[ladybugsteve]

prycilla | she/her | twenty six | mexican | multifandom blog

disclaimer: most of my !readers are latina / hispanic because that’s how i imagine my readers to look like. however, i try my best to write them to be inclusive to everyone so that you can imagine them whatever way you want. also keep in mind that i write for fem!readers only. any writing with mature content will be properly marked. minors do not interact.

STILES STILINSKI

headcanons blurbs

VOID!STILES

headcanons blurbs

AU

mechanic!stiles best friend!stiles

STEVE HARRINGTON

headcanons blurbs au

!READERS

pizza girl!reader

FICS/SERIES

strawberry kisses

GATOR TILLMAN

FICS/SERIES

cowboy gangster politician

[ladybugsteve]

COWBOY GANGSTER POLITICIAN

childhood friend!gator tillman x oc!

content warnings (will be updated as story progresses): age gap? (gator is three years older than oc!), underage drinking, guns/knives, blood, physical violence, misogynistic beliefs, ooc!gator

summary: in which roy tillman’s only son falls for the prettiest girl in all of stark county. there’s just one problem: she’s his best friend’s little sister.

playlist: cowboy gangster politician ⋆˚࿔ goldie boutilier | dna ⋆˚࿔ lia marie johnson | tough ⋆˚࿔ lana del rey + quavo | lover ⋆˚࿔ taylor swift + shawn mendes | shallow ⋆˚࿔ lady gaga + bradley cooper | butterflies ⋆˚࿔ kacey musgraves | are you in love? ⋆˚࿔ the regrettes | angel baby ⋆˚࿔ troye sivan | blue ain’t your color ⋆˚࿔ keith urban

masterlist: coming soon!

[bitchinbarzal]

Babe | D Di Laurentis

summary: dean has his sights set on punching hunter in the face, you, his ex girlfriend won’t let him.

—

Malone’s was loud.

Music thumping through the walls, people packed shoulder to shoulder around the bar, hockey boys shouting over pool games in the back.

You were half listening to Logan tell some ridiculous story while Hannah laughed beside you when you felt it.

That shift in the room that only came when Dean was about to do something catastrophically stupid.

You looked over immediately.

And there he was.

Standing near the bar gone completely still, drink hanging loose in his hand while his eyes locked across the room.

Hunter Davenport.

Oh no.

You knew that look on Dean’s face.

Everyone did.

Garrett noticed a second later, muttering, “Shit.”

Dean was already moving.

You were out of your seat before anyone else reacted.

“Dean.”

He barely glanced at you, still stalking toward Hunter. “Y/N, move.”

His voice was dangerously calm.

“Dean, no.”

“I mean it.” He gently but firmly pushed you aside by your arm without looking away from Hunter. “Hey, Davenport!”

Every head in Malone’s started turning.

Hunter looked up from where he stood with a couple teammates near the bar.

Recognition flashed. Then smug amusement.

Huge mistake.

You saw Dean’s jaw tighten instantly.

“Dean Hayward Di Laurentis,” you snapped sharply, stepping in front of him again, “turn around right now.”

For the first time his eyes actually landed on you.

“What?”

“Turn around.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

Because you knew him. Knew that once Dean got angry enough, common sense disappeared completely beneath loyalty and emotion and impulse.

You could practically see it happening now.

The tunnel vision. The adrenaline. One bad second away from ruining everything.

“Baby,” you said quickly, reaching for his wrist before you even realized the word slipped out, “listen to me. Just turn around, okay? Don’t do this.”

Silence.

Behind you, Logan choked on his drink.

Hannah’s eyes widened.

Garrett looked like he’d just witnessed a magic trick.

Because Dean froze.

Completely.

Not at the command, At the baby.

You saw it hit him in real time.

Saw the anger crack just enough for him to actually look at you properly.

And once he did, you knew you had him.

“Wha…” His voice came out rougher now. Confused. “What?”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist.

“Dean,” you said softly this time, desperate now that you had his attention, “walk away. Babe, we’ll deal with this, okay? But you are not throwing your life away over him.”

His chest rose heavily.

Still angry.

But now he was looking at you instead of Hunter.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

Dean’s eyes locked onto yours immediately.

There he is.

Not hockey Dean.

Not party Dean.

Not angry Dean.

Your Dean.

The one who always listened to you eventually.

“You hit him,” you continued carefully, “and then what? Suspension? Charges? You wanna explain that to your coach? Your family?”

Dean swallowed hard.

Hunter laughed somewhere behind you. “Aw, Di Laurentis needs his ex to calm him down?”

You felt Dean tense all over again.

“Dean,” you warned immediately.

His jaw flexed.

You stepped closer without thinking, both hands against his chest now.

And quieter, “Please.”

That did it.

You literally watched the fight drain out of him.

Not completely but enough.

Dean closed his eyes briefly before exhaling hard through his nose.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Relief hit you so fast your knees almost weakened.

Behind you, Garrett quietly said, “Holy shit.”

Dean looked down at you finally, really looked.

Your worried eyes.

Your grip on his shirt.

The way you were standing between him and a fistfight without hesitation.

“You called me babe,” he said quietly.

Heat flooded your face instantly. Of course that was what he focused on.

“Dean.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth despite everything. “You called me babe.”

“You were about to commit aggravated assault.”

“Yeah, but you said babe.”

You stared at him incredulously.

Logan barked out a laugh somewhere behind you.

Even Tucker muttered, “He’s unbelievable.”

Dean finally dragged his eyes away from you long enough to glare over your shoulder at Hunter.

Then back to you.

Then, with visible effort, he stepped backward.

Away from the fight.

The entire bar looked stunned.

Because nobody stopped Dean Di Laurentis when he got like that.

Nobody except you.

And the worst part is that you weren’t even together anymore.

[xpeachsunsidex]

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Summary: Gator’s always going to protect his baby girl, even after he’s been busy breaking her heart.

WC: 2.6k

Warnings & What to Expect: Gator struggling to commit, angst w/ happy ending, mentions of alcohol & sex, men putting their hands where they don’t belong, the cliche bar trope but i loveeee it, allusions of spice - but no smut.

Masterlist If Interested

Peach’s Note: ughh this was originally a request and i freaking accidentally DELETED it while trying to respond 😭🫠 so sorry anon, but this was the one about gator intervening at the bar to protect his girl. if you’re seeing this, hope you enjoy lovie 🧡

tysm to everyone showing love on my works - it means the world. requests are open! feel free to send anything Steve Harrington or Gator Tillman related and I can certainly try my best 🫡

Divider credits to @cafekitsune

If there was one thing Gator Tillman was good at, it was breaking your heart.

It’s why you were wallowing in self misery at the local bar with a couple of your girlfriends in the middle of the work week.

You’ve knocked back more shots than you really should’ve, knowing you’ll have a killer headache in the morning with an even harsher reality check when Gator finds you here - which he will, because he always does.

Tracking and chasing you down was his specialty after all.

Your pointer finger lazily traces the rim of the drink you’re finally nursing after your friends convinced you to slow down, and your mind reflects back on what pushed you to go out in the first place.

Gator had stopped by your place during his break on the night shift, greeting you eagerly when you opened the door for him.

He’d taken a longer break than normal - allowing himself to sit on the couch with you propped up in his lap. Your knees sunk into the plush of the cushions on either side of his hips, hands planted on his chest - delicately brushing the exposed skin by the collar of his shirt.

His arms were looped around you, hands intertwined at the base of your back, smirking at you when he’d cup the curve of your ass - trying to cop a feel despite the fact that he doesn’t have that much time.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Alligator,” you whispered breathily by the shell of his ear.

Gator groans in frustration, “Then stop teasin’ me baby.”

It makes you shift your hips, pressing more firmly against him, and he lets out a strangled noise of pleasure at the contact.

“Gotta stop, or else Roy will cut my dick off if ‘m late again cause of you,” he chokes out, and it makes you giggle at his dramatics.

One of his hands trails up your back, before he brings it around to gently grasp your chin between his fingers - forcing you to look at him, “Don’t you laugh at me, you know how pissed he was last time.”

His thumb swipes across your bottom lip, and you open your mouth to playfully bite down on it, making his eyes blow wide.

“C’mon baby girl, don’t do this to me,” he practically begs.

You sigh loudly, pretending to think about it, “Hmm, I guess since you asked so nicely.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes without any ill intent, before going quiet - taking you in. The lapse of talking allows you to remember the phone call you’d gotten before he showed up at your door - the one you were hesitant to tell him about.

“Somethin’ on your mind, baby girl?” He questions, genuine interest lacing his tone.

The way he’s looking at you, softly, almost as if he were memorizing your features - like he’s storing them somewhere in the depths of his mind and it allows you to make your decision.

“I was thinking,” you start, breaking off when he ducks his head to nip at the base of your throat.

“Usually leads to trouble,” he teases, sucking lightly at the now tender skin - knowing it’ll leave a possessive mark.

Your fingers play with the tendrils of hair poking out from the back of his hat and you work up the courage to finally just ask.

“My parents are coming to visit soon, and they wanna meet you,” you admit.

Gator goes rigid under you, mouth and hands stopping their wandering, and he pulls away to look at you with disbelief clouding his eyes.

“Why? It ain’t like wer’ together or somethin’ like that,” he grumbled, displeased at the idea.

The words stir something ugly under your ribs, disappointment at his continued insistence to not make anything official between the two of you.

That was the problem with a man like Gator - wanted to keep you around for all the benefits, but didn't want to label it so he could get out of the responsibility that came with being in a relationship.

It was giving you whiplash - experiencing how affectionate he could be while being so mean at the same time.

You were tired of it and decided to call him out on his bullshit, “Are you seeing other girls, Gator?”

He pauses, lips parting briefly before closing again, and it makes your stomach roll uneasily because you didn't think he was actually seeing other girls.

You start to pull away, but he frantically grabs at you, keeping you securely in his hold, “No, ‘m not seeing anybody else, promise.”

“Then what are we doing?” You gesture between the two of you.

Gator’s thumb comes up to smooth out the crease that your eyebrows have created, “We’re havin’ fun.”

“What if I want more than just fun?” You ask tentatively.

He shrugs his shoulders, “Then we should probably stop foolin’ around.”

His indifference is gut wrenching, but it’s nothing new - been let down before by him and his lack of commitment.

“You really don’t have any deeper feelings for me than that?” You ask him resolutely.

You can almost see the internal battle happening in that tortured brain of his - the one where his daddy is yelling at him for letting a girl make him soft, and the other one that’s whispering to him to let you in.

Gator’s teeth clenched tight, and you know his answer will hurt when his face pinches as if he’s annoyed, "Thought you knew what this was.”

“Guess I was stupid enough to think otherwise,” you mumble, and he doesn’t fight you this time when you force yourself off of him.

“Baby girl, don’t be like that,” he tries weakly.

“It’s fine, but you should be heading out now, Gator. You’ve got work to get back to and obviously we should stop ‘foolin’ around’ since I want you for more than just sex,” you bite out, tone harsher than you meant for it to be.

He breathes out harshly through his nose, “Didn’t mean it that way.”

“Whatever, Gator. I don’t care. Just go, please,” you fold your arms, retreating into your shell shamefully at his dismissive behavior.

A muscle in his jaw twitches like he wants to talk it out, but he glances at the watch on his wrist and realizes he needs to go.

“Can I still come over later?” He asks a little desperately.

“I don’t see the point. Goodnight, Gator,” you tell him stiffly, shutting the door behind him - locking it loudly so he gets the hint.

When you texted the group chat to vent about the awful exchange, your friends persuaded you to meet them for drinks to lift your spirits.

It didn’t help - instead, it made you feel worse at seeing the couple in the booth you considered yours and Gator’s when you came to the place together - had you remembering when he sneakily trailed his hand under your skirt one time - made you nearly pass out from the blissful feeling he was giving you in a public setting.

You just couldn’t get him off your mind - head spinning, wondering what you could’ve done to make him want you more.

You encouraged your friends to go play pool when a few guys from out of town came up to your group to flirt around, but you stayed behind at the bar - feet kicking the air sadly as you sat on the stool.

Suddenly, a hand slithers around your waist - making you freeze.

It’s a man from the group that came up to your friends, whose eyes had been lingering on you - making you nervous, because that look wasn’t interest. It was entitlement, like you owed him something he deserved.

“Please don’t touch me,” you try being polite, hoping he’ll listen the first time - which is pointless. If anything, his fingers dig into your skin uncomfortably harder.

“You’re just so pretty, dollface, can’t help myself,” he shares huskily, tilting his head, breath littered with traces of liquor - trying to get you to look at him.

Your heart starts hammering loudly, and there’s a shift in energy at the bar as people start to take notice of the man’s hands on you - because while Gator may not lay claim to being your boyfriend, everyone certainly knew not to mess with his girl.

The bartender knows it too, “Hey man, she asked you to take your hands off. I would listen if I were you.”

The man barks out a laugh of irritation, “Ain’t the boss of me. I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

His hold on you is borderline painful at this point, and you're overwhelmed by the rush of signal firings of fight or flight taking over your body.

“Get off of me,” you command, squirming to break free.

“Don’t need to be such a priss about it, baby,” the guy sneers at you, refusing to let go. The pet name is revolting coming from anyone else but Gator, let alone a random guy trying to feel you up.

You’re nearly hyperventilating at his insistence - panicking about the fact that everyone else is either too drunk to notice or intervene.

Little did you know that the bartender had already reached out to the station - had been paid off by the Tillmans to keep an eye on you. The call came across the radio system in Gator’s deputy truck - who was already parked outside the bar - has been for an hour now. He’d been weighing the options on how you’d react if he showed up inside, but the call instantly made the choice for him.

Gator doesn’t need to storm in - his presence alone commands the attention of the room, eyes following his slow footsteps as he treks his way across the room to you. He can’t help the instant flood of pride that washes over him when he watches you throw the remains of your drink at the sleazy guy dangling off of you.

The guy rears back, jumping up from his seat, “What the fuck!”

Gator’s nearly at your side by now, and he smoothly slides in front of you, arm coming out to block the guy from trying to get to you.

“Gonna need yah to back off man,” Gator warns.

You startle at his appearance - would have been less than thrilled to see him earlier, but now you’re immensely grateful he’s shown up.

“Listen prick, this bitch-,” the man starts, and it’s all it takes for Gator to snap.

He grabs two fistfulls of the guys shirt, shoving him hard into the ledge of the counter top and gets real close to his face - murderous look behind those pretty eyes of his.

“I said, back, the fuck, off,” Gator pushes hard at the man’s chest, enunciating each word viciously.

The guy finally quiets at the threat, but his eyes narrow into slits, sizing Gator up like he’s determining if he could take him or not.

“C’mon baby girl, let’s go,” he leisurely lets go of the man, slipping an arm around your shoulders - guiding you towards the front door.

Gator’s almost steered you to the exit when you’re caught off guard by a rough tug at your arm, and a whimper leaves your lips at the sharp sting of the asshole’s nails cutting into your wrist when you rip yourself away from him.

The sound of you in pain makes Gator’s face twist in rage, and he whistles a signal to one of Roy's ranch hands who’s been cautiously watching from the entrance - worry pools in your gut because you know that means Gator’s about to beat the ever living shit out of the guy.

“Wait, Gate, it’s okay,” you say calmly, trying to talk him down from the dumb decision he’s about to make.

His eyes flick down to your wrist that you’re cradling, “Yer bleeding. Like hell it’s okay.”

The ranch hand stands beside you, and Gator gives a quick demand, “Get her in the car.”

“Gator,” you plead, but he’s already got his back to you.

You catch the first swing of his fist - cracking against the guy’s nose easily, but the ranch hand moves you out into the cool evening air before you can watch the rest of the brewing fight.

The car ride back to your house was silent. You probably couldn’t speak even if you wanted to with the way the bile was climbing up your throat at seeing Gator’s knuckles swollen and bleeding. The only other evidence of his brawl was a large bruise blooming on the underside of his jaw - must’ve been the only underhook throw the guy got on him.

You were livid at him - not only had he left you in broken pieces earlier in the day, but he threw himself into a fight that wasn’t needed and could've seriously gotten hurt.

Despite the fact, you had him sitting on your bathroom sink while you cleaned up his raw fingers - layer of skin missing from how hard he’d been swinging.

You were standing between his parted thighs, far too close for comfort after the devastating words he’d uttered just hours ago, and you could feel his breath fanning across your skin - leaving behind a traitorous trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“God, you drive me crazy, Gator Tillman,” you tell him when you’re done, throwing the dirty cloth you used into the laundry basket.

“That a good thing or bad thing?” He teases, grinning wildly at you.

“Bad, definitely bad,” you roll your eyes, stepping back - but Gator refuses to let you leave him, hands snatching out to grasp at your waist, delicately dragging you back to him.

“Excuse me for wantin’ to defend yer honor,” he chides, raising his eyebrows.

“If we ‘ain’t in a relationship’,” you mock, using his own words, “then how come you felt the need to do so?”

“Cause he was a jackass,” he splutters.

You shake your head, “Not good enough of a reason.”

“Woulda done if for anyone,” he mumbles, blatantly lying.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhausted from his stubbornness, “Oh my god, just be honest with me for once, Gator.”

“Fine, dammit, because yer mine. Got that? Mine. And nobody lays hands on my baby girl,” he seethes, jealously flaring like hot coals in his chest.

You reach up to cup his jaw in your hands, sweetly brushing over the bruise, and he closes his eyes in content at the touch.

You stand on your tip toes to get close, press a soft kiss to the tender skin and whisper, “Was that really so hard to admit, Alligator?”

He swallows thickly, eyes fluttering back open to look at you with desire, “Didn’t label it because I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“You won’t, not if you just try for me,” you promise, nudging your nose against his - a silent request for him to kiss you.

He grants your wish, strong arms tracing the length of your torso, hand coming up to cradle the back of your head - gauze wrapped fingers tangling with the tendrils of your hair.

You press yourself eagerly against him, lips slotting with his like second nature. You’re not sure how much time passes as you bask in each other before finding yourselves intertwined beneath the bedsheets, under the glow of the moonlight shadowing your room.

And if Gator snuck out in the middle of the early morning - pausing to press a kiss to your hairline, admiring you as you let out a little noise of satisfaction - before leaving to go smash in the windows of the car of the idiot who dared to put his hands on you, well then that would be a secret Gator would take to his grave.

[harringtonsdiary]

harringtonsdiary sleepover!

mean! steve | king steve| steve harrington x reader | smut | fake dating

warnings: a little blackmail, drinking, fake dating, steve lowkey high key a pervert ://, choking, oral sex f receiving, porn with little to no plot summary: steve has you fake date him so nancy will take him seriously words: 3.1k for u mary <3

The polaroid is a 3x3 inch piece of cardstock and it has ruined your entire autumn.

You were standing at your locker on a Tuesday morning trying to find your calc notes and realized with the specific, sinking horror of someone watching a car roll slowly into a ditch that you had put it in the wrong locker.

Jacob Weir's locker is number 142.

Steve Harrington's locker is number 141.

The polaroid was meant to go to Jacob Weir, a boy you were seeing occasionally. It wasn’t a nude, per say. But it was you on all fours at the edge of Lisa's pool, laughing at something off-frame, your bikini top doing an absolutely terrible job of containing anything, the way the wet fabric clung and the angle of the shot made the whole thing look approximately one thousand times more provocative than it had felt in the moment. Your tits practically the star of the picture. Your back arched. The late July sun catching the water on your skin.

Lisa had called it a good photo.

Lisa had been right, which was the problem.

You'd stood there doing the math for approximately four seconds before the parking lot after practice, and Steve Harrington leaning against the hood of your car with his arms crossed and his hair doing that thing and the polaroid held up between two fingers like a tiny, devastating flag.

You'd reached for it. He'd lifted it higher, eyebrows raised, mouth pulling into a smirk that you would like to formally describe as insufferable.

"Nuh-uh." His eyes had moved over you with an ease that made your back teeth press together. "Why don't we have a chat in your car."

It wasn't a question.

And now it's been a month, and you're arriving at Tina’s party as Steve Harrington's girlfriend, in a pink blouse and a baby blue skirt and a white belt you'd picked because the note he'd slipped in your locker said wear something cute and you'd decided immediately that you were going to do the opposite and then stood in front of your mirror for twenty minutes and put on the outfit anyway, which you are choosing not to examine.

The deal is simple. You play the part until Nancy Wheeler is convinced Steve can handle something real. He gives back the polaroid. You never speak of it again.

Simple.

.-.-.-.

Carol has her hands up Tommy's sleeves before you've cleared the driveway.

You watch her press a kiss to his cheek from the backseat, then another to the corner of his jaw, and you look out the window at the dark passing streets and remind yourself that you are here for the polaroid and the polaroid only.

Steve hasn't said a word since he picked you up.

You'd come outside and he'd looked at you— a long, sweeping once-over that started at your heels and ended at your face— and something had moved through his expression that you couldn't name before he looked away and told you to get in. His jaw has been set the entire ride. You can see it in the rearview mirror when you let yourself look, which you do, occasionally, because the alternative is watching Carol perform open-mouth kisses on Tommy's earlobe and you have your limits.

His eyes find yours in the mirror once.

You look away first. You don't think about the color of them.

The party is loud. Wall to wall bodies, something with too much bass shaking the floorboards, Beer. Cologne. Weed. You've been here enough times to know where the good drinks are, which rooms to avoid, and how long it takes before the ratio of drunk to sober tips past the point of no return.

Steve's hand finds your waist the moment you're through the door.

This is normal. This is part of it. You know the weight of his hand by now— the span of his palm, the way his fingers settle into the curve like they're finding something familiar— and you have told yourself on numerous occasions that your body's response to it is purely physiological and entirely involuntary and completely meaningless.

You are three drinks in and he still hasn't left your side.

This is not normal. This is not part of it.

Normally by now he's done a loop of the room looking for Nancy, and you've found someone adequately charming to lean against a wall with, and you reconvene by the door at the end of the night looking suitably couple-ish for anyone who might report back. That's the arrangement. That's what works.

Instead Steve Harrington is standing beside you with his jaw clenched and his cup gripped tight and his hand on your waist like it was bolted there, and every time someone comes too close his fingers tighten incrementally, and you have been watching this happen for forty minutes with the growing and uncomfortable suspicion that Nancy Wheeler has nothing to do with it.

You slip away when he gets cornered by someone from the basketball team.

.-.-.-.

There’s a bathroom upstairs, down a hall you've never been down before, past a door you're fairly certain is Tina’s parents' room and therefore firmly off limits. You slip inside anyway and turn the lock and stand over the sink with your hands braced on the porcelain and breathe.

The past two weeks have been strange.

Strange at school, strange at his games, strange at every party you've stood beside him at with his hand on your waist and his jaw set tight. He's been grouchier— shorter with Tommy, quieter in general, a low-grade irritability— but at the same time he's been closer. Always at your locker before you get there. Always finding you in a crowd before you've had the chance to find him. He'll pull you in and kiss you deep, the kind of kiss that takes a second to recover from, and then walk away with his brow furrowed like he's annoyed at himself for something.

You've told yourself it's Nancy. That she wasn't at the last party he invited her to. That the plan isn't working and he's frustrated and taking it out on the nearest available person, which happens to be you.

You've told yourself this enough times that you almost believe it.

Almost, except for the part where you don't know why it bothers you— the Nancy thing. The way his eyes move across a room sometimes, still searching. You notice it and something tightens in your chest and you look away and you don't examine it because there is nothing there worth examining.

Because here is the thing you have been carefully not saying out loud: you like it.

You like his hand on your waist even when no one is watching. You like catching him looking at your chest a beat too long, his eyes flicking up to yours, his jaw tightening like he's irritated with himself. You like the parties where he pulls you close and kisses you for an audience— pretending, completely pretending, putting on a show— his tongue licking into your mouth, his hand sliding from your waist up your ribs, his thumb brushing your tit before his whole hand closes over it like he forgot he was supposed to stop.

You have no idea how any of this is convincing Nancy Wheeler of anything.

You stopped trying to work out the logistics, because the truth is the perks of this arrangement have stopped feeling like perks and started feeling like something you'd miss. Like last Tuesday in the lunch line when he squeezed your ass and looked away immediately, pretending he hadn't. Like the note waiting in your locker at the end of that same day, his handwriting loose and unbothered across the paper:

nice jeans.

You'd stood at your locker holding it for longer than you'd like to admit.

You run cold water over your wrists and look at yourself in the mirror and give yourself a brief, stern talk about the nature of fake relationships and the importance of not reading into things, and you feel considerably better by the time you turn the tap off.

You open the door.

Steve is leaning against the wall across the hall, head tipped back, looking at the ceiling.

He hears the door and his eyes drop to you immediately. You watch them move— your shoes, your legs, the skirt, the blouse, back up to your face— and something in them shifts in the low light, darkens, the way his eyes have been doing for the past two weeks and that you have been studiously not thinking about.

He pushes off the wall.

He doesn't crowd you exactly. He moves into the hallway with the calm ease of someone who isn't worried about the outcome, and you take a step back, and then another, and then your back finds the wall and Steve Harrington is standing close enough that you can smell him— beer and cigarettes underneath his cologne, something warm and musky underneath that.

His lip twitches at the corner.

"Nancy show up yet," you ask. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

He licks his lips. Drags the bottom one inward, slow. Shakes his head. "Dunno." A beat. "Came to find you."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer that. His eyes drop to your blouse, back up. "I like your shirt," he says. "It's cute."

"Uh. Thanks—"

"Your skirt too." He reaches out and takes a small bit of the fabric between his fingers, rubbing it. "Super pretty."

"Steve."

The heat that crawls up your neck has no business being there. The warmth pooling low in your stomach has even less business being there. You think, with some desperation, fucking hell.

He puts one hand flat against the wall beside your head, tilting down until he's level with you, until you can see the faint thread of green in his irises that you have never been close enough to notice before, until his breath ghosts warm against your lips.

"I bet everything you're wearing is cute." His voice has gone low, a murmur, almost conversational, like he's observing the weather. "Hm?"

His free hand finds the hem of your skirt.

He moves slowly, watching your face the whole time, his eyes wide and searching, asking a question he won't say out loud. His brow is slightly furrowed. There's something almost careful in the way he does it— for all his swagger, for all the smirk he wears like a second jacket— and when you don't stop him, when you stay exactly where you are and say nothing, he lifts the skirt.

He tilts his head sideways. Leans to look.

The smirk that spreads across his face is slow and deeply, personally offensive.

"Would you look at that." He sounds genuinely pleased with himself. "I was right."

He hooks one finger into the waistband of your baby blue satin thong with a lace trim–– and snaps it back against your hip, light, and your breath catches on the way in and you hope very much that he doesn't notice. He puts your skirt back down. His hand finds your hip and he steps closer, hooking one finger at the front of your blouse, tugging it forward, his eyes dropping to take a long unhurried look at your tits.

"Damn." His tongue touches his upper lip. "Better than your little polaroid, honey."

What a pervert. The thought arrives sharp and immediate and accompanied by a heat in your face that makes a complete mockery of it. Who does he think he is. This isn't part of the deal. You have no right, Harrington, none. 

“You are so sick, Harrington. Bet you get off looking at my polaroid, too.”

He laughs. Soft, low, like he can hear all of the other thoughts. His nose nudges yours, then the corner of your lips, then your cheek— not quite a kiss, something more patient than that, something that knows it doesn't have to rush— and you feel his eyelashes brush your temple.

"And what about it?"

Up close his eyes are downturned at the corners. Soft in a way that the smirk tries to hide. He looks a little drunk, maybe, but his gaze is steady on yours and there is something swimming in it that makes your heart do something inconvenient and embarrassing, the specific ache of what if he means it, what if it's you, what if it's been you rising uninvited through your chest.

His lips graze yours.

You close the distance.

The kiss goes molten immediately.

