[loveisalwaystheanswer]

+ Fanny as a sweet bonus

THE ARTFUL DODGER (2023 - PRESENT) • dodgerfox in sync while being mad at each other

[thecreelhouse]

always ready to be left out in the cold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.

WC: 18k+

Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.

A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine.

‎♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬

This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.

Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.

Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.

Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.

Yeah, lucky you.

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling a cold.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."

If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.

Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.

Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.

He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"

"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."

"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.

He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.

Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.

And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.

He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.

You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.

"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."

There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.

At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.

"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.

"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.

"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."

If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.

"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."

You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.

"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"

That's a dumb fucking question.

"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."

When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.

About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.

"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."

"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.

"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."

Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.

Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"

"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.

You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."

He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.

What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."

He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?

That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.

Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.

Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.

He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.

That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.

The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?

God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?

Whatever.

It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.

The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.

Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.

That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.

Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—

"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"

Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.

Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.

Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.

He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.

"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.

He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.

"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."

Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.

"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.

"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"

He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fu- fucking cold."

"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."

You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."

"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."

You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.

Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.

Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.

Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.

"Be n- n- nice!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"

The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.

Like a fucking fool.

"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."

The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"

You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"

"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"

"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.

He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."

"You could h- have some f'ya' want."

"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."

"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."

"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.

You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."

He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."

Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.

"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.

You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.

"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."

Oh, if only you knew.

"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"

"Make wh- what weird?"

Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.

The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."

"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."

"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.

The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.

"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."

"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."

You sound mortified.

"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"

"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"

He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?

"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.

There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.

Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.

Talk about something else. Anything.

"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."

You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.

"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."

Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."

"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."

Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.

"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."

"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."

It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.

"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."

He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."

Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.

"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."

And look where that got the two of you.

Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.

You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."

"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."

"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."

"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."

The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."

We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.

"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."

An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.

Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.

"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."

It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…

Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.

And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.

"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"

"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"

"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."

Scared is an understatement.

He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.

He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.

He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.

And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—

Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.

Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.

Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.

Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.

And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.

Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.

Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.

If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.

And you.

You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.

Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.

Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"

"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"

A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."

"Oh my god, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."

"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."

Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."

"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."

Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."

A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.

The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.

Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."

"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"

Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."

Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.

"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"

Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."

He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?

"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."

"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"

"Not to death."

"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."

"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"

"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"

"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"

He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.

"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."

"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"

"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.

No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."

"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"

He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.

Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.

Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

And he will, too.

[andvys]

OH MY GOD MY JAW DROPPED !!!!! that was so good and hot 😩

steve’s dirty talk ???? hellooooooo ??? the smut has awakened the horny slut in me. thank you @thecreelhouse

i need to reread this ndjsjdjsjsjsjs

[swirledyouintoallmypoems]

SO HIGH SCHOOL MASTERLIST steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: you’re jonathan byers’s best friend. you live in hawkins, indiana, and you know everyone in the small town. you work two jobs to help your mom with bills while also managing to be the top of your classes. everything is normal until the day will byers goes missing, and the world as you know it is flipped upside down. and because of that, you form an unlikely friendship with the ‘king’ of your high school, steve harrington.

tags/warnings: steve harrington x fem!reader, use of y/n, mostly canon-compliant reader insert (maybe a few minor changes here or there), swearing, fluff, angst, eventual smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to ??? to lovers, seasons 1-5, mentions of child abandonment/neglect, mentions of dead parents, minor eddie munson x fem!reader, reader lowkey has attachment/abandonment issues, minor miscommunication, i hate murray bauman, writing might be shit idk.

masterlist !

wattpad link , ao3 link

–

PART ONE – tell me ‘bout the first time you saw me chapter one chapter two chapter three

PART TWO – you know how to ball, i know aristotle chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight

PART THREE – are you gonna marry, kiss, or kill me? chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen

PART FOUR – i want to find you in a crowd just to hide from you chapter fourteen chapter fifteen chapter sixteen chapter seventeen chapter eighteen chapter nineteen chapter twenty

PART FIVE – no one’s ever had me, not like you chapter twenty-one chapter twenty-two chapter twenty-three chapter twenty-four chapter twenty-five chapter twenty-six chapter twenty-seven

EPILOGUE – you knew what you wanted and, boy, you got her the epilogue

–

a/n: this series was originally posted on wattpad on christmas 2025, and i’m writing the last few chapters right now so i thought this was the best time to start posting it on here + ao3! idk i hope you guys like it. and don't worry, this series is basically completely written so i will still be focusing on writing other fics while posting this! more spidey steve is coming i promise you all.

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added/removed): @karolinesvrsion @djopuppy @ophirei @redvelvetcupcke @notmily @jamietarttdodo @beaut1ful-stranger @kanabefairy @glittermermaid222 @glittrrx @boldlyfadingdinosaur @riddlersoupwrites @jamieexistss @marvelgirlie-4 @strangegirl26sff @dyanasaur @mortqlprojections @napofaprincess @dr0wsy-m00ns @rocklandhoax @foreverdjofan @lacywithdrawal @oohgeminii @imani4reading @angxlg0dz @sunflowergir62 @d4yanalav3nder00 @discodjo @nowprettybbyimrunning  @sugartalk-ing @hutaotao @carpetmumcher @peterthehorseisinhere @laufeysvalentine @harringtondarling @marcspectorondeeznuts @strawberryloveyy @onenightafewmoonsago @pzxielz @dwindella @lortheswiftie @exooojongdaeee @moonjellyfishie @jinxispunk @sloppyjoesandwich @percyjacksonsnosebleed @shautanashipman @exploding-bonbon

[swirledyouintoallmypoems]

reblogging one last time now that it’s over :(

tysm to everyone who read it ily all sm i really appreciate it!!!

[forsakenwitchery]

I love you and the life we've made together. But I do sometimes miss the old days. With Vox. And Vax. The Legend of Vox Machina 4x01

[thelordsoftherings]

My favorite horny couple back at it again 😎

[self-proclaimed-chaotic-good]

Floriography | Sherlock Holmes x Reader (Oneshot)

Summary: Sherlock is new to the whole romantic relationship thing, so who better to ask for advice than the boy who managed to steal his little sister's heart? First step, flowers.

Words: ~1.7k

A/N: This was meant to be part of the Writer's Month challenge, but didn't get to post it. I wondered how Sherlock would interact with Tewkesbury now that he and Enola became serious and I don't think Tewkesbury and Sherlock had been in a scene alone together, so this fic was made. Reader is referred to with gender neutral terms except for their occupation as governess.

This can be read as part of the We Get To Decide universe or a stand-alone.

__

Sherlock frowned at the selection of flowers in front of him. Tewkesbury played with the rim of his hat awkwardly, realizing that this was the first time that he and the great Sherlock Holmes, renowned consulting detective and his love’s older brother, had spent time together.

When Sherlock appeared at his estate, Tewkesbury feared the worst had happened, that Enola was in trouble and her brother needed his help. Another possibility was another attempt on his life and that Sherlock was put on the case to protect him. The third, and most likely, was that Sherlock was working a case and he needed information that Tewkesbury may be privy to, whether it concerned someone in the House of Lords or another nobleperson.

Still, the younger man was still not sure why Sherlock Holmes wanted him to take him to the market and teach him about flowers. So, he inhaled slowly before mustering up the courage to explain each flower and its meaning. The older man let him, having known the name of each flower, its scientific name, place of origin, and its uses, but floriography, as this young lord called it, was something he had never bothered to look into. Lord Tewkesbury then continued the combination of certain flowers and what messages he could make with them.

“And this is what… couples do?” Sherlock asked, frown deepening.

Tewkesbury blinked. “Yes, quite. As you know, our society does not condone men and women in being forthright with their romantic thoughts and feelings, which is why different methods of sending messages have been developed. The fan messages, for example,” he explained.

Sherlock nodded. “Even Enola seemed to like them and she is not one to indulge in such… frivolities,” he said, trying to phrase it politely. “But I suppose that it does require prior knowledge to understand the meaning of floral arrangements and to arrange a message carefully crafted while still maintaining the appearance of an appealing romantic gesture does have its benefits. Our mother left her clues within the flowers once. Edith did say that I was too stuck in my logic and old ways to notice the crafty lengths that women go through to communicate their thoughts while remaining within societal boundaries. Fascinating. And how did you come to this knowledge, Lord Tewkesbury?”

“I just asked the floral shop owner,” Tewkesbury said simply.

“Ah…” Sherlock’s frown returned.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Holmes, what is it that you’re here for?”

“I need to make a floral arrangement.”

“Okay, of what exactly? Love, friendship, familial love, hate, forgiveness, mourning…”

Sherlock stared hard at the flowers as he gave it a thought. What is it that he wanted to convey to you that he wasn’t able to say in words? He knew you loved his letters but he worried that it might not be enough after Enola mentioned that a young businessman had shown interest in you while you were helping at Edith’s tea shop and he was away on a case. He hadn’t asked you about it and you never mentioned it. 

His mind flitted through many combinations of flower arrangements when he saw Tewkesbury move, speaking quietly to the shop owner. The woman nodded and retrieved a small bundle of white lilies, the stems cut short for easier handling and tied neatly together with a light pink ribbon. Purity, innocent love, beauty, devotion.

“Enola said she likes these,” Tewkesbury said, holding it close to his chest.

“Hm, perhaps I should have asked what kind of flowers they wanted as well.”

“You can’t go wrong with a red rose.”

“Red rose is basic. This person needs… more.”

“What are you trying to tell this person, Mr. Holmes?”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock snapped. Tewkesbury’s eyes widened at his sudden outburst. “I’m sorry, I… It seems that I am out of my depth and I don’t like not knowing.”

Tewkesbury nodded. Seems that suppressed feelings and prioritizing logic is a Holmes family trait. “How about something simple to start off? Red roses and baby’s breath.”

The young lord had the shop owner make another small bouquet, tying it up in a white satin ribbon. He handed it over to Sherlock who dug through his pocket and paid the woman with a grateful nod. Sherlock looked down at the vibrant flowers and sniffed. His eyebrows shot up and he leaned forward to sniff again.

“It makes me wonder… about the people who end up marrying for love and not duty. How women are told they must marry to have a semblance of hold within society or will struggle to get by. They are trained at a young age to be a wife and a mother while the men are educated in other matters and only marry to produce an heir. Buying flowers for someone you love and for it to have meaning… such sentimental things are not what we are told,” Sherlock mused.

“I was raised to be a lord, Mr. Holmes. I was not taught these… frivolities and sentimentality, as you called them. I learned them on my own. Observation, isn’t that what you Holmes siblings pride yourselves in? Also, the power of deduction and human empathy,” Tewkesbury said, his words proving why he had become such a prominent member of the House of Lords at a young age and why Enola Holmes fell in love with him.

“You’re quite right, young Lord Tewkesbury. I will assume that I will be seeing more of you around my sister.”

Tewkesbury blushed. “I… well, yes, only if she wants me to be.”

Sherlock nodded, pulling his cap from his coat pocket and shoving his curls down. “That is the right answer. Have a good day, Lord Tewkesbury.” 

“Before you go, Mr. Holmes, may I give you some advice regarding your… friend?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but nodded for him to continue.

“Be honest with them and just tell them how you feel. Communicate. It goes a long way.”

“Honesty I can do, but not many appreciate it. Apparently I lack tact.” 

Ah, another Holmes trait, then, Tewkesbury thought.

With that, Sherlock left the market and made his way over to your flat. Lately, you’ve been taking up learning different languages. While taking on a governess job from wealthy and upper middle class families did you well financially, they seem to require their kids to have a wider scope in their education, often bringing in private tutors that sneer and look down on you, saying the need for a governess is fading. Besides, you didn’t come from a wealthy family and they were sure to remind you of that. You didn’t have the same education as these kids, but that didn’t stop you from learning now.

There was a gentle knock on your door, followed by a familiar smooth voice. “It’s me,” Sherlock said.

You shot up from your seat, bookmarking your place in the book and hurried over to the door. There Sherlock stood with a small bouquet of flowers and a hesitant smile. He stuck out his hand, watching you expectantly.

“These are beautiful, Sherlock. Thank you,” you said with a shy smile, taking them from him. His hand dropped to his side before holding both hands behind his back. “Come in, come in.”

You stepped back and let him through, his towering figure scooting past you and into the small flat. He took in his surroundings, the way you decorate your place and how you organize your kitchen and room. You walked back to your chair and watched him take everything in, slowly moving around the room to inspect things closely.

He spotted the pocket mirror he had gifted you right next to your bed and found himself smiling, a strange fluttery feeling in his chest. He frowned at that and decided to look into it later.

“Not that I mind seeing you, Sherlock, but what exactly brings you here?” you asked, gesturing for him to sit.

He sat himself down in the cushioned chair, his large figure dwarfing the furniture. The flowers he got you were sitting happily in a glass vase, proudly displayed on the table between you. He thought of what the young lord had told him earlier. Be honest and communicate. 

“I… just wanted to see you.”

“Yeah?” You grinned widely. Before, it was Sherlock who had you flustered without even knowing, but now that he was out of his element, he was the one struggling.

“Yes, I didn’t have any cases going on and Dr. Watson is on a trip with a woman he’s seeing. Mary. She’s a nurse that he met at work. Wouldn’t shut up about her, actually.”

“So, you’re saying that you’re here because you have nothing else better to do?”

“No! I mean that I am not busy, so I can spend the entire day with you, if you wish,” he quickly corrected.

“I know, I was just teasing you.” You got up from your seat to stand in front of him. He visibly swallowed as he looked up, blue eyes vulnerable and alert. “I do wish to spend the entire day with you, my dear Sherlock.”

He exhaled slowly, as if the endearment unlocked something in him that was wound too tight. “What would you like to do today… my dear?”

You smiled. “How about a walk in the park first? Then lunch,” you suggested.

“As you wish.”

You walked arm in arm with Sherlock along the paved walkways of the park, enjoying each other’s company, pointing out observations to each other and recounting the days since you last saw each other. Sherlock was upset about the unfair treatment that some of the private tutors of children that you were a governess for and you reminded him that that was similar to the treatment that you had when your family worked at the Holmes estate growing up.

A man in modest work clothing rushed up to you and Sherlock, constantly looking over his shoulder. “Sherlock Holmes, please, I need your help,” the man pleaded.

Sherlock instinctively pushed you behind him and narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

“They’re after me. I don’t know who.” The man took out a crumpled envelope and handed it to the consulting detective with shaky hands.

Sherlock’s quick eyes scanned it and surmised a worthy case to be solved. He sighed, looking over at you apologetically. You tightened your arm around his, determination in your eyes.

“Where do we start?”

[soldierrcore]

Baby Fever | Steve Harrington

no warnings

Steve Harrington had faced demogorgons, Russian soldiers, and whatever the hell the Mind Flayer counted as—but nothing, absolutely nothing—prepared him for a two-year-old with applesauce on his face.

Your little brother, Oliver, sat on the living room carpet surrounded by blocks, plush toys, and a plastic dinosaur army he had been arranging with very serious concentration. Steve sat cross-legged across from him, elbows resting on his knees, watching the toddler with the same focus he once used when planning how to break into a secret underground lab.

“Okay, little dude,” Steve said, picking up a bright blue block. “Where does this one go? I’m guessing… top of the tower? Very architectural. Very modern.”

Oliver blinked up at him with huge eyes, then plucked the block from Steve’s hand and firmly placed it on the side of the tower, causing the entire thing to wobble dangerously.

Steve froze. “Oh, okay, that works too. We’re doing abstract design. Love that.”

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, unable to stop the warmth spreading through your chest. Steve didn’t know you were watching—he was too busy trying to stabilize a block tower that was, by all known laws of physics, seconds away from collapse.

