I love that the FEELING is back? It’s so fun but so bittersweet and I feel like if I don’t hurry up and savor it I’ll lose it like I did back then?!!! I love thunderboltsssss!!!
marvel au
bucky x reader
alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.
Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 2.2k
A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
You were careful.
Or at least, you thought you were careful.
For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.
You figured no one had noticed.
Until today.
It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.
Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.
“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.
“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement.
“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.
“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.
“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”
“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”
You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut.
“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”
“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”
You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”
Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.
“Machine giving you trouble again?”
Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.
“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.
“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.
“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”
Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.
“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.
Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”
The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.
“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.
“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—
Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?”
“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.
Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”
You made a face at her. “What are you on about?”
Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.
For now.
As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.
Right. Focus.
“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”
Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.
“I like the way you think.”
—
You knew Alpine would be your downfall.
The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.
So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.
She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to.
You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.
Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.
The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.
“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.
You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?”
You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.
“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”
“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.
“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”
Natasha snorted into her drink.
Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder. “This is bullshit, and you know it—”
“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”
“That is not true!”
“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.
“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.
Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.
“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.
The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.
“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both.
“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.
Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”
“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”
As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.
“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew.
Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.
“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.
“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.
Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.
“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”
“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.
“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”
Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”
Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash. “You what?”
“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”
Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.
It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.
You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”
Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.
Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”
me yesterday today and all days: nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron nesta archeron
Summary: Hanukkah is coming up. The system has some complicated feelings about that. You aren't really sure how to help them navigate it.
Pairing: Steven Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader, Jake Lockley x Reader
Word Count: ~5.3
Warnings: mostly fluff, anxiety, angst mostly from Marc because he’s just like that
A/N: Hello! I hope you enjoy and happy holiday season to everyone who celebrates one this time of year! I want to note here that I am not Jewish, but I researched as much as I could for this fic. If there's anything wrong, or something that shouldn't be there, please let me know and I'll fix it. The reader is written as non-religious and as having grown up without any religion. And as always, please, please, please let me know what you think!
“Flurries,” you point with a soapy hand out the misted window over the sink. “I think it’s snowing.”
Marc doesn’t even look up, his eyes focused on the puzzle on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s not cold enough for it to stick,” he grumbles.
You roll your eyes and grab a tea towel to wipe your hands on. “So sorry it’s not a blizzard, Spector.”
“I’ll take you to Chicago in January and see how excited you are about the snow then.”
You huff out a laugh and cross the room to sit next to him on the couch, plucking up a puzzle piece to slot near the bottom of the picture. “I didn’t even say I was excited. I was just mentioning it.”
“Just mentioning it means you’re excited,” he says, leaning his chin into your shoulder.
You wrinkle your nose and pick up another piece, quickly locating its location along the border before you turn and kiss his nose. “You’re insufferable, Marc Spector.”
“And you’re better at this fuckin’ puzzle than me,” he grouses, watching you fit another piece into place.
You laugh and tuck yourself closer to him, the weight of his chin on your shoulder a welcome one. “It’s because you don’t have a strategy,” you say. “You do the borders first to get started and then move inwards,” you instruct.
“That’s not a challenge.”
“Are you trying to be challenged by a puzzle?”
Marc doesn’t answer, picking up a piece and searching briefly for its place. You like the slow way he does it, it’s relaxing and good, his hand hovering, fingers twirling the piece. Which, you notice, is not a border piece.
He snaps it down and you frown, “I don’t think that’s where that goes.”
“It is for now.”
You don’t bother trying to hide your smile, glad to see him doing something slow and peaceful and constructive for once.
The snow reminds you of something you’d been meaning to ask him, as the holiday season approached and how you’d celebrate, if he, or Jake or Steven, wanted to do anything at all.
You’ve never been big on the holidays. And so, usually, you just take the opportunity to bake and give gifts to the people you care about most. But this year is different, this year you have the system to consider.
You nudge your nose into Marc’s cheek as he incorrectly places another puzzle piece, and you’re sure he’s just doing it to irritate you now. “So, speaking of the snow,” you venture. “The holidays are coming up soon. Did you want to celebrate?”
Marc doesn’t look at you, his gaze focused on the puzzle. “Thanksgiving? Weird to do it here isn’t it?” He turns suddenly and glances into one of the mirrors propped against the wall. He’s quiet for a moment, head tilting to the side, before he turns to you. “Steven’s okay with it but he’s going to complain anyway. Jake wants pie.”
You are not talking about Thanksgiving, and you’re certain Marc knows it. You suspect too that Steven and Jake are reminding him of that. “Okay,” you agree because you’re sure he’s avoiding the topic and you don’t want to push it at the moment. “We can do Thanksgiving if you want.”
You pause, waiting to see if Marc might mention any other holidays but he remains silent. So you kiss Marc on the cheek and promise to figure something out for Thanksgiving. “Any other holidays you’d like to celebrate?”
He hums, “Don’t think there are any other holidays in November this year.”
“Sure,” you answer. “Thanksgiving dinner it is.”
He grips your hand back when you lay it on his shoulder, squeezing tight. “Thank you, baby,” he smiles, tipping his forehead briefly against yours.
~
Thanksgiving comes and goes (with a roast chicken instead of turkey and Marc’s favorite sides from childhood, and pie for Jake), and you decide to string up soft yellow fairy lights around the flat in anticipation of the holiday season.
You figure they’re neutral enough, and they make the place even cozier than it already is and ward away the dark of winter, which you count as a win. It might be an idea to keep them up all year. There have been no further mentions of any holidays, and you aren’t sure how to bring it up again, not sure if you were crossing a boundary or inserting yourself where you don’t belong.
When Steven comes home and sees the lights he grins and points. “Decorating already, are we?”
You bite your lip. “For the holidays, yeah,” you prompt, hoping Steven might mention it where Marc hadn’t.
He nods, still grinning at you, and presses a kiss to your cheek.
But he doesn’t say anything either, and you wonder if it hasn’t occurred to him, or if he was following Marc’s lead in not talking about it.
~
Later that evening, you do a quick google search, to find the exact date that Hanukkah began. You find that you have a little under three weeks to decide how to approach them about it.
You know the system has a complicated relationship with their Judaism, that much you can tell at least.
They don’t talk about it and if they practice in any way, they certainly don’t do it in front of you. Marc’s deliberate avoidance of talking about the holiday season only compounds that fact.
But you know it’s important to them, an important part of their identity, even if they don’t say it.
The Magen David they wear around their neck never comes off. You’ve never seen any of them without it, the one article of clothing that was common to all three of them, even back when Steven hadn’t known about Marc.
You’ve never asked them about it. Because it seems like a closely guarded thing, something kept close to their heart, connected to home and the past in a way you can’t begin to guess at. And Marc’s relationship to his past and his homelife isn’t exactly a good one. You’re not sure that bringing it up won’t hurt him in some way you won’t be able to repair.