His hand leaves your blouse and finds your jaw instead, tilting you up, and yours grab the front of his shirt and pull, and the careful patience evaporates all at once into something urgent and graceless and honest. His mouth is hot and tastes like beer and he kisses the way you'd spent a month pretending you weren't thinking about— thorough and consuming, his tongue licking into your mouth slow at first and then deeper, a soft groan vibrating in his chest that you feel through your palms.

You make a sound against him. He swallows it.

His hands move— your waist, your hips, the backs of your thighs— and he hoists you up against the wall in one smooth motion, his hands gripping full and certain into the flesh of your ass, your legs finding his hips on instinct. The kiss goes sloppy and wetter, his mouth pulling at your bottom lip, releasing it with a sound, your fingers digging into his shoulders and then into his hair and pulling, a gasp torn out of him that he presses back into your mouth.

You feel him hard against you.

Your hips roll forward before you make a decision about it, grinding down, and his whole body tightens, a sharp inhale through his nose, his grip tightening on your ass.

His fingers find the waistband of your panties with both hands. He finds the weak point in the lace— a moment of searching— and pulls, the fabric giving with a snap, and he drops it somewhere on the hallway floor like it's nothing.

You pull back enough to get a hand on his jaw. Make him look at you. Your brows draw together. "Hey." Breathless. "That was my favorite thong."

Steve rolls his hips into you, slow, watching your face when he does it. His hand comes up to your throat— warm, loose, his palm broad against your pulse— and he tilts his head.

"Yeah?" His thumb strokes once across your jaw. "I'll buy you a new one. It's okay."

"What if it isn't?"

The words come out lower than you mean them to, your voice catching on the involuntary moan that rides underneath them as he rolls his hips again.

His fingers tighten at your throat, gentle. He can feel you swallow. "It will be," he says, "because I said so."

He kisses you again, slow and deep, his tongue moving against yours, his thumb stroking idle circles against your hip. Your hands are in his hair. His hands are everywhere, your thigh, your waist, pulling your blouse down at the neckline until your tits are spilling over the edge of your bra and his mouth leaves yours to press hot and open against them, his tongue tracing the lace, his lips closing around the skin there, and you grind against his cock in a slow rolling rhythm while his fingers finally slide between your bodies and find your clit.

"Steve—"

He looks up at you from your chest with dark eyes and says nothing and goes back to what he was doing.

The pressure builds in slow tightening waves, his fingers moving in patient unhurried circles while his mouth works across your chest, your throat, back to your jaw, and you are grinding against his hand and trying very hard not to say anything that you can't take back.

He lowers himself.

One knee, then both, his hands sliding down your thighs as he goes, guiding your legs over his shoulders with the ease of someone who has thought about how this would work. The skirt falls around his head. His hands grip the backs of your thighs to hold you up, and his mouth finds you and the sound you make would absolutely carry downstairs if you didn't get your hand to your mouth fast enough.

You bite down on your knuckles.

Your other hand fists in his hair through the fabric of your skirt.

He takes his time. That's the thing— the devastating, completely unfair thing— he takes his time with it, like he has nowhere else to be, like there isn't a party thirty feet below you, like your legs aren't already shaking around his shoulders. His mouth is warm and thorough and he makes sounds against you that transmit directly through your nervous system, and you feel the tension winding tighter and tighter, your knuckles white against your mouth, until it builds and snaps in a long rolling wave that you breathe through as quietly as you've ever done anything in your life.

He presses a soft kiss to your cunt afterward. Another to the inside of your thigh, gentle.

He sets you down.

You both stand in the hallway breathing. His hair is a disaster. Your blouse is crooked. You look at each other in the low light and the flush on his cheeks is high and dark and his lips are swollen and his eyes, when they find yours, are soft in the way you've been trying not to look at all night.

Your gaze drops.

The wet spot on the front of his jeans is visible even in the dim light of the hallway. Wet from you, or him, or both. You reach out and press your palm against it, slow, and watch his eyes fall shut, his hips bucking forward into your hand on instinct, a small oversensitive whimper escaping his mouth that he clearly did not plan to make.

You let the corner of your mouth pull up.

"I think," you say quietly, "you should tell Tommy and Carol to find a ride home."

He opens his eyes. And there he is— the other Steve, the one underneath the smirk and the swagger— looking at you with wide, dopey, wondering eyes like he can't quite believe you're standing in front of him.

"Why?"

You lean up until your lips are at the corner of his mouth.

"Because I said so."

You squeeze your hand.

His breath punches out of him. His forehead drops to your shoulder.

You smile at the wall over his back and say nothing and let him stand there for a moment, and think about how the polaroid is starting to feel like the least interesting part of this arrangement.

[oohgeminii]

daughter from hell

steve harrington x reader

desc - you and steve harrington never really liked eachother, you were simply just pushed together by your asshole parents. you did however understand each other, in more ways than one. miss daughter from hell and mr never good enough, the perfect love story. eventually.

val speaks - yes i got inspired by gracies new album name😋😋 ok also i realise this gets kinda crazy but just let me do my thingggggg like i took the idea i got and ran with it as u can see hehe okay enjoy i hope

word count: 12.9k

hawkins was the kind of place people got stuck in.

not physically at first. physically, there were roads leading out in every direction. highways stretching toward illinois, michigan, anywhere else. but somehow people still stayed. they grew up here, married here, worked here, died here. generations of families rooted themselves so deeply into the soil that leaving almost felt unnatural.

you used to think there had to be something wrong with everyone who stayed willingly because every time you looked around this town, all you could see was a cage.

the same streets, the same people, the same expectations.

hawkins high alone felt like proof that no one ever really changed. there were categories for everyone before you even walked through the doors freshman year. jocks. freaks. nerds. burnouts. girls pretty enough to matter. girls who weren’t. and once people decided where you belonged, that was it.

you’d been labeled difficult before you even turned ten.

your parents made sure of that.

“why can’t you be normal for once?”

that sentence followed you through your entire childhood like a ghost.

normal meant smiling politely at dinner parties while rich adults ignored you. normal meant accepting that your parents would leave for weeks at a time without calling. normal meant pretending not to notice when your mother looked at you with embarrassment instead of love.

you’d never been good at pretending and your parents hated you for it.

they hated your temper most of all.

because you argued. god, you argued about everything.

about them missing birthdays, about forgotten recitals, about the fact your father only ever touched your shoulder to move you out of the way.

you screamed and slammed doors and cried and fought until your throat hurt because some stubborn part of you refused to quietly accept being unloved.

your mother called it dramatics, your father called it disrespect.

eventually they both just started calling you the daughter from hell.

sometimes jokingly in front of guests, sometimes not joking at all, and somehow that became your reputation.

meanwhile, steve harrington learned very young how to survive differently.

he adapted.

that was the thing about steve, he could mold himself into whatever people wanted.

perfect son at business dinners, charming boy next door at school, funny life-of-the-party teenager on weekends.

he made himself easy to love because somewhere along the way he realised being liked was the closest thing he’d ever get to being wanted.

you noticed that before anyone else did.

probably because you recognised loneliness when you saw it.

your parents and his dragged the two of you to events together constantly growing up. charity galas. company christmas parties. fundraisers. country club dinners. endless nights filled with expensive perfume and fake laughter and adults talking over your heads like you were accessories instead of children.

you hated every second of it.

steve did too, he just hid it better.

when you were younger, the adults used to force you both to stand together for pictures.

your mother gripping your shoulder too tightly while hissing through clenched teeth, “smile.”

steve would already be smiling perfectly by then.

effortless.

practiced.

you used to hate him for that, for how easy he made it look.

but then one night when you were around sixteen, you caught him in the bathroom after one of those events staring at himself in the mirror with this exhausted expression you’d never seen before.

his smile dropped the second he noticed you standing there.

“what are you looking at?” he snapped.

you crossed your arms. “you looked human for a second.”

his jaw tightened immediately.

“go away.”

but you didn’t.

because there was mascara running down your cheeks from fighting with your mother twenty minutes earlier and your chest still hurt from the things she’d said to you.

and maybe misery just liked company.

“my dad threatened to send me away tonight” you muttered eventually.

steve looked back at the mirror.

“mine threatened to stop paying for my car if i embarrass him again.”

“that all?”

he let out a humorless laugh.

“guess so.”

that was the thing with you and steve. there was never warmth exactly, never softness, but there was understanding.

raw and ugly and uncomfortable, the kind that crawled under your skin.

you knew things about each other nobody else did.

you knew steve’s father had a temper.

you figured it out slowly over the years through bruises hidden beneath sweater collars and the way steve flinched whenever older men raised their voices too suddenly.

once, during a new year’s party at some stupid country club, you found him outside sitting on the hood of a car in the snow.

his knuckles were bloodied, there was a cut near his eyebrow, he looked furious.

“you look like shit” you told him.

he scoffed without looking at you. “always so nice.”

“what happened?”

“ran into a wall.”

you stared at him flatly.

“right.”

for a while neither of you spoke.

music echoed faintly from inside the building while snow drifted slowly around you both.

then steve quietly said, “sometimes i think he hates me.”

the honesty in his voice startled you because steve never said things like that. ever. he swallowed hard after admitting it, like he already regretted letting the words out.

you looked down at your shoes.

“mine definitely do.”

he laughed softly at that, but there wasn’t any humor in it.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i know.”

and god, that should’ve made you closer.

two lonely rich kids with absent parents and too much anger between them.

but somehow it pushed you apart instead.

because outside of those rare moments, you couldn’t stand each other.

or maybe you just represented everything the other person hated about themselves.

at school, steve was king.

there was really no other word for it.

everyone loved him. teachers loved him because he was charming when he wanted to be, girls loved him because he looked like he walked out of a magazine, guys loved him because standing next to steve harrington somehow made them feel important too.

he moved through hawkins high effortlessly, surrounded by noise and laughter and attention every second of the day.

and you despised people like that.

or at least you pretended to.

because truthfully, there were moments you envied him so badly it made your chest ache.

not because of the popularity itself because he belonged somewhere. hawkins fit him. he knew how to survive here.

you never did.

you spent most lunches hidden in the library with fantasy novels spread around you in messy piles while rain tapped softly against the windows.

tolkien.

cs lewis.

ursula le guin.

stories about hidden worlds and magic and people destined for bigger things than small dying towns.

you clung to those books like lifelines.

because somewhere deep down you were convinced your real life hadn’t started yet. that there had to be something else waiting for you outside hawkins. somewhere bigger, somewhere quieter, somewhere you could finally breathe.

people called you weird for it.

you didn’t care. well, that was a lie. you cared more than you wanted to admit.

you cared every time someone laughed when you answered questions too enthusiastically in class, you cared every time girls whispered about your clothes or your attitude, you cared every time teachers looked at you like you were wasted potential.

but mostly you cared because no matter how badly you wanted to leave hawkins behind, a small part of you worried maybe your parents were right.

maybe there was something wrong with you.

steve saw that part of you even when nobody else did and you saw through him too.

you saw the way his entire personality shifted depending on who he was talking to, how desperately he needed people to like him, how terrified he was of being alone.

you understood it because you knew what waited for him at home when nobody else was around.

just like he understood why you hated yelling, why sudden loud noises made your shoulders tense, why you looked halfway out the door all the time.

because you weren’t just dreaming about leaving hawkins you were surviving by believing you eventually would.

the strange thing was neither of you ever talked about any of this directly, instead you ignored each other almost completely outside those forced business events.

you’d pass each other in school hallways without speaking. sometimes your shoulders brushed accidentally while squeezing through crowds between classes, sometimes he’d glance at you from across the cafeteria, sometimes you’d catch yourself watching him laugh with his friends and immediately look away before he noticed.

there were no dirty looks, no dramatic fights, just distance. like the two of you had silently agreed that whatever existed between you only belonged in those late-night conversations at parties neither of you wanted to attend.

and honestly?

that invisible understanding between you almost made things worse because hating someone was easier when they didn’t know you.

but steve knew you. not fully, not completely, but enough. enough to notice when your parents had been home recently because your mood would darken for days afterward. enough to know your favorite coping mechanism was disappearing into books because reality disappointed you too much.

enough to know you were scared that maybe there wasn’t actually a place in the world where you belonged.

and you knew him too.

you knew his popularity wasn’t confidence, it was armor. you knew every party he threw was just another excuse not to be alone in that giant empty house. you knew he chased attention because attention felt close enough to love that he could almost pretend not to notice the difference.

you knew the scar near his ribs came from the night his father shoved him into a glass table during an argument. you knew because one drunken evening at a fundraiser he accidentally told you.

and after realising what he’d admitted, he looked horrified, like he expected you to use it against him.

but you never did.

just like he never repeated the things you confessed either.

the invisible string between you stayed tangled quietly in the background of your lives. unspoken, confusing, pulling tighter every year whether you wanted it to or not.

-

the invitation had been sitting on the kitchen counter for three days.

thick cream paper, gold lettering, your parents names printed bigger than yours like you were some afterthought attached onto the end of the family title. every time you walked into the kitchen your eyes caught on it immediately and your stomach twisted.

another business event.

another night trapped in a room full of rich people pretending they liked each other, another night of your parents pretending they actually functioned as a family.

you were already exhausted by it and it hadn’t even happened yet.

“i’m not going.”

your mother barely looked up from her wine glass. “you are.”

“why?”

“because we said so.”

you laughed dryly at that, leaning against the counter with your arms crossed. “great argument.”

your father sighed from the other side of the kitchen table, rubbing a hand over his face like speaking to you was physically draining. “do we really have to do this every single time?”

“well maybe if you stopped forcing me to go to these things-”

“they matter,” your mother cut in sharply. “whether you like it or not.”

“to who?”

“to us.”

there it was.

always them. their image. their reputation. their business partners. their social circle. everything always came before you, and somehow they still acted surprised that you resented them for it.

your jaw tightened. “you know everyone there thinks i’m insane anyway, right?”

“that’s because you insist on behaving like a brat every time we bring you anywhere.”

you stared at her for a second, something hot and familiar settling in your chest.

“right,” you muttered. “because god forbid i embarrass the family.”

your father’s expression hardened immediately. “enough.” his voice was louder than it needed to be and instinctively your shoulders tensed.

you hated that, hated how quickly your body reacted to raised voices even when you tried not to let it.

your father noticed too, but instead of softening he just looked irritated.

“you’ll attend the event and you’ll behave yourself for one evening. that’s all we ask.”

you almost laughed at that. one evening. like it was ever just one evening. like every single one of these events didn’t leave you feeling hollow afterwards.

instead you grabbed your walkman off the counter and headed for the front door before the argument could get worse.

your mother called your name once, annoyed, but you ignored her.

outside, the air was cooler than expected. the sun had started setting, leaving everything washed in that dim orange light that made hawkins look softer than it really was.

you shoved your headphones on and started walking.

music usually helped. not enough to fix anything, but enough to quiet your head for a while.

you walked without really thinking about where you were going, just moving through familiar streets while your thoughts spiraled somewhere else entirely, out of hawkins mostly. they always did eventually.

you wondered sometimes if other people felt this trapped in their hometowns or if there was genuinely something wrong with you. everyone else seemed so content here, they talked about their futures like they’d always include hawkins somehow. college nearby. jobs nearby. marriage nearby.

the idea made you feel sick.

by the time you circled back toward your street the sky had gone dark, that’s when you spotted steve.

he was coming down the driveway of his house, keys spinning around his finger while he headed toward his car. he looked tired in that specific way you’d gotten used to recognising over the years. not angry exactly, just worn thin.

you probably would’ve walked straight past him normally.

but the argument with your parents was still sitting ugly in your chest and before you could stop yourself you pulled one side of your headphones off and said, “you heard about the party?”

steve looked up quickly, almost startled to see you there.

for half a second his face was completely open before recognition settled in and his expression shifted into something more familiar.

slight scowl, slight annoyance.

“jesus,” he muttered. “didn’t see you.”

“clearly.”

he shoved his keys into his jacket pocket. “yeah, i heard.” then after a pause, “you’re going too?”

“unfortunately.”

he actually looked surprised by that. “huh.”

you narrowed your eyes slightly. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” he said, though there was already the beginning of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “just figured you would’ve argued the house down over it.”

“oh, i did.”

that got a short laugh out of him.

“didn’t work though” you added.

“shocking.”

you rolled your eyes but there was no real bite behind it.

for a second neither of you said anything. the quiet wasn’t awkward exactly, it never really was with steve, which was strange considering how little you actually spoke outside these random moments.

then he opened his car door and looked over at you again.

“can’t wait, freak.”

you immediately flipped him off.

“drive into a wall, harrington.”

he grinned at that before climbing into the car. “see you there.”

you watched his headlights disappear down the street before heading back toward your own house.

that night sleep came slowly.

you spent hours staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sound of your parents talking downstairs and thinking about leaving. not in some dramatic running away way, just leaving eventually. properly.

new york maybe. somewhere with little coffee shops and people who didn’t already have an opinion about you before you spoke.

you imagined yourself there constantly. working in some tiny bookstore, spending your days hidden between shelves and your nights somewhere quiet and anonymous.

and weirdly enough, somewhere in those thoughts, steve appeared too.

not with you exactly, you couldn’t imagine anything worse than willingly spending that much time with him, but still there somehow.

existing in the edges of your future the same way he always seemed to.

you imagined him hearing you got a job in a bookstore and immediately deciding to buy the world’s largest library just to prove he could.

the thought made you laugh quietly to yourself in the dark.

because honestly? it sounded exactly like something he’d do.

as much as you disliked him sometimes, you couldn’t really picture your life without him in it either. not fully.

he’d just always been there.

always somehow one step ahead of you socially, emotionally, or at least pretending to be.

part of you hoped he got out of hawkins too.

you never understood why he didn’t seem as desperate to leave as you were. this place felt unbearable to you most days, but steve had learned how to survive here in ways you never could.

or maybe he was just better at pretending it didn’t bother him.

the next afternoon after school you stayed late in the library mostly to avoid going home.

the place was nearly empty, quiet except for the occasional sound of pages turning somewhere in the back. you had a book open in front of you but you weren’t really reading it. your eyes kept drifting over the same paragraph without processing any of the words.

then suddenly the library doors swung open hard enough to make several people look up.

you frowned automatically.

steve walked in looking slightly out of breath, his hair a mess like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. he scanned the room quickly before spotting you.

then, weirdly, he came straight over.

you watched him drop into the chair across from you.

“what happened to you?” you asked immediately.

instead of answering he leaned forward slightly and said, “did you know it’s out of town?”

you blinked. “what?”

“the event,” he said. “it’s not here.”

you stared at him. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

he rubbed both hands down his face tiredly. “our parents are flying out the day before, apparently they want us to travel there together after school.”

for a second you genuinely thought he was joking, then you realised he looked far too miserable for that.

“you’re kidding.”

“i wish i was.”

“no. absolutely not.”

“that’s pretty much what I said.”

you sat back in your chair slowly, trying to process the absolute disaster this was becoming.

the event itself was already unbearable, being out of town somehow made it worse, and now you had to travel with steve?

“i swear they want me dead” you muttered.

steve snorted quietly. “or me. being stuck in an airport with you sounds like psychological warfare.”

your head snapped toward him immediately. “i am not that bad.”

he just looked at you completely blank-faced.

you scoffed. “oh fuck off.”

“you’re mean to me constantly.”

“because you’re annoying constantly.”

“see?”

you shut your book harder than necessary and pointed toward the exit. “go away.”

he blinked once. “what?”

“go,” you repeated. “see you on the plane.”

a sarcastic smile pulled at his mouth immediately.

he flipped you off as he stood up. “can’t wait.”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

you frowned before you could stop yourself.

steve seemed equally surprised by what he’d said because his expression shifted for a second, something unreadable flashing across his face.

then he shook his head lightly and started backing away.

“whatever,” he muttered. “see you friday.”

and just like that he was gone again, disappearing back out of the library while you sat there staring after him.

fucking great.

-

the next few days disappeared faster than you wanted them to.

school dragged on like normal, your parents barely spoke to you unless it was to remind you not to embarrass them this weekend, and somehow friday arrived before you’d mentally prepared for it.

at exactly five pm, a car horn blared outside your house.

you stared at your bedroom ceiling for a long moment before groaning into your pillow.

perfect.

through the window you could see steve’s bmw parked outside your house. he was leaning back in the driver’s seat looking about as thrilled as you felt.

you dragged your suitcase downstairs slowly, little overnight bag hanging off your shoulder. your parents had flown out the day before without even bothering to say goodbye, not that you’d expected them to.

when you stepped outside, steve looked up from where he was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

he looked exhausted.

hair messy. sunglasses on despite the fact the sun was already starting to set. expression flat in a way that told you he’d probably been arguing with his parents too.

“you know,” you said as you reached the car, “i actually can drive myself.”

steve just rolled his eyes immediately and got out of the car before you could stop him.

“yeah, and then our parents would lose their minds.”

“sounds fun.”

he ignored you, grabbing your suitcase from your hand.

“hey-”

“just get in the car.”

you watched him carry your stuff around to the boot with a scowl.

wonderful, even more time with him.

the drive to the airport was surprisingly okay though. quiet mostly.

you’d expected bickering within the first ten minutes, but instead steve just kept the radio low while you stared out the window watching hawkins disappear behind you.

the silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, not really. it was familiar. comfortable in a strange reluctant way.

sometimes steve would tap his fingers against the steering wheel in time with whatever song was playing, sometimes you’d glance over and catch him zoning out completely before he noticed and fixed his expression again.

neither of you mentioned the event once.

by the time you reached the airport, you realised very quickly that steve got weirdly stressed there.

not outwardly panicked or anything dramatic just tense.

his shoulders tightened the second you walked inside. he kept checking signs repeatedly, running a hand through his hair every few minutes while looking around like the airport had personally offended him.

“you good?” you asked eventually while he aggressively stared at the departures board.

“fine.”

“right.”

he looked at you. “airports are annoying.”

“it’s literally just walking.”

“there’s too many people.”

you blinked a little at that.

huh.

after that you found yourself taking over most of the talking without really thinking about it. checking bags, talking to staff, figuring out where you actually needed to go while steve trailed beside you carrying both your carry-ons and looking increasingly irritated by the entire experience.

he never thanked you for it but you noticed how visibly calmer he got whenever you handled things first.

security was still a nightmare though.

you lost him for nearly ten minutes because he got pulled aside after forgetting he left coins in his pocket.

“you’re an idiot” you told him once he finally made it through.

“i was distracted.”

“by what? basic instructions?”

he just flipped you off while grabbing his shoes back.

by the time you got through to departures you were both already drained.

steve practically collapsed into one of the airport seats with a long sigh while you dropped into the chair beside him.

then the announcement came over the speakers.

“attention passengers for flight 247 to chicago, your flight has been delayed approximately two hours-”

you stared ahead blankly, steve slowly turned his head toward you.

“you’ve got to be kidding me” you muttered.

he sank further into his seat. “i’m gonna die here.”

“dramatic.”

“this place smells weird.”

“yeah that’s definitely your biggest issue right now.”

after sitting there miserable for another ten minutes, you eventually both gave up and started wandering around the airport instead.

which somehow ended up being… kind of fun.

there was one ridiculously expensive designer store filled with the ugliest clothes you’d ever seen in your life and you and steve spent nearly twenty minutes walking around pointing at things and deciding which of your parents’ business friends would wear them.

steve held up this horrible bright orange blazer at one point and went, “mr thompson would absolutely wear this and think he looks good.”

you snorted. “he’d pair it with those tiny little sunglasses too.”

“oh my god he would.”

then you grabbed some sparkly scarf thing off a mannequin. “this is very mrs patterson after two glasses of wine.”

steve laughed properly at that.

“that woman terrifies me.”

“she flirted with my dad once in front of my mother.”

“jesus christ.”

you were both still laughing quietly when you left the shop.

it felt weird, not bad weird, just unfamiliar.

after that you got food, wandered aimlessly through more shops, stole extra sweets from one of the airport cafés because neither of you wanted to pay airport prices, and before long the delay was finally over.

the flight itself was short.

thankfully.

your parents had booked first class though, which both you and steve immediately decided to take full advantage of.

“free socks” steve whispered dramatically after sitting down.

“don’t act too excited.”

“i’m taking everything they give us.”

“classy.”

the two of you ended up doing the stupid little facemasks from the amenity kits purely because they were there. steve looked ridiculous sitting there with a sheet mask on while reading the in-flight magazine and you made sure to tell him that repeatedly.

“you look terrifying” you informed him.

“you literally look the same.”

“no, i look elegant.”

he looked over at you slowly. “you look damp.”

you kicked his leg lightly under the seat.

they gave you hot towels too, which steve treated like some groundbreaking luxury experience.

“this is insane” he muttered, unfolding it carefully.

“you are so easily impressed.”

“they heated a towel for me.”

“you’re rich.”

“yeah but not like this.”

you were both genuinely offended when you realised they didn’t serve proper food on shorter flights.

“what’s the point of first class then?” you complained.

steve nodded seriously. “exactly.”

by the time the plane landed it was late enough that both of you were half asleep already.

you grabbed a car to the hotel together in silence, city lights passing outside the windows while exhaustion settled heavily over both of you.

the hotel was massive and cold and far too expensive looking.

your parents had already checked in earlier, of course. the receptionist handed over your room keys without much explanation besides, “your parents asked us to make sure you arrived safely.”

you almost laughed at that.

asked the hotel staff, not you directly.

neither of your parents had even called to check if you landed okay. not even a quick message. nothing.

it stung.

steve looked equally unimpressed by it all, though he didn’t say much as you both headed toward the elevators.

when you reached your floor he glanced over at you.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you nodded lightly. “unfortunately.”

“there she is” he muttered.

you rolled your eyes but there was a tired smile threatening at the corners of your mouth anyway.

then you both disappeared into your separate rooms.

sleep came easily that night, the dread for tomorrow evening came easier.

-

you woke up to aggressive banging on your hotel door, for a second you genuinely thought the building was on fire.

you groaned into your pillow, half asleep and completely disoriented before the knocking came again, louder this time.

“alright” you croaked out, dragging yourself out of bed.

your room was still dim, curtains pulled shut against the morning light. the digital clock beside your bed read 8:12am which honestly felt deeply offensive considering the event wasn’t until tonight.

you stumbled toward the door still half asleep and pulled it open with a scowl already prepared.

steve immediately pushed past you.

you blinked slowly at the empty doorway for a second before turning around.

he was already halfway across your room running a hand through his messy hair looking irritated and stressed and far too awake for this time in the morning.

“morning to you too” you muttered, shutting the door behind him.

“my parents are looking for me” he said quickly.

you stared at him.

“…okay?”

“I know they won’t look in here.”

you were too tired to even begin unpacking how insane that sentence was, instead you just made a confused noise and crawled back into bed, pulling the blankets over yourself immediately.

“why are they looking for you?” you mumbled into your pillow.

steve dropped down into the chair by the window with a dramatic sigh. “something about making sure my suit fits properly.”

you cracked one eye open.

“the suit you already own?”

“apparently my dad thinks i’ve somehow changed shape overnight.”

you snorted tiredly.

“and you’d rather hide in my hotel room?”

“I’d rather die.”

after that the room went mostly quiet again.

you were too sleepy to fully process the fact steve harrington had barged into your room at eight in the morning just to avoid his parents. you could hear him shifting around occasionally trying to get comfortable in the chair, at one point he muttered, “this thing is fucking awful.”

you smiled into your pillow without answering.

the next time you properly woke up, sunlight was pouring through the curtains and steve was standing near the door.

“they’ll probably be off my back now,” he said quietly. “thanks.”

your brain still felt fuzzy with sleep. “mhm.”

he hesitated for a second like he was about to say something else, then just gave a small nod and left. the door clicked shut behind him.

you stared at it for a long moment afterwards, that had been incredibly random. but honestly? you were starting to get used to steve just appearing in your space unexpectedly.

a few hours later you deeply regretted ever getting out of bed at all.

your mother had dragged you and steve to the venue absurdly early because apparently the two of you were expected to 'help set up.'

which really meant standing around while adults barked orders at staff members already being paid to do everything.

the venue itself was obnoxiously fancy. huge chandeliers, polished floors, flowers everywhere. every table looked identical and painfully expensive.

you were stuck in some dress your mother picked out weeks ago while steve wore a dark suit that honestly fit him annoyingly well.

he looked miserable in it though.

which helped.

for the first hour or so you and steve mostly stayed near each other out of pure survival instinct while your parents busied themselves micromanaging everything around you.

