────ᝰ.ᐟ₊ ⊹ blue skies, sunshine, and everything's fine! ⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆
˙ . 𓏲ּ𝄢. 𖦹˙ MARIE . . . multifandom. she/her. writer + reader. 24 || collecting favorite characters, unfinished thoughts, and far too many screenshots.
ᯓ★ ♯┆INTERESTS. . . pinterest boards, movie soundtracks, doomed narratives, and sweet things ♡ .ᐟ ★
"◟𐔌 ﹒leave a little piece of yourself behind; i'd love to know you ࣪𖤐.ᐟ"
Ben realizing he made innocent! Reader cuss during sex for the first time.
The linen bedsheets crinkle beneath your gripping hands as Ben eats you out with all of his strength. He's been at it for hours, pushing you past your limits.
You're Ben's sweet thing—the complete opposite of him. You have a hard time standing up for yourself out of fear of being mean, even when the person deserves it.
Ben's always there to let someone know they'd better fuck off as fast as possible before he's forced to get physical.
"Thank you, Ben." You'll say, giving him a sweet smile and a peck on the cheek.
Even when you're blatantly upset, Ben's never heard you cuss.
"If you're upset, it's healthy to cuss, you know."
You simply swallowed the lump in your throat. "I don't want to."
"This world's gonna eat you alive, sweetheart." He sighed, pulling you into his lap.
"I'll be okay."
The feeling of Ben's stubble rubbing against your pussy and thighs as his tongue laps fervently at your clit gives you a dizzying feeling. You've lost count of how many times he's made you cum—and the strong, familiar feeling is edging itself closer again.
"Ben, Ben, I can't! Fuck-!"
Ben slows to a halt. He looks up at you from between your legs, your slick glistening across his lips and beard.
"Darlin'. Did you just fuckin' cuss?"
Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.
"I didn't- I didn't mean to!"
"It's okay, princess." He chuckles. "There'll be more of that coming out of you real soon.
And I hate to make this all about me
But who am I supposed to talk to?
What am I supposed to do
If there's no you?
Fourteen months. Four hundred and twenty six days and you finally learn who has been leaving daisies for your sister.
pairing: steve harrington x mayfield!reader
words: 4.9k
contains: angst (hurt/comfort), friends to lovers, (slight) second chance romance, mayfield!reader, mention of grief, hospitals, max in a coma, mention of a feeding tube, set between season four and season five, eldest daughter core, mummy issues, brief mention alcoholism, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: bit of a heavy one but i was really in the mood to write an angsty mayfield reader fic and i was listening to 'soon you'll get better' by taylor and got this idea. this is another pretty personal fic to me as last year my brother was really ill and i had the awful experience of seeing a younger sibling really unwell. sending love to others who relate 💗
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The steady beep, beep, beep from Max’s heart monitor had become a constant companion of yours over the past fourteen months.
The sound should comfort you, should act as a reminder that your sister was still here, that she was still alive, that her heart was still beating. But after fourteen months, after four hundred and twenty six days—all that the sound reminded you of was the fact you had not heard your sister's voice or seen her smile in well over a year. That you were beginning to forget the colour of her eyes and the sound of her laugh.
It was also becoming increasingly harder to hold onto hope that she would get better, that she would ever wake up. But you did, somehow. Because she was your little sister and there was nothing else you could do other than tell yourself that she would someday wake, that she’d get to graduate, go to college and know a life that didn’t involve demogorgons or the Upside Down.
But seeing her—the girl you had taught how to ride a bike and a skateboard, the girl you had always sworn to protect—lying in that hospital bed day in and day out with no sign of ever regaining consciousness, it bore an unimaginable kind of pain. The kind that had you begging to a higher power that you didn’t even believe in, trying desperately to reason with whatever force was keeping her from you. You had even begged Vecna (if he was even listening) to take her place, to let it be you instead of her. But it didn’t work, nothing did. Not music, not you and Lucas talking to her, not even El could find her.
But still, you showed up each and everyday to the hospital. To hold her hand, to play her Kate Bush songs until visiting hours were over, to cut her hair when it was getting too long and to play card games with Lucas as you both tried to convince yourselves that it was only a matter of time before Max woke up.
