For fox sake

Jenn. She/Her. 39 with the sense of humor of a 13 year old. Coffee junkie. "That's what she said" to EVERYTHING

[nowandajenn]

Jenn's MasterList

Sometimes silly, sometimes smutty, sometimes just ideas I can't get out of my silly little head. All stories are 100% mine and are 18+ unless otherwise specified.

Call On Me (One Shot)

Blue Christmas (series) Chris as a father to twin boys (request) Scare Tactics (Halloween One shot) Hard To Get (one shot) Cheers (one shot) Breathe (one shot) Every Move You Make (mini) part one part two part three

A Little Tied Up (one shot)

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

Hmm..

How would the djolings act when they're jealous?

steve hated being jealous because when he was jealous, he got scared—scared of losing you. it was perhaps a hangover from the way his relationship with nancy had ended so steve did not like feeling it in his relationship with you. it made him incredibly self critical and it made him worry. and so, when he was jealous he needed reassurance from you. the physical kind. he’d kiss you like he had something to prove and then he’d have his head between your legs barely two minutes later, moaning into your soaked cunt as two of his thick fingers pumped in and out of you. “that’s it,” he’d murmur against your skin, tongue darting out to play with your swollen clit while you mewled above him, “this is all for me, right baby?”. and after he had made you come no less than three times, he would lay his head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat just to remind himself that he was yours and you were his.

when gator is jealous? oh boy—he makes it known. if he's with you, he'll tell whatever guy is trying to flirt with you to fuck off and he'll slap a hand on your ass for good measure. he'll make it abundantly clear in any way he can that you're his and his alone. you didn’t mind it, honestly. and if he isn't there and you come home and tell him about some guy who had tried to get your number on a girls' night? he'll bend you right over the kitchen countertop and make you forget all about mr. no name at the bar as his thick cock pounds into you from behind. you’ll be moaning out obscenely, the sound of skin slapping and the schlick-schlick-schlick sounds from gator pounding into your soaked pussy filling the kitchen.

teacake is very comfortable in your relationship and doesn’t tend to get jealous. he trusts you implicitly and so, he doesn’t see any reason to be jealous when he knew you were his completely. instead if a guy ever tried to flirt with you in front of him, he’ll just throw an arm around you and have the biggest grin on his face as he says to the guy: "sorry man, she's taken." the closest teacake gets to feeling jealous is when you’re saying how hot a certain celebrity is and he’ll pout and ask, “but i’m hotter, right babe?”

keys doesn't quite know what to do when he feels jealous. he knows you love him and that you only have eyes for him, but sometimes it gets to him. on those nights, he needs to reassurance. he’s usually the big spoon but he’ll ask you to hold him which you do of course while gently running your fingers through his hair. he’ll always be honest with you in those moments—he’ll ask you if he’s working too much, if you’re happy. and you’ll press a kiss to his forehead and tell him you’d never been happier. keys would then smile a little before lifting his head to kiss you properly. you wouldn’t leave the bed for hours after that.

kurt does not handle jealousy well at all. honestly, that man is terrified at the thought of you leaving, of you finding someone better than him. and maybe there was a part of him that believes he really doesn’t deserve someone like you. and so, when kurt get jealous, he gets upset. he’ll hold onto you real tight and beg you not to leave him. sometimes he’ll cry. he’ll tell you how much he loves you, how he doesn’t know what he’d do without you. and you’d always smile at him sweetly and kiss him just to shut him up. he usually takes the hint then.

dividers by @anitalenia

mdni banner and green dividers by me 🌸 please credit me if you wish to reuse

[sweetlikenonsense]

A Lot

♡ He wanted all of it. And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you. 

Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Female Masturbation (Use of a Vibrator), Dry humping, Voyeurism (Accidental), Steve Harrington Being Hopelessly in Love (and Coming in His Pants)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!Henderson!reader

Word count: 6.4k

Summary: Steve Harrington walks in at the worst possible moment. Fortunately for both of you, it forces a conversation you should have had years ago—preferably not with something buzzing between you.

Author’s note: One day I won't accidentally turn a pure smutty request into a feelings fest complete with mutual pining, emotional constipation and a confession. Today is not that day... apologies to you ♥︎

Also, has the quote in the header inspired another idea yes... no further questions, good day ♥︎

The crumpled post-it note hanging from the fridge was the first sign that something was… different. The second was the absence of Dustin's voice—which, quite frankly, should have been audible from three streets away.

"Mom? Dustin?" Your voice echoed through the empty kitchen. 

Nothing. 

Frowning, you crossed the room and pulled the note from beneath the heart-shaped magnet holding it in place. The bright yellow paper was covered in your mom's unmistakable looping cursive.

Book club at Belinda's. Dustin at Wheelers. Pizza money on the counter. Love you Hunnybuns xxx

You can't remember the last time you had the house all to yourself. No Dustin yelling your name from the other side of the house because he couldn't find something that was right in front of him. No Dustin barging into your room without knocking. No Dustin demanding lifts off of you. 

Just peace and quiet. And well, you couldn't possibly let that go to waste…

"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."

You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.

You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.

You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.

You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."

Whether it actually would remained to be seen.

You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.

For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk. 

Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over. 

You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.

An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–

The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.

"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that. 

You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.

Far better company than Steve Harrington.

The thought slipped in uninvited.

You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you. 

Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?

Well.

It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it? 

Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.

You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well– 

The cookie paused halfway to your mouth. 

On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.

Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.

Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.

The man couldn't even complain properly.

Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.

Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.

You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past. 

The truly irritating part?

Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.

Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.

You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.  

On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."

Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards. 

If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story. 

Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.

But then there were summers. 

Summers were the worst. 

Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move. 

Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.

It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.

Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.

Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.

However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.

Which was rich.

Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.

You were a grown woman.

A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.

He was the sun.

And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.

God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic. 

Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some. 

The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever. 

With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.

Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.

The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.

Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.

Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered. 

You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that. 

Not the pirate part. Obviously.

But the rest?

The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.

Because that's who Steve was. 

You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.

You remembered the fear first.

Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.

You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.

But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?

You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.

But afterwards?

Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?

Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to. 

Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension. 

You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.

Fuck. Your breath hitched.

Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.

But beautiful?

Beautiful was different.

Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.

Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home. 

Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.

God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.

Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors? 

The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.

Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next. 

The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts. 

Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin. 

Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth. 

But this? 

This was all you. 

Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.

Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once. 

The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–

You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress. 

God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.

Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.

Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long. 

Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were— 

“Henderson?” 

Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.

Nothing.

He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again. 

"Dustin?" he called through the door.

Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"

Still nothing.

The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.

Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.

"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone. 

Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.

Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You.

This had you written all over it.

He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course. 

"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time. 

The smile slowly faded.

Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.

Instead, the house remained strangely silent.

Then he heard it.

The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"

Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.

Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"

The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.

Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest. 

Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.

You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.

"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.

Nothing.

Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.

“Henderson?”

The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear. 

His brain short-circuited. 

So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second. 

Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.  

Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it. 

A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole. 

The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. 

Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good." 

You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down. 

Oh. God. 

Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you? 

But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive. 

You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.  

But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo. 

Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.

Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started? 

No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality. 

Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. 

He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly. 

“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead. 

Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.

The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards.  “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).

Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it. 

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.

His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts. 

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago. 

His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.

Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.

"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"

The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."

And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close. 

He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far. 

He’s not the only one. 

You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?” 

You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead. 

Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons. 

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."

Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.

“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.

"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.

"C’mon, Henderson," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and something darker. "Thought you liked a challenge?"

The man knew you far too well. 

You pout because yes, you enjoyed that, but you wanted more. Quite honestly you wanted him. You’d waited long enough.

Your fingers curl into his shirt once again, tugging him closer; peering up at him with eyes so readable Steve hesitates before his grip tightens on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. "Hey," he says softly, suddenly serious in a way that makes your stomach flip. 

"I wanna do this right," he murmurs, and your brows pinch together—confused, impatient—until he continues, voice rough with sincerity. "The first time—our first time—I want it to be right. For you. For us.” 

He paused, before seeming to get lost in his own thoughts as he rambled, “I want us to go out on a real date first. Dinner-or-or a picnic. Whatever you want–I mean not whatever whatever. Golden dragon with the killer egg rolls and the duck you love. Then we’d go to the drive-in and see The Princess Bride” - you blush even deeper, eyes briefly flickering behind him,“or Sixteen Candles or honestly whatever cheesy rom-com is on because I know those are your favourites even though you never admit it.” 

And he's still going.

"And if it rained, we'd just stay in the car. Bring blankets. Hot chocolate. Maybe sneak in extra snacks because the food at the drive-in sucks. Then I’d drive you home and–"

You wanted him to keep going–forever preferably–but "Steve." You needed him to take a breath. 

He blinks, face screaming that he’d said way more than he ever intended. "...What?"

“You thought about this?” You can’t hide the shock and quite frankly awe in your voice as you stare up at him all starry eyed. 

"I have." His eyes stay locked on yours, impossibly open, impossibly honest. He pauses. Takes a deep, deep breath before adding, "...A lot."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He’d thought about this. Not, just a brief oh that would be nice–no, he’d planned it. Curated it for you. Remembered your favourite food, your favourite movies.  

Steve takes your silence as something else entirely–you can practically see his mind going a hundred miles-per-hour—so, slowly, you reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Then you let your fingers drift through his hair.

You swear your heart does a complete somersault at the look in his eyes–softer than you've ever seen them–and the way he unconsciously leans into your touch. You’d thought about doing this—brushing your fingers through his hair, being this close, kissing him—for years. And now here you are.

You really needed to pinch yourself subtly because there was absolutely no way this was real. 

You think if this was all you could ever have of Steve–a quick fuck because he’d caught you touching yourself–you honestly don’t know if that would be better or worse than having never had him at all.

Better because at least you knew, in some capacity, he felt something for you too; even if that was just base-level attraction.

Worse because you knew what it was like to have him so close. You knew how he kissed. You knew the exact shade of brown his eyes turned when he looked at you from this close.

Before you could pretend. Now you knew. And you knew you’d never be able to forget a moment of it. 

But here he was. Telling you outright that he didn't want this to be all you had. And not just that—he wanted more. Had planned for more. Planned for all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you. 

So, could you wait? 

Yes. Yes you could. 

Especially if you got a free chinese.

"I'd like that," you murmur. The words barely audible–inaudible if his face wasn't inches from yours. 

His eyes widened, looking genuinely shocked, as if the last few minutes had been wiped from memory. Or maybe as though he'd never expected you to want this.

To want more.

“Yeah?” The single word is so hopeful, so achingly sincere, that it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully tight.

“Yeah.” 

The smile that breaks across Steve's face is immediate–the kind that made his nose scrunch slightly at the bridge. For a moment, you just stayed like that. Smiling at each other like the lovesick idiots you were, caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness.

Then the faint buzzing seeps back into it.

Your eyes flicked to it simultaneously, the object still clutched in his hand, then back to each other and then you were laughing, breathless and giddy, foreheads bumping as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

His thumb hovered over the power button of the vibrator, his breath still uneven from laughter. "We can stop—" he started, already moving to switch it off, but your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a boldness that surprised even you.

"Or we could..." Your grip tightened slightly, guiding his hand back toward you. "...not?"

Steve’s throat worked visibly. Frozen in place once again, his eyes locked on yours as your legs parted slightly.

Then he moved. Fast and clumsy and perfect all at once. His free hand cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you again, deeper this time, all heat and barely restrained want. You could feel the shape of his grin against your lips when you arched into him, your thighs bracketing his hips as he leaned over you. 

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts with a reverence that made your breath catch—not tugging, not demanding, just resting there, warm against your skin, waiting. Your hips lifted instinctively and Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging the fabric down inch by torturous inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of your thighs as he went. The air was cool against your newly exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze more than made up for it.

The vibrator buzzed faintly between his fingers as he pressed it against the damp cotton of your underwear, the sensation muffled but still electric.

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers twisting into his hair—soft, always so damn soft—as he kissed you with a focus that bordered on worship. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to the pulse point beneath your ear, to the hollow of your throat—each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat under your skin.

Your hands roamed over him greedily, mapping the familiar slopes of his shoulders through his t-shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin was warm, taut with muscle that flexed under your touch as he adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing harder just to hear you whimper.

"Christ, Henderson," he muttered against your collarbone, his free hand skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "You’re su—" The rest dissolved into a groan when your nails scraped lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, the rough drag of his sweatpants against your inner thighs sending sparks up your spine. “–fuck–good girl.” He scraped out.

The tension coiled tight in your stomach snapped all at once. A sudden, shuddering release that left you gasping against Steve’s shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than your first. 

Distantly, you registered the choked noise he made against your neck, the way his hips stuttered against yours, the tremble in his thighs where they pressed against the mattress. But the haze was too thick, your own satisfaction too consuming, to parse what it meant well until your hand drifted lower.

You hummed dazed, still riding the aftershocks and reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants with clumsy intent. But before you could slip beneath the fabric, Steve’s hand covered yours, peeling it away gently.

You blinked up at him, confused, until you caught the flush creeping down his neck—the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Then you looked down.

Oh.

The realisation hit you like a bucket of cold water. The strained fabric. The damp spot. The way his thighs tensed when he shifted slightly.

Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his grip on your hip tightening reflexively as you couldn't stop the little breathless giggle you let out. 

His cheeks burned brighter at the sound, one hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at his face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ," he muttered, voice rough with embarrassment and lingering arousal. "That's—uh—never happened before." 

The admission made your stomach swoop—equal parts giddy pride and aching tenderness—and you reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Steve's breath hitched when your knuckles brushed his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. And you really couldn't help yourself when you said: 

“Better last longer next time Harrington, or I might regret saying yes.” 

Steve groaned but caught your wrist gently, pressing your palm flat over his thundering heartbeat. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a breathless warmth you wanted to hear everyday for the rest of your life.

His thumb stroked over your pulse point absently before he exhaled and rolled onto his back beside you, staring up at your ceiling. The silence stretched, comfortable yet still charged, until he turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against your pillow. "So. Drive-in next Friday?"

The casualness of it—the normalcy—startled a laugh out of you. As if you hadn’t just—as if he hadn’t—

The laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest—hysterical and breathless—and you nodded, pressing your cheek into your pillow as you turned to face him.  

“Yeah,” you managed between giggles, the word dissolving into another helpless laugh when Steve grinned and kissed you again, his nose bumping yours awkwardly in his haste. It was messy and off-center and somehow still so goddamn perfect—his lips still curved with laughter as they moved against yours, the taste of shared amusement sweeter than any wine.  

Jesus you were down bad. But luckily for you, so was he. 

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka me hehe… had to do some shameless self promo)

P.S. Did not expect the reaction to the teaser... hope whoever interacted with that is not disappointed...

P.P.S. Playing around with paragraph lengths! I always write longer paragraphs, but thought that made it harder to read on here so I've been chopping them up but... I've seen discourse to the opposite so im trialling (what I call) 'mid-length paragraphs'

P.P.P.S: @dreamerjj, and @kitty-kei ♡

[jinxispunk]

hey i’ve been obsessed with your writing recently!!! i’ve especially loved your joe keery x diabetic reader! i was wondering if you could do something similar but with reader who has iron deficiency anaemia and has to get regular iron infusions. i’m not sure how much you know about iron deficiency but it seriously takes up so much of my life and this would bring me so much comfort. it’s so much more than just being tired or dizzy when standing up, but it’s the cold shaky hands, the brain fog and anxiety, the bone deep tiredness, and i just think joe would love to look after his girlfriend if she was going through something like this. i love your writing, thank you so much!

hi lovely!! firstly thank you so much for sending this request in, and thank you for all the kind words, that genuinely means so much to hear

you're completely right, whenever people talk about iron deficiency anaemia they usually reduce it to "being tired", when from everything i've learned about anaemia from friends, it can affect absolutely every part of your day. i ended up focusing less on a big scary medical event and more on all the little invisible ways it wears you down over time, and joe slowly noticing every single one of them.

i really hope this brings you even a tiny bit of comfort. it honestly did for me, so thank you!! 🫶

bone tired

Joe Keery x irondeficient!reader

Summary: Joe starts noticing all the tiny ways iron deficiency anaemia is wearing you down long before you admit how exhausted you really are.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, iron deficiency anaemia, chronic illness, iron infusions, fatigue, brain fog, anxiety, dizziness, cold intolerance, hurt/comfort, caretaking, comfort fic, protective joe keery, fluff, discussions of medical treatment (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 1.2k

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

The first sign is your hands.

Not because you mention them. You don't.

In fact, you've become so used to having permanently cold hands that you barely register it anymore. It's just another one of those small, irritating facts of life that you've quietly absorbed into your understanding of yourself, somewhere between needing extra blankets and carrying snacks in your bag.

Joe notices almost immediately.

One evening you're walking home after dinner, fingers loosely tangled together as you wander through the city, when he suddenly stops mid-sentence and tightens his grip on your hand.

"Jesus Christ."

You glance over.

"What?"

"Are you dead?"

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

"No."

Joe turns your hand over between both of his, frowning at your fingers like they've personally offended him.

"Baby, you're freezing."

"I'm always freezing."

"I know," he says. "That's the concerning part."

You shrug.

Because it isn't concerning.

It's normal.

You've spent so long feeling cold that the absence of it would probably feel stranger.

Joe looks unconvinced.

Over the next few weeks, he starts noticing all the other things you've stopped noticing too.

The second sign is the stairs.

Not because anything dramatic happens. In fact, Joe doesn't realise at first why something feels different.

He only notices tiny things.

The way you pause halfway up more often than you used to. The way you reach the top slightly breathless despite insisting you're fine. The way your hand lingers against the bannister for a second before continuing down the hallway.

Most people probably wouldn't notice.

Joe does. Because Joe notices everything.

One afternoon he finds you standing at the top of the stairs staring vaguely into space.

