shooting a careful look out the rest of the record shop before walking up to you. “Let’s see,” he takes your left hand, cradling it carefully like one would hold a precious object. “Too sore?”
“A bit, yeah,” you sigh blissfully as he presses a thumb to your inner wrist, massaging in circles. “Fuck—yes, keep doing that,” you nod, rotating your wrist.
Remus laughs, leaning back on his own chair as Sirius continues dutifully rubbing and massaging your sore wrist.
“You’d think I’m used to writing a lot from the mailroom,” you wince when he presses a bit harder. Sirius sets a hand over the spot, definitely containing his urge to kiss the spot better.
“Yeah, well,” Sirius hums knowingly, rotating your hand until his thumb sweeps at the side. He cleans the smudged ink that stains your hand, a common occurrence. “I’m sure you never had me and my godsend touch to massage the soreness, haven’t you?”
You bite back a fond eyeroll, and Sirius does look around the room before dropping a quick kiss to the inside of your wrist. It drags a surprised gasp out of you, shooting a careful look around to check if anyone noticed. Thankfully, it’s just you three and Mary.
When he gives it a careful turn to check for soreness, Sirius winces at the same time you gasp when your wrist cracks.
“Alright, give it here,” Remus says, gesturing for your wrist. “You’re too harsh, love.”
“I’m not!”
“He’s not really,” you say, too. But still, Sirius passes your wrist to Remus without much hesitation. You share a look when Remus’ lips twitch in a little pleased smug. “Just say you want to hold my hand, Rem. We understand.”
Remus simply presses the spot a tiny bit deeper with his thumb, and you gasp. His smirk is fully smug as he brings his other hand to soothe the soreness in your wrist—the affection that spreads through your body is enough to bring colour to your cheeks again. At their open affections and caring despite weeks and days of being on the receiving end of it. Hell, even before you took the leap to be together.
“Right, so,” Regulus says, walking back to you but not quite looking up as he types into his phone. James pouts. “You’ve got uh…” he checks the hour. “Four hours before your set.”
“Four?” Sirius asks, uncrossing his arms. “But we don’t go until eight.”
“Since it’s a bigger venue you’re requested to arrive earlier. Just in case,” he explains, still not looking up. “If you have things to do, I’d get going if I were you.”
“As a matter of fact—we do,” Sirius nods, turning to you. “Come on.”
“Go where?”
“You, lovely girl,” Sirius flashes you a charming and overly sweet grin as you follow after him. Or well, as he gives your hand a light tug to help you up. He winks at Remus. “are coming on a date.”
Your eyebrows snap up. “A date?” you ask, pursing your lips together to keep your amused grin at bay.
“Hm,” Sirius nods, not quite looking back as he wanders through the record shop. “With us.”
“Okay,” you laugh. “Can I check something first, though?”
They share a look, but you’re darting through the rows of displays and records—suspiciously similar to the path you walked on your way inside. Sirius is by your side at record time, nearly crashing into your back when you halt. You smile, nimble fingers skimming through the vinyls before you’re pulling one out, gasping in delight.
“Fuck, yes—do you know how long I’ve been searching for this?” you ask, to no one in particular. The words are already slipping out of you like you can’t contain them anymore. “I actually found a pretty decent copy back home. But the girl couldn’t sell it to me ‘cause apparently she was saving it for some collector—which I know it’s all rubbish because I saw it on display last time I visited. God—can’t believe I found it all the way here.”
“I mean,” Sirius starts to say, recovering from the absolute whiplash of you rambling—something that still leaves him breathless and heart melting inside of him. “First of all—how dare she lie to you? Who would deny that face anything?”
You roll your eyes fondly, but your cheeks do take a pinkish hue as you turn the record to continue inspecting it. Sirius, of course, doesn’t miss the chance to taunt you as he pinches your cheek.
“Don’t make fun.”
He gawps, but Remus only rolls his eyes at him. A habit you’re beginning to pick up when it comes to Sirius. “Let’s see,” he murmurs, tilting his head to check the record. “Oh. This is a good one, dove.”
“Right?” you light up, glancing back down at the cover. A Buckingham Nicks reissue you’ve been after for months since its release. “And it looks to be in perfect condition.”
They watch you turn the record in your hands, running a palm over the cover before turning to continue skimming the row of copies where you found it. Remus takes it from you to free your hands, fingers brushing yours and smirking at the way your lips twitch in a bashful smile.
“How did you even spot it all the way from the signing?” Sirius hums by your side, already skimming through the row next to yours. He pauses when you hum innocently, looking at you sideways. “What?”
“I might’ve checked their page before coming.”
“Babe,” he laughs, heavy with fondness as you pretend to skim some more. “Come here—I need to kiss you. Right this second, actually.”
“Sirius,” you threaten, taking a step back. His eyes glisten with mischief as he follows after you, hands cupping your face before he’s smacking your cheek.
“There,” he smiles. If he felt your cheeks impossibly warmer, you’re glad he doesn’t comment on it. “What other treasures are we after?”
You blink, slightly dazed before turning to scan the room. “Just this one, I think…” you rub your lips together. “Yeah.”
“Lovely,” Sirius says, taking the record from Remus and walking to the front of the shop—directly to the till.
It takes you a beat to react, but you go after him when he stops by the till, already flashing the girl his most charming smile. He doesn’t look phased or surprised when you push his card away, whispering that he doesn’t need to buy it for you and Sirius whispering back that he doesn’t mind. You’re so engrossed in your bargaining that you miss the way Remus wordlessly hands the girl his card—until she’s handing him the bagged record across the counter.
“Remus,” you chide him softly, mostly startled as he passes you the bag.
He shakes his head, smiling smugly despite himself. “Don’t worry, dove. I don’t mind,” he says, curling an arm around Sirius to guide him out the shop. “But I’ll consider us even if you let me borrow it someday.”
“Of course,” you blink. Both in surprise at his offer and the playful tug at your belt hoops. Sirius’ gaze is heavy with affection as you marvel over your new record. “Thank you.”
Remus nods, looking away like he’s containing his own urges to kiss you right then and there. Sirius pats his side commiseratingly. You glance around, checking if there are any remaining fans or journalists around before pulling him down for a quick kiss to his cheek. Quick and fleeting enough to pass as friendly should someone see you.
“Right, so—where are we going?” you ask, walking by their side even if you haven’t a clue where you’re going. “To this, uh… date?”
“Right!” Sirius perks up, pulling Remus and you with him as he rounds the corner. It’s filled with people and vendors and fans and every single performer you can find on Hollywood Boulevard. “Uh… it should be somewhere here. Reg said it was somewhere near that famous spot.”
“Which one?” Remus asks, voice twinged with amusement. Letting Sirius guide him through the influx of people walking around. “Are you sure—”
“Aha!”
You both follow his finger, muttering excuses as you’re forced to stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Sirius spreads his arms in theatrics towards the building. A vintage looking diner that looks suspiciously like a tourist trap.
“Sirius…”
“No, no. Wait—this isn’t just the best part,” he says, turning to point at the window. “Look.”
Inside the diner, very close to the window, is a photobooth. You pass a hand over your face, stifling your startled chuckles at his theatrics. And the absurdity of it all. Sirius doesn’t seem offended as he drops his arms, beelining for the door.
Remus shoots you an amused sideways look, one you return with barely contained fondness before pulling at his own belt hoop to walk inside.
…
You don’t know whose living room you are in right now. Regulus wouldn’t drag you to some random house, adrenaline high and with barely enough time to retouch your makeup, but you still keep to yourself. Just in case. You never know with the Hollywood crowd.
When a face you recognize from your teenage music dreams walks past you, completely unaware of your presence or too high to recognize who you are, you instinctively reach for Remus’ hand behind you.
“Yeah,” he tilts his head, whispering for you to hear and not to interrupt Sirius’ animated conversation with the producer in front of you. “I saw that, too.”
“Would it be too weird if I ask for an autograph?” you whisper back. “I feel like I owe it to my teenage self.”
Remus stifles a laugh, pretending to look around. “Only one way to find out.”