The feelings of guilt however were much more difficult to distract yourself from. The feeling had edged itself so deep within you that it lived under your skin, had crept its way into your bones and settled there, refusing to leave. The fact that you felt as though you had failed to protect your little sister and the worry that she hated you for not doing enough to save her. It was all consuming but you buried it deep. You told everyone you were fine. Because you had to be. For Max, for your mom, for Lucas, for everyone who cared about your sister.
Nowadays, your days were a blur of hospital, work, the WSQK, hospital, work, the WSQK. Just like today, where you had spent your morning visiting Max before heading to work, then after a shift at the diner going to the WSQK to help Nancy with planning an upcoming crawl. Usually, you would head straight home afterwards, make dinner for your mom and then stay up watching TV so you wouldn’t be alone with your thoughts.
But today, Nancy hadn’t needed as much help as she had initially thought with crawl preparations and you left the radio station while there was still two hours left of visiting time at the hospital. And so, you headed straight over to Hawkins Memorial Hospital to see your sister.
You hum along mindlessly to the music as you sit on one of the chairs beside Max’s bed. Kate Bush’s music was just another constant soundtrack to your day when visiting Max. You had thought by now that you would be sick of the sound of the opening beat to Running Up That Hill since it was all you played for Max but truthfully, you weren’t even a tiny bit sick of it. Because it was what you believed could be the bridge between the here and now and wherever Max was, that the song was the key to bringing her home.
Your eyes dance around the room, at the dull, grey hospital walls before they land on the drawing just above Max’s bed, the one she had drawn of her and Lucas on their would-be date at the movies. The sight of the two stick figures holding hands had always made you smile while simultaneously ripping your heart in two.
You glance then towards the abundance of gifts that sat on a table directly opposite Max’s bed. You can see one of Will’s paintings leaning against the wall, some friendship bracelets that El had made her, cards from Dustin and Mike and an album of pressed flowers that Lucas was in the process of making for her.
There was once a time where flower arrangements once adorned the table, an abundance of soft pinks and sunny yellows that made the room feel brighter. But fourteen months on and the number of bouquets had dwindled significantly. But still, someone—you were sure it was Claudia Henderson as you had seen her buying bunches of daisies on many occasions—always left a bunch of daisies on the table every few days. The sight of them always made you since, since daisies had always been your favourite.
You notice however that the daisies in the vase beside the window had begun to wilt and you were just beginning to wonder if you should throw them away when the door to Max’s room opened and one of her regular nurses, Nurse Rogers, walks in.
“Oh! Hello, Miss Mayfield,” she greets you with a kind, warm smile. “You’re not usually here at this time.”
You smile back, ignoring the slight pity you see in her expression as she looks at you. It was a look that you were used to after so long. People who saw you as the poor Mayfield girl who was in denial about her sister.
“Yeah, um, had some free time,” you say, your fingers digging into the soft cushion of the chair beneath you. “I figured that I should give her some company.”
Nurse Rogers smiles kindly—she doesn’t remind you that there was no evidence that Max was even aware of your presence and for that, you were grateful.
“I’m sure that she appreciates it,” she says, bustling into the room and pulling a rattling hospital cart along behind her. “I just need to replace her feeding tube. Shouldn’t take too long.”
You nod, despite the lump that had suddenly risen in your throat. Because your baby sister needed feeding tubes, because even after fourteen months, seeing Max in this position—it never got any easier. Never.
The nurse set about changing Max’s feeding tube but you couldn’t watch. You felt like a coward—because she was trapped under Vecna’s spell or whatever it was keeping her in the coma while you were in Hawkins, mostly safe and lucky to not be wherever she was. Trapped in her body, bed ridden and unable to find her way home. And yet—you couldn’t watch the nurse change her tubes, couldn’t face the fact that without all this machinery, without medical intervention that your sister would probably be dead. You couldn’t face it. You just couldn’t.
“All done,” Nurse Rogers announces after a minute or two where you had been fiddling with a loose thread on your shorts.
