lilybug

🪷 19 🪷

[frouxfroufox]

a lily introduction special 🐈

what a drag to love you like I do…

about me — masterlist

lily — 19— she / her — bi — virgo 🥧

hopeless romantic with a concerning amount of hyper-fixations ⏾

requests - open — mailbox - open ⋆.˚

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┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ⋆

┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆

┊ ┊ ★⋆

┊ ◦

★⋆ ┊ . ˚

˚★

divider credits : @bunnytoppop 🍂

[stuck-with-uu]

so i saw djo and tame at nashville night two.

currently at the airport the next morning and while i’m in line at tsa they announce over the speakers “joseph keery, please come back to TSA. you have left your passport here”

like of course he did.

[frouxfroufox]

Steve Harrington Ultimate Olivia Rodrigo song inspired oneshots:

divider: @uzmacchiato

SOUR :

brutal

traitor

drivers license

1 step forward, 3 steps back

deja vu

good 4 u

enough for you

happier

jealousy, jealousy

favourite crime

hope ur ok

GUTS :

all-american bitch

bad idea, right?

vampire

lacy

ballad of a homeschooled girl

making the bed

logical

get him back!

love is embarrassing

the grudge

pretty isn’t pretty

teenage dream

GUTS (spilled):

so american

a/n : there are more songs on gut spilled but i couldn’t find a way to make them into the context of steve harrington, sorry 😭 🤧

you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love:

drop dead

stupid song

honeybee

maggots for brains

u + me = <3

my way

purple

the cure

begged

what’s wrong with me

less

expectations

cigarette smoke

[frouxfroufox]

brutal

olivia rodrigo inspired steve harrington oneshots masterlist

God ! It’s brutal out here !

You had always thought that Steve Harrington had been so infatuated with you just because of your looks.

Not that you loved your physical appearance exactly, but who were you kidding? Boys like that only want one thing and one thing only and you’d be damned if he was interested in your personality.

Because you were polar opposites.

He partied every weekend and couldn’t remember the events of what happened said weekend once he had woken up from his drunken slumber , meanwhile you laid in your bed reading the book that you had saved up for the past few weeks with your tips from chores.

Whilst he flirted with the girlfriend that had shuffled to the front of his his awaiting queue that consisted of any girl who was dumb and desperate who lived in the sad town of Hawkins.

So to put it plainly, there was no way that it was your personality that had him so deeply interested in you.

So what on living god's earth was it about you? Because it certainly isn't the way that you know the answer to any and every question that your sympathetically exhausted teacher had to ask, no matter the class.

God, even the teacher hated your state of intelligence, half of the time, wishing that you would shut up sometimes. So how could the popular, rich boy, who lived in the big house that was full of overly expensive ornaments that had no purpose, see that as attractive or interesting?,

Little did you know that said popular, rich boy, was completely head over heels for you. Steve Harrington found something truly fascinating about the way that you effortlessly yet flawlessly managed to be so different to the girls that he had grown to be surrounded with.

Not in the way that made you that one annoying bitch who intentionally put in effort to be different, you were nothing like that and Steve knew that as a fact - maybe that was what made you so intriguing, who knows?

But in between the lines of the aced tests and your organised pencil case, Steve wanted to get to know you. Like genuinely know you.

Not in the way that would end with him in your pants, just the way that he could sit there and just analyse you as you told him your story.

His shitty friends couldn’t understand why he was so obsessed with you, let alone Steve himself having knowledge on his feelings.

But what he did know is that you are a one of a kind and Steve Harrington would never pass on such an opportunity.

So he started to slowly seep his way into your daily life, at first, subtly chiming into your study sessions in the quiet library during your free period. Until it turned into him sitting with you at lunch, talking your ear off with questions and compliments.

You couldn’t help but keep your answers intentionally and responses short as you looked around, expecting to see a pack of pairs of eyes that belonged to the friend group of the boy who sat next to you, waiting for them to walk over and tell you this was all a massive humiliating experiment to see how gullible you are.

