-> the mercy of being known ⛈☼
steve keeps it together until everyone else is safe. then, in the quiet of his kitchen at two in the morning, you realise he’s been hurting the whole time
-> if this is love, then let it ruin me ☾⛈☼
you and steve keep insisting whatever this is between you is casual. unfortunately, neither of you are very convincing
-> body language ☼
joe meets reader in the middle of a sweaty dance festival crowd and spends the entire night hopelessly drawn to her, all flashing lights, tangled bodies and stolen kisses
-> sixteen forever ☼⛈
joe and reader grew up alongside their daughter, building a life together from scratch after becoming parents at sixteen
-> somewhere along the way ☼☾
you fall asleep at steve’s once. then you don’t really stop
steve harrington
☆ softer things
-> late night essentials ☼
neither of you can sleep, so steve decides the obvious solution is a 1am supermarket run
-> lovers lake ☼
a hot day at lovers lake turns into exactly what the rest of the gang feared: steve harrington being completely incapable of keeping his hands off you for seven straight hours
-> don't go far ☼
steve insists he's fine. unfortunately for him, being sick turns him into the clingiest man alive
-> found it ☼
steve hears you mention that your favourite snacks have disappeared from every shop in hawkins and accidentally turns finding them into a full-blown love confession
☆ emotionally devastating
-> come find me ⛈☼
you show up scared. steve makes sure you don’t have to be anymore
-> it takes a second ⛈☼
some nights, it takes steve a second to remember where he is. you stay with him until he does
-> come outside ⛈☼
when something in a crowded diner sends steve spiralling, you get him outside before anyone else even notices
-> gentler things ⛈☼
you’re used to handling everything alone, right up until steve harrington starts caring for you so gently that it becomes impossible to pretend you don’t need it
-> the mercy of being known ⛈☼
steve keeps it together until everyone else is safe. then, in the quiet of his kitchen at two in the morning, you realise he’s been hurting the whole time
-> i'll remember for the both of us ☼⛈
you spend so much time apologising for forgetting things that you almost miss the fact that steve has quietly started remembering them for you
☆ intimacy & tension
-> somewhere along the way ☼☾
you fall asleep at steve's once. then you don't really stop
-> cool about it ☼
steve discovers he’s apparently the jealous type, which would be less embarrassing if he were better at hiding it
-> if this is love, then let it ruin me ☾⛈☼
you and steve keep insisting whatever this is between you is casual. unfortunately, neither of you are very convincing
☆ upside down / supernatural
-> carried out of the dark ⛈☼
steve wasn’t scared of the upside down — until you started bleeding
-> you don't get to decide that ⛈☼
when a vine drags you toward a deadly drop in the upside down, steve puts his life on the line for you
-> you're still you ⛈☼
whatever you’re becoming, steve isn’t letting you face it alone
joe keery
☆ domestic / comfort
-> taking care of you ☼
a bad period, two worried kids, and joe keery somehow being the calmest man alive about all of it
-> couldn't wait ☼
joe was supposed to arrive on saturday. instead, he shows up two days early with flowers and a month’s worth of missing you written all over him
-> before you fall apart ☼⛈
you keep insisting you’re fine running on four hours of sleep a night. joe disagrees and starts quietly taking care of you anyway
-> fever dream ☼
your daughter wakes up ill in the middle of the night, and joe immediately turns into the world’s most overprotective, sleep-deprived father
-> tiny things ☼
a collection of tiny moments between you, joe, and your baby boy that slowly become a whole life together
-> somebody to lean on ☼⛈
recovering from spine surgery leaves you frustrated, exhausted, and painfully dependent on other people, but joe never once lets you feel difficult to love
-> the life we made ☼
joe documents every stage of your life together obsessively, terrified of forgetting even a second of loving you
-> say it again ☼
joe becomes mildly obsessed with your british accent — and then, subsequently, everything else about you too
☆ intimacy & tension
-> honey, honey ☾☼
mother’s day has joe thinking a little too hard about the future — and specifically, about you in it
-> honeymoon hazard ☾☼
joe thought the honeymoon would involve sightseeing and relaxation. instead, it mostly involves him losing his mind every time his new wife walks into the room
-> pretty hands ☾☼
joe treats every nail appointment like a national event, mostly because it means he gets an entire evening of your hands all over him afterwards
-> body language ☼
joe meets reader in the middle of a sweaty dance festival crowd and spends the entire night hopelessly drawn to her
☆ emotional comfort
-> just me, okay? ⛈☼
a run-in with paparazzi sends you spiralling, and joe is the only thing keeping you grounded
-> uphill battle ☼
a scenic hike in japan goes dramatically off the rails when your period turns up early, leaving joe to get you safely back to the hotel
-> out of frame ☼⛈
when paparazzi finally catch a glimpse of the private life you and joe worked so hard to protect, all he cares about is getting you and your daughter safely home
-> nowhere else to be ☼
a few weeks into dating joe, you wake up mortified after starting your period in his bed — only to discover he treats taking care of you like it’s the easiest thing in the world
diabetic!reader universe
-> midnight orange juice ☼⛈
joe quietly loves you through every middle-of-the-night low, stubborn high and exhausted crash afterwards
-> steady hands ☼⛈
joe learns every tiny part of your diabetes management until caring for you becomes second nature
-> one of those nights ☼⛈
a stubborn high turns into a frightening hospital trip, and joe stays steady through every awful part of it
-> alarm fatigue ☼⛈
after one too many brutal nighttime lows, reader starts panicking every time her libre alarm goes off
sixteen forever universe
-> sixteen forever ☼⛈
joe and reader grew up alongside their daughter, building a life together from scratch after becoming parents at sixteen
-> she was worth it ☼⛈
after somebody at school makes a cruel comment about her “teen parents,” joe and reader finally tell their daughter the full story of those early years
joel miller
standalone fics
-> sharp edges ⛈☼
joel thinks loving him means eventually seeing something ugly enough to leave over. then the worst parts of him finally surface, and you stay anyway
-> softer than survival ☾⛈☼
joel miller has spent years surviving by becoming hard around the edges. then you start touching him like he’s something worth being gentle with
Thinking about Teacake not shutting the fuck up while you’re fucking
He’s holding you up, fucking you with your legs wrapped around him, saying, “Woah, there’s a lot of jiggling happening down there, that’s pretty hot”
You moan when he flips you on your stomach to hit you deeper, saying, “Huh, that was a real sexy noise. Didn’t know you could sound like that”
He’s watching your face while he’s got you stretched around his fingers, saying, “Did’ja know you scrunch up your face real cute like when I hit *this* spot? Betcha didn’t!”
He’s got you pressed against the wall while he’s slamming into you from the back, cradling your head close to him and saying, “I got ya, don’t worry sweetheart! Wouldn’t be fun if you got all concussed ‘n shit”
You’re riding him like mad with your eyes screwed shut as you focus on chasing your own orgasm, but still he’s gotta run his mouth, saying, “fuck, does it feel like my dick’s actually hitting in your belly right now? I mean, that’s gotta be impossible, but I mean it did reach your belly button when I laid it on ya, y’know?”