You sit up, your eyes stinging as you glance over at your little sister, at the tube in her mouth that made you want to burst into tears.
“Thank you,” you say thickly, quickly wiping away a stray tear that had fallen and forcing a smile.
But Nurse Rogers notices.
“She’s still here,” she tells you, placing a gentle hand on your arm and giving you a squeeze. “You gotta be strong, honey. Your sister still needs you.”
You swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and do your best to blink away the tears that were threatening to fall but to no avail. Because it had been fourteen months of hoping and you were tired.
“Yeah. You’re right.”
Nurse Rogers smiles at you just as there was a knock on the door. You have enough time to collect yourself as another nurse walks in.
“Hi, Miss Mayfield,” she greets you, smiling in a way that told you that she could plainly see the teartracks down your cheeks but was choosing to ignore them for your sake. “Sorry, Mags but you’re needed in Room 14.”
You feel Nurse Rogers’—Mags—hand withdraw from your shoulder and you find that it leaves you feeling a little more than empty inside. Her warm, almost motherly touch had made you realise how long it had been since you had felt that. Because you couldn’t remember a time since Max had been in a coma where your mom had truly felt like your mom. You had taken it upon yourself to take care of her, making sure that she was eating, making sure she was taking care of herself and not drinking to excess like she had been when Neil had left shortly after Billy’s death.
It had become a strange dynamic but you knew without it that your mom would have fallen apart and so, you had done it without being asked and without complaint. You also knew you would continue doing it until Max woke up. But you couldn’t deny that it left you feeling a little bit numb to your own emotions and desperate for your mom to just hug you because you needed it.
“I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything,” Nurse Rogers tells you, a softness in her eyes that makes you feel almost like a child who doesn’t want to be alone right now. “Seriously. Anything. Just come and get me, okay?”
You nod again, grateful despite the fact you knew that you weren’t to take her up on the offer.
You don’t trust yourself to talk, don’t trust the way you were on the verge of tears and so, you just simply smile at her before turning your attention back to Max, taking her hand and telling yourself not to cry in front of the nurses.
Nurse Rogers seems reluctant to leave you but the nurse who had walked in clears her throat and both of them leave the room to return to their duties.
The door closes softly behind her and you hear the footsteps of both nurses as they walk down the hall. Part of you feels relieved that you were finally alone with your sister and the other part of you was so sick of being alone.
You let out a shaky breath, steeling yourself before looking back at Max. But the sight of your baby sister with a feeding tube down her throat makes the tears near impossible to stop. You feel your bottom lip quiver and your legs begin to shake.
You couldn’t cry in front of Max. You couldn’t. Even if she couldn’t see you, feel you or know that you were even in the same room. You refused to let her see you like this.
And so, you stand up on shaky legs and head towards the door without a second glance back at your sister.
You walk down the hall and head straight for the bathroom. You can feel the eyes of other patients, of families waiting on news of their loved ones in the hallway linger as you pass by. You hear them whispering about the ‘Mayfield girl’, asking each other if you were the sister who refused to give up. They’re trying to be quiet but you were attuned to what everybody said about you, about Max, about your family, about the fact everyone in town thought you were in denial, that keeping Max alive was cruel and your family were just delaying the inevitable. No matter how quiet the whispers were, you had heard it all.
But thankfully, there was no one else in the hospital bathroom when you walked in. Which, you were grateful for considering that the very first thing you did as soon the door slammed shut behind you was burst into tears.
There was no build up, there was no opportunity to stop the sobs that shook your body. Your hands shake and your breathing becomes erratic as the tears are slipping down your cheeks.
Fourteen months.
Four hundred and twenty six days and you fucking missed your sister.
You missed her stealing your clothes because she thought they were “cooler” than hers. You missed her forcing you to watch horror movies despite the fact that you couldn’t stand them. You missed going to the arcade with her and giving her half your pocket money just to see her smile. You missed fighting with her about whose turn it was to do the dishes, you missed watching skate off down the street to see her friends and you missed the way she would always hug you before leaving.