Not upset or distracted. Just tired.

A kind of tiredness that seems to reach all the way down into your bones.

"Hey."

You blink.

"Hm?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

Joe waits.

You stare back.

Eventually you sigh.

"...I forgot why I came upstairs."

His face softens immediately.

"Oh."

You laugh weakly.

"Yeah."

The thing about brain fog is that it's difficult to explain to people who haven't experienced it.

Everybody forgets things sometimes.

Everybody loses their train of thought.

But this feels different.

Like trying to think through wet cement.

Like your thoughts are still there, but somebody's wrapped them all in cotton wool.

The brain fog frustrates you more than anything else.

The exhaustion is awful, obviously. The dizziness is annoying. Being cold all the time feels ridiculous and inconvenient in equal measure.

But the brain fog feels personal somehow.

Like your own mind has quietly stopped cooperating with you.

You'll lose words halfway through perfectly ordinary conversations. Walk into rooms and immediately forget why. Start telling a story only for the thread of it to vanish entirely halfway through the sentence.

One evening you're talking to Joe about something completely inconsequential when you stop dead.

The word disappears.

Gone.

Nothing.

You can practically feel the frustration building before you even realise it's happening.

Joe notices immediately.

"The word'll come back."

You stare at him miserably.

"It won't."

"It will."

"It won't."

Joe waits patiently while you glare at the wall.

Five seconds later, "...microwave."

You blink.

Joe bursts out laughing.

"So close."

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

"It wasn't even remotely close."

"It kinda was."

"It absolutely wasn't."

Joe leans over to kiss the top of your head.

"It was in spirit."

The infusion appointments are somehow worse.

Not because they're painful or scary.

Because they're exhausting. Because you're tired of needing them.

Tired of arranging your life around blood tests and appointments and results and follow-ups. Tired of sitting in waiting rooms reading the same outdated magazines while somebody tells you, once again, that your iron levels have dropped.

Tired of your body constantly requiring maintenance just to function.

You don't usually talk about that part.

Joe figures it out anyway.

The first time he drives you to an infusion, you insist repeatedly that he doesn't need to come.

The second time, he doesn't even ask.

By the third, he already knows your order from the café downstairs.

"One cuppa tea, m'lady," he says dramatically, handing it over.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Milk, one sugar."

"You remembered."

Joe looks offended.

"Of course I remembered."

Something warm twists quietly in your chest.

The worst day happens in October.

Nobody ends up in hospital. Nothing goes catastrophically wrong. You don't faint. You don't receive bad news.

You've simply spent weeks pretending you're fine.

Pushing through.

Taking the stairs when the lift would've been easier. Accepting plans you were already too tired for. Smiling through conversations while your brain struggled to keep pace. Telling people you were "just tired" because explaining the truth felt like too much effort.

By the time you finally get home, you're running on fumes.

You barely make it through the front door before your shoulders start aching. Your legs feel heavy. Your head feels thick with exhaustion.

You sit down on the edge of the bed intending to take your shoes off.

Instead, you burst into tears.

Not graceful tears. Not quiet tears.

The sort that arrive so suddenly they catch you completely off guard.

Because you're exhausted.

Because you're frustrated.

Because your body feels like it belongs to somebody else.

Because you're tired of being tired.

And because no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to rest enough to fix it.

Joe finds you ten minutes later exactly where you left yourself.

Still wearing your coat. Still clutching your handbag.

Still crying.

He takes one look at you and immediately understands that this isn't about whatever happened today.

It's about every day.

Every day before this one. Every day after it.

Without saying a word, he sits beside you and opens his arms.

You fold into them immediately.

"You know what the worst part is?" you mumble eventually.

Joe rubs slow circles across your back.

"What?"

You laugh weakly against his shoulder.

"I don't even feel ill."

Joe looks down at you.

Because he understands exactly what you mean.

You don't have a cast. You don't have stitches. You don't look sick.

Most days nobody would know anything was wrong at all.

Which somehow makes it lonelier.

"It's invisible."

"Yeah."

Joe nods slowly.

Then presses a kiss into your hair.

"I see it."

The words hit harder than you expect.

Because he does.

He sees the extra blankets piled onto the sofa.

The forgotten words. The cancelled plans. The trembling hands.

The days where climbing the stairs feels like climbing a mountain.

The way exhaustion settles into your bones and refuses to leave.

He sees all of it.

And somehow he never makes you feel guilty for any of it.

A few weeks after your next infusion, Joe catches your hand automatically while you're crossing a road.

Then pauses.

You immediately recognise the expression on his face.

"What?"

Joe grins.

"Your hands are warm."

You blink.

Then look down.

For the first time in months, they are.

Not freezing. Not aching. Just warm.

Joe looks absurdly pleased with himself, like he's personally responsible for the achievement.

You laugh.

Joe squeezes your hand.

And for the first time in a long time, things feel a little lighter.

Not because the anaemia has disappeared.

Not because anything is fixed.

But because carrying it doesn't feel quite so heavy when somebody else insists on helping.

dividers: saradika-graphics

[jinxispunk]

i love your diabetic reader series!!! i am also type 1 so its nice to see some representation 🥺 could you do one where reader and joe are having an argument and shes going low but they both dont notice it because of the anger and then se passes out ???

hi lovely!! firstly, thank you so much for sending this request in! this idea immediately grabbed me because the angst potential is absolutely horrific (complimentary)

i ended up leaning quite heavily into the argument side of things and the guilt afterwards, because i think that's what would hit hardest for both of them. hopefully i did your idea justice x

forgot what mattered

Joe Keery x diabetic!reader

Summary: A heated argument takes a terrifying turn when neither of you realises you're going low.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, type 1 diabetes, diabetic!reader, severe hypoglycaemia, loss of consciousness, glucagon injection, arguments, relationship conflict, guilt, panic, emotional hurt/comfort, protective joe keery, crying, fluff, angst, comfort fic (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 1.4k

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

The argument starts loudly enough that the neighbours probably hear parts of it through the walls.

Not screaming.

Not vicious.

But sharp in that horrible way arguments become when neither person feels listened to anymore.

“You could’ve texted me once,” Joe snaps, pacing across the kitchen while rain batters against the windows outside. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“And I said I was sorry!”

“Three hours later!”

Your chest already feels tight with frustration, exhaustion prickling beneath your skin after a long day and now this on top of it.

“My phone died, Joe!”

“And then what?” he shoots back immediately. “Because you still disappeared.”

“I was with my friends!”

“That doesn’t mean you vanish off the face of the earth!”

“Oh my god.” You laugh sharply, incredulously. “You are being ridiculous.”

Joe stops pacing immediately.

“Ridiculous?”

“Yes.”

“I was worried about you.”

“And I’m a grown adult.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?” you snap back. “Because right now it honestly just feels like you don’t trust me to function independently for five fucking seconds.”

Joe stares at you like you’ve slapped him.

His voice drops lower immediately. “That’s not fair.”

You know it isn’t.

But you’re angry now too.

Too angry to stop.

Your whole body feels hot.

Restless.

Your hands trembling slightly where they grip the kitchen counter.

Joe runs a frustrated hand through his curls. “You know what? Forget it.”

“No, apparently not, because you’re still yelling at me over one missed text.”

“One missed text?” Joe laughs once harshly. “Jesus Christ, you disappeared for hours.”

“I told you where I was going!”

“And then you stopped answering!”

“Because my phone died!”

“And you couldn’t borrow somebody else’s?”

Something in you snaps slightly at that.

Because suddenly it doesn’t feel like concern anymore.

It feels suffocating.

“You know what?” you say sharply. “I’m actually so tired of every tiny thing turning into a discussion about whether or not I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

Joe’s face changes instantly.

Hurt flashes across it so quickly you almost miss it.

“That’s not what this is.”

“It always becomes that eventually.”

“No,” Joe says, voice tightening now, “it becomes me trying not to lose my fucking mind every time something happens to you.”

Your head feels strange.

Foggy around the edges.

Your heart hammering too fast.

You ignore it completely.

Adrenaline. Anger. Whatever.

Joe’s still talking, visibly frustrated now too.

“I’m not trying to control you, I’m trying to make sure you’re okay!”

“I don’t need monitoring twenty-four seven!”

“I KNOW THAT.”

The shout echoes sharply through the kitchen.

Silence crashes down afterwards.

Both of you breathing too hard.

Joe looks horrified with himself immediately for raising his voice.

You just feel shaky.

Too shaky.

Your fingertips tingle unpleasantly.

Joe notices you leaning harder against the counter before you even realise you’re doing it.

His expression shifts instantly.

“…baby?”

“I’m fine.”

But the words come out wrong.

Slightly slurred.

Joe goes completely still.

Your stomach drops.

Because now you know.

The heat beneath your skin. The trembling hands. The strange disconnect between your thoughts and your mouth.

Low.

Fuck.

You move automatically toward your bag sitting on the kitchen table, but your coordination’s gone to shit now, fingers fumbling uselessly against the zip.

Joe crosses the room immediately.

“Hey, hey.” His voice changes all at once. Softer now. Focused. “How low are you?”

“I dunno.”

“When’d you last check?”

You genuinely can’t remember.

That’s what scares you.

Joe’s already grabbing your meter from your bag while you struggle to keep your hands steady enough to test.

The number flashes onto the screen.

2.3 mmol/L.

Joe goes pale instantly.

“Jesus Christ.”

The argument evaporates from the room completely.

“Baby, sit down for me.”

You try.

The kitchen tilts strangely beneath your feet.

Joe’s moving quickly now, grabbing juice from the fridge, opening cupboards, panic beginning to bleed through the edges of his movements despite how hard he’s trying to stay calm.

“Drink this.”

You manage two mouthfuls before nausea crashes over you hard enough to make you gag.

Joe swears under his breath.

“No, no, c’mon. Little more.”

“I can’t,” you mumble weakly.

Your voice sounds distant even to yourself now.

Joe rushes in front of you immediately, both hands gripping your wrists gently, trying to urge you towards the sofa.

“Stay with me, okay?”

You nod vaguely.

Your whole body feels heavy.

Wrong.

Joe’s face looks terrified now.

Not worried.

Terrified.

Because he knows.

He knows how dangerous lows can become once you reach this point.

“You’re okay,” he says quickly, far more for himself than for you. “You’re okay, baby, I’ve got you.”

Then suddenly the room drops out from underneath you completely.

When consciousness comes back, it arrives in fragments.

Pressure against your cheek.

Cold air.

Somebody saying your name.

Joe.

Your eyelids feel glued together.

“…c’mon, baby, please.”

His voice sounds wrecked.

That’s the first thing you fully register.

Joe sounds scared.

You force your eyes open weakly.

The kitchen floor swims into focus slowly beneath you.

Joe’s kneeling beside you, one arm behind your shoulders, the other cupping your face hard enough that you realise he must’ve been trying to wake you. You’re lying on your side, and somewhere through the fog in your brain you dimly register the familiar ache in your thigh where he must’ve jabbed the glucagon injection through your jeans after you blacked out.

His face looks awful.

White as paper.

Eyes glossy with panic.

The second he sees your eyes open properly, something inside him visibly breaks with relief.

“Oh thank fuck.”

You try speaking but your mouth feels numb.

Joe’s hands shake slightly against your face.

“You passed out,” he says immediately, voice uneven. “You scared the shit outta me.”

Your brain catches on slowly after that.

The recovery position.

Joe must have rolled you onto your side.

The glucagon kit ripped open somewhere nearby on the kitchen tiles.

Then your memory crashes back all at once.

The argument.

The low.

Joe’s expression when he realised.

Guilt twists painfully through your chest immediately.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble weakly.

Joe actually looks offended.

“What? No. Absolutely not.”

“I should’ve checked-”

“And I should’ve noticed sooner.”

His voice cracks slightly around the words.

That shuts you up immediately.

Because Joe looks genuinely devastated right now.

Like he’s replaying the last ten minutes over and over trying to work out where things went wrong.

“I thought you were angry,” he says quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder now. “I thought you were just pissed at me.”

Your chest aches suddenly.

“I was.”

“I know.” Joe laughs once weakly through his nose. “But you were low too and I didn’t even realise.”

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Rain taps softly against the windows.

The kitchen light hums overhead.

Joe’s thumb keeps brushing shakily against your cheek like he physically can’t stop checking you’re awake.

Then suddenly his face folds slightly at the edges.

Not crying exactly.

But close enough that it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You scared me so bad,” he whispers.

Oh.

That does it.

Your own eyes sting immediately.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.” His voice sounds rough now. “I know, baby. I just…”

Joe cuts himself off hard, swallowing thickly.

Because he can’t say it.

Can’t say “I thought something terrible was happening right in front of me.”

Can't say “I should’ve realised sooner.”

Can't say “If I had stopped arguing with you-”

Your hand finds his wrist weakly.

“I’m okay,” you say again, softer this time.

Joe closes his eyes briefly.

Then leans forward suddenly until his forehead presses hard against yours.

His breathing’s uneven.

“You can’t pass out in the middle of arguments,” he mutters shakily. “That’s, like, genuinely the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you.

Joe exhales hard in relief the second he hears it.

“There she is.”

You both stay there on the kitchen floor for a while afterwards.

Your blood sugar gradually climbing.

The argument long dead between you.

Joe refuses to let go of your hand once.

And later that night, long after you’re both back in bed, you wake briefly to find him checking your blood sugar again in the dark with visibly shaking hands.

You don’t mention it.

Just reach sleepily for his wrist once he settles back beside you.

Joe immediately tangles your fingers together beneath the blankets and presses one quiet kiss against your knuckles before finally letting himself breathe properly again.

dividers: saradika-graphics

[oohgeminii]

they say modern love's a cruel endeavour

.. to that i say: fuck it! whatever!

steve harrington x reader

desc - dates never went well for steve. well, they technically did, everything went smoothly and he felt as though it was pleasant, they just never lead to anything. and he had no idea what he was doing wrong. so, when he lands a date with you, he sets out to stick to his checklist. dress smart, be polite, listen well, dont talk too much about yourself, book a fancy restaurant and so on. but when everything that could go wrong does go wrong and you still end up staying, steve realises it was never about the dates themselves it was about who he went on them with. and god did he hit the jackpot with you.

val speaks - the title n story is me bc i have a date tmr and also a lyric from one of livs new songs see how we twin anyways. and also its kinda modern steve in a way not rlly i just like mention the fact he can text so yes

word count: 4.1k

the problem with steve, at least in his own extremely fair and very rational opinion, wasn't that he was bad at dating.

he had rules, a system. a whole carefully built little routine that he had been refining for months, maybe longer if he was being honest.

he showed up on time. he dressed well. never overdressed, never underdressed. just enough effort to look like he had put thought into it without looking like he had spent three hours in front of a mirror. he held doors open, remembered names, asked questions that made people feel interesting, and listened with the kind of attention that usually made people lean in a little closer and smile a little softer.

he was charming, too, when he wanted to be. not in a loud, showy way. not the way he used to be, back when charm was something he wore like a jacket that never quite fit right. now it was quieter, steadier, something he had grown into, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

and still, every single time, it went nowhere.

the dates always started well. sometimes they even ended well. there would be laughter, easy conversation, a shared dessert, an accidental brush of hands over the table that made steve’s brain do something deeply embarrassing. sometimes there was a kiss goodnight. sometimes there wasn’t.

either way, by the next week, something would shift. a text would come in that was polite and distant. a cancelation would happen twice, then not at all because the other person had simply stopped trying. once, someone told him he was “really great” which somehow felt worse than being told he was awful, because it meant there was no obvious answer to fix.

so he was left with this baffling, humiliating mystery of his own life. he was doing everything right. that had to mean something. it had to.

maybe love was just mean now. maybe it handed out false hope for sport. maybe there was some invisible test no one had thought to tell him about, and he kept failing it with the smiling stupidity of a man who had never been informed about it in the first place.

he was leaning against the chain link fence of the baseball field after practice, baseball cap pushed back on his head and whistle hanging uselessly around his neck, when he saw you.

you were standing near the parking lot with a little boy tugging at your sleeve, both of you half lit by the dying gold of late afternoon. the kid was holding a glove too big for his hand and talking at you with the urgency only little brothers and little brother adjacent people could possess.

you were listening with your whole face, smiling down at him like whatever he was saying mattered more than anything else in the world.

steve looked away first.

then looked back.

because apparently his life had also become that kind of humiliating. the kind where a person he'd never met before managed to make him forget how to breathe for a second.

you caught him looking and gave him a polite, curious smile.

he did what he always did when he was caught off guard by something beautiful. he made it worse by trying to be smooth.

“you here for the game?” he asked, walking over before his brain could file a complaint.

you glanced at the field, then back at him. “my brother. he’s obsessed with baseball for reasons that aren't entirely clear to me.”

the kid beside you brightened. “because it’s awesome.”

“see?” you said, with exaggerated patience.

steve laughed before he could stop himself.

you smiled at that, and something in his chest did a slow, inconvenient turn.

“steve,” he said, lifting a hand a little awkwardly.

“i know” you said.

he blinked. “you do?”

“you coach, right? my brother talks about you like you’re some kind of baseball legend.”

“i don’t know about legend.”

“no, i think he said, and i quote, ‘coach steve is the coolest adult alive.’”

steve pressed a hand to his chest. “wow. that’s actually very accurate.”

that made you laugh, really laugh this time, and he felt stupidly victorious for about half a second.

your brother had wandered off to chase one of his friends by then, leaving the two of you standing a few feet apart near the fence, the noise of the field and the last calls of the other kids and parents thinning out around you.

steve asked your name. you gave it. he repeated it like it mattered, like he was trying it on for size. maybe he was. then, because he had apparently decided subtlety was for people with less at stake, he asked if you would maybe want to get dinner sometime.

it was not smooth, it was not his best work, it was, however, sincere.

you studied him for a second that made his pulse kick against his ribs. then you tilted your head and smiled in a way that made him suspiciously hopeful.