Oliver, giggling, slapped another block on top. The tower immediately crumbled.

Steve gasped dramatically and threw himself backward as if he’d been struck. “Oh no! Disaster! It’s gone! The whole city is destroyed!”

Oliver burst into delighted laughter, clapping his tiny hands. It was a ridiculous scene—you never expected the former King of Hawkins High to throw himself on the floor because a toddler knocked over some blocks.

But here he was, doing exactly that.

You pushed off the doorway and walked in quietly, but Steve noticed you when Oliver crawled into his lap and bounced excitedly. Steve looked up at you with a sheepish smile, his hair slightly tangled from where Oliver had grabbed it.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening. “Your brother and I are having a very serious architectural meeting.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased, settling down on the carpet beside them. “Looks intense.”

“It is,” Steve said with a nod. “This guy’s a visionary. I mean, look at this.” He pointed at the scattered blocks with a proud dad-like expression. “He’s breaking boundaries.”

Oliver reached out toward Steve’s face, patting his cheeks clumsily. Steve gently held his tiny hand, laughing under his breath.

You felt a tug in your chest. Something deep, warm, and so unexpected you almost leaned away from it. Watching Steve like this—gentle, patient, completely smitten with a toddler who kept mispronouncing his name—it did something to you.

And the worst part? Steve had no idea.

Oliver decided Steve’s hair needed rearranging, so he grabbed a handful and started patting it down in random directions.

“Yep,” Steve said calmly, “that’s… perfect. A new look. I’m trusting the process.”

You covered your mouth to hide your smile. “You’re really good with him.”

Steve shrugged, cheeks flushing slightly. “I like kids. They’re easier than monsters and teenagers. Plus,” he added with a teasing glance your way, “your brother likes me more than Dustin does. That’s a win.”

Oliver leaned his head against Steve’s chest with a sleepy sigh.

Your heart squeezed so hard it almost hurt.

Steve swayed gently, rocking Oliver without even thinking about it. “Guess we played him out,” he whispered.

You nodded, unable to look away. “You’re kind of… amazing with him.”

Steve met your eyes, warmth spreading slowly across his face. “Yeah? You like seeing me like this?”

Your cheeks warmed. “More than I expected.”

His smile softened into something tender, something that made that swelling feeling in your chest double.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I like being like this with you.”

And as he held your sleepy little brother in his arms, you realized it wasn’t just baby fever.

It was the future—and Steve Harrington fit into it a little too perfectly.

[mcrdvcks]

take my hand

summary: Steve tries his hardest to make a move, but every time he gets close to saying the words, your younger brother Dustin interrupts him. Every. Single. Time. word count: 9.3k+ pairing: steve harrington x henderson!fem!reader notes: every time a new season of stranger things comes out, my obsession and love for steve harrington comes back. so, this is my first time writing for him! i've read pretty much every steve x shy!reader fic out there and since i have this account now i thought i'd try my hand at writing for him warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader is dustin's older sister, shy!reader, takes place at some point in between seasons (aka steve works at family video), dustin is accidentally cockblocking steve and his sister, yearning!steve, dustin is pure chaos, fluff, robin is done with steve's shit and excuses, steve is a bit awkward when it comes to romance

The Henderson house was always a little too full of noise, but it wasn’t the kind that grated on you. It was the kind you’d grown up with. Dustin’s voice carried down the hallway while you sat in the living room sorting through a pile of tapes Steve had let the two of you borrow. Someone had returned Back to the Future without rewinding it, and Steve would absolutely yell about “proper tape etiquette” the next time he saw Dustin. You smiled to yourself as you sifted through the stack.

Soft knocking sounded at the front door. It wasn’t frantic—not monster-knocking—just two taps and a beat. The kind Steve used when he didn’t want to startle anyone. You pushed up from the floor, dusted your hands on your jeans, and opened the door to find him leaned against the frame in that casual way of his that was way too intentional to be casual.

He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that always sat just shy of confident when it was directed at you. “Hey. Dropping these off before Henderson scratches them. I swear he puts the tapes in the VCR with the same enthusiasm he has for summoning demodogs.” He lifted a paper bag full of rentals and offered it out.

You stepped aside to let him in, taking the bag but not before his fingers brushed yours. The contact sent a flick of warmth up your arm, not the dramatic kind that makes people gasp in books, but the kind that catches quietly under your ribs. You weren’t sure if he noticed, but his hand pulled away a little quicker than necessary.

Dustin shouted something from the back room, loud enough to rattle the vents. Steve huffed a laugh and nudged the door closed behind him as he walked into the living room. He kicked his shoes off like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. This place had become familiar to him. You’d become familiar to him. And somehow that knowledge warmed you more than the afternoon sun slanting across the carpet.

He flopped onto the couch, elbows over the back, letting his head fall back dramatically. “I swear, every time I pick something up from Family Video, Kline shows up to yell about our shelving. Every time. Like I chose the shelving. Like I personally installed the shelving.” He peeked at you through the fall of his hair, the grin returning. “Anyway. I figured you might need something new to watch, unless Dustin has you trapped in one of his weird sci-fi marathons.”

You settled on the other end of the couch, cross-legged, the tapes set between you. “It’s not that weird,” you said softly, though the smile gave you away. “And you survived the marathons, too.”

“Barely.” He let out a dramatic sigh, then let the act falter as he turned to face you fully. His knee brushed yours in a way that felt almost accidental but never quite was when it came from him. He always hovered near you—not close enough to overwhelm, but close enough that you felt seen. You’d gotten used to it. Maybe too used to it.

There was something different in his face today, something you couldn’t place. Not nerves exactly, but something halfway between steady and uncertain. His gaze lingered on you longer than normal before shifting to the tapes in your lap. “You find anything good?”

Your fingers drifted over the covers without thinking. “Trying to. He mixed everything up again. I’m pretty sure one of these cases has two different movies shoved in it.”

“Classic Henderson,” Steve murmured, but he didn’t seem focused on the tapes anymore. His eyes had softened in a way that made your pulse stumble. He looked like he was about to say something—something real, something heavy enough that he hesitated. “Hey, I was actually gonna—”

Dustin barreled into the hallway, a crash of sound and limbs. “Steve! You’re here! Good, because I figured out what was wrong with the antenna, and you have to see it, it’s so sick—”

Steve deflated in an instant, head dropping back against the couch. The moment snapped like it had never been there at all. Dustin launched himself into the room, completely oblivious, waving a broken piece of metal dangerously close to Steve’s face.

Steve sat up with a tight smile, rubbing his hands over his jeans like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. You felt the shift, that soft invisible thread between you pulled taut before disappearing entirely. He shot you a glance—quick, almost apologetic—before catching whatever Dustin was waving at him. “Okay, okay, dude, relax before you impale me. What’d you do now?”

Dustin launched into an enthusiastic explanation, words tumbling over each other. Steve tried to look interested. Mostly, he looked like a man who’d been shoved out of a doorway he’d just worked up the courage to walk through.

You sat quietly beside him, listening to your brother ramble, but your attention kept drifting back to Steve. It was in the set of his shoulders, the unfinished words still lingering behind his eyes. He’d been trying to tell you something. And whatever it was, he wasn’t done trying.

You weren’t sure what would happen when he finally managed to get you alone long enough to say it. But for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t scare you. It sent that same gentle warmth rising in your chest—the kind you didn’t quite know how to name yet, but couldn’t ignore anymore.

---

The ride home from the Wheelers’ had always been a cramped, loud, chaotic experience, mostly because Dustin treated the back seat like a moving laboratory. Tonight was no different—he’d tossed a backpack stuffed with papers, wires, and half-built gadgets across the seat before climbing in, muttering about how he needed to reorganize everything “for efficiency.” Steve had glanced at you in the driveway with a weary, amused smile that told you he already regretted offering the ride, but he’d unlocked the car anyway. He always did.

You slid into the passenger seat and buckled in while Dustin slammed the back door shut with enough force to make Steve wince. Once everyone was settled, Steve started the car, the headlights cutting through the warm, late-evening haze that hovered over the quiet street. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the summer air, and you rested your hands in your lap, feeling that comfortable, familiar tension settle between you and Steve—the kind that was never unpleasant, only warm and awkward in a way you’d grown used to.

He glanced over as he pulled away from the curb. “So. Did you guys have fun or did you suffer through another round of Wheeler Monopoly hell?”

The question was casual, but the look he slid you was not. It lingered, soft at the corners, a little nervous in the middle. You felt the weight of it press lightly beneath your ribs. “It wasn’t that bad,” you said quietly. “Dustin tried to cheat four times.”

“Hey!” Dustin snapped from the back seat. “Three times. The fourth doesn’t count because the rulebook didn’t specify—”

“It absolutely specified, dude,” Steve said, shaking his head. “It’s a published game. There are rules. You can’t just invent your own stock market mid-round.”

“I was innovating,” Dustin insisted, already rummaging for something in his bag.

Steve exhaled through a laugh and shot another glance your way. He always did that—threw his jokes toward the air, but aimed his eyes at you, as if checking whether you were smiling. And you were, even if you looked down to hide it.

The road curved toward your neighborhood, streetlamps drifting past in golden streaks. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Steve tap his fingers nervously on the wheel, like he was working himself up to something. His shoulders were tight, his jaw flexing softly the way it did when he was trying to gather courage without drawing attention.

After a moment of silence, he tried again. “Listen, I—” He cleared his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Actually, not tell you, more like… ask you? Or maybe—”

Dustin leaned forward between the seats so suddenly that both you and Steve flinched. “Okay, so imagine this,” he said, breathless with excitement, waving a notebook near Steve’s face. “If I rewire the antenna and get the gain up by just, like, one decibel—”

“Dude, hold on,” Steve said, swatting the notebook away gently. He tried to keep his voice even, but you could hear the frustration simmering underneath. “I’m talking.”

“You weren’t saying anything important yet.”

“I was literally in the middle of talking!”

“To me,” Dustin corrected smugly. “You weren’t saying anything interesting to me.”

Steve inhaled slowly through his nose, gripping the wheel like it might keep him grounded. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing, because you could see the exact moment he abandoned his almost-confession and resigned himself to Dustin’s rambling.

“Just… go back to whatever you were doing back there,” Steve muttered.

“You mean saving science? Already on it.” Dustin retreated to the back seat and immediately started scribbling again.

Steve let out a long, slow breath, the kind he usually saved for demobat stories or Customer Service Nightmares at Family Video. He didn’t look at you yet. You didn’t look at him either. The interrupted moment hung between you, fragile and obvious.

When he finally risked a side glance, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth—a mix of embarrassment and something softer. “Anyway,” he said quietly, “I was just gonna ask if you, uh… had a good time tonight.”

He’d changed his wording at the last second. You heard it. You wondered if he knew you heard it. “I did,” you murmured, letting your gaze settle on him. “It was nice.”

That small smile of his grew a little, warming the dim car. He was about to say something else—you saw the breath he pulled in, the shift of his shoulders—but Dustin cut him off again. “Steve, turn left! You missed the shortcut!”

“It’s literally two minutes longer,” Steve snapped. “Two minutes! We’re talking blocks, man, not a cross-country trip.” You stifled another laugh. Steve shot you an exhausted, pleading look before turning onto the familiar street. When he parked outside your house, he put the car in park but didn’t immediately shut off the engine. His fingers tapped the wheel again, a restless rhythm. “Hey,” he tried once more, turning slightly in his seat. “I wanted to—”

“Steve, can you help me carry my stuff!?” Dustin bellowed as he launched himself out of the back seat, already grabbing for the door to your house. “I need both hands and probably yours too!”

Steve sagged back against his seat like someone had deflated him. He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something that sounded like a plea for mercy.

You reached for the door handle, hesitating for just a heartbeat. “You can tell me whatever it was later,” you said, voice soft enough that only he would hear.

His eyes found yours again. Whatever he’d been trying to say was still there, simmering just under the surface. A slow smile curved onto his lips, small but genuine. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Later.”

You stepped out of the car, the warm summer air brushing your face. Dustin yelled your name from the porch. Steve groaned, climbed out of the driver’s side, and shot you one last look before going to help your brother.

It wasn’t the confession he’d wanted to give you. But it was coming—you could feel it. And judging by the way he watched you walk toward the house, he wasn’t giving up yet.

---

Family Video was quiet in that late-afternoon way that made the fluorescent lights buzz louder than any customer ever could. The aisles were empty, the return bin was half-full, and Steve was leaning over the counter like a man whose soul had been wrestled out of his body. He kept folding and unfolding the same tape return slip, eyes unfocused, jaw set in that defeated angle that Robin recognized instantly. She flicked a pen cap at his shoulder. “Okay, what’s with the tragic slouch? Did someone rent all the good horror movies again, or are you just being dramatic for attention?”

Steve didn’t look up. He just made a noise that could’ve meant many things: frustration, embarrassment, existential collapse. Robin sighed, circled around the counter, and planted herself across from him with the posture of someone preparing for an interrogation. “Talk,” she demanded, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

He swatted her hand away. “Stop. I’m not a dog.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered. “Now spill it. Your energy today is… weird. And not the usual ‘I’m pretty but tired’ weird. This is ‘something happened and I’m repressing it like a coward’ weird.”

Steve groaned, then let his forehead drop onto the counter with an audible thunk. “I tried to talk to her again.”

Robin perked up instantly. “Oh! Finally! Great! So what’d you say? Did you ask her out? Did you actually form a full sentence? Did you—”

“I didn’t get that far,” he mumbled into the countertop. “Dustin wouldn’t shut up.”

Robin blinked once. “Like… interrupting you?”

“Like climbing over the front seat of my car with a notebook to show me a sketch of an antenna while I was trying to confess my feelings.” Steve lifted his head, eyes hollow with dramatic suffering. “It was like being attacked by a hyperactive raccoon.”

Robin snorted so hard she almost choked. “God, that’s beautiful. Horrible. Hilarious. But mostly horrible.”

“Thank you for your support,” he said dryly.

“Oh, I’m supporting you,” she assured, tapping the counter rhythmically. “Just not your terrible strategy. You need to stop trying to talk to her when Dustin is within a three-mile radius. He’s like a tiny tornado with opinions.”

Steve pushed his hair back with both hands. “I know, I know. I just thought maybe he’d… I don’t know, fall asleep? Or get distracted? Or explode?”

“He’s Dustin,” Robin reminded him, eyebrows raised. “He gets more energized as the day goes on. By midnight he’s seconds away from achieving orbital lift.”

Steve sighed again and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tight. “I just… I’m not good at this stuff, okay? She’s not like those other girls I used to date. I don’t want to rush it or freak her out.”

“That’s sweet,” Robin said. “But also incredibly stupid.”

He glared at her. “How is that stupid?”

“Because you’re overthinking it, dingus,” she said, flicking his forehead as punishment. “She already likes you.”

Steve froze, blinking. “She—she does?”

“Oh my god.” Robin pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “You’re helpless. You’re actually helpless.”

“That’s not an answer!” he hissed.

Robin dropped her hands and stared him down, speaking slowly for maximum effect. “She. Likes. You.”

Steve stared back, a flush creeping up the side of his neck. “You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You get all flustered and stupid around her, and she gets all quiet and wide-eyed around you. It’s like watching two baby deer try to merge onto a highway.”

Steve let out a despairing noise. “I can’t believe you compared me to a deer.”

“Oh, you’re both deer,” she insisted. “Deer in love. Pathetic. Adorable. Infuriatingly slow.”

He ran a hand over his face again, groaning. “I just… I want it to be the right moment. And every time it almost is—”

“Dustin blows it,” Robin finished. “Because that kid has zero awareness of anything except science and snacks.”