…
You ball up your soaked panties in frustration and shove them in his mouth to shut his chatty ass up
You lean down to look into his wide eyes and grab his chin, still working your hips down against his, and say, “Next time, I’m putting that big fat mouth to work and sitting on your face, pretty boy”
your joe x diabetic reader fics mean so much to me 💗 you write so incredibly beautifully and i can feel all the love you put into it
awh this is genuinely so lovely 😭 thank you so much sweetheart
i’ve had quite a few messages from diabetics since posting those fics saying they felt seen by them, and honestly that means the world to me. i know chronic illness can feel really isolating sometimes, especially something as constant and exhausting as diabetes, so i’m really glad these silly little comfort fics have resonated with people the way they have 🥹
also huge credit to my boyfriend for patiently answering all my extremely specific diabetes questions pahah
thank you for reading and being so kind to me always <3
i LOVE the diabetic fics could you do getting a low in the middle of the night?? i deadass get ptsd hearing the libre phone notification istg
there’s genuinely something so uniquely evil about hearing a libre alarm in the middle of the night because your body wakes up terrified before your brain’s even functioning properly pahah. absolutely adding this to the diabetic!reader universe <3
alarm fatigue
Joe Keery x diabetic!reader
Summary: After one too many brutal nighttime lows, reader starts panicking every time her libre alarm goes off, and Joe quietly helps her through both the low itself and the fear attached to it afterwards.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, type 1 diabetic reader, hypoglycaemia, anxiety/panic, caretaking, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.5k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
The sound drags you out of sleep instantly.
Sharp. Artificial. That horrible familiar alarm cutting through the dark at three in the morning.
Your body reacts before your brain does. Heart jolting hard enough to hurt while panic crashes through your chest all at once.
No no no-
You grab blindly for your phone on the bedside table with shaky hands, breathing already uneven before you’ve even properly opened your eyes.
Low.
Dropping fast.
“Oh, fuck,” you whisper.
Beside you, Joe stirs immediately.
“Honey?”
You’re already sitting upright by then, blanket tangled around your waist while the alarm keeps screaming in your hand. The room feels too hot suddenly. Your skin damp already beneath one of Joe’s old t-shirts.
Joe pushes himself up sleepily beside you, curls flattened on one side from the pillow.
“You low?”
You nod quickly.
Too quickly.
Joe notices instantly.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice still rough with sleep. “You okay?”
“I hate that sound.”
The words come out smaller than you intended.
Joe goes quiet for a second.
Then the alarm sounds again.
Something awful twists immediately through your stomach.
Your body’s learned this sound now. Learned it means danger. Sweat. Shaking hands. The horrible crawling panic lows seem to create even when you logically know how to treat them.
Joe watches your face carefully while you stare down at the monitor in your hand.
“What’s it at?”
“Three point four.”
Joe reaches over and switches the bedside lamp on.
Warm amber light floods softly across the room while you press the heels of your hands hard against your eyes.
“I’m so tired of this,” you whisper.
Joe’s expression softens instantly.
“I know, baby.”
“No, like-” Your voice catches awkwardly around exhaustion. “I feel like I can’t even hear that alarm normally anymore without panicking.”
Joe doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reaches over slowly and takes the phone from your hand, silencing the alarm before setting it back down on the bedside table.
The sudden quiet feels strange.
Your chest still hasn’t unclenched.
Joe notices that too.
“You treated it yet?”
You blink at him.
Right.
Your brain still feels stuck somewhere between asleep and terrified.
Joe’s already climbing out of bed before you answer.
“I can get it,” you mumble weakly.
“I know.”
The kitchen light spills faintly down the hallway while you sit there trying to breathe normally again. Your skin already feels clammy, hands beginning to tremble slightly against the blankets while the low settles more heavily into your body.
You hate nighttime lows.
Daytime ones are annoying. Embarrassing sometimes. Inconvenient.
Nighttime lows feel different.
Meaner somehow.
There’s something uniquely horrible about being dragged out of sleep by your own body panicking.
A minute later, Joe comes back carrying orange juice and glucose tabs.
“You brought both?”
Joe shrugs sleepily. “Didn’t know which one you’d hate less at three in the morning.”
Despite everything, you laugh quietly.
Joe settles back onto the bed beside you before unscrewing the orange juice and handing it over carefully.
“Drink.”
You take a few mouthfuls obediently while Joe watches with heavy-lidded concentration like he’s forcing himself awake through sheer determination alone.
Your hand shakes slightly around the bottle.
Joe notices immediately.
Without saying anything, he shifts closer until your knee presses against his beneath the blankets.
Grounding you.
“You know what's embarrassing?” you mumble eventually.
Joe hums softly.
“Sometimes I hear the libre alarm noise in public and my stomach drops even when it isn’t mine.”
Joe’s face changes instantly.
Not dramatic.
Just quietly heartbroken on your behalf.
“Honey.”
You shrug helplessly. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You stare down at the orange juice instead while your fingers tighten slightly around the bottle.
Joe reaches over then, fingers sliding slowly through your hair while your body starts that familiar horrible low-blood-sugar trembling.
“I think my body just goes straight into panic mode now,” you admit quietly. “Like before I even know what’s happening.”
Joe nods slightly.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Makes sense.”
You blink at him tiredly. “It does?”
“Honey, your brain learned that sound means something’s wrong.” He shrugs lightly. “Of course it stresses you out.”
Something in your chest loosens slightly at that.
Because that’s what Joe always does somehow.
Makes things feel understandable instead of dramatic.
You lean more heavily against his shoulder while he keeps playing absentmindedly with your hair.
“Sorry I woke you up.”
Joe actually snorts.
“You think I was gonna sleep through that alarm? It sounds like a nuclear warning system.”
A weak laugh escapes you.
Then another.
By the third one, the panic’s finally started easing slightly around the edges.
Joe glances down toward your monitor after a few minutes.
“Coming back up?”
You check.
Four point seven now.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
You finish the orange juice slowly while Joe reaches for the glucose tabs and opens them anyway.
“What’re those for?”
“Backup.”
“I’m literally already going back up.”
Joe looks at you evenly. “And if you start dropping again in twenty minutes?”
You sigh dramatically but take the tablets anyway.
Joe smiles slightly like he’s won something.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Hm. Love feeling powerful.”
“You’re holding glucose tablets.”
“And yet.”
You roll your eyes weakly while Joe grins sleepily beside you.
The room settles quieter afterwards. Rain taps softly against the windows outside while your body slowly starts feeling less shaky and wrong. Joe stays awake beside you the entire time, even when his eyes keep drifting half shut with exhaustion.
You notice eventually.
“Joe.”
“Hm?”
“You’re literally falling asleep sitting up.”
