The smells of food and sounds of laughter drift in from the backyard. Leon drops his keys and work things on the dining room table, staring out into the backyard through the glass deck door. Your family insists on this get together every year, and since you and Leon have the idealic backyard, you get voluntold to be the venue. Leon lets out a long tired sigh and rolls a cramped shoulder. Your family can be a lot to deal with, but your step-dad makes the best prime ribs, so he figures he can handle it one afternoon a year.
He looks around for you. No sign of your pretty face anywhere in the little crowd socializing outside. Which is odd, because usually you're out there with everyone else, mingling and cooking and having a good time. As if on cue, his phone buzzes, face up on the table.
You: Psst. are you home yet?"
Untucking a hand from his pocket, he picks up the device to respond.
Leon: yeah. just got in.
Immediate reply:
You: come upstairs a sec. Guest bathroom.
HIs feet lean into action and turn to take him in that direction. He heads for the stairs as he texts back.
Leon: what's up? you okay?
You: just get in here pls
He pockets his phone and jogs up the steps, brow knitting in a mixture of confusion, concern, and genuine curiosity. His mind runs through a million different scenarios, some worst case, others compensating with soothing logic that's telling him it's not as serious as all that. Still, slightly unusual behavior on your part, but as he sees the bathroom door appear as he rounds the corner, he figures he'll get his answer soon.
You stand in the bathroom against the wall, staring at yourself in your sundress and light makeup. Your cheeks feel unusually warm, and there's color peaking out from beneath your makeup that is not the blush you put on earlier. You heave a deep breath and let it out slowly. There's a heaviness that's coiling from your chest down into your belly and making your blood pump a little hotter than what's usual for you. Your thoughts wander, only startled out of their reverie when the bathroom door cracks open.
Leon slips inside, closing the door right behind him. You feel a flush of relief, and an even more intense warmth, upon seeing him. The smell of him hits you immediately as he turns to you, brows knit in gentle concern as a large, gentle hand reaches out for you. It settles warmly on your ribs.
"Are you alright? What's going on?"
His gaze flickers between your eyes, then down your body, as if trying to determine an invisible source of some discomfort or concern. But what's plaguing you is not the discomfort he's probably imagining.
"You don't look sick. Are you hurt?"
Your hands feel cool and clammy as you reach out for him and tug him closer by his shirt collar. He comes willingly, flush against you, still staring at you with that intense look of concern. You shake your head.
"It's not any of that." Your voice drops down to a whisper, and you squirm a little bit in your skin. Your fingers of one hand uncurl from his shirt to relax flat against his chest.
"I just..." Words never seem to come easy for you when it comes to things like this. You just let yourself take him in, your eyes wandering down the length of him and appreciating every bulge and ripple visible through his shirt, and the broad round of his shoulders. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip thoughtlessly, then release when you realize you're doing it.
Leon stares at you, for a second not really understanding what you're trying to get after. Then it dawns on him with the way your body is leaking heat and the way your hips don't manage to hold still very long. A hand slips behind your hair to feel the heat radiating off your neck. His face relaxes and he lifts an eyebrow.
"Here? Now?"
You snag your lower lip between your teeth again, tucking your chin close to your chest as you nod. He readjusts his grip on your torso. It's a touch more secure. His eyes flit over you, studying you.
"Baby..." It's affectionate with a touch of a sigh. He glances at his watch. "Dinner starts in 30 minutes."
"That's enough time," You insist. He glances to the door and back at you, lowering his voice.
"I don't know if you can be that quiet, baby."
"I can!"
He gives you a dubious look.
"Promise?"
You give an eager nod. He spends a few more final moments assessing you before he exhales the air from his lungs, relenting.
"Alright. But quick. And quiet." He emphasizes that part, and you don't know whether to laugh or be annoyed.
He doesn't let you have the time to agonize over the choice though. He kisses you, but it's light and fleeting and barely enough to be more than an unsatisfactory taste. He reaches down and hikes your skirt up, slightly rough textured palms finding your bare, quivering thighs. He runs his hands up to your hips, looking for your panties to pull them aside, but finding none. Glancing up at you through a cocked eyebrow, he gives you a look, but doesn't say anything. You give him a sheepish smile. His fingers dip between your legs.
You bite down on a moan. You're wet, but definitely not wet enough. And someone take him out back and shoot him the day he hurts you because he was too impatient. Leon's not the type.
He spits on two of his fingers, pushing them back in between your swollen lips and massaging the makeshift lubricant into you. You fight your inner demons trying not to make a sound, and his soft cooing at you isn't helping.
"Shh, I know, baby, I know." His other arms keeps you upright, already knowing that you and your wobbly legs need the extra stability. You lean into him, pressing your mouth against his arm.
He doesn't touch the spot inside you with his fingertips. He just massages the walls and the folds until he's satisfied that they're dripping enough, and he withdraws. He hears your soft gasp at the sudden absence.
"I know. Just hang on," He soothes as he braces you against his one arm and the wall, freeing up the other to undo his own belt and fasten. The sound of it Pavlov dogs you into wanting it so bad you practically drool and let slip a whimper.
"Shh. Don't make me cover that pretty mouth of yours," He whispers into your ear as he pulls himself out and draws your hips flush against his so the tip can rub against you for a bit of lubrication. He knows it'll just help you get wetter, and he's right. You shove your mouth against his shoulder.
He tuts softly, a small smile tickling the corner of his mouth. "You're already shaking. You poor baby."
All you can do is nod against his arm, eyes squeezed shut as your face twists into a pathetic expression. That does something to him, and you can feel him grow a little stiffer against your soft, sensitive folds of skin. You shudder. He chuckles.
"I haven't even put it in yet." He takes himself in his hand and prods at your opening, tightening his grip on you when he feels you stiffen. "Can you be quiet for me?"
You nod crisply.
He's going to take your word for it. Dangerous little risk for sure, but as long as nobody comes looking, they should be fine. Not that he can trust his nosy mother-in-law, but like he told you, it'll be quick.
He makes sure your back is pressed against the wall for stability insurance, and sinks himself into you. You shudder, and the way you pulse and tighten around him as he slides himself inside your warmth makes him shut his eyes and draw in a deep breath to keep from groaning himself. Oh, you were dying waiting for him to get home from work.
As much as he loves to take his time with you, he knows he can't. Later. For now, he starts moving almost immediately, threading his fingers through your hair to pull your face more securely into his shoulder when you start whimpering. Quiet, broken little whimpers, sure, but he can't afford for you to get any louder.
As for you, your head is empty. Your eyes have rolled back beneath your closed eyelids as a rush flows and pulses through your whole body. Your breath comes out in short, barely controlled bursts as you focus all that remains of your present mind on not making a sound. You're not one who usually likes risks, but right now everything feels ten times hotter than usual.
His hips adjusts, and he hits the perfect spot. You stiffen, straining a groan against his shoulder.
"Sh- shhh..." He pants, his breath blowing a few flyaway strands of your hair. His hand soothes over them. "I know, baby, it feels good."
Your insides twist and clench and bring you higher. You ram your palm into his chest in a few quick, repeated successions, signaling.
"You close?" He huffs, and you nod against his shoulder, using all your strength to focus on the build, and anticipate the noise that's going to want to come.
You feel him twitch and you know he's on the edge too.
"What do you need?" You feel his breath at your ear. It makes goosebumps multiply down your back.
You can't speak.
"Harder?"
You shake your head.
"Deeper?"
Another shake. You're starting to feel sweaty.
"Faster."
You nod, and he takes his cue, his hips picking up a pistoning pace that rocks your body so perfect, your mind goes blank.
You tried to be quiet, you really did. But as it all washed over you and you bit down on his shoulder, a pathetic, tortured moan ripped from your throat and muffled into his shirt. That sends him over the edge, and he jerks out of you just in time to make a mess on your thighs.
You almost fall over, but Leon's still got that arm anchored around you. The dull throb between your legs is satiated for now, but you know it won't be for long. It'll be back before the evening is over for sure.
But as for now, you feel tingly and warm and safe. And the way he's cradling you right now, like he's holding you together, is making you want to close your eyes and go to sleep right now.
But you can't do that. Regrettably.
You feel him kiss your forehead gently, and you allow yourself a moment to pretend you could fall asleep while he reaches for a towel to clean you off. The rough fibers feel like a douse of cold water on your sensitive skin. When he's done pulling down your skirt, Leon returns to wrapping his arms around you once more, and giving your forehead another kiss.