Steve laughed, but it was tired around the edges. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Robin planted her hands on her hips like she was about to deliver a lecture. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to ask her out. Soon. Not ‘eventually’ or ‘when the universe aligns.’ Soon. Before Dustin adopts you into his personal schedule for the week.”

“I’m working on it,” he insisted.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re waiting for signs and moments and dramatic lighting. What you need to do is open your mouth and say, ‘Hey, I like you. Want to go out?’”

Steve looked deeply scandalized. “That’s—no, that’s too blunt. I can’t just say it like that.”

“Well, you definitely can’t say it while Henderson is crawling on the car seat like a feral goblin.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Robin leaned her elbows against the counter, eyeing him closely. “Be honest. Are you scared because she’s quiet?”

He hesitated before nodding once. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. She’s been through… a lot. We all have, but she… you know.”

Robin softened. “Yeah. I get it. But trust me, she’s not scared of you. She’s scared of… saying the wrong thing. Or being too much. Or not enough. You two speak in the same dialect.”

Steve’s breath stalled at that, chest tightening with something warm and nervous. “So… what do I do?”

“What I’ve been telling you from the start.” Robin shrugged, smirking. “Ask her out, dingus.”

The bell above the door chimed as a customer wandered in, and Robin gave Steve one last pointed look before heading into the aisle to help. Steve stayed behind the counter, resting both palms flat on its surface, grounding himself. He took a deep breath and whispered to no one, “Okay. Ask her out. I can do that. I can do that.”

But even as he said it, he already knew one thing for sure: if Dustin showed up again, this plan didn’t stand a chance. And somehow, that made him smile anyway.

---

The Henderson garage always smelled faintly like dust, motor oil, and whatever science experiment Dustin had last abandoned on the workbench. That afternoon, the air was warm enough that the open door let in a slow spill of sunlight, brightening the cluttered space in strips. You stood beside one of the folding tables, sorting through the mess of screws and wires Dustin had dumped out “for easier access,” which, in reality, only made everything harder to find.

Steve hovered nearby with a half-hearted attempt at organization. He picked up tools, put them down, nudged wires into a neater line, and occasionally wiped his palms on his jeans like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. You noticed the way he kept drifting closer, every few seconds glancing at the house as if waiting for an opening that hadn’t come yet.

Dustin had barreled inside moments earlier shouting something about a “crucial component” and promising to return quickly. Experience had taught you that “quickly” usually meant at least fifteen minutes. The sudden silence left the garage feeling strangely private, a pocket of quiet neither of you were used to sharing without your brother’s voice filling it.

Steve leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “You’d think for someone so obsessed with organization, he’d, I don’t know… actually organize things.”

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could hide it. “He says he has a system.”

“Yeah, well, his system is ‘pile everything in the same place and pray.’”

You didn’t mean to meet his eyes, but when you did, the warmth there caught you off guard. He smiled—not the big, charming grin he saved for customers or jokes, but the smaller one he used when it was just you. Something quieter, something that made your stomach tug downward and your breath lift higher at the same time.

For a moment you thought he might look away. Instead he took a step closer, letting his fingers trail lightly over the table until they stopped near yours. He didn’t touch you, but the space between you shrank until it was impossible not to feel the gravity of him. “Hey,” he said softly, more serious now, “can I ask you something?”

Your pulse jumped. He didn’t try to hide the nerves this time—his voice was careful, his eyes steady but uncertain, like he was testing thin ice. You tucked a loose screw back into the tray just to have something to do, but you nodded. “Yeah. What is it?”

Steve drew in a slow breath, shoulders rising, then dropping. He shifted so he was standing directly across from you now, close enough that you felt his warmth even through the small distance. “I’ve been… trying to find the right moment to say this. Probably overthinking it. Definitely overthinking it,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But every time I try, something happens, and then I lose the nerve, and—”

He stopped, hands falling to his sides. His gaze flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, almost apologetically, like the glance had slipped out by accident. “I really like—”

He didn’t get the rest out because Dustin slammed the back door open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a loud crack. “Found it!” he shouted triumphantly.

Steve jolted back like someone had yanked him by the collar. You startled, the sound hitting you like a small explosion in the otherwise quiet garage.

Dustin sprinted inside with a fistful of random parts, not noticing the way Steve took two hasty steps backward or the way your breath had caught halfway up your throat. He launched straight into an explanation, words tumbling over each other at impossible speed.

“Okay, okay, okay, so remember last week when the signal strength dropped? I swear it wasn’t my fault, but I triple-checked, and it turns out the grounding was off by like a millimeter, but I fixed it, and then I realized if we attach this—this right here—” He shoved the piece of metal inches from Steve’s face. Steve blinked rapidly, stunned, trapped in the whirlwind of Dustin’s enthusiasm. “—then the whole thing works even better! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Yeah,” Steve croaked, the word paper-thin. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, buddy. That’s—uh. Great.”

Dustin looked between the two of you, oblivious to the tension he’d vaporized. “Come on, we have to test it. Steve, you hold the end with the clamp. And don’t drop it this time.”

You watched as Dustin pulled Steve by the wrist toward the other table. Steve threw you a look over his shoulder—a silent, desperate I was so close—before letting himself be dragged into whatever experiment Dustin was constructing.

You swallowed, grounding yourself against the table as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. You replayed the moment in your mind, the warmth in his voice, the way he’d leaned in like he was finally ready to say the thing he’d been dancing around for weeks.

You didn’t need the rest to know what he’d meant. And even though the confession had shattered midair, it left a soft, glowing heat in your chest that didn’t disappear.

Steve shot you another look while Dustin explained the next step, his expression full of apology and frustration and wanting. He wasn’t done trying. And now, for the first time, you knew that for certain. Even if Dustin was determined to make it the longest confession in history.

---

The Wheelers’ basement was the kind of cramped, mismatched space that should’ve felt chaotic, yet somehow always managed to settle into its own kind of rhythm. Blankets draped over the back of the couch, half-finished board games littered the coffee table, and a small mountain of snacks threatened to avalanche off the folding card table by the wall. The worn carpet muffled footsteps, and the single lamp cast the whole room in a warm amber glow that made everyone look a little softer, a little more like themselves.

Mike sat cross-legged near the TV, fiddling with the dials like he was performing surgery. Will had his sketchpad propped on his knee, quietly drawing as he waited. Lucas and Max were arguing over whose movie pick was superior—which mostly meant Max was calling Lucas boring and Lucas insisting she had no taste. Eleven sat beside Max, combing her fingers through a bowl of M&M’s in strict color order. Nancy leaned against the far wall, arms crossed as she offered periodic commentary, half amused and half exhausted by the group’s indecision.

Robin stood behind the couch drumming her fingers along the backrest, eyes drifting toward you with the kind of knowing smirk that made you want to hide under a blanket. She’d been watching Steve all night like she was tracking wildlife behavior for a nature documentary.

And Steve—Steve had claimed the floor beside you the moment everyone settled. He hadn’t even pretended to consider another spot. He’d just dropped down next to you, close enough that your knees brushed whenever either of you shifted. Every now and then you felt the light press of his shoulder barely grazing yours, the warmth of him almost magnetic. He looked relaxed, but you’d known him long enough to recognize the tension coiled beneath the easy slouch. He wasn’t just sitting near you; he was waiting.

The chaos around you built into its usual storm of voices, and you let yourself sink into the noise until it felt like background static. You were comfortable like this—surrounded by people you trusted, tucked into a corner where nothing demanded too much of you. Steve must’ve sensed the way your shoulders unknotted, because he leaned in slightly, voice pitched softer than the rest. “Hey,” he murmured, letting the word drift just for you. “You holding up with all these maniacs fighting about cinema like it’s life or death?”

You smiled, looking down at your hands for a moment. “I’ve witnessed worse. Dustin tried to convince me Star Wars counts as a Thanksgiving movie.”

Steve snorted, head tipping just a little closer. “He tried that on me too. Henderson logic is a dangerous thing.”

The way he said it—soft and amused, with that small, private grin—made your cheeks warm. You felt it before you could control it, and you ducked your head slightly, pretending to focus on Max and Lucas arguing in the middle of the room. Max pointed her movie case at Lucas like a weapon. “This is a classic. You have no taste.”

Lucas folded his arms. “You say that about everything you like.”

“That’s because I’m right.”

Robin leaned closer to Nancy and muttered, “I’m taking bets on when this turns into a wrestling match.”

Steve laughed under his breath, then looked back at you. The basement noise faded as his attention settled directly on you, the air shifting in that fluttery way it always did when he got close. His knee nudged yours—gentle, deliberate. You looked up, and the moment your eyes met, something tender flickered across his face.

He angled toward you fully now, ignoring the group entirely. “Hey,” he said again, quieter this time, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to—”

“Oh my god.” Dustin’s voice ricocheted down the stairs like a missile.

Steve closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in a despair that bordered on spiritual defeat. You startled just slightly as Dustin burst into the basement carrying two bags of popcorn and a bowl of something that was probably too sticky to be allowed near the carpet.

“I got snacks!” Dustin declared triumphantly. “Mike, move over! Will, stop drawing sad trees! Everyone, I have news!”

Robin groaned. “Here we go.”

Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do we want to know?”

Dustin ignored everyone and marched directly toward you and Steve. “Okay, so, you’re all gonna think this is genius, because it is,” he announced, setting the popcorn in the middle of the floor like it was an offering to the gods. “I mixed extra sugar into the caramel corn so we can stay awake through Lucas’ boring movie pick.”

Lucas sputtered. “It’s not boring!”

Max kicked him lightly. “It’s very boring.”

Steve tried to inhale, tried to restart the thing he’d been about to say, but Dustin plopped down between the two of you before he could get a syllable out, wedging himself with a full-body flop. Steve’s head snapped toward the ceiling like he was pleading for divine help.

“Dude,” Steve said weakly, “I—I was literally talking—”

“Great, you can finish later,” Dustin chirped while shoving popcorn into Steve’s hands. “Right now we need someone to test if the caramel-to-corn ratio is perfect.”

Robin snickered from behind the couch. “That’s the face of a man in agony.” Steve shot her a death glare. Robin only winked.

You sat very still, aware of how drastically the moment had shifted. Steve’s knee no longer brushed yours. His shoulder was no longer angled toward you. His expression, however, still carried that raw, half-exposed something he’d tried so hard to reveal before the interruption.

He looked at you again, a brief, fragile glance over Dustin’s head—apology, longing, frustration, all tangled together. You smiled gently, a small reassurance even if the moment was lost. His chest eased, just a bit.

Dustin, oblivious, leaned back between you both. “Okay! So. Who’s ready for a triple-feature?!”

Mike groaned loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Eleven offered a polite but confused nod. Will kept drawing. Nancy debated walking out. Lucas and Max started another argument. Robin leaned over the couch, whispering something at Steve that made him mutter a threat with no real bite.

And you sat there, tucked between your friends and your brother, with Steve only inches away behind an accidental Dustin-shaped barricade.

Another moment ruined.

Another truth postponed.

But Steve caught your eye again, a small promise resting quietly behind the frustration. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not at all.

And you found yourself hoping—maybe for the first time—that Dustin might eventually take a snack break long enough for everything to finally fall into place.

---

A Saturday afternoon at your place was usually a safe bet for quiet, especially when Dustin wasn’t home. He’d taken off earlier with Lucas and Mike, something about a “high-stakes campaign planning session,” which meant you finally had a few hours where the house wasn’t vibrating with teenage enthusiasm. Steve had stopped by under the guise of “checking on that toolbox he left in the garage,” even though you both knew he’d left it on purpose the last time he was here.

You were sitting beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a gentle buzz of nerves threading through your chest. He was closer than usual—not subtle about it, either. His knee brushed yours whenever he shifted, and he kept glancing over with this determined little crease between his brows. You could tell he’d spent all morning psyching himself up to try again.

He cleared his throat and leaned toward you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he needed to keep them steady. “So I’ve been thinking,” he started, voice softer than the TV hum filling the room. “There’s something I’ve, uh… wanted to ask you. For a while.”

Your breath caught, your pulse fluttering. You met his eyes, and the look there—hesitant, hopeful, warm—made the room feel smaller. You felt him gather courage, felt something inside you answer it without needing words.

His knee bumped yours again, this time deliberate. “I just— when it’s us, like this… I feel—”

The front door slammed open so hard the hinges squealed. “There you are!” Max’s voice echoed down the hallway.

Steve’s shoulders sagged with the kind of dramatic despair that would’ve been funny if your heart hadn’t been thumping so hard a moment before. You both sat up straighter as Max stormed in, Eleven close behind her, both flushed from the walk and carrying enough urgency to power the whole house.

“Okay,” Max announced breathlessly, hands on her hips, “we need a ride.”

Eleven nodded with solemn intensity. “Very important.”

Steve blinked. “Why… why do you need a ride?”

“Because Robin said it was a good idea,” Max said, as if that answered everything.

You frowned. “Where is Robin?”

A beat later, Robin burst in through the still-open door, out of breath and dramatically pointing at the girls like an indictment. “They asked me first. But I don’t drive. And I told them that. Repeatedly.”

Eleven stepped forward with wide, pleading eyes. “Mall?”

Steve groaned into his hands. “Right now?”

Max crossed her arms, fully annoyed. “Yes, right now. We need new tape for Eleven’s headphones, a book I have to return, and Robin wants pretzels. Also, I’m bored.”

Robin raised a finger. “The pretzels are a necessary part of this trip. Not optional.”

Steve exhaled, long and pained, rubbing his face like fate had personally wronged him. You watched him, and even though frustration drew tight lines around his mouth, you saw the faint flicker of something else—desperation. Not for escape, but for the moment he’d been trying so hard to build. He’d almost done it this time. He had been right there, the words practically in the air between you when the cavalry burst in.

Max stepped closer. “Can you take us?”

You opened your mouth, but Steve sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Wait, she doesn’t have to. I can—”

“Nope,” Max interrupted. “We saw your car on the street. There’s a giant metal pipe sticking out the window and it looks like someone attacked your backseat with a screwdriver.”

Steve blanched. “That was Dustin’s… whatever. I told him not to—”

Eleven nodded solemnly. “It is broken.”

“It’s not broken,” Steve protested weakly, then looked at you with a kind of pleading horror. “Please don’t let them make you drive them. You don’t have to—”

Robin clapped her hands together. “You’re literally the only one here with a functioning car and a valid license.”

Max added, “also the only one we trust with directions.”

Eleven finished with, “Please? Please, please?”

Their combined staring was intense enough to melt steel. You sighed softly, looking at Steve with an apologetic tilt of your head. “It’s okay. I can take them.”

Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to protest again, but something gentler ran through his expression. He softened, sitting back a little like he didn’t want to push. “Only if you want to,” he said quietly, voice low enough for just you.

“I don’t mind,” you said, even though part of you did—not the drive itself, but the interruption, the way the moment had slipped through your fingers again just when it felt like it might finally settle.

Max grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door. “Yes! Thank you.”

Robin followed, muttering about soft pretzels and cinnamon sugar. Eleven smiled at you like you were the solution to every problem she’d ever had. You moved toward the doorway, keys in hand, but paused when you felt a gentle touch on your wrist. Steve had stepped after you, stopping you with light fingers that traced warmth across your skin. “Hey,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours with that same earnest something from earlier, “when you get back… can we finish that conversation?”

The question hit you softly, settling under your ribs in a place already warm for him. You nodded. “Yeah. We can.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, not the charming one he used to flirt or joke, but something smaller, realer—something just for you.

Robin’s voice echoed from outside. “Let’s go, I’m starving!”