“No I’m not.”
His eyes close immediately afterwards.
You stare at him.
Joe blinks them open again a few seconds later and catches you looking.
“…don’t judge me.”
Despite everything, you laugh softly again.
There’s still adrenaline humming unpleasantly beneath your skin though. That awful post-low feeling where your body’s technically improving but your brain hasn’t caught up yet.
Joe notices the shift almost immediately.
“You still panicking a little?”
You grimace.
“Maybe.”
Joe shifts slightly beneath the blankets before gently pulling you more fully against his chest. Warm. Sleepy. Solid.
“You wanna know something?” he murmurs into your hair.
“What?”
“I think your body forgets the scary part ends.”
Your eyebrows pull together slightly.
“When you go low,” he continues quietly, “your brain’s just hearing alarms and panic and danger danger danger.” His hand rubs slowly up and down your back beneath your shirt. “Doesn’t matter if logically you know how to fix it. Your body still thinks something bad’s happening.”
You’re quiet for a second.
Then, “That was annoyingly insightful for three in the morning.”
Joe smiles against your hair. “Thank you.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
You stay curled against him while your blood sugar slowly creeps upward. Joe’s hand never really stops moving against your back the entire time, like he’s subconsciously trying to soothe your nervous system back into place.
Eventually, your monitor vibrates softly again.
Five point three.
Steady.
Joe glances down at the number before visibly relaxing slightly for the first time all night.
“There she is.”
You didn’t even realise he’d been tense too.
Your chest aches quietly at that.
“You were worried.”
Joe shrugs a little. “You looked scared.”
The honesty catches you off guard.
Because he says it so simply.
Not trying to make you feel guilty. Not trying to make himself sound heroic.
Just truthful.
You tilt your head slightly to look up at him properly. His curls are still flattened on one side from sleep, eyes heavy and soft in the low amber light from the bedside lamp.
“You know this is objectively insane boyfriend behaviour, right?”
Joe looks mildly offended. “What, helping my girlfriend during a medical situation?”
“You remember more about my blood sugars than I do half the time.”
“Honey, you once tried correcting a low with a diet coke at two in the morning.”
“In my defence, I was barely conscious.”
Joe laughs quietly enough that you feel it vibrate through his chest.
Then, softer, “I just hate seeing you scared.”
That almost fucking does you in emotionally.
You hide your face briefly against his shoulder instead while Joe smiles sleepily into your hair.
“You alright there?”
“No.”
Joe laughs softly again before pressing one warm kiss against your forehead.
“You don’t gotta do this by yourself anymore, okay?”
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because that’s really the thing underneath all of it. The thing that keeps hitting you over and over with Joe.
Not that he helps.
Not even that he understands.
It’s that he stays.
Through the alarms. The mood swings. The middle-of-the-night panic. The endless management of it all.
He stays.
Your monitor updates quietly again beside the bed.
Five point six.
Flat arrow.
Safe.
Joe reaches over finally switching the bedside lamp back off, the room falling soft and dark around you again while rain continues tapping steadily against the windows.
This time, when you settle back beneath the blankets beside him, your body actually lets you fall asleep.
"I don't excuse the actions of this character--" well I do. I kiss them about it directly on the mouth. I think they should have done worse things. I think that would have been funny.
I knew it was love
When I rode home crying
Thinking of you fucking other girls
You had always loved Steve Harrington. And Steve? Well, he was oblivious. But a near death experience in the Upside Down causes you to confess your feelings for him.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 2.7k
contains: HEAVY angst, use of y/n, near death experience, talk of death, explicit language, suggestive language.
author's note: very VERY loosely based on dust bones by ethel cain. this fic is a little shorter as my others and I didn’t do a preview for it but the idea came to me after I saw vol 2 a few weeks ago and I finally got the urge to write it out of nowhere the other night 🤍 also happy harry styles is back day to those that celebrate
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
You had heard about Steve and Emma Stevens through Robin.
She hadn’t meant to tell you, really. Robin just—she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. You had only asked her if she thought Steve would give you a lift home from the SQWK radio station—where you and Robin were currently prepping for tomorrow’s show.
“Probably not,” Robin says, her brows furrowed in concentration as she fiddles with a cassette. “Probably going to be knuckles deep in that Emma girl. You know what Steve’s like. They’re going on a second date so—”
She realises then—looking up at you with her eyes wide and apologetic.
“Fuck (y/n), I’m sorry—”
You blink. Try not to show how much that revelation had cut you open.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that you were in love with Steve Harrington. Robin knew, Dustin knew, Lucas knew, Joyce knew, Nancy knew, Jonathan knew—hell, Max probably knew and she was in a damn coma. The only person who didn’t know? Steve. The man was oblivious. Completely and utterly oblivious.
And so the reminder that Steve was fucking other girls on a weekly basis? Well, it hurt. Hurt a lot.
“It’s fine,” you lie as you pick up a few random tapes and pretend to consider them. You weren’t fine. You were trying not to cry.
Robin can tell she’s upset you and genuinely feels awful. The cassette tape in her hands clatters onto the table as she rushes to hug you. The telltales signs you were holding back tears were there—your eyes shining, bottom lip quivering and the way you went quiet.
You should be used to Steve’s casual dating by now. Should be used to the fact that he was fucking women who aren’t you. But honestly? You weren’t used to it at all.
And so, you rode home on your bike that night, crying as you tried not to imagine Steve and Emma—probably hooking up in the back of his beloved Beamer.
But now? Only three days later—Emma Stevens and Steve were the least of your worries.
The Upside Down always came knocking. Because of course it fucking did.
And this situation you found yourself in with none other than Steve himself—well, you were sure you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.
The room you were in—seemingly a boardroom of such in the upper floors of Hawkins Laboratory—was slowly but surely filling with a sludgy liquid that tried to keep you from moving.
You had no idea what was happening—you figured it had something to do with that energy shield (or whatever Dustin had theorised it was) you had just shot. But the guilt you’re feeling as you realise that you’ve condemned not only yourself but Steve to certain death—well, it’s all consuming.
“On the table,” Steve instructs, tugging on your hand so you follow—having to pull your legs up in order to move through the sludge.
Steve makes sure you go first—hoisting you up onto the table by your waist. You could have easily done it yourself but you took any and every opportunity—selfishly—for that man to touch you.
The table offered some reprieve—both of you free of that strange liquid that surrounded the table like an ominous ocean.
Steve looks at you—a look on his face you had seen only a few times before, one that plainly told you he was scared. “Wh-what do we do?” He asks you.
You look around the room, frantic—at the greyish liquid drawing ever closer—at the hole in the wall that had only made the situation worse as more and more sludge poured in—and finally, you look up at the gaping hole in the ceiling that was too high for either of you to reach and your only way of escape.
Steve is still looking at you—the way he’s always looked at you. Expectantly. Waiting to hear your plan. In the few years you had been falling into the Upside Down together, you always had a plan. Always one step ahead. But now—
“Help!” You yell out. “Help!”