"We should get downstairs," He whispers to you, his voice raspy from what's just transpired.
"Yeah," you sigh reluctantly, still not moving.
He smiles and gives your temple a final kiss, before pulling away from you and helping you stand up on your own two wobbly feet. He smiles at you and smoothes out your hair.
"I love you."
He gets a tired, slightly wrecked smile in return.
"I love you, too."
He pulls you in again, though not quite as close. His hand smoothes down your side and rubs a circular motion around your hip. Another kiss, but before pulling away his lips glance over your ear.
"I've got plans for you later. Be ready."
A kiss is left like an offering on the shell of your ear, he pulls away and opens the bathroom door. The outside world is none the wiser.
yes Iâm thin white pale flat chested and I have a thigh gap and scars all over me and mysterious leg bruises but I think you should still kiss me all over
â steve harrington is only scared of two things: clowns and chief hopperâs gun. unfortunately he is also deeply, hopelessly in love with you, hopperâs daughter and convinced he isnât good enough for you. when he turns you down to 'do the right thing,' you end up heartbroken but after one rainy confession later you both realize the obvious: you were idiots in love the whole time.
đ 9.1k â steve harrington x fem!hopper!reader, so much narration it's crazy ( but also if you've been here for some time you'd know how much i love narrations ), fluff, erica and dustin being the ultimate life savers, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, yearning steve harrington, steve âiâm not good enough for herâ harrington, hopper being overprotective, reader with a very obvious crush, awkward rejection at family video, rain confession trope, kissing fixes everything, friends to lovers, star wars references ( from someone who has never watched it ) because steve cannot help himself
author's note â the result of me being bored of studying economics and procastinating successfully. hope it still makes you cry when i fail the exam. enjoy <3
masterlist : navigation
gif by @acecroft | divider by @/lavendergalactic
Steve Harrington had only been scared of two things his whole life: clowns, and Chief Hopperâs gun.
The clown thing was ridiculous and he knew it. He had known it since he was eight years old and had cried at a birthday party because a man in a red polka-dot suit made a balloon dog and then smiled at him with too many teeth.
It was embarrassing, deeply uncool, and very much the kind of secret that could destroy what little remained of his reputation if it ever got out.
Still, that fear was manageable. Steve could work around clowns. He could avoid circuses, look away from creepy posters, and pretend those terrifying red noses were part of some joke he simply did not get.
Hopperâs gun, on the other hand, was not something he could avoid so easily. Mostly because it was real, loaded with bullete, and always, always being cleaned in Steveâs general direction whenever he came over to your house.
It did not help that Hopper made a whole performance out of it.
Every single time Steve came over, Hopper was suddenly sitting in the living room cleaning the gun. He would take it apart, put it back together, check it, wipe it down, and then look up just long enough to pin Steve with a stare that said, you know what this means.
Steve, for a fact, did not know what that meant, except if it meant him dying by it, then he was pretty sure he knew what it meant.
But you had reassured Steve at least a hundred times that your dad was not actually going to use it. Still, Steve had his concerns. Very valid ones, in his opinion. Because there was intimidating, and then there was Jim Hopper leaning back on the couch with a firearm in his lap while Steve sat on the opposite end trying to keep a respectable three inches between himself and you like that tiny gap was the only thing preserving his life.
The rule, oh god, the rule itself was torture. If Steveâs hand got too close to yours, Hopper cleared his throat. If Steve leaned in to hear you better, Hopper shifted in his seat. If your knee brushed Steveâs for half a second, Steve could actually feel Hopperâs glare hit the side of his face like heat from the sun.
It was not like you didnât try to defend his honour. You did, every time. You would roll your eyes and tell your dad he was being overprotective, that Steve was nice, that Steve had literally helped save the world more than once, which should have earned him at least a little trust and maybe the right to sit next to his friend without being treated like a criminal.
But Hopper was persistent in the way only fathers of daughters could be, especially daughters they loved enough to terrify teenage boys over. He would grunt, mumble something about manners and boundaries, and continue staring Steve down like he was waiting for him to do one wrong thing.
Steve, for his part, tried very hard to never do the wrong thing. He was so polite at your house it was actually pathetic. He sat up straight, said sir more than he had ever said it in his life, and once thanked Hopper for passing the salt which very clearly was pepper. And the worst part was that none of it helped.
Still, Steve kept coming over.
Because of you.
Because you were, very simply, the most amazing person Steve had ever met. Ever seen, ever heard about, ever talked with, ever laughed with, ever cried with, ever fought monsters beside, ever bled beside, ever stumbled out of the end of the world beside.
You made Steve feel seen in a way that still startled him sometimes. Like you had looked past all the old versions of him, the ones he was embarrassed by and the ones he still did not fully know what to do with, and decided he was worth keeping anyway. It was a terrifying thing, being cared for by you. Not bad terrifying, not Hopperâs-gun terrifying, but the kind that made his chest ache because he wanted to be worthy of it all the time.
Steve, for his part, liked to think of what he felt for you as admiration. Friendly admiration.
The kind a person might feel for someone they happened to enjoy spending every possible second with, someone whose voice he could pick out in a crowded room without trying, someone whose bad moods he could sense before you even said a word.
It was probably just admiration that made him remember every little thing you told him, like how you hated orange candy but liked orange juice.
It was definitely just admiration that made his chest go warm and oddly tight whenever you smiled at him. And if he thought you were the bravest girl he had ever known, if he found himself wanting to make you laugh even when he was exhausted, if every near-death experience only seemed to increase the thought that being near you mattered more than he knew how to explain, well, that was probably still friendly.
Steve was pretty sure. At least, he was sure enough to keep telling himself that, because the alternative felt a little too big to look at directly.
A hand suddenly snapped in front of Steveâs face, dragging him clean out of the mess of his own thoughts.
âSteve. Hey, Steve. Earth to Steven.â
He blinked hard, like he had just been caught doing something illegal, and turned to find you standing there with your eyebrows raised and your mouth twitching like you were trying not to laugh. âHuh? Hey. What?â
You tilted your head at him, amused in that easy way that always made him feel both warm and deeply ridiculous. âI need to go somewhere. It will only take half an hour. Do you want to stay here, or are you going home?â
Steve glanced automatically toward the living room and narrowed his eyes a little. âIf I say stay, is your dad going to kill me?â
You huffed out a laugh. âNo, I don't think so. And besides, he is not here today.â
And just like that, the relief on Steveâs face was almost embarrassing. His shoulders dropped, his whole expression loosened, and a smile came over him. âOh. Okay. Then yeah, I can wait here.â
Your eyes brightened at once, pleased in a way that made something in Steveâs chest do a stupid little flip. You grinned at him, quick and pretty and impossible not to stare at. âOkay. I promise I will come quick. Also, Jane may come in between from school, but I think she will leave for Maxâs immediately after. Could you just make sure she has her lunch first?â
Steve nodded without hesitation. âAll right.â
You smiled even wider. âThanks. I will be back. Watch a tape in the meantime?â
He gave you a small nod, still looking at you with a loopy smile. âYeah. Sure.â
Steve had been sitting there for a while, half-watching Star Wars and half-thinking about you (in a friendly way, of course), which was lately how most of his afternoons went.
Then he heard the clicking at the door.
He barely looked up at first, just assumed it was Jane coming in from school. So he kept watching the tape, eyes still on the screen, waiting for the door to open fully. But when it did, the light from outside was mostly blocked all at once, swallowed by a figure much bigger than Jane had any business being, and Steve knew immediately that it was definitely not her.
For one brief, insane second, he secretly hoped it was a demogorgon.
At least with a demogorgon, he knew where he stood.
But the universe was clearly not on his side, because when he turned, it was Hopper.
Steve swallowed so fast it almost hurt and lunged for the remote, pausing the tape just as Hopper stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Hopperâs eyes landed on Steve in that exact way they always did, like he had come home and found a raccoon in his kitchen trying to act natural. He stared for one long second before grunting, âWhere are my daughters?â
Steve opened his mouth. âOut.â
The second the word left him, he knew it was the wrong answer. Too vague. Too much like something a guilty man would say right before being buried in a shallow grave. He corrected himself so quickly he almost tripped over the words. âI mean, Jane is at school. Or at Maxâs. And, uh, Y/N is out for some work.â
Hopper narrowed his eyes. âWhat kind of work?â
âI did not ask,â Steve said, trying for honesty and landing somewhere closer to panic.
Hopper kept looking at him for another second, then walked farther into the room. Steve followed every movement.