You stepped away from Steve and toward the chaos gathering around your car, but you looked back once. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, trying and failing to hide the way he was smiling. This time, you knew the moment wouldn’t slip away forever. It was waiting for you. So was he.

---

The mall on a Saturday was a maze of sound — laughter echoing off tile, music thumping faintly from different stores, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the chatter of people weaving around one another like they were all part of some vast busy hive. The second you stepped inside with Max, Eleven, and Robin, it felt like stepping into a warm wave of noise and movement. Max immediately scanned the storefronts like a general surveying a battlefield, Eleven stayed close to your side with quiet determination, and Robin pointed at the pretzel shop with the single-minded hunger of someone who had already been thinking about it for hours.

The girls moved quickly, practically dragging you along, their energy sweeping you forward before you even realized you were fully inside. The light overhead was bright, reflecting off the glossy floor, and you adjusted to it slowly, breathing in the smell of cinnamon sugar and perfume samples drifting from the nearby department store. Even with the crowd, the moment felt surprisingly calm—nothing like the monster-hunting days, nothing like the chaos of Dustin’s science experiments or the loud clusters of voices in the Wheeler basement. Just… the mall. Just a typical weekend afternoon.

Max took the lead, weaving down the walkway toward the bookstore. “This won’t take long,” she promised, even though her tone strongly suggested she planned to browse. “I just need to drop off the return, maybe look at the new releases, maybe check the comics—"

Robin groaned dramatically. “I’m going to starve before the pretzels. And then who’s gonna explain to Steve that you let me die of hunger in a suburban mall? He’ll never forgive you.”

Eleven blinked up at you. “She needs pretzels first,” she said with the same seriousness she used when discussing mind flayers.

You smiled because you knew it was hopeless to try changing their priorities. “Okay. Pretzels first, then the bookstore.”

Robin fist-pumped like she’d just won a war. “Yes. Justice prevails.”

You led the way toward the food court, letting the steady hum of conversation settle around you. Eleven walked close enough that her sleeve brushed yours every few steps, her eyes darting between the crowds with a watchfulness that came from experience, not fear. Max strode ahead, confident and unbothered, her ponytail swinging behind her with each purposeful movement.

When you reached the pretzel stand, Robin stepped forward eagerly. “Four pretzels,” she told the teenager behind the counter. “One cinnamon, one butter, one salted, and one mystery pick for Eleven.”

The kid blinked, confused. “Mystery pick?”

Robin waved broadly. “Dealer’s choice. Make it fun.” Max rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Eleven seemed excited by the idea, gaze fixed on the warming racks with awe.

You helped gather napkins and drinks while everyone else debated who got which pretzel, though Eleven’s mystery pretzel was so coated in cheese that Robin declared it a masterpiece of culinary chaos. You all found an empty table near the railing overlooking the lower floor, and the four of you sat down, the air filled with warmth and chatter that felt strangely comforting.

Max took a bite of her pretzel before pointing it at you. “So what were you and Steve talking about before we barged in?”

Robin inhaled sharply and kicked Max lightly under the table. “We don’t ask those questions.”

“But I just did,” Max said, completely unapologetic. “I’m curious.”

Eleven tilted her head. “You and Steve were sitting very close.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck, and you tried to hide it by taking a long sip of your drink. “We were just talking,” you said softly, though you felt the weight of the truth under your ribs. You were almost talking about something else—something bigger—and that weight felt warm in a way that wasn’t unpleasant at all.

Max watched you knowingly, like she was piecing together a puzzle she’d already solved. “Uh-huh. Sure. Talking.”

Robin sighed with the posture of someone carrying too much knowledge. “We’re not interrogating her. We’re here for snacks, not emotional espionage.”

You wanted to thank her, but before you could, Eleven leaned in with genuine curiosity. “Do you like him?”

Your breath caught, and the world seemed to soften—not collapse, not tighten, just… soften. The noise of the mall blurred into a distant hum, and your hands stilled around the napkin you were folding subconsciously.

Max kicked her under the table. “El! You can’t just ask!”

Eleven frowned. “Why not? If she likes him, she should say.” Robin groaned but didn’t disagree.

You set the napkin down slowly, heart thumping against your ribs in that quiet, fluttery way it always did whenever Steve said your name a little too gently or leaned just a little too close. “I… I don’t know,” you said, though that wasn’t the truth. You knew. You just weren’t used to saying it out loud. “Maybe.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe yes?”

You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “Maybe… yes.”

Robin slapped her palms on the table and grinned like she’d been waiting for this revelation for months. “Finally. Emotional progress. Steve is going to combust when he hears that.”

You stared at her. “Robin!”

“What? He’s still alive. Mostly. Probably pacing in your living room right now practicing a speech.”

Eleven smiled brightly, lifting her pretzel. “I am happy,” she said, content and certain.

Max leaned back in her chair with smug satisfaction. “Called it.”

Despite the embarrassing warmth on your face, you felt something untangle inside you—something quiet, hopeful, and strangely steady. Saying it aloud didn’t feel as terrifying as you’d expected. If anything, it felt like you’d opened a small door that had been waiting for too long.

Robin nudged your foot under the table. “Finish your pretzel,” she said playfully. “We should get back soon. Wouldn’t want to keep loverboy waiting.”

You groaned, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway.

And across the mall, beyond the noise and the shining floors and the crowds moving in every direction, you found yourself thinking not about monsters or interruptions or whatever chaos awaited at home—but about Steve.

And the conversation he’d asked to finish.

---

Dustin had invited Lucas, Mike, and Will over with the promise of “the most important campaign decision of their lives,” which meant the basement was already cluttered with graph paper, dice, snack wrappers, and an unnecessary number of pencils. They were mid-argument about whether the party should take the mountain pass or the hidden forest trail when Steve wandered down the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets, pacing with a restless energy that immediately caught Dustin’s attention.

“Why are you down here?” Dustin asked, squinting at him suspiciously from behind his Dungeon Master screen. “Aren’t you supposed to be home? Or at work? Or not pacing around my basement like you’re trying to burn a hole into the carpet?”

Steve ignored him, and that alone was weird enough that Mike, Lucas, and Will exchanged glances. Steve never ignored Dustin. Not unless something had gone very, very wrong.

Steve raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He crossed the room, turned around, crossed it again, muttering under his breath. “She said we’d talk later. Later. Which could mean anything. What if something happens? What if she changes her mind? What if—”

Will’s pencil rolled off the table as he slowly lowered it. Mike froze mid-chew with a pretzel rod sticking out of his mouth. Lucas leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Dustin set his pencil down slowly, staring at Steve with an expression that drew gradually from confusion into dawning horror. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for the apocalypse?”

Steve stopped pacing. “I mean—it might be. For me.”

Mike slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. Lucas elbowed him hard. Will quietly slid his chair just a few inches farther away from the table.

Dustin rose from his seat like someone being pulled upward by invisible strings. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “Steve. What did you do.”

Steve swallowed. “Okay, so don’t freak out—”

Instant freak-out. Dustin threw his hands up. “Why would you say that? Why would you say that unless there is something to freak out about?”

Will stood. Mike stood. Lucas stood. It was like watching prey animals rise together, ready to bolt.

Steve ran both hands down his face and groaned. “I didn’t do anything. I tried to do something. But, like… the universe hates me. Every time I get close, someone interrupts. Mostly you. Actually, almost always you.”

Dustin blinked twice. “Interrupts what?”

Steve held up a finger like he was about to explain something complicated. “Okay. Just listen. I wanted to talk to her—”

Will paled. Lucas’s eyes widened. Mike mouthed oh no under his breath.

“—because I really like—”

“No.” Dustin cut him off, both hands raised like he was physically blocking the words. “No. No, no, no. You’re not—you can’t—that’s my sister!” He said it like it was a curse, a prophecy, and a threat rolled into one.

Steve exhaled, bracing himself. “Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know. But I—”

Mike took a step toward the stairs. Lucas followed. Will whispered, “should we… leave?”

Mike nodded slowly. “We should leave.”

But Dustin wasn’t paying attention to anything except the tidal wave of emotion crashing over him. He advanced on Steve like a general ready to declare war. “You can’t like her!” Dustin yelled, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest. “She’s my sister! There are rules!”

Steve threw up his hands. “What rules?”

“The unwritten ones!”

Lucas tugged Will toward the stairs. “Back away slowly.”

“Already doing that,” Will whispered, clutching his sketchbook to his chest.

Mike didn’t even whisper. “Steve, this is gonna be bad. Good luck,” he said before sprinting up the stairs and abandoning him entirely.

Dustin kept going, and Steve kept retreating until his back hit the wall. “You can’t—you can’t just date her! What if you break up? What if things get weird? What if she gets hurt? What if you hurt her? I can't—I can’t be stuck in the middle of that!” Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dustin didn’t give him a chance. “And I swear—I swear— if you ever hurt her, I will kill you.”

Steve blinked. “Dustin, you can’t even reach my neck.”

“I’ll use a ladder!”

Steve threw his hands up. “Oh my god—listen! I would never hurt her. Ever. I like her. I’ve liked her. For a long time. Okay? That’s why I’m freaking out. That’s why I’m pacing. Because I’m terrified. Not of you—”

“Oh really?” Dustin snapped, crossing his arms.

“—but of her.”

Dustin paused. “Her?”

Steve nodded emphatically. “Yes! Do you remember the demogorgon? Because I do. I watched your sister take a baseball bat with nails in it and swing so hard the thing went flying. I have nightmares about that moment sometimes. She was feral.”

Dustin hesitated. “…okay, yeah, that was cool.”

“It was terrifying!”

“Also cool,” Dustin corrected, but the fire behind his words had dimmed. He stopped pacing, shoulders dropping slightly as the panic drained from his face. “She really was awesome that day.”

Steve softened, his voice calmer now. “I like her because she’s… her. And she deserves someone who actually pays attention. Someone who cares about her, and wants to make her feel safe, and doesn’t push her to be someone she’s not. I’m trying to be that person. But every time I try to tell her how I feel, you interrupt and drag me to test an antenna or fix a wire or—”

“That was important,” Dustin muttered weakly.

“It really wasn’t!”

Dustin went quiet. He looked at Steve, really looked at him, as if seeing him differently for the first time. The frantic defensiveness slowly melted into something begrudging, conflicted, but not outright hostile. After a long silence, Dustin let out a tired breath. “You really like her.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I really do.”

“And you’re not gonna screw it up.”

Steve shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

Dustin pressed his lips together, thinking hard, weighing his loyalty to you against his loyalty to Steve. Eventually he let out a groan loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “Fine! Fine. But I swear, Harrington, if you hurt her—”

“I know,” Steve said quickly. “Ladder. Got it.”

Dustin pointed at him one last time. “And my point still stands!”

“Which point?”

“That she’s scarier than I’ll ever be.”

Steve actually laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. “Yeah. She is.”

Dustin huffed, then turned toward the stairs. “I need a snack. And time to emotionally process this.”

From the top of the stairs, Mike’s voice drifted back down. “Is it safe to come back?”

“No!” Dustin shouted, slamming the door behind him.

And Steve let out a long, relieved breath—because the hardest part was over. Now all he had to do was actually talk to you.

---

You returned home before sunset, the sky outside tinted gold and pink as the heat of the day finally began to fade. The girls piled out of your car with arms full of pretzels, shopping bags, and the chaotic energy of teenagers loose in a mall. Max jogged ahead toward the front door, Eleven lingered close to you with a quiet smile, and Robin walked backward while lecturing both of them about “the importance of proper snack distribution in a household ecosystem.”

But the moment you stepped inside, the energy shifted. Something hung in the air—not tension, exactly, but a strange, anticipatory stillness. The lights in the living room were on. The TV was off. Steve was perched on the edge of the couch like he’d been waiting for hours and didn’t know what to do with his hands, his posture, or his entire existence.

Dustin stood beside him, arms crossed, nodding solemnly like he had just finished delivering a very long speech. All three girls froze mid-step.

Steve shot to his feet the second he saw you. “Hey. You’re back.”

You blinked, half smiling. “Yeah. We—"

“You,” Dustin interrupted loudly, pointing at Steve with one hand and at you with the other, “need to talk. Now. Immediately. Right now.”

You stared at him. “Dustin?”

Dustin nodded with the seriousness of a courtroom judge. “I’ve… reflected.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “And I have decided that I am granting you two permission to have a conversation without interruptions.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Oh god. He found out, didn’t he.”

Max elbowed Eleven and whispered, “told you.”

Steve’s face turned the shade of someone who had been emotionally waterboarded all afternoon. “Reflected,” he muttered. “He screamed at me for twenty minutes.”

Dustin glared at him. “Emotional reflection is loud sometimes.”

Robin snorted. Max barely held in a laugh. Eleven leaned close and whispered, “he must’ve been very loud.”

Dustin cleared his throat theatrically and stepped forward like he was taking center stage. “Anyway,” he said, arms spreading with dramatic flair, “I am officially leaving the premises. As are the rest of you.” He pointed toward the door like a tiny general evacuating troops. “Go. All of you. Get out. I need this to happen so my sister stops looking at Steve like a kicked puppy and Steve stops pacing grooves into our floor.”

Your face went hot. “Dustin!”

“What?” he said. “It’s embarrassing. For both of you. Fix it.”

Steve groaned into his hands.

Max shrugged and headed for the hallway. “Come on. Let’s leave the awkward adults alone.”

Eleven nodded gravely. “Important moment.”

Robin gave Steve a long, slow, knowing smirk. “Don’t choke, dingus.”

And just like that, the girls disappeared down the hall. Dustin lingered one more second, squinting at Steve like a overprotective watchdog. “Remember,” he warned, “I will absolutely end you if—”

“I know!” Steve snapped. “Ladder. Got it.”

“Good.” Dustin huffed, then looked at you, softened, and squeezed your arm gently. “He’s nervous. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” you murmured.

Steve made a strangled noise. Dustin pointed at him one more time, then marched off after the others. And then there was silence. The house felt suddenly huge. The space between you and Steve felt even bigger. He let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at you with a dozen emotions flickering across his face—fear, hope, determination, affection. “So,” he said, voice rough but warm, “we… finally have a minute.”

You stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind you. “We do.”

He didn’t sit. He didn’t pace. He stayed exactly where he was, like moving even a step might break whatever fragile, shimmering moment had finally landed in his hands. “Look,” he started, letting his arms fall to his sides, “I’ve been trying to tell you something for—actually, I don’t even know how long anymore. Weeks? Months? A while. And I kept messing it up. Or people kept messing it up. Mostly Henderson.”

You breathed out a soft laugh. “He does that.”

“He does,” Steve agreed. Then his expression shifted—softer now, more sure. “But I’m glad he’s not here right now. Because I… I don’t want to keep dancing around this.”

You looked up at him, and the way he stared back made your chest tighten with something warm and heavy and sweet.

He took a steady breath. “I like you,” he said simply, without theatrics or stumbling, every word shaped with sincerity. “I really, really like you. More than I meant to. More than I planned to. Definitely more than I told Dustin when he cornered me today.”

You blinked, startled. “He cornered you?”

“Oh yeah. Full interrogation mode. I thought he was gonna map out my emotional failings on a chalkboard.” He shook his head, then took another step toward you, closing the distance until he was right in front of you—close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating between you.

Your breath caught.

Steve swallowed, voice dropping softer. “And I know you’re… you. You get quiet. And nervous. And sometimes I can’t tell what you’re thinking. But I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes. The same way I probably look at you. And I just—I needed you to know. Even if it freaked you out. Even if it scared me to say it.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, skipping unevenly as you tried to gather your voice. “It doesn’t freak me out.”