“if one more person asks me to carry something,” steve muttered under his breath while adjusting his tie, “i’m walking into traffic.”

you glanced at him. “dramatic.”

“i’m serious.”

“you carried three boxes.”

“exactly.”

eventually guests started arriving and somehow things got even worse.

you lost track of steve almost immediately after that, swallowed into crowds of businessmen and fake smiles and endless conversations you didn’t care about.

at some point you got cornered by one of your father’s clients near the drinks table.

older guy. slicked back hair. smelled too strongly of cologne.

he’d been talking at you for at least ten minutes and you still had no idea what he was actually saying.

something about networking, something about presentation, something about how important connections were.

you nodded along half-heartedly until he suddenly said, “a girl like you should really listen carefully to this kind of advice if you want to get somewhere in life.”

your expression flattened immediately.

a girl like you.

there it was.

you rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself.

the man paused mid sentence. “excuse me?”

you didn’t even answer. you just walked away.

honestly, maybe it was rude.

but you were tired. tired of these people. tired of being spoken down to. tired of every conversation feeling like some performance you were failing.

unfortunately, apparently your father’s clients didn’t appreciate being ignored.

because less than twenty minutes later your mother appeared at your side looking furious.

“come with me.”

you frowned immediately. “what?”

“now.”

the tone alone made your stomach sink.

she led you down a quieter hallway and into one of the side rooms near the back of the venue.

your parents were already inside. so were steve’s parents, and steve.

confusion hit you instantly.

steve looked uncomfortable the second you walked in. his arms crossed tightly over his chest while his father stood beside him looking cold and unimpressed as always.

your father turned toward you immediately.

“you are embarrassing us.”

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t act clueless.”

“I’m not acting- what are you talking about?”

“you rolled your eyes and walked away from a client in the middle of a conversation.”

there was a brief silence then you stared at him blankly.

“oh my god,” you said slowly. “that’s what this is about?”

your mother looked horrified by your tone. “watch yourself.”

“he made a comment i didn't like,” you snapped. “what did you want me to do? kiss him?”

your father’s jaw tightened instantly.

you looked around the room in disbelief before gesturing toward steve and his parents.

“why are they even here for this?”

before your parents could answer, steve’s father spoke, and honestly, that alone made your chest tighten a little.

there was something about him that always unsettled you. maybe because you knew what he was capable of. maybe because he barely even looked at steve like he was a person.

“these people represent both our families,” he said calmly. “If you’re going to behave like an issue, we have a right to see it being addressed.”

you stared at him.

then he added, “steven is also here to learn how not to behave.”

ouch.

even steve looked slightly caught off guard by that one, though he covered it quickly.

you suddenly felt stupid for thinking any of this wasn’t a big deal because in your head it genuinely wasn’t.

you rolled your eyes. so what?

you rubbed at your forehead tiredly. “right. okay. whatever.”

you just wanted it over with at this point.

then steve’s mother sighed softly and said, “honestly, at some point people have to stop excusing this kind of behaviour as personality.”

the room went quiet.

it wasn’t even what she said exactly it was the way she said it. like you were defective. like everyone in the room had silently agreed on it already.

for once, you didn’t argue back. didn’t roll your eyes. didn’t snap something sarcastic. you just looked down at the floor because unexpectedly, horribly, it actually hurt your feelings.

and steve noticed immediately.

he’d felt uncomfortable since the second this started, standing there listening to all of them talk about you like you were some problem to fix.

truthfully, he’d never understood why they all came down so hard on you all the time.

probably because you actually said what you thought instead of swallowing it like he did but when his mother made that comment, even he looked shocked.

“that’s not fair” steve said suddenly.

everyone in the room went still.

you looked up immediately.

his father frowned. “excuse me?”

steve shifted slightly but kept going anyway. “she didn’t even do anything that bad.”

the silence afterwards felt heavy.

your mother looked stunned, your father looked annoyed, steve’s mother looked almost offended and steve himself looked like he regretted speaking the second the words left his mouth.

but you didn’t stay long enough to see what happened next.

because humiliation and anger were already burning hot in your chest and suddenly the room felt too small to breathe in.

so before anyone could say another word, you turned and walked straight out.

then faster.

through the hallway, through the venue, straight out the side doors into the cold night air.

-

you sat outside for a long time before you heard footsteps behind you.

at first you ignored them, assuming it was just someone leaving the event for a cigarette or a phone call or whatever rich people did when they got bored pretending to enjoy themselves.

but then the footsteps slowed, stopped.

you looked up slightly.

steve. he stood there awkwardly for a second, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, hair messier than before. in one hand he was holding a bottle of wine very clearly stolen from inside.

without saying anything he walked over and sat down beside you on the bench. the silence stretched for a moment before he held the bottle out toward you.

you frowned at it.

“did you steal that?”

“obviously.”

you looked at him for another second, confused more than anything, before he nudged the bottle closer. reluctantly, you took it.

“thanks” you said quietly before taking a sip.

the wine burned slightly going down.

steve just shook his head a little at your thanks like he didn’t really know what to do with it. then he took the bottle back from your hands and leaned back against the bench.

“about time i did something, right?” he muttered.

you glanced at him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he stared ahead for a moment before answering.

“i just stood there.”

you stayed quiet.

“i always do,” he admitted eventually. “after the first time i talked back and got my ass kicked for it, i kinda stopped trying.”

your expression softened slightly.

“isn’t that a good thing?” you asked carefully.

steve scoffed quietly and took another sip from the bottle.

“doesn’t feel like it.”

you leaned back further against the bench, staring up at the dark sky above the hotel. and weirdly enough, for the first time, you realised how much you and steve envied each other in completely opposite ways.

he wished he could challenge his parents the way you did, you wished you knew how to stop fighting long enough for things not to hurt so much.

you spent your whole life screaming and kicking against everything while steve survived by swallowing it whole.

neither of you were happy.

for a while the conversation drifted into easier things, mindless complaints mostly. how awful the event was. how miserable everyone inside looked despite pretending otherwise. how one of your mother’s friends had definitely gotten too drunk already.

eventually the wine bottle was empty.

steve turned it upside down dramatically. “tragic.”

“you’ll survive.”

“debatable.”

you smiled faintly despite yourself. then after a moment you stood up, brushing your hands against your dress.

“come on.”

he looked up at you. “where are we going?”

“away from here.”

that was enough explanation for him apparently because he got up immediately.

the two of you walked aimlessly for a while through quieter streets surrounding the building, the sounds of the event fading further behind you with every step.

eventually you found a small patch of grass tucked behind a row of bushes near the sidewalk. there was a streetlight nearby that cast everything in a soft orange glow, enough to see each other without sitting completely in the dark.

you dropped down onto the grass first, kicking your shoes off immediately.

steve sat beside you with a tired sigh.

for a few minutes neither of you spoke.

then somehow you started talking properly, really talking.

maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was everything that happened earlier finally spilling over, or maybe the two of you had just been heading toward this conversation for years without realising it.

“i hate quiet houses” you admitted quietly at one point, pulling your knees up to your chest. “people always talk about wanting peace and quiet but i hate it.”

steve looked over at you.

“why?”

you shrugged slightly. “cause when it’s quiet you can tell nobody’s there.”

he looked down at the grass for a second before nodding slowly.

“yeah.”

there was understanding in that one word alone.

after a moment he nudged your leg lightly with his foot.

“i wish i liked reading.”

you frowned at him. “what?”

he shrugged. “you disappear into books all the time, seems nice.”

you laughed softly. “trust me, it’s less poetic than it looks.”

“still,” he muttered. “better than parties.”

you snorted at that. “your parties are lame, by the way.”

he looked offended immediately. “wow.”

“seriously. and you never even invited me.”

you smacked his leg lightly and he laughed quietly, rubbing at the spot dramatically.

“because you hate everyone there.”

“doesn’t mean i wouldn’t enjoy judging them.”

“fair point.”

the conversation kept unfolding after that, easier and easier.

you talked about childhood memories neither of you had thought about in years.

all the summer camps your parents shipped you off to every year while they travelled around pretending not to have kids.

“we spent like eight summers at the same camp and barely spoke” you realised.

steve nodded. “you bit a kid once.”

you looked horrified. “i was ten.”

“still counts.”

“he threw mud at me.”

“yeah honestly i probably would’ve done the same thing.”

you laughed quietly then the conversation softened again. deeper this time.

“the first time i saw you cry,” steve said suddenly, “it freaked me out.”

you looked over at him in surprise.

“what?”

he shrugged awkwardly, eyes fixed ahead. “you were yelling at your mom outside one of those christmas parties. then she left and you just…” he hesitated. “i dunno. i’d never seen you cry before.”

you looked down at your hands.

“you always seemed like the strongest person i knew” he admitted quietly.

something in your chest tightened unexpectedly because nobody had ever described you like that before. difficult. angry. dramatic. embarrassing. never strong.

after a long silence you said, “when you told me about your dad pushing you into that table…”

steve looked over.

you swallowed slightly. “it took everything in me not to go inside and say something.”

he let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost like a laugh but sadder.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“i know.”

and that was the worst part really, the helplessness of it all. the way you both knew exactly how awful the other person’s life could be sometimes but neither of you could actually fix it.

for a while you just sat there listening to distant traffic and the hum of the streetlight above you.

then steve spoke again, quietly this time.

“the real reason i came into your room this morning…”

you turned slightly toward him.

he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “i had a nightmare.”

your expression softened immediately.

“oh.”

“used to get them a lot when i was younger,” he admitted. “i always hated being alone after.”

he gave a small embarrassed laugh after saying it, like he regretted admitting it out loud.

“so instead,” you said carefully, “you came to my room?”

he shrugged.

“didn’t really think about it.”

but you both knew he had.

because somehow, without either of you meaning for it to happen, you’d become the person the other ran toward when things got bad.

you shifted a little closer without thinking much about it and rested your head lightly against his shoulder.

steve went very still beside you.

“maybe,” you said quietly, “we should actually go to each other more.”

he didn’t answer immediately.

you could feel his breathing slow slightly beside you.

“why?” he asked eventually.

you stared ahead at the empty street.

“because you just know,” you murmured. “we both know how it feels.”

there was a lump in your throat suddenly.

“even if we deal with it differently… it still sits the same way in us.”

steve stayed quiet for a long moment after that then very carefully, almost hesitantly, he rested his head lightly against yours.

“yeah,” he said softly “i think it does.”

you kept talking after that, for so long that the night stopped feeling like part of the event at all.

you ended up telling him about the worst arguments you’d ever had with your parents, and once the alcohol really started to settle in, the stories got less careful. you told him about slammed doors, about being told you were ungrateful, dramatic, impossible. about the first time your mother looked at you in disgust instead of disappointment and called you the daughter from hell like it was funny. steve laughed at that, but only because it sounded so ridiculous coming out of your mouth.

“mr never good enough and miss daughter from hell,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s pretty bad.”

you scoffed quietly and nudged his leg with your foot. “don’t be stupid. you’re good enough.”

he looked at you for a second, softer than usual, and said, “and you’re not a daughter from hell.”

that made something in your chest loosen a little.

the conversation drifted again after that, less heavy for a while, until steve asked you quietly, “if you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

you blinked at him, a little thrown by how serious he sounded all of a sudden. “anywhere that’s not hawkins.”

he let out a small laugh through his nose. “yeah, obviously. but come on. i know you have some kind of plan.”

you leaned back on your hands and stared up at the sky, thinking about all the nights you’d spent imagining a life that didn’t have your parents in it. thinking about how often you’d pictured the same dream without ever saying it out loud.

and because you were drunk enough to stop caring how stupid it might sound, you told him.

“maybe new york,” you said. “some little bookstore, a place where nobody knows me. somewhere i can actually breathe.”

steve turned his head to look at you.

you huffed a quiet laugh and went on, “and probably you’d still be around somehow, buying the biggest library in the state just to annoy me.”

that made him laugh properly, the kind that made his shoulders shake a little.

“yeah,” he said, smiling at the ground. “new york sounds good.”

you looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in a long time the idea of leaving didn’t feel so empty. not because you wanted to go with him, or because hawkins suddenly seemed less awful, but because for one stupid, beautiful second the future felt real enough to touch.

then steve leaned back on his hands and started talking about his own dream, a little embarrassed at first, like he wasn’t used to saying things this honest out loud.

he wanted a big family, he said. kids, noise, people always around. not the kind of house where silence meant someone was angry or gone or waiting to hurt you. he wanted a home where nobody had to feel alone. where nobody got left out. where annoyance only happened over stupid things, like whose team lost a game or who forgot to take the trash out.

you smiled before you could stop yourself.

it was so simple, the way he said it. so ordinary. but that was what made it hit so hard. it was everything neither of you had ever had. a place that felt warm instead of sharp. a life that didn’t always have to hurt.

for a while after that, you just talked and laughed and kept circling back around to the same kinds of things without meaning to. how tired you both were of pretending. how much easier things would be if other people would just say what they meant. how strange it was that you’d both spent so long thinking the other person had it easier.

and slowly, with every word, something in your chest started to feel lighter.

steve did too.

you could see it in him, the way his shoulders dropped a little, the way his voice got easier and less guarded. like being honest for once had done something good to him. like maybe he’d needed this just as much as you did.

which was probably why, when the quiet settled between you again, he looked at you for a second too long.

you didn’t get a chance to ask what he was thinking.

he kissed you.

it was brief. uncertain. almost hesitant.

you froze completely.

the second he felt you go still, steve pulled back fast, like he’d already decided it was a mistake. “sorry,” he said quickly, already standing up. “i think i’m just drunk and i shouldn’t have-”

you rolled your eyes before he could finish and grabbed his sleeve.

“sit down.”

he stopped, looked at you, then slowly sat back down on the grass.

you stared at him for one beat longer, mostly to make sure he wasn’t going to say anything else stupid, and then you kissed him.

this time he didn’t hesitate at all.

he kissed you back hard, like he’d been holding his breath for longer than he’d realised and finally got to let it go. his hand came up to your face, fingers pressing into your cheek as if he needed the contact to make sure you were real.

you kissed him back just as desperately, and for a second the whole world seemed to shrink down to the two of you and the rough grass beneath you and the streetlight humming overhead.

when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing a little harder than before.

you rested your forehead against his and smiled despite yourself. steve smiled too.

then, in a voice that was quieter than you’d ever heard from him, he said, “i always thought i kinda hated you.”

you gave a short laugh. “you definitely acted like it.”

he shook his head, still close enough that his nose brushed yours when he moved. “no, i’m serious. there was just something about you that always managed to piss me off.”

you laughed again, softer this time.

“that’s flattering.”

“i tolerated you at best” he said, though there was no real heat behind it anymore.

you tilted your head slightly. “thin line between love and hate, harrington.”

he stared at you for a second, then gave a low, disbelieving huff of a laugh. “i guess so.”

then his expression changed, just a little. more honest, more open.

“no, i definitely never hated you,” he said. “i’d have done anything for you.”

that made you go still for a moment, the words landed somewhere deep and warm and unexpected.

you looked at him for a long second before smiling softly. “me too,” you admitted. “even though we didn’t really, y’know… do that.”

he let out a quiet laugh, and you did too.

because the truth was, the thought had always been there. buried underneath all the snide comments and awkward silences and old resentment. neither of you had ever said it before, but maybe that didn’t mean it hadn’t been real.

after a while you both reluctantly got up, brushed grass off your clothes, and fixed yourselves as best you could before heading back toward the event.

the closer you got, the more the old dread started creeping back in. the same polished doors. the same expensive music. the same parents waiting inside like nothing had happened.

you and steve exchanged a look before going in. whatever came next, you weren’t alone in it anymore.

-

the weeks after that felt strange in the best way.

not different in any dramatic, obvious sense. hawkins was still hawkins. your parents were still your parents. steve’s parents were still his. school was still school, with the same hallways, the same faces, the same suffocating feeling that you were trapped in a place that had already decided who you were supposed to be.

but between you and steve, everything had shifted.

not into something neat or easy. not into a label. not even really into anything you could have explained to someone else without making it sound ridiculous.

it was just there.

he started driving you home from school without making a big deal of it, and after a while it stopped feeling strange to slide into the passenger seat of his car and let the silence settle around you both. sometimes he’d talk, sometimes you would, and sometimes you’d sit there with the radio low and the windows cracked just enough to let the air in. if you went on walks, you waited for him at the end of the street. if he was already outside, he waited for you. neither of you ever said it out loud, but you both knew the other would show up.

when something happened at home, you went to each other first.

that became the rule without either of you deciding it properly.

if your parents were home, steve would come over and climb through your bedroom window like it was completely normal, dropping onto your floor with whatever pissed-off expression he’d been wearing all day and immediately starting in on a rant about whatever fresh hell his father had put him through.

if his parents were home, you refused to crawl up to his window like some dramatic idiot, so instead you threw small stones at the glass until he finally pulled the curtain back and looked down at you with a deeply annoyed expression that meant he already knew. he’d disappear for a few minutes, then come outside claiming he was meeting a friend.

which he was, you.

the next few months passed with a kind of softness neither of you had known how to give yourselves before. you still argued sometimes, but it was different now. less mean. less sharp around the edges. more like habit than hatred. he still called you stubborn, you still called him dramatic, and somehow none of it mattered the way it used to.

for once, your life didn’t feel like a room closing in around you.

it almost felt like it was opening.

you even managed to graduate high school with decent grades and steve by your side graduating too. you wore your cap and gown because your mother insisted, stood with the rest of your class under the humid summer sky, and waited through the speeches with the kind of detached exhaustion only a teenager could muster at a school ceremony.

your parents didn’t come.

at first it stung, because of course it did, but then you heard steve clapping like an absolute maniac from somewhere behind you and turned just in time to see him grinning at you like you’d done something incredible.

it was so loud that people glanced over.

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too.

for one strange second, that was enough.

you thought maybe that was how life would stay for a while after that.

not perfect, just yours.

then one night, everything changed again.

your parents weren’t home. the house was quiet in that eerie way it only ever was when they were gone, and you were halfway through convincing yourself to make tea when you heard a knock at the front door.

you frowned immediately.

steve usually just came in through your window or let himself in if it was unlocked, so the sound of someone knocking like a normal person was enough to make your stomach twist before you even reached the door.

when you opened it, steve was standing there looking wrecked.

not angry, not annoyed, actually wrecked.

his hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, one hand shoved into his pocket while the other kept flexing uselessly at his side. his face was pale, and the second he saw you, something in it cracked a little more.

before you could even ask what happened, he said, “i need to go.”

you blinked at him. “what?”

he looked almost panicked now. “i’m leaving. i have to. i can’t stay here.”

your confusion sharpened instantly. “steve, what are you talking about?”

“can i come in?”

you stepped back without thinking, pulling the door open wider, and he walked inside like he was being chased. the second the door shut behind him, you turned and hugged him, partly because he looked like he might fall apart where he stood and partly because you needed a second to make sense of his face.

he went very still at first, then melted into it with a shaky breath.

you held on tighter.

even while his arms came up around you, he kept talking, words spilling out too fast and too messy to catch properly at first. then little by little it came together.

he had graduated, but not well enough for his father.

apparently that had been the final insult.

his dad had lost it.

there’d been a fight, a real one, loud enough that steve had thought for a second the walls might crack. his father had started talking about some business school a “friend” recommended, one of those miserable places full of boys who would grow up to be exactly like their fathers. he couldn’t go there. he refused. and once his dad realised that wasn’t going to change, he’d gone colder than angry.

so steve had done the only thing that made sense to him.

he was going to leave.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still on his shoulders.

“leave where?”

he let out a humorless laugh. “i don’t know. anywhere.”

you stared at him.

“steve.”

“i know.”

“no, seriously. what is your actual plan?”

he looked at you like he hadn’t quite thought that far ahead, which was exactly the problem.

“i have some money,” he said. “enough to drive somewhere. we could get jobs. shitty jobs, probably. somewhere cheap, maybe a motel until we figure it out.”

you slowly lowered yourself onto the couch and put your head in your hands.

this was insane, absolutely insane.

and yet-

your parents were gone. they wouldn’t be back for days. if you left a note saying you were fine, just away for a little while, they probably wouldn’t even call. maybe they’d be annoyed. maybe they’d be angry. but they wouldn’t come looking for you. not really. not if it was inconvenient.

you looked up at him.

he was still standing there, tense and frantic and clearly expecting you to tell him he was losing his mind.

instead you said, “this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

he blinked, then he let out a short breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but it fell apart halfway through.

then he sat down beside you heavily, shoulders sagging.

“i’m sorry” he said quietly.

you turned to him. “for what?”

he rubbed a hand over his face, voice rougher now. “for this. for being crazy. for springing it on you.”

you looked at him properly then.

he wasn’t just scared about leaving he was scared you’d think he was asking too much, also scared of leaving you behind.

that hit harder than you expected.

“you didn’t want to leave without me?” you asked softly.

his jaw tightened once. “no.”

the honesty of it made something strange bloom in your chest.

“nobody’s ever really thought about me like that before” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

steve looked at you immediately.

the expression on his face changed, subtle but obvious. guilt, maybe. or sadness. or something heavier.

and after a second, you knew. you knew he was right.

you were graduated. he was graduated. there was nothing left here except the same houses, the same parents, the same dead-eyed future everyone else seemed content to accept. you could stay and keep being miserable in familiar ways, or you could do something reckless and terrifying and possibly stupid enough to become freedom.

you sat there thinking it through, silent for so long steve eventually looked nervous again.

then you said, “fuck it.”

his head snapped toward you. “what?”

you turned fully to face him. “if it doesn’t work, we come back and make up some excuse.”

“you’re serious?”

“as serious as i’ve ever been.”

he stared at you for a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

then he said, “you’re fucking insane.”

you huffed a laugh. “this is your idea.”

“yeah, but i was kind of expecting you to talk me out of it.”

“do you want me to?”

he went quiet, rubbed a hand down his face again.

“this is stupid” he muttered.

“a little.”

“a lot.”

you nodded. “yeah. really stupid.” then you smiled slightly. “but what do we have to lose?”

his expression shifted when he looked at you after that, like he’d been waiting for someone to say exactly that.

“we can call our parents from wherever we end up,” he said after a moment. “or send a note. maybe.”

you shrugged. “sure. why not.”

he stared at you, then let out a disbelieving laugh.

“have you already packed a bag?”

his mouth curved slightly. “yeah.”

you looked at him sharply.

“steve.”

he shrugged, looking only mildly guilty. “it’s in my car.”

you just stared at him then you laughed once, breathless and stunned.

“so this is actually happening.”

he leaned forward then, hands landing gently on your shoulders as if he needed to steady both of you at once.

“this is our chance,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “now or never.”

there was something unbearably earnest in his face, something you’d never seen in him this clearly before.

you looked up at him, still half-convinced this was some absurd dream, and smiled.

that was all it took.

steve kissed you again, this time without hesitation.

it was softer than the first time. not less desperate, just more certain. like he’d been sitting on the edge of this moment for so long he was finally letting himself fall into it.

when he pulled back, he looked almost stunned by his own courage.

“i’ve been wanting to do that since the first time,” he admitted.

you blinked at him. “then why didn’t you?”

he gave a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “because i liked you too much. i didn’t want to lose you.”

your expression softened so fast it almost hurt.

“i think we’ve figured out by now that we can’t get rid of each other.”

he smiled at that, a real one this time. “yeah. i guess so.”

you stood up first.

then, because there was no point pretending anymore, you went to your room and packed a bag.

not everything. just enough.

clothes. toothbrush. your favorite book. a few other things that suddenly felt important because they proved you were real and not just some person who had been waiting to disappear.

when you came back out, steve was already by the door, keys in hand, looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face all over again.

you hesitated only once then you followed him outside, suitcase in hand, and got into the car.

the drive felt unreal.

quiet at first, almost too quiet.

the town blurred past the windows as steve drove, both of you too tense to speak much. every few minutes he’d glance at you like he was checking you were still there. every few minutes you’d glance back and realise the same thing.

you really were doing this.

two towns over, the weight in your chest started to ease just enough for you to breathe properly.

it wasn’t a plan yet, not really.

it was just motion.

and for the first time in your life, moving forward felt better than staying put.

what the hell.

-

the first night was exactly as miserable as it needed to be to feel real.

the motel was cheap in the most obvious way possible, with flickering lights in the hallway, a stained carpet that looked like it had seen things it should not have survived, and a bed that sagged in the middle like it had given up years ago.

still, neither of you complained much once the door shut behind you. you were too busy standing there staring at each other like you had to keep reminding yourselves this was actually happening.

you ended up on the floor with a pile of job brochures spread out between you, both of you trying to turn panic into a plan. the town you’d landed in was small enough to feel temporary but busy enough to offer a few possibilities, and that alone felt like a miracle.

you talked in circles for hours, jobs, groceries, all the practical things that had never really belonged to you before. it should have been terrifying. in some ways it was, but mostly it felt like the first time either of you had been allowed to choose your own life instead of inheriting one.

you argued about stupid things too, because of course you did. who showered first. who got which side of the bed. whether the horrible curtains should stay open or closed. the kind of pointless little fights that would have meant nothing anywhere else, but here they felt almost sweet.

you were exhausted, underdressed, too wired to sleep, and somehow absolutely thrilled to be hours and hours away from everything that had made you feel trapped for so long. the room was tiny and ugly and temporary, but it was yours for the moment, and steve was in it with you, and that made even the worst motel in the state feel like a beginning.

the next day, against all odds, you both found work.

it felt so absurdly smooth that you kept waiting for someone to come in and say there’d been a mistake. steve got hired at a corner store after a barely convincing interview and a smile that seemed to work on every adult within a fifty-mile radius. you landed a waitress job at a diner not far from the motel, and the woman who hired you barely glanced at your résumé before saying you looked like you could handle it. by the end of the afternoon, you were both standing outside with your new schedules folded in your hands, staring at each other in stunned silence.

“that was too easy” you said at last.

steve let out a breath, half laugh, half disbelief. “i know.”

“it feels fake.”

“yeah.”

you looked back down at your paper. “maybe the universe finally decided to stop being a dick.”

he gave you a sideways look “that would be a first.”

you didn’t start until the following day, so that night became a strange little bridge between the life you’d left and the one you were trying to build. and after dinner, after the two of you had sat on the motel bed talking quietly about schedules and bus routes and what little money you had left, you each called your parents.

your call came first.

you sat on the edge of the bed with the motel phone pressed to your ear while steve lingered near the window pretending not to listen. when your mother picked up, her voice was sharp with immediate suspicion.

you told her you needed time. that you were trying to figure yourself out. that you didn’t want to keep disappointing them by staying somewhere that made you miserable. you kept your voice as steady as possible, even when she started raising hers, even when she demanded to know where you were, even when your father got on the line and started talking over her.

you didn’t give them much.

just enough to make them furious and not enough to make them find you.

you told them you were safe. that you were working. that you wanted to make it on your own for a while.

with steve.

not that they deserved the explanation, but it felt important anyway.

his call went differently, though only slightly. his father was louder, angrier, more determined to pull him back under control. business school came up almost immediately, followed by threats, followed by that cold, brutal disappointment steve had spent his whole life trying to outrun. but this time he didn’t fold.

he stood by the window with his jaw clenched and his shoulders squared, telling his father no over and over until it finally stuck. his voice shook once, just once, but he didn’t back down. by the time he hung up, he looked like he might collapse.

which, a second later, he practically did.

he dropped into your arms with a long, ragged breath, and you held him up without even thinking about it.