You missed her so much that it went beyond physical pain. You felt as though part of you was missing, as though it had been ripped away from you. You felt it when you saw her jacket waiting for her by the front door and when you noticed dust collecting on her skateboard.
You would do anything to switch places with her. You would face any storm, would tear down mountains and walk through fire for it to be you in that hospital bed instead of her. Because all you wanted was for Max to be okay.
But it didn’t matter what you were willing to do to switch places with her. Because she was still in that hospital bed, tubes coming out of her mouth and no amount of bargaining was going to save her.
It was a reality that you were finding it increasingly difficult to face.
You emerge from the hospital bathroom almost fifteen minutes later. Your cheeks feel red raw from where you had been rubbing away your tears and there’s a dull ache behind your eyes from how much you had cried.
You make your way back to Max’s room, sniffling as you did so. Thankfully, you don’t run into Nurse Rogers and have to explain why you were in such a state. But it wasn’t the first time that you had cried in that bathroom and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
You can hear Kate Bush still playing from inside of Max’s room as you approach and the familiar music pulls your focus back.
Max.
She’s still here. You gotta be strong, honey. Your sister still needs you.
And with Nurse Rogers’ words still ringing in your ears, you push open her hospital room door.
“—and then Robin had this really terrible idea of having an advice segment but every time a woman would call up to complain about her boyfriend she would just tell them to dump him and—”
The last thing—the very last thing—that you expected to hear when you walk back into Max’s room was the sound of Steve Harrington’s voice.
Your breath catches, everything around you feels a little fussy as you see him sitting on the chair beside her bed that you vacated only fifteen minutes ago.
At the sound of the door closing behind you, Steve stops talking and looks up.
When your eyes finally meet his, everything around you stills.
“Hey,” Steve greets you softly and with a small smile.
“Hi,” you say quietly because you didn’t know what else to say.
Because fourteen months ago, you had finally told him that you loved him after you had thought you lost him to a swarm of demobats. And fourteen months ago, he had told you that he felt the same. He had promised to take you out on a date when everything with the Upside Down was over. But then everything that had happened with Max had derailed those plans entirely and though Steve tried and tried again to be there for you, you pushed him away. And you did so by breaking his heart the only way you knew how.
You did it by repeating the words that Nancy had once said to him. Called him “bullshit” and told him that you didn’t love him. That it was just adrenaline talking after almost watching him almost die. You still remember the look of utter devastation on his face, still remember the way he had gone uncharacteristically quiet, the bag of groceries he had bought for you and your mom still tucked under his arm.
“You don’t mean that,” he had said, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t.”
“I do,” you had told him, the words like knives in your throat. Because you didn’t mean it. Because you loved him, you really fucking loved him. And it was because you loved him that you knew you needed to let him go. Because the proof that you couldn’t protect the people you loved was laying in a hospital bed.
Your plan had worked, Steve had avoided you after that. You still ran into each other every now and then, at the WSQK mainly where Steve worked alongside Robin or during briefings before crawls. But you had not been alone together since the night you had broken his heart outside of your trailer.
“You okay?” Steve asks, pulling you from your thoughts.
Fuck, you hate the way he speaks so softly to you, his voice full of concern even after everything you had done to him.
“Yeah,” you say too quickly, looking at his face and hating even more just how handsome he still was. Those honeyed brown eyes that made you feel warm inside, the moles scattered around his face and neck and the thick, chocolatey brown hair that you still found yourself wanting to run your fingers through.
Steve looks as though he doesn’t believe you and you couldn’t exactly blame him.
“Just um—allergies,” you sniffle, wiping your nose and looking away from him. “Just really bad this time of year.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, unconvinced. “I bet.”
You don’t look back at him. Because the thought of him visiting your sister and talking to her about things as mundane as working at the radio station was making your heart do traitorous things in your chest. You could feel the tears already threatening to fall again.
You were just trying to think of an excuse to leave when something beside the window catches your eye.
“Was Dustin’s mom just here?” You ask Steve, your eyes on the fresh bunch of daisies that had replaced wilted ones you had seen earlier.
“Huh?” Steve asks, confused as follows your gaze and looks over at the daisies. “No, um, it’s just me.”