He smiled—small, startled, almost relieved. “No?”

You shook your head, letting your eyes meet his without dropping away this time. “I… like you too.”

The warmth that spread across his face was immediate—bright, soft, disbelieving in a way that made something inside you loosen and settle all at once. He let out a breath he had clearly been holding for far too long, his shoulders dropping as tension melted from them.

He reached for your hand slowly, giving you room to pull back. You didn’t. His fingers brushed yours, then curled around them gently—warm and steady, not asking for anything more than the space you chose to give. “I was really scared you’d say no,” he admitted quietly.

“I was scared you’d get tired of trying,” you whispered.

He laughed under his breath—a soft, breathless sound—and shook his head. “Not a chance.”

The moment stretched comfortably, a soft glow settling between you both like something that had been waiting a long time to finally land. Then, from down the hall, “is it safe yet!?” Dustin shouted.

Steve groaned, squeezing your hand. “He’s going to make this so complicated.”

You smiled—full, warm, a little shy but no longer afraid of the feeling settling inside your chest. “We’ll handle him.”

Steve grinned. “Yeah. We will.”

And this time, nothing interrupted the moment you shared—warm hands, quiet breath, and the certainty that this was only the beginning.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

i'll be making a steve taglist! if you want to be added you can comment down below :)

[make-me-imagine]

To Feel is to Live

Plot: After the groups close call with Grail and his men in the theater, you take care of a wounded and restless Sherlock, though he insists he does not need it. The gentleness of your care, awakens feelings in Sherlock he has tried very hard to hide.

Pairing: Cavill!Sherlock Holmes x Gn!Reader

Requested By: @that-choir-girl

A/n's: This derailed a little bit from your request, but I hope you like it! :)

Warnings: Mentioned of wounds, light blood. Mentions of medicine/pain killers, etc. Main character death in the form of a nightmare multiple times.

Words: 3,934

You followed closely behind Sherlock as he entered his apartment, knowing he was going to try and stop you from entering. Determined to be alone, as always.

Just as you expected, the second he stepped foot inside, he turned to you, attempting and failing to hide his pained expression from the movement.

"Thank you for seeing me home Y/n, you can retire to your-"

Slipping underneath his arm, causing him to silence himself, you smiled to yourself. "I'll just make sure you're set up for the night."

Sherlock let out a soft sigh as he watched you walk through his apartment. Brief shame due to the mess washed through him before he cleared his throat and closed the door.

"As much as I enjoy your company, and appreciate your care, you really do not have to stay. I know Enola asked you to but-"

"I want to."

Sherlock felt his chest clench at your soft tone as you turned and looked at him with a smile. "Even if Enola requested I help you, I want to help you. Besides, you never help yourself anyways."

Sherlock let out a soft amused scoff. "You speak as though you know me."

"I know you well enough."

Sherlock observed you, the way you easily avoided touching anything that he did not want to be touched, even without his request. You did dot rearrange, only cleared spots with obvious trash, or unnecessary things. You prepared him tea, and as he watched, you did so with his exact preferences.

Maybe you did know him more than he thought. God knows he knew you, more than you might be comfortable with. But he never thought you had the interest to know anything about him. But it seems he was wrong.

And you wanted to be here to help him, a truth he was not expecting to hold such a gentle tone. His heart was beating heavy in his chest, something he told himself was solely due to exhaustion and pain from his wound. This was a lie, and he knew it.

Sitting down in his chair, he found he could not stop himself from watching you. Glancing over at him, you caught his stare. Many others would often instantly become uncomfortable under Sherlock's heavy and detecting gaze, but you simply smiled at him as you brought over his tea and a small cake.

As his eyes scanned the cake he frowned, "This is not mine. You brought it with you?"

You nodded, "Made it myself. Thought I'd bring it with since I know you rarely ever have enough food here."

A soft smile pulled at the edge of Sherlock's lips. He knew you loved to bake. And many a time he often wondered to himself if he would ever get the chance to try it himself. He would never ask you directly of course.

Grabbing the bag of supplies given to you by Sherlock's doctor, you gently started unpacking it and setting it out in a methodical order as to what you thought Sherlock would prefer.

Sherlock, taking a quick bite of the cake you prepared him, felt a rush of what he could only describe as pure comfort wash over him.

He forced away the smile that dared to show, before he took a sip of the tea you made him. Perfect.

Daring to look at you, he noted the way you were arranging the medical supplies in order of use. He smiled to himself, once again feeling his chest clench with an emotion he refused to acknowledge every time he was in your presence.

As you turned, you once again caught him staring at you. Sherlock, somewhat embarrassed cleared his throat. "You know you would make a good nurse."

You smiled, feeling your heart thump unevenly in your chest. "As good as I would be, I don't think I have the heart for it."

"Ridiculous." He said bluntly and you laughed, a sound that made Sherlock smile.

"No really. Seeing all the pain so many people go through and not being able to help as much as I'd wish. I don't think I could take it, not for long."

Sparing a glance at him, your cheeks grew hot at the surprisingly gentle gaze locked on you.

Noticing your bashful demeanor as he stared at you, Sherlock couldn't help the smile that threatened to show. No discomfort, just a shyness he found very endearing. You did not mind him seeing you, but it did effect you.

Noting the time you took a breath and turned back to him. "Its nearly time for your next dose of pain relief. After that you should try and rest. I'll stay until you fall asleep."

Sherlock seemed surprised at this, "You really don't have to do that. In fact I insist you-"

Holding out the bottle of medication, you locked eyes, yours determined and unwavering, "And I insist on making sure you rest and don't dive head first into another case before recovering."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but seeing your determined look, he let out a soft sigh before taking the bottle from your hand. "I suppose I should not waste any effort trying to convince you otherwise."

You shook your head silently, and he let out a soft breathy laugh. Often if people tried to force him to relax, to rest, or simply stay put he would grow annoyed with them, often snappy. But with you, there was nothing but comfort and gentle acceptance.

You lingered around his apartment until you saw he had inevitably lingered into sleep. As you watched him for a moment, you saw the way his eyes twitched as his breathing became uneven.

You frowned as you continued to watch him. Thinking he may be cold, you grabbed a nearby quilt and laid it over him, only now hearing the very soft mumbled coming from him.

Pity hit you as you realized he was dreaming, or perhaps having a nightmare.

As Sherlock continued to fight, Enola ran off with Grail chasing after her, his eyes cast over you, fighting near Tewkesbury.

You had been pushed to the ground and fear and anger rushed over Sherlock. Pushing his assailant away, he tried to make his way towards you, but was once again grabbed and attacked.

Sherlock was too distracted by your cries as you fought, that he hadn't had enough time to dodge the bullet that pierced his shoulder.

Hearing your voice call out, he turned to see you rushing towards him, fear present on your face.

But before you could reach him, he saw the man who shot him take aim at you. Sherlock yelled out, lunging to grab the gun, but two shots were fired before he could.

Laying out the man who shot, Sherlock cast his gaze over to you just in time to see you fall to your knees.

"No!" Sherlock yelled out in shock as he ran over to you, grabbing you as you began to fall limply to the ground. Holding you in his arms, your now lifeless eyes stared blankly as he felt his chest tighten with grief and anger.

Another shout echoed through the theater as Sherlock looked up just in time to see Enola plummet to the ground from the catwalk above.

His cry of fear couldn't leave his throat fast enough before Enola lie dead on the ground ahead of him.

In shock his gaze trailed around the room before landing on Tewkesbury's lifeless body not far from Enola's. You were all gone, all dead.

Suddenly everything was still, and from the darkness walked Mira Troy, Moriarty. She smiled a sad smile at Sherlock before speaking softly, malice lacing her tone.

"I suppose you aren't as great as they say. You couldn't save them, after all. And now you are truly alone."

The pain and grief rushing over Sherlock shook him awake, as he sat up quickly, pain searing through his shoulder. His eyes darted around the room quickly before they landed on you.

You quickly kneeled in front of him, damp rag quickly pressed against his forehead as your worried gaze searched his face.

"You're alright Sherlock, you're awake, it's alright. God, I tried to wake you, but you were so deeply stuck in your dreams."

"Not dreams." He said softly, but you understood.

Dabbing the rag along his head you sighed softly, "Do you wish to speak about it?"

He looked at you, really looked at you. You were alive, you were here. Enola was alive. So was Tewkesbury. It was just a nightmare.

He let out a soft sigh as he rubbed his eyes. "I failed all of you, in the theatre, you all-" he hesitated, and you frowned softly.

"But that didn't happen did it?"

Sherlocks heart skipped as you grabbed his face in your hands, making him look at you. "We're okay. Enola, Tewkesbury, me, you. We're all alright."

Sherlock nodded mutely as you smiled sadly at him. Wiping his forehead softly you hummed, "Even the great Sherlock Holmes has to suffer from nightmares hmm?"

He didn't answer, only let out a soft sigh. He rarely had nightmares, usually his dreams were more frustrating than frightening. And they were never like this. So real, so painful.

You met his gaze and Sherlock felt a comfort in it that ceased all memory of the nightmare, if only for a short while.

"Do you want to try and sleep again?"

He sighed, still being exhausted, "I fear I must."

You smiled softly as he lied back down again. He looked at you once more, "Thank you, Y/n. For being here."

You smiled down at him, your heart fluttering. "Any time."

As Sherlock woke, the soft glow of the morning light, was paired with a soft humming he did not recognize. As he slowly sat up, aware of the pain he was still in, he picked up on the smell of coffee, and breakfast.

Rising, he walked into his kitchen to a sight that made his heart nearly stop.

You were cooking in his kitchen, softly humming, wearing the same clothes you had been before. Had you not left him?

Looking over, a smile graced your face that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat. "You're awake."

Quickly heading past him, you grabbed his pain medication and brought them to him. "Here, you must not feel great. You were supposed to take it earlier, but you were finally sleeping peacefully I did not wish to wake you."

"You stayed, all night? Why?"

You chuckled softly, "I did not intend to originally. I just wanted to make sure you fell asleep properly, but I made the mistake of sitting down, and before I knew it I was asleep too."

"And now you are, cooking breakfast?"

You smiled and nodded, "Yes."

Looking over at him, you found him staring at you with a gaze you had not seen before. It made your cheeks burn, clearing your throat softly you turned away to continue cooking.

Pulling his eyes away from you, Sherlock took his medication and sat down. A nervous feeling sat in his stomach as he watched you. The sight of you in his kitchen, comfortably walking around, cooking, it was almost domestic. And as much as he tried to ignore it, he very much liked the way it felt.

The memory of his dream from the night before crossed his mind. The sight of your body in his arms. Discomfort and fear crept through him. If a nightmare alone did so much damage to him, what if...

He cleared his throat as he felt anxious at his thoughts. "I appreciate your care Y/n, but you really do not have to do so much."

He was pushing you away again. You expected it. But it still made your heart ache.

Setting a plate of food in front of him, you smiled down at him, "Eat first, and then I'll leave you alone."

Sherlock spared you a look. The same soft smile was present on your face, and he swallowed hard before nodding silently. He did not want you to waste your time taking care of him, and yet, he wanted you to stay.

Once you left him alone, Sherlock's apartment felt oddly cold. He was always so used to it's loneliness, he took comfort in it. But now, having seen your effect, the enticing smells of your cooking, the soft sound of your humming, the warmth of your care. It now felt damp, cold, and lonely.

All day you found yourself worrying about Sherlock. Was he pushing himself too hard? Was he eating? Taking his pain medication? Was he nose deep in another case already?

You were restless and wanted to check on him, but you feared he may find you overwhelming, your presence bothersome.

So, when Enola asked you to check on him for her, also fearing he would not be resting as he should be, you took the opportunity. It was a decent excuse, and if he did not need you, you would simply leave.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked a few times at his door, wondering if he was even home.

A few moments passed before you heard footsteps approaching. You took in a deep breath as he opened the door. His eyes fell on you as he bit back a smile, though you did not catch this.

"Y/n, back so soon?" There was a softness to his tone that put you at ease. At least he was not annoyed you returned already.

"Enola asked me to check in once more, she had a feeling you might have been pushing yourself."

Sherlock studied you. You were telling the truth, mostly, there was something else behind your tone. Sherlock felt his heart beat unevenly. You were worried about him too.

"I assure you, and Enola, that I am fine."

You squinted softly as you stared at him, subtly mocking the way Sherlock himself studies you. He bit back another smile, knowing what you were doing.

You let out a soft smile, "Fine. I believe you. But," bringing out your arms from behind your back, you revealed a bag. Sherlock quirked his brow and you smiled, "I brought you some food, since your kitchen was empty."

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip before stepping aside and opening the door for you to enter. "I suppose there is no reason for me to refuse."

You smiled as you entered, "I would hope so, since I'm sure you haven't eaten since this morning?"

You glanced back at him, as he cleared his throat softly, giving you your answer.

"Thought so."

Sherlock watched you as you cooked, becoming happily accustomed to the sight. You used utensils he didn't even know he had, and some he was sure you brought with you.

"Enola told me she has been pressuring you to get a roommate."

Sherlock sighed softly, "Yes. And what do you think of the notion?"

You hummed, "I think the company might do you good."

He smiled softly, "For company, I would prefer you to a stranger."

Sherlock didn't miss the very subtle way you stopped in surprise at his comment. You let out a soft laugh. "I would be happy to give you company when you wished." Looking back at him, you smiled "But I think you may grow tired of me."

Sherlock's heart thumped in his chest. He wanted to correct you, to tell you no, he could never see himself getting tired of your presence. In fact, he often finds himself craving it.

"I think I would grow tired of a stranger's presence faster. And you are no stranger Y/n."

"What am I then? I once recall hearing you say you had no friends."

Sherlock paused in thought at your question. No, he did not see you as a friend necessarily, he was not sure what you were, he only knew what he wanted you to be. Though he often pushed the thought into the back of his mind, not daring to risk such a relationship. The reason why, slowly being forgotten.

"That was a long time ago, I've...changed since then."

You smiled to yourself. Did Sherlock Holmes just indirectly call you a friend? It's not what you desired to be to him, but you would take it nonetheless. He was opening up to you, and you would wait.

Pushing off of the couch he had been leaning on, he winced at the pressure he mistakenly put on his wound. Your head snapped back at the noise and Sherlock raised his hand, "I'm fine. I promise."

You let out a soft 'tsk, "Careful. Don't need you agitating your wound."

He chuckled, "Are you sure you have no desire to become a nurse?"

You laughed softly. "I could always become your nurse. I fear that might become a full time job."

Sherlock let out a soft scoff, though the thought of you taking care of him again in the future did not seem undesirable.

After dinner, Sherlock lounged on the couch as he listened to the sound of you cleaning in the kitchen. He attempted to help but your stern look chased him away well enough.

Without realizing, the sound of your actions and occasional soft humming caused Sherlock to drift into sleep.

What started out as a normal dream, quickly shifted into a familiar nightmare as he stepped foot into the theatre, only to see you being held at knife point by Grail.

Sherlock looked around for Enola and Tewkesbury, but they were no where to be seen.

"Let them go Grail." Sherlock warned as he watched your fearful face, wet with tears.

"Now why would I do that? Why would I give up the chance to take away something Sherlock Holmes cares about. HA! The great and lonely detective, cold and calculating, in love? No, no, perhaps you should stay as you are, alone."

As Grail swiped his hand across your neck Sherlock felt his heart drop.

"NO!"

Time seemed to slow as your limp body dropped to the floor. Sherlock rushed to hold you in his arms, to stop the bleeding, but as your tear stained face stared up at him, the light leaving your eyes, he felt desperation he had never felt before.