So, you’ve never asked. You’d figured that they’d bring it up to you, when and if they wanted to talk about it.
You sigh, listening to Jake puttering around the kitchen, singing in Spanish lowly as he makes a sandwich.
Maybe you shouldn’t say anything about it. Maybe you were assigning undue importance to it, maybe they felt no connection at all to being Jewish and the necklace was just a connection to their past.
Maybe you should just continue as you have every year. But it feels rude, it feels wrong, to just bake and buy gifts and not say anything at all.
You commit yourself instead to learning about Hanukkah.
Just in case.
~
You get caught the week before Hanukkah begins.
Much of your free time recently had been spent googling Hanukkah, the traditions and history, what foods were popular and whether there are any special ingredients you might need to find.
You’re on one of the more helpful websites you’ve found, rereading the story of Hanukkah when -
“What are you doing?”
You snap your laptop closed as you sit bolt upright and turn. Marc could be so fucking quiet sometimes. He’s peering over your shoulder, an apple with a bite taken out of it in his hand.
When you don’t immediately say anything, he raises a brow at you.
“Nothing,” you say quickly.
“Liar,” he deadpans, circling the sofa to plop down next to you, taking another bite of the apple as he slings one arm over the back of the couch. “You were reading about Hanukkah,” he says, crunching as he chews.
He doesn’t ask why, just tilts his head.
You sigh and lean forward to set your laptop on the coffee table. “I was,” you admit, dragging a hand down your face. “The holidays are coming up and I wanted to be prepared.”
“For what?”
You don’t look at him, tugging at a loose thread in the blanket over your lap. “For Hanukkah. In case you wanted to celebrate.” Marc doesn’t reply and you don’t dare meet his eyes, though you can feel his gaze against the side of your face. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to and I didn’t know how to bring it up. I tried but you just kept talking about Thanksgiving.”
When he still doesn’t say anything, confirming your worst fears that bringing it up would make him shut you out, you barrel nervously on. “I wasn’t trying to pry. You don’t really talk about being Jewish and I know that’s probably for a reason. I just…didn’t want you to feel like I was ignoring it.” You flutter your hands in front of you, “I didn’t grow up with any religion so I don’t have traditions I follow. I’m not pushed about what we do for the holidays. I just…didn’t want to do something wrong. And I didn’t know if it would remind you of your family-,”
His hand drops from the back of the sofa to your shoulder, fingers working into the tense muscle. “I’m not upset,” he says, weirdly gentle about it. “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” you glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you sure?”
He nods, taking a final bite of the apple before he tosses the core across the room where it sinks into the bin.
You cautiously move closer to him, fitting yourself beneath his arm. Marc tucks you closer, sliding his fingers over the curve of your shoulder, dark eyes on you. “So…would you like to celebrate?”
“How do you usually celebrate this time of year?” He deflects, tilting his chin down to meet your gaze head on.
You shrug. “Like a vaguely Christmassy kind of way I guess? Y’know, like, the capitalist secular commercial version of it. I buy everyone gifts and decorate a mini tree. I usually do a lot of seasonal baking.”
Marc nods, like he’s mulling it over, and stays quiet for a long time.
He stays silent for so long that you start to doze off as you wait for his reply, curled against the heat of him lulling you to sleep. His hand slides idly back and forth over your shoulder, brow furrowed in thought.
“We haven’t…celebrated in a long time.”
You blink groggily, turning your head up against his shoulder to watch his face. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Okay. That’s okay,” you slide your hand across his belly to take his other hand. “Do you want to celebrate this year?”
It takes lots of questions to get things out of Marc sometimes, delicate prodding and patience were the name of the game, so he doesn’t get lost in his head, so he doesn’t go non-verbal and spiral to some place you can’t reach.
“I’m not sure I deserve to.”
Your heart constricts and you feel just a bit out of your depth. You know virtually nothing about Judaism, besides what you’ve been able to read on the internet over the last few weeks. It’s impossible to tell what he’s really struggling with - his faith, his family, the abuse in his past? “Why?” You ask, sliding your fingers along the vein in his arm, depressing your thumb against the inside of his elbow. You feel the steady pulse of his heart under your hand.
“Serving Khonshu,” his voice is low and dry. “Coming back from the dead. More than once now. Everything else. All - all the shit I’ve done.” He glances down at you, “My mother, my brother…my family. Everything.”
You reach for his hand again and squeeze it tight. “I wish I could be more reassuring on that front but since I’m just now learning about Hanukkah you can imagine how little I know.” His mouth twitches at that, a badly repressed smile twisting the corners of his lips. You slide your hand down his arm and pat his fingers, some tension going out of both of you. “All I can say is that no matter what, I’m glad you’re here with me. However you made it here, whatever you had to do to survive. I’m glad you made it here.”
Marc’s expression is carefully frozen, a look you can read lodged in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, holding your gaze for much longer than he normally would, searching for something you can’t begin to guess at. “Yeah, well,” he clears his throat, glancing away, “you’re the one thing I’ve done right.”
Heat crawls over your skin, the lingering touch of his stare and the intensity of his words make your skin prickle.
You open your mouth to respond when he continues, your words dying in your throat. His jaw ticks, like it always does when he’s pushing himself to talk about something he’d rather bottle inside and never look at again. “Look, we aren’t…I’m not religious,” he says and you nod, squeezing his hand. “Not for a long time, not after everything. But I am Jewish. We are. It’d be nice to…to try again.”
You nod again. “Okay. Yes,” you agree, tracing the lines on his palm, soothing the tension that’s seeped into his voice again.
“I could tell you the stories though,” he says suddenly, eyes latching onto yours. “I remember the stories. So you don’t have to google. I can just tell you what you wanna know.”
You try not to let the surprise show on your face, and you can tell Marc is trying not to look like he’s eager to tell you. And so you both end up with slightly constipated expressions. “I would like that, if you want to share with me,” you breathe.
He nods and looks away, his arm tightening around you carefully. “Marc,” you say, just so he’ll look at you again, just so he won’t go get lost in his own head, like you know he’s fighting not to. “How do Steven and Jake feel about celebrating? Do they remember much?”
The system’s memories were a fickle thing, overlapped and crisscrossed, with huge holes in other places. “Steven, yes. Jake, no not really.” He’s silent for a moment, eyes sliding to the mirror against the wall. He gives a sudden, dramatic roll of his eyes. “Fine, fuck,” he gripes before looking back to you. “Jake says he remembers.” And then, grumbling, “Claims to remember more than me.”
You giggle and pat Marc against his belly. “Okay, good that’s settled then. You didn’t answer me though, do you want to celebrate?”
Marc hesitates. “Can I get a raincheck on that?”