“yeah,” you said. “i think i’d like that.”

and just like that, steve was back in the game.

he spent the next week in a state of organized panic.

he picked the restaurant carefully, something nice but not intimidating, the kind of place where the lighting was flattering and the music was low enough to let conversation breathe. he ironed his shirt. changed his mind about three different shirts. called robin and then immediately regretted it because robin had lots of opinions.

“so,” she’d said, “you finally found someone who won’t treat you like a mildly annoying decorative object?”

“i never said my dates treat me like that.”

“you didn’t have to, i know your tragic little heart.”

“do you want to help or not?”

she had. sort of. in the way robin helped, which meant she insulted him affectionately then offered one genuine piece of advice at the end like a magician producing a dove from a hat.

“stop performing,” she’d said. “you do this thing where you decide ahead of time exactly who you need to be, and then you get weird when the other person is a person and not a checklist. just… be there. actually be there.”

he had stared at her, she had stared back.

“that’s it?” he asked.

“you asked for dating wisdom, not the meaning of life.”

still, her words had stuck with him.

so when friday evening came, steve didn’t show up as a polished version of himself built to impress. he still looked good, because that was unavoidable and frankly not his fault, but he was less rigid about it. more human.

he brought flowers because he thought it was sweet, and because sweet was safer than clever. he rehearsed a joke in the mirror, hated it, then left the house without it.

when he knocked on your door, he had that nervous, hopeful energy he always tried to hide. he was holding the flowers in both hands like they might explode.

you opened the door looking so unfairly beautiful that for a second he forgot the name of the road he’d driven down to get there.

then you saw the flowers.

your face changed in a way he couldn’t quite read immediately, and his confidence took one long, stumbling step backward.

“these are for you,” he said quickly. “obviously.”

you covered your mouth, and he watched with growing horror as you started to laugh.

not cruelly. thankfully not cruelly.

just helplessly.

you made a face that was somewhere between apology and amusement. “i’m actually allergic.”

there was a beat of silence.

then steve blinked. “you’re joking.”

“i wish i was.”

you laughed again, and this time he joined in, because what else was there to do? he set the flowers carefully on the porch railing then he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling despite himself.

“cool,” he said. “great start. really strong opening for me.”

“i do appreciate the effort,” you said, still smiling. “and the gesture. i’m serious, it was very sweet.”

“sweet is what i was going for. though, apparently, also poisonous.”

“only to me.”

“noted.”

he expected the moment to turn awkward. instead it became one of those strange, easy things he never knew how to plan for. the kind he could never have designed with all his perfect little dating rules.

you stepped outside, closing the door behind you, and there was the briefest pause while the two of you figured out where to put your hands, where to look, how much to smile without it feeling like too much.

he asked if you were ready. you said yes. he opened the passenger door for you, and you made an exaggerated face that said he was absurdly committed to the bit.

“what?” he asked as you got in.

“nothing,” you said, settling into the seat. “just trying to decide whether i’m being courted or recruited into a very polite organised crime ring.”

“those aren't mutually exclusive.”

that got another laugh out of you, and for the first time all week, steve felt his shoulders loosen.

-

the drive there actually started surprisingly well.

which, considering steve's recent luck, should've probably been his first warning sign.

usually first dates came with awkward silences. not terrible silences, but the kind where both people were carefully trying to figure each other out. deciding what stories to tell. deciding which parts of themselves were acceptable to put on display first.

but somehow that never happened with you.

the conversation just flowed.

one minute he was pulling away from your house and the next he was halfway across town listening to you complain about a customer you'd dealt with earlier that week.

"and then," you said dramatically, "he asked to speak to someone who actually knew what they were talking about."

steve winced.

"ouch."

"right?"

"what'd you do?"

you grinned. "pointed him toward my manager. obviously"

he laughed loudly enough that he almost missed a turn.

after that the conversation seemed to move naturally from one thing to another. your jobs. your week. your little brother's latest baseball obsession.

it was easy, dangerously easy. steve couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten through a first date without mentally checking off boxes.

ask about family. ask about hobbies. don't talk too much. don't be weird.

with you, he kept forgetting the rules entirely.

and honestly?

it was nice.

by the time they reached the restaurant, steve was feeling good. really good. the flowers had been a minor setback, nothing more.

the date was back on track.

everything was fine, everything was absolutely-

"i'm sorry, can you repeat the name on the reservation?"

steve blinked.

"steve harrington."

the hostess frowned at the screen.

"one second."

that wasn't ideal.

a minute later another employee appeared, then another. steve immediately felt his stomach drop.

beside him, you shifted slightly.

"that's usually not a good sign."

"no" he admitted.

the hostess offered an apologetic smile. "we can't seem to find your booking."

steve stared. "what?"

he had booked it, he knew he had. he'd called days ago. hell, he'd written it down afterward.

"could it be under another name?" she asked.

"no."

a few more minutes passed until eventually the hostess returned looking genuinely sympathetic.

which somehow made it worse.

"i'm really sorry," she said. "we're completely booked tonight."

silence.

steve nodded once, slowly.

"right."

"i apologize."

"no worries."

there were, in fact, many worries.

because seriously? seriously?

first the flowers.

now this.

the two of you walked back outside.

the restaurant door shut behind you.

for a few seconds neither of you said anything. steve was already preparing his apology, he was working on a speech. something mature, something responsible, something that didn't sound like he wanted to throw himself into traffic.

"okay" he started.

you suddenly snorted.

steve looked over.

you had your lips pressed together failing miserably at holding back laughter.

and then you completely lost the battle.

a laugh burst out of you, loud and genuine, you doubled over slightly.

"i'm sorry," you managed. "i'm sorry-"

another laugh escaped.

"this is ridiculous."

steve stared.

then the absurdity finally hit him too, and suddenly he was laughing along with you.

right there in the parking lot like two complete idiots.

"i swear i booked it."

"I believe you."

"thank you."

"this is still hilarious."

he rubbed a hand over his face.

"i've never had a date go this badly."

you looked at him.

"really?"

"absolutely."

you smiled. "that's kind of impressive."

and somehow hearing that made him feel better. a lot better.

so you abandoned the plan completely.

twenty minutes later steve found himself pulling into a drive-thru.

something that had never once appeared in the grand steve harrington first date handbook.

you ordered burgers, fries, drinks. nothing fancy, nothing romantic, nothing remotely close to what he'd planned.

then the two of you parked in the corner of the lot and ate the greasy burgers in the car.

and somehow it was perfect.

you talked about everything, absolutely everything. childhood stories. favourite songs. movies you loved. movies you hated. terrible haircuts. embarrassing family members.

at one point you nearly choked laughing after hearing about steve's middle school attempt at impressing a girl by pretending he knew how to skateboard.

"what happened?" you asked.

"i hit a mailbox."

you stared.

"immediately."

you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes and steve couldn't stop smiling.

the weirdest part was that eventually he forgot he was on a date.

not because he wasn't interested. quite the opposite. he forgot because talking to you felt less like performing and more like existing.

at some point he started rambling, actually rambling. about baseball, about coaching, about the kids, about some completely pointless story involving a game from three weeks ago.

halfway through he realized he'd been talking for way too long.

normally that would've sent him into panic mode.

instead he glanced over.

you were listening. really listening. eyes fixed on him, smiling softly whenever he got animated, and for some reason that made his chest feel strange.

like maybe he wanted to keep talking forever if it meant you'd keep looking at him like that.

eventually the burgers disappeared, the fries too, and neither of you seemed particularly interested in ending the night.

"we could walk?" you suggested.

steve shrugged.

"a walk's pretty romantic."

"look at you."

"i'm a professional."

you rolled your eyes but smiled.

and so you walked.

for all of six minutes.

because apparently the universe had not yet finished with you.

the rain started without warning.

one second there were clouds, the next it was absolutely pouring.

"oh my god!"

you shrieked.

steve immediately burst out laughing.

"run!"

you were both soaked within seconds.

completely drenched.

your hair sticking to your face, your clothes ruined, the two of you sprinting toward the car while laughing so hard neither of you could breathe properly.

at some point your hand found his. or maybe his found yours.

neither of you really knew.

but suddenly you were running together through the rain.

for a brief second steve thought that maybe this date was cursed.

but if it was?

he honestly didn't care anymore because he was having the best time he'd had in years. maybe ever.

eventually he drove you home.

the heater blasted warm air. both of you still damp, still smiling, still occasionally laughing over something one of you remembered from earlier.

when he pulled up outside your house neither of you moved immediately.

then you looked over at him, a smile pulling at your mouth.

"thanks for the worst date ever."

steve immediately barked out a laugh, dropping his head forward.

"yeah." he rubbed a hand over his face, still grinning, "i'm pretty good at those."

you laughed softly.

and then there was one of those moments. the kind that wasn't awkward, just quiet. the kind where neither person really wanted to leave.

you looked at him, he looked at you, and then you tilted your head.

"so."

"so?"

"next date are we getting food poisoning or something?"

steve laughed, he really did, but honestly? he barely heard the joke. because his brain had immediately latched onto two words.

next date.

next.

date.

there was going to be another one.

you wanted another one.

you.

wanted.

another.

one.

he felt like he was floating.

"hopefully not" he managed.

"hopefully?"

"with my luck i don't want to make promises."

you smiled and god. that smile.

"maybe we should avoid public places altogether."

"smart."

"less opportunities for disaster."

steve thought for a second. "we could do something at my apartment."

you raised an eyebrow.

"brave suggestion, harrington."

he pointed immediately."movies."

"uh-huh."

"food."

"right."

"possibly board games."

you laughed, "okay."

and there it was.

a plan.

a second date.

something to look forward to.

you said goodnight a few minutes later.

steve watched you walk to your door, waited until you got inside safely, then finally pulled away from the curb.

the entire drive home he couldn't stop smiling. he tried, seriously, he tried, but every time he thought about the night another grin appeared.

because somehow everything that could've gone wrong had gone wrong and somehow it had still ended up being the best date of his life.

maybe robin was right, maybe the problem had never been finding the perfect date, maybe it had been finding the right person to have an imperfect one with.

and as steve pulled into his driveway with rain still tapping softly against the roof of his car, all he could think about was next weekend.

and you.

-

the next date went wrong too. obviously.

it started at his apartment. which, according to the plan the two of you had made, was supposed to eliminate any possibility of disaster.

no restaurants, no reservations, no weather, just movies, snacks, and the two of you. simple.

or so steve had thought.

because somehow he managed to burn the popcorn.

not slightly burn it, not accidentally leave it in for ten extra seconds, he completely annihilated it.

you found him standing in front of the microwave looking so very offended.

"how?"

he pointed at the blackened bag, "i don't know."

"it's microwave popcorn."

"i know that."

"there are instructions."

"i followed them."

you stared, he stared back, you both looked at the popcorn, then immediately started laughing.

again.

because of course.

somehow the evening still ended with the two of you sharing snacks from his cupboards while sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch.

the movie barely held either of your attention.

every ten minutes one of you would make a comment, or tell a story, or laugh at something completely unrelated, and by the end of the night steve found himself thinking the same thing he'd thought after your first date.

that somehow it had been perfect despite absolutely not being perfect.

the date after that somehow went even better and also somehow worse, because steve's car broke down halfway to the drive in movie.

completely.

he sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring ahead, accepting his fate.

you sat beside him, equally silent.

then,

"so."

steve groaned, "don't."

"this is getting ridiculous."

he dropped his forehead against the steering wheel. "i know."

"are you cursed?"

"i might be."

you laughed.

you never made it to the movie, instead you ended up walking to a diner a few streets away.

sharing fries, stealing food off each other's plates, talking until you both forgot there had even been a movie to begin with.

it became a pattern after that.

something always happened.

plans changed, things broke, weather ruined things, food got burned, and yet somehow every single date still ended with steve driving home smiling like an idiot.

because at some point he stopped caring about the plan. he stopped trying to create perfect evenings, he stopped worrying about whether everything was going right.

because every time something went wrong, you just laughed, shrugged, worked around it together, and he night always ended up better than whatever he'd originally planned.

he thought that probably said something.

about you, about him, about whatever this thing between the two of you was becoming. because it was becoming something.

neither of you had said it yet, but steve could feel it.

every time he saw you, every time your name appeared on his phone, every time he found himself smiling at a text like some hopeless teenager.

and then there was the kissing.

god, the kissing.

that had gone very, very right.

for once.

your first kiss happened after another date that had gone completely off the rails.

steve couldn't even remember exactly what had gone wrong that night anymore, only that he was standing outside your house. that you were smiling at him and that there had been this moment.

one of those moments.

the kind where the world seemed to pause for a second. where neither person looked away, where neither person moved.

until eventually steve had quietly asked,

"can i kiss you?"

and you'd smiled. that soft smile he was becoming alarmingly addicted to.

then nodded.

and steve swore every thought in his head immediately vanished.

after that?

well.

it happened a lot. a lot.

he kissed you when he picked you up, kissed you when he dropped you off, kissed you halfway through conversations because he genuinely couldn't help himself. when you picked up your brother from games, he'd walk over and kiss you before even saying hello.

which always earned him dramatic gagging noises from the kids.

especially your brother.

"gross."

"thank you" steve would reply.

"i'm serious."

"i know."

and then he'd kiss you again just to annoy him.

which worked every single time.

sometimes you would show up at practice, sometimes he'd stop by your place after work, sometimes neither of you even had plans you just wanted to see each other.

weekends turned into weekdays, dates turned into casual evenings, phone calls turned into falling asleep with the phone still pressed against his ear.

and before steve really realized it, you had become part of his life.

something woven into the everyday. something that felt so natural it was hard to remember what things had looked like before.

which was probably why he got nervous.

because for all his confidence, all his charm, all his history with dating, this mattered. more than any of the others ever had.

which was why he spent nearly an hour talking himself into asking you out.

but he managed it eventually.

sitting beside you on his couch one evening. your legs stretched across his lap, a movie playing that neither of you were actually watching.

he looked at you, you looked at him, and suddenly every prepared sentence disappeared.

"hey."

"hey."

he swallowed. "this is gonna sound stupid."

you smiled. "okay."

"but i kinda wanted to ask something."

your expression softened.

"what?"

steve rubbed the back of his neck. already embarrassed, already nervous, already wishing he could somehow skip the part where he had to actually say the words.

but he did it anyway because you were worth being nervous for.

"would you maybe wanna be my girlfriend?"

there was a brief silence, just long enough for him to panic, then you smiled.

"yeah."

another pause, then you laughed softly. "i'd like that."

steve stared.

"really?"

you laughed harder.

"yes, really."

"seriously?"

"steve."

"right."

you shook your head, still smiling. "you're ridiculous."

he couldn't stop grinning. didn't even try. because somehow you had said yes. somehow this beautiful, funny, impossible person had looked at him and decided she wanted him too.

later that night, after you'd fallen asleep against his shoulder and he was sitting there trying not to move because he didn't want to wake you, steve found himself thinking about all the dates before you.

all the awkward conversations. all the dead ends. all the nights he'd driven home wondering what he was doing wrong.

wondering why nothing ever seemed to stick. wondering if maybe love just wasn't meant for him.

and maybe modern love was a cruel endeavour.

maybe dating sucked, maybe people hurt each other, maybe timing was terrible, maybe nothing ever worked the way it was supposed to.

but steve looked down at you sleeping against him, felt your hand loosely tangled with his, remembered every disaster date that somehow became a great night anyway.

and for the first time in a very long time, none of that seemed to matter.

because eventually he'd gotten tired of failing. eventually he'd said fuck it, whatever.

and that had led him straight to you. which, as far as steve was concerned, was the best thing that had ever gone wrong.

-

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[keer-y]

Carriage House

pairing: gator tillman/f!reader wc: 4.4k tags/tw/cw: roy is a big meanie

MASTERPOST//all chapter links &&

Chapter 12: Plans in Motion

“You wanna tell me what happened, son?” Roy asked, seated at the breakfast table, the full ranch staff, Bowman, the twins, and Karen all present. All listening, all watching, except for you. Roy had made the decision to leave you in the carriage house for the morning—because Bowman had been waiting in the kitchen first thing, intercepting Karen as she’d been ready to head out to collect you.

Karen had gone for Roy, who had come down, bare-chested and scowling, while Bowman explained in a calm, cool voice what had occurred last night in the barn.

Roy had listened, standing at the bottom of the stairs, one foot still on the lowest step, one hand on the newel post. He kept his expression straight, stoic, brow furrowed.

“And where is she now?” Roy asked.

“Carriage house,” Bowman said simply. “Grabbed her, threw her back in there. Locked her in. Stood watch for an hour or so, then roused Phillip ‘nd had him watch. No movement from her since I heard her go upstairs.”

Roy nodded. He lifted his chin and studied the ceiling, eyes moving over the white expanse of it. “Leave her there for now, K,” Roy said, looking to Karen, who only nodded. “Get breakfast together.” He looked to Bowman. “Get one of the other girls in there to help her out.” Bowman nodded once, then turned on his heel and left to go collect one of the hands’ women. Roy looked at his wife again, once they were alone. “You think I’m making a mistake?”

“No,” Karen said, hurriedly, stepping closer. She reached out tentatively toward Roy, touching him only when he didn’t draw away. “Of course not.”

Roy let her skim her hands over his chest, his sides. “So you think putting Gator in charge of taking care of her is working out. Is that right?”

Karen blinked, realizing the trap that he'd lain. “No, I—”

“Get breakfast ready,” Roy said, brushing her hands off of him as he turned and started back up the stairs. Karen waited a moment, then shuffled into the kitchen, waiting for whatever assistance Bowman was finding for her.