So you just stuck to yourself.

No matter how easy the question.

No matter the urge to answer the question that pestering Steve was asking.

You couldn’t let yourself be led on just to be heartbroken.

Because you’d be damned if you were thrown into a pit of humiliated depression by Steve The Hair Harrington.

So you tried your darnest best to keep your responses physical. A shrug. A nod. A smile. A shake of the head. Anything.

But if his lining of questioning required a verbal answer, you kept it brief and monotone. But one day you snapped.

“Steve, i know what you’re doing.”, you interrupted his rambling abruptly, both sat on the bleachers that you had attempted to hide at during lunchtime to avoid your “stalker”.

“What am I doing?”, he almost repeated back at you, fuelling your annoyance further.

“You are leading me on. I know you are. Look at who you hang out with the and look at me. I am a loner. Nor am I anywhere even near the ballpark of the type of girls you date… I mean look at when you was with Nancy Wheeler!…”. Tears of frustration brimmed your eyes as you spoke.

“So you really expect me to believe that I am the type of girl that you would fall for? You wanna know what I think? I think that you ran out of girls who fell under your perfect criteria and chose to go for the girl who looked easy and naive. Well guess what?! I’m not.”

Steve couldn’t listen to your rambling any longer, his lips smashing into yours with a force that vacuum sucked you in but you didn’t even want to pull away, body flooded with shock and confusion.

He pulled away slowly, lips a now pink colour. He needed to take a breath but he also needed to explain himself to you.

“You’re right. You’re not the typical girl that I would fall for. But that’s what I love the most about you… you aren’t the type of girl that revolves your life around boys and sex. And you certainly are not Nancy Wheeler. You are so much more than that. It’s pathetic to admit but, I am pretty much fully in love with you, if you haven’t noticed.”, he admitted with a chuckle, tears brimming his own eyes with the sheer vulnerability, earning a wet chuckle and nod from you.

“I noticed.”

author yap : i know this isn’t entirely what brutal is about but i was kind of going for the concept of reader being more nerdy compared to the regular teenage girl her age, whilst sliding steve harrington in there. So if you aren’t keen on this, no worries. No harm, no foul. But if you did like it, don’t be shy to drop a comment and please like and reblog.

divider - @pixopix

[frouxfroufox]

might do a whole series of Olivia Rodrigo inspired Steve Harrington oneshots, so like every single one of her songs, thoughts?

[frouxfroufox]

Competition Pt.1 (18+)

The soft glow of your pale, to the point of near white, dainty fairy lights that surrounded the perimeter of your fluffy bed, hanging on the white, net curtains that you had put up when your parents had finally granted you access to decorate your own room.

That was five years ago but you had more important things to focus on than the minor features of your bedroom.

And said more important priorities included the things on may accompany you on the bed. Or should I say.. who may accompany you on the bed.

Yes, that’s right. There is no pillow or blanket that could compensate even close to the warmth of your beloved boyfriend. Steve Harrington.

All he had to do was lay there, watching the TV in your room and you would climb into your fluffy bed and cling to him like a koala.

And honestly? He absolutely loved it.

He would instantly wrap his arms around your body to warm you up and wouldn’t let go until you told him too. That is how you both would fall asleep most of the time. That is when he isn’t the one on top of you.

Which has happened a few too many times after some mischievous night activities. What can I say? It just makes him sleepy, understandably.

These common routine chain of events of your weekend is what brought you to now. Brushing your teeth over the sink before you could get into bed with your boyfriend.

You had chosen your matching pink satin tank top and shorts, all nice and pretty for Steve.

Spitting out your toothpaste and rinsing your mouth momentarily after giving your teeth a decent brush, in preparation to go back into bed with your lover.