“Sure,” you say. “We have time. Y’know, you can pick what you want to do and what you don’t. We don’t have to do every tradition or-,” You cut yourself off and he doesn’t answer so you continue, still a bit nervous you were fucking everything up. “We can mix and match with the stuff I usually do. I want to do my usual baking stuff. I still want to get you guys presents.”
Marc kisses the side of your head, “Of course you do,” he murmurs. “That sounds like a good enough plan for now.”
“Okay,” you nod. “We have time. We can figure it out.”
He’s silent for a moment, head tilting to the side. “Steven is anxious that you want a Christmas tree.”
An unexpected laugh bursts out of you, and you bury your head in Marc’s shoulder. “I am totally fine without a tree in the flat.”
“Baby,” And you can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s smiling. “I think Steven kinda wants a fucking tree. Like a Hanukkah bush.”
“Hanukkah bush?” You laugh again and nod toward the mirror. “Okay. Anything. We can do whatever. I have a little mini tree that might work.”
Marc smiles at you when you turn back to him, leaning in to press your nose to his briefly. His eyes track you carefully, expression fading when you pull back.
“It was never the same, after my brother died,” he says abruptly. “My dad tried but it was just-,” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Different. Can’t remember the last time it didn’t hurt.”
You squeeze his fingers gently, smoothing your thumb over the back of his hand before you cup his cheeks. “I don’t want it to hurt,” you tilt his head down, palms on either side of his face. “What we do is up to you. It’s completely up to you and the boys, okay?”
He nods and pulls your hands away from his face, eyes on your hands where they curl back around his. You watch him, watch the soft, sweet brown that his eyes have melted down into - something curiously rounded about him in that moment, his face soft and open.
Of course, with Marc, moments like those are fleeting.
Marc’s brow goes hard suddenly, his gaze jerking up to meet yours, pressing a palm to your jaw to tilt your face fully toward his. “Were you just not going to do anything this year? If we didn’t bring it up?”
You shrug, a little helpless about it. “I’m not good at this. I would have eventually, I just didn’t want to -,”
“You won’t. Don’t - fuck, don’t cut yourself short ‘cause of us. ‘Cause of our shit. Not ever.” He leans in so you can’t look away from him. “You wouldn’t have hurt our feelings.”
“Okay,” you whisper, patting his fingers. “I won’t.”
Marc’s gaze doesn’t waver from yours, his expression calculating and alert. His voice is wooden, carefully controlled when he says, “So, should I tell you the story of Hanukkah?”
And even though you’ve read the story more times than you can count, you say, “Yes.”
The hard facade of his face breaks, and he smiles at you. “Good.”
~
“Cariño.”
You don’t turn from the counter where you’re carefully dripping honey into your cup of tea. “Jake,” you answer. You’ve just gotten done baking cookies, some shaped like menorahs and others like Stars of David, with the shapes you usually baked, trees and snowmen and snowflakes thrown in.
“Don’t listen to Marc.” His footsteps are loud as he approaches, a vibrating, irritated energy preceding him.
You start to turn but Jake is suddenly next to you, turning you and pushing you back into the counter. Heat radiates off his skin, burning hot against yours. “Don’t listen to Marc,” he repeats, his head tilting close to yours.
“Well, okay,” you say, trying not to feel crowded and overwhelmed. Jake is always just a little bit intense, but especially when he’s latched onto something he sees as an issue. “But about what, Jake? Marc says a lot of questionable things to me.”
Jake makes a frustrated sound, “About Hanukkah.” He tilts his forehead into yours, eyes boring into yours, “Me and Steven want to celebrate. Marc has to.”
You smile, and lean in to kiss the downward tilt of his mouth. “Jake, honey, seriousness doesn’t suit you,” you say against his lips.
He doesn’t budge. “We are celebrating.”
“You and Steven can celebrate. We can celebrate, me and you and Steven. Marc doesn’t have to if he doesn't want to,” you say gently. “He has complicated feelings about it. I think he feels really disconnected from that part of himself. But you can celebrate. Okay?”
Jake’s shoulders loosen a bit with your words. Jake has never gotten to celebrate, not a birthday, not a holiday. He’s been weirdly packed in about it, and you’re surprised this little outburst has taken this long to occur. “He should though, corazón,” he says, oddly gentle.
“It’s his choice, Jake,” you answer, cupping his cheek in your palm. “We can’t make him. It’s up to him.”
Jake grumbles something under his breath, irritated but satisfied for the moment that he wouldn’t spend another season on the outskirts and in the dark. “You’ll talk to him? He doesn’t listen to us.”
“He’ll come around,” you sweep your fingers over his jaw and Jake leans into your hand. “He’ll celebrate with us, just wait. If nothing else, he’ll help me cook.”
Jake kisses the center of your palm. “You’re probably right about that.”
You smile and reach around him for the plate of cookies. “Look what I made.”
“Saw that, mi amor,” he says quietly.
~
“What about here, dear heart?”
You turn to where Steven stands, hovering almost nervously near the kitchen window. You purse your lips, “It’s safer there, I think, but it’s up to you.” Steven had suggested one of the other windows to prop the menorah in, but you’d had concerns with the amount of books and paper available to go up in flames.
“But…what do you think?”
You turn to him and eye the nervous shape of his hands. “Baby,” you coo. “It’s perfect. Come here and help me with this-,”
“Oh, not a chance. If there’s any way we’ll get Marc to celebrate with us, it’s helping you with the food.”
You wipe your hands on a tea towel and circle your arms around Steven’s shoulders where he’s fiddling with a box of tapered candles, shades of alternating blue and white. “I think we have everything ready, huh?” You lean your head against his and close your eyes when his head tips back against yours.
“Pretty sure, yeah,” he mumbles, still fiddling with the candles. “Jake wants to light the first candle tonight.”
You kiss Steven’s cheek, “Okay. Is that okay?”
“‘Course. Got no problem with that. Just worried about Marc. Don’t want him to-,”
“You and Jake are both so-,”
“We’re just worried,” Steven interrupts. “He’s not talking to us. We don’t want him to be alone.”
You kiss his cheek again, “He’ll be fine. He’s not alone. You know how Marc is. He just needs a bit of time.” Steven nods, his spine softening when you press yourself against his back, hands anxiously fiddling with the matches now.
“He’ll come ‘round anyways. For you.”
“And you,” you remind him. “He loves you and Jake. He just has complicated feelings about everything. It reminds him of home, you know how that is for him.”
Steven doesn’t answer, and you hate to see him so melancholy. “Look,” you pull away and tug him around, taking the matches from his hands. “I found these cute little decorations at the shops a couple days ago and I haven’t gotten to show them to you yet.”
Steven smiles, fits his hand inside yours. “‘Course, love, please show me.”
The Hanukkah bush, or holiday tree, depending on which of the three you asked, is already decked out in white and blue lights, mini menorahs and dreidels and silver baubles, with a Magen David near the top of the tree.