Upstairs in the main house, Roy went about his morning—showering, shaving, brushing his teeth and dressing for duty, and as he cut out of his bedroom, he took in the second floor landing. His son’s bedroom door was open now, neon blue light still spilling out of it even in the morning sun, and so he took a step inside his son’s room to wait for him to emerge from the bathroom.

Roy hadn't been in Gator’s room in a while—years, probably. He never had a reason to, never wanted to. Gator was about as deep as a puddle—there was nothing hidden in this room that could offer any further insight into his son’s psyche that he couldn’t glean from a thirty second conversation with him. He was barely more than a disappointment—the kid couldn’t do anything right, which Roy had learned from watching Gator try to locate his wife. Nadine.

This new skirt Roy found—well, was gifted from Above, more like—would be like something more of a trial run if the goddamn kid could get his act together.

The bedroom wasn’t nearly as disorganized as Roy assumed it would be—there were tacky posters on the wall of women in bikinis and a questionable flag hanging above his bed, one that Roy couldn’t quite accept being there. But then—Roy wouldn’t expect Gator to understand the intricacies of his ambitions as sheriff and would, of course, liken them to a political statement like that goddamn flag. The Tillmans’ position of power in Stark County was so much more than either symbol hanging on his son’s wall.

Roy’s eyes skimmed over the unmade bed, the clutter on the dresser, the ten-gallon tank in the corner holding a greensnake that he’s sure the kid fished out of some scummy pond somewhere. Like a child would. Shaking his head, Roy closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his whole palm, because even if Karen wouldn’t tell him to his face, he knew—he had made a mistake. With Gator, with you, with everything he was trying to do on his ranch.

The bathroom door opened, and Roy set his jaw, slipping his hands into his pockets even as the smell of breakfast started drifting up from the kitchen downstairs. A minute, maybe two, passed, and then Gator strolled back into his room, clutching a towel around his waist, casual as anything. He rounded the door, reached out of habit for the closet doorhandle, then caught sight of Roy and startled, a quiet yelp leaving him.

Quickly, he cleared his throat, skimmed a hand back over his hair, loose and falling down over his forehead, and shook his head. “Fuck are you—what’s wrong?”

Roy said nothing, only held Gator’s gaze.

“Dad?” Gator looked his father over from head to toe, pulling the towel tighter around his hips.

“I need you to think, kid,” Roy said, not moving other than to turn his face more toward Gator. “Back to last night. Why don’t you run me through your evening after dinner.”

Gator swallowed, curling his fist around the terrycloth in his hand. “I don’t—what d'ya mean?”

“Think back real hard,” Roy said, his voice cold, a steel edge grating against Gator. “We had dinner like a family. Had a nice drink. Your little miss thought who she was for a moment.” Gator opened his mouth, but Roy lifted a hand, silencing him. “You walked her home. You walked yourself home. Am I missing anything?”

Gator lifted his free hand to muss the hair at the back of his head. “No?”

“No,” Roy repeated. “You’re right. I don’t think I am.” He took a step closer to Gator, who flinched away as his father approached, pressing his bare back to his closet doors under the guise of giving him space when he really wanted to put distance between them. “I want you to think. Real hard. About everything I just said. And you tell me if either of us missed anything last night.”

Gator just looked at his father, then nodded, once, uncertain but not about to argue.

“Good,” Roy said, reaching up to clap a hand onto Gator’s cheek, not quite a slap, but not quite a friendly gesture either; it felt like a warning. “Don’t take too long. Need ya down there for grace.”

Roy vacated Gator’s room, and Gator loosed the breath he’d been holding, inhaling deeply. Something had happened last night, something involving you, something he’d fucked up. His eyes skimmed around the room like it might hold answers. He went through what Roy said. Dinner. Drink. You. Carriage house. Back home.

Dinner. Drink. You. Carriage house. Back home.

He shook his head, taking a step back and closing his bedroom door, pulling clothing out of his closet and dresser, stepping into boxers and camo pants and tugging on a thermal henley.

Dinner, drink, you, carriage house, back home. He slicked his hair back with pomade as he wracked his brain. What the hell had he fucked up in between all of that? It was simple—it was what he did every night since they’d put you in there for the most part.

He looped his fingers into his boots, picking them up, then crossing to grab his tactical vest and sunglasses, making sure his vape was tucked into his pants pocket too.

Dinner, that was normal.

Drink, that had been when you’d first copped the attitude, but still, normal.

You, he knew what Roy was talking about. You were asking questions after you’d been told not to, and Gator knew it was only a matter of time before he would be expected to… remove that impulse from you.

Carriage house, he’d walked you home. You’d slammed the door before he could retort, and he’d left you fucking alone.

Back home, he’d gotten a call from Lemley, vaped, went inside, went to bed.

Dinner, drink, you, carriage house, back home.

Gator finished dressing himself, carrying his boots and vest downstairs, leaving them by the front door before he doubled back to the kitchen. Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward him, faces all frowning except for the twins, who waved at him, Maude while holding her fork. Karen plucked it out of her hand and put it down beside her empty plate.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Gator took his place at Roy’s right hand, leaving an empty seat between himself and Bowman, where you usually sat. He glanced at it as he lowered into the chair, and without a word, Roy lifted his hands, extending them palm up, toward Gator and Karen. They each took his hands, and the rest of the table joined hands as well as Roy led them in prayer. Gator bowed his head, but he kept his eyes on your empty chair, your space occupied by his hand joined with Bowman, and as he did, his stomach fell into a pit.

Dinner, normal.

Drink, normal.

You, normal (as far as you went).

Back home, normal.

But: Carriage house. He hadn’t locked the door behind you. You’d snapped at him, thrown him off, slammed the door and disappeared into the house, and Gator had just walked away, the keys staying in his pocket.

Fucking Christ.

Keeping his head down, he flicked his eyes over to Roy, who was still speaking, eyes closed. Gator’s fingers twitched in his hand, nervous. He’d left your door unlocked, which could mean any number of things. 

Maybe you’d tried to run and gotten caught. Maybe you were laying in the carriage house right now, black and blue, beaten, dazed, unconscious.

Maybe you’d tried to run and weren’t caught. Maybe you’d been found somewhere out on the property, half dead. Or actually dead.

Maybe you’d tried to run and got away. Maybe they hadn’t found you. Maybe you were gone.

By the time Gator looked up, Roy was staring at him and Karen was spooning eggs and potatoes onto his plate. She moved onto Gator’s plate next.

“Been thinkin’?” Roy asked, and Gator nodded.

Behind him, the ranch hands, their wives, and Bowman started serving themselves.

“You wanna tell me what happened, son?” Roy asked.

Gator took a breath, cleared his throat. “I don't...” he began, but trailed off. He huffed an unamused laugh, leaning in toward Roy and gesturing to the rest of the table's occupants, some of whom were looking on, some of whom were just digging in to their plates. “We really need ta do this in front'a all them?”

Roy turned toward him, shifting his weight in his chair so it creaked beneath him a little, placing his left hand on his hip and his right elbow on the table, leaning toward Gator. Gator's nostrils flared as he exhaled, but he held himself where he was, not giving an inch, not wanting to concede.

“I think we do, son,” Roy said, matching Gator's quiet tone. “How else will you set the bar?”

“I—” Gator said, then just exhaled and straightened up.

Roy kept his eyes on Gator, waiting. When he didn't speak, Roy continued, keeping his voice low, still. “If you want to act like a child, I'll keep you at this table until you open your damn mouth.”

“Fergot t'lock the door,” Gator said, and it was clear that only Bowman and Karen knew what he was really talking about, in context.

“Which door?” Roy asked, and when he spoke, the ranch hands and the other women at the table turned to look.

Gator knew what his father was doing—going for humiliation as a lesson to never forget to lock the door again, but he was pretty sure that the early morning visit to his bedroom would have been enough to shock him into double and triple checking that that goddamn door was locked from that point forward.

“The carriage house door,” Gator said.

Roy hummed, then shifted his gaze from Gator to Bowman.

“Wanna fill everyone in?” he asked, inviting Bowman to speak.

“I found her in the barn,” Bowman said. “Toward the back.” He shook his head dismissively. “Grabbed her, threw her back in there. Ain't made a peep since.” He looked at Phillip, who nodded.

“Yeah, it was quiet all night, sir,” he said, looking from Bowman to Roy, nodding again.

“I want it to be clear,” Roy said, purposely not looking at Gator, though it was obvious that this was for him; Gator kept his eyes fixed on his untouched breakfast, “anything that interferes with her routine, anything that causes bumps or snags, anything that risks her presence on this ranch, is going to be taken care of. She's here to stay and through the grace of God we're fortunate enough to let her help make a home out of the carriage house.” Roy scanned the table, taking in Gator's head bowed in shame, though he kept his satisfaction at that tamped down. “Things are in the works. Things are changing. But in time we'll all reap the benefits. Including you, kid.”

Roy placed his hand on Gator's wrist, not squeezing it, not grabbing it, like he'd done the last time they'd touched, to snap some sense into him. Just... holding it for a moment.

“Get down to the station,” he said. “Y'got some work waiting for you on my desk.” He surveyed the rest of the table, the hands and their wives all watching, meals half-eaten. The twins were slapping at each other and Karen was trying in vain to get them to stop. “Eat,” Roy said, breaking into a smile and trying to ease the tension. “By all means, have your breakfast. Business over.”

Everyone only resumed their meals when Roy picked up his fork and knife.

&&

The morning came and went and you spent it with Aidy. Your ribs hurt from when you'd fallen to the floor the night before, but you were just thankful you hadn't hit your head. Unless you were about to be taken out and executed, you'd started to wonder if you might not see another beating from this. You'd been found on the property after all—not really trying to run. At least, not that they could prove.

You were running out of milk for her, and you'd have to try and get some more from the barn the next time that they let you muck the stalls—if they let you. But why wouldn't they? You were under constant surveillance before your attempted escape too, so what was really different?

The clock was showing 9:07 when you heard the click of the key sliding into the lock, and you made a mad dash upstairs to stow Aidy away in the smaller bedroom. By the time you emerged again, onto the upstairs landing, Bowman was standing in the living room, looking up at you, a frown affixed to his face. You waited; he waited. But you broke first, descending the steps.

He was holding a plate covered in plastic wrap, eggs and toast with two orange slices. You looked at the plate, then up at him.

“Starting the renovations soon,” Bowman said. “Need you out of the house.”

You tried to keep the panic from showing on your face. “For how long?”

“Day, roughly,” he replied. “You'll be back in the main house with the family for tonight.” He held out the plate toward you, and you took it. It was cold, and so was the food. “Shouldn't take that long. Just fixing the downstairs bathroom and taking care of the vermin upstairs. You do anything about those spiders?”

You blinked. “No. I don't—like bugs.” You couldn't be sure but you thought, maybe, a smirk tugged at the corner of Bowman's lips.

“Which rooms needed attention?” he asked.

“Um,” you intoned. “Downstairs bathroom. Upstairs bathroom has the spiders. Smaller bedroom has the mouse. I... didn't go anywhere else up there. Kitchen, living room, and mudroom are all fine. I think the...master bedroom too.”

“All right. Eat that, then head out to the barn. Horse stalls for you today.” He turned toward the door, but stopped when he reached it, looking back at you, because you spoke again.

“Wait,” you'd called.

Bowman quirked an eyebrow, like he was doing you a huge favor by listening to your request.

“When are—when are you guys starting this stuff? Do I really even need to—to leave if it's just the one bathroom being fixed up?”

“Starting today,” Bowman said. “And I didn't make that call. Orders from above.” He paused. “Leave anything you'll need tonight on the couch. It'll be brought over.” He looked you up and down. “Barn, then main house after work. Think you can find your way?”

It wasn't even really a threat, but you knew it was a comment on what you'd done last night. Despite that, you couldn't believe your luck—you were going back into the barn, where you knew the cat was, sometimes, at least. You could steal more food for Aidy, then look around for where to put her. Maybe the cat had a nest or den or something tucked into an alcove by the cabinet where you'd seen it the night before—anything that could help you make sure Aidy was taken care of after you left this fucking place would be what you were looking for.

The eggs were spongy and the toast was soggy by the time you got to it, but at least the oranges were fresh and tart, the perfect chaser to an otherwise mediocre breakfast. You chugged some water from the kitchen tap, then headed upstairs to make sure you were bundled up enough to be outdoors for an extended period of time. After you pulled your coat out of the closet, you looked down at Aidy, still on the bed. She was still too small to walk—her eyes weren't even open yet—and you had to decide what to do with her. Leave her here, hide her, bring her with you? It was just one day. It was one whole, long day. You could keep her on your person and hope not to be caught with her, or you could leave her here and hope that she was still fine tomorrow when you returned. As much as you hated both options, that one seemed less risky for both you and Aidy. But you weren't leaving her up here, where workers or Bowman or maybe even Roy would be strolling around. You took her in the crook of your arm and carried her downstairs. You'd fed her earlier, but you gave her even more to try and hold her over before carrying her into the mudroom, where the heat was always cranked up due to its door leading outside, and settled her down there. It pained you to leave her—you felt like a villain just doing it—but pet her on her tiny little forehead and whispered that you'd be back as soon as you could. She was purring in your hands, even as you set her down, hoping she'd stay hidden and safe.

Once she was tucked away, out of sight but nowhere near out of mind, you made your way out of the house and walked to the barn.

Most of the horses were gone today, again, except for a couple at the far end near the cabinet, which could potentially give you an excuse for lingering around over there while you looked for the barn cat's hideout. You began your work, startling only once as Bowman popped in, appearing in your periphery so silently that you wouldn't have been surprised if he'd just materialized there in a blink. Just as quickly, he'd left, like he wanted to make sure you were at work. Taking the chance, knowing it was a risk, you hurried to the cabinet and, with a glance over your shoulder, pulled the metal door open, crouched down, and this time took two containers of the milk supplement, tucking them into the back of your coveralls. Then, after straightening up and hesitating for a moment, you kicked them over so they toppled, hoping that the jumble on the bottom-most shelf would keep anyone who viewed them later on from counting them and noticing any were missing.

With the milk supplement tucked safely away, snug against the small of your back, you just had to worry about being caught with it on your person, but that wouldn't be for a while at least. As you mucked out the stalls, still looking for signs of the cat, you started to feel more and more anxious about the rigid edges of the packages cutting into your back, and so you finished one side of the barn and crossed to the door. Bowman wasn't there, but Phillip was, looking spectacularly bored. When your head appeared out of the doors, he startled, then squinted at you.

“Uh—what?” he said, and you weren't sure if he was trying to sound intimidating or not, because he definitely didn't.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you said, looking past him at the carriage house.

Phillip looked as though he wasn't sure what to say to that—he'd surely been told to keep watch for you, without further instruction for if you approached him or if something went wrong.

“Please?” you continued, trying to appeal to him, and he just cleared his throat. He, too, looked around for Bowman, but when it was clear that he wasn't around, Phillip just nodded to you.

“All right, main house,” he said, reaching for your arm—he'd probably been told to keep physical contact with you too, just in case you tried to make a break for it.

“No, um,” you said, thinking on your feet. “I need to use my bathroom.”

Phillip frowned, and you started bouncing on your feet a little, feigning a serious urge.

“It's an emergency. I won't make it to the main house.” You bounced a little faster.

“Well—they're doin' work in there,” Phillip said, gesturing—sure enough, as you watched, you saw the front door open and the old downstairs bathroom sink being carried out by a worker you didn't recognize.

“There's an upstairs bathroom,” you said. You reached for his arm, imploring him. He didn't look much older than you, was definitely younger than Gator. Then, without waiting for permission, you just took off, hurrying toward the carriage house with Phillip in tow.

You reached the door just as it opened, another worker you didn't know stepping onto the step, stopping when he saw you right there.

“Sorry, I gotta go,” you said, pushing past him. You made a break for the stairs, rushing past another man you recognized this time as another one of the hands, and slammed the upstairs bathroom door behind you. The spiders were gone from the corner, and it seemed like there was no one else up here, after the one guy had been heading down. Unless there was work to be done in the main bedroom—which you hadn't noticed when you'd peeked in there—you might have the upstairs to yourself.

You checked the door lock—it was on the outside of the door, but you trusted that Phillip would explain your urgency and that would buy you a few minutes—and then pulled the sealed containers out of your overalls. The medicine chest was too risky—too easy to open. You crouched and checked beneath the sink, but it was empty of anything else, nothing to hide the milk behind until you could retrieve it. The linen closet was in the hall, not the bathroom. You took a deep breath, composing yourself after your mad dash, and forced yourself to think.

Think.

Then, you turned, lifted the lid off the toilet tank, and placed the kitten milk inside it, replacing the lid. Confident that you'd be able to retrieve it later, hoping like hell that it stayed sealed and uncontaminated with water, you went pee and flushed the toilet for good measure, so they would buy your story at least.

When you emerged, the upstairs landing was deserted, and as you came downstairs, you saw that the men were concentrated in the bathroom, which they seemed to be gutting. You weren't sure why you needed to be brought to the main house for just one room, but you also knew that nothing Roy Tillman ever decided would make sense to you.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, just as you stepped off the lowest step of the staircase, the front door opened again and in walked the man himself, Roy, gaze fixed on you like the bead of a rifle.

“You just love bein' places you're not supposed to be, don't you, little miss?”

“I—had to use the bathroom,” you said, as Phillip stepped into the house behind him, and you would have felt betrayed if you’d thought that anyone here might give half a fuck about you. As it was, you figured that was just par for the course.

“Main house too far?” Roy asked.

You took a breath. “It was an emergency.”

Roy held your gaze, then smirked, like he was actually amused. “Good thing you made it.”

You stayed silent.

“Did you finish in the barn?”

You swallowed, then shook your head. “Not yet.”