Steve watched as you walked back into the room, taking note of your tired smile. Knowing that work had been suffocating for the both of you this week so it was nice to have a break for the weekend.

Settling into the comfy duvet that lay on your bed with your boyfriend already occupied in it, you watched as he gently hit the remote into his slightly calloused hand.

“Babe the remote ran out of battery, do you have any batteries in here?”, He asked sliding out the drawer that was underneath the surface of your oak bedside table.

“Wait! Don’t go in-“, you gave up effort to protest on what Steve was about to see since you had already lost as he witnessed the rather impressive collection that you carried in the drawer.

He had found your god forbidden vibrators.

A bright pigment of red flushed in your cool cheeks, heating them up in the process of this happening. You watched him mutter a small “oh…” to himself.

You had initially thought that he was upset that you had your own methods of pleasuring yourself. But it was only a substitute for when you couldn’t see each other. You hoped that he would understand that.

But all of that pondering and worrying was momentarily put to rest when he looked over his shoulder to make eye contact with you for the first time since the great uncovering.

You let out a long sigh in defeat as a familiar teasing hint on his face returned and you wanted your fluffy duvet to swallow you whole like how it would on a Monday morning when you were resisting work.

“Looks like I got quite the competition, huh?”, his comment just completely adds on to your misery and he knows it. Your hands flying to your face to hide the blush that sold how embarrassed and flustered you was but your boyfriend didn’t need to see your face to know that.

“So this is why I am forbidden from this side of the bed, huh?”, he quipped one more time before gently pulling your hands away from your burning face.

Your eyes tracked on his face as you watch him lean in and press a kiss to the corner of your lips as he tucked your soft hair behind your ear.

“Don’t be embarrassed baby…”, he soothed before adding onto his reassurance, “It’s actually kind of hot, to be honest.”, Steve admitted.

The statement made your brain short circuit…he isn’t upset? He’s… horny?!

You was soon given evidence of his claim when you felt his erection pressed up against your thing as he faced you, his mouth still hovering your lips.

The drawer full of objects that would leave your bloodline turning in their graves and repenting your sins for you, remained open but ignored.

“We will come back to that, very very soon.”, he stated in a hushed volume. It wasn’t a question, it was a promise.

A shiver ran down your spine and sparked straight into your pussy like a lustful needle slipping down your body flawlessly, injecting your bloodstream with something that restricted your mind to one thing and one thing only.

Steve. Steve. Steve.

Just in sync with your chills, like he had felt it too but instead deciding to act on it whereas you were stuck in place, your charming boyfriend smashed his slightly chapped lips against yours.

You both simultaneously groaned into each other’s mouths, swallowing the sinful noise into each other’s throats, letting your tongues dance with minds of their own. Moving together in a way that proved to both of you how much experience you both have with one another’s body, knowing every curve and dip, every hack and trick to set each other off.

Your arms found home around his neck which had been burning up alongside his face, matching yours, since you had started making out. Wrapping instinctually to pull his body impossibly closer.

A breathy moan escaped your lips whilst his moved down to the column of your throat, adding to the collection of fading hickeys he had left a few days prior. He loved marking you up, hearing your pleasured noises from the delicious pain of his teeth sinking into your skin.

“Fuck, Steve”, you breathed out at the feeling of his mouth on your skin, trying to suppress the embarrassing moans that were threatening to exit your throat.

His thick fingers began to work your silky sleep shorts that matched the tank top that exposed your now very erect nipples through its thin material, letting your boyfriend know just how much effect that he had on your body.

Tugging them down gently with care, making sure not to startle such an intimate moment between the both of you. This was when your lack of underwear became known to not just be your missing bra, but you were also lacking the white, lacy panties that Steve had fell in love with since he saw them peeking out under your skirt when you were both just friends.

But god was this so much better.

The comparison of your bare pussy or your cute panties wasn’t even close.