You show Steven the box of blue globes you’d found, and try not to grin at his obvious excitement, but when he kisses you it becomes a little hard to ignore. “How am I doing?” You ask against his lips. “For my first Hanukkah?”
“Bloody well, I’d say,” he says, carefully opening the box of baubles. “Brilliant. As always, love.”
You glance back at the window, the unlit menorah, and the sun's position in the sky beyond before Steven is nudging his shoulder into yours and handing you an ornament to place on the tree.
You smile at him, and he beams back at you.
~
Something deep inside you is satisfied by how eager they are to share this part of themselves with you, even if Marc has been mostly silent and walled off since you talked about celebrating.
You hope he comes around.
At the very least to eat with you.
Jake is waiting for you at the window, candles readied, as the sun finally sinks below the line of the earth. The light in the flat is a low glow, and Jake’s normally intense expression is softened.
You touch the small of his back, passing your hand slowly up and down his spine.
He’s trying not to look excited, and you nudge him gently. “It’s okay to be happy, Jake Lockley.”
A bit of pink creeps into his cheeks and he doesn’t answer you immediately. You stand together in the low golden light until it’s fully dark outside. Only then does Jake strike the match without warning, the flame glowing orange as he touches it to the shamash.
You place the first candle in the menorah and wait for Jake to light it, but he reaches for you instead.
“What?”
“C’mere, mi vida, we gotta light it together.”
You hesitate. “Sure?”
“Yeah. Quit worryin’ about everything,” he says, fitting himself behind you, cupping your fingers with his around the helper candle. “You aren’t doin’ anything wrong.”
For a moment, it’s silent, and neither of you move. You know that this is the moment he’s meant to recite three blessings - which you aren’t sure if he’s planning to. So, you wait for him to guide your tangled hands, fingers warm in Jake’s grip, his body snug and comforting behind yours.
The change is subtle, but you feel it, the lax posture of Jake’s chest against your back going a bit stiff. And you’ll never be sure, but you think it’s Marc’s voice that recites the blessings in Hebrew.
You wonder if Jake plotted this, if he even knew the blessings, if he knew Marc would front to say them.
As soon as the words are out, his spine softens again and Jake’s voice is back in your ear, “And now,” he nudges his nose against your temple. “We light the first candle.” His hand guides yours to the candle, holding the flame there until it catches.
Together, you light the first candle and stick the shamash in the center of the menorah. It happens again, Marc behind you instead of Jake, slowly saying the prayer he must remember from childhood.
And when his voice ceases, it’s Steven there with you, grinning wide and happy. “Jake’s so bloody pleased, love.”
“Me too,” you say, pulling him in close to you, rubbing a hand over his shoulders. “Me too.”
~
“Why don’t you open a present?” You ask, cracking an egg over the grated potatoes in the mixing bowl in front of you, in what you hope will eventually turn into latkes.
Steven is hovering beside you, nervous, because Marc still hasn’t deigned to speak to either him or Jake. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! Yours are wrapped in blue.”
“Eight presents for each night for each of us,” he comments. “You’re too good to us, dear heart.”
You smile and kiss him, kissing away the powdered sugar on his upper lip from the sufganiyot he’d eaten earlier. “I think it’s the other way around really. Thank you for sharing all this with me.”
His eyes melt, and he tucks you close. “Thank you for poking Marc about it. He’s right hard headed when he wants to be.”
“You all are,” you correct. “Nearly ripped my head off when I suggested reorganizing the bookshelves.”
“Well - they - I can find them all! I know where every book is!” He protests and you giggle.
“Go open a present,” you say, giving him a little shove with your hip. “Any of them are fine.”
Steven goes, evaluating each wrapped parcel before he chooses one and unwraps it at the kitchen table.
Of course, Steven has picked the one book shaped gift to unwrap - gasping at the title of the rare book. “From the bookshop a few weeks ago! I went back and they didn’t have it. And you were the one that got it! Sneaky minx, you.”
You smile, “I told you good things come to those who wait.” He’d been so upset it wasn't there when he went back for it, you’d nearly given it to him when he’d come back from the shop empty handed. But this - this is far better. You watch him eagerly flip through the book before you turn back to the bowl.
The soft sound of pages being turned fills the flat and you can’t help but grin to yourself, satisfied. You’re happy. They make you happy, this makes you happy.
You hum to yourself, mixing the eggs into the potato. You’re distracted by the peacefulness of the evening, the low burning candles guttering in the window, the shush of pages being turned.
So, you jump when Marc’s voice suddenly sounds by your ear. “You need flour.”
“Marc!” You scold.
“And baking powder. Makes it crispier.”
You huff out a breath. “Would you be a dear and get it for me then, baby?” You ask, only slightly sarcastically.
“Since you asked so nicely,” he deadpans, moving to the cabinet that stored baking items.
When he comes back, he doesn’t say anything to you, adding the flour and baking powder himself, measuring in salt and pepper with his heart. He doesn’t look at you. “You got the onion in here?”
“Onion?” You ask, frowning into the bowl.
“Yeah, we need an onion,” he informs you, voice even, still not looking at you.
His back is stiff, like he’s worried you’re going to comment on his sudden appearance and he’s begging you not to. “Got it,” you nod, turning to rummaging around for one and holding it up for his inspection of the size.
He nods. “Shoulda been grated with the potato, but you can do it now and squeeze the moisture out and it’ll probably be fine.”
“Sorry,” you say, starting on your new task, “I must have missed it when I was reading the recipe.”
“I should have been helping you with it,” he acknowledges lowly.
You smile, dumping the grated and squeezed onion into the mixture. “S’okay. You’re here now.” You don’t mention you know he was there earlier too, co-conscious and then fronting to say the blessings.
You watch him fold the mixture together before he pauses, squinting over at you. “We should divide this in half.”
“Why?”
“So we can do some with cheese. Or spices.”
“Okay. Half it then.”
Marc seems pleased, poorly hiding the twitch of his lips. “Okay. Gimme another bowl.”
You do as you’re told, and then start measuring out the oil you’ll need to fry the latkes into a pan on the stove. When the oil is hot enough and Marc is carefully dropping the mixture into the pan, he says, “This is nice.” His voice is a bit gruff, grating around the edges. “We should go to that menorah lighting tomorrow. The one in Trafalgar Square.”
“You want to?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Why not?”
You grin, watching the oil pop in the pan. “Maybe you could go to the synagogue too.”
He grumbles something under his breath that you don’t catch before he speaks up. “Jake wants to.”
“Jake can go.”
“He wants you to go with him.”
“I’ll go with him, if he wants.”
Marc’s head jerks up, eyes meeting yours. “You will?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
But he seems surprised that you would, that you'd put effort into something so important to him, to them. He searches your eyes for a moment, raven gaze deep and dark. Then, “Would you go with me?” He sounds so hopeful, it almost breaks your heart.