Sitting up with a gasp of air, tears leaving his eyes, Sherlock looked around desperately.

"Sherlock?!"

You rushed from the kitchen to his side, seeing the fear and pain on his face as he woke from another nightmare. You knelt on the floor in front of him. His eyes scanned yours as he reached out and grabbed your face, as if desperate to make sure you were real.

"Sherlock." You spoke softy, gently encasing Sherlock's hand as he still cupped your face. "It's alright, your awake."

He clenched his eyes shut and let out a frustrated sigh, "Blasted nightmares. Why now, I've never had them before."

You frowned, gently taking his hand from your face, causing him to look back at you, but still holding his hand in yours.

"Maybe because you finally have something you fear losing. Before, you were alone, this time you had others with you, everything ended alright, but that doesn't stop fear from tormenting you with what could have happened."

Sherlock sighed, you were right. It never mattered before. He was the only one at risk before, now there was more to lose.

"But don't let your fear of losing Enola push you away from her Sherlock." He looked up at you with a frown. "Embrace the feeling of not being alone. It might make you more afraid of what could happen, but it can strengthen you in ways you may not yet understand."

"It is not just Enola I fear losing."

Sherlock's voice was soft, softer than you had every heard, holding an array of emotion and fear you had never expected. Slowly, he reached his hand up, once again cupped your cheek before gently caressing your face with his thumb, and then dropping his hand.

"Sherlock."

You could see him. More than he had ever allowed you to before. The fear, the sadness, the gentleness, the feelings, he has always hid. Hid from everyone, from you. The way he looked at you made your heart burn.

"It's not a bad thing to feel, Sherlock. Nor is it to hide your feelings to protect yourself. But you may regret never indulging in the things that could make you appreciate life so much more."

You saw something akin to a sparkle reach Sherlock's eyes as you spoke.

"It's always terrifying to think of losing the things you care about. But why should that stop you from caring about them while they are here? To feel, is to live."

A smile slowly stretched across his face as he let out a soft breath, the heaviness on his chest seemed to disappear with every word you spoke.

"To feel is to live." He repeated your words softly.

You nodded, wondering if your words really reached him.

Sherlock sat forward on the couch, his eyes staring deeply into your own. You grew nervous as the silence stretched on.

Your heart started beating rapidly as Sherlock placed his hands on either side of your face.

He tilted his head slightly before he spoke, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "Why did I waste so much time?"

You didn't speak, letting him figure out his own mind once and for all, as you waited patiently, as you always had.

Sliding from the couch, Sherlock was now knelt on the ground with you, right in front of you. Bringing your face forward, he pressed his forehead against yours.

"If I were to show you the way I truly feel, every emotion and thought I have been hiding from you. Are you sure you would stay?"

You took in a breath as you nodded slightly, "I would not have stayed by your side, waiting, if I wouldn't."

It was true. You were always there. Before Enola, you knew Sherlock. An acquaintance, he called you at first, answering questions he would have regarding his cases that apparently only you knew the answers to.

Truly he came to you for things he already knew, telling himself he only needed confirmation, to put his thoughts into words, to use you as a soundboard. But it was really just to see you, to hear your voice, to see your smile, to be near you.

You were always there. And slowly, you stepped closer and closer, pushing his walls down little by little. Before you burst through the final one, even if it was with the help of Enola.

But he was glad of it. Glad you were there when no one else stayed. Many would leave, but never you.

Slowly opening his eyes, he looked into yours, and was met with the familiar warmth he had grown so fond of.

Gently he caressed your cheek, and then gently your lips, before he leaned forward, finally closing the space between you with a deep and passionate kiss holding all of his unspoken feelings.

He would no longer stop himself from feeling, from wanting, from needing. He would embrace these emotions, even through the fear, he would keep you by his side, he would close the distance you had tried so hard, yet so patiently, to lessen.

He would feel, he would fear, he would struggle, but he would live. And he would do it with you by his side from now on.

xx End xx

First fic I've written in about a year, I hope you enjoyed it!

Taglist Form

General Taglist:  @criminaly-supernatural, @imaginesfire, @rexit-mo, @onuen, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry,

Cavill!Sherlock Taglist: @will-grammer, @multifandomfix-recs, @readingbookelf, @writerfulltime, @lunes08, @merlin-dahlia, @nonbinarynyli, @oliviah-25, @nix-rose, @evelyn-kingsley, @fangirlextraordinaire, @asgards-princess-of-mischief, @agswitch, @smileykiddie08, @asgards-princess-of-mischief

[damnthisfanficgood]

This is a masterpiece!?!?! Like woah. The feels. I adore it!! And that final sentiment, "to feel is to live" damn if that isn't true but I'd never thought of it that way.

What a wonderful, subtle, bold character study of both our beloved Sherlock and our dear, patient reader.

I really don't know how to express how much I love this fic (I said "awwww" aloud more than once whilst reading) but please know I did. What a treat!

[katsu28]

clingy

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: in which you and steve can't stand to be apart from each other for more than a few hours. (2.8k)

warnings: no real season 5 spoilers, no use of Y/N, lovely bf steve, robin being the unlucky third wheel

a/n: only steve could pry me from the clutches of rpf for a while. he is my man and will always be my man !!! i could also be persuaded to open requests for him if anyone sends a good one ;)

The WSQK building sticks out from the surrounding grass and woodland hills like a sore thumb.

It's an ugly thing, square hunks of grey brick with all sorts of antennae poking out from the top, one that you wouldn't be caught dead near if not for Steve working there. Now you tolerate it, because you kind of have to if you want to see him at all during the day.

Since the Morning Squawk airs at very specific time every single day, Robin has him on a tight schedule. What that means for you is that the sun has barely risen when Steve's alarm goes off.

He'll pull his face when where it's more often than not buried in the crook of your neck with a soft groan so as to not wake you, but the lack of warmth when he retreats always does despite his best efforts. Then you get ten minutes before the snooze button wears off, and then Steve really has to go.

The way you spend those ten minutes together varies. Most times, you'll just lay there still tangled up in each other, mustering the energy to greet the day ahead.

He's out of the house within the next twenty, though not nearly awake enough and pretty grumpy after having to leave you so goddamn early everyday, and off to pick up Robin, who is always frustratingly chipper for it being the asscrack of dawn.

His words, not yours.

You let your knuckles rap against the heavy metal door of the building, bouncing on the balls of your feet. It isn't uncommon for you not to spend any time with Steve until the both of you get home from work, but you've been feeling a little anxious today. Seeing him always puts you in a better mood.

"Hey!" Steve exclaims, lighting up brighter than a Christmas light display as soon as he pulls open the door. "What're you doing here?"

You hold up the brown bag containing your own lunch with a smile, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "Figured you might want some company for lunch?"

"Yeah! Yeah, here, come on in!" He grabs your hand and pulls you inside with the utmost enthusiasm, letting the door slam shut behind you with a loud thud that rattles the walls.

What you aren't expecting is for him to nudge you up against the nearest wall and kiss you like he hasn't seen you in weeks.

His mouth moves against yours hungrily but still sweet in that way he does best, big hands cupping your face as he presses himself against you. Your fingers curl themselves into the front of his jacket, gripping the material dear life whilst you get the living daylights kissed out of you by your very enthusiastic boyfriend.

Steve pulls back after a while, giving you some time to gain your bearings and catch your breath again.

"Hey," He says softly, stroking a thumb under your ear.

You smile against him, reaching up to smooth back the few swoops of hair that have fallen over his forehead in the heat of the moment. "You greet everyone who comes here like that?"

"Only the really cute ones."

"Ones as in, there's more than just me?" You giggle, feigning shock. Steve drapes an arm over your shoulders, drawing you in close.

"What can I say? Can't keep a man like me tied down."

"Steve Harrington, you wound me!"

"Sorry, sweetheart. Didn't mean for you to find out this way."

The squishy yellow sofa in the common area isn't the most comfy, but it'll do for now as you plop down on it to eat. Time is of the essence here, because no matter how much you want to stay here with Steve and Robin, you're on a schedule here.

Steve takes perch on the armrest beside you, popping one knee up for him to rest his arm on.

"What'd you pack today?" He asks, leaning over so far his head blocks the entire opening of the bag. "Is that the last Bopper?! You said we had no more…"

You swat him on the back of the neck gently to get him to move, stretching your lunch further away from him with a snort. "Yeah, I only said that 'cause I knew you'd eat the last one if you knew! Boppers are a rare commodity around here these days, Steve, you can't just inhale the whole box like you used to!"

"I'm just saying it would've been nice to know, then I could just ask Murray to get another one—"

"Do not make that poor man smuggle more candy into a freaking military zone, Steven!"

"Okay! Alright, jeez. Can I have a bite, at least? You know they're my favorite—"

"Get your feet off the damn couch, Steve! How many times do I have to tell you?" Robin appears in a blur of movement, crossing the floor quickly like a woman on a mission. She doesn't smack his knee when she passes, but you know she would if she felt the urge. Then she spots you and stops right in her tracks, grinning widely. "There's my favorite person! Man, are you a sight for sore eyes. Did you know your boyfriend keeps moaning and groaning about you every five minutes?"

"Uh, no I don't!" Steve shoots back immediately, wrinkling his nose. He turns back to you with a roll of his eyes, giving you a can you even believe this look. "Don't listen to Robin, she's just bitter because Vickie can't hang out tonight."

"Everything okay with you two?" You ask, tilting your head.

"Yeah, yeah, they're fine. She's just ridiculously clingy and can't stand to be away from her for more than a day."

You laugh, amused. "Sounds like someone else I know."

Steve kicks you gently, handsome features morphing into a dramatically offended expression. "I am not ridiculously clingy. I'm a perfectly normal amount of clingy, thank you very much."

"You keep telling yourself that, buddy," Robin snorts from the soundbooth. "Feet, Steve, put 'em on the floor!"

Begrudgingly, he drops into the seat on your other side, muttering under his breath as he picks up your legs and swings them over his lap. Fingers tap along your shins rhythmically, only stopping when you pass Steve half your sandwich (and yes, the Bopper too), and even then, his free hand stays on your knee.

Your lunch break dwindles down faster than you'd like it too, and soon enough, you have to leave, much to Steve's chagrin. He watches with a frown as you gather your trash to throw it away.

"What's the sad face for, Harrington?" You chuckle, clocking the furrow in his brow when you turn around to come back. "Is the riveting world of being a radio station sound guy not thrilling enough for you anymore?"

"You need a longer lunch break."

"You think? Well, you tell my boss that and see how well it goes."

Steve mumbles something unintelligible, hooking his arms around your waist to pull you against him as soon as you're close enough, effectively trapping you in place. He smells like laundry detergent and cologne and the spearmint gum he keeps in his pocket. Nice, like he always does.

"I have to go, babe," You sigh, draping your arms around his neck loosely.

"You don't have to."

"Yeah, I kinda do. My lunch break is fifty-five minutes. It takes fifteen to get all the way out here, twenty to spend with you, and fifteen minutes to get back—and that's all assuming I don't get stopped by any MPs both ways. You know how they are."

"So what I'm hearing is you can stay for five more minutes and you'll get back just in the nick of time."

"Steve!" You exclaim, but even then there isn't any real force behind it. You can never really stay cross with him when he smiles at you the way he is now, all lazy and fond and like he never wants you to leave, ever.

His grin turns teasing as he gives the belt loops of your jeans a playful tug. "C'mon, you love me."

"Who said that?"

"Uh, you did. Multiple times. Just this morning," He says very matter-of-factly, squinting at you. "Which, might I add, was far too long ago."

"A few hours is nothing."

"To you. I feel like I'm dying over here! You wouldn't want me to die, would you?"

"And you say you're not clingy."

"I never said that. I said i was a normal amount of clingy, there's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Oh, shut up."

He takes the chance to press a quick kiss to your lips. Then another to your cheek, and your other cheek, before pulling back to look at you again. He does this a lot, sometimes. The looking at you like he can't quite believe you're real. It used to make you squirm under his gaze, but now you've come to love it.

The walkie talkie on the coffee table crackles to life, and Robin's voice pours from the small speaker.

"As happy as I am to see you both happy, and you know I am, I might need to burn my retinas and corneas if I have to watch you be any more disgustingly sweet with each other."

Steve grabs the walkie, pressing the button rather forcefully. "Then don't look, Rob!" He huffs. At the sound of your giggle, his annoyed facade drops, revealing a small smile. "C'mon, I'll walk you out."

Steve holds your hand all the way to the car, letting your joined hands swing between the two of you on the very short walk.

"Thanks for letting me hang out," You say gratefully, bumping your shoulder against his.

Steve's brows fly towards his hairline, the grin on his face growing. "Are you kidding? Babe, seeing you standing outside that door was the best surprise ever! Come by anytime, seriously. It's way better than me shoveling Pop Tarts and having to listen to Robin gush about her relationship all the time."

"You love her," You insist, giggling.

Steve rolls his eyes playfully, bobbing his head. "Yeah, but not as much as I love you."

"Ew."

"Ew? Ew?! C'mere, you little shit—" Steve drops your hand and lunges for you, managing to grab you around the thighs, and before you know it, you're upside down in the air, having been thrown over Steve's shoulder easily. He takes a few steps, leaning all the way forward to offset the new human sized weight behind him, cackling as you cling to his biceps for dear life. "Take it back. Take it back right now!"

"Okay! Oh my god, fine, I take it back!" You howl, squeezing your eyes shut. "Put me down, you maniac!"

He plants you back on your feet right next to your car with one last chuckle and a satisfied smile. Ever the gentleman, he opens your door for you, bowing you into the driver's seat overdramatically. "Hope you make it back on time."

"Guess I better speed the whole way there."

"Ha. Maybe don't do that." Steve braces his elbows on your open window, leaning into the car. "Be safe, okay?"

"Always am," You say softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "See you at home?"

"Best part of the day."

-------

The sun is just starting to set when you finally clock out, sky awash with another one of those watercolor sunsets that you love so much about small town Hawkins. Oranges and pinks and fading blues blend into each other in the most gorgeous picture as you lock up for the night, and you sigh.

Steve is leaning on the hood of your car when you turn around, arms crossed over his chest, one leg over the other.

You beam brightly at the sight of him, mood instantly lifted.

"Fancy seeing you here," He calls, pushing off the hood as you get closer. He's ditched the jacket he'd been in when you last saw him, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair a little messier than usual—like he'd been running his hands through it.

You let yourself stop just within arms length from him, smile still present. "I thought we were gonna see each other at home."

"That was the plan, yeah. But then after you left I decided I didn't wanna wait that long." He shrugs, taking your bag from off your shoulder and hiking it over his own. You roll your eyes playfully at his reasoning but step more into his space nonetheless, fiddling with the buttons on the open collar of his shirt, and his smile only grows giddier. "Missed you."

"I saw you at lunchtime, dingus."

"Did you? I don't recall."

"I'm sure you don't."

"Wanna grab dinner? That diner we like?" He changes the subject, draping an arm over your shoulders to steer you towards his car a few spots away. "I don't think we have much of anything in the fridge, so unless you want a bowl full of ketchup…"

"Breakfast for dinner it is."

"I mean, I don't mind squirting ketchup right into your mouth, if you don't want a bowl."

"That's disgusting," You giggle. Then you realize where you're headed and stop in your tracks, tugging Steve to a stop too. "My car."

"Just leave it here. I'll drop you off tomorrow morning."

"You don't have the time for that, babe."

"I'll make time. I'll wake up earlier."

"You can barely wake up on time as it is," You tease.