Roy turned, glanced at Phillip, who retreated out of the house as Roy stepped to the side, holding the door open for you. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, inviting you to step past him and back outside, but still you hesitated, because you wanted nothing more than to stay out of his reach. But that wasn’t an option. You crossed to the door, giving Roy as wide a berth as you could, but he still leaned in to you, crowding you, keeping you from stepping out the door by taking up the space himself. You were trapped right between him and the doorjamb.

“If you get any more bright ideas like you did last night, you won’t want to know what’s in store for you,” he said.

Swallowing nervously, you looked up at him, meeting his eyes, the cold, dead blue of them burning you like dry ice.

“Get,” Roy said, stepping back, and you hurried past him, past Phillip, making your way to the barn.

&& taglist: @sunriseinhawkins @snoopyharrington @ghostlyriddles @souperbloom @sheisjoeschateau @cheugy-djobe @cpnsteverogers @nowandajenn @configurre @cecesblogg @britt-mf @harringtondarling @s3xytosomeone @valentine-night @literal-tv-menace @ch3rryshark @exooojongdaeee @amy-brooklyn99 @stydiaforeverbitchezz @charismatickeery @charlston-chews @bearwithegg @starkleila @irllyluvcheezits @keerygirlie98 @eller41 @maferin @kurtsw7rld96 @simsimstay2017 @sommie08 @alexandrarene @harringtonsgirll @dreamerjj @gigglingnonstop @kristywidget97 @mrmountebankk @marienen @4v3rybl0zz0m

[comfortwriting]

I've finally had enough - Steve Harrington x F!Reader

masterlist , navigation , request rules , taglist

requested: when your boyfriend Billy abuses you again, your friend Steve decides that enough is enough - he is getting you out. (title is based on a lyric from the song face down by the red jumpsuit apparatus)

warnings: physical abuse: punching, broken arm, slapping, emotional, and verbal abuse: slut shaming, name calling, billy hargrove is his own warning, mention of blood.

if you or someone you know is suffering from domestic abuse, you can seek help here

word count: 3.8k

"Where were you this weekend?" Steve’s voice cut through the loud background noise in the hallway, making you jump and almost dropping your books.

You kept your eyes glued to the dial, forcing your trembling fingers to focus on the combination. 

 "I wasn't feeling well," you lied, clearing your throat,  "Migraine..."

"Billy  wasn't feeling well, you mean?"

I wanted to come, he wouldn't let me. It's not my fault.

Steve’s shadow fell over you and his gaze had hardened at the sight of new bruises on your wrist, peeking out from under your sleeve. 

Following his gaze, your stomach dropped. 

How can I keep lying to him? He's onto me. 

He's still doing it, he thought.

Steve had been the only one to notice the slow, agonising change in you. For months, he had tried to rationalise it rather than come up with accusations or come across as overprotective, jealous of you having a new beau. At first, he’d shrugged off your occasional absence, figuring that if he had a girlfriend as beautiful as you, he wouldn't be spending his weekends hanging out with his friends either, but as the no-shows started stacking up, the bruises did too.

First, it was the grip marks on your arm that got exposed during gym, which you were able to lie about, promising Steve that Billy grabbed you before you fell on your face after a drunken walk home in the dark, tripping over your own feet. Other bruises were from your clumsiness or late-diagnosed anaemia, but when you turned up late to class with a split lip, Steve realised you were covering for Billy. 

It was your black eye that was the final straw with Steve; he couldn't brush it under the carpet anymore and he wasn't buying your excuse of a cabinet door coming loose and swinging in your face, hitting you right in the eye.

"Steve," you warned him as you finally finished your combination. "Please... not here."

"No!" Steve hissed, stepping closer, blocking you from the view of other students. "He's hurting you, and I'm terrified for you. You're... you're not here anymore." 

You thrust your hand inside your locker, quickly scooping up your textbooks. You blinked rapidly, fighting the hot, budding tears that began to spill down your face.

You were tired. Tired of lying, hiding, surviving. Every morning began with guesswork you managed to master over a year: like how much concealer would cover a finger-shaped bruise, or would sunglasses be more appropriate for the black eye despite the gloomy clouds and afternoon rain. Every morning you woke up ready to hide what Billy had done to you, and whilst you were desperate to escape, the concept of freedom and safety felt too good to be true. You were forced to endure this abuse, to try and get used to it.

The shame of being the girl who fell for the real bad boy, experiencing every single terrifying thing your parents and friends had warned you about, is what kept you quiet. 

How could you ask for help now? You’d heard the vicious, whispered gossip in the girls' restroom, listening to the other girls talk about how those who dated guys like Billy Hargrove should just keep their mouths shut and get on with it.

You made your bed. Now lie in it.

"It's nothing, alright?!" you snapped, turning on him, " I tripped over in the back of house during my closing shift. That's all."

"Stop lying to me!" Steve seethed, his own eyes now glistening with tears, "What is it going to take for you to leave him, huh? A broken arm? A concussion? Losing your life?"

You slammed your locker door shut, and the loud slam echoed in your ears, reminding you of the first time Billy hurt you; it started with him slamming his car door.

The argument was over the outfit you were planning on wearing to one of Steve’s many weekend get-togethers, the first of many you would never be allowed to attend.

"I've told you, you aren't wearing it. You'll look like a skank," Billy raised his voice above yours. 

He didn't look at you, and the way his jaw clenched tight around the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips made you a little nervous, but Billy surely didn't mean it. 

You furrowed your eyebrows, letting out a light laugh. 

He's joking. Right? 

"What?! Billy, are you kidding me? If you think you can tell me what I can and can't wear, then I'm sorry but this isn't going to work—"

The sound of his large, heavy palm belting against your cheek left a ringing in your ear, followed by a severe stinging and deep heat as your head snapped to the side. Your lips parted in shock, and your eyes widened as the interior of his Camaro closed in on you, your heart pounding heavily in your chest. Instantly, your hand flew to the passenger door handle, every instinct screaming at you to throw yourself out and run in the opposite direction - but you couldn't; you froze.

Billy didn't say anything for a moment; he just took a long, slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes fixed entirely on the dark road ahead as he shifted the Camaro into drive and slammed his foot on the gas, which threw you back and pinned you against your seat. 

"On second thought," he exhaled, the smoke filling the space between you. "You're not going to King Steve's tonight, or any other night. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes," you croaked, too scared to look him in the eye, "I understand, Billy."

The quiet, tense car rides soon turned into frightening chases across Billy’s empty house. When his father's anger boiled over onto him, Billy would take it out on you, yelling at you in his bedroom and grabbing you by the wrist. When you could slip from his grip and flee into the kitchen or the living room, Billy would throw plates, mugs, and heavy glass ashtrays towards you, causing them to shatter against the walls right next to your head, raining sharp shards over your feet as you dodged them, dropping to your knees, crying, begging, and chanting for him to stop.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Billy! Please stop,  I'll do whatever you want, I swear. I'm sorry!"

More often than not after Billy took his anger out on you, you were left bleeding on the floor after he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, but when he did stay and patch you up, you were left with whiplash; he'd sit you on the edge of his bath, his hands suddenly gentle and careful, dabbing rubbing alcohol onto your cuts after he brushed your hair out of your face. He would place kisses up your arms and down your neck, whispering "I'm sorry," with a hint of regret, "You know how to push my buttons so easily... I don't want to hurt you."

The shame only deepened when you forgave him, over and over again. You truly hung on to every apology, every single crumb from Billy that showed remorse, desperately believing that this time would be the last time. Until the cycle inevitably repeated itself.

The memory faded, leaving you standing in the crowded hallway, staring at Steve through a blurred, rising puddle of tears.

"You don't understand," you whispered, "I can't just leave... It's not so simple."

Steve stepped even closer and reached out so his fingers stopped just short of touching your shoulder, giving you the space to pull away if you needed to - but you didn't move. Your heart thumped in your chest, frightened of Billy catching you talking to him, but desperate to fall and unravel in Steve's protective embrace.

"Hey," Steve said, his voice dropping to a soft, urgent whisper. "I-I can help you, we'll work something out just... come home with me? We can coop up in my room, wait it out-"

You swallowed hard and shook your head frantically, hearing the bell go. 

"I can't," you panicked, quickly distancing yourself from him, "it's too dangerous, I-"

Your eyes landed on Billy's blonde curls inching closer and closer from behind Steve, until you could see his glare burning into you, making you go quiet. 

"Am I interrupting something?" Billy asked, now looming over Steve, trying to intimidate him.

Steve's ears pricked up, and a chill ran down the back of his neck. 

He casually shrugged, shaking his head. "She looked a little unwell in class, so I just wanted to encourage her to go and see the nurse."

 "When it comes to her," Billy growled, "it is my business, not yours."

"Billy, please-" you choked out, your voice trembling.

Billy reached out and his large hand gripped the back of your neck, escorting you out of the hallway and towards the double doors, your heart now swelling inside of your throat at what would come next. 

Steve felt the strong surging inside of him: don't just stand there, take her, take her away from him and help her. 

Each thought made his legs part and feet slowly shift towards the doors behind you and Billy, but he knew that getting involved now was no good. He needed to come up with the plan he'd been weaving together since he realised you were being abused, a plan that meant you'd get out, unharmed, forever free from Billy's abuse. 

Billy slammed his foot on the gas, you couldn't stop hyperventilating and Steve's concerns swirled around in your brain on a loop, making you realise that he was right; when would enough be enough? When you're battered beyond recognition or dead? 

I've finally had enough.

By the time the car screeched to a halt outside his house, your forehead had broken out in a sweat. Billy got out of the car and stormed towards the passenger door, tearing it open, ripping off your seat belt and angrily dragging you out of the car and inside.

"What did I tell you!" Billy roared once he swung the front door shut, spinning around. 

You opened your mouth to answer, but his fist slammed into your lower stomach, the force of his punch winding you, making you keel over and fall onto your knees, gasping and throwing your arms around your stomach.  

"Answer me!" Billy roared again, this time ripping the phone off the wall and snapping the cord. 

You shook your head, your brain pleading for your voice to be heard.

I can't speak, I want to, but I can't, please wait, give me time.

Your silence only made Billy angrier, his face flushed into a deep red and a thick vein protruded from his neck. "I told you not to talk to him!" he lunged forward, grabbing you and hauling you up from the floor like a rag doll.

Gasping desperately, you tried to speak, "It's not like that-"

Billy used his strength to throw you into the living room. Your bruised and sore body crashed down onto the hardwood floor. Unable to steady yourself, you landed on your arm, and a sharp pain shot up towards your shoulder, making you yelp out in agony. 

Desperate to escape, you tried to scramble backwards, but your hand was useless, and your vision was blurred from all the tears. Billy's boots thundered across the floor as he tracked you, reaching down and yanking your broken arm towards him.

"Stop!" you shrieked, "Billy, my arm, you're hurting me!" Your body twisted as you tried to pull your arm out of his grip.

Instead of letting go, Billy planted his boot on your shoulder, pinning you down as he continued to twist your arm in the opposite direction. 

The intensity of such pain made you want to vomit and your vision became cluttered with hundreds of black specks bobbing in front of you, as you realised the bone had completely snapped beneath your skin.

Giving up, you tucked your neck into your chest, curling into a tight ball, and all you could let out were ragged breaths and choked gasps, trying your hardest not to choke on your tears. 

Billy stared down at you, his chest heaving and hands still trembling from rage. He looked at your purple arm and dropped it. He swallowed hard and ran a hand through his dampened curls, "Look at what you made me do," his voice dropped, "I told you not to talk to him. You didn't listen."

He backed away toward the front door, and you squeezed your eyes shut, your tears and snot coating your chin. The front door opened and closed, followed a few seconds later by the roaring of his Camaro's engine. You didn't open your eyes until the car disappeared and couldn't be heard anymore. 

The pain became a worse throb, and Steve's worries rang through the walls.

A broken arm. 

You couldn't do this anymore. You couldn't wait around to chance losing your life the next time Billy got angry.

I've finally had enough.

Using your good arm, you slowly pushed yourself up from the floor and crawled toward the front door, and although you didn't have a clue about how you'd make it past the driveway, you knew that it was now or never. As you inched closer and closer to the door, the sound of tyres screeching made you freeze.

He's back. He's going to finish me.

Steve couldn't stop himself from pacing, from spiralling with his thoughts about what Billy would do to you the moment you were alone. 

He couldn't wait around. He needed to act. Steve needed to act now. 

Steve didn't bother to turn the engine off when he arrived at Billy's, his horrible gut feeling was eating him alive. He crept towards the door and finally pushed through, before he could call out, his eyes fell onto you lying on the floor. 

When you noticed the change in footsteps, you slowly opened your eyes, staring up at Steve, whose eyes were glued to the curve of the broken bone beneath your swollen, purple skin. 

His breath hitched in his throat. You were fragile, broken. 

"Oh my god, no, no, no..." he rushed beside you and dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over you and shaking.

He forced himself to prop your head up before wiping away the tears falling from your bloodshot eyes and the snot caked on your cupid's bow and chin. 

"Steve..." you whimpered. "We need to get out of here... before..." You were breathless, weary, your adrenaline crashing.

"We're leaving, right now, I promise." He cried, carefully sliding his arms beneath your back and knees, "I'm so sorry I didn't reach out and grab you in that Hallway. I'm so sorry." 

Slowly, gently, he hoisted you into his arms, less like a rag doll and more like a delicate newborn. The movement jolted your arm, you let out a gasp and quickly buried your face in the crook of Steve's warm and soft neck, muffling your agonising groans. 

"We’re getting out of here. I won't let him touch you again."

Steve gripped tighter, but not enough to cause you more pain. The moment his hand brushed the door handle, Billy's car screeched outside, just feet away from the two of you.

"Steve!" you panicked, your good hand desperately clutching onto Steve, "It's him! He's back!  We aren't going to make it out-"

"Hold onto me, baby," Steve said quietly, "I've got you, it's going to be okay."

Steve stepped back as Billy's foot kicked the door open and swayed into the house with the strong smell of whiskey clinging to him. When his cold eyes landed on Steve standing in his entryway, holding you in his arms, his hands bunched into fists at his side, his pulse thumping in that engorged vein in his neck.

The house remained quiet; the only sound you could hear was your heart thumping in your ears and Steve taking a deep breath as he slowly stepped back.

"Put her down, Harrington." Billy sucked on his teeth, smirking.

"I'm not putting her down anywhere," Steve replied firmly, trying to move closer to the door without him noticing, the two of them circling one another like sharks. "Her arm is broken, she's hurt. Bad."

Billy’s eyes flicked to your arm, then back to Steve, his jaw clenching again.

 "We had rules, and she broke them. I've made myself clear, put her down." He growled.

Steve quickly glanced at the couch in the corner of his eye as Billy approached closer; Steve understood that he couldn't get you out safely. Not yet. Not with Billy still standing. 

He backed toward the couch and gently lowered you onto it. You tried to support yourself on the soft cushions, scared that you might roll off. 

Steve was scared to leave you there, but he had no choice. 

"It's going to be okay," he whispered.

The moment Steve took his time turning around, Billy lunged and socked him in the jaw with his fist, the force of it sent Steve tumbling back, almost falling on top of you.

"Steve!" you shrieked and flinched, your broken arm sending shock waves up to your shoulder and neck from your sudden movements made you whimper.

Billy didn't wait for Steve to recover and stormed forward, kicking towards Steve's ribs. Steve managed to roll out of the way, avoiding the end of Billy's boot, which collided with the bottom of the couch. Steve scrambled to his feet, and as Billy swung again, Steve ducked and leapt forward, tackling Billy to the floor before his fist collided with the wall.  

The two of them ferociously rolled across the floor, grunting and swearing, their chests heaving up and down. Steve pinned Billy's shoulders and began to throw fast and strong punches over and over again, splitting Billy's lip and hitting him so hard in the nose that it pissed with blood. 

You were desperate to intervene, to pull Steve away so you could finally bolt out of the house and get to safety, but Steve couldn't be stopped; he was completely blinded by a year's worth of rage, hurt, worry, and deep hatred for your boyfriend and what he had done to you. 

With each punch and thump Steve delivered, he pictured another bruise, another cut that Billy had given you. He wanted each injury to be paid back, with interest.

"Don't fucking touch her again!" Steve yelled, slamming Billy's head into the ground, "If you even fucking look at her again, I'll break your god damn legs. Do you understand?!" 

Billy's breathing turned shallow, his head pounding, and eyes dazed. He couldn't answer Steve, but he understood - there was no way in hell he'd be going anywhere near you again, and the only sound to leave his throat as he tried to speak was a low groan, coated in his thick blood rising with hot bile.

Your good hand was clamped over your mouth, muffling your cries, and your face continued to flush with tears, blinding your sight. Although Billy lay on the floor, now experiencing the same agony he put you through time and time again, you didn't feel bad for him; you had no room for sympathy. 

You were ready to taste the freedom you had denied yourself for so long; you understood now that you didn't have to accept the abuse. Not now. Not again.

Steve stood up and swayed as he got to his feet, his knuckles cracked, red and bloody. He stared down at Billy, who began to curl up in a ball, coughing up the thick blood, debating if another punch was worth the risk, but instead he returned to you, his face now filled with deep sadness and worry, the rage washing out of him. 

He knelt in front of you with his hands still trembling, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"Let's get out of here," he murmured, scooping you up into his arms again. 

You stared up at his bruised face, the blood on his shirt and sore knuckles and you gripped onto Steve as he carried you out of the house. When the cool air hit you, soothing your hot cheeks and tired eyes, so many hopeful thoughts started to multiply in your brain.

I'm getting out.

I'll never be left alone with Billy again. 

I've made it out, alive.

I don't have to live a lie anymore.

Eight months went quicker than you realised, but when you're happy and not counting down the days towards a possible plan to escape, you had no reason to keep your eyes glued to a calendar.