“Yes. Steven too,” you confirm.
Marc nods, and glances away from you to expertly turn over one of the latkes. “Okay. Cool.”
You don’t comment, hiding another grin, kissing the side of his head instead as you move away. “I - we - wrapped yours in silver,” he says to your back. “If you wanna look.”
Something about it makes your throat close, a lump lodging there that you can’t quite swallow away.
Maybe it because he's shared something important with you. And you're not sure you'll ever be able to express what it means that he's opened up to you a bit, that he's let you into this part of himself, that he wants to share this with you, and reconnect to something that should be positive and good and warm.
You turn back to him and yank him into a hug, pressing your fingers up his spine until you can cup the back of his neck. He looks startled before you kiss him.
But he kisses you back, and he doesn’t ask why when you whisper, “Thank you.”
Summary: Planning for the wedding has begun with choosing a color palette.
Notes: Also posted on my ao3. Part of Something More
I know that it’s been awhile since I’ve last posted and even longer since I’ve updated this and for that I am so sorry. The past few months have been rough and I’ve been struggling to write anything, but I’m trying which is what counts I guess.
I haven’t forgotten about Something New - there’s for sure one more part, possibly two, but for now here’s something and again I am so sorry for how long it’s been taking me to get these posted.
Warnings: Surprisingly none - unless you count idiots in love falling more in love.
sorry but I am officially a joel miller apologist. the fireflies knock him out & as soon as he regains consciousness marlene breaks the news to him that ‘yah sorry you’re never going to see your daughter again bc the surgery is lethal. but here’s her knife as a keep sake <3′ i’m sorry marlene but u thought that was going to go over well? you thought the insanely dangerous and firearm proficient man was who obviously bonded to ellie was going to go calmly? she should have sent ten men to escort him out. thirty. she should have just shot him in the head while he was unconscious. but of course she underestimated how much he cared. what he would do for ellie. bc she knew mean gruff self serving survivalist joel not father joel. she didn’t even let joel and ellie say goodbye to each other. was planning on killing ellie without even telling her for an experimental procedure they had no proof would work. didn’t even give joel the option to see her one last time. “would u kill 1 person to save 100?” they didn’t even allow a fourteen year old the agency to answer that question. team joel
synopsis: steve begins to notice a little quirk that you possess only when you’re around him. while he was initially concerned, the reason behind it is sweeter than he could ever guess.
warnings: reader wears makeup and nail polish, very very brief implication of sex, reader is implied to eat chicken, near death experience??? (reader doesn’t look both ways before crossing the street), tooth rotting fluff, lmk if I missed any
a/n: my first steve fic! technically it’s not the first i’ve written (I have many wips) but it’s the first that’s going up on the blog. it’s a bit short but I wrote it in a day after seeing a tiktok of girls talking about this topic and I just had to write it for steve! let me know your feedback and send in your stranger things requests! gif isn’t mine.
Steve didn’t believe it until Robin and Nancy had pointed it out. At the time, he thought the notion was ridiculous. But then he started to take notice.
He noticed the way you seemed to depend on him when he was around. How you never seemed to be able to find anything until he found it for you.
“Babe?” You called out from the restroom. You’d taken to staying over at Steve’s on most days. His parents were hardly around and yours didn’t mind as long as they knew where you were. “Have you seen my mascara?”
No reply came, but instead a series of footsteps lead Steve to the bathroom, the little trail of hair beneath his belly button catching your eyes for a split second as he pulled his shirt down the rest of the way.
“What’d you say?” He asked, running a hand through his hair, fixing the strands that had been moved out of place by his polo.
“My mascara.” You repeated, his eyes suddenly focusing in on the pile of makeup you had laid out on the sink. Your hand shuffled through the products with a huff. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
Steve eyed the counter, skimming over the various items before landing on a shiny, bright pink tube, one he’d seen you handle a thousand times before.
“Sweetheart,” He chuckled, grabbing the mascara. It seemed to have rolled across the counter, resting just next to the soap dispenser but clearly in eye view. “It’s right here, silly.”
It’s then that he noticed your glasses on the counter as well, but he kept the puzzled comment on why you weren’t wearing them to himself.
Your eyes lit up as if he’d just handed you a winning lottery ticket. “Oh! I must’ve missed it. Thanks, Stevie!” You giggled, toes stretching to wrap your arms around his neck, placing a dramatic kiss to his cheek, ‘mwah’ sound and all.
“You’re the best.” You said in a softer tone, thumbing coming up to rub off the bit of lip gloss that transferred from your lips to his skin.
This was the first instance he noticed, but that adoring look in your eyes had his knees week, and the thought was quick to leave his mind, replaced by only you.
-
The second time was more subtle, but much more alarming. If it hadn’t been for the pervious instance, he may not have thought much of it.
The two of you walked hand in hand through Hawkins Square, the local shops booming with business after the fall of Starcourt. Your group of friends trailed along behind you, all in their own conversations.
There were no words exchanged between the two of you, comfortable enough to bask in each other’s presence. Steve didn’t detect anything wrong with you, but you were in your own little world. Being around Steve always filled you with so much warmth and serotonin that it made your brain fuzzy. So much so that any other coherent thoughts often left your mind.
You remember briefly seeing the walk light blinking from the other side of the street at some point. So when your group to the crosswalk, you didn’t think twice before walking forward.
You barely had time to blink before a car horn was blaring in your ears, Steve’s grip in tightening and tugging you back at the same time. The car in question sped away and it was only then that you saw the crosswalk sign, this time blinking a bright orange hand.
As your mind refocused your eyes locked onto Steve, realizing his hands had made their way to your cheeks.
“Are you okay? You gotta look both ways, sweetheart. What if I wasn’t here to pull you out of the way?” His words were scolding but his voice was light with concern.
Mentally, you knew that this wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t around. However, no words escaped you mouth, especially after looking over your boyfriends shoulder to see your friends staring at you worriedly.
Flushing under their gazes, you stuttered, “I’m sorry. Guess I just got distracted.”
The furrow of Steve’s eyebrows faded as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “That’s okay, baby. Just pay attention next time, okay?”
You nodded and gave him a strained smile, lacing your fingers with his once again as the crosswalk gave you the signal to go.
The look Steve shared with Robin and Nancy a moment later went unnoticed by you.
-
The local diner on a Friday evening was packed, to say the least. You and Steve were lucky another party had just left when you arrived, allowing you to a snag a table before anyone else could.
Not long after, Nancy and Jonathan arrived, shortly followed by Robin, Vickie. As much as you all loved the kids, it was nice to just spend time with other people your age for a change. The triple date had been Vickie’s idea, the sweet redhead being eager to get to know her girlfriends group of friends.