“thank you,” he said against your shoulder, and his voice sounded wrecked. “for doing this with me.”

you tightened your hold on him and shook your head a little. “you’re doing it for me too.”

and that was the truth of it. neither of you had really done this alone. you were doing it together, and that was the only reason either of you had been brave enough to try.

the months that followed were hard, ugly in the way new lives often are. there were rude customers everywhere. rude customers at the diner who treated you like you were invisible until they needed a refill. rude customers at the store who tried to make steve’s life miserable because they could. there were broken plates and late shifts and sore feet and too many nights spent in the same cheap motel room with a wall that felt too thin and a bathroom that leaked if you were unlucky. there was even one especially memorable morning when some idiot smashed the back window of steve’s car for no reason at all, which led to a long chain of swearing, repair estimates, and him sitting on the curb looking betrayed by the universe.

still, you settled into each other.

slowly, then all at once.

you started to move through life like a pair of people who had already learned how to survive the worst parts and were now figuring out the rest as they went. you came home to each other. you kissed goodbye before work and kissed hello when the shifts were finally over. you started falling asleep tangled together without even thinking about it. you learned the shape of each other’s bad days and the things that fixed them. a cup of coffee. a quiet hug. being left alone for twenty minutes and then pulled back in when the world felt less heavy.

it was obvious to everyone but you, and maybe even to you by then, that what you had was more than just a way to keep from falling apart.

you just never named it.

not until steve came home one night looking half dead from a horrible shift at the shop, dropped his keys by the door, and froze.

there was a slice of cake sitting on the bed with a single candle in it.

next to it were two tiny wrapped gifts.

you were sitting cross-legged on the mattress, hair tied up, exhausted but smiling in that quiet way you got when you were waiting for someone you cared about. steve stared at the cake for a second like his brain refused to process what he was seeing.

“what’s this?” he asked, voice rough.

you blinked at him. “your birthday.”

he stared harder, then looked genuinely confused. “it’s my birthday?”

you laughed a little, because of course he hadn’t remembered. “apparently.”

he just kept looking between you and the bed like he couldn’t understand how this was happening. then something in his face changed completely, all at once, and you knew.

you knew he was remembering every birthday that had been treated like a transaction back home. the expensive presents. the forced smiles. the absence underneath all of it.

he’d never looked so helpless.

or so loved.

you patted the spot beside you and he sat down carefully, almost like the whole thing might disappear if he moved too quickly. you lit the candle with a shaky match and handed him the cake before he could say anything else. the little flame flickered between you.

“make a wish” you said softly.

he smiled at that, small and almost disbelieving, and blew it out.

then he kissed you.

slowly at first, like he was trying to understand what it meant to be given something gentle and real. when he pulled back, his eyes were bright in a way that made your chest ache.

“you remembered” he said quietly.

you shrugged like it was nothing, though you both knew it wasn’t. “of course i did.”

the gifts were cheap, but they were thoughtful in a way that made them feel bigger than anything money could have bought. one was something he’d mentioned weeks ago and probably forgotten he’d said out loud. the other was small and stupid and exactly his kind of thing, chosen because you’d listened. really listened. not in the way people did when they were trying to be polite, but in the way that made someone feel seen.

his face crumpled a little when he opened them.

you let out a breathy laugh and reached for him immediately. “oh, don’t start. there’s no designer wrapping or whatever, i did my best.”

that made him laugh through the tears, which somehow made it worse and better at the same time.

“i’m not crying because of that,” he muttered, wiping his face and sounding embarrassed about it despite the fact there was no reason to be.

“i know.”

he looked at you for a long second, breathing unevenly, then said, “nobody’s ever done this for me before.”

that knocked the air out of you a little because it wasn’t just about the cake or the presents it was about how carefully you had remembered him. how naturally you had made space for him. how easy it had become for you to make his life feel lighter without ever asking for anything in return.

and maybe that was the moment he finally understood what had been sitting between you all along.

maybe it was the moment you understood it too.

because later, when the candles had burned and the presents were opened and the two of you were lying side by side on the bed in the dim motel light, steve turned toward you and said, very quietly, “be my girlfriend.”

you went still for half a second, then smiled so hard it almost hurt.

“yeah?”

he nodded once, looking a little nervous all over again. “yeah.”

you reached over and touched his hand. “okay.”

his whole face softened.

“okay?”

“okay,” you repeated, smiling at him. “officially.”

he looked almost stunned by how relieved he seemed, like something that had been hovering over him for months had finally settled into place.

because he wasn’t the sorry kid from hawkins with the perfect smile and the bruised ribs and the house full of silence anymore. he was steve. your steve. and you loved him exactly as he was.

and you, for once, didn’t feel like the daughter from hell or the girl who never fit anywhere. you felt like yourself, which was somehow better.

months passed after that, and eventually the money you’d scraped together became enough to take the next step.

you moved out of the motel and into a tiny apartment that was barely bigger than the room you’d once shared, but it had a kitchen of its own and a door that locked properly and windows that looked out onto a street neither of you had grown up on. it was small and cheap and not at all glamorous, but it was yours.

you loved it anyway.

more than that, you loved what it meant.

your parents barely kept up with you. you visited once, just once, and it ended exactly how you expected it to. they did not understand why you left. they probably never would. but that stopped mattering more than you expected it to. steve never once asked you to go back, and you never asked him to, either.

you both agreed, almost immediately, that neither of your parents were ever allowed through the front door.

“i don’t want their energy in here” steve said one night while unpacking boxes in the kitchen.

you laughed under your breath. “their energy?”

he turned to you with complete seriousness. “yes. this apartment only has room for one kind of emotional damage and it’s ours.”

you stared at him, then laughed harder because unfortunately, he was right.

living together was messy. there were fights over dishes and money and whose turn it was to buy toilet paper. there were nights where one of you got so overwhelmed you just cried on the floor for no reason other than being young and broke and terrified and free all at once. there were mornings when the ceiling looked too close and the world felt too big.

but there were also hands on your back when you couldn’t breathe properly. coffee made badly but lovingly. shoulders to lean on. quiet kisses in the kitchen. shared exhaustion. stupid jokes. plans that didn’t feel impossible anymore.

and slowly, over time, the future started to look less like a fantasy and more like something you could actually build.

steve’s dream of a big family didn’t seem impossible anymore, your dream of being far away from hawkins didn’t feel lonely anymore.

because the first step had never really been running it had been finding someone who would go with you.

and somehow, against all odds, you had.

-

@prettyfortucker @harringtondarling @katsallthetime @thichnhathanhh @keepdrlving @beth-mirrorball @powerpuffedbjtch @itzeeeee @ddenniiee-729 @teheblue @frozenpeanutbutterr @coldalpsmcu @b0nzey @xceafh @hearts4steve @swirledyouintoallmypoems @saintlaurentdiva @joekeerylice @blurrygir1 @songkangslvr @keerymylove @foreverserving @cciessuzi @livingblythedoli @toopypoopy @ellieluvercentral @evies4ngels @lattewirl @wolfiee10 @maevebloom @drunkedniallh @girlwithkaleidoscopeeyes777 @mabsters @i-got-the-cinema @batmanssssss @bluehexagon8 @magnificentcitadelcrest @pleasecallmeunhinged @purplequeen64-stuff @inherdiary77 @whispersoflost @yikesdrama @chronicstevelover @horanlover7 @ann-aatn @xoxocelestial @isatchl @angellmiaa @chalametpwk @soggycerealtbh @leaveonthelight29 @ahead-fullofdreams @maaaaaybebaby

[morninglesss]

hawkins safari

Every so often @tinfoileddd sends me asks looking for handy!Steve, and I will never deny her. This one is for all of us who have had to endure manning tables at a school fundraiser, a church fair, fundraisers, bake sales, raffles, the whole smorgasbord of small-town Saturday mornings. May we all have a Steve at the next one. 🫡

wc: 2.2k

The Hawkins Elementary Annual Fundraiser bake sale table is your jurisdiction, and you are losing control of it.

Not catastrophically, not yet. But Mrs Kowalski has rearranged the price stickers twice while you weren’t looking, and someone has already eaten one of the display cupcakes and put the empty wrapper back on the stand like that was a normal thing to do, and it is only nine twenty-five in the morning.

You are fine. Everything is fine.

You fix the price stickers, throw away the sticky wrapper, and let your eyes drift - just briefly, and only for a moment - across the school field to where Steve Harrington is setting up his workshop station.

This is a mistake you have been making all year.

He’s got two long folding tables pushed together, covered in little pre-cut squares and rectangles of pale wood, and he’s arranged everything with a precision that is frankly alarming from a man who once spent six minutes looking for his keys while they were in his hand. Bug hotels on the left, bird boxes on the right. Tubs of glue, pots of screws, kid-safe sandpaper squares. A wooden crate of paint pots in every color, brushes sorted by size, a stack of newspaper to keep the tables clean. He’s wearing a worn blue t-shirt, one of those ones that change colour with body heat, and there is already a smear of wood stain across his left forearm and you need to focus on the bake sale and not Steve’s arms.

You look at the cupcakes. You look at the price stickers. You look at Mrs Kowalski. You will not look at Steve Harrington’s forearms again. Not until break time, at least.

The thing about Steve Harrington is that he has always been like this. Not the forearms specifically - though the forearms are, absolutely, a contributing factor - but the whole Steveness of him. The way he holds a door for anyone. The way he crouches down to a kid’s eye level without thinking about it. The way he’d spent three weeks last autumn quietly fixing all the odd jobs around the school, like the door in the boy’s change rooms that swung shut too fast, or the wobbly leg on the staffroom table that everyone else just bitched about; he’d shown up one Tuesday with a toolkit and had it fixed before the first bell.

The way he looks at you sometimes, across a meeting room or a crowded corridor, like he’s in the middle of saying something and waiting for you to catch up.

You’ve spent the better part of this school year trying to be extremely professional about Steve Harrington… and you’re failing, spectacularly.

There have been coffee breaks that ran long. Hours sat beside each other on the bus on a class trip, ignoring the motion-sick kids around you while he told you about the time he and his school friends spent a summer exploring the rumoured tunnels under the town. A conversation in the school yard in October that neither of you seemed to want to end, both of you standing in the drizzle until you were laughing about nothing. He’d looked at you in that particular way, and then the bell had rung and the moment dissolved and you’d gone back to class and told the kids it was a silent reading period while you stared at the far wall and tried not to imagine what his lips might feel like.

Nothing has happened. This is the correct state of affairs. You work together. You are colleagues. Professionals, even. “Don’t shit where you eat”, your sister had told you when you’d waxed lyrical about his “big, dumb eyes” over a bottle of wine one night.

You watch him demonstrate something to a small child with enormous glasses and feel your ovaries kick into hyperdrive.

By eleven o’clock, the field is packed full.

The choir is doing a sound check near the gym doors, twelve eight-year-olds in matching yellow t-shirts arguing about where to stand while their teacher makes the face of a woman reconsidering her career. The tombola wheel is spinning in cheerful, rickety circles. The car wash queue snakes around the side of the building, and from somewhere over there comes the periodic shriek of a child getting wetter than intended.

And Steve’s workshop is completely overrun.

He’s got ten kids at the tables right now, maybe eleven, all of them in various stages of constructing something. The boy with the enormous glasses is very seriously screwing two pieces of wood together with the cold intensity of a heart surgeon. Two girls have smuggled glitter from Mrs Henderson’s face painting table and are generously sprinkling it over their bright pink bug hotel. Steve is crouched down between them doing some kind of diplomatic negotiation that ends with both of them giggling with handfuls of gold pixie dust and only one destination - Mr Harrington’s hair. He’s gracious about it, at least.

He is very good with them. You’ve known that, professionally, in the vague way you know things about colleagues. But watching him like this, in the open, with actual sunlight on him, his sleeves short and sawdust on his jeans - it’s different. He explains things twice without being asked. He lets a kid do something the wrong way and then gently course-corrects when they get frustrated, never before. When a little girl drops her pieces and they scatter across the grass, he’s already down on one knee picking them up before her pained wail is fully formed.

You’re watching all of this unfold from behind a very large pavlova that someone’s grandmother donated to the cause. You’re aware of this ridiculous state of affairs, and you’re choosing not to judge yourself too harshly.

You’re also aware that you are not the only one watching.

The PTA moms found Steve’s table at approximately ten fifteen and they have not left. There are four of them currently arranged in a loose semicircle just beyond the workshop boundary, the way wildlife photographers position themselves near a watering hole - respectful distance, full attention, absolutely no intention of moving. One of them is holding a coffee cup she collected from the refreshments stand seven minutes ago and has not yet drunk from. Another one waves when Steve glances up, and he waves back with the easy friendliness of a man apparently oblivious to the affect he has on the women of Hawkins.

He glances across the field, drags a hand through his glittery hair, and then checks his hand in the sunlight, grinning. He looks up again and his eyes find yours, above the heads of the busy kids at his table and the eager cake-buyers at yours. The wave he gives you is different - smaller, just for you - and he’s already looking back at a kid before you can do anything embarrassing with your face.

Your colleague Diane appears at your elbow.

“The PTA moms found him,” she says.

“I saw.”

“Sandra Chen has been hovering since he set up the second table.”

“I saw that, too.”

Diane picks up a brownie and takes a considering bite. “You’ve been watching them watch him.”

“I have been monitoring the general area,” you say, “as part of my volunteer duties.”

Diane looks at you with the flat patience of someone who has known you for three years and knows when you’re full of shit. “Kowalski’s been at the price stickers again,” she says, and takes her brownie and leaves you to it.

The morning accelerates into a hot and sticky afternoon. You sell a frankly unreasonable amount of shortbread. The choir sings three songs, one of which is almost recognisable, and everybody claps. A dog gets into the tombola queue and has to be escorted out by two dads and someone's random wandering brother.

Steve’s table never quiets down. Kids cycle through in waves - finish a bird box, drift off glowing with accomplishment, get replaced by three more. He’s rigged up another fold-out table at the back and it’s filling up with paint-bright boxes and bug hotels in red and blue and green, drying quickly in the hot sun. A boy of about seven is showing his dad the bird box he made with the reverence of someone presenting a holy relic. Steve catches your eye over the kid’s head and grins, and you force yourself to look back at your table.

The PTA moms have regrouped and refuelled, now the white wine spritzer table is open. Sandra Chen is still in position on the left flank. She’s now been joined by a woman you don’t recognise who has positioned herself closest to the table under the guise of reading the instruction sheet Steve printed out and laminated, which - you checked - is six bullet-points long.

Around two, things thin out enough that you can leave the bake sale in Diane’s hands for a few minutes. You tell yourself you are doing a circuit of the event. Checking in. Volunteering a fresh pair of hands.

You end up at Steve’s table.

He’s got a lull between groups, wiping down a section of table the newspaper hadn’t been able to save, and he sees you coming. Something in his expression settles, like he’s been waiting.

“Hey.” He straightens up, and he’s close enough that you catch the faint smell of sawdust and fresh paint. “How’s baked goods?”

“Sold out of the red velvet before eleven. Two grandmas almost got into a physical fight over a fruit loaf. It’s chaos.” You look at the drying table, the fourteen colours of paint, the laminated instruction sheet. “How are you not exhausted?”

“Are you kidding? This is the best day I’ve had in months.” He means it. You can always tell when he means it. “Come here, look -” He turns you gently by the shoulder toward the drying table, his hand staying there a half-second longer than necessary, “- that purple one with the star on the roof? Kid who made that cried at the start because he thought he couldn’t do it. Absolutely refused to touch the screwdriver.”

“And?”

“And he did the whole thing himself and then asked if he could make another one for his aunt.” Steve shakes his head, and his voice has that softness in it that does things to your composure. “Kills me every time.”

You look at him looking at the drying table. His skin is taking on a tan from the sun, there’s sawdust on his shirt, glitter in his hair, and he’s happy in a way he doesn’t bother to moderate.

“You saved pieces back,” you say. “For adults. You mentioned earlier -” you hadn’t spoken to him earlier, you’d been watching from across the field, and you realise this a half-second after it’s out of your mouth.

Steve looks at you. His mouth does something. “Funny,” he says, “I don’t remember telling you that.”

“I heard it.” You pause, and wave toward Diane behind the tower of cakes. “From over there.”

“From over there.” He tilts his head, squinting into the sunshine, toward the bake sale table. The distance between here and there is considerable. “You’ve got good ears.”

“I’m very attentive. It’s a professional quality.”

“Sure.” He reaches under the table and produces a small stack of pre-cut wood pieces, sets them in front of you. His voice drops, the noise of the field making it easy, making it private. “I did save some back. I was hoping you’d come over.”

You keep your eyes on the wood pieces. “Oh yeah?”

“Been hoping since about nine thirty.” He picks up a screwdriver and holds it out, handle-first, the same way he’d hand you anything - naturally, like there’s nothing strange about the fact that his knuckles brush yours when you take it. “I’ve had a good view of you all morning.”

“You’ve had a good view of half the town. Sandra Chen has been standing over there since -”

“I know where Sandra Chen has been standing.” Still quiet, still easy. “That’s not what I said.”

You look up. He’s watching you with that expression - the one from the car park in October, the one across meeting rooms and corridors, the one that says he’s been in the middle of a sentence all year and he’s tired of waiting for you to catch up.

“Bird box or bug hotel?” he asks.

Your mouth is dry. “What’s the difference?”

“Bug hotel’s easier. Bird box has more steps, but the result’s better.” He rubs the back of his neck before he looks at you. “Worth the wait.”

Somewhere across the field, the choir launches into their final song. The tombola wheel rattles as it spins. Mrs Kowalski is almost certainly rearranging your price stickers again.

“Bird box,” you say.

Steve smiles, and pulls up a chair beside you so his shoulder is against yours as he talks you through the first step, his voice low and easy, like the two of you have all the time in the world and the rest of the school fundraiser can absolutely look after itself.

Across the field, you don’t notice Diane watching from the bake sale table, smiling at absolutely nothing in particular. You don’t notice Sandra Chen’s scowl when she spots your chairs, your proximity, the way Steve leans in to correct your grip on the screwdriver and doesn’t immediately lean back.

You’re looking at a piece of wood, and a pair of hazel eyes. You’re thinking about October school yards and long coffees and classroom walls you’ve stared at. You’re thinking that a bird box has more steps but the result is better.

Worth the wait, he’d said.

You pick up the pieces and get to work.

[jinxispunk]

come outside

Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: When something in a crowded diner sends Steve spiralling, you get him outside before anyone else even notices.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, hurt/comfort, anxiety/panic attack, post-upside down trauma, fluff, angst (let me know if I missed anything)

W/C: 1.5k

The diner is busy in that specific Friday night way that makes everything feel slightly too warm.

Not unbearable. Not yet. Just loud enough that every sound overlaps with another one. Plates clattering in the kitchen, people laughing too hard in booths nearby, cutlery scraping against ceramic, somebody feeding coins aggressively into the jukebox near the back wall.

Normally, Steve likes places like this.

Normally, Steve likes noise.

He likes people. Movement. The comfortable chaos of things happening around him.

Which is why it takes you a second to realise something’s wrong.

At first, it’s small.

Steve goes quieter.

Not silent. Just… less. His responses get shorter while Robin talks about something that happened at work earlier that week, his smile lagging half a beat behind the conversation like he’s having to remember to do it.

You notice because you always notice.

You’re halfway through stealing chips off his plate when somebody at the counter drops an entire tray of glasses.

The crash splits through the diner.

Sharp. Violent. Loud enough that half the room jumps.

Steve does too.

Not dramatically.

That’s the thing.

If you didn’t know him, you probably wouldn’t clock it at all.

But you do know him.

You know the exact way his shoulders lock instantly. The way his hand tightens hard enough around his fork that his knuckles pale. The way his breathing changes. Shallow suddenly, uneven around the edges.

Robin notices the noise.

You notice Steve.

The waitress is already apologising while people laugh it off around the room. Someone jokes about making her clean it up herself. The diner settles again almost immediately.

Steve doesn’t.

Your eyes flick toward him carefully.

“Hey,” you say softly.

His gaze snaps toward you too quickly.

“Yeah?”

Too quick. Too alert.

Your stomach drops slightly.

He’s trying very hard to look normal now. You can see it happening in real time. The forced looseness in his posture, the tiny nod like he’s reassuring himself more than you.

You shift slightly closer beneath the table until your knee presses lightly against his.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” he says immediately.

Then someone brushes past your booth behind him.

Their hand catches Steve’s shoulder accidentally as they squeeze by.

It’s nothing.

Barely even contact.

But Steve flinches so hard it looks painful.

Your heart clenches instantly.

Because suddenly he’s not in the diner anymore. Not fully.

You can see it happen.

His gaze goes distant in that horrible, unfocused way. His chest stops moving properly. One hand curls hard against his thigh beneath the table like he’s grounding himself physically enough to stay present.

Robin sees it now too.

Her expression changes immediately. “Steve?”

He blinks once.

Doesn’t answer.

The diner suddenly feels too loud around all of you.

The jukebox. Voices. Cutlery. Somebody laughing near the counter.

Steve’s eyes flick toward the sound automatically and you watch something in his face tighten further.

Okay.

No big reactions.

No making it worse.

You slide your hand gently over his where it’s clenched against his leg.

“Hey,” you say quietly, calm enough that it almost disappears beneath the rest of the noise. “C’mere. I forgot something outside.”

Steve looks at you.

For a second, he doesn’t move.

Then you feel his fingers twitch beneath yours.

Recognition.

Good.

You squeeze his hand once. “Just for a minute.”

Robin catches on immediately.

“Oh - wait, yeah,” she says casually, already leaning back in the booth, diverting the others' attention. “Can one of you grab that thing from the car?”

Bless her.

Steve swallows hard.

Then nods once.

Too fast.

You stand first so he doesn’t have to think about it, keeping hold of his hand beneath the table until he rises beside you.

He’s breathing wrong now.

Still trying to hide it.

Still trying to function normally through it.

God.

You want to wrap him up in blankets.

Instead, you just guide him quietly through the diner, one hand pressed gently between his shoulder blades.

Nobody looks twice.

That’s the important part.

By the time you push through the front doors into the cool night air, Steve’s chest is visibly tight with every breath.

The second the door shuts behind you, he exhales sharply like he’s been underwater.

“There you are,” you murmur softly.

Steve bends slightly at the waist, one hand braced against the brick wall beside the entrance while he tries to breathe properly again.

“I’m okay,” he says automatically.

You ignore that completely.

The street outside is quieter than the diner, softened by late evening traffic and the occasional rush of passing cars. Neon from the diner sign spills pink-red light across Steve’s face in flickering waves.

He still looks pale.

You step closer carefully.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Look at me.”

His eyes lift toward yours immediately.

Good.

You cup his face gently with both hands, grounding and warm.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “Just me for a sec.”

Steve’s breathing catches unevenly.

“I dunno what happened,” he admits quietly, embarrassed already. “I just-”

“You got overwhelmed.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

The apology comes exactly when you expect it to.

“Sorry.”

“Nope.”

His eyes close briefly like he knew you’d say that.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You brush your thumb lightly beneath his eye while his breathing still struggles to settle.

“Nothing bad’s happening right now,” you say quietly. “You’re outside. You’re with me. You’re okay.”

Steve nods once, but it’s shaky.

The panic isn’t fully there anymore. It never exploded into something huge. That’s not how his usually works.

Instead it sits under his skin like electricity, locking up his chest and making everything feel too sharp, too loud, too close.

You know that look on him now.

The overstimulated distance in his eyes.

The way he gets hyperaware of every sound around him.

A motorbike growls somewhere down the road. Steve visibly flinches again before catching himself.

Immediately embarrassed.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters quietly, frustrated now. “I’m fine, I just-”

“Steve.”

That stops him.

You wait until he looks back at you fully.

“You don't have to fight me on this.”

His expression softens immediately into something smaller.

More vulnerable.

“I hate when it happens in public,” he admits quietly.

“I know.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You’re not.”

He laughs weakly through his nose. “Yeah, feels super convincing while I’m having a crisis outside a diner.”

“You’re not having a crisis.”

He raises an eyebrow tiredly.

“You got overwhelmed,” you correct gently. “There’s a difference.”

Steve looks down for a second, jaw still tense.

Your hands slide from his face down into his, fingers threading together carefully.

His grip tightens immediately.

Instinctive.

“You wanna go home?” you ask softly.

He hesitates.

Not because he wants to stay.

Because he feels guilty.

The others are inside. Your food’s inside. The normal evening you were all having is still technically happening somewhere beyond the diner windows.

You see the thought happen across his face instantly.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

His eyes lift again.

“We can leave.”

“I don’t wanna ruin the night.”

Your heart aches a little at that.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

Steve looks unconvinced.

You step closer until your forehead rests lightly against his.

The tension leaves him slightly at the contact. Just enough for you to feel it.

“You wanna know what would ruin the night?” you murmur.

“What?”

“You pretending you’re okay for another hour until you completely shut down.”

That gets the tiniest huff of laughter out of him.

“There he is,” you whisper.

Steve’s shoulders loosen another fraction.

Your thumbs brush slowly across the backs of his hands while traffic hums softly behind you.

After a minute, his breathing finally starts evening out properly.

Not perfect.

Better.

“You clocked it fast,” he says quietly after a while.

You shrug slightly. “You get this look.”

“What look?”

“Like your brain’s suddenly somewhere else.”

Steve winces faintly.

“Sorry.”

“Steve.”

“Right.” He exhales slowly. “No apologising.”

“Correct.”

A tiny smile flickers briefly across his face.

Then fades softer.

“You always know.”

The way he says it does something painful to your chest.

Not dramatic.

Just honest.

You squeeze his hands gently. “Yeah.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment after that.

Then, quietly, “Thanks for getting me outta there.”

You smile softly. “I know you hate attention when this stuff happens.”

“Hate’s probably too mild a word.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

The diner door opens briefly behind you as someone leaves, laughter spilling out into the night before disappearing again.

This time, Steve barely reacts.

Better.

You brush your thumb lightly along his wrist. “Still wanna go home?”

He thinks about it for a second.

Then nods.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Think I just wanna lie down with you for a bit.”

Your expression softens instantly.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

Steve finally relaxes properly at that, exhaustion replacing the sharp edge of panic now that it’s passing.

You lean up and kiss him gently.

Slow enough that he melts into it almost immediately.

One hand slides around your waist automatically, grounding himself against you in that same unconscious way he always does when he’s unsettled.

When you pull back, he still looks a little dazed.

Not panicked anymore.

Just tired.

You smooth your fingers briefly through his hair.

“C’mon,” you murmur. “Let’s go home.”

Steve nods once.

Then, quieter:

“…can we still get chips on the way?”

You stare at him for one beat.

Then laugh softly.

“There he is.”

dividers: saradika-graphics

[kensley-11]

EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED 1

reader x gator // brothers best friend?

chapter 1📍 chapter 2

The note is behind the dresser.

You find it on a Tuesday in March, twenty-four years old and looking for an earring you dropped three days ago and gave up on, and there it is — folded once, edges soft with age, tucked in the gap between the dresser and the wall like it slid there and just stayed.

You don’t have to open it to know the handwriting.

You’ve known that handwriting since before you knew your own.

You open it anyway.

out of milk — also your brother owes me $40 tell him I said so

That’s it. That’s the whole thing. You stand there in your socks on the cold floor of your childhood bedroom holding a note about milk and forty dollars and your chest does something embarrassing that you’re glad nobody is around to see.

You put it in the drawer.

There’s a whole drawer of them now — notes on napkins and torn notebook paper and once, memorably, a gas station receipt — and you have never once examined what it means that you keep them.

You’re not ready to examine it.

You close the drawer with your hip and go back to looking for the earring.

You don’t find it.

Downstairs, Rook is at the kitchen table with coffee and his phone and the specific expression he gets when he’s pretending to read something and actually just zoning out. He’s been back home three weeks.

You’ve been back longer.