Your arm managed to heal, and you were glad to be free of the uncomfortable cast, but you were left with a scar across your arm that you weren't ashamed to hide; the scar reminded you that no matter how hard or bad things became, you could always escape, the scar reminded you that good people, like Steve, still existed, even if the world had turned ugly. 

"Steve?" you murmured, curling up against his chest. 

"Yeah, baby?" he replied softly, stroking circles into your arm, pulling you closer.

You shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look up at him, his bedside lamp casting an amber glow across his sharp features. 

"I'm sorry, for..." you sighed, shaking your head, "I'm sorry for disappearing, for refusing help for so long, it's just.. I didn't ever believe that I could feel so safe with anyone again."

Steve looked down at you with his soft hazel eyes and quickly looked away. He stopped stroking your arm and stared up at the ceiling. 

"I'm sorry," he croaked, "I'm sorry that I didn't stop him sooner.. I hate myself for waiting for as long as I did."

"Steve, you got me out of there... away from him. No one could've done that, he was... Billy," you shuddered at his name, "he wouldn't let anyone get in his way, you caught him off guard, it was the only way we could make it out."

Steve shook his head, "I saw the bruises so many times and did nothing, I know we barely spoke about it at times but... fuck. I can't see you hurt like that again, I don't want anyone to touch you or even go near you, and I know how selfish that sounds because I'm not like him but-"

"I know you're nothing like him, Steve, but you can't blame yourself, and I can't blame myself, either. I was in deep." You pushed yourself up, sitting over him, "When you're manipulated and kicked down all the time, you end up believing it's all you deserve. I ran back to him over and over, and you always had an escape for me, I just couldn't bring myself to go for it."

Cupping Steve's face in your hands, you wiped away his tears and pressed a kiss against his wet and salty lips, humming against him. Steve swallowed hard and tried to push the images of your bruises and broken arm out of his head, focusing on the way you looked at him every day: your lit-up eyes and wide smile, your laughter being heard more than any past cries or pleas for help.

Pulling away from the kiss, Steve let out a shaky breath, and his hands came up to wrap around your waist, pulling you down into him and burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

"I love you so much, so so much." He mumbled against your skin. 

"I love you too, Steve," you smiled, "so so much." 

Reblogging is a writers bestfriend :)

[flashphotograph]

Joe Keery & the gentlemen of his life Post Animal

[upsidedownwithemmy]

HONEY, SHOW ME HOW TO DO IT

(A MODERN AU. SLOW BURN, ENEMIES TO LOVERS FT. LINECOOK!STEVE X FEM!READER. 3.2K)

THE MENU

The streets were close to dead at such an hour.

The glow of the traffic light outside of your bedroom window made your walls look scarlet and the summer air that leaked in through the open crack was too warm for five am.

But it was July and it was early and there were clothes scattered over your floor, a shoe by the door, your bra hanging over the back of your desk chair. The sheets were twisted into a gingham green lump at the end of your bed, there was a pillow slumped into your nightstand, nudging precariously against a half drunk glass of water.

The town outside was still sleeping, the AC unit was whirring, your head was aching and there was a man in your bed.

You tried not to audibly groan as your feet found the floor. The body asleep next to you was lying on his front, his face buried into one of your pillows, his arms wrapped around it like it tried to run away in the night. He was tanned and dotted with freckles, a summer scene across the skin on his back, broad and taut with muscle. You frowned as you looked over your shoulder at him, trying to place a name, a face, any memory of the last few hours.

The only things that came to mind were bare skin and a lot of touching. Teeth and lips and hands and calloused fingers that dug into your hips as you rode him. You rubbed your face, clearing the sleep from your eyes, the tequila and the taste of sex from your lips.

You tried really hard to walk quietly to your bathroom, padding softly across the wooden floors, avoiding the sweater that lay there and the board that you knew squeaked like it held a disease in its whorls and knots. The bathroom door shut with a squeak and a click and you held your breath, forehead braced against the cool wood but you heard nothing, no sheets rustling, no feet on the floorboards.

Your reflection stared back at you from above the sink with disdain and disappointment and you weren't in a position to disagree with her. Your hair was a mess and there was leftover lipstick on your neck of all places, like you’d gifted it to someone who’d pressed it right back onto your skin. There was the beginning of a hickey on your chest, purple and pink and blooming under the bright fluorescent light that hummed above you.

The shower started with a groan and a hiss, the pressure battering the floor of the tub and you shed what little clothes you had on before clambering into it, skin prickling at the chill before it rocketed to almost too hot. You hit the temperature dial with an annoyed indifference, hiding under the cool spray until your hair stuck to your head and it didn't hurt as much as it did when you first opened your eyes.

You thought back to the night before, eyes closed, your stomach starting to turn with tequila and vodka and cheap beer. You remembered the sticky floors of the new bar you’d been dragged to, nothing more than a basement room filled with sweaty bodies and with brick walls covered in band posters and beer mats from places around the world. There were more people than tables and an oversized disco ball turned slowly overhead, entirely out of place as some indie sleaze song leaked out from the speakers in every corner.

You’d danced with your friends, nothing more than your hips moving in the crush of bodies, skin on skin as you tried to take shots without it spilling over your fingers. You remembered licking raspberry syrup from your thumb, your eyes on a guy who stood across the room from you, his brows raised when you grinned.

You remembered a song passing, maybe two, before he came over. There hadn’t been any bravado, no cheesy lines, no faux nonchalance. He’d bent down to your ear, a large warm hand hovering over the small of your back as he leaned into you. Someone had bumped him, his lips brushing your ear and he’d told you that you were pretty.

You’d grinned, shyness disappearing under the taste of tequila and when he’d asked you to dance you’d handed your empty glass to your friend and took his hand. It got blurry then, his hips against your ass as he moved to the music, moved against you. His hands, warm and big, laying on your hips, fingers settling into the crease of your upper thigh until you were too warm and the only answer was to pull him outside for some air.

He’d tasted like beer when he kissed you, your back against the rough brick outside of the bar. But his hand had cupped the back of your head to save it from becoming sore and that alone had you arching into him, his free hand around the back of your thigh as you hitched your leg to his hip. There must’ve been a taxi ride to yours and there was a fuzzy memory of your couch, the man pressed into it as you shed your shirt and straddled him, his lips dancing across your throat, your sternum.

You stayed under the spray until the water turned too cold and your head felt less like someone had jumped on it. Your hair was clean and your face had been scrubbed, your toes minty fresh as you spat leftover toothpaste down the tub drain and when you got out, wrapped in a too small towel, your bed was empty.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

You didn’t think too much of the man. You tried not to. But when you’d finally gotten dressed and shuffled along the sidewalk in the town that’s finally waking up, you found yourself thinking about the night before more often than you wanted to.

You told yourself it was a good thing he left when he did. The perfect way to avoid the awkward morning after, the stilted conversation of if they wanted coffee and exchanging numbers no one was ever really planning on calling.

Right?

Right.

The subway was packed, uncomfortable and sticky hot, like honey on your skin. There was a woman pressed too close to your side, both of you clinging on to the same handrail, her gum snapping too sharp and obnoxious by your ear. There was a kid crying about a broken toy two carriage’s down and every time the doors opened, the shrill noise of it all cut you in two. You were way more hungover than you’d let yourself believe, hiding shamelessly behind a pair of oversized sunglasses that turned the bright morning sun and the flickering overhead fluorescents into a shade of grey that was much more manageable.

It suited your mood. It dulled the flavour of tequila that sat at the back of your tongue. But it didn’t dampen the memories of last night that were coming back to you, persistently stronger and less blurry than before.

You could remember getting out of the cab, the air still heavy and hot despite the early morning hour, the only way a night could be in Chicago during summer. There were memories of you dragging the boy behind you, your hand clasped in his as you fumbled at the door of your apartment building, pressing the wrong numbers for your key code, eyes fluttering closed as the stranger pushed his nose to your neck, his lips following the path he made. Then there was the stairwell, blessedly empty, the air much cooler and the brick wall rough as you were pressed against it on the first landing. More kissing, the dirty kind with all tongues and teeth, breaths panted into open mouths, hands tugging at the fronts of belts, sneaking under skirts, fingers pressed to cotton and lace.

The train jerked on the tracks and you stumbled, so unlike yourself and the thoughts of your late night guest gave way to the packed train once more. You didn’t think about him between your legs, you didn’t think about your hands in his hair - brown and messy and almost too long - and you definitely didn’t think about the way he moaned as loud as you did when you came on his tongue.

Elbows pressed into your sides as you pushed your way off the carriage, the train doors beeping, humid subway air giving way to something only a little fresher as you climbed the concrete steps and out into the street. Chicago was louder here, closer to The Loop now, you had to dodge others on the sidewalk, everyone with some form of earphones in, their heads down, their eyes low. Trucks were parked too close to the sidewalk, men with cigarettes hanging out their mouths yelled at each other as they passed crates of vegetables and fruit to each other, corner store owners filling their shelves and somehow, the streets smelled like freshly baked bread, roasted coffee and sewers all at the same time.

It did nothing to help your hangover. Neither did the ache in your hips that had you remembering how you’d been pressed into your mattress only hours before, skin slapping skin, gasps and moans floating in the air.

Your face burned with it.

It only cooled when you made a sharp left, narrowly avoiding a young couple trying to manipulate a too large couch from the back of a moving van into their narrow doorway. The alleyway turned the sky duller, the sun hidden from view as you walked between the two tall buildings, avoiding leftover puddles and rat traps before you raised your fist to an old fire door and knocked.

Knock was perhaps too polite. You let your palm slam down on the rust covered surface, the tiny pane of glass that acted as a window rattling at your efforts. The sound reverberated through the alley, loud enough to piss off the neighbours in the apartments above you and someone leaned out their window, half asleep and swearing viciously.

But the door was kicked open and the smell of cinnamon and bacon greeted you. The air was hotter than ever, the hum of the ovens adding to the warmth and the too loud sound of the back kitchen. Everything was silver and white and coated in a fine layer of icing sugar and flour and god, ew, a little bit of fryer grease. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was blasting music that was too loud but it still didn’t drown out the drone of the extractor fans, the bubble and pop of the bagels in an enormous vat of boiling water.

The Gate was something of a hole in the wall, not quite a cafe, not quite a restaurant and not a place you usually saw tourists. It was on the right line of cheap, a little rough around the edges but the food was the best you could find this side of the Chicago River. It was all brick walls and a huge glass front, neon lights shining out of it every hour of the day and night. Chipped green and white tiles on the floor, wobbly legged tables and chairs that didn’t quite match anymore, The Gate was owned by a man called Jim Hopper but it was run by the rest of the staff he’d hired.

A group of people who were all in the middle of that age bracket between teenagers and adults, a bunch of somewhat misfits who were collectively in the stage of life where no one knew what the fuck they were doing and smoke breaks took precedence over bussing tables.

A guy called Eddie manned one of the grills you passed by, a cig tucked behind his ear and his dark curls pulled high into a bun atop his head. A sketch pad of tattoos peeked out from his chef whites and he merely lifted a spatula at you in greeting, a pair of headphones covering his ears as he flipped pancakes on the griddle and blocked out the pop song that came from the speaker by the prep zone.

There were Robin and Argyle, both sitting haphazardly on stools that had been dragged from the bar, peeling a variety of vegetables as they both shared details of the night before, both nursing the same kind of hangover you suffered from. The front of house looked quiet, no other staff at work just yet. The doors were still closed and the neon sign on the front flickered a garish pink as it told the rest of the city The Gate was still closed for now. The small bar in the corner was wiped clean, no sticky leftover gin or rum staining the wooden worktop and the various glass bottles on the glass shelves behind it were glinting in the morning light. There were crystals on the windowsills, more hanging in the corners of the room from wicker baskets and mosaic pots, all of them holding bundles of green, leafy plants. They scattered rainbows of all sizes around the restaurant, painted little rectangular sponges of colours on the tables, the brick walls, your arms and the tiled floor.

You sighed as you hung up your bag, swapping it for an apron that you tied around your waist. Breakfast shift was never your favourite, but you hoped that everyone decided the day was too warm and everyone was too hungover to bother venturing out this early. You looked at the clock, twelve minutes to seven. Seventy two minutes until the doors and you still didn’t deem that enough time to feel human.

You stuffed a new order pad into your apron pocket, reminding yourself to hunt for a pen as soon as you managed to snag some pancakes or a bagel from the kitchen first. Jim said he didn’t believe in technology, not to the point of tablets replacing a good old pad and pen for taking orders, but you were pretty certain that the man was just fucking cheap.

Minutes passed as you stood in the middle of the tables, your head tipped back as you closed your eyes and took a breath. And another. And another. Kaleidoscopes of colours painted your cheeks, your eyelids and you could hear the speaker from the kitchen playing faintly through the closed door. Suddenly it was five hours ago and you were on the edge of a dance floor you’d never been on before, a body pressed against the back of your own as you both swayed and rocked to the music. The cab drive to yours became clearer now, your head tipped against the window as you let your dance partner kiss down your neck, his hand skating up the fabric of your skirt as he gripped your hip. You remembered the cab driver's eyes in the rear view mirror, the sharp cough he let out when you grabbed your new friend’s jaw in your hand and licked into his mouth.

“Get ‘em while they’re hot.” The clatter of a plate and Eddie’s too loud voice broke you from your thoughts.

Cheeks burning and heart thumping a little too wildly, you spun, eyes flying open as you found a stack of pancakes waiting on the bartop for you. They’re dusted with sugar and dripping with maple syrup, a handful of freshly washed berries on the side. You moaned, the man who shared your bed momentarily forgotten about, and you contemplated giving Eddie a fat kiss on the cheek.

“You’re an angel,” you told him instead, forgoing cutlery as you bit straight into a pancake, eyes fluttering at the sweetness and warmth. “A real life angel.”

The chef snorted, already walking back into the kitchen. “Call my high school principal and tell him that, would ya?”

You managed two whole bites before the phone rang and Robin answered it, her voice bored and tired and muffled under the noise of music and hissing grills. Then the door flew open and she handed the receiver to you, eyes rolling. She pinched a strawberry and poked at your bare skin, where your blooming hickey bruised the space between the top of your shirt and your exposed collar bones.

You batted at her hand, frowning when she smirks and your lips were sticky with maple syrup when you tried to form a professional greeting. “Good morning, thanks for calling The Gate, this is— oh, it’s you.”

Hopper scoffed on the other end of the line. “Hello to you too, kid. Listen, there’s a new start coming today for the linecook position. Should be ‘round seven thirty and he’s more than qualified so just get him some spare whites and show him where the trash goes. Eddie’ll handle the rest.”

Your hangover pulsed in annoyance. “Can’t Joyce get him sorted?” You speared another raspberry and popped it into your mouth, eyes rolling when your boss sighed in return.

“Joyce is on vacation. With me. We told you this on Monday, you never lis— look, just get the guy sorted alright? He’s a good kid, he’s not gonna cause any hassle.”

“Whatever, sure,” you mumbled. You needed to find some tylenol, your eyes felt like they were going to fall out of their sockets. “Enjoy Cabo, or wherever it is you guys are.”

“We’re in Colorado, but close enough,” Hopper grunted. “Just don’t burn the place down, alright? See you in two weeks.”

You were frowning when the dial tone buzzed in your ear. It was three minutes past seven and you were left with a sticky, sugary mess on your empty plate and thirty three tables to set before the doors opened. And a new start to get set up.

You found a tylenol in Nancy’s open locker and a set of new chef whites in Hopper’s abandoned office. You set them by the side of the bar before you gathered cutlery and new napkins, splitting them with Robin as you both wove in and out of tables and booths, the kitchen getting noisier as Argyle and Eddie started prepping for lunch. The glass cabinets by the cash desk were filled finally with fresh pastries, the front of house smelled like freshly squeezed oranges and you had made yourself busy by misting an oversized fern when someone knocked on the front door.

There was a man standing behind the glass. He was tall and dressed in denim jeans that had faded knees, a white T-shirt with rolled sleeves and he had a pair of black Ray-Ban’s perched on his nose. Despite that, you recognised him. His hair looked ruffled, like someone had been pulling on it all night, dishevelled and messy in a way that would’ve made your mother’s cheeks burn. Any mother’s, actually.

Fuck.

No? No.

You unlocked the door and the click of it was too loud, too jarring. You stared at the stranger who didn’t seem all that strange and your stomach turned as you recognised the sweater he had clutched in his right hand. A forest green thing with a yellow patch on the chest. You knew that sweater. It had been on your bedroom floor when you’d made your quiet escape to the bathroom.

Fuck.

You looked at the man and he looked at you, the customer service smile he’d plastered on his face wilting at the same time his extended hand did, the professional greeting slipping from every fibre of him.

“You.”

He grappled with words for a beat, his face faltering and even behind his sunglasses, you could see the panic. All he said was: “Me?”

[jxstsxgx]

𝙶𝙾𝙻𝙳𝙴𝙽 𝙱𝙾𝚈, 𝙾𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙺𝙽𝙴𝙴𝚂 | 𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚃𝙾𝙽

Pairings: Steve Harrington x gf!Reader

Word Count: 4, 367 words

Summary: Everyone thinks Steve’s the one in charge, all charm and confidence. But behind closed doors, it’s her he’s on his knees for. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Contains: 18+ only! MDNI! dom!fem reader / sub!Steve, public/private power switch, heavy teasing soft dom behavior (praise, aftercare, gentle control) whiny!Steve, begging, overstimulation (in later parts). (Let me know what I missed.)

A/N: I did not know how to properly end it so, there you go, he just dozed off, lmao.

masterlist |

There were exactly three things people knew about your relationship with Steve Harrington:

He adored you. He took care of everything. He always, always had a hand on you.

Whether it was draped over your shoulders at the coffee shop, resting warm on your thigh during drives, or hooked around your waist as you leaned into him at parties, Steve made it abundantly clear: you were his. And he liked the whole damn world knowing it.