"Well, someone kept me up last night," He replies pointedly, brows wiggling suggestively. You jab an elbow into his ribs and he grunts, doubling over in pain. "I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it! C'mon. I just wanna spend more time with ya, honey."

Well, when he says it like that—how can you refuse?

Still, you have one request.

"Can we stay here and watch the sun set first?"

Steve smiles like he knew you'd ask and pops the trunk of his car, rifling around in the mess of things before procuring a slightly ratty blanket, laying it out onto the hood of his car carefully. He holds out a hand to help you up before climbing up and settling in himself.

"You're the only one I'd let sit on her, y'know."

You preen, batting your eyelashes. "I feel so special."

"You should. Dustin tried once and I kicked his ass off."

"Yet you let him drill a hole into her."

"Okay, I didn't let him do that!" Steve protests, shoving a large palm towards your face that you manage to push away with a giggle. "And I patched up that hole, thanks. Now, can it and watch the sunset."

To anyone else, this might seem harsh, but Steve's wit and and sass have always been how he shows his love.

You slot into spot under his arm just right, tucking yourself against his side to watch the sky gradually fade.

"You don't think I'm clingy, do you?" You ask quietly, just as the sun sinks below the horizon. Steve shifts under you, rubbing a hand down your arm. "Seriously, babe. Am I?"

"If you think you're clingy, I'd hate to know what you think of me," He snorts. You only blink, waiting for his answer. Then he sighs, intertwining his fingers through yours. "Yes, I think you're clingy."

You can't help the surprised noise that escapes your mouth at his words, completely taken aback. "What?"

"Wait, no—hear me out, hear me out. Being clingy, it's not a bad thing!" He exclaims, though that doesn't reassure you at all. "I just mean, with all the shit we've been through, how many times we've almost fucking died these past few years, we have the right to wanna be with each other all the time. Both of us. All of us."

Oh.

This makes much more sense. Suddenly all your fears that you're being irrational about wanting to be near him all the time seem much, much smaller, and it makes you feel a hell of a lot better.

"Hey, I love you," He says firmly, giving your hand a squeeze. "If you wanna come see me at work, don't even hesitate. If you want me to come see you at work, just gimme a call on the ol' walkie and I'll be there as fast as I can without breaking any laws. Hell, if you want to crawl into my damn ribcage and make a home there, I'd gladly crack open my chest."

You wrinkle your nose, giggling. "Yuck, Steve, that's disgusting."

"I'm just sayin', sweetheart." He presses a kiss to the side of your head, letting his lips linger for his next words. "Never think I don't wanna see you. Because if I had my way, we'd be joined at the hip twenty-four seven."

"That doesn't seem so bad."

Steve smiles. Soft, gentle, fonder than ever. "Doesn't seem so bad at all."

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

For Your Consideration 5

Warning: Sherlock being intense lolll.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Sherlock Holmes

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“You are a mad woman to marry my brother.” Mycroft chuckles over a glass of sherry. “Not that I’ve ever met a practical lady in all my years.”

He grins and sips his drink. You nod as you focus on not letting on your agitation. Mycroft Holmes is a man who practices sharp honesty. He is a man of great intellect but it does not tend to factor in emotion, and certainly not beyond his own.

“He is kind–”

“He is established and has a fine house, eh?” Mycroft interrupts. He stops himself from gulping down more of the reddish brown liquid and lifts a brow. He holds the glass out. “You should get an early start. The wine makes him more tolerable.”

“Hm. I appreciate the offer, sir, but I do not partake,” you wave away the crystal with your lace glove. “Thank you for attending.”

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t miss it.” He cackles and drains the glass. “My brother, a married man? Even I could never figure that riddle out.”

He grins and turns away. He catches the attention of another of Holmes’ guests. You didn’t invite anyone. You thought of Mallory, a neighbour who was always kind, but the nip of humiliation kept you from it. You would rather face this alone.

You look down at the dainty white fabric. It’s not what you requested. You were not unaware of Mr. Holmes’ critical eye. You noted how he hummed at your selection in plain cloth. No, you’ve layers of lace and satin, and the ruff on the shoulders is more than you expect. The high collar is to your preference and yet the sheerness below is not as promised.

It is a beautiful dress. A fine dress. You will not complain for the expense or the effort. 

As you turn, you nearly collide with another. It is Mr. Holmes; Sherlock; your… husband.

He wears a deep burgundy jacket of pressed velvet over a vest of embroidered silk. His cravat is the same shade as his jacket and his trousers are black and perfectly tailored. His starched collar his high enough that the back touches his tidy curls. You can see the extra effort made in styling his thick locks.

“My wife,” he greets with an unexpected lilt. “There you are. I see you are already hard at work entertaining our guests.

“Mr. Holmes,” you intone.

He grins, his cheeks dimpling as the cleft in his chin grows more prominent. He is not a man without charm.

“Mr. Holmes?” He echoes with a chuckle. “Sherlock. Husband. Never Mister, my wife.”

You nod. “Sherlock,” you recite.

He tilts his head slightly and clears his throat. He pushes his shoulders back and peers around. “My brother, he did not cause you any trouble?”

“He is polite, as ever.”

He scoffs. “I know my brother. He is unsociably forthright. Especially when he is helping himself to my sherry. I hid the brandy however.” 

He moves closer to you and you flinch. You stop yourself as he pauses, startled by your recoil. You look at him and force a smile.

“My wife,” he says gently as he takes your arm and hooks it through his. You let him as you try to whittle the tension from your shoulders. “It has been a fastidious day and I do hope I’ve not been remiss. Did I mention how lovely you look?”

You let him lead you around the room. Enola grins over; she invited two of her school friends, and Sherlock’s friends are more so colleagues who can speak of nothing but back alley murders and grand heists.

“Yes, I believe you said it when we signed the contract.” You reply.

“It cannot be said too much,” he reaches to play with your sleeve. “You are becoming in white.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Husband,” he corrects as his hand covers yours as you grip the crook of his arm. “I must admit I cannot quit admiring you. If I’d know you would look so lovely, I might have found my courage sooner.” He stops you near the table. “Shall we cut the cake?” 

He glances over at the iced cake with cherries trimming the edges. A cupid stands in the centre, a rather romantic symbol. Every detail alludes to that mood you cannot sense in yourself. It is all very matter-of-fact. It is a transaction. A man would bolster his reputation and a woman would secure her livelihood.

“If you like,” you acquiesce. Those words will likely become a mantra.

He turns to face you as he unhooks his arm from yours. His fingers brush down your sleeves. He smiles. You try to do the same. He takes a deep breath. You can’t help but notice his stature more keenly now. You never put much note to him; tall, broad… strong, no doubt.

He takes a glass from the table and a knife. He clinks it to pull the attention of the guest. You wince and stiffly peer around as the dim hushes.

“Attention, attention,” Sherlock booms. “Yes, thank you all.” He lowers the glass and knife. “My wife and I would like to thank you for your attendance today. It is a most joyful occasion.” 

Don’t crack. Don’t disprove his words. You maintain a placid expression as you wait patiently for this theatre to end.

“We will not cut the cake and invite you to come share,” he continues. “To love and marriage.”

The guests raise their glasses and sip. He sets aside the glass and trades the butter knife for a larger one. Your audience shifts closer, tempted by the promise of a slice. 

Sherlock steps around you. He looms behind you and surprises you as he takes your hand. He puts it around the knife handle then covers it with his own. He guides you to cut into the cake as you wilt against him. The act is rather intimate as he presses against your back. You are overly aware of those who watch.

You finish slicing the cake and he releases you. You hide your discomfort in labour. You dole out the slices to waiting attendees.

When they disperse with their bounty, Sherlock approaches you with a porcelain plate. He has a slice and two forks upon the rim. He holds it between you.

“Wife,” he grins and picks up a fork. He cuts into the sponge’ layered with candied fruits and jelly. He raises the fork and hovers it before your lips.

You hesitate but open your mouth. You suck off the forkful as your face scalds. You push your tongue through the medley of flavours. He watches your lips as you bite down on your self-awarness.

As he stares, you struggle to think. Your eyes fall to the plate. You take the other fork and scoop up a piece. Shakily, you offer it to him. He accepts the bite and hums as he cleans the tines. You slide the fork free and lower it back to the plate.

He swallows and you do the same, twirling the fork nervously. He steps closer and leans in. “You will find I am weak to sweet things,” he drawls above your ear.

[andrcmache]

mary: you must be so sad about your engagement ending tom: im certainly sad about an engagement

[tinkerlock]

they did had 'em boys on a leash insp + insp + insp

[shakespeare-guy-anon]

"shakespeare's pretentious!" "shakespeare's boring!" "shakespeare's confusing!" "shakespeare's just sex jokes!" "shakespeare's —" shakespeare is whatever the hell you want it to be. shakespeare knows no bounds

[magicalmatcha]

— all mine

❝we had our downs but we had way more ups,let's make love❞

pairing — firelord zuko! x fem!earthbender!reader

synopsis — who was surprised when you and zuko were the first in the gaang to get pregnant?

content — fem!reader, mature content (17+), suggestive themes, pregnancy, mention of sex, no actual plot really, indulgent fic, takes place seven years before the legend of aang (which takes placed 12 years after ATLA) so Zuko is 22 and Reader is 21, no use of yn, not proofread

author's note — I didn't watch the leaks yet just clips and if I do I'll still be watching the movie to support the animators

The Princess of the Fire Nation, though she often felt that, as the wife of the Fire Lord, she deserved a far grander title, sat before her vanity, studying her reflection. One by one, she had dismissed her maids, choosing instead to prepare for bed on her own. In truth, the new trending fragrance they all insisted on wearing had begun to make her nauseous.

Though, lately, everything seemed to make her sick.

“Aang sent a letter.”

She hadn’t even heard him enter.

Slowly, she turned to face her husband, a faint crease forming between her brows. “My love, you spend all day in council, and the first thing you do after not seeing me for hours is talk more about the council?” she teased lightly, though there was a hint of tiredness beneath it. She turned back to the mirror, picking up her hairbrush and dragging it gently through her hair.

“Well, love, this isn’t about the council. Technically,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “It’s about Aang. He needs our help.”

“Our help?” She turned again, confusion softening her features as she rose from the vanity. Her green satin nightgown draped elegantly over her figure, the gold stitching catching the candlelight with every movement. The most prominent change, however, was the gentle, undeniable curve of her stomach.

“You knocked me up, dummy,” she teased, a small smile tugging at her lips as she approached him. Her hands slid to his shoulders, then to the ties of his robes, beginning to loosen them with practiced ease. “Or did you forget already?”

He laughed softly, the sound low and fond, allowing her to help him out of his robes as the fabric slipped from his shoulders.

“How could I forget?” he murmured, turning toward her.

His gaze drifted over her slowly, appreciatively, before settling on the curve of her stomach. His hands followed, almost instinctively, coming to rest there, warm, steady, protective. His thumbs brushed gentle circles over the satin, as if he could feel something deeper beneath it.

“When you carry the future of the Fire Nation inside you?” he said quietly, his voice softening. “A little piece of me…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, something tender and unguarded flickering there.

“And all of you.”

She hummed softly, rising onto her tiptoes as her arms slipped around his neck, drawing him down to her. Her lips met his in a gentle, fleeting kiss, soft, familiar, almost teasing.

But when she tried to pull away, he didn’t let her.

His hand tightened at her waist, the other still resting protectively against her stomach as he followed her retreat, capturing her lips again before the distance could grow. Even as her heels lowered back to the floor, he bent with her, closing the space she had tried to create.

This time the kiss deepened, slower, warmer, lingering in a way that stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t soft either; it carried weight, intention, something unspoken between them.

His thumb brushed lightly against her side as he tilted his head, pressing closer, as if memorizing her. The world beyond them seemed to fade, the council, the letter, everything, leaving only the quiet crackle of candlelight and the steady rhythm of shared breath.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough for their foreheads to rest together, his lips still ghosting over hers, reluctant to let her go.

“I can’t get you pregnant again, can I? Double pregnant,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at him. “Oh, you’ve certainly tried,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. Her hand lingered briefly against his chest before she stepped back, just enough to create space between them. “But don’t try again, I need this thing out of me first.” "I don't know if I love you referring to our child as a thing."

She separated from him fully then, turning slightly as if to busy herself, though she didn’t miss the way his shoulders subtly slumped at the loss of contact. The warmth between them lingered in the space she left behind, unspoken but felt.

Her fingers adjusted the sleeve of her gown absentmindedly, her expression softening for just a moment before she glanced back at him over her shoulder. There was still a hint of her earlier smile there, though now tempered with curiosity.

“Now,” she said, more gently this time, “tell me what Aang wants.”

"That can wait for the morning." He mumbled, his eyes never leaving her lips as he pulled her back into another kiss.

“A village?”

Zuko sighed, steadying Appa’s harness as he helped his wife climb aboard. “Why would he possibly want us to go to a random village?” And why would he say pack a coat? We're going to a mountain aren't we?" she huffed, gripping the edge before finally pulling herself over with a bit more effort than she liked. "I hate mountains."

He lingered below for a moment, looking up at her, concern etched into his features. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to go? You can stay—I’ll be back in a couple days.”

She leaned over the edge slightly, brows knitting. “Aang needs the second-best earthbender with him, Zuko. I’m not disabled—”

She winced mid-sentence, her hand instinctively going to her stomach before she turned toward Toph. “Sorry.”

Toph shrugged easily. “Hey, I’m just glad you finally admitted I’m the better earthbender.”

“I give you your flowers when they’re due,” she shot back with a small smile.

Toph grinned, but it slowly faltered, her head tilting slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear. "Your heart must be beating really fast." "Is it?" The princess quirked her head confused. "Why else am I hearing two heartbeats coming from you?”

Katara gasped, her hands flying together in delight. “Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant! I thought your coat was just oddly bulky but you're pregnant! Oh my Gosh!" she exclaimed, immediately rushing forward to wrap the Fire Princess in a tight hug. “I thought they were just rumors, because surely you and Zuko would’ve told us!”

The princess blinked, caught off guard, before her gaze slid over to her husband, who was just now hauling himself rather ungracefully into Appa’s saddle.

“Zuko,” she said slowly, one brow arching, “I thought you told them.”

Zuko froze mid-step, staring back at her blankly. “I thought you did.”

There was a beat.

“Oh my gosh.”

“I mean, it was only a matter of time,” Katara chimed in, smiling knowingly. “You two have never exactly been subtle. And Zuko practically insisted on marrying you the moment he could.”

Toph snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah, honestly? I’m surprised it took this long. Thought for sure you’d have a whole lineup of heirs by now if Zuko could keep his hands to himself for more than, what? two minutes?”

Zuko nearly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red. “That’s— I—” He cleared his throat, straightening awkwardly as he avoided everyone’s eyes. “That’s not— we’re not—”

The princess, however, looked entirely unbothered.

In fact, she looked amused.

“Well,” she said lightly, smoothing a hand over her stomach as she glanced at him, “he does have a bit of a… lack of restraint.”

Zuko snapped his head toward her. “You’re not helping.”

Katara laughed, covering her mouth. “I mean, you can’t blame them. You’ve both been—” she hesitated, searching for a polite word before giving up, “—like that since the beginning.”

Toph grinned wider. “Please. ‘Like that’ is putting it nicely.”

“Toph,” Katara warned, though she was still smiling.

“What?” Toph shrugged. “I’m just saying—half the time, I didn’t even need my feet to know when they were in the same room. The tension alone was loud enough.”

The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re all incredibly annoying.”

Zuko groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we please focus on the actual reason we’re here?”

“Oh, no, no,” Toph continued, clearly enjoying herself. “You deserve this. All those nights you two kept everyone awake—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the princess cut in quickly, though a smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at Zuko, amused. “He can’t get any redder. He’s about to turn into a tomato.”