1. It gave him more access, so it only took one movement of the fingers to get exactly where you both wanted to start.

2. It turned him on even more to know that you were going commando the whole time, letting your slick coat your inner things as he kissed you.

3. God, does he need a third reason? Even the first one is enough.

“Steve, please”, you whined, getting frustratedly flustered at his choice of speed with the foreplay, obviously not wanting him to rush. But you just wanted him to get on with it a little quicker.

His brain read the way your body radiated with need and a heated aura that made your hips grind into his, despite his weight starting to shift so that he was on too of you, like an animal in heat.

So with all things noted in his lust-polluted brain, he started to rock his pelvis against yours, allowing you to feel the hard pressure that was his cock that was now leaking with an anticipation that he had learnt to endure with his time with you, considering your foreplay is sometimes even slower than this, but like said, you both needed it and you needed it now.

With Steve right on top of you now, his weight pushing you down into the mattress that threatened to squeak if you apply a single ounce more of pressure, but you both had bigger concerns.

Your lips met clumsily, once again, as Steve’s hands started to work your sleep shorts, actually pulling them down this time compared to his teasing antics a few minutes prior.

You had to pull back an inch from his gorgeous, plump lips to utter a gasp at the sensation of the cold air circulating your bedroom, hit your bare pussy. The juices spread on your folds added to the cooling sensation that made you squirm in your position below your handsome boyfriend, who, by the way, was staring right into your eyes with pure adoration.

He had ruled out in his mind that you didn’t deserve to wait any longer, he had been acknowledging your horny suffering, but only now deciding to act on it. So he did what he had to do.

He pulled his right hand that had been previously resting on your thigh like home, silently assigning which of his fingers were being drafted tonight. Settling on his middle and ring finger, both yours and his designated choice and got to work, delving his slightly calloused fingertips gently onto your folds. He took cautious care of how he started off his expedition of your pussy, fully aware of how sensitive you could get from being so horny.

So with that, the pads of his fingertips circles your puffy, soaked clit with a pressured intention in what he was doing, that only Steve Harrington could master.

Breathy moans started to uncontrollably leave your lips, the feeling of the friction of your heated bundle of nerves made you oh so hot.

“Fuck… S-steve more… please…”, you begged pathetically and to your pleasure, he obliged, effortlessly moving below the sheets so that he could face your bare pussy with his brown orbs for eyes.

The pornographic noise that uttered out of you when he attached his lips to your swollen clit like a magnetised jigsaw piece, put the woman that you had found in Steve’s old secret porno stash, to shame.

“O-oh m’ god, Stevie…”, you struggled the praise but managed to still let your lover know how good he was to you, “Your… your mouth..”

He let out a groan of arousal in response to your praise, the vibration of his voice against your pussy earned a high pitched squeal and a squirm that ran through your awaiting-climaxing body.

You both were unsure of how you would handle his cock if this is how responsive you are to his tongue alone… but you both always made it work before.

Steve had started to grow agitatedly impatient with his actions, his tongue getting tired. Normally his stamina wouldn’t be this short, not at all actually but his sheer neediness was enough of a reason to get antsy in his movements. But he still wanted to get you ready for his cock, his thoughts competed with one another but his tongue didn’t stop, not once. That was until a reminding thought seeped into his brain. The whole reason of your situation right now.

That reason being your handy devices that sat in your bedside drawer.

cutesy fairy lights divider credits : @thecutestgrotto

hi guys!! hope you enjoyed

i hope you guys have as much fun reading it as i did writing it because i absolutely loved this.

don’t forget to like and reblog xoxo + i would love to see some comments, let me know what you thought <3

[pvppyst3v3]

we actually have THREE instances of hung steve being mentioned (four if you squint)

we have, "don't cha big boy" for ONE

and of course, "and he goes in anyway dontcha steve"

AND how steve jumps to whip it out (out of frame😔) to piss in s3. likeeee i KNOW it's heavy lookit him!