Stark County has a way of pulling people back like a tide, slow and inevitable, and here you both are.

“You’re up early,” he says without looking up.

“It’s nine.”

“That’s early.”

You pour yourself coffee and lean against the counter. Outside the kitchen window the fields are still half-frozen, brown and flat, the sky the particular grey that means nothing’s happening today weather-wise and nothing’s happening today in general.

A Stark County Tuesday in March.

“Gator coming over?” you ask. Casual. The way you’ve gotten very good at asking about Gator — like it’s an afterthought, like you just thought of it, like it doesn’t matter.

Rook shrugs. “Probably. He usually does.”

He usually does.

You drink your coffee and look out the window and don’t say anything else.

He shows up at half past ten.

Back door, no knock, the same way he’s been doing it since he was old enough to reach the handle.

You hear his boots on the porch, hear the door, and then he’s in the kitchen and Rook looks up from his phone and says “hey” and Gator says “hey” back and drops into his chair like he never stopped sitting in it, like the last fifteen years didn’t happen, like he’s ten years old and it’s a Saturday morning.

You’re at the sink rinsing your mug and you don’t turn around right away.

“We got coffee,” Rook says.

“I can see that.” There’s the sound of the cabinet opening, the one where the mugs live, and you move slightly to make room at the counter without thinking about it.

A reflex.

You’ve been making room for him at counters and tables and in trucks for as long as you can remember.

He pours his coffee and leans against the counter next to you and you look up at him because you have to eventually.

Twenty-seven years old. Still got that look about him that Stark County grows in men — something weathered and certain, like he knows exactly where the property lines are and exactly what’s his.

The badge isn’t on him right now but it doesn’t need to be. You know it’s there.

You also know the look that’s underneath all that. You’ve known that longer.

“Morning,” he says.

“You’re late,” you say. “Rook’s been up for hours.”

“Rook,” Gator says, looking at your brother, “has not moved from that chair.”

“I moved,” Rook says. “I got coffee.”

“Heroic.”

You snort and put your mug in the drying rack and Gator watches you do it the way he sometimes watches you do completely ordinary things, like you’re something worth watching, like you’re doing something more interesting than putting a mug away.

You don’t say anything about it. You never say anything about it.

“What are we doing today?” Rook asks.

Gator looks out the window. “Nothing, looks like.”

“Could go to Patty’s.”

“Could.”

“Could stay here.”

“Could.”

Rook puts his phone down and looks at the both of you. “Could someone help me decide.”

“Stay here,” you say.

“Stay here,” Gator says, at the same time.

Rook looks between you. “Okay,” he says slowly, like you’ve done something suspicious, which you haven’t, which is just how Rook looks at things sometimes.

“Sure. We’ll stay here.”

You pull out your chair and sit down and it’s a Tuesday in March and nothing is happening and Gator is in his chair and your brother is in his chair and the coffee is bad and the fields are grey and this is just what your life looks like.

This is what it has always looked like.

You’re twenty-four years old and you’re not ready to say what that means.

You are six years old the first time he braids your hair.

It’s a Saturday in April, six months since the Thursday in October when your mother died, and you’re sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal going soggy because you haven’t touched it.

Your hair is a disaster.

Slept on wrong, one braid half-out, the elastic somewhere in your sheets.

You don’t know how to fix it and there’s nobody to ask — your dad tried once, a ponytail so lopsided it fell out before you reached the bus, and he looked so defeated about it that you didn’t ask again.

Rook is eight and useless.

The back door opens and Gator comes in the way he always comes in, without knocking.

He’s ten.

He drops his bag on the floor and goes straight to the cabinet where the cereal lives, gets down a bowl, considers the milk, puts the bowl back, grabs a handful dry instead.

He turns around and looks at you.

You look back.

He looks at your hair.

“Where’s the comb,” he says.

“What?”

“Your comb.”

You stare at him. “Bathroom.”

He goes to the bathroom. You hear him moving things around under the sink.

He comes back with the wide-tooth comb your mom used to use, and he sits down in the chair next to you and looks at the back of your head with the expression of someone sizing up a problem.

“Turn around,” he says.

“You don’t know how to do hair.”

“Turn around.”

You turn around.

He is terrible at it. He goes too fast and catches a knot and you suck in a breath and he stops immediately.

“Sorry,” he says. Low.

Starts over, slower.

He works through it section by section. It takes a long time.

The kitchen is quiet. Outside a bird is going in the oak tree. You can hear the TV from the other room.

Rook’s alarm goes off upstairs and gets slapped off in four seconds.

His hands aren’t gentle exactly, they’re too clumsy for gentle— but they’re trying to be.

That is the thing that makes your eyes go hot. You stare at your cereal and don’t say anything and don’t cry. You’re getting good at not crying.

The braid is lumpy. Lopsided. One side tighter than the other.

“Done,” he says.

“Thanks,” you say.

He puts the comb on the table and grabs another handful of cereal and sits down across from you and picks up the remote. He puts it in the middle of the table.

You reach out and move it to his side. He doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything.

Rook comes down twenty minutes later and argues about the channel and that’s that.

He comes back the next Saturday with the comb.

He gets better at it slowly, over months and years, and by the time you’re nine you can do your own hair and the Saturday mornings become about other things.

But he still comes. He always comes. And the remote always ends up on his side of the table.

You never talk about the braids. Not when you’re nine, not when you’re fourteen, not when you’re grown. It lives in the part of the past that’s too tender to touch.

The thunderstorm comes when you are eight years old and you’re already on the back porch when Gator finds you.

You’re sitting on the top step in your pajamas, the ones with horseshoes on them you’ve had for two years and refuse to give up even though they only reach your shins now.

The sky has gone that particular yellow-green. You can feel the electricity on your arms.

The screen door opens.

“What are you doing out here?” Gator asks.

“Watching.”

He looks at the sky. Looks at you. He’s twelve, almost thirteen, hair doing something stupid on one side from sleeping on it.

He has no reason to be awake. You didn’t ask him to come find you.

He sits down on the step next to you anyway. They’re quiet for a second.

Then: “Power’s out.”

“I know.”

“Rook’s asleep.”

“I know.”

“Your dad too.”

“I know, Gator.”

Out past the tree line lightning drops and you both watch it. The thunder rolls through low and slow. You hug your knees.

“I like storms,” you say. You don’t know why you say it.

He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too. Kind of.”

Another strike, close, and you flinch — you always flinch at the close ones, you can’t help it. You look over to see if he noticed.

He’s looking at the fields. Another hits, close enough that the flash and the crack nearly come together, and you feel him go tense beside you.

Just for a second.

Just enough.

You look back at the fields. You don’t say anything about it.

You sit there until the rain comes in sideways and soaks you both through and forces you inside. You don’t talk about much. You don’t need to.

You lie in bed after, wet hair on the pillow, and you think: he’s mine too. Not just Rook’s.

You don’t say it. You’re getting good at not saying things.

When they throw you in the lake you’re nine years old and you don’t see it coming.

You’re standing on the dock watching something silver in the water below and Rook and Gator get on either side of you and you don’t register it until Rook says—

“One”

You look up.

“Two” Gator’s already grinning.

“Don’t you dare!”

You go in boots and all.

The water is cold enough to make your lungs forget what they’re for. You go under and come back up sputtering and they are losing it on the dock.

Rook bent double, Gator holding Rook’s arm to keep from falling in himself.

“You—” you start.

This makes it worse. Gator actually sits down on the dock boards.

You grab the ladder and haul yourself up dripping and furious and you stand there with your boots squelching and your hair plastered flat and you look at Gator Tillman sitting on the dock crying laughing and you say with as much dignity as you can locate:

“I’m telling your dad.”

Gator stops laughing. “You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

“You’re not gonna tell Roy.”

You both know you’re not going to tell Roy.

The air shifts, just slightly, the way it does when Roy comes up, a barometric change everyone in Stark County learns to feel.

Then Gator stands up and holds out his hand for your boot so you can dump the water out and you let him, and he does both boots without being asked, and you don’t thank him because somehow you both know you don’t need to.

“Don’t do it again,” you say.

“Obviously,” he says.

He does it again three days later.

Every summer after is the same. You come up swearing, they lose their minds, you haul yourself up the ladder already planning something that never happens.

It’s the most aggravating thing.

It becomes one of your favorite things.

You’d never say that out loud but you think they probably know.

Rook definitely knows.

Gator definitely knows.

It’s a Wednesday in July and you are ten and Gator has just taken your last checker.

He leans back and crosses his arms.

He’s fourteen and insufferable and he knows it.

“You left that open three moves ago,” he says.

“I know.”

“Just sitting there.”

“I know, Gator.”

Rook is on the couch watching TV and not watching any of this. “You could let her win sometimes,” he says at the ceiling.

“Why.”

“She’s ten.”

“She’s ten, not blind.” Gator looks at you. “You want me to let you win?”

You meet his eyes. “No.”

“See,” he says to Rook.

“I want to actually win,” you say. “Which I will. Eventually.”

Gator looks at you for a second.

That recalibrating look, the one you’ll see for years and years without ever fully naming it. He pushes the checker pieces toward you.

“Reset it,” he says.

“What, again?”

“You said eventually. Let’s find out.”

You lose four more times that afternoon. But he’s playing differently now, fully, seriously, like you’re worth the effort.

Like he looked at you and made a decision.

You don’t have the word for what that feels like at ten years old.

You’ll figure it out eventually.

Back at the kitchen table it’s a Tuesday in March and you’re twenty-four and Rook has fallen asleep on the couch somehow, his phone on his chest, which is impressive given that he’s been awake for maybe three hours total.

You and Gator are still at the table.

He’s got his coffee. You’ve got yours.

There’s a silence between you that’s the comfortable kind, worn soft with use, the kind you can sit inside without having to fill it.

Outside the window the fields are still grey and frozen.

“You find what you were looking for this morning?” he says.

Not looking at you. Looking at his coffee.

You look at him. “What?”

“Heard you moving furniture around up there.”

“I wasn’t—” You stop. “I was looking for an earring.”

“Find it?”

“No.”

He nods, slow, like this is meaningful information. He takes a drink of coffee.

“What’d you find instead?”

Your chest does the thing. The embarrassing thing. You look out the window.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just junk.”

He doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything.

The house is quiet except for Rook’s shuffling from the other room.

You’ve been not saying things to Gator Tillman for eighteen years.

You’re very good at it by now.

You’re also, you’re starting to think, very tired of it.

tag list is open! this is more of a mini series, i’m only expecting like 5ish chapters!!

[ladybugsteve]

despite the fact that this was a mini series, every chapter felt like i was a lens into their lives. loved watching them grow together. so precious

[florrysgf]

✶ FOOL FOR YOU.ᐟ steve harrington x fem!reader au

SUMMARY: in which an injured steve harrington accidentally climbs through your window instead of your brother’s.

WARNINGS: mentions of blood & injury, strong language.

WORD COUNT: 1.2k +

Steve let out a string of curses as he climbed up the drainpipe, his hands gripping the window ledge for dear life as he hoisted himself up. Usually he could make his way up in five seconds flat, but the sharp pain shooting up his side was doing little for his agility.

It admittedly bruised his ego a little to have to rely on a fourteen year old child to patch him up after getting hurt during a patrol, but what other choice did he have? Dustin was the only person who knew about his secret.

He’d always known the little shit was too smart for his own good; he’d discovered there was something going on with Steve before he even knew himself.

From the moment he was bitten, the Henderson boy had hounded him with books about the effects of spider venom, endless questions about his web shooters, and suggestions about how he could modify his suit.

As insane as it drove him, he knew the kid was only trying to help. And honestly, he was just glad Dustin was the one to work it out and not Robin. If it was her, she might as well put a huge billboard up in Hawkins town square with ‘Steve Harrington is Spider-Man!’ plastered on it in bold lettering.

After a couple of fumbles, he finally managed to unlock the window and push it open. He brushed a tuft of hair out of his eyes, poking his head into the bedroom.

Then he froze.

The walls once covered in astronomy wallpaper were now painted a soft butter yellow, with string lights hung from either side. The creased Goonie’s poster had been replaced with a photo of Patrick Swayze in The Outsiders, and the shelf in the corner that was previously full of science textbooks was now stacked with records ranging from Duran Duran to Cyndi Lauper.

Oh, shit.

“Steve?”

His head whipped around at the sound of his name, his eyes comically wide as they set on you, sat atop your canopy bed in your pyjamas beside a copy of Cosmopolitan, with an understandably startled look on your face.

Yeah. This definitely wasn’t Dustin’s room.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” He trailed off, his chest heaving as he tried to come up with an excuse for the insane situation he’d landed himself in, but what could he say? What could possibly justify him stumbling through your window at ten o’clock, with his mask pressed against his side in an attempt to stop the bleeding, and his suit half torn to shreds?

Oh, God, his suit.

He parted his lips to defend himself, but you beat him to it, swinging your legs over the side of the bed as you sat up straight.

“Oh my god,” You murmured, you gaze lifting from his spandex-covered body up to his wide, brown eyes, “You’re Spider-Man?”

“What? No! This isn’t— I’m not—” He resigned himself with a sigh, “Okay, yeah. Maybe a little.”

You didn’t move straight away. He half expected you to yell at him for breaking and entering, or for getting blood on your new rug, but you didn’t.

You merely stood up and padded past him into what he could only assume was your en suite bathroom, leaving him standing ineptly in front of your windowsill. You returned not a minute later, a pocket first aid kit in your hands.

“C’mon,” You said, nodding towards the bed.

Steve probably should have said no, and if it was anyone else he would have, but much like your brother, you had this stubborn lilt to your voice that he couldn’t ignore. So, he swallowed thickly and staggered towards your bed, the mattress creaking under his weight as he lowered himself onto the duvet.

You sat down beside him, tucking your socked feet under your thighs. “I take it you came here for Dustin?” You asked casually, like you were talking about the weather as opposed to a literal state secret.

“Why would you think that?”

You shrugged as you popped open the kit, “He told me you’ve been helping him with his algebra, but I figured that was a lie, since you had to retake Mr. Thomas’ class last year.”

Steve grimaced. Partly from the memory and mostly from the pain he was in.

“Plus, he hid a book on web fluid under the couch.”

“Of course he did.” He huffed.

After pulling out a pack of cotton pads and a bottle of antiseptic, you nod towards his suit, “Can you take that off?”

“You could at least take me out to dinner first,” He attempted to joke, but the slight tremble his voice carried betrayed him.

You sat patiently and watched as he stripped himself of his suit, the material falling from his frame and pooling loosely around his waist. You couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on his chest, dropping down to the subtle curve of his stomach and the trail of dark hair beneath his navel. You were pretty sure he noticed, but he didn’t say anything.

You cleared your throat and refocused your attention on the gash on his side, where dried blood had begun to cling to his skin. After soaking a cotton pad in antiseptic, you leaned over and pressed it to the wound, cringing when you felt him suck in a breath.

“I’m sorry,”

Steve hissed through his teeth and tipped his head back against the headboard, “Its okay.”

“This looks gnarly.” You murmur softly, “What happened?”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye. “Would you believe me if I said a guy came at me with a knife?”

You shook your head and Steve sighed.

“It was a cat.”

That drew a laugh out of you, “A cat?”

“A really big cat.” He defended, his lips curling up as he struggled to hide a chuckle of his own.

Your eyes were glued to his abdomen as you cleaned him up, but his eyes were on you. He watched attentively, surprised at how gentle you were being with him. There was a practiced ease to the way you worked, most likely from tending to Dustin whenever he fell off his bike.

He watched you until you were done, his voice laced with a hint of vulnerability that wasn’t there before, “You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?”

You tilted your head to the side, soft and incredulous, “Steve. Who would I tell?”

He felt a little stupid for asking. He barely knew anything about you. Up until now, the two of you had only spoken once or twice in passing. What reason did he have to trust you?

But at the same time, you’d let him into your space and patched him up without so much as a question. That was more than most people would have done.

His mouth pulls into a small smile, eyes glazing over with exhaustion. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You clicked the first aid kit closed and tossed the cotton pads into the bin before getting up and padding across the carpet into the bathroom. You slid the kit back under the sink where you found it and grabbed a glass, because you figured he needed it, and filled it with cold water.

By the time you got back to your room, water and painkillers in hand, Steve was dead to the world. He laid tangled amongst your duvet with his brown hair sticking up in several directions, soft breaths escaping his mouth as he dozed.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was the most relaxed he’d looked in weeks.

© florrysgf, 2026. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

[spderjmz]

what love looks like 𑣲⋆ s. harrington

- the kids know what love is because they've seen it through you and steve. based of this request

- cw: family trauma, minimum mentiones of fights and the hargrove men and papa (yuck.) found family vibes

2k+ words

For a group of six kids, they really had terrible odds when it came to love. Almost unfair odds, really.

Only Lucas had grown up watching a love story survive.

Not perfect, but real. His parents still danced together in the kitchen sometimes. Still looked at each other like partners instead of burdens. Still chose each other every day in a way the others had never really seen before.

The rest of them learned early that love left. That it screamed and hurt, or disappeares.

Max Mayfield still missed California sometimes.

Not because Hawkins was awful, at least not anymore. Hawkins had become home in its own strange, haunted way.

But California had been before.

Before Neil Hargrove. Before fear becoming something that lived permanently in her chest. Before she learned to listen for footsteps and slamming doors and changing tones.

There had been a time where her mom laughed more. Where dinner didn’t feel tense. Where love hadn’t looked dangerous.

The Hargrove men ruined that.

Billy inherited Neil’s rage like it was something carved into his bones, and Max grew up watching what happened when love became ownership instead of care. It permanently altered the way she viewed family. Because in Max’s experience, love was something that eventually turned mean.

Will Byers lost two fathers.

The first one emotionally long before he physically disappeared.

Lonnie Byers had never understood him. Never protected him. Will spent most of his childhood trying to take up as little space as possible around his own dad.

Then came Bob.

Sweet, gentle Bob Newby who made their house feel warm again for a little while.

Bob who smiled easily, listened, tried. Bob who made Joyce laugh in a way Will hadn’t heard in years.

And then Bob died too.

So eventually Will stopped believing father figures stayed.

Now the closest thing he had to one was Jonathan. His exhausted older brother trying to become a man too quickly because life demanded it from him.

Dustin Henderson remembered his dad more than people expected him to.

People assumed he was too young, but Dustin remembered everything.

He remembered sitting on his father’s shoulders at the fair when he was five. Remembered family movie nights. And worst of all he remembered the leaving.

The suitcase by the door and his mother crying quietly in the kitchen for weeks afterward. The way the house suddenly became smaller and emptier all at once.

Dustin learned young that people could promise forever and still walk away.

Mike Wheeler grew up in a house filled with passive silence. His parents weren’t explosive.

Sometimes he thought that was worse. Every conversation between them sounding tired.

Karen Wheeler fought out of frustration, desperate for someone to actually see her, while Ted Wheeler responded like a man waiting for the argument to end so he could go back to his recliner and television.

There was no cruelty loud enough to point at. Just indifference.

And Mike learned that marriage could become two people surviving beside each other instead of loving each other.

And then there was Eleven.

El had been raised by a man who called himself Papa while treating children like experiments.

Love, to her, had always come with conditions.

Obedience. Isolation. Pain. Performance.

Dr. Brenner taught her that affection was something earned through usefulness. That protection meant control. That caring for someone meant owning them.

Even after finding Hopper, even after finally having a home, pieces of that fear stayed lodged inside her. And Hopper loved hard—sometimes too hard.

His protectiveness wrapped around El so tightly it sometimes felt difficult to breathe inside it.

She understood why. But understanding didn’t stop the suffocation.

Given everything they’d lived through, you would think the kids would grow up cynical. That they’d decide marriage was pointless. Because what was the point? You either lost the people you loved or they abandoned you. Or they hurt you until loving them felt unbearable.

So why bother?

Why give someone the power to destroy you?

Except… love did have a point.

And somehow, impossibly, the thing that taught them that was you and Steve.

Not because your relationship was perfect. But because it was healthy. And none of them had ever truly seen that before.

Lucas realized it first.

Or at least he realized it the clearest.

It happened after a fight with Max. A bad one.

Not screaming—Max rarely screamed when she was genuinely hurt. That was the problem. She just shut down. Went cold. Looked at him like she was already preparing herself to leave before he could leave first.

Lucas hated that look.

So he showed up at Steve’s house one evening while Steve was outside cleaning pool leaves.

Steve glanced up. “You look miserable.”

“I need girl advice.”

Steve dropped the skimmer immediately. “Oh, this is serious.”

Lucas rolled his eyes but sat on the edge of the pool anyway.

“I messed up.”

“What’d you do?”

“I forgot something important.”

Steve winced. “Anniversary?”

“Worse.”

Steve looked horrified. “How is there worse than anniversary?”

“Something about her mom.”

“Oh,” Steve said immediately, expression softening. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

Lucas sighed heavily. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Steve sat beside him quietly for a second. “You don’t fix it by defending yourself.”

Lucas frowned. “What?”

“You listen first. Like really listen. Don’t argue about intention when she’s trying to explain impact, you know,” Steve mentioned with shrug, like it was common sense to him.

Lucas stared at him.

Because no adult man had ever said something like that to him before.

Steve let out a sigh seeing as he wasn't following. “Sometimes people don’t need you to be right. They need you to care that they’re hurting.”

“And Y/N taught you that?”

Steve snorted. “Repeatedly.”

Lucas laughed despite himself.

Then Steve nudged his shoulder.

“If you love her, act like it when things are hard too. Anybody can love someone when it’s easy.”

Lucas carried that sentence with him for years.

Max had realized accidentally.

One evening she’d gone downstairs looking for water while staying over at your place.

Then she heard your voices in the kitchen.

Immediately she froze.

Instinct.

Years of listening carefully for danger.

You and Steve were arguing quietly about bills.

Max’s stomach tightened automatically, already bracing herself for sharp words and blame and the kind of tension that made your chest feel too tight. Something she understood too well.

Instead she heard you say softly, “you don’t have to carry everything by yourself, Steve.”

Steve exhaled shakily. “I know, I just— I like taking care of you.”

“And who takes care of you?”

Silence.

Then quieter, “you do.”

Max stood there in the hallway for a long time afterward. Because nobody had ever spoken like that in her house.

Not gently.

Not during a fight.

Not with concern instead of cruelty.

It genuinely unsettled her at first—the realization that conflict didn’t have to become violence.

That loving someone could mean trying to understand them instead of win against them.

Will noticed it in the smallest ways. Of course he did. Will noticed everything.

One rainy afternoon, the kids were all crowded inside Steve’s house after plans got ruined by a storm. Thunder rattled the windows while Dustin complained dramatically about boredom.

You weren’t there yet. Still at work. But Steve glanced outside once and immediately stood up.

Will watched him quietly.

Steve grabbed blankets from the hallway closet, tossed popcorn in the microwave, then started setting up the VCR in the living room.

Dustin blinked. “What’re you doing?”

“Movie night.”

“You hate rainy movie nights.”

“I do not.”

“You literally said they make you sleepy and depressed.”

Steve ignored him.

Then Will understood.

You loved rain.

Loved movies during storms specifically. Said rain made everything feel softer somehow.

Steve remembered without you even being there.

Will watched him dim the lights before casually saying you had rough shift today. And something in Will’s chest ached unexpectedly. Because Steve paid attention.

Not performatively, but naturally.

Like caring about you had become instinct.

Will had spent most of his life watching people miss each other completely. But you and Steve saw each other constantly.

Mike realized it late at night.

The Wheeler basement was loud that evening, everyone spread around after another near-disaster.

Eventually exhaustion took over.

At some point during the movie, you fell asleep curled against Steve on the couch.

Mike barely noticed until the credits rolled and Steve carefully shifted underneath you.

Not annoyed.

Just gentle.

He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stirred slightly.

Steve immediately whispered in your ear. “Go back to sleep, baby. I got you.”

And you did.

Trusted him enough to instantly relax again.

Mike watched Steve carry you upstairs slowly so he wouldn’t wake you.

And suddenly he thought about his own parents. About how his mom would’ve loudly shaken Ted awake instead. About how Ted would complain. About how affection in his house always seemed inconvenient.

But Steve looked at caring for you like it was an honor.

That realization stayed with Mike long after everyone else fell asleep.

El always knew. She was observant like that.

Always watching. Always learning.

And there was no way she couldn’t notice the calmness surrounding you and Steve when the rest of the world constantly felt like it was moving too fast.

One afternoon she and Max had wanted to go to the arcade alone.

Steve immediately said no.

“Absolutely not.”

El crossed her arms instantly. “Why?”

“Because last time you two disappeared for six hours and nearly got arrested.”

“That was one time.”

“Yeah, it was one very long two month ago.”

You tried not to laugh while making coffee.

El expected the conversation to become a fight.

That’s what she knew. That's what Hopper would do.

Instead Steve crouched slightly to meet her eye level.

“I know you’re smart,” he said gently. “That’s not the issue.”

“Then why no?”

“Because something bad happens to you guys constantly and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

El frowned slightly.

Steve sighed. “I’m not trying to control you, El. I just… worry.”

You stepped beside him carefully.

“He wants you safe,” you explained softly. “He's not trying to limit you”

El looked between you both.

No anger or manipulation behind your words.

Just pure honesty.

Finally Steve added “if I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight at all.”

That made El smile a little. And for maybe the first time in her life, protectiveness didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt like love.

Without realizing it, you and Steve became something sacred to the kids.

A safe place.

The place they escaped to after bad nights at home. The people they called when things hurt too much. The proof that love could survive softness.

That it could be patient and kind.

The kids even started measuring relationships by you two without even meaning to.

One afternoon at lunch Lucas said casually that “if my future relationship isn’t like Steve and Y/N’s, I don’t want it.”

Max immediately threw a tater tot at his forehead.

But she didn’t disagree.

None of them did.

By summer, the Harrington pool unofficially became theirs again.

One Saturday afternoon the kids invited themselves over without warning. Not that you minded. Or weren't used to it.

You stepped outside carrying lemonade only to find complete chaos.

Dustin doing cannonballs (after being banned from backflips). Lucas and Max arguing over the singular pool floatie they had yet to pop. Mike was pretending not to splash El while very obviously splashing El. Will floating peacefully near the deep end with his eyes closed.

And Steve.

Steve standing in the middle of it all laughing so hard he could barely breathe after Dustin slid off the floatie Lucas finally managed steal from Max.

You leaned against the patio doorway watching them.

Your people.

Your strange little family stitched together through trauma and monsters and survival.

Steve looked over eventually, smiling immediately when he saw you.

That smile never changed after all these years. Still soft and certain.

“Babe,” he called. “Tell Dustin he’s banned from doing backflips.”

“I landed it!”

“You landed near it,” Steve argued.

It seemed as the world had finally decided to be gentle with all of you for once. As the sun dipped lower the kids laughed louder.

Somewhere between the pool water, the fading sunlight, and the warmth of everyone gathered together, the kids finally understood something they’d spent years trying to learn:

Love was never the thing that ruined people.

The absence of it was.

likes, reblogs, and comments are much appreciated <3

[harringtonsugar]

i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve harrington i love steve

[chestharrington]

I love to imagine Steve in the back of Scoops Ahoy making birthday cakes like this

[jinxispunk]

you don't get to decide that

Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: When a vine drags you toward a deadly drop in the Upide Down, Steve puts his life on the line for you - later, as you stitch him together, you refuse to let him believe he's expendable.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, hurt/comfort, graphic injury/bleeding, fluff (let me know if I missed anything)

W/C: 1.8k

A/N: hero!steve my beloved

You’re just steadying yourself after climbing through the shattered window when the floor creaks under your weight.

Not a normal creak. Something thinner. Hollow.

You freeze.

“Wait-”

Too late.

The boards beneath your feet splinter with a sharp crack and drop out from under you.

The floor gives way in a jagged line, wood snapping apart, and suddenly there’s nothing solid beneath you - just a gaping hole where the upper floor used to be.