Hopper came over and sat down on the seat adjacent to the couch, close enough that Steve could smell cigarettes and general parental disapproval.
Steve stood up on instinct almost immediately, because that seemed like the safest thing to do, maybe the smartest, maybe the thing most likely to save his life expectancy.
Hopper looked up at him. âSit down.â
Steve froze. âWhat?â
âI said sit down. I want to talk.â
âCool,â Steve said, nodding too much, as he sat down and looked around. âCool, cool. Uh, so. Crime, huh? Terrible.â
Hopper did not blink. âI want to talk about my daughter.â
Steve nodded immediately. âOh, yes. Jane is a lovely girl. Very. . .â He faltered for a second under Hopperâs stare. âSweet?â
Hopperâs face did not change. âMy other daughter.â
Steveâs stomach dropped. âY/N?â he said, then attempted a smile that came out strained and weird. âOh, yeah. Y/N is amazing too. Really smart.â
Hopper leaned back slightly, still watching him with that unreadable expression that made Steve feel like he was being measured for a coffin. âThereâs the problem.â
Steve stared. âHer being smart?â
âYou.â
Steve went quiet, which for him in a bad situation was saying something. Hopper rested his forearms on his knees and looked straight ahead for a moment before speaking again.
âI donât like you,â he said.
Steve let out one awkward breath. âYeah, no, I got that.â
âI donât like you around her. I donât like how much time you spend here. I donât like the way she looks at you.â
Steveâs hands tightened together. He looked down at them, then back up, then down again, unsure where it was safest to look. âWe are just hanging out. As friends.â He added the last part quickly although he didn't believe it enough himself.
Hopper let out a humorless little sound. âThat supposed to make me feel better?â
Steve did not answer, mostly because he had the strong feeling there was not a single correct answer available to him.
For a moment Hopper said nothing. Then, he continued, âYou know why I donât like it?â
Steve swallowed. âBecause you think I am a bad influence?â
âNo.â Hopperâs eyes moved to him. âBecause I think you and me are too similar.â
That, somehow, was not what Steve had expected, and the confusion must have shown on his face because Hopper kept going.
âYou walk around like you are trying real hard to be useful,â he said. âLike if you keep helping, keep showing up, keep making yourself necessary, nobody will notice all the things wrong with you. You act like a kid who already decided what kind of man he is and does not think much of the answer.â
Steve opened his mouth and then shut it again.
Hopper looked away for a second, jaw working. âAnd I know that look because I know what it feels like. Thinking you care about somebody enough should be enough. Thinking maybe if you want to do better bad enough, that counts for something. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesnât.â
Steveâs throat felt dry. âI care about her. . .â
âI know,â Hopper said. âThatâs not what worries me.â
Steve frowned a little. âThen what does?â
âBecause I'm not good enough for my little girl,â he said. âAnd if youâre anything like me, then youâre not good enough for my little girl either.â
The words hit hard enough that Steve actually felt his chest go tight. Like he had reached down into the very worst place inside Steve and pulled out the thing Steve already feared most.
Steve laughed once under his breath, except there was nothing funny in it. âYeah,â he said. âOkay.â
Hopper looked at him then, maybe expecting an argument, maybe expecting Steve to push back, to insist he was better than that.
Steve did not. Because the awful part was, he did not really know how to.
He thought about you laughing with him, trusting him, calling him when things went wrong, smiling like he belonged in your life, and all at once that felt less like something lucky and more like something temporary. Like maybe Hopper was just the first person cruel enough to say out loud what Steve should have figured out sooner.
âI am trying,â Steve said after a long moment. âI mean, I know I screw things up sometimes, but I am trying.â
Hopper shrugged. âTrying is a start.â
That was not comfort. That was barely even mercy.
Steve looked down at the paused television screen, at his own faint reflection in it, warped. âShe should get somebody better than me,â he thought to himself.
The front door opened.
Both of them looked up at once just as Jane stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder.
âHello,â she said.
By the time you got back, the first thing you noticed was Steveâs car was gone.
You slowed in the driveway, frowning as you looked at the empty spot where it had been parked earlier, a small, confused crease forming between your brows.
For a second you just stood there with your keys in hand, staring at nothing, like maybe if you looked long enough the car would magically reappear and Steve would climb out with one of his sheepish smiles and some rambling explanation that would somehow make perfect sense because it was him. But the driveway stayed empty, and that strange little disappointment settled heavier in your chest than it probably should have.
When you stepped inside, you could smell the dinner, and the sound of conversation from the kitchen.
You slipped your shoes off and headed in, only to stop slightly when you saw your dad already there with Jane.
You looked at Hopper. âHey. Uh, Dad, youâre early.â
Hopper just nodded once. âCome sit for dinner.â
You glanced between him and Jane, still half-thinking Steve might somehow appear from another room, but when he did not, you pulled out a chair and sat down. âRight.â
For a minute, you tried to ignore the odd feeling curling in your stomach. Then you leaned a little toward Jane and lowered your voice. âHey, whereâs Steve?â
Jane looked at you, then flicked her eyes over your shoulder in a quick glance toward Hopper before answering. âHe left ten minutes ago.â
Your face fell before you could stop it. âOh.â
It came out smaller than you meant it to. You sat back in your chair after that, quieting down a little, your earlier ease gone fuzzy around the edges.
It was not like Steve had to wait around forever for you, obviously. He had his own life. You knew that. Still, he could have stayed. Or at least left a note. Or told Jane something more than that. The whole thing sat strangely with you, like a sentence missing its last word.
Later, shut inside your room with the door closed, you called him.
The phone rang just long enough for you to start thinking maybe he would not pick up, and then there was the familiar click of the line connecting. âHey,â you said at once, tucking one leg under you on the bed. âYou left.â
There was a pause.
Then Steve said, âYeah. Uh, Henderson called me with code red.â
You furrowed your brows immediately. That made no sense. You had literally been with Dustin earlier because he had forgotten something at home and needed it at school, and he had seemed perfectly fine. Nothing about him had said emergency.
Still, all you said was, âOh.â
The word sat there between you, uncertain.
You stared at the wall across from your bed, turning the phone cord around your finger. You wondered, not for the first time, why Steve was lying to you. Because he was. You knew he was.
But you pushed the thought aside, deciding for the moment not to make something out of what might be nothing. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he had just had one of those weird Steve moments where his brain tripped over itself and produced nonsense.
You took a small breath, already getting ready to ask him about the movie, already knowing the answer was probably Star Wars because Steveâs devotion to those tapes bordered on religious, but before you could say anything else, he cut in.
âCan we talk later?â Steve said quickly. âI need to go somewhere.â
You blinked. âOh. Uh.â
The disappointment hit sharper this time, quick and stupid and annoyingly difficult to hide, but you swallowed it down anyway. âOkay.â
And before you could say bye, or even soften it with a laugh or ask one more question or make sense of the strange distance in his voice, the line clicked dead.
Your bye stayed there, useless, hanging.
The next day, you told yourself Steve had probably just been tired.
That was the easiest explanation, and the one that annoyed you the least, so you held onto it all the way to Family Video.
By the time you pushed open the door and stepped inside, you had managed to convince yourself that everything was normal, that you were not thinking too hard about the awkward phone call, and that Steve would take one look at you and immediately go back to being his usual sweet, slightly frazzled self.
Robin looked up from behind the counter when the bell above the door jingled. âHey.â
You smiled and wandered over. âHey.â
She leaned her elbows on the counter and gave you a look that was far too knowing for ten seconds into a conversation. âYou here to see Steve?â
You widened your eyes in fake innocence. âI could be here to see you too.â
Robin raised one brow.
You lasted about half a second. âYeah, Iâm here to see Steve.â
âThought so,â she said, not even pretending to be surprised. Then she jerked her thumb toward the back. âHeâs in the back. You could wait here for some time.â
You nodded. âOkay.â
So you stayed there at the counter, trying very hard to look casual and very obviously failing, because every few seconds your eyes drifted toward the back room like maybe Steve would appear if you stared hard enough.
Robin noticed, of course. Robin noticed everything, which was one of the many reasons she was so deeply annoying.
âYou know,â she said after a moment, âyouâre not really subtle with your whole crush thing.â
Your head snapped toward her so fast it was a miracle your neck survived. âWhat crush thing?â
Robin looked at you like you were the dumbest person she had met all week, and she worked with Steve, so that was saying something. âThe whole you having a crush on dingus thing.â
You let out an offended laugh that was entirely too loud. âI do not have a crush on Steve. Pfft. Youâre delirious, Robin.â
She said nothing and kept looking at you with that patient, unbearable expression of someone waiting for you to finish lying to yourself in public. You crossed your arms, then uncrossed them, then sighed.