and MAYBE the ol' "oh steve! oh steveee!" from carol in s1 along with his tight ass jeans that can't hide ANYTHING

like- i think we get it guys! we may not have had his trauma acknowledged or anything but at least we got canon bwc steve! 😭 (i mean a win is a win guys)

[jackiietaylor]

NANCY WHEELER, STEVE HARRINGTON, ROBIN BUCKLEY, & EDDIE MUNSON STRANGER THINGS 4

[frouxfroufox]

Each and Every Single One (drabble)

kissing the moles on his back every night like a ritual when he has his back to you, making sure not to miss a single brown speck with your plump lips.

you never did it in the lustful way or anything like that, just in the romantic way.

he would peep out a small confused grunt at the ticklish sensation on his skin.

“baby?” the groggy voice broke the silence of the love-infused shared bedroom of yours both.

“what are you doing?”

his questioning led you to believe that he didn’t like it, that he found you creepy.

“shit, i’m sorry baby if it made you uncomfortable, i’ll stop.” you automatically uttered embarrassed apologies, the heat in your cheeks quickly spread to your neck with self-humiliation.

“no-no, no… don’t stop… ‘s feels nice…”

god he was insufferable.

in the best of ways of course.

[djournal-s]

[taps mic] steve harrington cums when you say “i love you”

[whinysushi]

why does no man slap his dick against my pussy anymore before pushing it in? please knock before entering, that is just common decency

[joekeerysbellybutton]

This has me imagining Steve doing the dorkiest shit like

“Knock, knock,” as he taps his cock against you.

“Steve,” you huff, annoyed. “im not saying it, it’s so dumb.”

“C’mon baby, indulge me.” He taps again. “Knock, knock.”

You sigh, “who’s there?”

“Steve.” He rubs his head on your clit.

“Steve who?”

And then he sinks into you. “Steve’s big fucking dick.”

You just burst out laughing because he’s so ridiculous but it quickly turns into a moan as he bottoms out.

He’s lucky he makes you feel so good otherwise you wouldn’t put up with this nonsense

[the-efemmeral]

whenever i see this in my notifications it feels like a kiss on the forehead

[frouxfroufox]

steve harrington masterlist

oneshots :

can you shave my pussy, honey? — asking Steve to help you out with your shaving duties in the shower.

competition - part one - part two - steve finds your vibrators…

drabbles :

handy helper — your daughter helping Steve with finding the right tools to fix his other ‘baby’.

each and every single one — kissing staeve’s moles on his back whilst he sleeps.

[frouxfroufox]

joe keery masterlist

oneshots :

birth — your experience with Joe whilst you give birth to your baby girl.

ordering in — being late to your date with Joe leads to the reveal of your daughter that you hadn’t mentioned to him. (ginny and georgia inspired)

[frouxfroufox]

steddie masterlist

drabbles :

paparazzi leak — rockstar Eddie Munson spotted with mystery man.

buzzcut twins — Steve shaves his head after Eddie is forced by his dad to shave his.

[frouxfroufox]

Steve Harrington and grovelling is an answer to every single prayer

HELL YEAH

[underoospeterparker]

in the dark

mean!Steve harrington x fem!reader, angst, 1.8k words

Summary: When Steve gets migraines, he gets angry. This time, he takes it out on you. Or, you're Steve's punching bag, and this time it hurts too much.

part one part two part three

Steve comes home in a silent, white-hot rage.

It’s in the way he shuts the front door—too carefully, like he's afraid to slam it, like he's afraid you'll know he's angry.

It’s in the dead look in his eyes as he scans the living room and finds you there. He doesn’t greet you.

He walks to the kitchen instead, and you hear the violent crack of an ice tray being twisted, the hard clatter of cubes hitting glass.

“Bad day?” you ask gently when he comes back to the living room.

He lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Is there another kind?” He doesn’t look at you. “Just… don’t, okay? Don’t do the understanding girlfriend thing tonight. I can’t stand it.”