“I don’t want to go after them, though. I must be cool,” you say, slowly gaining courage the more his thumb presses at your palm. “Didn’t you hear that journalist? I’m sort of a rockstar now.”
This does pull a surprised but very genuine laugh out of him. He gives your hand a chiding squeeze.
“Oh, that would be y/n,” Sirius says animatedly, dragging you out of your little bubble. You blink, slightly dazed and trying to focus your attention back on him and the producer. Thankfully, he seems to notice this. “About the song? How Moody and you basically produced it.”
“Oh,” you blink again. “Right, yeah. I mean—he did most of the production, but we played around with the synth to see what worked and what didn’t.”
“It was impressive work—and very experimental from the rest of the EP.”
You smile, brushing your hair away in that bashful (and secretly charming, according to Sirius) manner of yours. “Yeah, the song went through various changes before the final take,” you confess, and the producer nods in encouragement. “Moody wanted to keep it synth-based, or with the drums playing louder.”
“I wasn’t very opposed to that idea, actually,” James steps in, walking back just in time to hear your explanation. “But then realized how much I’d have to play it live and decided to pick my battles.”
“We didn’t know it’d get this much attention, though.” Remus comments. His hand flattens over your lower back, a grounding pressure that makes your cheeks warm again.
“Why not? It’s well produced, and the arrangement? Don’t even get me started,” the producer says before tilting their chin at you. “Have you ever considered producing?” you part your lips to speak, but find the words dying in your throat at the genuine shock that courses through you. The producer laughs quietly, sipping at their drink before someone’s calling them over. “Think about it. And good luck back there—I’ll definitely keep up with your future work, Marauders.”
You force confidence into your movements, nodding in farewell before they’re turning away. “I need a drink,” you blurt out. Sirius barks a laugh, wordlessly handing you his glass, it gets louder when you nearly down it in one go.
“Alright,” he takes it from you. “You’re going to make yourself sick, doll.”
“I think I am going to be sick,” you mumble, brushing your hair away. This does make them turn to you with varying faces full of concern. “No, I mean—not in the literal sense.”
“Oh.” James relaxes. “Thank God. I don’t think anyone here actually has any medicine for that.”
“I mean… at least not that kind.” Sirius says, looking around. Remus swats his chest lightly, mostly in a placating manner that brings some comfort to you. It’s familiar enough to let the moment settle. “What? It’s true!”
James hums in assent. “Yeah, I think I just saw Duke going through someone’s medicine cabinet,” he makes a show of shuddering a bit dramatically. “Best to not accept anything he offers.”
“Don’t accept anything anyone offers you,” Regulus says, walking back into your huddled circle. He’s toying with an embellished business card. “Pitchfork Music—they’re interested in doing a feature on you for their rising artists series.”
This time, Remus’ hand fully flattens against your back in his own way to ground himself through you. You’re secretly glad, knowing he needs it as much as you.
“Not now, though,” Regulus adds carefully, eyes flickering from each of you as he gauges your reactions. “We’d have to negotiate with the label first. See if they agree with… well,” with everything that’s already happening, you know he almost says. “But we’ll talk about it when the time comes.”
Sirius claps. “Perfect,” he turns to you, reaching for your hand, you give it to him almost unconsciously. “You still need that drink, gorgeous? ‘Cause I need one for myself.”
“Another one?”
“The last one,” he amends, winking at Remus as he guides you away and towards the bar. Sirius’ hand moves upwards in your arm until he’s wrapping an arm around you. “I actually wanted to steal you for a bit, is that okay?”
You huff a laugh, unsurprised but very endeared by his antics. “Yes, it’s okay, Sirius,” you whisper back in the same tone. A shared secret indulgence as he fixes the hem of your top. “Are we actually getting a drink or is this a secret agenda you want to fulfill?”
He laughs, jostling you playfully. “Ask me later?”
“Depends,” you murmur, leaning sideways over the counter. Your smile is borderline smitten as you watch him scouring the drinks, shimmering eyeshadow catching the warmth lights of the bar with each movement. You find yourself wanting to brush his hair away—then remember you’re actually allowed to do it now. “What does this agenda entail?”
Sirius melts into your touch, eyes flickering around the room before turning his head slightly to the side to kiss your palm. Accidental to the untrained eye.. “Depends—what are you in the mood for?” his lips twitch into a knowing smirk when you drop your hand. He laughs at the way your cheeks warm. “I was thinking about midnight lunch… unless you had something different in mind?”
You don’t answer, pushing yourself off the counter to take the glass from him. “No more drinks for you tonight.”
“What!”
“You’re being a menace.”
“Am certainly not,” he argues, though his tone betrays him. And smirk as well. You roll your eyes at him, setting the bottle away from his reach. “Baby—”
“Hm, that won’t work,” you shake your head, suppressing the shiver that runs through you at the endearment. Sirius’ smile widens at this. “No.”
“No what, baby?” his voice drops, taking a step closer. A nervous laugh escapes you. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Keep this up and I’ll make you room with Regulus.”
He pulls back, genuinely aghast. “Would you?”
“You tell me,” you smirk, eyes flitting down to his damning hand under your top. You guide it away from your navel. “M’sure Reg won’t mind.”
“Now who’s being a menace?”
You shrug, turning back to the bottles to search for something lighter. Sirius rolls his eyes fondly, leaning sideways to watch you pour the drinks in that quietly expert way from your bartending experience. You’re acutely aware of his piercing eyes following your every move—but your boyfriend only flashes you an innocent grin when you catch his eyes wandering down.
“Did Rem want one as well?” you muse out loud, pausing before taking a new glass.
“He didn’t say,” Sirius pushes himself off the counter, tilting his chin up to try and spot Remus amongst the crowd. “Probably not, though—said he didn’t want to get too sloshed.”
“Remus?” you chuckle. “Is he even capable of reaching that point?”
Sirius nudges your hip playfully. “You’d be surprised how weak our boy can be when it comes to fancy drinks,” he winks as he steps back. “I’ll go ask him, yeah? Don’t move.”
You raise your hands in mock surrender before returning to finish mixing Sirius’ drink exactly how you remember he prepared it—with more mixer than alcohol this time.
“So it’s true, then?” a voice drawls, twinged with bemusement. The sort of tone that makes your stomach churn. “What everybody’s saying?”
You look up, finding a pair of scrutinizing eyes staring back at you. The boy doesn’t deign to school his expression when you frown in confusion, gaze flickering around to make sure he’s actually talking to you before standing straight.
“Pardon?”
The boy clicks his tongue, dropping his crossed arms to weave through the people around you. It makes your heart clench in panic, glancing around in search of Sirius, or anyone.
“Sorry for interrupting—you just looked really cozy with… that’s your bandmate, isn’t he? Sirius Black?”
“Are you a journalist?”
He smirks. “No.”
“Why so many questions, then?”
“Okay, okay,” he raises his palms in surrender. But nothing about his demeanor shows that he is actually surrendering whatever he’s trying to accomplish. “My bad. I tend to be too straightforward most of the time—my manager hates it.”
You hum, turning back to the mixers. “I wonder why.”
The boy chuckles and you try not to cringe too visibly at the forced flirty tone in his laugh. “You’re funny.”
“Am I?” you say dryly, pretending to pour another drink. Just something for your hands to do.
“Very,” he nods, sliding closer against the counter. You take a deliberate step away from him, not pausing your mixing. The boy hums. “And hot, too. Why do you know how to do that?”
“What? Be hot?”
“Oh my god—were you a waitress before this?” he laughs. “Or bartender?”
“For someone that claims not to be a journalist, you do ask an awful lot of questions,” you take another step back. “Leave me alone.”
“Not a journalist, I promise. Just a well intentioned fellow,” he takes another step closer, and you feel your heart leaping all the way to your throat. Why is Sirius taking so long? The boy smirks. “Now back to my first question… is it true then?”
“What?”
“That those boys of yours know how to share,” he dips his chin, gaze darkening in a way that has you pressing against the counter. Trying to put as much distance as possible between you. Your hand tightens around your glass. “‘Cause I’m quite interested—”
When his hand lands on your hip, two things happen at once. He steps back, calling out curses at you when you throw the ice cold drink at him. Then, Sirius is calling your name, trying to get to you through the crowd of people with a look angry enough that even you feel your stomach drop.