The waitress strolled over to your table after you all had been sat for a few minutes. She was middle aged, brunette hair with strands of silver highlighting the front. She smiled warmly at your group. “Evening, kids. What can I get for y’all?”
Everyone rattled off their orders, having skimmed the menus prior to the woman’s arrival. When it got to you and Steve, he easily gave her his order. “I’ll get a bacon cheeseburger and a coke, please.”
She jotted down his order before looking towards you. “And you, honey?”
You blinked at her silently, looking at Steve for help almost instinctively. He quickly realized that he never saw you look at the menu, and told her the first thing that came to his mind. “She’ll have the chicken strips with fries please. And a lemonade.”
The woman smiled sweetly, unfazed by the behavior. “Alrighty then, i’ll have that right out for y’all.”
You wordlessly leaned your head back against Steve’s shoulder, where it had been before the waitress came over.
Steve felt the stares of Robin and Nancy on the two of you. He looked down at you, bringing up his arm to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his side. “You feeling okay?” He mumbled just loud enough for you to hear.
You lifted your head to look at him, grinning softly in a way that had his chest bursting with love. “Yeah, I’m okay, Stevie. Little tired.” You replied.
“Yeah?” He smiled. Glancing up, he saw the rest of your friends had resumed their own conversations. “You gonna stay over tonight?”
Your hands had taken to messing with his that hung off your shoulder, pulling and bending his fingers. “Just gotta drop by kind to get some more clothes.” You were silent for a second, observing the tips of his fingers. “Can I paint your nails?”
Steve grinned. “Sure, baby. Whatever you want.”
-
Later that same night, after you had departed from your friends with full bellies and aching cheeks, you and Steve had made it back to his house.
He’d stopped by your house, letting you run inside to quickly grab a change of clothes for work tomorrow. And also a couple of bottles of nail polish.
Like promised, he let you paint his nails. You were both sat up, his back against the headboard and yours against his chest. His arms reached around you, the length of them allowing you to hold his hands close enough to brush the lacquer on his nails.
The room was silent apart from your soft breathing and his radio quietly playing. His right hand was splayed across your inner thigh, the emerald green color on his nails having long since dried. The heat of his touch reminded you of your previous excursions that took place almost the second you two got home. The thought brought a warmth to your cheeks.
“Baby?”
You hummed know response, concentrated on keeping the polish on his nails and avoided the skin around them.
“Rob and Nance pointed something out to me the other day,” His head sat on your shoulder, voice calm but tone curious. “I wanted to ask you about it.”
The brush of the nail polish glided over his pinky nail once last time before you were satisfied with the opacity of the color. Capping the bottle, you blew lightly on his fingertips, urging the paint to dry. “Ask away.” You told him.
Steve hesitated, as if he didn’t know how to put his question into words. “They told me they noticed that, when were together, you kinda…drift away?” He said it more like a question rather than a statement, like he was unsure. “Almost like you don’t think for yourself?”
Realizing how awful it sounded, Steve’s eyes widened. “N-not like that. That sounded bad. I don’t think that you don’t think for yourself. I-I mean, I think you’re one of the most head strong, independent women i’ve ever known, and I’m well aware you don’t need me to think for you but-“
“Steve!” His mouth clamped shut, his body behind you stiff. “It’s okay.” You assured. “I know what you mean.”
Those eyes would be the death of you, you just knew it. Steve stared at you, doe eyed with a hint of worry that he had offended you. “Really?”
“Yeah.” You nodded with a grin. “They’re not wrong, I guess. I do kind of let my thoughts go when I’m around you.”
You felt his body relax, the hand on your thigh sliding up to your waist. “Is…is that a good thing.”
The giggle that left your lips was involuntary, but you just couldn’t help it. Your boyfriend was too cute. “‘Course its a good thing.” You took the chance to pull away from his body, turning around to face him. “As a girl, you know, I kind of always have to have my guard up. I never know when things could go south, and especially in Hawkins, I have more to worry about then just creepy guys.”
Steve nodded along to your words, eyes never straying from your face. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that, when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I have to worry. I don’t have to be strong, I don’t have to be independent, because I have you. Because you’re my safe space.”
Steve felt tears well up in his eyes, your sweet words feeling like a warm embrace to his heart. “Sweetheart…”
The rest of his sentence was lost as his lips met yours, the love and passion feeling like it was being transferred through his kiss. You only pulled away once your lungs began to beg for mercy, soft pants escaping as your foreheads rested against each other.
“I love you, you know that? You’re my safe space too.” He mumbled, matching grins lighting up both your faces.
“I love you too.” You hummed, feeling like you could just combust with happiness. Your hands grasped onto his, pulling them up to your eye level.
“Steve!” You gasped. “You smeared the nail polish!”
“Make sure you put on sun-screen,” Steve says, turning his head over his shoulder to scrutinise the space between his car and the yellow/line. He edges it into reverse. “Are you putting on sun-screen?”
Dustin guffaws. “I’m sixteen!”
“And you’ll look twice as old as that if you don’t take care of your skin,” Steve asserts. He’s gripping the back of your seat, the hair on his arms golden from the sun. “Seriously dude. Suzie’ll break up with you if you get ugly over the summer.”
Dustin makes a noise that is vaguely scandalised, scrunching his eyebrows in disbelief. “Suzie doesn’t just like me cause i’m pretty,” he says. Though, he pokes around in the back-seat while he grumbles, anyway.
He’s hitched a ride to the fair across town. Steve had told him to bike there— no reason you can’t use your own two legs and cycle , he’d said. But Dustin had come to the push/over parent (you) and batted his big, scheming eyes and worried some spiel about heat exhaustion being terrible for kids, and now Steve had been transfigured into a glorified taxi-service.
(He couldn’t say no to you. Dustin knew his only weakness, and he knew exactly how to work her.)
“Suzie likes how smart and funny you are,” Steve agrees, “but a woman also likes a handsome face. And trust me, you got it, so make sure you take the steps to keep it.”
You laugh. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Obviously,” Steve flashes you a white smile, kindly squeezing your shoulder. Warmth seeps against your skin, through the butterfly sleeves of your yellow sun-dress.
“Your boyfriend is so annoying,” he complains, as if Steve can’t hear him. Steve rolls his eyes. “Do you even have it in here? I can’t find it.”
“It’s in my purse Dustie,” you tell him very sweetly, pushing your sunglasses back up your nose.
The sky is blue and the air is warm and there are plenty of people out to enjoy it. You love July days. They’re ever so sweet in Hawkins, beribboned with a pleasant delight that only really visits during the holidays.
Music is playing distantly in the background. Billie Holliday, you think idly, rolling down your window to let the breeze in.
Dustin locates the squeeze-y bottle and makes a grandiose show of applying it, rubbing it in furiously against his heat-freckled face, as if he’s forgotten he’s made out of delicate flesh and tender bone. Steve perfectly parallel parks. Rewardingly, you pat him on his knee.