You blink, brows pulled together in confusion before you finally look back at him.
“But the daisies, I thought it was—”
“—they weren’t from Claudia,” Steve says, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks back at you. “The daisies are from me.”
Your eyes flicker from his face before they move back over to the daisies. “H-has it—has it always been you?”
“Yeah,” Steve admits quietly. “Always.”
Something about that admission that breaks something inside of you. Perhaps it was the part of you that was desperately trying to hold yourself together, the part of you that was crying out for help or maybe it was the part of you that had convinced yourself that breaking Steve Harrington’s heart was the right thing to do.
“Oh, please don’t—”
Steve rises from his chair, not even finishing his sentence as he crosses the room in a few quick steps to catch you before you could break down into floods of tears.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he tries to hush you gently, one arm wrapping around you while the other hand gently pushes your hair back so he could see your tear stained face more clearly. “Don’t cry. It’s just flowers—”
“—it’s not just f-flowers, Steve,” you stutter out, the tears falling so thick and fast that you couldn’t stop them. “It—it’s the f-fact you’ve been b-been le-leaving them f-for her for m-months and I—I di-didn’t kno-know it was y-you.”
You watch as Steve swallows thickly, his eyes fixed on your face as he seems to mull over his next words carefully.
“I didn’t—the flowers weren’t—they weren’t necessarily for Max,” Steve begins quietly, his thumb carefully wiping a tear from your cheek. “They—they were all for you.”
Your heart feels as though it splits open that.
Because for fourteen months—four hundred and twenty six days—Steve Harrington had been leaving you flowers in your sister’s hospital room and you had no idea.
“Daisies. They’re still your favourite, right?” He asks when you remain speechless. You nod numbly, your breath catching as you look back at him with wide eyes feeling your heart pounding in your chest.
“But why—”
“I just—I just wanted you to have something in this room that was—that was just for you. Because all this—it’s been tough on you too. Really fucking tough. And I wanted you to have something in this room that reminded you that people care about you too. That I—that we all are still thinking about you.”
“I d-don’t de-deserve that,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as though you were trying to decide whether or not to pull him closer or push him away. “I don’t de-deserve it, Steve. I don’t—”
“—you do,” Steve tells you firmly, his expression shifting to something close to agony as he watches you crumble in front of him. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that you don’t deserve—”
“—I c-couldn’t pr-protect her, Stevie,” you start to sob, the old nickname falling from your lips before you could stop it. You miss the way his expression falters, the way his own eyes become glassy. “I-I failed a-and I-I can’t d-do anything to h-help her. I d-don’t de-deserve an-anything l-like that.”
“Oh, babygirl,” Steve murmurs, pulling you in and wrapping his arms around you as though it was enough to protect you from everything that hurt inside of you. “You did everything you could. You didn’t fail. You have never failed your sister even a day in your life.”
“I-I just w-wish it w-was me i-instead,” you cry, burying your face into his shirt as you sob into him. “I just w-wish it was m-me.”
Steve doesn’t say anything, his heart cracking open at your words. He doesn’t argue with you, just pulls you closer and cups the back of your head with one large hand. Because he felt the same. Like you, he had spent nights wishing it had been him instead of Max.
And he also knew that if it was you in that hospital bed, he would move heaven and the earth to switch places with you.
“I know,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the side of your head as you continue to sob into him. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
The only thing he can do after that is hold you while you cry. His arms act as an anchor around you that refuse to let you go for even a second.
You aren’t sure how long you stayed there, weren't sure how long you cried into his shirt for. All you knew was that when you finally pulled away from him was that his shirt was covered in wet blotches from your tears.
“Sorry,” you murmur, your voice a little hoarse as you look at his face. “About your shirt.”
“It’s okay,” Steve tells you gently, the smallest of smiles tugging at the very corner of his mouth. “S’just a shirt.”
You very nearly smile but something stops you. The memory—the one that had haunted you for the past fourteen months—of Steve’s face outside of your trailer as you broke his heart into pieces. The reminder that you didn’t deserve his kindness, his sympathy and you certainly didn’t deserve flowers.