You don’t flinch. You just nod, watching him. “Okay. What can I do?” You don't add that you'd do anything for him to feel better. He probably knows it already.

Steve finally looks at you, and the frustration in his eyes is a live wire. “Nothing. There is literally nothing you can do. My dad called to remind me I’m a disappointment. Keith scheduled me for a closing shift after an opening for no goddamn reason. My head feels like it’s splitting in two."

His words are meant to push you away, to hurt you because he’s hurting. But you won't let him push you away.

"So let me help you carry it," you say quietly. "Please. That’s what I’m here for.”

He stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room tightens. “Help me carry it?” he repeats, his tone dripping with a disdain so sharp it makes your breath catch.

"You want to help? You can't. You're not built for it. You're built to sit there and look concerned and absorb," he continues, his gaze dissecting you. "That's your whole function. You're a emotional pet."

The insult is so mean that your vision actually swarms for a second. A pet. Steve thinks of you as that?

"And I'm sick of having to tend to you, sick of having to manage your disappointment that I'm not happier, that I'm not better for you." He watches the pain flicker over your face.

You want to protest, to tell him that's not true, but your throat has closed.

He shakes his head, a dismissive jerk. "You don't get it," he says, and his voice is low, flat, drained. "You never have. All your little questions. Your little suggestions. Your little worried looks. They don't do anything. They're just... noise."

Your heart aches with this horrible pain that makes you feel nauseous. The warmth has drained from your face, leaving you cold and numb.

"So do us both a favour, and stop trying. Stop with your little attempts at trying to make me feel better. Just be quiet. Be still. Or better yet," Steve says, straightening up, his gaze sweeping over you with a finality that chills your blood, "just be gone."

For one more second, you remain. A statue of hurt in his living room. Then, without a word, you turn. You walk to the hall closet, take your coat, and open the front door.

You don't look back.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Steve stands in the sudden, absolute silence of his living room. The quiet he demanded.

It’s awful.

He was mean. God, he was so mean, to bright, innocent, perfect you, who doesn't deserve his anger, not in the slightest.

He stares at the space where you’d been standing. He can still see the exact way your expression had shut down, like a light switching off behind your eyes. You hadn’t cried. You hadn’t yelled. You’d just… accepted it. And that was worse.

Emotional pet.

The words curdle in his stomach. He called you a pet. He reduced your kindness, your steady love, the very thing he craved most in the world, to the function of a dumb animal waiting for a scrap of affection.

A low, wounded sound escapes him. He sinks onto the arm of the couch, his head dropping into his hands.

He sits there for a long time, motionless in the dark. The silence he created is a loud, accusing thing. It gives him nowhere to hide from the replay in his mind.

Steve doesn't sob.

He just sits there, letting the tears fall, silent and relentless, dripping onto his jeans. He cries for the horrible pressure of his life. He cries for the easy target you’d become. But mostly, he cries because he knows, with a certainty that hollows him out, that he might have just broken the one pure, good thing he’d ever managed to hold onto. And he has no one to blame but himself.

He doesn’t move to wipe them away. He lets them fall. It feels like the only honest thing he’s done all night.

Hours pass. The streetlamp outside casts long, skeletal shadows across the floor. He’s shivering, but he doesn’t get up. He’s punishing himself by staying in the exact spot where he destroyed everything.

Destroyed you.

Then, a key scrapes in the lock.

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid.

The door opens. Soft footsteps. The gentle shush of a coat being hung up. He doesn’t dare look.

You walk into the living room. You don't look at him, hunched and broken on the couch. Your own face is carefully blank, but your eyes are red-rimmed, the only evidence of the silent storm you’d weathered alone in your car. You saw him crying. Your heart, already shattered, had cracked into even smaller, more painful pieces.

You hadn't planned on coming back inside, but you do.