âFine,â you muttered. âUgh. I have a crush on Steve. Is that what you want to hear?â
Robinâs face lit up in immediate satisfaction. âTotally.â
You groaned, but now that it was out there, the words just kept coming, all tripping over each other in one giant embarrassing rush.
âI mean, itâs not like I planned it, okay? It just happened. Heâs just. . .â You exhaled and glanced away, suddenly very interested in the tapes behind the counter.
âHeâs Steve. Heâs sweet, and stupidly brave, and always there when it matters, and he does this thing where he acts like heâs joking even when heâs being really sincere, and I know people think heâs all hair and idiot energy, but heâs not. Well, he is, a little, but heâs also so good. Like actually good.â Your voice softened without your permission. âAnd he cares so much. About everyone. About the kids. About me.â A dreamy sigh escaped you before you could stop it. âHe just makes everything feel easier.â
Robin stared at you for a long second. âAnd you see all that in Steve Harrington?â
You frowned at her. âYeah.â
She made a face. âDisgusting.â
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling a little despite yourself.
Then Robinâs gaze shifted past you, toward the back, and her expression changed into one of immediate delight at the chance to make things weird. âAnyways,â she said, âlooks like heâs free.â
You turned and there was Steve, stepping out from the back.
You did not even think about it before you started walking toward him.
âHey, Steven.â
For a second, you thought you imagined it. Hoped you imagined it, really. Because the moment he heard your voice, Steve tensed. Just for a second. A tiny thing most people probably would not notice. But you noticed. Your steps faltered slightly, that strange feeling from yesterday creeping back up your spine.
Steve turned to you, and the tension smoothed out so quickly you almost convinced yourself it had never been there.
âYouâre here,â he said.
You nodded, smiling the way you always did when you saw him. âYes. I wanted to see you.â
Steve blinked once. âWhy?â
The question landed strangely, like a step where the ground was not quite where you expected it to be. Your smile stayed in place, but you suddenly felt awkward, unsure what exactly had happened between yesterday and today.
âDo I need a reason?â you asked lightly.
âNo,â Steve said quickly. âNo, of course not.â
The awkwardness eased immediately hearing his normal response, and you felt your shoulders relax again. That was the Steve you knew. The one who would never make you feel weird for showing up.
Then he added, a little too quickly, âI was just busy today. Rush hour, you know.â
You glanced around the store.
There were maybe five customers total, and two of them were arguing near the Holiday movie section.
You looked back at him. âFive is a rush for you?â
Steve paused. â. . . Yes?â
You tilted your head, concerned now. âSteve, is something wrong? Did I do something?â
His face softened instantly. âNo. Of course not. You are perfect.â
The words came out so fast they almost tripped over each other.
You felt heat rush to your face before you could stop it, and you looked away quickly, trying very hard not to blush like an idiot in the middle of Family Video.
Unfortunately, Steve noticed.
Which made him immediately start stammering. âI uh well, I justââ He grabbed a stack of tapes beside him like they had personally called for help. âI just need to organize these tapes.â
You pointed at them. âI could help.â
Steve blinked. âUhhh. . . okay.â
So the two of you ended up in the back room, standing side by side with shelves of tapes between you and the rest of the store.
At first the conversation was normal. Mostly. You talked about school, about Dustin complaining about science homework, about how Steve had apparently rewatched Star Wars again the night before because he was physically incapable of not doing that at least once a week. For a few minutes it almost felt like everything was back to normal.
But the strange tension never really left.
It hovered there, uncomfortable, like a conversation waiting to happen.
Eventually you took a breath. âHey, Steve?â
âYeah?â
You kept your eyes on the tapes in your hands. âDo you maybe want to go out sometime?â
Steve stopped moving.
You continued quickly, words tumbling out before your courage could disappear. âLike a date. Nothing big. We could just get milkshakes or something, or watch a movie that is not Star Wars for once, which I know is a big askââ
Steve did not say anything.
The silence stretched.
Your stomach twisted.
Suddenly you were not sure why you thought this was a good idea. Or why you thought the signs had meant what you thought they meant. Maybe you had just imagined it all. Maybe you had read too much into the way he smiled at you, the way he always showed up when you needed him, the way he said your name in that soft manner.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. âOr not. I mean, thatâs fine too, I just thoughtââ
âNo.â
You looked up.
Steveâs eyes were fixed on the shelf in front of him.
âNo?â you repeated quietly.
He swallowed. âWe canât.â
Your fingers tightened around the tape case in your hand. âWhy?â
Steve finally looked at you then, and something in his expression made your chest drop. âItâs just. . . a bad idea,â he said. âUs dating.â
âOh.â
The word felt small leaving your mouth.
Steve looked miserable. âWe shouldnât be more than friends.â
The embarrassment came all at once. You laughed a little under your breath, even though you could already feel your eyes starting to sting.
âRight,â you said quickly. âOf course. That makes sense. Totally makes sense.â
You cleared your throat, trying to blink away the stupid tears that were threatening to show up at the worst possible time.
Steve shifted awkwardly. âWe can still be friends?â
Even he grimaced a little when he said it.
You forced a smile. âActually, I think Iâm going to need some space,â you admitted.
Steve took a step toward you immediately. âHeyââ
âNo, itâs alright,â you said quickly, waving him off before he could say anything comforting that might make you cry for real. âI just feel a bit silly, thatâs all.â You attempted another small smile. âDonât worry. Iâll get back to normal and we can go back to being. . . friends.â
The word caught slightly in your throat.
You looked down at the tape still in your hands before setting it on the shelf. âI just. . . I need to go.â
And before he could stop you, before he could say anything else that might make it harder to leave, you turned and walked out of the back room.
You rushed past the counter.
Robin looked up instantly. âWhat did you two finallyââ
She stopped mid-sentence when you hurried past her, wiping quickly at the tears on your cheeks.
Robinâs expression immediately shifted to concern and she slowly turned her head toward the backroom.
Steve was standing there just inside the doorway, his head in his hands and Robin sighed at the sight.
âOh, Harrington, what did you do?â
By the time Nancy came over, you had already cried enough to make your head feel heavy and your eyes sore, but the second you saw her standing in your doorway with two tubs of ice cream and that calm look on her face, it all came rushing back again like you had just opened the floodgates.
Now you were sitting cross-legged on your bed with the blanket tangled around your legs, clutching a spoon like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality while Nancy sat across from you with the other tub of ice cream resting in her lap.
âI just feel so stupid,â you said for what had to be the twentieth time, your voice thick as you scooped another bite you barely tasted. âLike actually stupid. It's not even the cute kind of stupid where I can laugh about it later. It's just. . . painfully, humiliatingly stupid.â
Nancy took another spoonful of ice cream, watching you.
âI mean,â you continued miserably, waving your spoon around, âwho does that? Who just assumes someone likes them back without actually asking first? Me. Apparently. Because clearly I just decided to invent an entire romance in my head like some delusional idiot.â
âYouâre not an idiot,â Nancy said.
âYes, I am,â you sniffed immediately. âI asked him out. Out loud. With actual words. And he just said no.â
Nancy winced a little in sympathy but let you keep going.
âLike immediately. Just no. Like it was obvious that it was a terrible idea.â
Nancy leaned back against your headboard, passing you another napkin. âBoys are idiots.â
You nodded emphatically, your voice breaking. âBoys are idiots.â
You took another shaky breath and stared down into the melting ice cream. âBut he was my idiot,â you said weakly.
That was apparently the breaking point because suddenly your face crumpled and you leaned sideways until your head dropped into Nancyâs lap, clutching the ice cream tub as you started crying again.
Nancy immediately set her spoon aside and started absentmindedly running her fingers through your hair in soothing motions.
âI just feel so embarrassed,â you groaned into her sweater. âLike what if he tells everyone? What if Dustin finds out? Oh my god, Dustin is absolutely going to find out. Heâs going to tell Mike and then Lucas and then theyâre all going to look at me like Iâm some pathetic lovesick idiot who canât take a hint.â
âHe wonât tell them,â Nancy said.
âYou donât know that,â you mumbled miserably. âHe might. He might accidentally say something to Robin and then sheâll accidentally say something to someone else and suddenly the entire town knows that I asked Steve Harrington out and he rejected me in the back room of Family Video next to the horror tapes.â
Nancy huffed a laugh despite herself. âIt sounds excessive.â
âBut it could happen,â you said.