You fall.

But not clean.

Your body slams onto a slanted section of broken flooring that didn’t quite collapse with the rest. It’s tilted steeply toward the hole, half-hanging over open space. Dust and debris slide with you as you skid downward.

Your hands hit the wood hard, grabbing for anything that’ll hold. Splinters bite into your palms, but the boards are warped and loose, threatening to give way at any second.

Below you, the rest of the floor is gone.

Just a dark, open drop filled with tangled vines and shifting shadows.

“Shit-”

Your boot catches on a raised board, stopping your slide for half a second.

Hope flares.

Then something coils tight around your ankle.

You gasp.

The vine yanks.

Not holding you in place.

Dragging you down.

“Oh my god- no-”

You claw at the wood as it pulls you, your body jerking forward as your grip slips inch by inch. The broken floor creaks under the strain, dust raining down into the darkness below.

“Steve-!”

The name tears out of you.

The vine pulls again.

Your hands slip.

The edge is right there.

And then- a hand grabs your wrist.

Hard.

Your whole body jolts to a stop.

“Got you-!”

Steve.

He’s sprawled across the remaining floor, half over the broken edge, one arm locked around your wrist while the other braces against what’s left of a support beam. The wood beneath him groans ominously, already starting to splinter.

“Don’t move,” he says, breath coming fast. “Don’t move, okay? I’ve got you.”

“It’s pulling-” you choke. “Steve, it’s pulling me-”

“I know. I know-”

The vine yanks again.

Your body jerks downward, dragging him with you. His chest slams hard against the edge as he slides closer to the gap, boots scraping uselessly for traction.

Still, he doesn’t let go.

“Okay- okay-” he mutters, tightening his grip. “Hang on- just hang on-”

Another pull.

You scream as your hand slips in his for a split second.

He lunges forward, catching you again, both hands locking around your wrist now - his weight tipping dangerously over the edge.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says, low and fierce.

The floor shifts under him.

There’s a sharp crack.

A jagged splinter of wood snaps loose from the broken beam and drives straight into his side.

Steve chokes on a breath, his body jerking from the impact.

“Steve-!”

His jaw clenches hard, pain flashing across his face - but his grip only tightens.

“I’m good,” he grits out, voice strained. “I’ve got you-”

You hear frantic voices approaching. Dustin and Jonathan grab onto Steve's legs to ground him, to keep him above the surface.

The vine around your ankle pulls harder.

“Kick,” he says, voice thinner now. “C’mon-kick, I need you to-”

“I can’t-”

“Then use me. Grab my shoulder with your other hand.”

“What?!”

“My shoulder,” he snaps. “Do it.”

You hesitate for half a second - then you don’t.

Your hand that isn't grasped in his grabs onto his shoulder, hard, hating the way he tenses, the way his breath catches sharp.

Then you pull yourself upward.

The vine yanks at the same time.

Something gives.

“Again,” he grits out.

You do.

Harder.

Robin’s there suddenly, swinging something down into the vines, and the second it connects, the thing around your ankle snaps loose.

You scramble.

Hands clawing, dragging yourself up as Steve hauls you the rest of the way, your body slamming into his as you clear the edge.

For one second, you’re both just there.

Alive. In each other's arms. Clinging tight.

“Steve-”

“I’m fine,” he says immediately. Too fast. Too automatic.

“Steve.”

“I said I’m-”

“Guys!” Dustin yells. “We need to go - now!”

Something shrieks deeper in the building.

Close.

Steve grabs your arm. “C’mon.”

“You’re hurt-”

“I’m fine. Move.”

You run.

You don’t stop until the gate is behind you.

Air hits your lungs differently on the other side - cleaner, thinner - and for a second everything feels too quiet after the chaos.

Steve doesn’t make it three steps.

He folds.

Not dramatic. Not a collapse.

Just - his shoulder hits the side of the car and he stays there, head dropping forward, breath leaving him in a rough, uneven exhale.

Your heart drops straight through your chest.

“Okay - no,” you say immediately, grabbing him. “No, we’re done pretending now.”

“I’m fine,” he mutters.

You ignore it completely.

“Keys,” you snap, already tugging at his jacket. “Steve, keys.”

He fumbles them out, barely, and you snatch them, yanking open the trunk of his Beemer like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

The emergency kit is exactly where it always is, thank God.

“Sit,” you tell him, already moving.

He doesn’t argue this time. That’s how you know it’s bad.

You guide him down against the back of the car, propping him carefully, your hands already working, unzipping, pulling things out, not even fully processing what you’re grabbing yet.

“Hey,” he says softly, trying for something lighter. “You’re kinda bossy when you’re stressed.”

“Shut up,” you say, voice tight.

He smiles faintly anyway.

Your hands move to his shirt.

“Hey- easy-”

“Take it off.”

“Wow, no foreplay or anything-”

“Steve.”

That tone again.

He exhales, defeated, and lets you.

You peel the fabric back, and your stomach drops.

It’s not just a hit.

The wood tore him open.

Not deep enough to gut him, but deep enough.

Angry, jagged lines across his ribs, skin split and already sticky with blood, dark and spreading under your hands.

“Oh my god-”

“I’ve had worse,” he says automatically.

“Stop saying that,” you snap, already reaching for gauze, your hands shaking just enough to make it annoying. “That does not make this okay.”

He watches you for a second - really watches you - and something in his expression softens.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now. “I’m okay.”

“You are not okay,” you say, voice cracking despite yourself. “This is all my fault, Steve, you-”

“I’d do it again.”

That stops you. You look up at him.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even try to soften it.

“I’d do it again,” he repeats.

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

He tilts his head slightly. “Don’t what?”

“Say it like that,” you say. “Like it doesn’t matter.”

His expression shifts.

“It matters,” he says gently. “You matter.”

That hits harder than anything else.

You swallow it down.

“Hold this,” you say, pressing gauze into his hand and guiding it to his side. “Pressure.”

He does, wincing.

“Okay,” you murmur, more to yourself now. “Okay, I need to-”

You grab the antiseptic.

He sees it.

“…that’s gonna suck, huh.”

You give him a look.

“Yeah.”

He huffs softly. “Great.”

“Bite something,” you say, already moving.

“What, like-”

You shove a folded cloth into his hand.

“That works.”

He grips it.

“Okay,” he says. “Do your worst.”

You don’t hesitate.

You pour.

He jerks hard, a breathy groan tearing out of him, hand gripping the edge of the car so tight his knuckles go white.

“I know,” you say quickly, voice softer now. “I know, I know- just- breathe, okay? Stay with me.”

You work fast.

Cleaning what you can, hands steadier now that you’ve started, your focus narrowing to just this, just him, just fixing what you can.

“Gonna need to stitch it,” you murmur.

He takes the cloth out of his mouth and lets out a weak laugh. “You sound way too calm about that.”

“I’m not calm,” you say.

He glances at you. Your hands are steady. Your eyes are not.

“…yeah,” he says quietly. “I can see that.”

You thread the needle.

“Don’t move,” you warn.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

The first stitch makes him suck in a sharp breath.

His head tips back against the car, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

“Almost done,” you murmur, even though you’ve barely started. “Just-stay with me, okay?”

“Where else would I go?” he says, voice strained but still trying.

You huff a weak breath.

“Idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

That one lands.

You don’t answer. Just keep going.

Each stitch pulls the wound closed a little more, your fingers careful, precise, even as your chest feels like it might crack open right alongside him.

At one point your hand falters, just for a second. He notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You don’t look up.

“Hey,” he repeats, gentler.

You finally glance at him.

“I thought-” you start, then stop, swallowing hard. “I thought I was gone.”

His whole expression changes.

Softens in a way that hurts to look at.

“You weren’t,” he says quietly.

“I was,” you whisper. “You saw it. I was right there and I couldn’t-”

“I had you.”

Your breath stutters.

“I had you,” he repeats, more certain this time. “I wasn’t letting you go.”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “You got hurt because of me.”

He frowns immediately. “No.”

“Yes-”

“No,” he says, firmer now. “I got hurt because something tried to take you, and I didn’t let it. That’s not on you.”

You blink at him.

“You don’t get to turn that into your fault,” he adds, softer now.

That… settles something. Not all of it, but enough.

You nod once, swallowing it down, and finish the last stitch.

“There,” you murmur. “Okay. Okay, that’s - done.”

You tie it off, hands finally slowing. The worst of it is closed. He exhales, tension draining out of him in waves now that it’s over.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re kinda incredible, you know that?”

You laugh weakly. “Yeah, well. Don’t make me do it again.”

“No promises.”

“Steve.”

“I’m kidding,” he says quickly, smiling faintly.

You shake your head, but your hands don’t leave him.

They linger, light now, careful, smoothing over the bandage, checking, adjusting, like you don’t quite trust that he’s actually okay yet.

Then, without really thinking about it, you lean in.

He meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft at first, careful, then not.

Relief bleeds into it, sharp and overwhelming and a little desperate, and his hand comes up to the back of your neck, pulling you closer in a way that says he felt it too.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his.

“Still got you?” he murmurs.

You huff softly, eyes closing.

“Always.”

His arm shifts carefully around your waist, pulling you into him despite the way he winces a little at the movement. You settle against him anyway, gentler this time, mindful of the bandage, your hand coming up to rest lightly over his heart.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You just sit there, pressed close against the side of his car, breathing evening out, the world finally quiet around you.

Two idiots, madly in love, and, somehow, okay.

dividers: saradika-graphics

[ladybugsteve]

(affectionately) that stupid idiot!

[oohgeminii]

you seem pretty happy for a girl so single?

steve harrington x reader

|| desc - steve is well and truly in love with you, he always has been, but you couldn't seem less interested in his eyes. this leads him to think you must just be immune to his charm (impossible) or fine being single. truth is you're neither of those things, your simply oblivious, as is he too apparently.

val speaks - get it get it i did a spin on 'you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love' haa so funny basically just excited for this album 😋😋 enjoy babas !! ++ this is another steve fic without much of the actual stranger things plot (as in the upside down) bc i loved the one i did like that the other day he he

basically a childhood friends to lovers even tho they've secretly always been lovers slowburn w some cluelessness 😁

word count: 8.3k

the first thing anyone ever knew about steve harrington was that he was loud.

not loud in volume, though he could be, especially when he laughed so hard milk came out of his nose at age eight because you told him the punchline to a joke wrong on purpose, but loud in presence.

even as a little boy, steve had always seemed to fill every room he walked into, every backyard he ran through, every sidewalk he skidded his bike tires across. he was all scraped knees and crooked grins, wild hair that never sat flat no matter how much water he slapped on it, and a habit of speaking before he thought, then somehow charming his way out of whatever trouble that got him into.

and somehow, from the very beginning, wherever steve was, you were too.

your mothers liked to joke that before either of you could even walk, you’d already claimed each other. two little babies in matching sun hats sitting in paddling pools in neighbouring gardens, grabbing at each other’s hands with sticky fingers and refusing to settle unless you were side by side. apparently, steve used to cry when your parents took you inside for naps, little fists clenched, cheeks red, angry at the universe for daring to separate him from his favourite person.

some things never really changed.

you grew up attached at the hip in the kind of way people only are when history roots itself so deep between them that pulling apart would feel like tearing skin.

you learned to ride bikes together, both of you wobbling dangerously down your street while your dads shouted instructions that neither of you listened to.

steve crashed first, straight into a hedge, and you laughed so hard you tipped over too. he came out with leaves in his hair and a branch caught in his shirt collar, grinning like an idiot, and before he even checked his own scraped elbow, he was kneeling beside you asking if you were okay.

that was steve.

always checking for you first.

there were summers spent so thoroughly tangled together they blurred into one endless golden memory.

afternoons in his parents’ pool until your fingers wrinkled and your skin smelled permanently of chlorine, competitions to see who could hold their breath longest underwater, cannonball contests that ended with his mother yelling because water splashed onto her expensive outdoor furniture.

nights where you slept over so often that both houses stopped asking questions, your toothbrush permanently living in the bathroom connected to steve’s bedroom, one of his old shirts becoming your designated pyjama top.

you built blanket forts in his room and swore they were castles. you made secret handshakes that changed every month. you whispered under covers with flashlights when thunderstorms rolled in, talking about stupid things and serious things and everything in between.

you saw every side of each other.

the ugly sides too.

you saw steve cry the first time his dad called him a disappointment.

you saw him go quiet after, quieter than should’ve been possible for a boy like him, shoulders tense and eyes glassy as he sat on your bedroom floor staring at nothing.

you sat beside him and said nothing at all, just leaned your shoulder against his until he leaned back.

that became your thing.

when his parents fought, he came to your house.

when his father got cruel, he came to your house.

when business trips left that giant empty house colder than winter, he stayed at your house, eating dinner at your table and laughing with your parents like he belonged there, because he did.

your mother kissed the top of his head when he looked especially worn down, your father taught him how to fix things in the garage.

your home became the place he exhaled and you became the person he always looked for first.

always.

through bad haircuts and braces and acne and awkward limbs that grew too fast for your bodies to catch up, you stayed constant.

until high school came and suddenly, painfully, neither of you were awkward anymore.

you grew into yourself quietly, like spring unfolding. pretty in a way that didn’t scream for attention, but stole it anyway.

soft eyes that noticed everything. a laugh that was rarer now, but warm enough to make people chase it. intelligence that shone bright and effortless. kindness that lived in every small thing you did. helping someone pick up dropped books, remembering birthdays nobody else did, always offering your notes to the kids who missed class.

you were beautiful in the sort of way people didn’t fully understand until they looked twice.

steve understood immediately.

and steve, god, steve grew into himself like he’d been handcrafted for trouble.

broad shoulders. soft brown eyes hidden behind ridiculous lashes. hair that somehow always looked perfect. that stupid smile capable of making half the female population of hawkins forget their own names.

and steve knew it.

or at least, his ego did.

king steve, they called him.

captain of popularity.

girls hanging off his arm, boys desperate for his approval, parties every weekend. loud music, expensive beer stolen from his parents’ liquor cabinet, people packed into his house hoping to breathe the same air as him.

he played the part beautifully.

cocky grin, easy charm, careless laughter, pretty girls, empty conversations. but there were things everyone noticed that nobody understood.

how steve only went to parties if you were invited too, even when you almost never came. how he always looked around rooms like he was searching for someone. how if anybody talked badly about you, even as a joke, his entire face changed. how he got mean.

how no girl, no matter how gorgeous, ever lasted long.

how every relationship seemed flimsy compared to the quiet girl who sat beside him in class helping him pass english, who rolled her eyes at his jokes but smiled anyway, who knew where he kept spare house keys and which scar on his knee came from which childhood disaster.

what nobody knew was that steve harrington loved you so badly it ached.

it lived in him like breathing. natural, constant, unavoidable. it was in the way he memorised everything about you.

how you tucked your hair behind your ear when concentrating. how you chewed on pen caps while studying. how you always gave him the marshmallows from your hot chocolate because you hated them and he loved them. how your nose scrunched when you laughed for real. how you never noticed when boys stared because you were too busy living inside your own head.

it killed him a little, that obliviousness.

because steve flirted constantly.

he tested waters in stupid ways.

telling you about girls he hooked up with, watching your face for any crack in your expression.

there never was one.

just your soft, distracted little hums. sometimes a wrinkled nose if the girl sounded awful. sometimes advice.

advice.

jesus christ.

he’d stare at you, really stare, eyes warm and helpless and completely gone for you, and you’d blink back like he was just steve.

just your steve.

your best friend.

meanwhile, he was halfway to insanity.

what steve never saw were all the quiet ways you loved him back.

how you kept every note he’d ever scribbled you. how no boy ever compared, which was why you’d only dated twice and barely liked either of them. how every time he brought a girl around, something sharp and sour twisted in your chest. how you knew the exact shade of hazel his eyes turned in sunlight.

how you sometimes laid awake at night, staring at your ceiling, replaying the way he smiled at you that day or how his hand rested warm on your back guiding you through crowds.

how your mother’s teasing words looped endlessly in your head.

you and stevie were made for each other.

you’d laugh it off, call her crazy, then spend hours wondering if maybe she wasn’t. wondering if steve could ever look at you and see more.

wondering what it would feel like if he kissed you. wondering if kissing steve would ruin everything, or finally make sense of everything that already existed between you.

and every morning after, you’d wake up and slip right back into your place beside him like those thoughts had never happened at all.

best friends.

always.

completely blind to the fact that the boy beside you was one heartbeat away from loving you out loud.

and equally blind to the fact that you already loved him too.

-

life carried on the way it always had.

which was strange, really, considering there was this constant thing sitting between you and steve. neither of you touched it, neither of you spoke it aloud, but it lived there all the same. tucked into glances that lingered too long, into hugs that held just a second more than necessary, into the easy way your lives folded around each other like they were built to fit.

more days turned into more weeks, more weeks into more months, and everything stayed beautifully, painfully normal.

you still sat with him while he copied your homework answers in that messy handwriting of his, tongue poking slightly into his cheek in concentration like he was actually trying, even though half the time he was writing complete nonsense because he was too busy talking to focus.

you still spent lunches together. sometimes alone, sometimes with your few close friends, sometimes with whatever crowd steve had orbiting him that week, but even in a room full of people, his attention always drifted back to you.

always.

you were still the first number he called. still the person he showed up for without asking. still the person he looked for in every crowded room.

and he was still yours in all the ways that mattered, without ever actually being yours at all.

one night after dinner at your house, your mother insisting steve stay because she’d made too much food, as if she hadn’t been cooking with him in mind from the start, the two of you found yourselves in your bedroom, exactly where you always ended up.

lying on the floor.

side by side.

staring at the ceiling.

it was a strange little ritual you’d created years ago, one that somehow stuck. whenever something weighed heavy on either of you, whenever thoughts got too loud or life got too complicated, you ended up here. flat on your backs, shoulders nearly touching, eyes aimed upward like answers might be written in the cracks of your ceiling paint.

this was where the real conversations happened.

not the casual chatter, not gossip, not jokes, this was where truths lived. the ugly ones, the tender ones, the ones neither of you gave anybody else.

steve let out a long breath beside you, one hand resting on his stomach, the other tucked behind his head.

“he’s doing it again.”

you turned your head slightly toward him.

“your dad?”

he laughed once, humourless.

“who else?”

his jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“he’s on this whole thing about how i need to start learning the business now, so when he retires i can just… step in.” his voice hardened around the words. “like it’s some fucking honour.”

you stayed quiet.

you’d learned years ago that steve needed space to unravel before he needed comfort.

“he talks about it like he’s handing me a kingdom,” he muttered. “when really he’s handing me a prison sentence.”

your chest tightened.

because underneath the bitterness, underneath the anger, you heard what steve wasn’t saying.

he was scared, scared of becoming him. scared of looking in the mirror one day and seeing his father staring back.

steve scrubbed a hand over his face.

“i swear to god, i’d rather work in some shitty grocery store for the rest of my life than do what he does.”

that made you smile softly.

not because it was funny, though the dramatic way he said it was very steve, but because you knew him.

you knew this wasn’t about business being boring this was about morality. about goodness. about the way steve, despite all his pretending and ego and polished king-of-hawkins image, had the softest heart of anybody you knew.

he wanted to be kind, gentle. different. nothing like the man who’d raised him.

you reached your hand out between you, your pinky brushing lightly against his.

“what do you actually want?” you asked quietly.

“what?”

“after high school.” you looked back up at the ceiling. “college. life. what do you want, stevie?”

the room went quiet for a second, then two. then he laughed softly under his breath. not a happy laugh, the sad kind.

the self-deprecating kind.

“college?” he scoffed. “c’mon.”

you frowned instantly.

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“act like you’re stupid.”

he turned his head to look at you then, brown eyes soft in the dim lamp light.

“i’m not exactly ivy league material.”

“you’re smarter than you think.”

“i’m really not.”

“you are.”

there was firmness in your voice now, the kind that always made him listen.

“you just don’t try because somewhere along the line, somebody convinced you there was no point.”

his expression shifted. small, almost wounded, because you always saw right through him.

always.

you kept going, softer now.

“you’re smart, steve. genuinely smart. not even just academically, you read people better than anyone i know. you remember everything that matters. you’re creative. funny. emotionally intelligent, even if you pretend you aren’t.” you nudged his shoulder gently. “and if i have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of that, i will.”

steve stared at you and god, there was that look again. that look that made your stomach turn over.

warm, completely devastating. then, because he was steve, he ruined the moment on purpose.

“well,” he sighed dramatically, “in that case, i’ll just follow you wherever you go.”

you snorted.

“oh yeah?”

“absolutely.” he folded his hands over his chest. “be your little house wife.”

that made you laugh properly.

bright and sudden.

the kind of laugh that always made him smile like he’d won something.

“house wife?”

“yeah.”

“you?”

“i’d be incredible at it.”

“you can’t cook.”

“i can make toast.”

“you burn toast.”

“crispy toast.”

you laughed harder and soon he was laughing too, that big, warm laugh that filled your whole room.

then the laughter settled into something softer. comfortable quiet. and somewhere in that quiet, the strange truth of it hung there,

every version of the future either of you had ever imagined always included the other. always.

sometimes you were neighbours with houses connected by a garden gate. sometimes coworkers. sometimes roommates in a big city. sometimes pen pals, a ridiculous idea born from sixteen-year-old steve drunkenly declaring he was moving to italy after eating pasta he called religious.

you still teased him for that.

but every dream, every joke, every passing thought about what came next, included us.

never 'me'. never 'you'. always us.

neither of you spoke about the deeper version of that dream.

the one with shared mornings. shared beds. children with messy hair and stubborn attitudes. a home that belonged equally to both of you.

but somewhere, buried deep, you’d both imagined it.

more than once.

steve swallowed hard against that thought.

then casually, too casually, he asked,

“how come you’re still single?”

you turned your head.

“you’re single too.”

a slow smirk spread across his mouth.

“yeah, but i haven’t always been.”

you rolled your eyes.

“neither have i.”

“middle school boyfriends don’t count.”

you laughed.

“according to who?”

“according to me.”

you shook your head, smiling, then shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and that answer sat strangely warm in steve’s chest.

because maybe, maybe you liked being single. maybe there was nobody. maybe it wasn’t that you didn’t want him specifically.

weirdly, that hurt less.

he smiled faintly, staring back up at the ceiling.

then you asked quietly,

“why haven’t you settled down with anyone?”

his chest tightened because there were a thousand truths he could say. because i’m in love with my best friend. because nobody feels like you. because every girl i kiss isn’t you.

instead, he shrugged.

“i don’t know.”

and selfishly, your heart liked that answer far more than the possibility of him loving somebody else.

silence settled again.

then steve spoke, voice quieter than before, serious,

“promise me something.”

“anything.”

he turned his head toward you.

there was vulnerability there, raw and boyish and achingly honest.

“don’t forget me.”

your brows pulled together instantly.

“steve-”

“i mean it.” he swallowed. “when all this ends. when college happens, life happens… if we end up in different places…” his voice got softer. “don’t forget about me.”

your whole chest ached because forgetting steve harrington would be like forgetting your own name.

impossible.

you reached across the floor and took his hand fully. fingers threading together like second nature. like instinct. like home.

you squeezed once.

“never” you whispered.

and steve squeezed back, holding your hand in the dark like it was something precious.

something worth keeping.

“promise?”

you smiled softly.

“i promise.”

neither of you realised then just how much that promise would come to mean.

-

by the time prom season rolled around, steve was losing his goddamn mind.

he sat at the edge of his bed one night, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the carpet while every thought in his head somehow circled back to you.

which, admittedly, wasn’t unusual. most roads in steve’s mind led to you, had for years.

but this was different, this was bigger.

this was prom.

the last school dance.

the final stupid, sweaty gymnasium decorated with cheap streamers and glitter and songs that would probably suck and punch that tasted vaguely like chemicals.

and steve wanted one thing.

just one.

you.

not in the way he’d had you before. showing up together because that’s what you always did, wandering in side by side because steve bringing you was as natural as breathing, dancing stupidly together in between him getting dragged off by friends and you laughing at him from the sidelines.

not as best friends.

not as what everyone already assumed you were.

he wanted to take you, really take you.

wanted to stand on your doorstep with flowers and nerves and sweaty palms. wanted to tell you you looked beautiful and mean it so hard it hurt. wanted to dance with his hands on your waist and know it meant something different.

wanted one night where he could pretend, or maybe, if he got lucky, not pretend at all.

so he came up with a plan.

a stupid plan. a deeply embarrassing plan. a plan that, in hindsight, made him want to throw himself directly into traffic.

he was going to make it obvious.

not say it, because apparently despite being steve harrington, king of confidence, he became a complete coward when it came to you, but obvious enough.

obvious enough that if you smiled a little wider than usual, blushed even slightly, acted flustered in any way he’d ask you.

simple. easy. foolproof.

except it was none of those things.

because monday morning, the second he pulled into your driveway, he already started acting insane.

normally, steve would pull up, lean dramatically on the horn once, and wait while you came out rolling your eyes.

his logic always being, your house is right there, you can hear the horn when i get in the car.

instead, that morning, he got out. walked to your front door. and knocked. actually knocked.

when you opened it, bag over your shoulder, hair still slightly messy from rushing around getting ready, he nearly forgot every coherent thought in his head.

you blinked at him then squinted suspiciously.

“…why are you at my door?”

he immediately panicked internally.

say something cool.

say something normal.

“felt like it.”

idiot.

your eyes narrowed further, mouth twitching like you were fighting a smile.

“okay…”

you kept looking at him funny all the way to the car, and honestly, fair enough.

but then he made it worse.

because when you reached the passenger side, he darted ahead and opened your door for you.

you stopped dead.

“what are you doing?”

steve leaned against the open door casually, like he wasn’t having a full body crisis.

“being nice?”

you laughed softly, confused and amused all at once.

“you are nice.”

“being nicer.”

you stared at him for a second then shook your head, smiling to yourself as you got in. that smile hit him like a truck.

holy shit.

was that wider than normal? was that flirty? was that polite?

what did that mean-

and thus began the longest week of steve harrington’s life.

because once he started, he couldn’t stop.

every class you didn’t share, he was waiting outside when the bell rang.

leaning against lockers trying to look casual, heart kicking up every time your face lit up when you saw him.

he carried your books.

your bag.

once, your stupid heavy history textbook that you always complained about.

he held doors open.

walked you to every class.

blew off tommy and half his friend group every lunch just to sit with you.

actually did his half of your joint assignment, not copied, not barely attempted, actually did it, and when you looked at him like he’d grown another head, he just shrugged like it was no big deal while internally screaming notice me.

he bought you lunch monday.

again on wednesday.

again on thursday.

sat in the library with you after school willingly.

willingly. the library.

for hours.

and every single thing you did made his brain short circuit.

because you just accepted it. completely. you didn’t question him much, didn’t pull away, didn’t act weird, didn’t reject any of it. you simply smiled that sweet little smile and let him fuss over you.

let him carry your things. let him buy your lunch. let him walk you around school like you were something precious.

and worst of all you looked happy about it. which should’ve been good. right? that should’ve been good.

except now steve was spiralling because what the hell did happy mean?

did you know what he was doing? were you oblivious? were you pitying him? were you just enjoying the attention?

meanwhile, you were living in your own version of insanity.

because steve had always made you feel special.

always.

from childhood to now, there had never been a moment where you doubted your place in his life.

but this?

this was different. this was soft, intentional. sweet in ways that made your stomach flip.

it felt suspiciously like being courted. like being wanted. like being his girl.

and god you liked it. liked it so much it scared you. so no, you didn’t question it. because if you asked, what if it stopped? what if he laughed and said he was just messing around? what if this tenderness disappeared?

so instead, you quietly soaked it in.

let yourself pretend just for a little while. let yourself imagine this was what loving steve openly might feel like.

which meant steve’s giant, ridiculous plan was failing spectacularly for one very simple reason-

the both of you were idiots.

by friday, steve was at breaking point.

he sat in his last class barely hearing a word the teacher said, knee bouncing under the desk.

what the hell was happening? surely by now, if you liked him, you would’ve said something. asked him what all this meant. given him something obvious back.

right?

unless you didn’t like him. unless you just thought he was being nice. unless this was normal to you because he’d always treated you well and you saw no difference.

jesus christ.

he’d spent an entire week acting like a lovesick freak and somehow ended up more confused than when he started.

the final bell rang and steve made a decision.

enough.

no more weird signals, no more spiralling, no more stupid plans.

he was asking you tonight.

flat out.

whatever happened, happened because he was absolutely not surviving another week of this.

what steve didn’t know was that at that exact same moment, sitting in class chewing the end of your pen and smiling stupidly to yourself remembering how he tucked your hair behind your ear at lunch you were thinking,

please don’t stop whatever this is.

please let me keep having this version of you.

even if it’s not real.

even if it’s only for a little while.