And it’s that moment that Steve realises he was going to die. That if you didn’t see a way out of this? He knew there wasn’t one.
“Help!” He joins you, yelling in the hopes that Dustin, Nancy—hell, even Jonathan—would hear you. Though he knew, deep down, the trio were too many floors down to hear you both.
The two of you yell out, desperately. Trying your dammdest to live—to make it out of this alive. But as your voice cracks and Steve keeps yelling, you realise that no one was coming. That Dustin, Nancy and Jonathan couldn’t hear you. That you and Steve were going to die. Slowly, probably suffocating from the sludge. You thought about how painful it would be for that to fill your lungs.
“Steve—ju-just—stop,” you tell him, reaching out to tug his sleeve to get his attention. “They can’t hear us.”
Steve’s in denial. He shakes his head—fucking terrified—as he keeps on yelling anyway.
“Steve!” You yell at him, your voice breaking as the tears finally start to fall. “Stop. They’re not—they’re not coming.”
Steve looks at you—at your tears. At the look on your face and he knows you’re right. Knows there isn’t a way out of this. Knows that you both aren’t going to be saved. That your will to leave alone couldn’t save you.
“We—we gotta try (y/n),” he says finally and you feel your heart do that funny thing it always did around Steve because fuck, he had so much fight in him. Such a will to live and you feel awful that this was your fault. That you were the one to shot the giant ball of matter.
You just look at him and shake your head, tears already spilling down your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Steve—I didn’t know that would happen—“
“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says gently, leaning closer to you and placing a hand on your knee. “Don’t cry. Please. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault.”
“But it is—”
“It’s not,” he cuts across you. You know he’s just saying it to make you feel better. But the matter of the fact is, if you hadn’t shot that thing, you both would still be up on the roof. Not stuck in this room, waiting to die. But you didn’t want the last few minutes of your life to be spent arguing with Steve’s over whose fault it was. So, you just nod and wipe away your tears.
It’s quiet then. Just you, Steve and both of you quietly accepting your fate.
“Wish I could—you know, listen to like one more song before—” Steve cuts himself off as he swallows. Not looking at you. His hand still on your knee.
“What song?” You ask in a quiet voice.
Steve looks at you and—you see the tears in his eyes for the first time. After everything you two had been through together with every Upside Down ‘adventure’ (because was several near death experiences really an adventure?)—you hadn’t ever seen him cry. Until now. But you don’t comment on it. You just look at him, waiting for his response.
“Take On Me,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching.
You can’t help it, you laugh—despite the situation you both were in. It was just…so quintessentially Steve that you couldn’t help it.
“Haven’t you listened to that song enough?” You ask him, because Steve couldn’t seem to go a day without listening to that song. Robin had even made it a rule at the station that he was only allowed to play it three times a week, after you had received multiple complaints from listeners who counted a whopping eighteen plays of the track in a single week.
“Nah,” Steve says with a shake of his head, sniffling a little, “I bet you’d pick Edge of Seventeen.”
You bite back a smile—looking over at Steve with tears still falling.
“It’s a good song,” you say simply. Steve squeezes your knee.
You look away from him and your eyes dart around at the room again. You feel Steve squeeze your knee again. Grounding.
“Hey, look at me,” Steve says gently and you feel his fingers gently graze your cheek as he turns your head to look at him. Not at the reminder of your unfortunate fate. “Focus on me—”
You could feel your heart hammering in your chest. The gentle reminder that you were alive. Alive. Alive.
You hadn’t ever given much thought to it. Your heart that beat to keep you alive. But feeling it racing against your chest like that? Like it was desperate for you to live—you were grateful for it. Hadn’t ever been so grateful to be alive as you were now.
“I don't want to die, Steve,” you burst out in a panic, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I don't—”
“Neither do I,” Steve admits in a quiet voice. His hand on your knee tightening as his honeyed brown eyes flicker to meet yours, his other hand coming down to rest on your shoulder. “But I’m here, yeah? You won’t be alone.”
Your bottom lip quivers and you nod as a small sob escapes you because you were going to die. You were going die with the man you loved. And he still didn’t know—
“I wanna go first,” your murmur quietly. “I don't want to live in a world where Steve Harrington doesn't exist.”
“Don't,” Steve breathes out, jaw tense. Eyes shining and shaking his head. “Don't say that—”
“—and I’m s-sorry that it’s now that I’m telling y-you but I can’t die without you knowing,” you stutter out through shuddering breaths.
Steve looks back at you, lips parted and hanging on your every word. Unsure if he wanted you to keep talking or stop.
“I love you, Steve,” you tell him finally—your face wet with tears. “I always h-have.”
The silence you’re greeted with is the loudest you had ever heard. Your heart still hammering against your chest. Desperate to keep you to alive as death came—the liquid creeping ever closer with every second.
“Fuck—” Steve finally says, the fingers on your shoulder twitching as he shifts closer to you. “I had—I had no idea. And I’ve been—fuck—I’ve been screwing around for months—”
“—it’s okay,” you interrupt him with a shake of your head. “Really, Steve. It’s fine—”
“No. It’s not fine,” Steve says firmly, jaw set and his eyes roaming your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Because I—shit—I love you too and I—I should've—fuck—I should've asked you out. Should've just done it instead of fucking wasting time. Should have taken you out for milkshakes or some shit—”
“Milkshakes?” You repeat, smiling a little. It was bittersweet. Because he wasn’t running. Didn’t find the idea of you being in love with him repulsive. And he said he loved you too.
Steve lifts his head up and catches your smile and fuck, if he does die—he wants your smile to be the last thing he sees.
“Yeah. Milkshakes,” Steve breathes out, “and bowling.”
“I would have kicked your ass at bowling,” you say, smiling at him as tears continue to fall. “Maybe would have let you get to second base too.”
Steve laughs—despite fucking everything, he's laughing.
“Shit, (y/n),” Steve breathes out, his forehead resting against yours, breath fanning your face. “You can't say that shit to me right now.”
“And I would have destroyed you at bowling. Would have worn a new shirt, bought you the biggest damn milkshake,” Steve's voice falters slightly, going quiet as his eyes flicker up to yours. “Would have kissed you stupid after.”
You smile at each other and for a moment—it’s just you and Steve. No grey sludge that was your death sentence around you.
“Fuck—we screwed up here,” Steve says and you laugh as you cry and suddenly he’s laughing too. You shouldn’t be. You’re about to die. It’s not funny, not in the slightest. But this moment? It didn’t feel scary. Or like death was around the corner. You just felt safe.
“Think we have time for me to kiss you stupid?” Steve murmurs quietly, fingers brushing along your jaw before his gaze falls onto your lips.
“Yeah,” you whisper back, eyes meeting his. Feeling his breath hot against your skin. “There’s time.”
He doesn’t wait a second.