“You bitch!” the boy shouts, looking down at his soaked shirt and trousers. When his head snaps back at you, eyes blazing with anger, you feel your heart pounding in your ears. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
“Me?” you frown. “What the fuck is wrong with you, dickhead?”
The boy clenches his jaw, hand circling around your elbow when you try to walk away. Of course, his attempt at whatever he planned to do is ruined as Sirius shoves him away.
“Touch her again and a drink to your face will be the least of your concerns,” he says, eerily controlled voice a stark contrast to the rage in his gaze. “Fuck off somewhere else.”
“Ah, isn’t it the rockstar heir in the flesh?” the boy smirks, pathetically in your opinion with his splashed shirt and trousers. “Is the other one coming, too?
Sirius takes another step closer, not quite looking away from the boy. You take his arm, trying to pull him away from the scene and the room altogether.
“He’s not worth it,” you say, feeling relief spread right through your chest when Sirius actually takes a step back with you. “Come on—let’s find Remus and get out of this place.”
“Aha! Remus! That’s the other one, isn’t it?”
“For fuck’s sake,” you mutter to yourself when Sirius freezes. Barely giving you anytime to react before he’s shoving the boy again, harsher this time. Your other hand flies to his arm, trying to drag him away. Again. “Sirius—”
Of course. Of fucking course the boy retaliates almost immediately, shoving Sirius away. You gasp, feeling his elbow press hard into your front and digging at the somewhat tender skin around your navel.
“Fuck,” you grit, taking a step back. Your hand flies down to your stomach. “Jesus fucking christ.”
Sirius does a full turn at this, eyes wide as he scans you for any visible injuries until they follow your hand. All the ire and anger seems to evaporate from him.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” his voice is frayed with leftover adrenaline as he bends down to inspect it. You only angle your torso away as a reflex. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“I know, I know,” you nod quickly. “Let’s just go—”
From over his shoulder, you see the boy trying to speak again and then you’re off. Sirius doesn’t question it when you half drag him through the crowd of people back to your huddled little alcove. It’s a bit clumsy when your hand continues protectively cocooning around your navel, but you make it work.
Remus pauses his dry comeback to look back at you. Like he can already tell something went wrong—or maybe your wincing is more obvious than you realize, or the mix of guilt and anger emanating from Sirius is too hard to ignore.
“What’s wrong?” he frowns.
“Can we go?” you ask, not quite letting go of Sirius yet. You thread your fingers together for reassurance, just in case. For him to know you’re not upset and for you to grip something for the pain. “My stomach hurts a bit.”
James pauses his joke, too. “Wait, you actually felt sick?”
You don’t have the heart to explain why exactly you want to leave, so you seize the opportunity. “A bit, yeah.”
“Okay, we’re leaving,” he says immediately, following after Regulus as he leads the way out of the party. The end of tour after party, mind you.
When the first breeze of fresh air hits your face, you feel some relief finally spreading through you. Slow but steady, it almost soothes the pain shooting up from your tender skin. Remus frowns when he follows your hand, eyes flickering between you and Sirius, then back at the party before bending to inspect it.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” he frowns, eyes glancing up between you and Sirius. You don’t suppose you look as relaxed as he last saw you. Sirius can’t stop throwing scornful looks behind his shoulder and your eyes have that slightly dazed, dissociative look that makes his frown deepen. “Did something happen?”
“Just some creep,” you force yourself to sound casual and unaffected, waving him off. “It’s fine, though. Handled.”
“Handled? He touched you, y/n.”
“What?” Remus stands straight. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter now. It was handled, we handled it. Now tell me—does it look too bad?”
He knows you’re baiting him, he really does. But Remus only shakes his head quickly before bending at the waist again, inspecting your piercing and the pink skin around it.
“Is it bleeding?” you ask, voice barely a murmur. You find yourself leaning on Sirius, dreading the silence it takes Remus to answer. “Remus?”
“No bleeding,” he confirms. “Does it hurt too much?”
“A bit, yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” Sirius says, turning to rest his cheek on your temple. “It’s just… when I saw him talking to you that way, getting closer and how he touched you—”
“I know,” you shut your eyes, both at the shooting pain in your stomach and the memory. “Can we talk about this later, please?”
“Of course,” they both say, with varying tones of concern and shared indignation on your behalf.
“Yes, of course, dovey—do you still have that saline solution?”
“Hm,” you nod, trying not to look down at your stomach. Remus sets a careful hand on your hip, angling it away when Sirius pulls you closer in a quiet apology. “Yeah, I left it back at the hotel, though.”
“That’s fine,” he ducks his chin, searching for your gaze. “You’re okay. It looks okay, I promise.”
From a few steps away from you, Regulus makes an overly irritated sound that makes all of you snap your heads towards him.
“Sirius, for fuck’s sake—what did I tell you?”
He’s turning the phone towards you before any of you can ask. All you manage to make out is a grainy video, taken mid moment when Sirius is shoving the boy away from you.
summary: The Marauders are in dire need of a new guitarist. You weren’t even planning to get involved. Sirius thinks you’re insufferable, Remus can’t quite figure you out, and James just wants the band to stop falling apart. Things (and feelings) get messy somewhere along the way.
tags: fem!reader. rockstar!reader. modern au. rock band au. sort of nuisances to lovers, angst. hurt/comfort. eventual fame au.
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven, part twelve
I don't know if this is something you'd be interested in writing but I feel like I vaguely remember you having a fic with an autistic reader, and I was wondering if it would be okay for me to request something similar?
I don't have anything super specific in mind-maybe reader being diagnosed and how the boys react or reader dealing with sensory issues? Although I'm partial to Eddie, Steve, and Clark, it can be with any of the boys. I honestly love everything you write so you'll have no complaints from me.
thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you have a wonderful week lovely girl
for you, my angel, you and steve cope with a ton of your sensory issues the best way you can. 1.7k, fem
Steve can’t pinpoint when it happens, it just happens. Slowly, over the course of the day, he can see your mood changing. One minute you’re there and the next minute you’ve gone into yourself, eyes glazed, your head downturned, sitting on the side of the bathtub as it fills with your hands clenched on your thighs.
He stops brushing his teeth.
Steve isn’t stupid. Not dumb, not half as unworldly as people assume. His dorks all think he’s the idiot of the group because he doesn’t know what a necromancer is, but Steve has actual real life experience, and he’s loved you for a little while now. He might not have understood the extra care you needed when you first met, but Steve’s your guy. He gets this.
He spits and rinses his mouth, dries his hands on the towel. Then he reaches around you to turn off the faucet, returning the room to some semblance of silence.
You make a hoarse humming sound, the meat of your palm digging into your thigh.
Steve kneels down in front of you. He’s smiling at you before you find his gaze. You don’t smile back.
“Too loud?”
You wet your lips. “It’s too everything,” you say.
You warned him once that overstimulation makes you unkind. You’ll get annoyed at the world and it’ll sound like you blame him. It did break his heart, the first time it happened, but it’s not about him. He realised that pretty quickly, that you’re just not built for the amount of things you’ve experienced in one day sometimes. Steve thinks of it like this: throughout the day, he experiences a sensation and he puts it back down, while you experience sensation and aren’t able to put it down, not without the time and space to register that it needs to be put down in the first place. You end up carrying everything with you, all day long. Steve would be tired too. He’d need quiet, too, if it felt like everything that happened to him was happening all day long.
You don’t sound mad, but you’re tight-voiced. Almost like the question annoyed you. It hasn’t, is the thing. Steve gives your knee a tiny stroke. When you don’t flinch, he rests his hand there.
“Maybe you don’t need to have a bath tonight,” he says. “It can wait until the morning if the noise is gonna be too much, or you could wear your plugs or your defenders–”
“Can’t get them wet,” you say.
“Right, of course not. Sorry. Do you know what you need to do to feel better?” he asks hopefully.