You move to the kitchen. Not to hide, but to do what you do. What you’ve always done. The tap runs. You open the aspirin bottle, shake two into your palm. You take the glass of water you’d poured and walk back to him.

You stand in front of him. Steve finally lifts his head, his face ravaged with tears and shame. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

You don’t speak either. You simply hold out your hand, shaking, the two white pills sitting in the center of your palm.

An offering. A habit. A terrible, loving reflex he no longer deserves.

He stares at your hand, then at your face. The kindness there, even threaded with so much hurt, is worse than any slap. He takes the pills with trembling fingers, his touch brushing your skin. You flinch, just a tiny, almost imperceptible recoil.

He wants to cry again.

You hand him the water. He takes it, his eyes never leaving yours, drinking under your silent, weary observation. When he’s done, you take the empty glass back.

Then you kneel in front of him. He flinches, expecting… he doesn’t know what. Instead, you reach for his shoes. Your hands, usually so sure, fumble with the laces. Your fingers are shaking. You set them neatly aside.

You stand, motioning for him to lie down. He obeys without a sound, stretching out on the couch. You disappear again, returning with the soft throw blanket from the armchair. You drape it over him, tucking it around his shoulders with a soft care that you've always lended him, expecting nothing in return.

Every movement is precise. Every action is love. You are taking care of him, thoroughly, completely, while your own soul bleeds out quietly inside you.

You sit on the floor beside the couch, just as you had when he was in the armchair earlier, but now your back is to him.

The space between your spine and the couch feels like a mile.

Steve lies under the blanket, watching the tense line of your shoulders, the way you won’t let yourself touch him.

He can’t stand it.

His voice, when it comes, is ruined. Raspy from disuse and tears. “You came back.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement of awe and profound shame. You don’t turn. You don’t answer.

Steve swallows hard, the sound loud in the quiet room. “You shouldn’t have.” A beat. “I didn’t think you would.”

He pushes himself up on one elbow, the blanket pooling at his waist. He’s a mess—hair wild, eyes swollen, shirt wrinkled from where he’d been crying into it. He looks at the back of your head.

“I called you a pet,” he whispers, the words foul in his mouth. “I told you to get out. I meant it… in the moment, I meant to hurt you. I wanted to.” He confesses it like he’s pulling out a poison dart. “Because you were there. And you were good. And I am so... not."

You close your eyes tight, but you can't block it out. The words find their mark all over again, fresh and brutal. Your heart doesn't just ache; it seizes, a tight, physical cramp of pain high in your chest.

It's the hurt of betrayal, sharp and clean, but beneath it is a deeper, more desolate ache—the grief for what you thought you had, the safety you felt that has now been revealed as fragile.

“Stop,” you whisper, the word so soft it’s almost inaudible. You press the heels of your hands against your closed eyelids. “Please, just… stop talking.”

The plea slices through his confession. He falls silent, the poison dart half-pulled, his own guilt choking him.

You take a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you keep your back to him. “I heard you the first time. I felt it. I don’t… I can’t hear it again right now. It hurts too much.”

Steve hears the pain in your voice, the way it scrapes over the words. It’s a different kind of devastation than your earlier silence.

This is the sound of the wound, exposed and bleeding.

“Okay,” he breathes, the word full of shattered remorse. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

The silence returns, but it’s charged now with your request. It’s a silence you asked for, to protect the pieces of yourself that are left. He respects it. He doesn’t try to fill it with more apologies or explanations. He just lies back down, the blanket feeling less like a comfort and more like a shroud.

You stay on the floor, your hands now limp in your lap, staring at nothing. The hurt is a living thing between you, a third presence in the room. Steve can’t fix it with words. He can only lie there in the wreckage of his own making, and you can only sit beside it, guarding your broken heart.

The love is still there, a battered, bleeding thing, but for now, the only thing to do is to not make the hurt worse.

And so, in the dark, you both hold perfectly still.

part two