“Well done Stevie,” you giggle, tucking some of his hair back behind his ear.
He’s wearing one of your sparkly headbands to keep it out of his face. Though, he has so much of it— it’s so thick and glossy and untamed without farreh fawcet— that it struggles to be contained. Steve looks nice with wild hair and loving eyes.
“Thanks babe,” he leans over and kisses you on the cheek.
“Ew, gross,” Dustin interjects, unclipping his seatbelt. “Get a room.”
“This is my car. You get out of it.” Steve stretches over and opens the door for him.
“Don’t you kiss Suzie?” You ask him, endlessly bemused. Dustin wrinkles his nose at you, but refrains from saying something snark. You are his favourite, after all.
“It’s different when we do it,” he shrugs. “Less… gooey.”
Though you seriously doubt that — you’ve heard the way he talks to her through the walkie talkie system he’s cultivated — you concede. Young love is strange and sweet and new. Sometimes, it’s like you’re the first people to discover it, like nobody else in the world could possibly feel this great of an emotion and keep it to themselves.
That’s how you felt about Steve sometimes, anyway.
“Whatever,” Steve sighs. “Go on, scram. Get yourself an ice-cream or something.”
“Can I have five bucks?”
“Nice try. No. This isn’t the bank of England.”
Melodramatically, Dustin exhales through his nose and hops out of the car, slamming the door shut. He readjusts his hat. It’s one of yours, with flowers printed in the fabric. He looks adorable. “Worth a shot.”
It was. Steve might have said yes, if he hadn’t have given Dustin a fiver two days ago for the arcade, you think.
“Bye Dustin! Have fun!”
“Bye. Thanks for the ride,” he grins at you; pretends Steve doesn’t exist. “Will you pick me up after?”
“No,” Repeats Steve, as he leans over your body to point at Dustin through the open window. “We’re going on a date. To the Farmer’s Market. Walk home.”
“But—“
“Don’t you have parents?” Steve wonders.
“Yeah. I’m looking at em.” He responds cheerfully.
“We’ll come get you in two hours,” there’s a sing-song lilt to your voice that humorously juxtaposes the woeful groan Steve emits. “Ask your friends how they’re getting home.”
Dustin grins. “Thanks!”
He turns on his heel and disappears before Steve can protest.
Exasperatedly, Steve turns to look at you, betrayal swimming in his eyes. “You’re far too sweet on him,” he shakes his head. “He’s abusing your trust.”
Pleased with yourself, you gather his face between your hands. It’s delightfully soft—he’d shaved this morning. “He’s just a kid.”
“Yes. A kid. Not ours,” Disapproving, he wrinkles his nose. It’s very cute.
“You love him really.”
“I love you,” Steve corrects. His big hand collects your chin in his grasp. “I tolerate him.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
You can see him begin to argue. It’s in the way his lips part and his eyebrows meet and his eyes squint. Instead, you kiss him to shut him up. It melts him immediately. His fingers press into your hair, and he hums against your mouth.
“Let’s go find some organic honey,” you whisper, smiling against his lips. “Before we have to collect our kids.”
Steve groans .
🎧— reblogs/ comments are appreciated! they really do help out writers!
Why am I imagining the concept of you/reader helping Steve wash his car that essentially turns into a flirtatious water fight? Wet t-shirts and all because he just seems like the sort 👀
because you are a GENIUS anon, genius!!!!!!!! i loved every minute of writing this | suggestive! (very)
“Are you really going to do this?”
Steve is sitting on the bottom step of your porch, watching you with something akin to delight in his warm brown eyes, leaning back on his palms and enjoying the faint breeze in his hair.
“I will,” you say decisively, bucket of suds in one hand, a big fluffy sponge in the other. You walk past him with the gait of someone who's going to do something really, really fun, almost bouncing around (which you only don't do because you're carrying the bucket in the first place, by the way) and he chuckles, shaking his head; he cannot understand at all how all this excitement is compatible with the simple act of washing his car.
It's a hot but pleasant day, and you had asked him, wanting to do something nice for someone who did so many nice things for you every day without asking for anything in return. Steve had said yes. He even had the trouble to park the car close enough so you could use the hose. So yeah — you're definitely going to wash his car.
How did he end up so lucky?
Steve can't believe how adorable you are. He watches silently as you walk around the hood, carefully set the bucket on the ground, and bend down to dip the sponge into the sud.
It's summer and the sun is high in the sky; you're wearing light clothes, a pair of little shorts that slide and expose a good amount of your skin in this position.
“Oh, c'mon,” he sighs, smiling that smile. "Now you're just teasing me."
Your interest in washing his car is genuine, you swear. “I'm not,” you guarantee, looking at him over your shoulder with a loving chuckle.
You start from top to bottom, so the roof is the first part of the car the sponge touches, spreading suds and lifting the pleasant fragrance of the car wash product he'd brought for you to use. You stretch on your tiptoes; Steve tilts his head to the side, squinting his eyes at you.
“Are you wearing the red bikini?” he says as if it is a personal offense to him.
The red strap and the bow at the back of your neck most likely gave you away.
"Maybe," you tease.
“Really?” his tone is now all sweet and plea, soft as silk. “Let me see?”
“What?” you're trying to concentrate on soaping the windows, but his gaze on your skin seems to burn more than the sun, and there's a smile on your face that you can't shake as you turn your head to look at him, faking (badly) indifference. "No."
“Please?”
You laugh. "No!"
“Why not?”
“Because- what are you doing?”
He is getting up. He stretches for far too long, very pleased with the look you're giving him as you seem to catch on.
“I'll help you,” he promises. The smile on his face says otherwise.
"No! Absolutely not-"
Steve takes his t-shirt off and you gasp like a teenager. What a dork. A dork that's too pretty for your own good and a dork you love dearly, but still a dork.
Steve takes a step closer to you. Just judging by the look on his face, you're sure one step is too close, and you retreat to a safer distance. "Stay there!" you warn. The smile on your face betrays you though.
"Why?"
Of course he doesn't obey. Obviously. He's getting closer now, forcing you to walk backward. “Stop-stop it!”
He chuckles. "I'm not doing anything, baby."
"You're so mean."
"You're meaner. Wearing that bikini and not letting me see it? So mean.”
You walk around the hood again, half to clean the other side of the car and half hoping to put more distance between the two of you.
Steve watches you silently for all of ten seconds before calling, “Babe?”
“Take it off for me?”
You lift your head, looking at him over the roof of his BMW. “Hmm?”
He pouts, trying for innocent-looking, but his eyes give him away in a heartbeat. He’s so charming you feel a little dizzy though, cheeks burning red for a couple of reasons other than the sun.