“I need to not be warm, and to not be loud, and I need you to squeeze me,” you say, rubbing your thigh harder. Your eyelashes flutter. “Would that be okay?” you add quietly.
“Yeah. I think that’s something we can do. Which one is the most important?"
“The sounds are most important.” You sniffle suddenly, your eyes filling with tears. “Sorry. Thank you. I just need it to be quiet for a bit.”
“I know, honey. I won’t talk, kay? Ear defenders first, everything else can wait.”
Steve’s pleasantly surprised when you slip your fingers between his. There are sensations you can deal with sometimes but not others, and his touch tends to be a no-go when you’re shutting down, so he’s happy you aren’t too deep into things to be able to stay connected. He guides you into your bedroom, pulling back the sheets on the bed right to the end so you can sit against a pillow with nothing else touching you. You climb into bed and start to take off your socks, bunching your legs up toward you.
Steve fishes your ear defenders out of his nightstand and kneels beside you, careful not to make the mattress dip down. He slips them over your head and lines them up, and then he turns your face gently with his pinky finger. “Cold pack?” he murmurs.
You read his lips, nodding.
Steve gets the cold pack from the fridge. You’re out of your t-shirt when he returns, leaving you in your sweatpants and a vest. Steve wonders if you want out of the sweatpants, too, but if you have any leg hair it’ll annoy you, so he keeps his suggestions to himself and presses the cold pack to your tummy. You hold it right to your navel and sigh. There are tears in your eyes again, but Steve doesn’t wanna wipe them and be the overbearer who doesn’t trust you to look after yourself. Then he realises he’s the boyfriend who loves you and does it anyhow, so, so gently.
You nod at him. “Can you squeeze me, please?” you ask, your voice gone to scratch paper. “If I can– if you can lie down, and I’ll lie on top of you, and you can squeeze me until it stops?”
You sound like a ‘no’ would tear you to pieces. Steve just wants you to feel better. “Of course I can do that. Can you move over? Make me some room, honey.”
Steve lays flat on the bed in the space you’ve made and you rush to lay yourself on top of him, forcing the cold pack into his stomach as well. It’s weird. Not you, not the experience, but the pressure. You’re not anything he’d ever want off of him, you could live like this for all Steve cares, but you’re a rigid weight from his chest to his ankles and he wonders if that’s what you feel like too.
Steve gets his arms around your waist, crosses them, and takes a deep breath for you to copy. Then he squeezes you so hard that the air is forced out of both of you, and you nearly laugh. He does this five times in a row, until you rush out, “No, no more, please,” with a straggly breath.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
You push a cup from your defenders off of your ear. “Huh?”
“Sorry, honey, I’m just asking if I hurt you?”
“No.”
Steve relaxes. You replace the defender and lay yourself back down, slinky now, breathing hard like you’ve been holding your breath. In a way, you had been. Steve held it for you. The cold on his tummy emanates.
He doesn’t love squeezing you so hard, but he knows how fast it works for you, and you like it. You’ll ask him to do it on good days, too, so he figures it’s no different to a massage for relief. You pant a couple times into his neck before laying your arms over his shoulders and against the side and top of his head, hugging him.
Steve rubs your back.
He thinks you're sleeping, staying very still, but after ten more minutes you take your defenders off and put them on his nightstand. “They really work, but they’re not comfortable,” you tell him softly.
“Could’ve got you your plugs.”
“They’re not as good.”
“You feeling any better?” he asks, though he can tell that you are.
You sigh into his skin. “So much. But… can we be quiet, still? Just for now?”
If it means you won’t try to give yourself a bruise, he’ll glue his lips shut. “Sure, baby. I can be quiet. Can I rub your back more?”
“Please. Can you dig your knuckles in?”
Not as much as you might want him to, but sure. Steve’s happy to oblige you. “Mm-hm.”
It takes a full half an hour and all the cold of the cold pack before you’re regulated. Back to a baseline that isn’t tears. You shuffle up to move the cold away from both of your tummies and wrap him up in a cuddle so soft-hearted at its core that Steve wants to sweep you up and keep you by his chest forever. He holds you by the thigh to bring you upwards, your faces touching, your nose just above his and dragging into his skin.
“You did such a great job,” he says under his breath.
You fluster. “Don’t, I’m not a kid.”
“I know you’re not, but you did good. Yeah? You let yourself take the time you needed, and you didn’t get frustrated.” Didn’t try to rough yourself up, and didn’t cry more than a few (awful, heart-hurting) tears. You handled it really well.
“Sorry it took me so long, Stevie,” you murmur.
“I don’t care at all, not for you to be sorry, and not that it took a while. All I wanted was for you to feel like yourself again. You can’t do that if you’re worried about having to do that in a certain time period.”
You smile and press it into his cheek. “You’re being kind of perfect.”
“It’s literally the minimum of what you deserve. You know that? I can take half an hour out of my day if it means you get to have a good one.”
“Always have a good day with you,” you say, clutching his neck and shoulders in your arm and your calmed hand.
“That’s the goal.”
“… was more than half an hour. Thank you. It’s good of you.”
Steve sighs because he never wins this argument, but he doesn’t mind. You’re too pretty to fight with for long, and you must be so tired, even with your freshly regulated nervous system. He turns to get you on your side and kicks the blankets up until he can pull them over your waist, before he lays his hand over the centre of your belly, still cold. He’ll trace a shape there until your breathing evens. Steve has a ton of tricks to get you sleeping.
“Why don’t you tell me about something?” he says behind the shell of your ear, his hand waving gently into your navel. “Tell me something fun.”
“Are you trying to get me to sleep?”
“To rest, sure, but I wanna know, too. Tell me something fun,” he insists, before pressing a kiss behind your ear. “Or I can tell you something?”
You twine your fingers over his warm hand and give in. “Okay, lovely boy. Tell me something about you.”
I don't know if this is something you'd be interested in writing but I feel like I vaguely remember you having a fic with an autistic reader, and I was wondering if it would be okay for me to request something similar?
I don't have anything super specific in mind-maybe reader being diagnosed and how the boys react or reader dealing with sensory issues? Although I'm partial to Eddie, Steve, and Clark, it can be with any of the boys. I honestly love everything you write so you'll have no complaints from me.
thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you have a wonderful week lovely girl
for you, my angel, you and steve cope with a ton of your sensory issues the best way you can. 1.7k, fem
Steve can’t pinpoint when it happens, it just happens. Slowly, over the course of the day, he can see your mood changing. One minute you’re there and the next minute you’ve gone into yourself, eyes glazed, your head downturned, sitting on the side of the bathtub as it fills with your hands clenched on your thighs.
He stops brushing his teeth.
Steve isn’t stupid. Not dumb, not half as unworldly as people assume. His dorks all think he’s the idiot of the group because he doesn’t know what a necromancer is, but Steve has actual real life experience, and he’s loved you for a little while now. He might not have understood the extra care you needed when you first met, but Steve’s your guy. He gets this.
He spits and rinses his mouth, dries his hands on the towel. Then he reaches around you to turn off the faucet, returning the room to some semblance of silence.
You make a hoarse humming sound, the meat of your palm digging into your thigh.
Steve kneels down in front of you. He’s smiling at you before you find his gaze. You don’t smile back.
“Too loud?”
You wet your lips. “It’s too everything,” you say.
You warned him once that overstimulation makes you unkind. You’ll get annoyed at the world and it’ll sound like you blame him. It did break his heart, the first time it happened, but it’s not about him. He realised that pretty quickly, that you’re just not built for the amount of things you’ve experienced in one day sometimes. Steve thinks of it like this: throughout the day, he experiences a sensation and he puts it back down, while you experience sensation and aren’t able to put it down, not without the time and space to register that it needs to be put down in the first place. You end up carrying everything with you, all day long. Steve would be tired too. He’d need quiet, too, if it felt like everything that happened to him was happening all day long.
You don’t sound mad, but you’re tight-voiced. Almost like the question annoyed you. It hasn’t, is the thing. Steve gives your knee a tiny stroke. When you don’t flinch, he rests his hand there.