-

steve waited outside your last class.

again.

at this point, it had become routine. somewhere in his ridiculous attempt at flirting came a habit he’d accidentally fallen in love with.

there was just something about it.

the way your face always softened the second you spotted him leaning against the lockers. the little smile you never seemed able to hold back. the way you automatically walked toward him, like your feet knew where they belonged before your brain caught up.

it made something warm settle in his chest every single time.

so yes, even if his original reasons for waiting outside your classes had been pathetic and embarrassingly romantic, now he did it simply because he liked it.

liked being the person you looked for, liked walking beside you through crowded halls, liked carrying your books even when you insisted they “weren’t heavy.”

liked the feeling of everyone seeing you together.

he liked it far too much.

that friday, though, he was restless.

you noticed almost immediately.

the way his fingers tapped against his leg. the way his jaw kept tightening. the way he kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, only to close it again.

still, you didn’t ask.

if there was one thing years of knowing steve harrington had taught you, it was that when he was ready to talk, he would.

until then, you let silence be comfortable.

and it always was with him.

the drive home was dipped in golden evening light, quiet except for the radio humming softly in the background and the occasional sound of steve drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel.

when he took a corner too fast his hand instinctively shot out, catching your thigh for a second to steady you.

warm, solid, gone too quickly.

neither of you said anything but your stomach flipped anyway.

when he pulled up between your houses, you reached for the door handle-

“wait.”

your hand froze.

you turned back.

steve looked terrified, actually terrified.

your heart immediately started hammering.

oh my god.

oh my god.

was he-

this was it. this had to be it.

the weird week, the sweet gestures, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he’d been hovering close like he couldn’t help himself-

this was him asking you to prom.

your whole body went warm.

steve swallowed hard. right. just say it.

say prom.

“do you wanna go prom-”

your breath caught.

his heart launched into his throat.

“-dress shopping with me?”

silence.

steve internally punched himself in the face.

coward. absolute coward.

you blinked.

then laughed softly, trying to ignore how quickly hope had risen and crashed in your chest.

“are you getting a dress this year too, stevie?”

he huffed a little laugh, looking down, shaking his head.

“no, i mean…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “y’know, i’ll drive us to the city. we can get all fancy and buy expensive shit we probably don’t need. get ice cream on the way home.”

he looked up at you then.

hopeful. boyish.

impossibly handsome.

you smiled, a real one.

“that sounds nice.”

his shoulders loosened instantly.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you opened the door, stepping out, then turned back with a grin.

“it’s a date.”

and walked away.

steve sat frozen in his car.

date.

date?

did you mean date date?

or date as in phrase?

people said that all the time.

right?

right??

he smacked his forehead gently against the steering wheel.

meanwhile, halfway to your front door, you were spiralling too.

why would you say it’s a date? why would you say that?

that sounds romantic. that sounds intentional. he’s going to think you meant it romantically.

except he doesn’t like you.

probably.

so now you sound insane.

great.

perfect.

wonderful.

still, somehow, both of you went to bed smiling because stupid was easier when it felt this good.

-

nice and early the next morning, steve was at your door.

knocking.

again.

except this time when you opened it, you were very much not ready.

hair wild, sleep still heavy in your eyes, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, soft pyjama shorts, bare legs and sleepy confusion.

steve forgot how breathing worked.

you frowned at him.

“why are you here?”

his brain completely short circuited.

“…shopping.”

you groaned.

“shit.”

you looked over your shoulder at the clock and winced.

“i overslept.”

steve finally recovered enough to shrug casually.

“i’ll wait.”

he walked past you like he belonged there, because he did, headed straight to your room, kicked off his shoes, and threw himself face down onto your bed.

dramatically, arms spread, muffled voice immediately rambling into your duvet.

“had the weirdest dream last night.”

you stood at your mirror trying to brush your hair while pulling on jeans.

“what?”

more muffled nonsense.

something about a shark. your third grade teacher. a ferrari. possibly italy.

you laughed.

“i understood none of that.”

he lifted his face slightly, cheek squished against your pillow.

“it made sense in dream logic.”

“sure.”

then face planted again, continuing to ramble while you got ready, his voice muffled into your blankets.

it was domestic in a way neither of you thought too hard about.

easy, dangerously easy.

soon enough, you were in the car headed toward the city.

the windows down, music loud. summer warmth creeping in. you stopped at a roadside place for breakfast sandwiches, then got back on the road. where steve immediately became unbearable.

“bite.”

you looked at him.

“…what?”

“feed me.”

“you have hands.”

“i’m driving. i need to concentrate.”

you stared.

he opened his mouth expectantly.

“bite.”

your eyes narrowed, he looked ridiculous.

you hated how cute it was.

with a sigh, you held the sandwich up for him. he leaned over dramatically, taking a huge bite, cheeks full like a chipmunk.

you laughed despite yourself.

“you’re such an idiot.”

secretly, steve loved the little annoyed crease between your brows. loved making you roll your eyes. loved that you always indulged him anyway.

shopping somehow started with your dress.

steve had expected torture. hours of standing around, fabric talk, waiting, boredom.

instead he got to watch you try on dresses, which was apparently heaven. every single dress had him losing his mind quietly.

blue. green. white. sparkly. simple. dramatic.

even the absolutely hideous monstrosity he tossed into your pile as a joke, some bright orange ruffled nightmare, looked unfairly cute because you came out striking poses and making ridiculous model faces until he laughed so hard he nearly cried.

“that one?” you asked, spinning.

“burn it.”

you grinned.

but then you stepped out wearing soft baby pink.

simple, elegant, gentle, completely you, and steve forgot how to speak.

you looked beautiful.

not pretty, not cute, beautiful. the kind that hurt to look at because it made wanting feel too big inside his chest.

you smiled shyly at your reflection.

“i kinda love this one.”

steve could only nod.

because if he opened his mouth, he’d probably propose.

when you disappeared back into the changing room after trying on the final dress, leaving the pink dress hanging outside, steve moved instantly.

straight to the register.

money down.

done.

easy.

when the cashier smiled warmly and said, “that’s sweet- paying for your girlfriend’s prom dress”

steve didn’t even think, didn’t correct her, just smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the word slipped out naturally like truth. he walked back holding the dress bag proudly. when you emerged and saw it, your face scrunched instantly.

“steve harrington-”

“don’t start.”

“i told you i was buying it-”

he shrugged, smiling.

“it’s our last prom, princess. gotta treat you right.”

princess. that stupid nickname. it hit you exactly where it always did.

that awful lovely feeling.

but you’d become very good at hiding it so you only rolled your eyes.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and generous.”

“annoyingly generous.”

“you love me.”

you smiled softly.

“yeah.”

the quiet honesty of it made his chest tighten because you meant it one way and he heard it another.

then he grinned, standing.

“c’mon.”

you looped your arm through his without thinking.

“your turn.”

shopping for steve’s suit was, thankfully, much quicker.

mostly because he cared significantly less than you did.

he tried on maybe three jackets, two pairs of trousers, one shirt, then stood in front of the mirror shrugging like, yeah, this one’s fine, while you looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“fine?” you repeated.

steve adjusted the collar lazily. “yeah.”

“fine is your final prom outfit?”

he looked down at himself.

navy suit. clean lines, fitted enough to make his shoulders look unfairly broad. white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway while he changed ties.

hair slightly messy from pulling shirts over his head.

beautiful, unfortunately.

he shrugged again.

“looks good enough.”

you stared.

“good enough” you echoed flatly.

his grin only widened “mhm.”

but then, then he did something so stupidly sweet that your entire brain briefly stopped functioning.

the woman helping fit him asked what colour tie he wanted, before she could even list options, steve answered immediately.

“baby pink.”

you blinked.

he looked over at you casually.

“to match your dress.”

simple, matter-of-fact. like it was obvious. like there was never another option.

to match your dress.

your heart practically punched through your ribs because it was little things. always little things with steve. the details, the quiet thoughtfulness, the instinctive way he always included you in everything.

the way matching your dress mattered to him.

not because it was prom, not because it was fashion, but because it was yours.

you stood there smiling like an idiot while he tried on ties, your mind spiralling somewhere far, far away.

and honestly?

you barely paid attention to anything else after that.

just him.

his hands fixing his cuffs, his soft smile when he caught you staring, the way he kept glancing toward you for approval.

god.

you were in trouble. deep trouble.

when you guys got in the car both taking a deep breath, pausing before the long drive home, you stopped him.

“steve?”

his hand froze on the key.

“yeah?”

your heart hammered.

this was insane, absolutely insane but suddenly you couldn’t keep waiting, couldn’t keep wondering. couldn’t keep pretending every soft thing between you didn’t mean something.

so you looked at him and did exactly what he’d been trying to do all week.

“do you wanna go to prom with me?”

steve blinked.

once.

twice.

“…what?”

you smiled nervously.

“prom.”

he laughed softly, confused.

“we always go together.”

you swallowed then forced yourself to say it.

“i mean… properly with me, steve.”

his entire body went still, heart pounding so hard he could hear it.

“what?”

god.

he looked so confused, so beautiful.

and suddenly courage, reckless, terrifying courage, grabbed hold of you. you leaned forward and kissed him.

soft, quick.

the second your lips touched his, your whole body lit up like lightning.

then panic immediately followed.

oh god.

what did you just do?

you pulled back instantly, mouth already opening to explain, apologise, ramble, but steve’s hand came up, cupping your cheek.

warm, gentle, and he pulled you right back in.

kissed you properly.

like he’d been starving. like he knew exactly what your lips would feel like because he’d imagined it a thousand times, but somehow it was still better.

so much better.

you could actually feel him melt, his whole body softened into it and then, that little sound.

a quiet sigh against your mouth.

soft, content, completely helpless. it shot straight into your chest. your new favourite sound. absolutely.

when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard, smiling in complete disbelief.

then he said-

“i hate you.”

your eyes flew open.

“…what?”

he laughed breathlessly.

“i have been waiting my whole life for you to show literally any sign that you liked me.” he pulled back enough to look at you, eyes wide with mock offence. “and the one week i actually decide to try and something about it, you beat me to it.”

you burst out laughing then he did too, forehead dropping back against yours. then suddenly he leaned back fully, staring at you like you were insane.

“no, seriously- what?”

you blinked.

“what?”

“why now?”

you shrugged, cheeks warm.

“i’ve always liked you, stevie.”

steve’s jaw actually dropped.

“what?”

you laughed.

“i’ve always liked you.”

“then why didn’t you say anything?!”

you gave him a look.

“why didn’t you?”

he stared at you like the answer was obvious.

“because you never acted like you wanted me back. ever.”

you frowned.

“maybe you’re oblivious.”

steve scoffed so hard it was almost offensive then gave you the most irritated look imaginable.

“i do not wanna hear you call anybody oblivious. you are the most oblivious person alive.”

you gasped.

“no i’m not.”

“yes, you are.”

“i’m cautious.”

“cautious of what?”

you went quieter then.

honest.

“reading too far into things.” your fingers picked at your sleeve. “you could’ve just been being nice, y’know? i didn’t wanna lose you.”

steve’s whole face softened instantly.

his hand found yours.

squeezed.

“in no world do you lose me, idiot.”

your eyes rolled automatically, mostly because if you looked at him too long you might cry.

then, lighter, you said,

“been waiting your whole life?” you smiled. “dramatic ass.”

he laughed then shook his head.

“no, i’m serious.”

“right.”

“i am.”

“okay, sure-”

before you could argue, he grabbed your face again and kissed you hard. full of grin and relief and years of built-up wanting.

when he pulled back, he was smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

“and yeah,” he murmured. “i’ll go to prom with you.”

he winked.

“it’s a date.”

you groaned, laughing.

“that line was awful.”

“worked the first time.”

you shoved his shoulder.

he caught your hand, kissed your knuckles and then finally started the car.

the drive home was spent sharing ice cream, stealing kisses at red lights, and smiling so much both your faces hurt.

and when he parked between your houses that evening for the first time going home next door didn’t feel like enough.

because now, finally, you knew exactly where home was.

and it was sitting in the driver’s seat, smiling at you like he’d found his whole world.

-

the week leading up to prom was, quite possibly, the happiest either of you had ever been.

which was saying something, considering you and steve had spent your whole lives making happiness out of ordinary things.

bike rides and late-night talks. pool days and movie nights. studying together, even when steve mostly just distracted you.

shared dinners. inside jokes.

the quiet comfort of simply existing side by side.

you had already built a life around each other long before romance ever entered the picture.

but now there was kissing. and, quite frankly, that improved everything.

the strange thing was, almost nothing about your relationship changed, and somehow, everything changed.

you still woke up most mornings to the sound of steve’s car horn, or, more recently, to the sound of him knocking on your front door because apparently now he liked seeing your sleepy face. you still rode to school together, still shared lunches, still studied in the library after classes, still spent evenings draped across each other’s bedroom floors talking about life until one of you fell asleep mid-conversation.

you were still you.

he was still steve.

best friends in every way that mattered.

except now, when he saw you, his face immediately softened into the most helpless smile. except now, his hand naturally found yours every chance it got. except now, when he dropped you off at home, you kissed him goodnight. except now, when he made you laugh, he looked at your mouth afterwards like he couldn’t help himself.

except now, he kissed you whenever the urge struck him, which was often.

very often.

because steve had apparently been suppressing years of affection, and now that he was allowed to touch you the way he’d always wanted he simply never stopped.

a kiss on your forehead when he saw you in the morning. a kiss on your cheek while waiting in line for lunch. a kiss against your temple while you studied.

a quick peck when he passed you in the hallway. a longer one when nobody was looking.

soft kisses, laughing kisses, hungry kisses that left you breathless, lazy kisses that happened just because you were standing close.

sometimes he’d stop mid-sentence, stare at you for a second, then kiss you like he’d just remembered he could.

when you’d laugh and ask what that was for, he’d just grin.

“been wanting to for years.”

as if that explained everything. as if that wasn’t enough to make your heart explode every single time.

steve, somehow, became even sweeter.

which you honestly hadn’t thought possible.

he was constantly touching you in little ways. fingers brushing yours, hand on the small of your back, absentmindedly tucking your hair behind your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder while reading over your work even though he wasn’t actually reading any of it.

he looked at you like you were his favourite thing on earth, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

truthfully, he couldn’t.

steve had spent years loving you quietly, years convincing himself he was okay with just having you however he could get you.

best friend. neighbour. constant companion.

he had told himself that was enough.

it hadn’t been, not really.

and now he got to kiss you. hold your hand. hear you call him yours in little casual ways that made his brain completely short circuit.

my stevie.

mine.

god.

he’d never been happier.

and you felt exactly the same.

you weren’t even officially dating yet. somehow, neither of you had actually labelled whatever this was, but it didn’t matter.

you were his.

he was yours.

everyone knew it.

that was enough.

for now.

then prom night arrived.

you spent the afternoon at your friend’s house with your three closest girlfriends, all of you crowded around mirrors with makeup scattered everywhere, hairspray thick in the air, music playing too loudly in the background while laughter bounced off the walls.

it was chaos, beautiful chaos.

and, naturally, your friends spent most of it teasing you mercilessly.

“finally,” one of them said dramatically while curling your hair. “do you understand how painful it’s been watching you two circle each other for years?”

another snorted from where she was doing eyeliner.

“literally years.”

“it was embarrassing,” the third added. “for everyone involved.”

you laughed, shaking your head.

“we were not that obvious.”

three deadpan looks met your reflection in the mirror.

then all together-

“you were.”

one of them groaned dramatically.

“he looked at you like you hung the moon.”

you covered your face.

“okay, stop.”

they only laughed harder but beneath the teasing was genuine relief. everyone who loved you had been waiting for this, waiting for you both to finally stop being idiots, waiting for the inevitable.

because to everyone else you and steve had always been a love story waiting to happen.

later, after hugs and promises to meet at prom, you headed home to get dressed.

and when you finally stepped into your baby pink dress, the same one steve secretly bought for you, you stared at yourself for a long moment.

soft curls framing your face, makeup gentle and glowing, the pink bringing warmth to your skin.

for once, nerves hit.

not because of prom.

because of steve.

because you wanted him to look at you and feel what you always felt when you looked at him.

then, a knock at the door.

your stomach flipped instantly.

you carefully made your way downstairs, hand lightly gripping the banister so you wouldn’t trip over your own feet and halfway down, you froze.

your mother had already opened the door.

steve was standing inside.

flowers in hand, pink flowers, the exact shade of your dress, suit fitted perfectly, tie matching you exactly like he’d planned, hair done but still somehow perfectly messy, looking so unfairly handsome it almost knocked the breath from your lungs.

then he looked up and froze. completely.

his whole body went still, flowers slackening slightly in his hand. mouth parting, eyes wide.

you nearly froze too but you also nearly missed a step, so survival instincts forced you forward.

when you reached him, smiling shyly, steve still looked stunned.

then softly, so softly,

“you look so beautiful."

his voice full of awe.

you felt your cheeks warm.

“you look handsome.”

that snapped him into a grin.

your mother immediately started gushing.

“oh, look at you two-”

your father, already prepared, handed her the old camera.

same tradition every dance, same photo spot every year.

except this year felt different, this year felt important.

steve’s hand settled naturally on your waist.

firm, warm, possessive in the gentlest way. you tucked into his side and both of you smiled brighter than you ever had before.

click.

perfect.

the second you stepped outside and the front door shut behind you steve kissed you. immediately. like he physically couldn’t help it.

you laughed softly against his mouth when he pulled away.

“what was that for?”

he shrugged, smiling.

“sorry. i feel like i have to all the time now.”

you blinked.

he looked adorably sheepish.

“i waited too long before.”

your whole chest melted.

you stood on your toes and kissed his cheek.

“good job i don’t mind.”

his smile widened impossibly.

the drive there was perfect. madonna played loudly, steve complained-

“this song again?”

-while secretly singing every word.

badly. using one hand as a fake microphone. you laughed until your stomach hurt and when he caught you looking at him with that soft smile he winked.

god.

you were doomed.

prom itself was… nice.

crowded, hot, loud. friends dragged you apart almost immediately, his crowd calling him over, yours pulling you in. reluctantly, you separated. but only briefly. because, like always, you found your way back to each other.

effortlessly, like magnets, just in time for the slow dance.

his hands found your waist, yours looped around his neck. you swayed together beneath dim lights, forehead resting lightly against his, smiling softly at nothing and everything.

it was perfect, too perfect, too short. because when the song ended, steve frowned.

“that’s bullshit.”

you laughed.

“what?”

“not enough dancing.”

before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed your hand and started pulling you through the crowd.

out the doors, into the parking lot.

you were laughing the whole time.

“stevie- what are you doing?”

he just laughed breathlessly.

“trust me.”

he dragged you to his car, opened the door, turned the radio on, shoved in a cassette, then david bowie filled the warm night air.

steve dramatically bowed.

held out his hand.

“may i have this dance?”

you laughed so hard your cheeks hurt then placed your hand in his.

under stars, in a mostly empty parking lot, next to his car, you slow danced.

giggling, stepping on each other’s feet, swaying dramatically, kissing halfway through because neither of you could help yourselves.

it was perfect. better than prom itself.

afterwards, breathless and smiling, you both looked toward the building, then at each other and silently agreed-

fuck prom.

ice cream was mandatory, then home.

summer air still warm enough that sitting in his back garden felt perfect.

until suddenly steve gasped, shot upright and ran to the pool, crouching beside it staring in dramatically.

you followed quickly.

“what? what?”

he waved urgently.

“come look.”

you leaned closer and he shoved you in. cold water swallowed you whole. when you surfaced gasping, steve was doubled over laughing.

that little bitch.

fine.

game on.

you frowned dramatically.

“ow- steve-”

his laughter stopped instantly.

“…what?”

you grabbed your arm.

“i think i hurt it-”

panic overtook his face.

“shit- how?”

he reached down and his hand out.

the sweetest idiot alive.

you grabbed it and yanked.

he crashed in beside you with a loud splash. when he surfaced, hair plastered down, face full of betrayal, you were laughing hysterically.

he looked annoyed for exactly two seconds before pulling you into him, arms wrapping around your waist holding you close in the water.

laughing softly now too.

then he kissed you.

forehead resting against yours after, smiling wide.

then quietly, like truth he’d been carrying forever,

“i love you.”

your eyes opened.

you smiled.

“i love you too.”

his face softened so completely it almost broke you.

then he hugged you hard like he never wanted to let go.

later, dripping wet, climbing out of the pool steve paused. looked at you seriously, then “that means you’re my girlfriend now, by the way.”

you smiled.

nodded.

“okay.”

he frowned jokingly.

“…okay?”

you blinked.

“what?”

he shoved wet hair back.

“i always thought you were perfectly happy being single.”

you smiled softly.

shrugged.

“maybe i was just waiting for you.”

he rolled his eyes immediately, tugging you into his side as he walked you both inside.

his lips pressed briefly to your temple.

then quietly, certainly, “you always had me.”

his arm tightened around you.

“always.”

-

@prettyfortucker @harringtondarling @katsallthetime @thichnhathanhh @keepdrlving @beth-mirrorball @powerpuffedbjtch @itzeeeee @ddenniiee-729 @teheblue @frozenpeanutbutterr @coldalpsmcu @b0nzey @xceafh @hearts4steve @swirledyouintoallmypoems @saintlaurentdiva @joekeerylice @blurrygir1 @songkangslvr @keerymylove @foreverserving @cciessuzi @livingblythedoli @toopypoopy @ellieluvercentral @evies4ngels @lattewirl @wolfiee10 @maevebloom @drunkedniallh @girlwithkaleidoscopeeyes777 @mabsters @i-got-the-cinema @batmanssssss @bluehexagon8 @magnificentcitadelcrest @pleasecallmeunhinged @purplequeen64-stuff @inherdiary77 @whispersoflost @yikesdrama @chronicstevelover @horanlover7 @ann-aatn @xoxocelestial @isatchl

[ladybugsteve]

god i just started crying

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

sue me

summary: despite knowing that you're a lawyer, the pitt crew only really see you as the sweet girlfriend of their co-worker frank langdon. that is until a patient targets one of their own and they see a side of you that you usually save for the courtroom.

pairing: lawyer!reader (fem) x frank langdon (established relationship)

warnings/tags: reader being a legal badass, abby and kids do not exist in this universe, established relationship, part of the er ken & lawyer barbie series, the pitt crew lowkey being thirsty af for the reader, misogynistic patient (yuck), flirting, fluff, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!

notes: this is part of an ongoing series but can be read on its own as well!

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

series masterlist

It was an unusually warm evening given the time of year.

Warm enough not to warrant the long coat draped over your arm, to have you wishing you'd packed flats and a loose fitting dress to change into.

You leaned against the brick wall outside of the ambulance entrance to the ER. The exact same spot that Frank Langdon had found you in all those months ago.

You glanced down at your watch. 7:16pm.

Frank had gotten last minute tickets to a show he'd been dying to see and had also somehow managed to snag a last minute reservation at your favourite restaurant.

By some miracle, you'd managed to get here on time, fleeing the office before a partner could lasso you back in for more work.

But as always, when one of you was on time, the other was inevitably caught up in something.

That was just how the two of you functioned. Early on, you'd accepted that both your lives were chaotic and almost entirely dictated by your professions. So, you'd settled into a comfortable acceptance that when you did get to spend time with one another, you had to make it count.

Your phone buzzed.

Stuck - incoming trauma. Come in once you get here.

You were just about to respond when another message came through.

Dana said it's ok

He always knew exactly what you were thinking.

The automatic doors slid open for you with a soft hydraulic sigh, letting in a brief breath of night air before sealing the chaos back inside.

You'd met enough of Frank's co-workers, either within the walls of the ER or outside of them at social gatherings, to feel relatively comfortable with coming in and waiting for him.

But still, even after all this time, you had never quite gotten used to the whiplash of stepping into the pitt.

You were used to the clacking of keyboards, the never ending drone of co-workers on calls in their offices next to you, the clink of coffee cups at client luncheons.

Here, monitors chimed in uneven rhythms, gurneys rattled over polished floors, voices overlapped, sharp and urgent, the smell of antiseptic and burnt coffee settled over everything.

The click of your heels made people glance up.

Your tailored outfit contrasting against a sea of scrubs and hospital blues made them steal a second look. The way you walked with the kind of composure that made people move half a step out of the way without realising why, made them stare.

"Well well well." Abbot was the first to clock you. "To what do we owe the pleasure, your honour?"

You flashed him a grin. "Pleasure's all mine, doc."

"What did Abbot do this time?" Shen teased, taking a sip of his coffee as he eyed you.

"No need to worry gentlemen, you’re safe. I'm not here on business today."

"I knew she missed us." Shen nudged Abbot in the ribs as you walked past which made you roll your eyes affectionately.

The others were quick to notice you after that, some calling out greetings, others talking in low murmurs as you headed towards the nurses station.

Dana glanced up, a wide smile spreading across her lips at the sight of you.

"If it isn't my favourite wag," She slid her glasses off as she rounded the desk to meet you.

"If it isn't my favourite charge nurse."

"Don't tell Lena you said that." Dana teased as you embraced her in a warm hug.

"Oh- I got you something." You exclaimed, reaching into your bag as you pulled away.

"What-"

"-remember that pastry place you love right near my office?” You said as you fished a container out of your bag. The scent of pistachio hit you instantly.

“Of course I remember.” She shook her head, unable to fight the smile on her features as she tried to look stern. “You shouldn’t have.”

“But I did.” You grinned. “Don’t worry, I got more so no one thinks I’m playing favourites.”

You pulled out several more containers, placing them onto the counter.

“Alright, lawyer barbie coming in with snacks.” Mateo called out, jogging over at the prospect of sugar right at the start of his shift.

Dana slapped his hand away as he reached for a croissant. “You’ll start a feeding frenzy in here. Take them to the break room.”

You shot Mateo a grin as he huffed before begrudgingly complying.

“Thanks barbie!” He shouted out over his shoulder.

"I wouldn't let Langdon find out you're putting crumb prone items in your birkin." McKay teased as she and Whitaker wondered over.

"What's the point of a bag if you don't actually use it?" Whitaker queried, glancing down at your bag on the counter.

"Exactly." You emphasised. "I'm pretty sure that's almost a direct quote from Jane Birkin herself."

Dennis blinked. "Who?"

McKay and Dana giggled at the look on your face.

"Never mind." You said, shaking your head.

Dennis just shrugged and followed after McKay towards the breakroom.

"You might have a different view when you find out how much that bag costs." McKay muttered to him.

Javadi spotted you next.

Your name left her mouth with immediate excitement, her face lighting up.

“Hey you.” You smiled. “What are you still doing here?”

"Oh- it's busy." She gestured vaguely. “Just helping out with a few things."

“Hmm.” You glanced over pointedly in Mateo’s direction. “I’m sure that’s the reason.”

“Shh.” She swatted you playfully, her eyes lighting up at your attention despite the heat creeping up her neck.

“Javadi, we need you in Room 7.”

“Coming!” She called back before whipping around back to you with a finger pointed. “Do not say anything to him.”