You sniffed loudly and wiped at your face again before continuing.
âAnd the worst part is that I really thought he liked me,â you said, your voice softening into something more wounded now. âLike actually liked me. I mean heâs always there, you know? And he remembers things I say and he always sits close to me and he smiles at me like. . .â You trailed off, your throat tightening again. âLike I mattered.â
âYou do matter,â Nancy said immediately.
âI know,â you said weakly. âBut apparently not in the way I thought.â
Nancy sighed softly but kept smoothing your hair.
âAnd now I feel like every moment I thought meant something was probably just him being nice,â you continued miserably. âLike maybe he was just being friendly this whole time and I turned it into this huge thing in my head and now he probably thinks Iâm insane,â you groaned.
Nancy paused. âYou just asked him on a date.â
âAnd got rejected,â you muttered.
There was a quiet moment while you both abe more ice cream and then another thought hit you.
âAnd he lied to me,â you said suddenly, lifting your head slightly from Nancyâs lap.
Nancy looked down at you. âWhat?â
âHe lied yesterday,â you said, frowning as the pieces rearranged themselves in your mind. âWhen I called him. He said Dustin called him with some code red emergency.â
Nancy raised an eyebrow.
âBut I had literally been with Dustin earlier that day,â you continued, sitting up now, your frustration rising again. âHe just forgot something at home and needed it for school. There was no emergency. Nothing was wrong.â
Nancy frowned thoughtfully.
âSo he just made something up,â you said slowly, realization dawning in a way that made your chest hurt all over again. âWhich means he probably didnât actually want to stay. Which means he probably left my house on purpose.â
You swallowed hard.
âAnd I shouldâve known,â you whispered miserably. âThat shouldâve been the sign.â
Nancy reached over and squeezed your hand.
âI mean think about it,â you said, your voice cracking again. âHe left early, he lied about it, and then today he basically panicked the second I showed up. I just didnât want to see it because I liked him too much.â
Nancy squeezed your hand again, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.
âYou know,â she said, âwe could go out tomorrow. Just the two of us. Get dinner somewhere. Somewhere far away from Family Video and idiotic boys.â
You let out a weak laugh, even though your eyes were still wet. âThatâs really sweet, Nance.â
Your voice wobbled halfway through the sentence and suddenly the tears were threatening again, welling up despite your best efforts to keep them contained. You sniffed hard and pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes, shaking your head like you could physically shove the embarrassment away.
âI just canât believe I asked him out,â you muttered miserably. âI feel like I should move to another country. Or at least another state.â
Nancy opened her mouth to say something else, but the door to your room creaked open slowly before she could.
You immediately buried your face back into her lap as Nancy looked up toward the door. âHey.â
Janeâs head slowly poked into the room, her expression curious and slightly concerned as she looked between the two of you. âI heard crying.â
You groaned quietly into Nancyâs sweater.
âWhy is she crying?â Jane asked.
Nancy glanced down at you before answering, but you spoke first.
âSteve rejected me,â you said miserably, your voice muffled.
Jane blinked. âOh.â
There was a small pause as she processed that.
Then she turned to Nancy with complete seriousness. âWhat does that mean?â
You lifted your head just enough to glare weakly toward the doorway, your eyes still red and puffy. âIt means he dumped my ass but we werenât even dating.â
Jane stepped further into the room, clearly trying to piece together the logic of that statement and not having much success after the 'dumped my ass' part which she had learnt from Max.
Nancy gave a small shrug and then patted your shoulder. âSheâll be fine.â
You sniffed loudly.
Nancy turned back to Jane and lifted the ice cream tub slightly. âYou want some ice cream?â
Janeâs face immediately brightened, and she opened her mouth to say yes but you suddenly peeked your head up from Nancyâs lap just enough to cut in. âShe canât,â you said hoarsely. âSheâs having a cold.â
Jane narrowed her eyes at you instantly. âBuzzkill.â
Nancy blinked. âDid Dustin teach you that word?â
Jane smiled proudly and nodded.
You groaned and dropped your forehead back against Nancyâs leg. âHe is a terrible influence on her.â
Nancy glanced between the two of you and smirked slightly. âI donât know. They look cute.â
Janeâs smile widened at that.
You lifted your head again slowly, squinting at Nancy in disbelief through your tear-streaked face. âOh my God.â
Nancy raised an eyebrow. âWhat?â
You stared at Jane like you had just noticed something deeply disturbing about the universe.
âOh God,â you said weakly.
Nancy frowned. âWhat?â
You gestured vaguely between Jane and the doorway, your voice cracking again in fresh disbelief. âI just realized my little sister is in a relationship. And Iâm not.â
Steve was not doing any better.
He was sitting at Dustinâs desk, elbows planted on either side of a half-finished science project involving wires, cardboard, and something that looked mildly capable of exploding if handled incorrectly.
Dustin had been talking for at least ten minutes straight about voltage and signal amplification and something about how if they adjusted the coil just right it could pick up radio chatter from three blocks over.
Steve had not heard a single word.
He was staring at the same screw on the table. Every few seconds he would pick it up, rotate it between his fingers, then put it back down again like his brain had temporarily lost the ability to perform any more complex function.
Dustin finally stopped mid-sentence and leaned back in his chair and squinted at Steve. âOkay,â he said slowly, dragging the word out. âYou have not been listening to a thing Iâve said for the last ten minutes.â
Steve blinked like he had just returned from another dimension. âWhat?â
âExactly,â Dustin said, throwing his hands in the air. âWhat is wrong with you?â
Steve rubbed a hand over his face. âNothing.â
Dustin stared at him. âSteve.â
âIâm fine.â
Dustin stared harder.
âItâs Y/N,â Steve muttered.
Dustin immediately leaned forward. âOh, what happened?â
Steve dropped his head back against the chair. âShe asked me out.â
âWait,â Dustin said slowly. âWait, wait, wait. Y/N asked you out?â
âYeah.â
âAnd you look like this because. . . ?â
Steve stared at him. âI said no.â
There was a long, stunned silence, then Dustin slapped both hands on the table. âYou what?!â
Steve winced. âKeep your voice down.â
âWhy would you say no?â Dustin demanded, his voice climbing an entire octave anyway. âThat is literally the opposite of the correct answer!â
Steve rubbed his temples. âItâs complicated.â
âIt is not complicated!â Dustin said incredulously. âSheâs amazing, you like her, she likes you back, that is what we call a win!â
Steve shook his head, his expression tightening again as the memory of Hopperâs voice crept back into his head. âItâs not that simple.â
Dustin crossed his arms. âExplain.â
Steve hesitated for a long moment before speaking again. âHopper talked to me.â
Dustin made a face immediately. âOh great. The chief himself.â
Steve let out a quiet breath. âHe told me he doesnât like me around her.â
âWell thatâs obvious,â Dustin said. âHe doesnât like anyone around her.â
Steve shook his head again. âThatâs not what he meant.â He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared down at the floor. âHe said weâre too similar,â Steve said quietly. âThat he knows what kind of guy I am because heâs the same kind of guy.â
Dustin frowned.
Steve shrugged weakly, but there was no humor in it.
âHe said he wasnât good enough for his daughter,â Steve continued. âAnd that if Iâm anything like him, then Iâm not good enough for her either. And the worst part is I kind of get what he meant,â he said. âI mean. . . look at me, man.â
Dustin frowned immediately.
Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying to physically hold his thoughts in place before they ran off in ten different directions.
âI screw things up,â he said. âAll the time. I mean, yeah, I try to help, I try to do the right thing now, but you remember how I used to be. Everyone remembers. Half the town probably still thinks Iâm the same idiot who peaked in high school and canât figure out what to do with the rest of his life.â
Dustin opened his mouth to protest, but Steve kept going. âAnd sheâs. . . â Steve exhaled. âSheâs Y/N.â
He said your name like it meant something big, something impossible to explain in one sentence.
âSheâs smart and brave and she actually knows where sheâs going in life,â Steve said. âShe walks into a room and people listen to her. She stands up to Hopper like itâs nothing. She makes everyone around her feel like things are going to be okay.â
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
âAnd me?â he muttered. âI work at a video store and accidentally adopt children who get chased by monsters.â
Steve shook his head. âThatâs not the point. The point is she deserves someone who doesnât. . . mess things up.â
Dustin leaned forward, staring at him, frustrated. âSo your solution,â he said, âwas to break her heart before you had the chance to?â
Steve winced. âI didnât break her heart,â he muttered weakly.