You let out a noise of surprise as Steve's lips descend onto yours. There's no gentleness. No hesitation. Just years of tension and unspoken words between the two of you as your hands find the front of his jacket and tug him closer. Needing him so desperately as you kiss him back.
He groans—fucking groans—against your lips, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth and groaning again when you part your lips for him. His hands scramble to find your waist and he licks into your mouth and in his desperation, begins to press you back against the table.
Your hand shoots out to stop yourself from tumbling back too quickly from Steve's eagerness. But instead of the gooey liquid you're expecting to feel—you feel something solid.
There's a wet noise as you pull away from him. His lips chase after yours.
“S-Steve,” you gasp. “Lo-look—”
Steve’s confused—face flushed, eyes wide and lips still wet from your kiss. “What? Was it too much or—”
It’s then he sees the solidified grey sludge. It had set just beneath the table.
“Does this mean—”
You don’t wait—you lean over the table and place both your hands on the solid surface. It doesn’t crack. Doesn’t budge in the slightest. You start to stand, you needed to be sure—
“(y/n), be careful! It might—”
But you ignore him. You stand up on the solidified sludge and—it’s a solid as concrete.
Steve looks at you for a moment that felt like a lifetime. And then—
He scrambles to his feet—his arms wrapping around your waist as he lifts you half off the ground.
“We’re okay,” he breathes out as you sob in relief, his free hand cupping the back of your head like he needed to touch you. Needed the reminder that he was alive. That you were alive.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
“We’re okay,” he repeats, setting you down and cupping your face between his hands as he wipes away your tears. “We’re okay—fuck—we’re okay.”
You don’t even have time to breathe before he’s kissing you again.
Soft. Gentle. Like he had all the time in the world. And now, he supposed you did. Had time for that date. Had time for milkshakes, bowling and maybe even second base.
“M’gonna—” Steve mumbles against your lips as your hands fist the front of his jacket. “—kick your ass at bowling.”
“Shut up,” you murmur back before pulling away and smiling up at him like this was the beginning of something, “you’re gonna be a gentlemen and let me win.”
Steve scoffs, his hands moving back down to your waist and squeezing gently.
“Oh, absolutely not if you’re offering to go to second base—”
You whacked him on the arm, feeling elated as he laughed. He ducked his head down to kiss you again and—
The sound of banging from the wall behind you is what pulls you away from each other. Steve doesn’t think as he pulls you behind him. Protective. It was so Steve it made your heart do funny things in your chest.
The banging continues. The drywall cracks. Dust fills the air and—
“What the fuck happened in here?”
You had never been so glad to hear Jonathan Byers’ voice.
Through the hole in the wall—seemingly made by the fire extinguisher in Jonathan’s hand—you see Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin. Looking at you and Steve and how close you were standing. His hands on your waist.
“Are we interrupting something?” Nancy asks with a small smile. “Or do you guys want to get out of here?”
You and Steve look at each other, adrenaline pumping through the both of you—having been so close, so certain you were going to die that it's hard to even stand still.
"Yeah," Steve says finally, keeping his arm around you and pulling you close. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a date to go on.”
love love loving the diabetic reader x joe as a diabetic myself!! could you possibly do a really bad high that joe has to end up taking us to the hospital when it won’t go back down after trying to get it down for a while? thank you!
(this unfortunately happened to me about a month ago…)
awh honey 😭 those stubborn highs are genuinely horrific, especially when you do EVERYTHING right and your blood sugar still refuses to cooperate. i hope you're feeling okay now!!
also thank you guys for trusting me with these requests honestly!! i’m trying really hard not to make all the diabetic!reader fics feel repetitive, so i loved this one because it explores a completely different side of things <3
one of those nights
Joe Keery x diabetic!reader
Summary: A stubborn high turns into a frightening hospital trip, and Joe quietly stays steady through every awful part of it - the nausea, the fear, the guilt, and the exhaustion afterwards.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, type 1 diabetic reader, hypoglycaemia, hospital visit, nausea, caretaking, medical themes, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.2k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
The high starts soon after dinner.
At first, it just feels annoying. One of those blood sugars that climbs for no obvious reason despite you doing everything properly. You correct it. Wait. Drink water. Correct again.
Still climbing.
Joe notices the shift in your mood before you say anything out loud. You’re standing in the kitchen refilling your water bottle for the third time in an hour when he glances up from the sofa.
“You okay?”
“Mhm.”
The answer comes too quickly.
Joe watches you for another second while you screw the cap back onto the bottle slightly too hard.
“What’s your sugar at?”
You hesitate.
Which tells him enough already.
“Honey.”
“Eighteen.”
Joe’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Okay.”
“It’s fine.”
But your voice has that clipped little edge it always gets when you’re trying not to panic.
Joe knows the difference now between a normal bad mood and the very specific irritability that comes with high blood sugars. You move differently when you’re high. Slower somehow. Like your body’s dragging behind you.
He sets his book down quietly.
“When did you last correct?”
“Like… forty minutes ago.”
Joe nods once. Calm. Steady. Never dramatic.
“Alright. Let’s give it a little longer.”
You nod too quickly.
Then immediately refill your water bottle again.
Two hours later, you’re sitting on the bathroom floor trying not to cry.
Twenty-three point eight.
You stare at the number on your monitor like maybe it’ll suddenly change if you hate it hard enough.
Joe crouches beside you carefully. “Hey.”
“I don’t understand what’s wrong.”
Your voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word.
Because you did everything right. That’s the worst part. You counted dinner properly. You corrected twice. Changed your infusion site when you started suspecting it might’ve failed. Drank enough water to feel sick already.
Still high.
Still climbing.
Joe reaches over carefully and brushes sweaty hair back from your forehead.
“You checked ketones?”
You nod weakly toward the testing strips sitting beside the sink. “Little bit raised.”
Joe’s jaw tightens slightly.
Not enough that most people would notice.
You notice.
“I’m okay,” you say immediately.
Joe doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he reaches for your hand where it’s curled limply against your knee and presses his thumb slowly across your knuckles.
“You feel sick?”
You shrug.
Then immediately regret it when nausea twists violently through your stomach.
“Oh.”
Joe sees your face change instantly.
“Oh, baby.”
You bend forward suddenly, forearm braced against the toilet seat while your stomach rolls unpleasantly. Joe’s hand lands immediately between your shoulder blades, warm and steady.
“You’re alright,” he murmurs softly. “Breathe.”
“I hate this,” you whisper miserably.
Joe doesn’t try to contradict you.
Because sometimes diabetes is horrible.
Instead, he just keeps rubbing slow circles across your back while the bathroom light hums quietly overhead.
“You think I messed something up?” you ask eventually, voice small.
Joe’s expression changes immediately.
“No.”
“But what if-”
“Honey.” His hand stills briefly against your spine until you look at him properly. “Bodies are weird sometimes. Diabetes is weird sometimes. This is not you failing.”
Your eyes sting instantly.