“I would never.” You said solemnly, your lips twitching as you tried to stay serious.

“But this conversation isn’t over missy.” You called out after her as she hurried away.

Garcia, who had just finished up in Trauma One, made a beeline for you instantly.

“Lawyer barbie.” She smirked as she approached, her eyes dragging down your figure. “You here to pick up ER Ken?”

“Luckily for him, yes.”

A few scattered laughs. Someone muttered something about date night. It wasn’t new - you’d been around enough that your presence didn’t raise eyebrows anymore, although the stares were definitely here to stay.

She inclined her head. “He’s descrubbing in bay one.”

"Thanks."

She watched as you walked away, shaking her head slightly.

"Lucky bastard."

-

He didn't see you at first.

He was sliding off his gloves, goggles pushed up into his hair, a few strands falling across his forehead. A crease sat between his brows - evidence of hours spent thinking too fast, too hard.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a second - just long enough to feel that familiar flutter in your stomach that was yet to go away.

"Dr Langdon."

He turned immediately.

There was a flicker of surprise, then warmth, then something softer - something that always felt like it belonged only to you.

"You're early."

Your heels echoed off the walls of the bay as you walked towards him.

"Actually, I'm on time."

"For you, this is early."

You raised a brow. "For your sake, I'll let that one slide."

"Because you know it's true."

"Because-" You countered lightly. "I missed you."

Frank smiled, sliding a hand around your waist, tugging you in closer.

"I missed you too."

He glanced through the glass toward the board and winced.

"So." You pursed your lips slightly as you looked up at him. "Are we making this show or what?"

"We're making it." He said firmly. "I just have to wrap up a couple of things."

He glanced down at you. "Is that ok?"

"Of course. I've always got emails to read."

He squeezed your side before spotting something behind you, his brow furrowing.

"Why is everyone crowded around the breakroom?"

"Oh, I bought pastries from that place Dana loves."

He huffed out a tired laugh. “What is it with you and feeding people in here hm?”

You shrugged, a smile spreading across your lips. “Maybe it’s my love language.”

"Well-" He started, his mouth twitching. "I'm glad they're distracted because that means I get to do-"

He leant down and captured your lips in a brief kiss.

"-this." He murmured against your lips before kissing you once more.

"Ok." He moved back like he had to physically pull himself away to stop himself from kissing you again.

"I'll be back."

His eyes darted down to your lips once more, making you smirk.

You inclined your head.

"Go on. The quicker you get done here, the quicker we can make out in the car before dinner."

Frank Langdon had never moved faster in his life.

-

You folded into the rhythm of the pitt with surprising ease.

You settled into one of the chairs at the nurses station, typing emails on your phone. Every now and then one of the staff would stop by for a chat or to ask a legal question (totally hypothetically of course).

Eventually you put your phone down and quietly observed the ebb and flow of patients, the unspoken communication between staff, the way tension built and broke in waves.

In particular, you watched Frank.

There was something grounding about it - the way he worked, the way people responded to him. Calm in the middle of noise. Precision in the middle of chaos.

Every now and then he'd find your eyes, the ghost of a smile appearing on his lips.

"I'm done." He eventually announced as he walked past you towards the lockers.

"I'll be quick." He assured you before you could say anything.

You shot him a knowing look, slightly shaking your head before turning your attention back to your phone.

Frank had only been gone for a few minutes when the energy shifted.

It started as a raised voice, muffled by a curtain.

Then it sharpened.

Then it was loud enough to cut through everything else.

"I said I don't want her fucking touching me!"

The words snapped through the department, turning heads in unison.

You straightened slightly, eyes tracking the source.

One of the curtained bays, half open. A patient, male, late thirties maybe, sitting upright, agitation radiating off him in sharp, restless movements.

And standing in front of him - Javadi.

"I've been waiting all this time, just for you to tell me that all I need is some stitches, and she can't even manage to do that?"

"I just didn't get the needle deep enough the first time, it won't happen again." Javadi assured him.

"-I don't care!" He barked. "I've been stuck down here for five hours and you're not even sending a real doctor to check on me? It's bullshit."

His eyes stayed on Mateo as he spoke, like he couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge the woman in front of him.

"Sir, she's just trying to-" Mateo began.

You slowly stood up from your chair.

Across the floor you could see Abbot and Robby hovering, assessing if they needed to intervene.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Frank coming out of the locker room.

You were the closest one to Javadi.

"Sir-" Javadi tried again.

"What's your name?" The patient practically spat, finally turning his rage towards her.

You could see her trying to hold steady - but her wide brown eyes betrayed her, glassy now, like a startled, cornered doe.

"Sir I-" Javadi tried one more time, her voice cracking.

"No seriously, I want your name." He jabbed a finger into her chest as he rose to his full height.

Abbot, Robby and Frank all moved immediately, but you beat them to it.

"Because I'm going to sue you and this hospital for wasting my fucking time and endangering my health by sending me an incompetent student."

You knew this wasn't your business. But there something about seeing another woman be talked to like she was lesser than - something that you'd seen time and time again in your profession - that made you veer from your usual logical, calm approach.

And you'd be damned if a man was going to be the one to tell him off.

He needed to learn that women were not things to be pushed around, and you were more than happy to be the one to do it.

Your footsteps were measured as you crossed the floor - not rushed, not hesitant. Intentional.

The kind of pace that made people notice before you even spoke.

"Sir." You called out.

Your voice wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

It cut cleanly through the space anyway.

The man turned, irritation already loaded and ready to fire - until he actually looked at you.

"I'd stop talking if I was you."

You came to a stop beside Javadi, holding his gaze without flinching.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm her lawyer."

Javadi’s head snapped toward you, her mouth parting in shock.

Silence rippled outward.

Frank froze where he stood.

"Oh my fucking god." Santos breathed out.

"What the hell is she doing?" Robby muttered.

"Beats me - but I think we're about to enjoy a show." Abbot whispered back, a smirk on his lips as he watched on in open delight.

The man let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Sure you are sweetheart."

You ignored that, folding your arms across your chest.

"You're not going to be suing anyone."

"Oh yeah?" He scoffed. "And why's that?"

"Because before you can even open up your phone to search up 'lawyers near me', you'll have already been served with your own lawsuit."

The man snorted, a smug look still on his face. "I haven't done anything wrong, I just want someone half decent to treat me - although clearly that's beyond this place."

You took a step closer, expression calm, almost disinterested.

"Per section 47 of the Hospital and Health Boards Act, harassment and obstruction of staff employed by a public health service while they are performing their duties is an offence."

"That's not-"

"Interrupt me again." You said lightly, "and we can skip straight to the part where you're escorted out."

He hesitated at that. Just for a second.

You continued smoothly, each word placed with surgical precision.

"Section 48 states that the maximum penalty for contravening section 47 is $150,000. Of course, it would also be open for us to pursue damages-"

You gestured around you.

"And judging by what everyone else in this room has witnessed - all of who I'm sure would be more than happy to testify on my client's behalf - is that your refusal to cooperate combined with targeted, aggressive behaviour has caused not only a disruption to this hospital but also significant psychological stress to my client."

You took a moment to study him.

“Based on that, I’d say she has very strong prospects of claiming aggravated damages in the sum of oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to think.

"An additional $200,000?"

Javadi blinked.

Frank was staring at you now, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

The man shifted, uncertainty creeping in. “You’re bluffing.”

You tilted your head, just slightly.

"Maybe I am."

Then, softer - but sharper you added, “are you willing to test that?”

Silence stretched.

Long enough to make it uncomfortable.

Long enough for doubt to settle in.

You could see anger rising in him, could see the look you’d seen on the faces of so many insecure lawyers before him who couldn’t handle being bested by a woman.

“I’m going to find out your name.” He pointed at Javadi, his finger trembling with rage. “And I’m going to find out your name.” A wrinkled finger pointed at you now.

Frank's fists balled at his side, gearing himself up to intervene if the man so much as thought about touching you.

“And I’m taking this shit to the news, to social media, to anyone who’ll listen about how you’ve treated me here today. I'll ruin you.”

Robby moved forward at that.

Abbot grabbed him. “She’s got this.”

You could see Javadi’s panic rising again.

“Do that.” You said calmly. “And we will sue you for defamation.”

You leant forward just a fraction.

“And if you take it to trial, which I sincerely hope you do, I will hire a private investigator to track down your co-workers, friends, family, anyone you've ever even said so much as one word to.”

His face darkened, flushing an ugly red.

"Then I will subpoena them," You continued, voice steady, "drag them to court and put them on the stand - where I will slowly wring out every dirty secret, every mistake you have ever made until you are left with not a single shred of credibility in the eyes of the judge.”

Then you stepped back half a pace, giving him space.

Any trace of smugness had drained from his face.

“So let me make this very simple for you. Unless you want your dirty laundry aired in open court, I suggest you take one of two options.”

You held up a finger. “First option is you cooperate, apologise, and continue receiving care like every other patient here-“

You gestured towards the exit.

“Or your second option is that you apologise. And then you leave.”

The word landed heavier than it should have.

Final.

The man looked around.

At Frank. At Javadi. At the rest of the staff who were very much watching now.

No one moved to help him.

No one backed him up.

His bravado cracked.

“…This place is a joke,” He muttered, already rippping at the hospital band around his wrist.

“I’m going somewhere else.”

“Please do.”

He hesitated - like he expected someone to stop him.

No one did.

Mateo moved forward just enough to hand him some gauze, purely out of habit. He snatched it before turning toward the exit.

You cleared your throat.

“I think you’re forgetting something.”

You knew you were pushing it.

But there was something about the way that he looked at the staff with such disregard, at Javadi and you with so much contempt.

"And have the decency to actually look at her when you say it."

He opened his mouth like he was thinking about retorting.

He shut it reluctantly when he met your cool gaze.

He met Javadi's eyes briefly, like it was physically paining him to do so.

“…I’m sorry.” He mumbled reluctantly.

Javadi stood still, her body slightly behind yours now.

Everyone watched in silence as he walked out.

Abbot slowly made his way to stand beside Frank.

“Hell of a woman you’ve got there Langdon.” He murmured under his breath.

Frank's eyes stayed glued to you.

“…I know.”

You turned to Javadi the second you were satisfied he was gone.

She watched as your face morphed, softening into something more recognisable, more like the sweet girlfriend of her co-worker who brought pastries and gossiped with her about boys.

“Are you ok?” You placed a hand on her shoulder. “That was awful.”

She opened her mouth but no sound came out as she stared at you.

“There’s pastries in the break room." You added. "You should go have one.”

You turned back toward the rest of the room.

And froze.

Because everyone was staring at you.

And Frank- Frank looked like he was trying to replay the last two minutes in real time.

You blinked. “What?”

“That was-” Whitaker started, then stopped entirely.

Princess just pointed at you. “You just... did that.”

Javadi shook her head slightly as if finally coming out of her daze. “Is that actually… real? What you said? About the damages and stuff?”

A pause.

Then you shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Oh. No. I made all of that up.”

Dead silence.

Perlah's eyebrows shot up. “You - what?”

“Yeah." You shrugged again. "I don’t know anything about health law, but it sounded pretty convincing."

“What- but-weren’t you afraid he was going to figure it out?” Javadi asked.

“Are you kidding me?" You grinned. "That was so fun. I’ve always wanted to legally blonde someone.”

You glanced around when you got no reaction, blank stares reflecting back at you.

“You know… I’m taking the dog dumbass!”

Santos snorted at that.

Princess cracked immediately after, the tension snapping clean in half.

That loosened a shaky laugh from Javadi, like she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Frank didn’t laugh.

Not at first.

He glanced over at Robby to see a frown threatening to appear on his features.

Like he was debating whether to chastise you for lying to a patient, or maybe chastise Frank for letting you in here.

“I think you might be the coolest person I’ve ever met.” Javadi stated.

“Then you need to get out more kiddo.” You teased, touching her chin affectionately as your eyes still scanned her face for signs of upset.

“Seriously, go eat something.”

Your turned to Robby and Abbot. “Can one of you tell her to eat and go home?”

Abbot raised his hands, “don’t look at me, she’s one of Robby’s flock.”

Robby studied you for a moment. Then glanced at Javadi, who was looking at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. Then turned to you again.

The second you raised a brow teasingly, like you were daring him to try and fight back, his shoulders dropped as his resolve crumbled.

“Barb-“ He cut himself off, his nose flaring slightly in exasperated annoyance before saying your first name slowly. “-is right, eat and go home.”

Javadi huffed. "Fine."

You nearly toppled over as she unexpectedly embraced you in a tight hug. "Seriously, thanks."

You watched her go, co-workers immediately pouncing on her on the way to the break room to gossip.

The department settled slowly, like a shaken snow globe drifting back into place.

Finally satisfied your job was done, you turned to Frank.

You finally got a chance to properly look at him, letting your eyes run down his figure.

He had changed into a pair of dark grey slacks and the chocolate brown knit you had gotten him for his birthday.

Your eyes dragged back up to his face, shooting him a smile.

“Ready to go?”

He nodded numbly, like he was still in a daze.

You said your goodbyes to everyone, most of who were still staring at you.

Perlah, Princess, Whitaker and Santos watched as you and Langdon walked past, your birkin swinging at his side, your arm threaded through the crook of his elbow on the other.

"Did that really just happen?" Whitaker asked once the two of you were out of earshot.

“I don't know, but mark me down as scared and horny.” Santos answered, making Whitaker snort.

“So… I guess we definitely know who wears the pants.” Perlah observed after a moment.

Princess turned to her. "You seriously didn't know before this?"

“Langdon? A sub?" Santos remarked dryly. "Shocker."

-

Once you were outside you turned to Frank, glancing down at your watch.

“Ok we definitely aren't making dinner, but we might actually make-“

“Screw the theatre.”

You looked up at him, confusion knitting your brows.

“But you’ve been wanting to go for months.”

“You hate the theatre.”

“I don’t hate the theatre-“

“You fell asleep last time.”

“Because I’d worked a 16 hour day!”

Frank huffed, nothing but amusement shining in his eyes.

“I like the theatre because you like the theatre.” You insisted. “I’m happy to go baby.”

“I know, and that’s why I appreciate you.”

He paused.

“But I want to take you home.”

“Oh-“ You started, confusion clouding your expression.

Then you saw it - the shift in his gaze. The hunger, unmistakable, as his eyes traced the length of you.

“Oh.”

A slow, mischievous grin curled at your lips as the energy between you shifted.

“Did that seriously turn you on?”

“Yes." He said, his voice low. "Unbelievably so."

Your cheeks flushed as you held his gaze.

You were so used to tempering this side of you for other men, dimming your sharpness, softening your edges, driven by the fear of emasculating them.

As if he could read your mind, he pulled you closer to him.

"Do you have any idea what you looked like in there?"

"Terrifying?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"Brilliant." He corrected.

His gaze softened, but didn’t lose its intensity.

“You are the sexiest, smartest, most driven woman I’ve ever met."

He lingered there for a moment, like he wanted you to really hear it.

"And you're mine."

Without another word, you pulled him flush against you, guiding his head down until your lips met in a deep, lingering kiss.

He exhaled shakily as the two of you pulled away, his tongue darting to wet his bottom lip like he was starving and wanted to savour the taste of you.

"I honestly don't even know if I can wait till we get home."

You smiled, slow and teasing.

"Well-" Your hand slid down the front of his sweater, fingers grazing deliberately. "If you get charged with public indecency, I'll get you off."

His eyes darkened at your double entendre.

Then he shook his head, more to himself than to you.

"I want to take my time with you."

Your expression softened just slightly.

"Well in that case, take me home just Frank."

He let out a breathless laugh before kissing you again - softer this time, but no less certain.

"Yes ma'am."

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

Taglist (open):

@maryhyun254 @trustmeima-doctor @superawesomecool @crazygirlinthisworld @sh00tingstar @kakuchosbff @v33mustdie @parvenu @donttalktosposts @lumestar @simp4f1 @jaehyunlvrs @cosmosnkaz @creamvy @exstazeey @idkkbaleighh @kneelforloki

[xpeachsunsidex]

Tell ‘em He’s My Man

Gator Tillman x Sensitive!Fem!Reader

Summary: Gator tries not to snap at his sweet girl, but he cracks under pressure - and he'll be damned if he doesn't beg for her forgiveness.

WC: 2.5k

Warnings & What To Expect: not canon at all - and probably not accurate to what would have happened - but it’s the life that I wish Gator could have once the dust settled, his eyes do not get cut out bc I can’t handle that 🥺 so i changed up what happened, allusions/hints of spice - but no smut.

Masterlist If Interested!

Peach’s Note: holy hell, i finally watched fargo and now i cant get gator freaking tillman out of my mind 🐊 if we’re being real - it’s only bc joe keery crushed that role bc that man would be my enemy in real life 🤪

tysm to everyone who has shown love on my works - it means the world. Requests are open! no promises on a quick turn around though as I narrate quite a bit, and my job keeps me busy - but feel free to send anything and I can certainly try my best 🫡

Divder credit to @/saradika-graphics

Gator Tillman was a shell of the man he once was.

Which was a good thing, considering his history. He used to be a bad man with a bad attitude, making bad decisions because of the manipulation of his daddy, Roy Tillman.

But Roy was gone now - locked up behind bars for life - and Gator had significantly softened at the edges without his cruel father breathing down his neck, telling him he was a disappointment and a failure every five minutes.

Then he met you - you, with your sweet nature and whimsical outlook on life, and the roughness he once possessed was nearly gone. You had broken through the tough exterior armor Gator had successfully hardened around himself.

Gator will never forget the day he met you, and the kindness that you had extended to him. You were new to town - not aware of Gator’s reputation or the events that had gone down in the dark past of the town of Lehigh.

A distant relative of yours had passed, and since they didn’t have any children, they left behind their ranch to you. You were born and raised in the most rural parts of Texas amongst farm animals and cowboys and figured North Dakota would be similar - besides the less intensity of heat and snow that would fall come winter. You had felt like it was time for a change anyway, which led you to pick up and move to take care of your family members' ranch.

Gator wasn’t used to girls talking to him, let alone wanting him. Before everything had gone down the day that Ole Munch took him, girls shied away from him, scared of who he and his father were.

And after that fateful night, he was left with a jagged scar running across his right eye from the hot knife that had been dragged ever so slowly against his face. Which meant that even without the lingering threat of his father, women still wanted nothing to do with him.

But you had strolled right up to him at the police department’s counter when you arrived in town, where he’d been doing clerk work because he was on suspension for his involvement with Roy’s schemes. The judge had told Gator that his compliance and Nadine’s vouching for him got him on parole - not needing to spend the rest of his sentence in prison.

It sucked, but he was reaping the consequences of his poor actions - no matter how influenced by Roy they were. And Gator knew that being a deputy was part of what let power go to his head; he was just thankful he could even work at the station at all.

You had cheerfully greeted him that day you arrived. Acting like he wasn’t the most tip toed around man in town, and introduced yourself - explaining that your phone had died on the drive here, and when you plugged it in, the GPS wouldn’t reload, causing you to become lost - which is how you found yourself talking with him.

He remembers that you had smiled brightly at him, not paying any mind to what he thought was the ugly scar on his face.

“Gator,” you had hummed out his name when he told you it.

“Yeah,” he replied, tone clipped because he was just waiting for you to give him grief over his name like most people did when they heard it for the first time.

Instead, you had leaned closer to him on the counter, hands tucked under your chin and said, “Cute.”

Gator was shell shocked at your response, before he grumpily told you, “Ain’t cute, I’m a man. Men ain’t cute.”

“It is, you are. Maybe someday you’ll let me show you, Gator,” you boldly flirted with him.

And who was Gator to turn down an offer like that from a pretty lady?

You were sweet as sugar - words of honey dripping off your tongue every time you talked to him affectionately, and Gator had learned to accept them - learned that it was okay to be treated lavishly by a woman.

He still had his moments - you don’t grow up in a misogynistic household, desperately trying to prove yourself to a hard headed bastard and magically change your ways.

Gator had learned to allow you to love him, but he still struggled with feeling like he had to be strong all the time as the man of the house. Pretending to be strong all the time led to cracking, and Gator slips easily when he’s been bottling too much in.

He was in a foul mood when he got home; the guys at the station had been ruthless today - harping on him simply because they could now without the fear of Roy, and when he’d gone down to the local diner to pick up their coffee orders (which humiliated him every time, doing something he thought was beneath him) the old woman behind the counter had tsked at him for ‘corrupting that girl of yours’ - the words had settled sickeningly in his gut, because he knew he wasn’t worth your time.

Then he got a call from his parole officer, telling him that he’d need to wear the ankle monitor on the base of his leg for another couple of months due the the complaints of civilians in town - they didn’t believe he deserved to be walking around freely. Gator had half a mind to cuss the man out, but knew better to be on his best behavior if he ever wanted to be rid of the damn thing.

He was strung tight, filled to the brim with bitterness from the shitty day - which is why when he stepped through the threshold of your shared house, and you met him with your sunny attitude, it tipped him right over the edge.

He sat heavily down on the couch, ignoring your chatting, but you didn’t take the hint - too excited about having your man back home. You had followed him, pressed yourself against his side and kept on.

He tried to keep quiet, tried to push down the explosive words, but he didn’t know how to share with you that it was too much.

“Dammit, baby! Only been home ‘er five minutes an’ you haven’t stopped talkin’. Just give me’a secon’ to breathe,” he snaps, head falling into his hands in frustration.

You don’t answer him; you couldn’t even if you wanted to with the way your throat was constricting.

You were a sensitive person, always crying at the drop of a dime. You would tear up when you saw elderly people eating at restaurants by themselves, or when a stray dog would run across the street, or God forbid if you watched the news you’d be a puddle of tears at the horrors that took place in this world.

The minute anyone even slightly raised their voice at you, you were crying. You were always like that - especially as a little girl; when your daddy would scold and reprimand you, you’d be crying your eyes out, apologizing profusely. Though you didn’t need it often, it made it hard for your parents to discipline you when you were always so devastated at getting in trouble.

And the thing was, Gator knew this.

He knew you were a crier the moment you saw the stupid ankle monitor the first time the two of you were intimate. He had been so caught up in pleasuring you that when it came to shedding his own clothes, he forgot the monitor would be there, glaring up at you like an unwanted third wheel. When he saw you staring at it, he gulped harshly, a rare blush coating his cheeks.

“Gator?” you had whispered, reaching up to gently cradle his head.

His lower lip wobbled, dreaded the fact that this day would come. That he had to tell you the twisted truth of his shadowed history. He thought you would leave him when he laid himself bare, telling you the whole unfiltered story, but you had held him as he let himself cry for once.

“I’m so sorry, Alligator,” you breathed by the shell of his ear, your own tears of empathy for him spilling down your cheeks. Gator felt something similar to the feeling of love at your reaction - and the silly nickname you’d called him made him grateful for his name for the first time in his life.

Gator knew that you were his sweet, sensitive girl, and that he had to tread lightly with you. And yet, he’d let himself bitch at you - the person who deserved it least.

Embarrassment at the sudden rush of tears caused you to book it out of the living room to the back porch, taking in deep breaths of the fresh country air. You try telling yourself it’s fine - that Gator didn’t really mean it, but it still stung.

You missed him terribly when he was gone all day, being stuck on the ranch alone with only the cows, sheep, and horses as company. When he came home, all you wanted to do was curl up against him and chat about your day, but maybe you had been a bit too talkative.

You feel the sound of a sob about to rip from your throat - and you don’t want Gator to hear how pathetic you are. You quickly make your way through the backyard, past the animals who watch you curiously when you pay them no mind and press yourself against the white fencing that surrounds the property.

You look out at the fields that lay ahead, glistening as the sky drenched itself in a pretty orange from the setting sun.

You’re not sure how long you’re out there with tears streaking down your face when you feel a pair of arms slip around your waist, startling you briefly. You want to resist, but melt easily when Gator pulls you back to rest against his chest, his nose nuzzles into the side of your neck in greeting.

“‘Baby girl, ‘m sorry,” he whispers out, pressing delicate kisses from the crook of your neck to the base of your ear.

“Don’t apologize, Gator. Should’ve known you were upset and asked ‘bout it,” you shrug.

“Nah, this not on you, mama. Should’a told you,” he responds, continuing to pepper your face in kisses. His lips along your jaw has you closing your eyes, humming at the blissful feeling.

“Forgive me?” He asks quietly, continuing his siege on you.

“Nothing to forgive you for, Gate,” you grab onto his hands that are threaded together in front of you.

Gator takes advantage of your hands on his, tugging to turn you to face him. Your back presses against the fence and he cages you in, hands pressed against it on either side of you.

“There is - need to ‘pologize. ‘M sorry. Shouldn’t have snapped at you like tha’,” he brings his thumb up to your face, swiping at the wetness that lingers there.

“It’s okay, Alligator,” you tell him sweetly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He shakes his head, “It ain’t. Don’ let me get away with bullshit like tha’. Never wanna be like my father.”

You drag your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, enjoying that he’s wearing it unstyled. When you had met him, he kept it greased back all the time with his signature pomade - which you still thought he looked incredibly handsome with. But when you woke up to him in your bed, hair a mess and soft to the touch - causing you to damn near faint at the sight of how good he looked, you pleaded with him to wear it like that more often.

“Gator, I know I never met your daddy. But from what you’ve shown me, you’re nothing like him,” you try to assure him.

“I’m tryin’ ta be better. Be good. Wanna be, for you,” he swallows thickly, and you see it in his eyes - the glassiness that shines in them showing his intentions.

Roy may not physically be around any longer, but the emotional damage had already been done to his son. Gator had a hard time distinguishing between doing the right thing simply because it was right, versus doing something to be praised for it. It had created this irrational fear inside of him that if you were upset with him that you were going to leave him.

“Know you are. But, I need you to talk to me. Tell me when you’re in a bad mood and I’ll back off - give you space if that’s what you need,” your hands splay on either side of his neck, caressing the skin there.

“Don’ want space from ya, jus’ need,” he trails off, words catching in his throat, struggling to be vulnerable.

You cup his face between your hands, thumbs tracing the pretty smattering of freckles and moles there, silently encouraging him to try.

“It’s kind of like I wan’ yah there, but silently,” he mumbles, head tilting down - refusing to meet your eyes at being raw and open.

“Hey, we agreed no hiding,” you chide quietly, tipping his jaw up to look at him. He’s got this aching look behind his eyes, wanting to please you while still getting used to being unguarded with you.

“I can do that, Gator,” you nod, sliding your hands from his face to his chest. You place a kiss at the junction where his neck meets the column of his throat.

The touch of your lips there pulls a desperate whimper from him - it’s somehow sexy as hell and adorable all at once, though you’d never tell him that because you know he’d rather die than hear you think he’s adorable. Though, he secretly loves it when you call him cute now, but adorable might be tip toeing the line just a bit.

Gator drops his head on your shoulder, letting you continue to press kisses along his neck. You feel him starting to melt, going boneless in your hold.

You can’t help but tease him just a bit, “I’m so proud of you, Gator. Such a good boy, telling me what you need.”

His breath hitches at the pet name, eyes clouding with lust. It drove him wild when you called him that, because he felt like that was his purpose in life now - being good for you.

Gator startles you when he drops to his knees - sinking into the soft grass at your feet.

“Gator?” you ask a bit breathlessly, curious - but not ignorant to what not so innocent thoughts might be stirring in that mind of his.

“Need to ‘pologize properly, darlin’,” he hitches one of your legs up to rest on his shoulders.

Your back’s pressing against the fence - a flush creeping up your cheeks when Gator starts to hike your sundress up, revealing the soft skin of your thigh.

“Might need to get you in trouble more often if this is how you’re going to ask for forgiveness,” you huff out a quiet breath of laughter.

He kisses your knee, before trailing his lips to the flesh of your thigh - and then he grovels the best way he knows how, pleasing his girl - a quiet promise that he’ll keep trying to be better for you.