“You cold, baby?” he asked, pulling off his varsity-style jacket before you could even answer, draping it over your shoulders like it was instinct.

You blinked up at him with wide, grateful eyes. “Thanks, Stevie.”

He smirked, the smug little flicker of pride shining bright across his face as he kissed your forehead. “My girl doesn’t shiver on my watch.”

You both stood in line at the food truck outside the skating rink, stars overhead, music drifting faintly from nearby speakers. He looked like a golden boy straight out of a teen movie, all fluffy hair and tight jeans and protectiveness, and you? You looked like a damn dream in his jacket, your lips glossy and your fingers laced through his like they belonged there.

“I can order, babe,” you offered gently, reaching into your purse.

Steve just laughed. “You think I’m letting you pay for your own fries?” His nose scrunched in that way that made your heart do a cartwheel. “What kind of boyfriend would I be?”

You pouted playfully. “A modern one?”

“Nope.” He stepped closer, nosing at your cheek. “I’m a classic.”

He ordered for both of you, shot you a wink when he added your favorite drink without asking, and even made sure they salted the fries the way you liked. Prince Charming, all smirks and ease, tossing out confident nods and soft touches like it was second nature.

And you, all sunshine and 'thank you baby' and 'kiss on the cheek, played your part perfectly.

Because that was what everyone saw. Steve Harrington, confident and in charge. And you, his sweet, adoring girl who smiled pretty and let him dote on you.

But no one saw what happened when the door shut behind you at home.

Later that night, you were curled up on the couch in his lap, half a milkshake forgotten on the table, fries cold in the bag. Steve’s hand rubbed slow circles into your thigh, his face nuzzled against your neck.

“Can’t believe you wore that little skirt tonight,” he murmured, voice still low and cocky. “You trying to kill me or something?”

You hummed softly, fingers in his hair. “You liked it.”

“Liked it?” He groaned. “Almost had to drag you behind the truck."

Your fingers tugged, just slightly, at the back of his hair. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to signal something else.

He froze.

The shift was immediate.

You sat up slowly, slipping off his lap and smoothing your skirt with a quiet finality that made his chest rise a little faster.

You didn’t say a word.

Just looked at him.

And suddenly the cocky golden boy from earlier? Gone.

Steve sat straighter, like the air had shifted and he felt it deep in his spine. He followed you with his eyes like a dog waiting for a command. Breath catching. Hands twitching.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong, baby?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “No, I just… you looked at me like...”

“Like what?”

He swallowed. “Like you want something.”

You let the silence hang there, watching the flush crawl up his neck.

And then, slow and deliberate, you slipped off your cardigan. Tossed it to the side. Walked toward the bedroom without looking back.

You didn’t need to.

You heard him follow.

Behind closed doors, Steve was yours.

Not the charming prince.

Not the confident caretaker.

Not the cool guy with all the right words.

Just Steve.

Whiny. Overheated. Desperate to please.

He was all breathy *“please”*s and soft moans when you pushed him down onto the bed and climbed into his lap, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You take care of me all day,” you whispered, voice low and sugary against his jaw. “You spoil me, show me off, open all my doors like a gentleman…”

Steve exhaled shakily. “S’what you deserve.”

“And what do you deserve, sweetheart?”

He looked up at you with wide, begging eyes, chest heaving a little. “Whatever you give me.”

You smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Stevie,” you said, kissing just beneath his ear. “So strong for everyone else. And so soft for me.”

A soft sound left his throat, something between a whimper and a sigh and his hands clenched in the sheets behind him like he didn’t trust himself to touch without permission.

“You want me to take care of you tonight?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Take off your shirt.”

It came off in a flash.

You trailed your fingers down his chest, watched the muscles twitch under your touch, relished the way his breath stuttered like every inch of skin you traced was lit up.

And when you kissed him, slow and deep and full of promise, he melted into it, arms loose at his sides, letting you guide everything.

You weren’t just his girl.

You were his anchor. His undoing. The only person who knew the exact sound he made when he begged softly into your mouth, the exact way his thighs trembled when you praised him, the exact look he got when he came apart from your hands and voice alone.

And then it all went downhill when he tried to take the lead.

His hands braced beside your head. His mouth hot on your neck. His tone all cocky smirks and low, gravelly confidence.

“I’m in charge tonight,” he muttered, voice tight with want as he nosed at your jawline. “Got you all worked up in that cute little outfit. You’re mine tonight, baby.”

You smiled, soft, syrupy, because he was trying so hard.

“Yeah?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes.

Steve groaned, rolling his hips into yours. “Fuck yeah.”

And for about four minutes, it almost worked.

He kissed you hard. Pinned your wrists above your head. Told you, voice rough and shaky, “You gonna be good and let me take care of you tonight?”

You didn’t move.

Just tilted your chin slightly, eyes meeting his, all soft and knowing.

“I always let you take care of me, Stevie,” you said, breath brushing his lips. “But you forget something.”

He swallowed. “What?”

“You like it more when I’m the one in charge.”

His grip faltered.

You pulled one hand free easily and let your fingers trail slowly down the front of his chest. Down to his belt.

Steve’s breath hitched.

“You like pretending you’re in control,” you whispered. “But look at you.”

Your fingers toyed with his belt, not undoing it yet, just brushing the edge, barely teasing him. “You’re already getting hard and I haven’t even touched you.”

“I—” he faltered, and you watched the bravado crack.

The way he bit his lip.

The flush rising to his ears.

The telltale tremble in his fingers as he tried to keep his grip firm on your waist.

It only took one slow push, a gentle reversal of your positions, and he let you turn him, press him back against the bed instead.

And now?

Now Steve was breathless.

Whiny.

Back against the mattress with you kissing down his neck, slow and possessive.

“You gonna be a good boy and let me touch you?” you murmured into his throat.

He nodded, already pliant, already shaking.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, fuck please, please touch me.”

You had him half-undressed before his head even cleared. Shirt gone, belt undone, breath ragged.

Steve Harrington, who looked like the guy everyone fell for, who everyone fell for, was clinging to you like he’d fall apart if you stopped touching him.

“Thought you were gonna take charge tonight?” you teased, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

He whimpered, literally whimpered, and let his head fall back against the soft foam.

“Fuck, I tried,” he groaned. “I thought I could, I wanted to, but you... fuck, you always get me like this.”

Your hand trailed lower, palming him over his boxers, and he gasped, bucking into your touch.

“Like what, baby?” you asked sweetly. “On edge? Needy? Desperate for me to take over?”

He made a choked sound. “Yes, yes, that...exactly that.”

You stroked him through the fabric, slow and firm, watching the way his knees started to buckle.

“Poor thing,” you cooed. “Just wanted to be the big strong boyfriend. And now look at you.”

He was moaning into your mouth, trying to kiss you and breathe at the same time, hands fisting helplessly at your hips. You didn’t even bother guiding them anywhere he couldn’t focus long enough to grab you right, not like this.

“Please let me come,” he gasped, and you smiled.

“You’re already close?”

He nodded frantically, face pink and ruined. “Mhm, m’always close with yo. Just please, I’ll be so good.”

You pulled back just a little.

Met his eyes.

“Take your pants off.”

He obeyed instantly.

Not a trace of hesitation.

Just his flushed, wrecked body obeying with a whispered, “Yes, ma’am,” and a soft whimper when you told him to get on the bed and wait.

And he did. On his back, thighs spread, eyes blown wide and mouth open like he was starving for you.

Your good, golden boy.

You spent the next stretch of time dragging him through exactly what he thought he could handle earlier.

Telling him what to do.

Making him beg.

Letting him think he’d get to finish then pulling back, whispering all the filth you knew would make his thighs shake.

By the time you finally let him come, he was wrung out and babbling.

Head tipped back.

Voice broken.

Hands useless at his sides.

Just your boy, dripping sweat and praise, body trembling as you stroked him through the aftershocks, whispering, “That’s it, baby. You did so good for me. Such a good boy.”

Steve could barely breathe.

Could barely talk.

Only managed a slurred, “Tried so hard to be in charge,” before he melted under your hands again.

You kissed his temple. Let him press into your chest, all soft and pliant.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you’re better like this.”

He nodded, humming sleepily.

Too blissed out to argue.

And in the quiet afterward, when your fingers brushed through his damp hair and you whispered every sweet thing you could think of he swore he could fall in love with you all over again.

Even if you’d just completely ruined him.

Then Steve hadn’t moved for at least five minutes.

Flat on his back. Hair a mess. Skin flushed pink and damp all over. His hand was barely clinging to your wrist, like if he let go, he'd float away completely.

“You okay?” you whispered, lips brushing his temple.

He nodded slowly.

Then again, firmer.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good." He let out a tired, shaky breath. “You wrecked me.”

You smiled, kissed his cheek. “You loved it.”

“Mhm.” He let his head tip toward your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut again. “So good, baby."

Your fingers traced down his stomach. Light. Barely a brush.

Steve shuddered.

You felt his cock twitch, not hard again yet, but not exactly soft either.

He flinched and gasped softly. “Wait...what’re you doing?”

“I’m not finished,” you murmured against his throat. “Are you?”

Steve’s eyes flew open.

You didn’t wait for an answer. Just slid your fingers slowly, torturously, between his thighs. Right over the sensitive, spit-slick skin, teasing him back toward hardness.

His hips twitched violently.

He groaned, not quite a moan this time, more like a broken plea. “Oh my god...wait, wait, I just came, baby.”

You kissed down his jaw.

“You can take it.”

His voice cracked. “I can’t, fuck, it’s too much!”

Your hand wrapped around him.

Just once.

Just barely enough.

Steve screamed into your shoulder, hips jerking up, the kind of desperate movement that came from reflex, not thought. His thighs were trembling. His eyes wide and panicked but so wet, glassy and wrecked.

You slowed your touch immediately, whispering sweet nothings to calm him. “Shhh. I’ve got you."

Steve panted like he’d run a marathon.

His voice was ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, kissing the sweat at his temple.

“No,” you said. “Just ruin you a little more.”

The next ten minutes were a blur of ragged breath and muffled moans. You took your time.

Stroking him back to hardness.

Letting him squirm and twitch and beg, voice cracking with every whisper of “please” and “I don’t know if I can” and “fuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna...”

You didn’t even have to say much.

Just looked down at him with that soft, steady gaze and let your fingers work slowly over his oversensitive cock, gentle and relentless.

Steve was gasping by the time he was close again.

He gripped the sheets like a lifeline, head tossing side to side. “Can’t, can’t,baby, please, I c-can’t!”

“You will,” you said, low and firm. “For me.”

His whole body arched when he came again.

It wasn’t clean or controlled! it was messy, whiny, broken. A sound clawed out of his throat like a sob, and his thighs shook so hard you thought he might actually fall apart.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

You kept going. Soft strokes. Bare pressure. Just enough to keep him whimpering.

Steve was babbling now.

“Please please please, ohmygod, baby, please..”

He was crying a little, not from pain, just from too much, from giving you everything he had.

From being so loved, so wanted, so completely undone by you that he didn’t know how to ask you to stop. Or if he even wanted you to.

You slowed, at last.

Held his face gently, kissing his forehead.

“You okay?” you whispered, thumb stroking his cheek.

Steve blinked up at you, dazed and teary and completely gone. He looked like he didn’t even remember his name. Only managed to say, soft as a breath:

“You’re gonna kill me. I’m serious.”

You grinned. “Still think you’re the dominant one, Harrington?”

He let out a weak, wrecked laugh. “Shut up.”

You kissed his swollen mouth and pulled the blanket over both of you.

Later, when you helped him into clean boxers and curled up around him, Steve let out a soft sigh.

“Y’know,” he said sleepily, “I had this whole plan earlier.”

“Oh?”

He nuzzled your collarbone.

“Yeah. I was gonna tie you up, make you beg.”

You stroked his hair gently. “And what happened?”

Steve groaned into your skin. “You happened. And now I can’t feel my legs.”

You laughed softly, pressing your lips to his curls.

He was quiet for a beat. Then, quietly, almost bashful:

“Can we do it again tomorrow?”

You smiled against his hair.

“Anything you want, pretty boy.”

And he fell asleep like that, smiling, safe, and completely yours.

[sammy-bryant]

Shawn Hatosy on The Tonight Show | June 11, 2026

[morninglesss]

Hi!!

Having soft!gator thoughts…Super sunburnt rn and thinking about gators big hands rubbing aloe… he’s trying so hard to be gentle but it’s hard for him.

Also I’m the anon from a while back that requested the blind!gator nightmare prompt. Do you use emojis for anons? If so can I request one?

Oh anon, I hope your sunburn isn’t too sore today!

I don’t use emojis for anons, but if you’d like to pick one for yourself, feel free! 💕

She’d asked him like it was nothing. Hey, can you just - my back, I can’t reach. Casual, the way you’d ask someone to grab something off a high shelf. He’d said yeah, sure, of course, equally casual on the surface at least, and then she’d handed him the bottle of aloe vera gel and led him into the bathroom, shrugging her blouse off before the door had shut behind them. He’d stood there for a second looking at her back, the red sweep of skin exposed by the low scoop of her swimsuit, and thought, oh.

The aloe was cold straight from the bottle, taken straight from her fridge, which he hadn’t thought about until she hissed.

“Shit, sorry.” He pulled his hand back. “I’ll - here.” He rubbed the clear gel between his palms for a few seconds, which felt stupid after the fact, but he did it anyway.

She was perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, her back to him, shoulders and back turned the deep red of a bad sunburn. The kind that was going to peel. The kind that hurt when fabric touched it. She’d pulled her hair to one side, out of the way, without making a thing of it, and that small practical gesture had done something to him he didn’t have a word for. Like she just trusted him to be there. Like it was already decided.

He pressed his hands to her shoulders, slow, and she exhaled with a sigh.

He had big hands. He’d never thought much about that one way or another, but right now they felt like the wrong tool for the job, like he’d been tasked with threading a needle while wearing boxing gloves. He knew how hard he could press. What he didn’t know was how soft.

He spread the aloe over her skin in small careful sweeps. He kept waiting for her to flinch away from his touch and when she didn’t, he wasn’t sure if that meant he was doing it right or if she was just being patient with him. Both were possible. Both were equally hard to sit with.

“That’s good, feels better,” she said, before he’d done anything wrong. Like she could tell he was working it out.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s cooling it already.”

He’d looked it up on his phone, earlier, when he’d caught the colour of her shoulders as she’d made her way inside. He’d known she’d need help with this. He wasn’t going to say so, but he’d Googled quickly before she’d asked - rubbed in versus let it sit, cool compress first or not, and none of the things he’d read agreed with each other. Putting aloe on after the sun wasn’t something the Tillman’s had ever bothered with. He’d gone back and forth on whether to stay back and let someone else help her, but before he could decide one way or the other she’d cornered him in the hallway, the others still out back at the grill, and now he was here, with her, his big dumb hands on her smooth skin.

That was new. The going back and forth on things relating to her. He’d had friends before, obviously, but most of them required nothing from him except showing up (usually with a six pack), and she… she expected him to pay attention. To think and be sure of things. He didn’t mind that the way he thought he would.

His thumbs found a knot in her left shoulder, just below the strap of her swimsuit, and without thinking he pressed into it.

“Ooh,” she hissed, but she didn’t move away.

“Too hard?”

“No.” She paused, turning just enough to catch his eye over her shoulder. “No, that’s… keep going.”

He kept going, working his thumbs into the knot until it softened, adding more aloe to the sunburn and soothing it in. She tipped her head forward a little. He watched the back of her neck, the small hairs there, and looked away.

There was a particular square of skin between her shoulder blades she’d pointed to earlier. Mostly there, I couldn’t get it. He’d nodded like it was a normal thing to be told. He moved to it now, spread the aloe slow, and he could feel the heat of the burn under his fingers, the way the skin was tight with it, and he thought, distantly, that she should have covered up sooner. But he’d liked seeing her in her swimsuit. He didn’t want that to end. So he’d said nothing, and now she was burned.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” she said.

“What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know. You always seem like a guy who doesn’t do things gently.”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands kept moving, the same careful circles.

“I can,” he said finally. “When it matters.”

She went quiet. The bathroom was small and warm and the only sound was the buzz of the bulb above the mirror. He could see the edge of her face if he looked up, not much, just the line of her jaw, the way she was looking down at her hands in her lap.

He didn’t know what they were, really. He’d been trying not to think about it directly, the way you don’t look straight at something bright. They were friends. That was true and also not quite the whole truth and he was pretty sure she knew it too, which was maybe why she’d asked him instead of someone else. Or maybe he was wrong about that. He was wrong about things sometimes.

“Can you do the sides too?” she asked. Her voice was a little quieter than before.

“I will,” he said. “I’m getting there.”

He wasn’t rushing. For once in his life, he was not rushing.

He smoothed the aloe into her sides, slow as the rest of it, then capped the bottle, placing it on the counter beside her.

She turned around.

He hadn’t quite prepared for that - for her facing him in the small space, close enough that he could see the dusting of freckles across her nose and the pink across her cheekbones that had nothing to do with the sun. She looked at him for a second, something working itself out behind her eyes, and then she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

Except she caught the corner of his mouth, just barely. Warm and soft and over before he could decide what to do with his hands.

She pulled back without a word. Reached past him for the blouse she’d draped over the towel rail and shrugged it on, leaving it hanging open, and then she was moving around him and the door was opening and he could hear the others out back, the grill, someone laughing at something.

The door didn’t quite close behind her.

He stood there in the small warm bathroom with the aloe bottle on the counter and the buzz of the light above the mirror and the ghost of her at the corner of his mouth, and he thought - slowly, like a man coming up for air - oh.