You look away before the emotion can fully hit.
Joe notices anyway.
Of course he does.
“I think we should go get you checked out,” he says gently after another few minutes.
Your stomach drops immediately. “Joe-”
“You’ve done corrections, changed the site, drank water, checked ketones, and you still feel awful.” His voice stays soft. Careful. “I’d rather overreact than risk you getting properly sick.”
You hate that he’s right.
You hate hospitals. Hate the fluorescent lighting and the waiting and the feeling of becoming fragile in public.
“I don’t wanna go.”
Joe’s face softens painfully. “I know.”
And that’s the thing about Joe. He never talks to you like you’re being unreasonable. Never dismisses the fear first just because practicality matters more.
He reaches up carefully and smooths his thumb beneath your eye.
“We’ll just get you checked out, okay? Then maybe they’ll tell us we’re both dramatic and send us home.”
Despite everything, you laugh weakly.
Joe smiles slightly. “There she is.”
The hospital waiting room smells faintly like disinfectant and burnt coffee.
Your head hurts. Your mouth feels disgusting - dry in that horrible, thick way high blood sugars always seem to cause. Every muscle in your body feels vaguely wrong.
Joe sits beside you in the stiff plastic chair with one knee pressed against yours the entire time. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t let go of your hand in nearly an hour.
“You tired?” he murmurs quietly.
You nod against his shoulder.
Joe glances down at the monitor still clutched weakly in your hand. “Coming down a little.”
“Mm.”
Twenty-one now.
Still awful.
But moving.
A nurse eventually calls your name and Joe stands up immediately beside you.
The doctor ends up confirming what you already suspected. Bad infusion site. Mild ketones. Dehydration. Nothing catastrophic. Just one of those nights where diabetes decides to be cruel for no reason.
You nearly cry from relief anyway when they say you can go home.
Outside, the air’s cold and damp against your skin while Joe guides you carefully toward the car.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You laugh weakly. “I feel like death.”
Joe opens the passenger door for you immediately.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But a medically supervised death now.”
You snort tiredly despite yourself.
The drive home happens mostly in silence. Streetlights slide gold across Joe’s face while one hand stays loose on the steering wheel and the other keeps reaching over absentmindedly to squeeze your knee at red lights.
By the time you get home, your blood sugar’s finally dropped below fifteen.
You’ve never been so happy to see a number in your life.
Joe gets you into bed with ridiculous gentleness, like you’re something fragile he’s scared of bruising accidentally.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble while he plugs your phone charger in beside the bed.
Joe looks up immediately. “For what?”
“For ruining the night.”
That lands badly.
You see it happen instantly in his face.
“Honey,” Joe says carefully, “you having a medical emergency is not an inconvenience to me.”
You stare down at the blankets instead.
Joe sits beside you then, mattress dipping warmly beneath his weight.
“You know what I was thinking the whole drive home?”
“What?”
“That I wished I could make you feel better faster.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because he means it. Not in a dramatic way. Just honestly.
Joe reaches over and gently pulls the blanket higher around you.
“I hate seeing you feel scared,” he murmurs quietly.
That almost breaks something open in your chest.
“You were scared too,” you say softly.
Joe looks down for a second before answering.
“Yeah.”
The honesty of it makes your eyes sting.
Joe notices immediately.
Then, very softly, “C’mere.”
You lean into him without thinking. Joe wraps both arms around you carefully while you press your face into the warm curve of his neck. His hoodie smells faintly like rain and hospital soap and home.
Loved this sm!! What about a fic where they tell their daughter how they struggled at first and telling her their story of becoming parents at such a young age. (maybe someone at school teased her for having such young parents or shamed them, like a teacher)
im glad you enjoyed the fic!! i love the idea of their daughter being old enough now to finally understand that her parents weren’t just “young parents”, they were literally kids trying their absolute best while the world kept expecting them to fail
she was worth it
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: After somebody at school makes a cruel comment about her “teen parents,” Joe and reader finally tell their daughter the full story of what those early years were really like - the judgement, the grief, the fear, and the overwhelming love that made it worth surviving anyway.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, teen pregnancy, teen parenting, family conflict, estrangement, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.6k
A/N: You can read the previous part here!
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
Your daughter comes home from school and walks straight past the bowl of chips on the kitchen counter.
Joe watches her disappear upstairs before lowering the glass in his hand slightly.
“Huh,” he says quietly.
You glance up from the kettle. “What?”
“She didn’t steal my chips.”
The house settles back into silence after that. Footsteps overhead. A bedroom door shutting. Music starting faintly through the ceiling a few seconds later.
You dry your hands slowly on a tea towel.
“Maybe she’s tired.”
“Maybe.”
But Joe keeps looking toward the stairs with that slight crease between his eyebrows that’s been there for most of his adult life now. The one that usually means he’s worrying about somebody.
You’ve spent nearly twenty years watching Joe love people.
He does it attentively. Quietly. Like he’s always listening for small changes in the atmosphere.
An hour later, your daughter comes downstairs wearing one of Joe’s old hoodies, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her eyes look swollen around the edges in that careful way people try to hide crying.
Your stomach drops immediately.
Joe notices too. You see it happen in the way he straightens slightly in his chair.
“Hey, bug,” he says softly.
She shrugs like she regrets being perceived already.
“Hi.”
Joe nudges the chair beside him backwards with his foot. She hesitates for a second before sitting down heavily, shoulder knocking automatically against his side. Joe’s arm settles around her without either of them really thinking about it.
You still aren’t used to how much she looks like him sometimes.
Not physically, even though she has his curls now.
It’s the smaller things. The way she folds into people when she’s hurting. The way she tries to joke around bad moods until they dissolve on their own. The stubborn little line between her eyebrows whenever she’s pretending she’s fine.
“What happened?” you ask gently.
Your daughter picks at the cuff of the hoodie for a second too long.
“One of the teachers said something today.”
Joe goes very still beside her.
“What kinda something?”
“We were talking about university applications and families and stuff.” Her voice tightens awkwardly. “And somebody asked how old you guys were when you had me.”
The room shifts slightly.
You feel it immediately.
Your daughter stares hard at the table while she talks.
“She laughed.”
Joe’s arm tightens once around her shoulders.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that you notice.
“She what?” he asks quietly.
Your daughter rushes onward immediately, words tumbling over each other now like she already regrets bringing it up.
“It wasn’t even that bad, okay? She just said it made sense I’m independent because apparently I ‘grew up fast with teenage parents.’”
The kettle clicks softly behind you.
Nobody moves to pour it.
Joe looks down at the table for a second before asking carefully, “You alright?”
Your daughter shrugs.
Which is answer enough.
You move slowly toward the table and sit beside them. Outside, rain taps softly against the kitchen windows while somebody’s dog barks further down the street.
Your daughter keeps staring downward.
“Was it really awful?” she asks eventually.
You blink. “What was?”
“When I was little.” She glances carefully between both of you. “Was it actually as bad as everybody thought it would be?”