“Maybe you don’t need to have a bath tonight,” he says. “It can wait until the morning if the noise is gonna be too much, or you could wear your plugs or your defenders–”
“Can’t get them wet,” you say.
“Right, of course not. Sorry. Do you know what you need to do to feel better?” he asks hopefully.
“I need to not be warm, and to not be loud, and I need you to squeeze me,” you say, rubbing your thigh harder. Your eyelashes flutter. “Would that be okay?” you add quietly.
“Yeah. I think that’s something we can do. Which one is the most important?"
“The sounds are most important.” You sniffle suddenly, your eyes filling with tears. “Sorry. Thank you. I just need it to be quiet for a bit.”
“I know, honey. I won’t talk, kay? Ear defenders first, everything else can wait.”
Steve’s pleasantly surprised when you slip your fingers between his. There are sensations you can deal with sometimes but not others, and his touch tends to be a no-go when you’re shutting down, so he’s happy you aren’t too deep into things to be able to stay connected. He guides you into your bedroom, pulling back the sheets on the bed right to the end so you can sit against a pillow with nothing else touching you. You climb into bed and start to take off your socks, bunching your legs up toward you.
Steve fishes your ear defenders out of his nightstand and kneels beside you, careful not to make the mattress dip down. He slips them over your head and lines them up, and then he turns your face gently with his pinky finger. “Cold pack?” he murmurs.
You read his lips, nodding.
Steve gets the cold pack from the fridge. You’re out of your t-shirt when he returns, leaving you in your sweatpants and a vest. Steve wonders if you want out of the sweatpants, too, but if you have any leg hair it’ll annoy you, so he keeps his suggestions to himself and presses the cold pack to your tummy. You hold it right to your navel and sigh. There are tears in your eyes again, but Steve doesn’t wanna wipe them and be the overbearer who doesn’t trust you to look after yourself. Then he realises he’s the boyfriend who loves you and does it anyhow, so, so gently.
You nod at him. “Can you squeeze me, please?” you ask, your voice gone to scratch paper. “If I can– if you can lie down, and I’ll lie on top of you, and you can squeeze me until it stops?”
You sound like a ‘no’ would tear you to pieces. Steve just wants you to feel better. “Of course I can do that. Can you move over? Make me some room, honey.”
Steve lays flat on the bed in the space you’ve made and you rush to lay yourself on top of him, forcing the cold pack into his stomach as well. It’s weird. Not you, not the experience, but the pressure. You’re not anything he’d ever want off of him, you could live like this for all Steve cares, but you’re a rigid weight from his chest to his ankles and he wonders if that’s what you feel like too.
Steve gets his arms around your waist, crosses them, and takes a deep breath for you to copy. Then he squeezes you so hard that the air is forced out of both of you, and you nearly laugh. He does this five times in a row, until you rush out, “No, no more, please,” with a straggly breath.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
You push a cup from your defenders off of your ear. “Huh?”
“Sorry, honey, I’m just asking if I hurt you?”
“No.”
Steve relaxes. You replace the defender and lay yourself back down, slinky now, breathing hard like you’ve been holding your breath. In a way, you had been. Steve held it for you. The cold on his tummy emanates.
He doesn’t love squeezing you so hard, but he knows how fast it works for you, and you like it. You’ll ask him to do it on good days, too, so he figures it’s no different to a massage for relief. You pant a couple times into his neck before laying your arms over his shoulders and against the side and top of his head, hugging him.
Steve rubs your back.
He thinks you're sleeping, staying very still, but after ten more minutes you take your defenders off and put them on his nightstand. “They really work, but they’re not comfortable,” you tell him softly.
“Could’ve got you your plugs.”
“They’re not as good.”
“You feeling any better?” he asks, though he can tell that you are.
You sigh into his skin. “So much. But… can we be quiet, still? Just for now?”
If it means you won’t try to give yourself a bruise, he’ll glue his lips shut. “Sure, baby. I can be quiet. Can I rub your back more?”
“Please. Can you dig your knuckles in?”
Not as much as you might want him to, but sure. Steve’s happy to oblige you. “Mm-hm.”
It takes a full half an hour and all the cold of the cold pack before you’re regulated. Back to a baseline that isn’t tears. You shuffle up to move the cold away from both of your tummies and wrap him up in a cuddle so soft-hearted at its core that Steve wants to sweep you up and keep you by his chest forever. He holds you by the thigh to bring you upwards, your faces touching, your nose just above his and dragging into his skin.
“You did such a great job,” he says under his breath.
You fluster. “Don’t, I’m not a kid.”
“I know you’re not, but you did good. Yeah? You let yourself take the time you needed, and you didn’t get frustrated.” Didn’t try to rough yourself up, and didn’t cry more than a few (awful, heart-hurting) tears. You handled it really well.
“Sorry it took me so long, Stevie,” you murmur.
“I don’t care at all, not for you to be sorry, and not that it took a while. All I wanted was for you to feel like yourself again. You can’t do that if you’re worried about having to do that in a certain time period.”
You smile and press it into his cheek. “You’re being kind of perfect.”
“It’s literally the minimum of what you deserve. You know that? I can take half an hour out of my day if it means you get to have a good one.”
“Always have a good day with you,” you say, clutching his neck and shoulders in your arm and your calmed hand.
“That’s the goal.”
“… was more than half an hour. Thank you. It’s good of you.”
Steve sighs because he never wins this argument, but he doesn’t mind. You’re too pretty to fight with for long, and you must be so tired, even with your freshly regulated nervous system. He turns to get you on your side and kicks the blankets up until he can pull them over your waist, before he lays his hand over the centre of your belly, still cold. He’ll trace a shape there until your breathing evens. Steve has a ton of tricks to get you sleeping.
“Why don’t you tell me about something?” he says behind the shell of your ear, his hand waving gently into your navel. “Tell me something fun.”
“Are you trying to get me to sleep?”
“To rest, sure, but I wanna know, too. Tell me something fun,” he insists, before pressing a kiss behind your ear. “Or I can tell you something?”
You twine your fingers over his warm hand and give in. “Okay, lovely boy. Tell me something about you.”
okay i’m resubmitting this request😛😛 uhm reader and steve finally get some alone time when murray takes robin for a special mission. reader that complains that she hasn’t gone on a date with him in so long so steve offers to dance w her. and they have a little date at the sqwk then they fall asleep on the couch cuddling and they get caught?
ty ily
ALONE TIME
steve harrington x reader
desc- you and steve finally get a little bit of alone time
val speaks ‹𝟥 - hii thankyou so much for the request ilyt!!! i’m soso sorry that u had to submit it again thanku for ur patience! i hope u love! if there’s anything u want done differently pls commment or send an ask:)))
the squawk was quieter than usual, which almost never happened. normally the place hummed constantly. radios buzzing, wires whining softly behind the walls, voices echoing up from downstairs where everyone planned the crawls over bad coffee. tonight, though, it was just the four of you.
the lights were dimmed to that permanent late-night glow, the kind that made time feel stretchy and unreal. steve was slouched in his chair beside you, long legs stretched out, one foot hooked lazily around yours like he needed to anchor himself to you. robin sat cross-legged on the desk opposite, twirling a pen between her fingers, occasionally making static noises into one of the mics just to annoy murray. murray, meanwhile, paced.
he always paced when he was thinking. which was often. and loudly.
“i’m telling you,” he said, gesturing wildly with a clipboard he definitely did not need, “we are unprepared. criminally unprepared. you don’t wait for the government to tell you when to stock up- by then it’s too late.”
robin squinted at him. “stock up on what. and don’t say canned beans again, because i swear to god-”
“supplies,” murray said, offended. “essentials. food, batteries, more medical equipment-”
“we have all that,” you said gently, leaning back into steve without even thinking about it. his arm immediately came around you, easy, automatic, fingers pressing warm and familiar at your waist.
murray stopped pacing and looked directly at you. “you think you do. that’s how they get you.”
steve sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “man, sometimes it’s just… tuesday. no 'they' involved.”