[sammy-bryant]

hbomax Sanitizing in style. #ThePitt

[upsidedownwithemmy]

HONEY, SHOW ME HOW TO DO IT

AN ENEMIES TO LOVERS SLOW BURN. MODERN AU FT. LINECOOK STEVE.

You unlocked the door and the click of it was too loud, too jarring. You stared at the stranger who didn’t seem all that strange and your stomach turned as you recognised the sweater he had clutched in his right hand. A forest green thing with a yellow patch on the chest. You knew that sweater. It had been on your bedroom floor when you’d made your quiet escape to the bathroom.

Fuck.

You looked at the man and he looked at you, the customer service smile he’d plastered on his face wilting at the same time his extended hand did, the professional greeting slipping from every fibre of him.

“You.” You couldn’t help it. You didn’t sound polite in the slightest.

He grappled with words for a beat, his face faltering and even behind his sunglasses, you could see the panic. All he said was: “Me?”

CHAPTER ONE - COMING 11/06

[emqqx]

Can I request a fluffy Joe Keery x fem! reader oneshot where they tell their daughter that reader is having another baby and that she is going to be a big sister?

"A little sister for Lily"

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Joe Keery x reader ⋆⭒˚.⋆

english is not my language please be kind and sorry if i wrote wrong :) requests are open if you want!

summary: you and Joe tell your daughter that she is going to be a big sister

warnings: Fluff, pregnancy announcement, domestic

The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of your home, casting a soft golden glow over the kitchen where Joe stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of focused concentration usually reserved for script readings and making songs. His hair was still messy from sleep, a few strands sticking up at odd angles, and he wore a faded black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right. You watched him from the doorway, one hand resting protectively over the subtle swell of your belly that had only just begun to show under your oversized sweater. 

Two months along, and the secret still felt like a fragile, beautiful bubble you and Joe were carrying together.

Lily, your four-year-old daughter, was perched at the kitchen island on her booster seat, chattering away about the latest adventures of her stuffed dinosaur, Mr. Roar. 

“Mommy, can Mr. Roar have extra syrup?” Lily asked, tilting her head with that innocent pleading look she’d perfected.

You smiled, stepping fully into the room. “Only if he promises not to get sticky paw prints all over the table again.”

Joe turned, his grin widening when he saw you, he set the spatula down and crossed the space between you in two strides, pulling you into a gentle hug, his hand found the small of your back, thumb brushing soothing circles there.

 “Morning, beautiful,” he murmured against your hair. “How’re you feeling today? Any nausea?”

“Better,” you whispered back, leaning into his warmth. 

The first trimester had been rough; mornings spent with your head over the toilet while Joe rubbed your back and Lily “helped” by bringing you her favorite blanket but today felt good. Steady, ready. “I think it’s time, Joe. Tonight?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression softening with that mix of excitement and nerves you’d come to love so much.

 “Yeah.,, tonight. We’ll make it special for her.”

The day unfolded in that comfortable rhythm of family life that you and Joe had built since Lily’s arrival. After breakfast, you all bundled up against the late autumn chill and headed to the park. Lily raced ahead on the path, her little legs pumping as she chased falling leaves. Joe kept pace beside you, his fingers laced through yours. The park was mostly empty on a weekday, leaves crunching underfoot in shades of crimson and gold.

“Remember when we brought her here for the first time?” Joe said, his voice carrying that nostalgic warmth. “She was terrified of the swings.”

You laughed softly. “and now she’s demanding you push her higher every time. She gets that fearlessness from you.”

“Nah,” he replied, squeezing your hand. “She gets it from her mom.. the woman who agreed to a second date after I spilled coffee all over her favorite book on our first one.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “That book was a classic, you owe me for life.”

He stopped walking for a moment, turning to face you fully, his free hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing your jawline.

 “I owe you everything. This life… Lily… and now this little one.” His gaze dropped meaningfully to your stomach. “I still can’t believe it sometimes.. that we’re doing this again.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but they were happy ones. 

The pregnancy had been a surprise welcome, but unexpected after years of focusing on careers and raising Lily. Joe’s schedule had calmed somewhat after Stranger Things ended, allowing more time at home. You’d stepped back from your own writing gigs to be present for their daughter.

 It felt like the perfect moment to grow their family.

“I love you,” you said simply.

“Love you more,” he countered, leaning down to kiss you softly. Lily’s distant giggle broke the moment, and you both turned to see her attempting to climb a small tree.

“Daddy! Help me be a monkey!”

Joe chuckled, releasing you with a reluctant sigh.

 “Duty calls… big monkey coming through.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of playground antics, grocery shopping and a quiet nap time where you and Joe stole a few moments on the couch. His head rested in your lap, one hand splayed across your belly as if already bonding with the new life inside. You ran your fingers through his hair, memorizing the peace of the moment.

By evening, the house smelled of Joe’s famous homemade pizza, his attempt at making the announcement night feel celebratory without being obvious.

 Lily had helped “decorate” the kitchen with crayon drawings of their family: stick figures with oversized heads, you and Joe holding hands, Lily in the middle with Mr. Roar. A new drawing space had been left blank on the paper, which Joe had subtly suggested was “for a surprise friend.”

Dinner was lively.

 Lily recounted her day in exhaustive detail, from the leaf pile she’d jumped in to the squirrel that had stared at her “like it wanted my snack.” Joe listened with rapt attention, asking questions that made her beam with pride. You picked at your pizza, nerves fluttering in your chest despite the excitement.

 How would Lily react? She’d been an only child for four years, the center of their universe. Would she feel replaced? Jealous?

Joe caught your eye across the table and gave you a reassuring nod.

After dinner came the ritual of bath time, Joe handled the splashing chaos while you prepared the living room. 

You’d bought a small gift earlier in the week, a tiny onesie that read “Big Sister in Training” in pastel letters, wrapped in tissue paper with a handwritten note from the baby, a balloon that said “Big Sister” was tied to the couch, hidden for now and soft music played in the background, one of the lullabies Lily loved.

When Joe emerged from the bathroom with a towel dried, pajama clad Lily in his arms, her cheeks flushed from the warm water, you were ready. 

She spotted the balloon immediately.

“Mommy! What’s that? Is it my birthday again?”

You laughed, pulling her onto your lap on the couch as Joe settled beside you, his arm draping around your shoulders. “Not quite, sweetheart but we have a very special surprise for you tonight.”

Lily’s eyes widened, her small hands clutching Mr. Roar tighter.

 “A surprise? Like ice cream for dinner surprise?”

“Even better,” Joe said, his voice gentle, he reached over and handed her the wrapped package. “Go ahead, open it.”

She tore into the tissue paper with the enthusiasm only a preschooler could muster, pulling out the tiny onesie. She held it up, frowning in confusion at first as she sounded out the words you’d helped her learn recently.

 “Big… Sis… ter?” Her gaze darted between you and Joe. “But I’m the sister? Wait, no. I don’t have a sister.”

You felt your throat tighten with emotion. “That’s because… mommy has a baby growing in her tummy. A little brother or sister for you, Lily. You’re going to be a big sister.”

The room fell quiet for a heartbeat, Lily stared at the onesie, then at your stomach, then back at the onesie. Her little brow furrowed in that way it did when she was processing something big, like when they’d explained why daddy had to be away sometimes.

“A baby?” she whispered. “In your tummy? Like how I was?”

Joe nodded, scooting closer so the three of them formed a tight circle

. “Just like you. The baby’s really small right now, but they’re growing every day and they’re going to need the best big sister in the whole world to show them how to play, and how to eat pancakes, and how to be brave at the park.”

Lily’s eyes filled with tears, not sad ones, but overwhelmed, wondrous ones. “I’m gonna be a big sister?” She placed a tentative hand on your belly, her touch feather light. “Hi, baby. I’m Lily. I have a dinosaur, do you like dinosaurs?”

You covered her hand with yours, tears spilling over your own cheeks now. Joe’s arm tightened around you both, his own eyes glistening.

 “She’s going to be the best big sister,” he said, voice thick. “Just like she’s the best daughter.”

Lily launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around your neck in a fierce hug. “I love the baby already! Can we name it Roar if it’s a boy? Or Sparkles if it’s a girl?”

Joe burst out laughing, the sound warm and relieved. 

“We’ll think about it, kiddo but yeah, those are strong contenders.”

The next hour dissolved into questions, endless, adorable questions. 

“Will the baby sleep in my room? Can the baby play tea party with me and Mr. Roar? What if the baby doesn’t like my drawings?”

 You and Joe answered each one patiently, weaving stories of what their family would look like with four members instead of three. 

By bedtime, exhaustion had caught up with her, but she refused to let go of the onesie. Joe carried her upstairs, reading her favorite story about a family of dinosaurs welcoming a new egg. You followed, leaning against the doorframe as his voice filled the room with dramatic flair complete with sound effects that made Lily giggle sleepily.

When she was finally tucked in, her breathing even, you and Joe slipped out into the hallway, he pulled you into his arms immediately, burying his face in your neck.

“She took it so well,” he murmured. “God, I was nervous.”

“Me too,” you admitted, holding him tight. “But she’s going to be amazing. We all are.”

He pulled back, his hands framing your face as he kissed you deeply, slow and full of promise. The kind of kiss that spoke of years together, of shared joys and challenges, of building something real amid chaos. When you broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” he murmured, voice low and tender. “It’s been an important day. You need to rest.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his. “Only if you come with me, I don’t want to end tonight alone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 He stood, scooping you up bridal style with a playful grin despite your half hearted protest. “Doctor’s orders…well, future-dad orders. Carrying my beautiful, pregnant wife to bed.”

“Joe!” you laughed softly, arms looping around his neck. “I can walk. I’m only two months along, not nine.”

“Practice for when you are nine months along,” he countered, navigating the hallway with ease. 

In the bedroom, the lamp cast a warm glow. You changed into one of his old t-shirts while Joe slipped out of his clothes, leaving him in boxers. He pulled back the covers and you both slid in, bodies instinctively finding each other. Joe’s hand immediately sought your belly, palm splayed protectively over the subtle curve.

“Hey, little one,” he said softly, voice vibrating against your shoulder as he spooned you from behind. “It’s Dad. Your big sister Lily is already planning your whole life, tea parties, park adventures, maybe even acting lessons if you’re into that but no pressure. Just… grow strong and healthy, okay? We can’t wait to meet you.”

You placed your hand over his, lacing your fingers.

 “You’re going to be amazing with two of them. I saw you today at the park, lifting Lily her, making her laugh so hard she almost fell off the swing. This baby’s lucky.”

“We’re the lucky ones,” he corrected, nuzzling into your neck. “Remember when we found out about Lily? I was a nervous wreck. Thought I’d drop her the first time I held her.”

“You cried more than I did in the delivery room,” you teased gently, turning in his arms to face him. Your noses brushed. “And then you looked at me and said, ‘We made a person. A whole perfect person.’”

Joe’s eyes softened, thumb stroking your cheek. “Still feels like that, every day and now we get to do it again.£ he said, then he pulled you closer, legs tangling with yours under the sheets.

 The room fell quiet for a moment, filled only with the steady rhythm of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

Taglist: @watercolorskyy, @deviousfaye , @watercolorskyy , @l33nlikeacholo @ophirei @leahfaith @bluehexagon8 @unclejeezysblog@sweatydjoshoes

masterlist

[cha0ticstranger]

𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥, 𝐢 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

steve harrington x henderson!reader

requested! — post s4/ pre s5 fluff w/ lite angst blurb! — 1.4k words

It had been a month since the quarantine had started, and a very long month at that. The military had just started their operation to overlay the fresh cracks in the earth with giant steel plates. A band-aid right on top of an open wound. 

The party was still getting their footing, scared for when Vecna would strike next. Max was still in the hospital, her body on the mend while she remained deep in a coma. You would often join your brother or Steve to visit her, hoping that even her silent presence would fill the hole that Max’s curse had left. Steve had really stepped up to be there for Lucas through the defeat. It was clear that he blamed himself for that night, for Jason finding them in the Creel house. 

To say that the last month had been draining would be putting it politely — but life moved on. The military had created a regulatory schedule including a strict curfew for Hawkins. From sun up to sun down, civilians were free to roam the town, excluding the MAC-Z in the center of downtown. School had even reopened, trying to provide the remaining children of Hawkins with an education and hope that normalcy would return. The people of Hawkins slowly returned to their regular jobs or chose to volunteer for the humanitarian organizations that brought in rations from the outside world. You wondered whether the eyes of the nation were focused on the insanity that had racked your once-small town, or if they had found a new tragedy to focus on. 

The knock of the doorway caught your attention, derailing your thoughts. You lifted your gaze from the manual you had been reading to where Steve stood in the entryway of the WSQK green room. He held a soda in both hands and flashed you an easy smile, approaching your side. 

This was your new normal. After Robin discovered that her favorite radio DJ had skipped town, leaving the station abandoned, the town committee needed new employees to manage the public airwaves. Steve and Robin were fresh out of a job with Family Video, choosing to shut down the Hawkins store. Plus, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and you would all be graduating high school and still be stuck in Hawkins until the gate was closed. 

So it was decided that your ragtag group would run the station and utilize it as a base of operations to locate Vecna. Dustin, your younger brother, led the charge in establishing a comms system, but that meant you needed to learn what every part of that tower did. 

“Studying up?” Steve asked as he offered you the cold soda. 

“Trying too. You never know what could happen, and at least one of us should know how all this works in case Dustin’s busy,” You rambled off with an explanation. 

Steve chuckled, his eyes flicking over your face in admiration, “Well, why don’t you take a break? The manual will still be here later, and you can fry your brain trying to become an engineer then. But I just found another box of records to sort through. New releases that arrived at the station before everything went to shit.”

You smiled as you took a half step closer. Steve took the opportunity to wrap an arm around your waist, tugging you against his side.

“Fine, fine. I’ll help you with the music library,” Your tone full of playful mirth, though you were content to spend some time together. It had been hard to just have some quality time as a couple before all the craziness took over. 

Both of you stood at the table, sorting through a cardboard box to alphabetize the new singles. Prince, Bowie, Tiffany – new additions to the extensive catalog. Steve picked out one of the records at random, pulling George Michael’s Faith. 

“Oh, is that your new fave?” You asked, with a warm smile, at his pleased expression. 

His smile morphed into confusion. “Um, no? You love George Michael.”

“No, I love Wham!” You corrected him, moving your attention to the actual task. 

While you thumbed through the records, Steve set the single aside. One large hand settled on his hip, perplexed and brow pinched, “Same thing. You like George Michael.”

“Totally not the same thing,” You scoffed at his lack of discernment between the two, “George Michael is great, and I love that single, but I still prefer Wham! I think George is finding his sound outside of what the band was.”

“Jesus, you sound like Eddie when he corrects me on Black Zeppelin,” Steve sighed, dragging a hand over his face in exasperation. 

“I think you’re trying to say Black Sabbath,” you cringed a little at his lack of musical knowledge, but at least your boyfriend would agree to listen to anything once. Your eyes danced over his confused expression, “Why do you think George Michael is my favorite artist?”

“Um… Dustin mentioned you and your mom listening to it to cheer up, and you’ve asked Robin to queue it a few times. So I made note that this was your favorite song,” Steve explained, attempting not to sound like the worried boyfriend he was, “Y’know, just in case.”

Neither of you needed to elaborate — you both knew what ‘just in case’ meant. Steve beat himself up every day about Max, and he was determined to keep you and everyone else in the party from the same fate. 

You gave him a sympathetic smile, stepping closer to his side, “That’s really sweet, y’know.”

Steve bashfully shook his head, moving his hand to rub soothing circles against your upper back, “Figured you’d do the same for me.”

“Oh, of course. I don’t think your Tears for Fears cassette has seen the light of day since you first put it in your car,” You affectionately teased him, not wanting to burst his bubble just yet. 

“Haha, yeah, you’ve got me figured out,” He hummed, taking a moment to simply admire you in the moment. Steve tucked your hair behind your ear. “So what is your favorite song?”

Your eyes drifted back over the singles, knowing that you wouldn’t find it there. Because your favorite song wasn’t the latest hit from this summer or even last. Music had a way of sticking with you, even if the rest of the world changed. Your eyes trailed back up to meet Steve’s, giving him a gentle smile before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. 

“Thank you, but if that’s an avoidant tactic, it’s not gonna work,” Steve hummed, tugging you half an inch closer by your belt loop, “Tell me. I won’t laugh – promise. Mike likes The Butthole Surfers, so I don’t think it gets much worse than that.”

After mulling it over a moment longer, you admitted with an exasperated sigh, “Well… my favorite song is Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper.”

Steve blinked, not completely shocked but a little stunned at the information, “That cheesy ballad we danced to at Prom?”

“Cyndi Lauper is not cheesy,” You swiftly corrected him with a glare, “And… yes, it is.”

His signature smirk stretched across his lips, “You are such a sap. I can’t even believe it. Time After Time? Really?”

“Really,” you nodded, exasperated by his need for explanation, “It was just… We had just started kind of dating, and you were there. Not just my rom date, but my boyfriend who went dress shopping with me and bought a matching tie and sneaking a flask of your dad’s liquor — it was the perfect night. And then you won Prom King and refused to dance with Tammy Thompson, even though she rightfully won Prom Queen.”

“Because why dance with Tammy Thompson when I’ve got you,” Steve chuckled, reaching to intertwine your fingers, “I stopped caring about winning Prom King after the demodogs. Was shocked I was still nominated.”

“You’re still Steve Harrington, need I remind you?” You teased him, recalling a version of Steve you hadn’t known in a long time now.

“Sure, sure. I’m Steve Harrington to Hawkins,” His brown eyes held intense focus on your own, “But I’m happy here just being your Steve. Which makes us both saps, I guess.”

“You’ve always been a sap,” Your lips twisted into a loving smile before pressing a kiss to his cheek, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Steve nodded in agreement, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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