Joe answers before you do.
“No.”
The certainty of it makes her look up.
Joe rubs his thumb absentmindedly against her shoulder through the hoodie fabric while he thinks.
“It was hard,” he says finally. “Really hard sometimes.”
You watch him carefully as he speaks. There’s grey at his temples now if the bathroom lighting catches him the wrong way. Laugh lines around his eyes. He still gestures with his hands too much when he talks. Still reaches for people automatically.
Still looks at your daughter sometimes like he can’t believe she’s real.
“We didn’t know what we were doing,” he admits with a small laugh. “I had like three separate panic attacks trying to install your car seat.”
Your daughter snorts quietly despite herself.
Joe smiles slightly.
“We had no money. Your mom was finishing school while taking care of a newborn. I worked basically every shift anybody would give me.”
“And people were horrible sometimes,” you say quietly before you can stop yourself.
Your daughter’s expression tightens immediately.
“Like who?”
You and Joe exchange a glance.
It still feels strange talking about those years out loud. Like opening boxes you taped shut a long time ago.
“Everybody, sometimes,” Joe says carefully. “Teachers. Parents. Random strangers.”
“Your grandparents,” you add softly.
The room stills again.
Your daughter looks between you both slowly. “That’s why they stopped talking to you?”
Joe’s hand finds yours beneath the table automatically.
You stare at the grain of the wood for a second before answering.
“They thought we’d ruined our lives.”
Your daughter’s face crumples in a way that hurts immediately to look at.
“That’s awful.”
Something catches painfully in your chest then, because she sounds genuinely heartbroken for you. For the two terrified teenagers you used to be.
Joe turns toward her slightly.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Don’t be sad for us.”
“How am I not supposed to be?”
Joe leans back in his chair a little, thinking.
The kitchen light catches against his wedding ring when he reaches up to rub tiredly at his jaw.
“I dunno,” he says softly. “Because we still got you.”
Silence settles warmly around the kitchen after that.
Rain against the windows.
The hum of the fridge.
Your daughter blinking rapidly while pretending she isn’t emotional.
“You guys never really talk about it,” she says eventually.
You laugh quietly under your breath.
“Honestly? We were usually too busy trying to survive it.”
That earns a small smile.
Joe glances toward you then, something fond and tired flickering briefly across his face.
There were years where surviving really did feel like the only objective.
You remember feeding your daughter pasta at the kitchen counter while finishing essays at three in the morning because deadlines didn’t stop for babies. You remember Joe falling asleep sitting upright on the sofa after double shifts, still wearing his work shoes because he’d been too exhausted to take them off properly.
You remember being so tired once you cried because the supermarket had run out of formula.
And Joe - barely eighteen himself - standing in the middle of the aisle holding your face in both hands while your daughter screamed in the trolley beside you.
“We’ll figure it out,” he’d whispered.
Somehow, he always made you believe him.
“You cried because she sneezed once,” Joe says suddenly.
“It sounded concerning.”
“She sneezed.”
“It was aggressive.”
Your daughter laughs properly this time, shoulders shaking against Joe’s side, and something in your chest loosens instantly at the sound.
God.
You remember that laugh as a baby. High and sudden and impossible not to answer with one of your own.
Joe’s smiling now too, softer around the edges than he realises.
“There were scary bits,” he says quietly. “But honestly?” He looks down at your daughter for a second. “Mostly we were just obsessed with you immediately.”
Your throat tightens.
Joe laughs softly under his breath like he’s embarrassed by his own honesty.
“You slept in a laundry basket for like three months because we couldn’t afford a crib yet.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“You loved that laundry basket,” he says firmly.
“You screamed every time we put you anywhere else,” you add.
“She also once threw up directly into my mouth.”
“Oh my god, dad.”
“I’m just saying, you weren’t always cute.”
Your daughter groans loudly while you laugh into your hand.
The heaviness in the room shifts slightly after that. Not gone entirely. Just softened around the edges enough to breathe through.
Your daughter leans more heavily into Joe’s side, chewing thoughtfully at the inside of her cheek.
Then, quieter, “I think you guys are cooler than everybody else’s parents, actually.”
Joe perks up immediately. “See? I’ve been saying this for years.”
“You cried at Finding Nemo.”
“That fish had a difficult life.”
“You cried at Ratatouille too.”
“He followed his dreams.”
“You cried at my year six nativity.”
Joe looks genuinely defensive now. “You were a very convincing sheep.”
Your daughter bursts into laughter again while you shake your head fondly across the table.
There’s flour on Joe’s sleeve from where he’d started making dinner earlier. Your daughter’s still curled into his side despite technically being an adult now. Rainwater glows gold beneath the streetlights outside the kitchen window.
The stove clicks quietly behind you where dinner’s still sitting forgotten.
Nobody moves.
Joe keeps absentmindedly rubbing circles against your daughter’s shoulder while your hand stays tangled loosely with his beneath the table.
And sitting there beneath warm kitchen lights, listening to the two people you love most tease each other over animated films and primary school plays, you feel something settle quietly inside you.
Because there was a time people looked at the three of you and saw disaster.
A cautionary tale.
Something doomed before it had even really begun.
And maybe those years were difficult in ways your daughter will never fully understand. Maybe there were nights you cried from exhaustion and mornings Joe left for work running on two hours of sleep and fear alone.
But looking at them now - your daughter laughing into Joe’s shoulder while rain taps softly against the windows of the home you built together - you can’t bring yourself to regret any of it.
omg i loved your diabetic reader x joe!! im diabetic and stumbled upon it and it lowkey made me feel less bad about my own diabetes weirdly? idk like i felt kinda seen! would u do more? maybe like helping change a dexcom or feeding her when her hands are so shaky during a low she can’t really do it herself
awh this one got me immediately
joe being all soft and careful during dexcom changes and helping reader through really shaky lows without making her feel embarrassed about it??? absolutely yes. you guys are genuinely making me so emotional with these diabetic!reader requests pahah
steady hands
Joe Keery x diabetic!reader
Summary: Joe learns every tiny part of reader’s diabetes management until caring for her becomes second nature, even during shaky midnight lows and painful dexcom changes.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, type 1 diabetic reader, dexcom changes, hypoglycaemia, caretaking, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.4k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
The first time Joe helps change your dexcom, you almost cancel the whole thing halfway through.
Not because it hurts particularly badly.
It’s more the anticipation of it.
The weird mental block you get every single time despite having done this for years now.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the toilet seat in one of Joe’s old t-shirts while he kneels in front of you holding the new sensor applicator very carefully, like it’s somehow alive.
“You know you don’t need to look so terrified,” you mumble.
Joe glances up immediately. “I’m not terrified.”
“You look like you’re diffusing a bomb.”
“In my defence,” he says seriously, “there are a lot of instructions.”
You snort softly despite yourself.
The thing is, Joe didn’t start helping because you asked him to.