“that’s exactly what they want you to think,” murray shot back.
robin laughed, loud and sharp, hopping off the desk. “okay, mulder. if the government wants me, they’re gonna have to fight me in the frozen food aisle.”
murray’s eyes lit up. “actually-”
oh no, you thought.
“robin,” he said slowly, conspiratorially. “i need you.”
steve groaned. “don’t drag her into this.”
“i need someone quick, observant, fluent in sarcasm, and somewhat capable of blending into society without raising suspicion.”
robin pointed to herself. “wow. flattering.”
“we need to stock up. quietly. off the books.”
“off the books of what,” you asked.
“exactly.”
there was a beat. robin looked at you, then at steve, then back at you. a grin spread across her face, the kind that meant she was about to be unbearable on purpose.
“well,” she said, grabbing her jacket, “i do love a secret mission.”
steve blinked. “wait- what?”
murray was already ushering her toward the stairs. “excellent. we’ll be back before you know it. if we’re not, assume the worst.”
“please don’t,” you called after them.
robin paused at the top of the stairs and shot you a look over her shoulder, eyebrows wiggling. “don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”
steve scoffed. “that doesn’t narrow it down at all.”
then they were gone, footsteps echoing down the hall until the squawk fell into a strange, almost intimate silence.
you noticed it immediately. steve did too.
he shifted beside you, clearing his throat. “so. uh. guess it’s just us.”
you smiled, turning toward him. “looks like it.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke. the radio equipment hummed softly around you, red lights blinking lazily, the whole place feeling like it was holding its breath. steve watched you like he always did when things finally slowed down. like he was memorizing the way you looked in quiet moments, not just the chaos.
his thumb traced absent little circles against your side. “kinda nice,” he said softly. “doesn’t happen much anymore.”
“what doesn’t.”
“alone time.” he shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “feels like the world’s always ending or about to.”
you leaned your forehead against his shoulder. “yeah. but right now we can be selfish n' ignore it.”
he tilted his head so his temple rested against yours. “right now it’s just you. and me. and… a radio station that smells.”
you laughed quietly, and steve smiled like that sound alone made everything worth it.
the world could plan its next disaster. murray could panic-buy half the state of indiana. robin could absolutely overshare with a cashier. but up here, in the soft glow of the squawk, steve held you a little closer, like this moment mattered.
like he wanted it to last.
and neither of you noticed how that kind of peace never stayed for long.
-
you didn’t mean to say it out loud.
it just… slipped. somewhere between the quiet and the comfort, between steve’s arm around you and the low hum of the equipment.
“i kinda miss dates,” you said, staring at the floor like it was suddenly very interesting. “like… real ones.”
steve went still.
not in a bad way, just in the way he did when something hit him right in the chest and he needed a second to catch it. his arm tightened slightly around you.
“oh,” he said softly.
you rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other. “not like- i mean i love being with you. obviously. i just mean it feels like we’re always hiding out or planning or waiting for something to go wrong and-”
“hey,” he cut in gently, turning you so you were facing him. “it’s okay.”
you met his eyes. they were warm, a little serious now, thoughtful in that way that meant he was already blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault.
“you deserve dates,” he said. “like… proper ones.”
you smiled a little sadly. “yeah. guess we’re just bad at normal.”
steve stared at you for a second longer, then something shifted. you could practically see the idea forming. his eyebrows lifted, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to grin.
“hold on,” he said suddenly, standing up. “don’t move.”
“steve-”
“nope. stay. i got this.”
he crossed the studio with purpose, fiddling with switches and knobs like he actually knew what he was doing, which was questionable at best. you watched him with fond disbelief as he straightened a chair, dimmed one of the overhead lights, and nudged a lamp closer so the room glowed warmer.
then, from the speakers, music crackled to life.
your favourite song.
you froze.
slow and familiar, filling the space like it belonged there, like it had been waiting for this moment. steve turned back to you, suddenly shy in a way that made your heart ache.
he rubbed the back of his neck. “okay so. this is… not a fancy restaurant. and there’s no food. unless you count murray’s emergency protein bars. but-”
he stepped closer, holding out his hand.
“can i have this dance?”
your chest felt too full.
“you’re such a dork,” you whispered.
he smiled, soft and hopeful. “yeah. but i’m your dork.”
you took his hand.
he pulled you in easily, one arm settling at your waist, the other warm and steady around your fingers. you just swayed, slow, gentle, like the world had narrowed down to this small circle of light and sound.
your head rested against his chest. his heart beat strong and steady beneath your ear.
“see,” he murmured, lips brushing your hair. “date.”
you laughed quietly. “i didn’t even get to complain about not having anything to wear.”
“you look perfect,” he said without hesitation. then, softer, “you always do.”
the music played on. time stretched. steve’s thumb traced lazy patterns into your side, grounding and familiar. every so often he’d press a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your forehead, like he couldn’t help himself.
eventually you tipped your head up, meeting his eyes.
“thank you,” you said.
“for what.”
“for trying. for… caring.”
his expression melted into something tender and open. “always.”
he leaned in first this time, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted to. you didn’t. your lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, unhurried and warm. the kind that felt like a promise instead of a distraction.
when you pulled back, you stayed close, foreheads touching.
“best date we’ve had in a while,” you said.
steve smiled, brushing his nose against yours. “then we should do this more. vecna takeover or not.”
the song faded out eventually, leaving the studio quiet again, but the warmth stayed. steve didn’t let go. neither did you.
and for a little while longer, nothing else mattered.
-
the couch downstairs was old and lumpy and definitely not designed for comfort, but somehow it became the best place in the world.
you were curled into steve’s side, legs tangled, his jacket draped loosely over both of you even though neither of you remembered him putting it there. the lights were low down here too, softer somehow, and the faint hum of the building wrapped around you like white noise.
steve leaned back into the couch cushions with a quiet sigh, one arm snug around your shoulders. “y’know,” he said after a moment, staring up at the ceiling, “i really didn’t think i’d make it this far.”
you tilted your head to look at him. “what do you mean.”
he huffed out a small laugh. “i don’t know. everything that’s happened… the upside down, almost dying like, a stupid amount of times.” he glanced down at you. “sometimes i’m shocked i’m still here.”
you traced slow circles on his chest through his shirt. “me too,” you admitted. “not because i didn’t want to be. just… didn’t think life would let me.”
his arm tightened around you instinctively. “yeah.”
there was a pause, comfortable and heavy with meaning.
“but,” he added quietly, “i’m really glad i am.”
you smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “me too.”
the conversation drifted after that. memories, half-formed dreams, fears neither of you said out loud very often. steve talked about wanting something normal someday. a house that felt full and mornings that didn’t start with panic. you told him about how sometimes you still couldn’t believe you’d survived everything you had and how loving someone after all that felt scary but right.
“i love you,” steve said suddenly, like the thought had finally pushed its way to the surface.
you looked up at him, heart aching in the best way. “i love you too.”
he smiled, slow and real, forehead dropping to rest against yours. “kinda crazy, huh.”
“that we’re here?” you asked.
“that we found each other.”
you shifted closer until there was practically no space left, your leg thrown over his, your cheek tucked under his chin. steve kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then lingered there like he never wanted to move again.
the talking softened after that. voices dropping lower. sentences trailing off halfway through. steve’s hand rubbed slow, absent strokes along your arm.
at some point, you realized you couldn’t remember the last thing either of you had said.
your breathing synced up without you noticing. steve’s head tipped slightly, resting against yours. you were half on top of him now, your body molded to his like it was second nature.
sleep came quietly.
the door creaked open much later.
“okay,” robin’s voice whispered loudly, “tell me again why we needed six flashlights-”
murray froze mid-step.
on the couch, you and steve were completely out. steve was slouched awkwardly, chin tipped down, one arm wrapped tight around you. you were basically sprawled across him, face tucked into his neck, fingers fisted in his shirt like you’d decided he wasn’t allowed to disappear.
robin stared.
“…oh my god,” she whispered. “they’re disgusting.”
murray squinted. “no, this is good. this is healthy attachment. borderline codependent, but given the circumstances-”
“murray,” robin hissed. “they are asleep.”
steve shifted slightly, tightening his hold on you, mumbling something unintelligible into your hair.
robin clutched her chest. “i hate how cute they are.”
murray nodded. “i will allow it.”
they tiptoed past, deliberately loud enough to be noticed but not quite enough to wake you.