Dustin stared at him in disbelief. âSteve.â
Steve groaned, dropping his face into his hands. âOkay maybe a little.â
âA little?â Dustin said. âShe literally asked you out and you rejected her.â
Steve peeked through his fingers. âI was trying to protect her.â
Dustin threw his arms up. âFrom what? Happiness?â
Steve rubbed his face again, looking completely exhausted now. âFrom me,â he said.
Dustin leaned forward again, squinting at Steve with the same expression he usually reserved for explaining extremely basic concepts to Lucas.
âOkay,â he said. âIâm going to explain something to you very slowly.â
Steve sighed. âGreat.â
âYou are being,â Dustin continued, pointing at him for emphasis, âan idiot.â
Steve didnât even argue.
Dustin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. âWhen Hopper tried to intimidate me,â he said, âI shrugged him off.â
Steve blinked. âYou what?â
Dustin nodded proudly. âYeah. He did the whole âIâm a scary dad with a gunâ thing and I just kept dating Jane.â
Steve stared at him. âYouâre insane.â
âAnd guess what happened?â Dustin said.
Steve sighed. âWhat?â
âHe gave up,â Dustin said simply. âBecause thatâs what Hopper does. He acts scary and protective and eventually realizes he canât control everything.â
Steve frowned.
Dustin leaned forward again, lowering his voice slightly. âAlso, you realize Y/N isnât Hopper, right?â he said. âShe gets to decide who she likes. And she likes you,â he contined. âYou like her. The only person ruining this situation right now is you.â
Steve slumped back in his chair.
For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, letting Dustinâs words bounce around in his head along with Hopperâs and your tearful voice and the look on your face when heâd said no.
âI think I really screwed this up,â he muttered.
Dustin nodded. âOh, absolutely.â
Steve dropped his head back down. âGreat.â
âBut,â Dustin added quickly, leaning forward with a spark of determination in his eyes, âthat doesnât mean itâs over.â
Steve looked at him warily.
Dustin grinned slowly. âWe just need a plan.â
Steve frowned. âA plan?â
âYeah,â Dustin said, already getting excited. âAnd I know just the someone whoâs great at them.â
Steve should have been suspicious the moment Dustin said that sentence with that much confidence. There were only a handful of people Dustin trusted to solve complicated situations, and somehow every single one of them was either a genius, terrifying, or both.
Which was how Steve found himself half an hour later sitting stiffly on the Sinclair family couch while Erica Sinclair leaned back like a queen being forced to listen to the complaints of particularly stupid peasants.
The moment Steve finished explaining the situation, Erica slowly dragged a hand down her face and sighed the way someone did when their patience had been tested far beyond reasonable limits.
âOh my God,â she said flatly. âYouâre an idiot, you absolute dingbat.â
Steve turned toward Dustin who gave him a small nod that clearly translated to see, I told you.
Steve looked back at Erica. âThat was unnecessarily aggressive.â
Erica crossed her arms and stared at him. âNo,â she said. âUnnecessarily aggressive would be me throwing you out of my house for wasting oxygen with that story. What I said was a fact.â
Steve sank a little deeper into the couch.
Erica leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. âThe girl likes you. You like the girl. And when she asked you out, you said no because some grumpy middle-aged man scared you with his feelings.â
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. âI had other reasons.â
Erica leaned forward slightly. âWere those reasons stupid?â
Steve hesitated.
Dustin answered immediately. âYes.â
âYou made her cry?â she asked.
Steve winced. âProbably.â
Erica clicked her tongue in disappointment. âThatâs bad.â
Steve blinked. âBad?â
âWell yeah,â she said. âI actually like her.â
Steve and Dustin both looked at her.
Erica shrugged like it was obvious. âSheâs cool. She brings snacks. And she doesnât treat me like a child.â
âThatâs because you are a child,â Steve muttered.
Erica pointed at him without even looking. âSee? That attitude right there is why she deserves better.â
Steve slumped further into the couch.
âBut,â Erica continued thoughtfully, tapping her finger against the armrest, âshe also clearly has terrible taste in men.â
Dustin coughed to hide a laugh.
âSo,â Erica said, straightening up slightly, âI will help you.â
âOkay,â he said cautiously. âWhatâs the plan?â
Erica leaned forward with a slow smile that immediately made Steve nervous. âThe problem,â she began, âis that right now she thinks she imagined everything. She thinks you never actually liked her.â
Steve nodded slowly.
âSo the solution,â Erica continued, âis not some big dramatic speech where you try to explain your feelings like a sad puppy because you will mess that up. So what you need,â she said, âis proof.â
Dustin leaned forward eagerly. âProof?â
Erica nodded. âYouâre going to show her that you pay attention to her.â
Steve frowned. âI already do that.â
âGood,â Erica said. âThen this wonât be hard.â
She began counting on her fingers.
âYouâre going to bring things sheâs mentioned liking before. Specific things. Maybe some flowers or something.â
Steve blinked. âYou know a lot about this.â
Erica shrugged. âI read.â
Dustin coughed under his breath. âNerd.â
âYouâre going to apologize,â Erica continued, ignoring him. âAnd then you tell her the truth.â
Steve hesitated slightly.
Erica narrowed her eyes. âAll of it.â
Steve sighed. âYeah.â
âAnd if she still wants space,â Erica added, âyou respect that.â
Dustin frowned slightly. âThat doesnât sound like a winning-her-back plan.â
Erica rolled her eyes. âThatâs because the goal isnât to trick her into dating him,â she said. âThe goal is to prove heâs not the complete idiot he pretended to be.â
Steve looked at her for a moment. â. . . You really think thatâll work?â
Erica shrugged. âIf she likes you as much as you claim,â she said, âthen yes.â
Steve nodded, hope and nervousness mixing together in his chest in a way that made his stomach flip.
Dustin grinned. âSee?â he said. âI told you sheâd have a plan.â
Erica stood up and stretched slightly. âWell, that will be a month of free video tapes.â
It had been raining for hours by the time the tapping started at your window.
You almost ignored it at first, buried face-down in your pillow with the lights off, the room dim except for the occasional flash of lightning slipping through the curtains.
You had told yourself you were not crying anymore. Technically that was true. You had stopped. Mostly. But the dull ache sitting behind your ribs had not gone anywhere, and every time you thought about Steveâs miserable expression in that back room, your chest tightened all over again.
The tapping came again.
You frowned into the pillow, lifting your head slightly. For a second your brain, still fuzzy with disappointment and lack of sleep, tried to convince you it was just the rain hitting the glass.
Then it tapped again.
You sat up.
When you pushed the curtain aside and opened the window, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Steve was halfway through climbing in and he was completely soaked.
Rain clung to his hair, dripping down the ends and onto his jacket, his shirt, the floor under the window. His sneakers made a soft wet sound when he stumbled inside, holding a slightly crushed bundle of flowers in one hand looking like they had barely survived the journey.
You stared at him and he stared back, breathing a little hard like he had run here. âHi,â he said.
You blinked at him. âYou climbed through my window.â
Steve nodded once, like that was a normal thing to do on a rainy night after rejecting someone earlier that day. âYeah.â
âYouâre soaking wet.â
âAlso yes.â
You looked at the flowers. âDid you steal those?â
He glanced down at them like he had forgotten they existed. âTechnically I paid for them.â He hesitated. âI think the cashier pitied me.â
You stared for another long second, trying very hard to make sense of the situation. âSteve.â
âYeah?â
âWhat are you doing here?â
Steve swallowed, suddenly looking much less confident than he had climbing through the window in the rain like some kind of very soggy romantic idiot. He ran a hand through his wet hair, immediately messing it up further. âI messed up,â he said.
You crossed your arms, still sitting on the edge of the bed. âYou did.â
âI know.â
He stepped a little closer, careful like you might disappear if he moved too fast. The flowers were still clutched awkwardly in his hand, slightly bent but determinedly bright against the dim room.
âIâve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like a complete idiot,â he admitted. âBut it turns out thatâs kind of unavoidable.â
You watched him, your heart already starting to beat faster in a way you did not want to acknowledge yet.
Steve looked down at the floor for a second before continuing. âYesterday. . . your dad and I talked.â
Your brows pulled together slightly.
âAnd he said some stuff,â Steve went on. âStuff that kind of stuck in my head. About how Iâm not good enough for you. And the stupid part is. . .â He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. âI already thought that.â
Something in your chest tightened.