He just noticed eventually.
Noticed how long you procrastinated site changes. How you’d wander around the flat pretending to do other tasks first. How you always got weirdly quiet beforehand no matter how many times you’d done it before.
Joe notices everything eventually.
“You okay?” he asks softly now, eyes flicking up toward you again.
You shrug one shoulder weakly. “Yeah.”
That immediately tells him you’re lying.
Joe rests his hand gently against your knee.
“Honey.”
“I know it’s stupid.”
“Hey.” His eyebrows pull together slightly. “Don’t do that.”
You look away toward the sink instead.
“It’s just annoying,” you admit quietly. “I’m a grown adult and I still have to psych myself up for it every time.”
Joe’s expression softens instantly.
“You have a medical device getting attached to your body,” he says carefully. “I think you’re allowed to be a little weird about it.”
Something in your chest aches slightly at that.
Because he says it so simply.
No judgment. No confusion. No making you feel overdramatic.
Just understanding.
Joe reaches for the alcohol wipe again before gently cleaning the skin on your arm. His hands are warm and ridiculously careful, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin afterwards like he’s apologising in advance.
“Ready?” he asks.
You grimace immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Joe laughs quietly.
Then, softer, “You wanna hold my hand?”
Your eyes flick back toward him.
“You need both hands.”
“I’ll make it work.”
The sincerity of it almost kills you slightly.
You end up gripping onto his shoulder instead while Joe positions the applicator carefully against your arm.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Deep breath.”
You bury your face dramatically against his hair.
Joe laughs softly against your shoulder before pressing the button.
Click.
You tense automatically.
Then blink.
“Oh.”
Joe’s already looking up at you worriedly. “You okay?”
“That was actually fine.”
His whole face brightens immediately like he personally achieved something.
“Told you.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
You laugh softly while Joe carefully smooths the adhesive down around the edges with his thumb. His hands are warm against your skin, ridiculously gentle in a way that makes something ache quietly in your chest.
The thing about Joe is that he never treats your diabetes like a burden.
Not once.
Even when it interrupts plans. Even when it wakes him up at stupid hours of the morning. Even when he’s kneeling on the bathroom floor at midnight helping attach medical devices to your body because you got too in your own head to do it yourself.
“You good?” he asks again softly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Joe studies your face for another second anyway.
Then, quieter, “Proud of you.”
Your eyebrows pull together immediately. “For changing my dexcom?”
“For doing all this constantly.”
And there it is.
That stupid ache again.
Because diabetes feels so normal to you most of the time that you forget how relentless it probably looks from the outside. The counting and calculating and alarms and injections and site changes and constant background awareness your brain never really gets a break from.
Joe notices all of it.
Not in a pitying way.
Just… attentively.
You lean forward automatically, arms sliding around his shoulders while he’s still kneeling in front of you.
“You’re very lovely sometimes,” you mumble into his hair.
Joe laughs softly against your shoulder. “Sometimes?”
“Don’t ruin the moment.”
Later that night, Joe kisses absentmindedly around the edges of the new dexcom while you’re lying in bed together.
Not the sensor itself obviously.
Just nearby.
Warm soft kisses against your skin while his hand slides lazily beneath your shirt.
“You’re very strange,” you mumble sleepily.
Joe hums against your shoulder. “You love me.”
He’s completely right.
The low hits two weeks later while you’re halfway through watching a film.
At first it’s subtle enough you barely register it.
The slight hollowness in your chest. Your hands feeling vaguely disconnected from the rest of you. The weird cold sweat beginning at the back of your neck.
Then your CGM alarm cuts through the sitting room.
You try sitting up properly while he’s gone, but the shaking’s worse than you expected tonight. Annoyingly bad. By the time Joe comes back carrying orange juice and your favourite cereal bar, your hands are trembling hard enough you can barely pull the blanket properly around yourself.
Joe notices immediately.
“Oh, baby.”
“I’m okay,” you insist automatically.
Joe sits beside you on the sofa without arguing, one hand settling carefully against your knee.
“I know you are.”
Which somehow makes embarrassment bloom even harder beneath your ribs.
Because he’s being so gentle about it.
You hate lows like this. Hate how helpless they make you feel. Hate the weird disconnect between your brain and your body while simple tasks suddenly feel frustratingly difficult.
Joe unscrews the orange juice calmly before holding it out toward you.
You reach for it.
And nearly drop it immediately.
“Oh my god,” you mutter miserably.
Joe catches the bottle before it spills everywhere.
The shame hits fast and irrational and ugly.
“I hate this,” you whisper.
Joe goes still beside you.
Then, very quietly, “Hey.”
You look away toward the television instead.
Joe shifts closer immediately, his thigh pressing warm against yours beneath the blanket.
“Look at me a sec.”
Reluctantly, you do.
Joe’s expression is painfully soft.
“Honey,” he says gently, “you’re having a low. Your hands are shaky. That’s not embarrassing.”
You shrug helplessly anyway.
“It feels embarrassing.”
Joe’s face twists slightly at that.
Without another word, he lifts the bottle again and tilts it carefully toward your mouth instead.
The whole thing should probably feel humiliating.
Instead, somehow, it just feels tender.
Joe’s hand stays steady beneath the bottle while you drink, thumb rubbing absentminded circles against your knee the whole time like he’s trying to soothe you without making a big deal out of it.
“There you go,” he murmurs softly after a few mouthfuls. “Good girl.”
The praise hits embarrassingly hard in your current state.
Joe notices immediately, because of course he does.
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“You alright there?”
“Shut up.”
Joe laughs quietly.
Then unwraps the cereal bar for you too before breaking little pieces off absentmindedly while you lean heavily against his shoulder.
You feel ridiculous.
And exhausted.
And weirdly emotional in the way lows always seem to make everything feel bigger.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble eventually.
Joe looks genuinely confused. “For what?”
“For being difficult.”
That lands badly.
You see it immediately in his face.
“Honey,” Joe says carefully, “you needing help for ten minutes does not make you difficult.”
You stare down at the blanket in your lap instead.
Joe’s hand slides gently beneath your chin then, turning your face back toward him.
“I mean it.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
Because he does mean it.
Every word.
Joe brushes his thumb softly beneath one of your eyes before leaning down to press a kiss against your forehead.
“You spend every day taking care of yourself,” he murmurs quietly. “Let me take care of you sometimes too.”
Well.
That almost fucking does you in emotionally.
You laugh weakly despite the sting suddenly building behind your eyes.
“Careful,” you mumble. “You’re getting dangerously sweet.”
Joe grins slightly before nudging the cereal bar back toward you.
“Eat the rest of that before I start charging for bedside service.”
You snort softly and lean harder into his side while he reaches for the remote again with his free hand.
The film starts playing quietly in the background.
Neither of you really watches it.
Joe just keeps absentmindedly brushing his fingers through your hair while your blood sugar slowly crawls back upward and your body starts feeling like yours again.