You settle into life at the cabin, living with El and Hawkins' Chief of Police. Steve comes to visit often, and you grow more attached to the boy who found you sobbing in the woods.
notes — experiment!reader (reader is 009), mentions of Hawkins Lab, past torture/abuse, medical trauma, referenced experimentation, emotional distress, protective!Steve, fluff, angst, violence, guns
Steve harrington x fem!reader, 3.4k words
link to series masterlist
The weeks that follow Steve finding you in the woods are strange and soft and unlike anything you've ever known.
You stay at Hopper's cabin. He tells you it's your home now, as long as you need it. You don't really understand what home means, but you think it might be this — the warm blankets, the food always there when you're hungry, the way Hopper leaves the lamp on in the living room at night because he noticed you're scared of the dark.
El is there. Your little sister, alive and real and here. You sleep in the same bed most nights, curled around each other like you used to in the lab, except now there are no bars, no guards, no screams from other rooms.
Steve isn't there.
He comes. He comes almost every day, sometimes twice. He brings things — a new hairbrush, a book with pictures, a soft sweater that he says is just for you, and it smells like him and you wear it every night.
But he always has to leave.
His parents, he explains. They notice when he's gone too long. They ask questions. He has to go home, has to sleep there, has to pretend everything is normal.
You don't understand normal. But you understand leave. You understand go away.
Every time he stands up to leave, you feel something cold creep into your chest. You don't cry — you learned long ago that crying doesn't bring people back. But you press closer to him, your hand gripping his sweater, and you look up at him with eyes that beg without words.
Don't go. Please don't go.
And every time, Steve kneels down in front of you, cups your face in his hands, and promises. "I'll be back tomorrow, angel. First thing. I promise."
He always comes back.
The hours without him are filled with small things.
Hopper teaches you how to make coffee. You don't like the taste, but you like the way he smiles when you bring him a cup. You like the way he says "thanks, kid."
One morning, you bring him his coffee and he's sitting at the table, looking at something on paper. Maps, maybe. You don't know. You know he is head of the police. Steve taught that word to you last week. He says Hopper keeps people safe.
"You're getting good at that," Hopper says, nodding at the cup.
You feel your face warm. "Steve showed me. How much... how much coffee you like."
His eyes soften. "Steve's a good kid."
You nod fiercely. You stand there for a moment, unsure. Then, because something in his face looks kind, you ask, "You have... kids?"
Hopper goes still. For a second, you think you've said something wrong. But then he looks at you, and his eyes are sad in a way you recognise. "I had a daughter," he says quietly. "A long time ago. She died."
Your chest hurts. You know about death. You've seen it. You reach out, hesitating, then touch his hand.
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
He looks at your hand on his, then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Me too."
El teaches you words, too. She's patient, the way Steve is patient, and she never gets frustrated when you struggle. She just waits, her dark eyes soft, and helps you try again.
"Tree," she says, pointing out the window.
"Tree," you repeat.
"Good." She smiles, small and shy. "You're good at this."
You shake your head. "Steve good at this. Steve teach me."
El's smile grows. "Steve is good. But you are good too. You learn fast."
You don't know about that. But you like when she says it.
Sometimes you sit together and she tells you about her friends. Mike, who she loves in a way that makes her face go soft. You tease her about it a little, nudging her shoulder playfully. She tells you about Lucas and Dustin, who are loud and funny. Max, who you met, who is sharp but kind underneath.
"They are my family now," El says. "Like Hopper. Like you."
You look at her. "I am your family?"
"You are my sister." She says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You always were. You always will be."
You feel tears prick your eyes. You don't cry — you're still learning that it's allowed. "Sister," you murmur quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
Steve comes in the afternoon, as promised. You hear his car before you see him — you've learned the sound, the way his engine rumbles different from Hopper's truck. You're at the door before he knocks, your hand already reaching for the handle.
He's there. Smiling. Alive. "Hey, angel," he says softly.
And then you're in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your hands gripping his jacket like he might disappear if you let go. He holds you just as tight, his lips pressing to your hair, his arms wrapping around you like a shield.
"Missed you," you mumble against his sweater.
"Yeah?" His voice is warm, soft. "I missed you too, sweetheart. So much."
He stays for hours. You sit on the couch together, your head on his shoulder, your hand in his. He pulls out the picture book again, pointing at things, teaching you words.
"Book," he says, pointing at a small red item.
"Book," you repeat.
"Good girl." He grins, and your chest does that warm thing again. "What's this one?"
You look at the picture. A big yellow thing in the sky. You remember this one. He taught it to you last time.
"Sun," you say proudly.
His whole face lights up. "Yes! That's right, angel. You remembered!"
You beam at him, and he pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. "So smart," he murmurs into your hair. "My smart girl."
My. You know what that pronoun means now. Hopper explained it when you heard Steve use it the first time. It means belongs to. It means special to.
You like it. You like being his.
"Okay," Steve says, flipping to a new page. "Let's try something harder."
You look at the page. There are sentences now — longer ones, with more words. He's been teaching you grammar, the way words fit together, the rules that make sentences make sense.
"Read this one," he says, pointing.
You concentrate, sounding out each word. "The girl... is... walking... to the store."
"Good. Now this one."
"The boy... is running... to the park."
"Perfect. You're getting it."
You feel warm inside. Not because he's praising you — though that's nice — but because you can feel yourself understanding. The words are starting to make sense, the way they fit together, the way you can use them to say what you mean.
After a while, you get an idea. You shift against his side, turning to look up at him. "Steve?"
"Yeah, angel?"
You point at his lap. "I think... I better when here."
His eyebrows go up, amused. "My lap?"
You nod, keeping your face serious. "You lap."
He grins, and you watch his mouth shape the word. "Your," he murmurs, correcting you gently, without malice. "Your lap."
You repeat it, feeling the shape of it. "Your lap."
"Good girl." His eyes are warm, teasing. "So you learn better in my lap?"
You nod solemnly. "Is science."
Steve laughs and you feel your own mouth twitching in response, giving you away. "Science," he repeats, amused. "Is that right?"
You nod again, but you can't keep the straight face anymore. A grin breaks through, wide and bright, and you duck your head to hide it against his shoulder.
"Oh no," Steve says, still laughing. "Don't hide. Let me see that smile."
You shake your head, pressing your face harder into his shoulder, but you're still grinning and he can probably feel it against his sweater.
"Angel." His hand comes up, gentle, trying to tilt your face toward him. "Come on. Let me see."
You resist for a moment, then peek up at him through your lashes. He's looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the world, and it makes your chest do a warm, fluttery thing that you don't have words to explain. Maybe Steve will teach you someday.
"There she is," he says softly. "There's my girl."
Before you can react, he shifts, his hands finding your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted — gently, carefully — and settled right in his lap. Your legs curl to the side, your back against his chest, his arms around you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
You blink up at him, surprised.
"What?" He grins innocently. "You said you learn better here. I'm just following the science."
You feel your face go warm with heat. A giggle escapes you before you can clamp your mouth closed — when was the last time you laughed? You can't remember — and you press a hand over your mouth.
Steve lets out a delighted laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple before pulling away a fraction to beam down at you. "Okay. Where were we?"
He teaches you about pronouns next. I, you, he, she, we, they.
"I," he says, pointing to himself. "You," pointing to you. "He," pointing to a picture of a boy. "She," pointing to a girl.
Then he teaches you about possession. My, your, his, her, our, their.
"My book," he says, holding up the picture book. "Your hand," touching yours gently. "His dog," pointing to a picture. "Her cat."
You watch his mouth, the way it moves, the way the sounds come out. You're learning more than just words — you're learning him. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. The way his voice goes soft when he talks to you. The way his arms feel around you, solid and safe.
"My," you repeat, touching your chest. "Your," touching his.
He nods, pleased. "Yeah. That's right."
You think for a moment, then point to the book. "Your book?"