You make a face he can only interpret as a clear no. But Steve…ah, Steve isn't intimidated easily. It's a hot summer day when neither of you has to work, so he's even more relaxed than usual, more affectionate than usual.
You're so focused on your task that you don't even realize where he's going. He picks up the hose and starts rinsing the parts you've already soaped from the other side of the car innocently, slowly, like a good, obedient boy. You don't say anything.
Until he lifts the hose a little too high — accidentally, of course, he swears — and a jet of water hits your chest, soaking your t-shirt entirely.
You yelp and step away, wet from top to toe; Steve is displaying the most false expression of surprise and regret you've ever seen, mouth open into an 'O' shape.
“STEVE!”
He is trying to hide his smile. “Sorry!” he says, only then lowering the hose. There's not even a little bit of regret anywhere near him.
You try to look angry. But at him? It's hard.
“You got me all wet!” you yell.
“Don’t I always?”
He's an idiot and you love him too much for your own good.
“Oh my God,” you throw the wet sponge at him and Steve dodges it easily. You don't look nearly as angry as you'd like and he notices because he's now openly laughing.
With nothing else to do, you discard your shirt. He wins.
“Happy?” you say, crossing your arms. “Now stop looking at me like that.”
“You’re wet and wearing a bikini and you expect me not to look at you?”
You try for a stern tone. "Steve."
“Gimme a kiss?”
How come I let you get away with everything?
“Stop distracting me," you admonish. "I'm trying to do something nice for you.”
“I can think of something nice you can do for me with your mouth.”
i have thoughts anon, i have thoughts and here are they:
"Can you stop ignoring me, please? I'm going crazy."
"I'm not ignoring you," you say pointedly, contradictorily still not looking at him as you pull the duvet off the bed and carefully fold it.
Steve watches your every move, leaning against the doorframe. He knew exactly what he was going to say, but you bend down to fluff the pillows on the bed and your dress — a cute little summer dress that made his heart do funny things inside his chest — rises up to your thighs, and the words get lost on their way to his mouth.
He knows you're pissed off. There's something definitely wrong because it's a Sunday and you're making your bed instead of suggesting that the two of you get back to it.
Well, because of that and because you've been pouting ever since he brought you coffee.
It wasn't Steve's fault, really. It wasn't. He hadn't flirted with the barista. Hell, he couldn't even remember the color of her hair, for God's sake — it wasn't his fault she'd written her phone number on the plastic coffee cup he'd — unknowingly and innocently — brought into the house.
He takes a few steps and brings a warm hand to your lower back. You don't acknowledge him or how close he is, hands still working quickly to finish making the bed as if nothing is going on. "Babe," he calls softly, his hand stroking your back in a failed attempt to soothe you. "Baby."
"What?"
"You're still mad, aren't you?"
"Me? No why would I be?" you finish your task and walk to the closet, looking for a clean change of clothes, walking past him without so much as a glance his way. "Just because you got a girl's number?"
Steve doesn't want to smile. Doesn't want to look smug. He really doesn't want to. It's hard — you're adorable and he loves you and he's never had anyone love him like you do, like he's something precious and worth fighting for.
He uses your position to his advantage, striding up to you and crowding you into the closet before you can escape, one arm on each side of you. "I didn't get her number, babe, I told you, I didn't even know she put it there, I swear."
You make a noise that could mean anything, grumpy and annoyed, and when he leans down to kiss your lips, you turn your head away.
"Gimme a kiss?" he murmurs.
You try to move, traitorous heart beating faster now that he's this close to you, but you can't get away. "I wanna take a shower, Steve," you say, still not looking at him. "Move."
"I'll move if you kiss me," he kisses your neck. He is evil.
You press your back against the closed doors of the closet, nowhere to go. Stubborn. "I won't kiss you."
"Then I won't move."
"Steve-"
"What do you want me to do, huh?" he asks, gently taking your jaw into his hand and making you look up at him. "I already threw the damn cup away, but I can fish it out of the trash and set it on fire if you want…"
"Steve-"
"-then I could bury its ashes somewhere very, very far away. Indianapolis- No! California-"
He's almost making you laugh now, he can feel it. There's a hint of a smile on your face as you shake your head in disbelief, at least. "Steve-"
"Or maybe I can go back to the coffee shop and tell her I have a girlfriend. I'll go right now if you want, and I'll say that I have this really, really gorgeous girl that I love more than anything and-"
He smiles against your mouth when you kiss him, hands squeezing your waist.
"You're a dork," you accuse softly.
Steve presses you against the closed closet door and murmurs against your neck, "And you're hot when you're jealous."
31 and Steve because it’s what 👏🏻 he 👏🏻 (and we) 👏🏻 deserves 👏🏻
It’s 2023, we’re putting the pretty boy on the kitchen counter to make out with him. Equality.
31. kitchen counter make-outs
It took about ten minutes for Steve’s role in baking Robin’s birthday cake to be reduced to sitting on the worktop, being fed ingredients, and looking pretty. Your boyfriend might have been a force to be reckoned with when wielding his trusty bat, but he was truly useless with a whisk. The cake batter in his hair was testimony to that.
“Tell me if that needs more vanilla?” you asked, holding the wooden spoon up to him with wide eyes.
He held your wrist steady and obediently licked the spoon; almost immediately, his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Fuck me, that’s good,” he moaned. You rolled your eyes at his dramatics, biting back a smile. “I don’t think we can take this cake to the party, babe. They’ll all be trying to steal you from me when they realise how good a baker you are.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you told him, no bite in the words, “They’d try and steal me because I’m hot as hell, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoed with a grin, his hands finding your waist to pull you further into the space between his legs, “You’re a total catch. And I am-” He ducked his head down to peck your lips, towering over you from his position sitting on the counter, “-so damn glad I caught you.”
You had to break the kiss to laugh into his shoulder, the spoon falling onto the counter with a clatter.
“That was cheesy, even for you,” you teased him, turning your head to press a kiss to his jaw, “But…I’m glad you caught me too.”
“Yeah?” he asked, grinning as he turned his head to nuzzle your nose with his, “Good.”
His tongue was sweet with sugar and vanilla as it met yours, his kisses slow as syrup seeping from the tin. Your hands found his shoulders as his slid round your back to pull you closer and up onto your tiptoes, the tilt of your chin giving him the chance to deepen the kiss. He took the chance.
He always took the chance.
You could never have stopped the whine you let out as his mouth slanted against yours, your hands gripping the soft material of his sweater. His thighs squeezed your sides and made your head spin.
The insistent bleeping of the oven timer going off made you pull away, Steve chasing your lips with his. You turned your head and his lips landed on your cheek, pressing kiss after kiss there even as you tried to reach for the timer.
“Steve,” you chastised him with a giggle, planting your hands on his chest to stop him, “I need to get the cake in the oven or we’re gonna be late to Robin’s.”
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