Zuko let out a quiet, embarrassed huff, but didn’t argue, instead shifting closer and settling against her side, seeking some sense of refuge.

She softened slightly at that, her expression gentler as she let him.

“Let’s just go get Sokka,” he muttered, still avoiding everyone’s gaze.

The princess had shrugged off her coat minutes into the trip. They weren’t even close to Aang yet, and the extra weight had her uncomfortably warm, a light sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. The shifting air currents around Appa did little to help.

Katara, however, had not left her alone once.

The questions came one after another, gentle but relentless, curiosity shining in her eyes.

“How far along are you?”

“Five months,” she answered, offering a tired but polite smile.

“What’s the gender?”

“No clue.”

“Any baby names lined up?”

“We’re trying for something that blends earth and fire,” she said, glancing briefly at Zuko, “but nothing’s stuck yet.”

Katara brightened. “That’s so sweet—”

“Are you going to have more?”

The princess didn’t even hesitate. “Have you met my husband?”

Katara blinked, then laughed, covering her mouth.

Zuko, meanwhile, coughed into his fist, his ears burning all over again.

Through it all, his hand never left her, resting protectively over her stomach, thumb brushing slow, absent circles as if grounding himself in her presence. Every so often, his grip would tighten slightly whenever Appa shifted, like he could somehow steady both her and the child at once.

“Careful,” he murmured under his breath at one point, guiding her subtly as the saddle dipped.

“I’m fine,” she replied, though she didn’t pull away from him.

By the time the icy waters and familiar structures of the Southern Water Tribe came into view, the air had grown colder, sharper against their skin. Snow dusted the ground below, and the distant figures of Water Tribe members began to gather, pointing up at Appa’s descending form.

They didn’t have to search long.

Sokka was already striding across the snow toward them, boots crunching loudly with each step, his grin widening the second he took them in.

“Well, well,” he called, arms spreading like he was welcoming honored guests. “Look who finally decided to show up. Took you two long enough.”

His gaze flicked between them, lingering, calculating, before it dropped.

Then paused.

“…Whoa.”

Zuko stiffened immediately. “Don’t.”

But Sokka was already circling them, slow and deliberate, like he was inspecting something fascinating. “No way. No way. You’re serious?”

The princess raised a brow, unimpressed. “Very.”

Sokka let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face before pointing straight at Zuko. “I mean, I knew you two had issues with personal space, but I didn’t think you’d go and make it this… I don't even know the word for it. You two are freaks."

Zuko groaned, already regretting coming. “Sokka.”

“What?” Sokka shrugged, smirk growing. “You expect me to ignore this? This isn't even groundbreaking it's just expected from you both knowing you. This is, this is what happens when you two get even five minutes alone, isn’t it?”

Toph let out a quiet snort.

Sokka leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse. “Actually, scratch that. Five minutes is probably generous.”

Zuko made a strangled noise. “Okay.”

Katara slapped a hand over her face. “Sokka—”

“No, no, I’m just connecting the dots,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “All those times you disappeared during meetings, all those ‘private discussions’ yeah, makes a lot more sense now.”

The princess tilted her head, completely unbothered. “You’re being very bold for someone standing this close to me.”

Sokka grinned. “I’m just impressed, honestly. You two had so much tension it was practically a natural disaster, and now—” he gestured vaguely toward her stomach, “—this is the aftermath. Surprised it took you this long."

Toph laughed outright at that.

Zuko looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Sokka wasn’t done.

“I mean seriously,” he added, folding his arms, “if this is what happens when the Fire Lord gets a little too… distracted, I’m shocked there’s not a second one already on the way.”

Zuko choked. “That’s enough.”

“Hey, I’m congratulating you!” Sokka shot back. “Just saying, next time, maybe let people know before you two go off and—”

“Sokka.”

“—expand the royal family.”

Katara shoved him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“But not wrong,” he corrected smoothly.

The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, he’s not entirely wrong.”

Zuko turned to her, betrayed. “You’re encouraging him.”

“We've been married for eleven months and I've been pregnant for five of them, you lack restraint Zuko” she stated bluntly, though her smile gave her away. He shook his head leaning close so only he could hear her. "Who suggested riding me in the throne ro-" "Okay hush now."

Sokka clapped his hands together once, satisfied. “Great. Now that we’ve established the Fire Lord has absolutely no self-control—”

“Sokka.”

“—can someone please tell me why Aang is dragging us to some random village?"

The teasing was warranted, deserved, even.

The Fire Nation had taken your father, your brother. Zuko’s redemption didn’t erase that. Not to you. He had hunted you, cornered you, forced you into survival more times than you could count. While the others learned to trust him, to laugh with him, to move on… you hadn’t. Not so easily.

So yeah, there had been tension.

A lot of it.

It just… hadn’t been resolved in a way anyone else approved of.

His lips brushed slowly along the inside of her thigh, unhurried, deliberate, testing, teasing. The touch alone was enough to pull a quiet, unwilling sound from her, her breath catching despite herself.

“Just do it already,” she muttered, more breath than voice, her fingers tightening against the sheets.

Zuko clicked his tongue softly, unfazed. Another kiss followed, closer this time, but still not quite where she wanted, where she needed.

“Not until you say please.”

Her head tipped back in frustration. “Why would I have to say please?” she shot back weakly. “You said you were atoning for everything your nation did. Consider this part of your apology.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him, warm against her skin. “I’ve been atoning for two months now,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful.

Another slow press of his lips, lingering.

“And yet,” he added, “every morning I wake up and you’ve already taken my portion of breakfast because, apparently, ‘murderers don’t deserve to eat.’”

She exhaled sharply, somewhere between a scoff and something softer. “Well, when the Fire Nation killed my family, I couldn’t afford breakfast—”

“I know.” His tone shifted immediately, the teasing giving way to something heavier, sincere. His hand stilled, grounding. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, the air between them tightening, thick with everything unsaid.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it,” he continued quietly. “For what I did… for what I stood for.”

His placed a long kiss to her core, a soft moan (against her will) escaped her lips.

“Let me try,” he said, voice gentler now. “Even if it’s not enough.”

“I’m glad you all could make it, this village needs our help with—” Aang began, pulling back from Katara mid-sentence.

His eyes flicked across the group.

Paused.

Then widened.

“…Are—did—?”

He leaned toward Katara, lowering his voice into what he clearly thought was a whisper. “Am I allowed to ask people if they’ve gained weight?”

Katara’s eyes widened. “No, Aang. We’ve been over this.”

Aang nodded quickly. “Right, right. No asking.”

“…They’re pregnant,” she added quietly.

Aang blinked.

Then looked back at them.

Then back at Katara.

“…Zuko’s pregnant too?”

Toph snorted.

Sokka immediately burst out laughing. “Yeah, yeah, Fire Lord had a lot to do with it actually.”

Zuko’s face flushed instantly. “That’s not—”

“I’m pregnant, Aang,” the princess cut in, voice flat.

“Oh!” Aang straightened immediately, relief flooding his face. “Oh, that makes way more sense.”

There was a beat.

“…Congratulations!” he added, a little too late but entirely sincere.

Then his expression shifted, concern creeping in.

“Wait, are you sure you should be here?” he asked, glancing between her and Zuko. “I mean, with everything going on… I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Zuko immediately nodded. “Exactly.”

She sighed.

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she said, crossing her arms lightly. “I can still help.”

Toph smirked. “Told you.”

Katara smiled gently. “We’ll keep an eye on you. Just in case.”

Sokka grinned. “Yeah, someone has to make sure Zuko doesn’t give himself an aneurysm trying to watch after the princess.”

Zuko shot him a glare.

Aang hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I trust you. Just… be careful, alright?”

She gave a small, confident nod.

“Always.”

Aang clapped his hands together once, refocusing. “Right, so. The village has been dealing with a spirit. It’s been acting aggressively, and I think it’s tied to something in the mountain.”

The princess exhaled slowly. “…So you did drag us out here for a mountain.”

Aang winced. “Technically… yes.”

Zuko sighed. “Of course.”

Toph cracked her knuckles. “Good. I was getting bored.”

Sokka looked between them, grin already returning. “Alright, angry spirit, pregnant Fire-Earth Princess, and Zuko on edge. This should go great.”

She leaned slightly into Zuko’s side, her hand brushing his.

“Next time,” she murmured, “we ignore the letter and go to Ember Island."

He huffed softly. “…Agreed.”

love speaks! rushed and indulgent sorry i wish this was better but if i draft it it'll never get done. divider by @/cafekitsune

[lovergirl-coffee]

firelord zuko and his royal advisor fluff⋆｡°✩

when avatar aang’s letter accidentally outs firelord zuko’s feelings for his royal advisor. oh my gosh i’ve been so obsessed with that^^ picture it’s insane i need him to look at me like that. oh and! flirty!reader kinda

<- 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ༄ 𝐜𝐡.𝟐 ->

“Your Highness, the Royal Advisor is—”

“Send her in, please.” The guard doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before Zuko interrupts him. It’s practically routine now, he doesn’t understand why they need to ask him repeatedly, you’re there practically every night!

Not for nefarious reasons, Zuko would never do that. No, it was your duty as his advisor to talk to him and give him advice pertaining to anything he wishes to discuss, be it the weather, your favourite meals for some reason, submarine formations, or just talking, about nothing in particular, your voice always just had a calming effect on him.

“Your Highness.” You greet him as you enter his chambers, a lavish room fit for the Fire Lord indeed. This wasn’t the same chambers that previous Fire Lords had resided in, when Zuko took the throne, he had the Princely palace wing that he grew up in converted to his chambers. The place is beautiful regardless, endless sea of different shades of red that come together just perfectly.

Zuko doesn’t look up from his paperwork as you also greet and then dismiss the guard. “Zuko.” You call out softly after the door closes, leaving you two alone during this beautiful night. There were several lamps lit across the room, illuminating the entire space in a warm glow, but the moonlight tonight is strong too.

Zuko finally glances up at you at the beckoning of his name, the tip of his lips quirking up in the faintest smile. He has disregarded his royal regalia for the day, the crown and heavy robes resting on the other side of the room. Now he’s in simple, comfortable sleepwear, which does nothing to hide his well-built muscular form underneath.

It was no surprise the friendship between you and Zuko. You’ve known eachother since you were children, you weren’t particularly friends, you were just his father’s advisor’s daughter that he interacted with occasionally. The only reason he picked you to be his advisor very early into his reign was the fact that you were critical of his father’s practices since a young age, privately of course, words only Zuko would hear.

It was only after then that a friendship blossomed. You were around him so much that it was inescapable, you were his closest confidant. You knew everything this about him, you were the only person he felt truly open and comfortable around in the Fire Nation, so it also wasn’t quite the shock when Zuko realised the ache in his chest when he saw you was not only platonic or professional but romantic too.

He greets you back with a soft whisper of your name, going back to skimming through whatever the document in front of him was. Zuko cherished moments like this. When it is just the two of you alone, when you could too let your guard down with no watchful eyes and just call him ‘Zuko’.

You were too dressed in casual wear, robes and the pins and medals that are usually decorated on them missing, simple red dress with a hem that kissed the ground and you walked, like you always were during these meetings with him.

“Avatar Aang sent a letter through.” You announced as you walked across his room, one hand holding up your dress so you don’t trip on it and the other waving a piece of parchment around. Zuko is situated in the floor, on a cushion with his legs crossed, a small, short table in front of him with ink, documents and a lamp rested on it.

“Read it out for me?” Zuko asks in a low voice, sleep infecting it and making it gravelly, enough to send a chill down your spine. You feel a slight rush of heat to your cheeks, feeling lucky that he wasn’t looking at you. Is it really your fault? Has anyone taken a look at this man? It’s unfair!

The way the light from the lamp was illuminating his side profile, in the way you could see every contor of his face and scar. He grew up, losing his childish features, replaced with sharp contours of his cheeks, nose and jaw. Zuko glances up at you again, wondering why you’ve suddenly gone silent, with you looking away before he caught you staring.

“Flameo Hotman. How goes running the Fire Nation?” You begin to narrate dramatically as you sink into the floor, tucking your legs under the table on the opposite side to Zuko so that you sat facing him. You continue reading, the two issues that the Avatar requires help with, something in Republic City and something related to food. You converse with Zuko, talking through the problems, his sassy remarks extracting chuckles and giggles from you occasionally.

“And lastly I am curious, did you tell—Oh.”

The documents he was examining earlier is now left abandoned as Zuko was solely focused on you, and now your reaction has his eyebrows scrunching. You were smiling till a moment ago, but whatever you read at the end had the joy leave your face and…a smirk stretching across your lips.

You glance up at Zuko from behind the piece of parchment, an odd glint in your eyes, maybe even…heat? Your teeth bite into your lower lip as you glance back at the letter and then back at Zuko. “What is it? What does it say?” Zuko questions, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening.

A soft huff of amusement leaves between your bitten lips, trying your best to keep your composure. Zuko watches as you fail and burst out into a giggle, your face reddening slightly. You look back at him, the same glint still in your eyes.

“Lastly I am curious.” You start and pause dramatically, the look in your eyes darkening a little. Agni, Zuko swears in his head, this is not helping the ache in his chest, the way you were looking at him, the smile stretched across your lips.

“Did you tell your royal advisor of your romantic feelings…for her?” You read out, voice dipping by an octave.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, Zuko is fucked.

“And asked if she is a bachelor or not? Seize the opportunity before it slips out of your fingers, my friend!” You finish reading, silently folding it before pressing the letter into the table, looking up at Zuko’s expression of being caught off guard.

The silence is very loud as you two just look at eachother, all color drained from his face and pure amusement on yours. Zuko’s eyes bare into yours and you can almost see the way he’s not only registering what you said but also working out on what to say, clearly unable to think of anything to say.

“Do you have other Royal Advisors I am not aware of…or?” You start, smirk still stretched across your lips. Zuko just blinks at you, his hetrochromatic eyes shining, his adam’s apple bopping as he swallows nervously. “He was simply…jesting.” Is somehow the only thing he can come up with currently, the usual sassiness you see in him completely disappeared.

“So you’re not in love with me?”

You say, a little too quickly causing Zuko’s eyes to widen, his scar stretching because of his surprise. “Uh…” Zuko quirks, but you smile smirk at him sweetly. “I…Its not…That’s, it’s. Um.” His hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck as you look at him expectantly.

You can see him buffering in real time, the machinery in his brain short circuiting as it’s unable to process what’s happening. You stay smiling at the Fire Lord as he just stares at you, probably praying for the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

You roll your eyes at his stupor, taking it into yourself to make a move, you prep yourself up into your knees, pressing you palms flat onto the mahogany wood as you lean cross the table as Zuko sits as still as a statue. You lean close enough for your nose to hover right over his cheek and partially his scar.

“I am a bachelor, Your Highness. Veeeery lonely.” You whisper as his face reddens even more before you rush forward to press a kiss his cheek, his skin soft beneath your lips. You feel Zuko let out a harsh exhale as you pull away, standing up to your full height, looking down at him a moment before turning to walk away.

“Goodnight, Zuko” You wave as you leave.

lmk if you wanna be tagged in the next parts/be part of the taglist!!!!

first time writing for him and i hate this cause it’s like 4am and i need to sleep😔😔 yeah no i just hate this BUT I MADE THE MISTAKE OF SNEAK PEAKING IT SO NOW I HAVE TO POST IT- anyway. adult zuko has me KSKSKKDKDKDJDJDK

[simoneashley]

#bro was flabbergasted New clip from Interview With the Vampire Season 3