Steve looked back up at you then, eyes honest and a little raw. âYouâre amazing,â he said simply. âLike, ridiculously amazing. Youâre brave and smart and kind and somehow still patient with people like me who forget basic things like how tapes work or how to act normal when someone pretty, someone just like you, walks into the room. You save the world and then go home and help your sister with lunch like itâs nothing. And you laugh at my dumb jokes like theyâre actually funny.â
Your throat felt tight.
âAnd Iâm just. . .â Steve gestured vaguely at himself. âThis guy who spent most of high school being a jerk and now works at a video store.â
âYouâre more than that,â you said.
Steve shook his head a little. âMaybe. But when you asked me out today, all I could hear in my head was Hopper saying you deserved someone better. And the worst part was I believed him.â
He stepped closer again, placing the flowers on your table like they were something fragile.
âI said no because I thought it was the right thing to do,â he continued. âLike if I stepped back first, maybe I wouldnât screw things up for you later.â
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. âSteve. . .â
âBut then you left,â he said. âAnd you looked so hurt, and Robin spent the next hour telling me I was the dumbest human being alive, which, fair, but also I realized something.â
He took another small step toward you.
âI realized that trying to stay away from you hurts way worse than any mistake I could possibly make.â
Your heart stuttered.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck nervously, water still dripping from the ends of his hair onto the floor. âI like you,â he said, voice almost shy now. âLike. . . really like you. In a way that makes me forget how sentences work and stare at you like an idiot whenever you walk into a room. In a way that makes every near-death monster situation a little less terrifying because at least youâre there too.â
You felt a small, disbelieving smile pulling at your mouth.
âAnd yeah,â Steve continued, glancing at you again. âMaybe Iâm not the guy who deserves you. But if thereâs even a tiny chance youâd still want me anyway. . . Iâd really like to try to be that guy for you.â
For a moment you just looked at him standing there, soaked through, nervous, holding onto hope with the kind of stubborn sincerity that was so unmistakably Steve.
âYou climbed through my window,â you said again.
Steve nodded. âRomantic, right?â
You shook your head a little, smiling now despite everything. âYou rejected me six hours ago.â
âI know.â
âIn the middle of Family Video.â
âI am deeply ashamed.â
âAnd now youâre telling your feelings in the rain.â
Steve hesitated, then cleared his throat slightly. âActually I had a quote prepared.â
You raised an eyebrow.
He shifted awkwardly. âItâs from Star Wars.â
âOf course it is.â
Steve took a small breath, then said, very seriously, âYouâre the Obi-Wan for me but in a less mentor and more girlfriend boyfriend way.â
You stared at him. âThatâs not evenââ
âI panicked,â Steve admitted quickly. âThe other one was Han Solo.â He glanced up at you, a little sheepish before adding, âYou know. . . the âI love you.â âI know.â thing.â He huffed a small laugh. âBut that felt way too confident for someone currently dripping rainwater all over your floor.â
You tried very hard not to laugh.
Steve looked at you with a hopeful little shrug. âWhat I meant was. . . I canât imagine a life where youâre not in it.â
Your heart softened so fast it almost hurt.
You stood up slowly from the bed and walked over to him, stopping just close enough that you could see the nervous flicker in his eyes. âYouâre an idiot,â you told him.
âYeah,â Steve said immediately. âThat checks out.â
âBut youâre my idiot.â
His breath caught slightly.
You reached up and brushed a drop of rain from his cheek with your thumb. âAnd for the record,â you added, âI never asked you to be perfect. I just asked you to be you.â
Steve looked at you like you had just handed him the entire universe. âYou still want that date?â he asked.
You pretended to think about it for a second. âMaybe,â you said.
Steveâs shoulders sagged in relief.
You smiled and leaned forward, closing the distance between you and Steve froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand lifting uncertainly to rest against your waist like he was still not entirely convinced this was actually happening.
When you finally pulled back, he was smiling in an amazed way he sometimes did after surviving something impossible.
âËâč accidents donât hurt | steve harrington x reader
summary: breaking a glass sends her back to a childhood where mistakes were met with anger instead of comfort. steve doesnât raise his voice or demand explanations, he just holds her through the fear, the shaking and the realization that accidents donât have to hurt anymore
warnings/tags: past emotional abuse, childhood trauma, trauma response, panic response, accidental injury, blood mention, hurt/comfort, comfort, gentle caretaking, protective steve harrington, soft steve harrington, emotional vulnerability, crying, reassurance, healing, no use of y/n, no spoilers,
wc: ~3.6k
âââàšà§âââ
The house settles around you in the way it always does at night. It isnât exactly quiet, just calm enough that the sounds blend together instead of demanding everyone to pay attention to it. The television murmurs from the living room, voices overlapping each other with the faint hiss of static that never quite disappears. Someone laughs on the screen, bright and distant and comforting. The floor creaks softly as the house cools, and somewhere, a clock ticks.
The kitchen light casts a warm yellow glow over the counters, the linoleum floor, the sink full of dishes thatâs been waiting all evening.
You stand there for a moment before turning on the tap, hands resting on the edge of the counter, shoulders slightly slumped. You can hear Steve shifting on the couch behind you, the rustle of fabric as he changes positions, the clink of a bottle being set down on the coffee table. Heâs relaxed and comfortable.
You roll up your sleeves and twist the faucet on.
Warm water spills over your hands, steam curling upward. The smell of dish soap cuts clean and sharp through the lingering scents. Garlic. Tomato. The accents of ingredients Steve had used when making dinner that night. You like the way the warmth sinks into your skin, the way the rhythm of it gives your hands something to do while your thoughts drift.
You rinse a plate, scrub it clean, set it on the rack. Another plate. A fork. A saucepan that takes a little more effort, your fingers pressing harder against the sponge as you work at the dried sauce.
The clink of dishes is soft, almost meditative.
You dry your hands briefly on the towel slung over your shoulder and reach for the last glass sitting near the edge of the counter. Itâs slick with condensation, cool against your fingers. It slips without much of a warning. There was no slow-motion moment where you think you might catch it.
Just a sudden, weightless drop, and the sound is sharp and violent in the quiet kitchen.
Glass shatters against tile, exploding outward in a spray of fragments that skitter and bounce, catching the light before settling. The crack echoes, ricocheting off the walls, too loud, too sudden, too final, and your body immediately locks up.
Your breath stops halfway in, chest seizing tight. Your hands hover in front of you, fingers curled like they forgot what theyâre supposed to do. The world narrows down to the broken glass at your feet and the echo still ringing in your ears.
For a split second, you are not here.
Youâre much smaller.
The floor is colder. Your heart is already pounding because you know what comes next. You always know. The yelling, sharp and immediate. The way the air turns heavy, like itâs pressing in on you. The way mistakes become proof of something wrong with you.
What did you do?
Look at this mess.
Why canât you be careful?
Your chest tightens painfully and you donât wait for the sound, you brace for it.
Your eyes snap toward the doorway, panic sharp and immediate, scanning for movement, for the shape of someone about to appear. Your muscles tense, shoulders creeping up toward your ears.
Fix it.
Fix it now.
You drop to your knees fast, not at all carefully or thoughtfully.
The tile is cold through the fabric of your pants, biting, but you barely notice. Your hands reach out automatically, grabbing at the largest shards of glass, fingers shaking as you scoop them up.
You need to be quick. You need to make it disappear beforeâ
Footsteps.
Heavy, fast footsteps. Moving from the living room toward the kitchen, and your heart slams violently against your ribs.
âIâm sorry,â you blurt out, the words tumbling over each other in a rush. âI didnât mean to, Iâll clean it up, I swear, Iâm fixing itââ
Steve appears in the doorway and then stops short.
The broken glass scattered across the floor. You on your knees in the middle of it, hands already reaching for more. Your shoulders hunched, head bowed, braced like youâre about to be struck.
His stomach drops.
âHeyâ hey, whoa,â he says immediately, voice sharp with alarm, not with anger. âHoney, stop. Donât move.â
You donât hear the difference.
Your fingers close around another shard. The edge bites into your skin, sharp and hot. A sting flashes up your arm before your brain can catch up. Blood wells quickly, bright and red against your skin.
You barely notice.
You just need to be faster.
Steve crosses the room in three long strides.
âNo, no, no,â he says, dropping down beside you, hands hovering for a split second before he commits. He grips you under the arms, firm but careful, and lifts you up in one smooth motion, pulling you away from the mess.
Your breath leaves you in a broken sound.