Steve grins then. "My book, yeah. But I'm sharing it with you. Sharing. Means I have and you have. Together."
You nod, understanding. Then point to yourself. "My... what?"
He tilts his head. "What do you want to be yours?"
You think. Really think. There are so many things you want. Safety. Warmth. Someone who stays. Someone who looks at you like you're not broken.
You point at him.
His eyes soften at the edges. "Me?" he asks quietly. "You want me to be yours?"
You nod then. "My Steve."
He swallows. You feel it against you, the way his throat moves. "Yeah," he says, his voice a little thick. "Yeah, angel. I'm your Steve."
You practice more sentences. He teaches you about putting words together, about making them flow the right way.
"I am hungry," you try.
"Perfect."
"She is tired."
"Good."
"We are happy?"
He smiles. "Are you happy, angel?"
You think about it. You're in his lap, warm and safe. El is in the other room, alive and real. Hopper is in the kitchen, making coffee. No one is hurting you.
"Yes," you say quietly. "I am happy."
His arms tighten around you. "Good," he whispers into your hair. "That's all I want. For you to be happy."
You reach up and touch his face, the way he's always touching yours. Your fingers brush his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Are you happy, Steve?" you ask softly.
His breath catches. "Me?"
You nod. "You make me happy. I want... I want you happy too."
He makes a sound — something small and a little bit broken — and for a second you're afraid you've said something wrong. But then his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and he presses his face to your hair.
"I'm happy," he whispers, and his voice is thick. "I'm so happy, angel. Because of you."
You pull back just enough to look at him. "Really?"
"Really." He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "You know what I was doing before I found you? Fighting with my dad. Driving around. Being angry at everything." He shakes his head. "And now? Now I get to come here and see you. Teach you words. Watch you smile. Hear you laugh." His voice cracks. "You have no idea what you've done for me."
You don't understand all of it. But you understand enough. You lean forward and press your forehead to his, the way he does with you. "I am happy you are happy," you murmur.
Steve laughs wetly, tugging you closer to his front. "I'm happy you're happy, too."
The light starts to fade outside, and you feel the shift in him. The way his body tenses slightly, the way he glances at his watch.
You don't want him to go. You never want him to go. But you also know he will come back. He always comes back.
"Steve," you say quietly.
"Yeah?"
You point at the window. "Dark soon."
He follows your gaze. "Yeah. It's getting late."
You look up at him, eyes wide and sad. "You go?"
His face twists with regret. "I have to, angel. My parents—"
"I know." You cut him off gently. "You will come back?"
"First thing tomorrow. I promise."
At the door, you cling to him the way you always do. He holds you just as tight, his lips in your hair, his arms around you.
"Tomorrow," he whispers.
"Tomorrow," you repeat.
He pulls away slowly, and you watch him walk to his car. He waves before he gets in, and you wave back.
You stand at the door for a long moment, staring at the empty driveway. The cold creeps into your chest, but it's smaller now. Less sharp. Because you know he'll be back.
"Come on, kid." Hopper's hand is on your shoulder, warm and solid. You let him guide you away.
Dinner is nice.
Hopper makes stew, and you eat at the table with El. She's telling you about her day, about Max and Mike and the others. You listen, nodding, asking questions when you can find the words.
"You're talking more," El says at one point, surprised.
You think about it. "Steve is teaching me. He is a good teacher."
"He's good at teaching."
You nod. "He is patient. With me."
El smiles, small and knowing. "He likes you."
You feel your face warm and you take a sip of water to hide the way you want to smile. "He is my Steve."
"Your Steve?" She raises an eyebrow, teasing.
You nod firmly. "My Steve."
She laughs, and the sound is light and happy. You like making her laugh. After dinner, you help Hopper clear the table. You're getting better at it, knowing where things go, not dropping anything. Hopper's cabin feels a little more like home.
El has gone to her room to draw, and you're left in the living room with the fire crackling softly. You curl up on the couch with the blanket that still smells like Steve, and you watch the flames dance. The cabin is warm. Quiet. Safe.
But something nags at you. You can't explain it. A feeling. Like a thread pulling tight in your chest.
You get up slowly, your bare feet padding on the hardwood floor, and you move to the window. The one that faces the trees. The one Steve always looks out before he leaves, checking the sky, checking the dark.
You press your hand to the glass and look out.
At first, you see nothing. Just the dark shapes of trees against the deep blue of the night sky. Just the moon, pale and distant. Just the wind moving through the branches, making them sway.
You're about to turn away when you see it.
A light. Small and quick, darting between the trees.
Maybe it's an animal. Maybe it's nothing. You've seen deer at night before, their eyes catching the moonlight.
But then another light appears. And another. And behind them, shapes. Dark shapes. Moving with purpose. Moving toward the cabin.
Men.
Your heart stops. Then it starts again, too fast, too loud, pounding in your ears like a drum.
You know those shapes. You know the way they move. You've seen it a hundred times, a thousand times, in the halls of the lab, in the rooms where they did things to you, in the moments before the worst happened. They move like hunters. Like predators.
Your breath fogs the glass. Your hand leaves a print on the window. You can't move. You can't breathe.
Then one of the shapes looks up. Looks directly at the cabin. At the window. At you.
You stumble back, a sound catching in your throat.
Hopper is there in an instant. He must have seen your face, heard something in your silence. He's at the window before you can speak, looking out, and you watch his whole body go rigid.
"Hopper," you whisper. "They found me. They—"
"I see them." His voice is low, calm, but his hand is already moving to the shelf where he keeps his gun. "How many did you count?"
"Three," you breathe. "I am sorry, Hopper, I—"
"Hey." His hand lands on your shoulder, firm but not harsh. "None of that. You didn't do anything wrong. You hear me?"
You look up at him, your eyes wet, your chest heaving. "But they come because of me. If I was not here—"
"If you weren't here, they would have come for El," he says firmly, but not unkindly.
He crouches down so he's at your level, his eyes boring into yours. "Listen to me. You're going to take El, and you're going to go to the back room. The one with no windows. You remember?"
You nod, frantic.
"Good. You're going to go in there, and you're going to be quiet. So quiet. Not a sound. And you're not going to come out until I come for you. Do you understand?"
"But—"
"No buts." His hand squeezes your shoulder. "You're brave. You're smart. You've survived worse than this. And I'm not gonna let anything happen to you or El. You got that?"
You want to believe him. You need to believe him. "Yes," you whisper.
"Good girl. Now go."
You run. El's door bangs open and she looks up, startled, her pencil slipping from her fingers
"What is it?" she whispers, even though you can see in her eyes that she already knows.
"They are here." You grab her hand, pull her toward the door. "The men from the lab. They find us."
Her face goes pale, white as bone, but she doesn't scream. She doesn't cry. She just holds your hand tighter and follows you into the dark hallway.
The back room is small and windowless, filled with boxes and old furniture and things Hopper doesn't use anymore. You pull El inside and close the door behind you, pressing your finger to your lips.
You find the darkest corner, behind a heavy dresser that smells like mothballs, and you pull El down with you. You curl around her, your back to the wall, your body between her and the door.
The cabin is silent for a long moment. Then you hear it — loud, angry voices. Men shouting.
"Hopper! We know she's here! Number Nine. Hand her over and no one gets hurt!"
You hear Hopper's voice, low and hard. You can't make out the words, but you hear the tone. Defiant. Refusing. Protecting.
There's a crash. Glass shattering. Furniture breaking. A thud that shakes the floor beneath you, rattles the boxes around you, makes dust fall from the ceiling.
El makes a small sound against your hand. You hold her tighter, press your face to her hair, breathe her in.
Then—
Gunshots.
Three of them. Loud and terrible, echoing through the cabin, through your bones, through everything. They sound like the end of the world.
El shakes against you, a sob trapped in her throat. You press your face to her hair, your eyes squeezed shut, your heart pounding so loud you're sure they can hear it. You pray. You don't know who to, but you pray. Please let Hopper be okay. Please let El be safe. Please let Steve—
You hear footsteps, coming closer, heavy boots on the wooden floor.