“Sorry,” you say again, not entirely sure what you were apologising for as your fingers release the front of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have—”
“—I forgive, you know?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to control the swell of emotions in your chest at his words.
“You shouldn’t,” you say finally with a shake of your head. “I was cruel to you, Steve. So cruel. You should hate—”
“—don’t try and tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel,” Steve says in a calm but stern voice, one that makes you swallow. He pulls away from you only to rub his hands over his face in frustration, his shoulders tightening as you imagine him reliving that conversation over again in his head. “I knew exactly what you were doing. I knew you didn’t mean it. That’s why I forgive you.”
“But Steve—”
“—no, listen to me, baby, okay? I forgive you. I—I will always forgive you. I don’t care if you think that you don’t deserve it. It’s too late. I’ve already done it.”
You say nothing at first, not trusting your voice as you look back at the man you had never stopped loving.
Steve can perhaps see your apprehension in your face and so, he presses on, “And I—shit—I thought that maybe the daisies would let you know that. That I forgave you and maybe—maybe that we’d find our way back to each other eventually or something.”
“Steve,” you begin gently, your shoulders sagging slightly at his words, at the almost hopeful expression on his face. “I—I can’t—”
“—why not?”
You swallow, your eyes flickering from Steve over to Max who was still laying in her hospital bed, like she had been for the past fourteen months.
“—Steve, you’re always taking care of people,” you say as you look back at him with a careful expression. “And I—I can’t be another burden to you like that. I just can’t.”
You watch as Steve’s jaw clenches at your words, at the way something flashes in his eyes. He takes a breath before he lifts a hand to gently cup your face, the gesture so gentle that you couldn’t help the small breath you let out.
“You are not nor could you ever be a burden to me,” Steve tells you in a fierce voice. “Yeah, you’re going through a lot. But I can help. I want to help. Because bottling it up, pretending you’re fine and taking care of everyone else but yourself isn’t going to help you.”
“But you—”
“—and if Max knew what you were doing—if she knew that you weren’t letting people take care of you, she’d be heartbroken.”
You wanted him to be wrong. You wanted so badly for him to be wrong. But you knew, deep down, that he wasn’t. You knew that if Max saw the way you had become a shell of yourself, if she knew that you cried alone in hospital bathrooms with no one to hold you, if she knew that you had hurt Steve just to push him away—she wouldn’t forgive you.
When you say nothing, Steve takes a step closer, his eyes studying your expression carefully.
“I’ve forgiven you. Now it’s time for you to forgive yourself.”
Fuck. You could have cried all over again.
“I don’t—I don’t know how to do that,” you whisper back, feeling like a child who was about to be scolded as you turn to look away from Steve.
But Steve’s hand on your cheek gently turns your head to prevent you from doing so.
“That’s okay,” he whispers, his other hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. The simple act makes you feel more alive than you had ever been and as he lifts your entwined hands to rest over his chest, you feel his heartbeat thumping through his shirt, feel the warmth of his skin against yours like a soothing balm. “Just start by letting me in.”
You’re quiet then, at war with yourself as you try not to think of all the reasons you should say no. They swirl around in your head, taunting you. The guilt, the fear, the worry. All of it. But one glance towards the vase of daisies that stood in front of the window—the reminder that for four hundred and twenty six days that Steve Harrington hadn’t given up on you—seems to quiet them.
It’s time to forgive yourself.
You couldn’t imagine a more courageous act but as you look back at Steve, you find that the task doesn’t seem so daunting with him there to catch you.
“Do you—do you wanna go grab a burger and a milkshake after visiting hours?” You ask him, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you give his hand in yours a gentle squeeze. “My treat.”
It takes Steve several moments to process your words and the moment that he does so, you see the reverence, the softness in his expression that was reserved only just for you.
“Anywhere you wanna go,” Steve tells you, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your hairline. “I’ll go. Always.”
You can’t stop the smile from spreading across your face at the feeling of his lips brushing against your skin after far, far too long. The beep, beep, beep from Max’s heart monitor reminding you that she was still alive, that you were still alive and that maybe forgiving yourself sometimes began with burgers and a milkshake.