âSteve, Iâm sorry,â you gasp, panic bleeding into your voice. âI didnât mean to, please, I can clean it, Iââ
âHey,â he cuts in, stronger now, grounding. âLook at me.â
You canât.
Your eyes stay fixed somewhere past his shoulder, unfocused, your body rigid in his hold like youâre waiting for the moment his voice changes. Waiting for the anger to surface.
He feels the tremor running through you.
âYouâre okay,â he says, softer. âYouâre not in trouble, sweetheart.â
The words slide right past you.
He lowers you carefully into a kitchen chair, positioning your feet well away from the glass. Only then does he pull back enough to really look at you.
Thatâs when he sees the blood.
A bold red line trails from the pad of your finger toward your palm. Another drop falls, dark and heavy, hitting the tile with a quiet sound.
Steveâs chest tightens.
âShit,â he breathes. âYouâre bleeding.â
You follow his gaze, staring at your hand like it belongs to someone else.
âItâs fine,â you say automatically. âItâs not bad. I can justââ
âNo,â he says gently, but thereâs no room for argument in it. âNo, baby. Sit. Donât move.â
He grabs a towel from the counter and kneels in front of you again, slower this time. Careful. Like you might break if he moves too fast. He takes your hand in his, cradling it instead of grabbing, pressing the towel around your finger.
Your whole body is shaking now. Not subtle tremors anymore, but deep, uncontrollable shivers that run through your arms and legs. Your breathing is shallow, uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast.
âDoes this hurt?â he asks quietly.
You shake your head, even though it does. Even though everything does.
He helps you to your feet a moment later, his arm steady around your waist, guiding you out of the kitchen and toward the living room. The television noise feels surreal now, like it belongs to another world entirely.
He settles you onto the couch carefully.
âStay here,â he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles. âDonât move, okay?â
You nod, even though you donât think you could move if you tried.
âIâll be right back,â he adds. âI just want to make sure itâs safe.â
You watch him go.
The sounds from the kitchen reach you in pieces. A broom scraping softly across tile. The quiet clink of glass being gathered. No sharp movements, no slammed cabinets, no angry sighs that make a pit form beneath your chest.
Your body doesnât trust it yet.
Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt, fingers trembling. Tears slide silently down your cheeks, your breathing still shallow, still braced. You sit exactly where he left you, spine straight, hands folded tightly in your lap like youâre waiting for instructions.
When Steve comes back, he stops in the doorway.
You havenât moved. Youâre still crying, quietly now, tears tracking down your face without sound.
âOh, honey,â he murmurs.
He crosses the room slowly and sits beside you, close enough that your knees brush. He doesnât touch you yet. He just opens his arms, inviting.
You hesitate for half a second, but then something in you gives way.
You fold into him, forehead pressing into his shoulder, fingers clutching the back of his shirt like youâre afraid he might disappear. The sound that comes out of you is small and wrecked, torn straight from your chest.
Steve wraps himself around you immediately.
One arm comes firm around your back, anchoring you. The other hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing slow and steady like heâs lending you his rhythm.
âItâs okay,â he whispers. âIâve got you.â
Your body shakes hard now, sobs breaking free in uneven waves. Your shoulders hitch with each breath. Steve doesnât rush you, he rocks you just barely, murmuring low reassurances into your hair, repeating them as many times as it takes.
âYouâre safe, sweetheart.â
âIâm right here.â
âItâs okay, baby.â
Time stretches and your sobs eventually soften, turning into quiet, hitching breaths. You donât pull away and Steve doesnât loosen his hold. His hand keeps moving slowly along your back, grounding, steady.
You stay like that for a long time.
Eventually, you whisper, âI thought you were going to yell.â
Steveâs arms tighten around you just a little at that, something tightening in his chest as he holds you close to him.
âI would never,â he says softly. âNot for that. Not at you.â
You pull back enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen from the sobs, your naked lashes clumped with tears.
âWhen I was little,â you say, voice shaky and barely being holding together, âbreaking something meant Iâd messed up. It meant yelling. It meant I had to fix it fast, before it got worse.â
He didnât rush you and he certainly didnât interrupt to tell you that he already knew bits and pieces of the childhood you were explaining. He just listened patiently, jaw tight and his eyes entirely focused on you.
âI learned that if I was quick enough, quiet enough, maybe it wouldnât be so bad,â you continue. âEven if it hurt.â
Steve exhales slowly, his thumb brushing under your eye, wiping away a tear.
âYou donât have to do that here,â he says. âYou donât get punished for accidents. Or feelings. Or needing me.â
Your face crumples again, the grief cutting deeper than the fear ever did. Steve pulls you back into his chest immediately, holding you tighter, one hand resting over your heart, feeling it slow.
âWeâll take it slow,â he murmurs. âAs slow as you need.â
You curl back into him, finally letting your body relax, your breathing evening out as you lean fully into his warmth. And he doesnât move or rush you. He just holds you, steady and tight, until the house goes quiet again.
Until the fear fades and being held by him feels like enough.
âËâč where you fit | steve harrington x reader
summary: you learned a long time ago how to take up less space. steve harrington promised you would never have to do that with him. when he breaks that promise, even by accident, the fallout is quiet and unbearable. robin buckley, who is not paid enough for this, eventually forces him to stop being an idiot and go get his girl.
tags/warnings: post s4 no spoilers, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, abandonment fears, miscommunication, idiots in love, steve harrington being painfully in love, reader has a soft heart, robin buckley saves the day, brief crying, comfort ending
wc: ~6k
cutie lace divider by: @uzmacchiato
Steve notices the smell before anything else.
Heat trapped in carpet fibers. Dust warmed by the sun. The faint, lingering sweetness of your shampoo, the one you always forget at his place, clinging to the air like evidence you spent all of your time there. It hits him all at once, settles low in his chest. The fan hums from the corner of his room, rattling the posters taped crookedly to the walls, pushing around warm air that sticks to his skin. Outside, cicadas buzz relentlessly, loud and unbothered, a constant pulse beneath the quiet tension slowly tightening around his ribs.
You stand near the foot of his bed, arms wrapped around yourself. Not angry. Careful. Like you are holding each word up to the light before deciding whether it is safe to let it go.
The desk lamp casts the room in amber, softening everything it touches. Softening the edges of the furniture, the shadows, you. It makes this feel like a place where nothing bad should happen. Like this room should be safe.
âYouâve been distant,â you say gently. âI can feel it.â
Steve leans back against the dresser, the wood pressing into his spine. His shirt clings to him with sweat. He smells like soap and summer and the faint metallic tang of grease from the car he worked on earlier. He crosses his arms, a habit he falls into when he does not know where to put his hands.
âIâve just had a lot on my mind,â he says.
âYou always do,â you reply, soft but steady. âBut lately you disappear into it.â
His jaw tightens. He hates that you can tell. Hates that you see straight through him even when he is trying to hold everything together with sheer force of will.
âIâm allowed to think,â he snaps before he can stop himself. âNot everything has to be a conversation.â
Your shoulders tense at that. It is small, almost imperceptible, but he sees it anyway.
âI donât need everything,â you say. âI just need to know youâre still here.â
That should have stopped him. It usually does.
He loves how openly you want him. Loves that you never pretend to need less than you do. Loves how easily you reach for reassurance now, even after a past that taught you to fold yourself smaller to survive. He knows where that instinct came from. Knows the cost it once had. Knows how long it took for you to unlearn it.
Fear makes him careless.
âYouâre always checking,â he says, frustration rising before he can swallow it down. âAlways needing to know where Iâm at, what Iâm feeling, if Iâm okay.â
You blink, lips parting slightly, like the words caught you off guard.
âIt gets exhausting,â he adds, the truth twisted sharp by his panic. âI canât even breathe without you asking if Iâm alright.â
The cassette clicks loudly as it reaches the end of the tape, cutting the music off mid note. The fan hums. Cicadas scream. The air thickens until it feels hard to breathe.
Steve sees it the second it lands.
The way your posture folds inward, instinctive and familiar, like your body remembers this feeling even if you wish it would not. Like something old has been woken up inside you.
You do not argue. You swallow hard, eyes shining, lashes clumping together as tears gather despite your effort to stop them.
âI didnât mean it like that,â Steve says quickly, panic creeping in.
But then he exhales, stubbornness digging in, fear winning over instinct.
âMaybe you could give me some space,â he mutters. âYou donât have to be so much all the time.â
The word settles between you.
It has weight. History. Teeth.
Your eyes glass over completely now, hazel gone distant and wet. Steve feels sick watching you try to hold yourself together, like you are bracing for something you recognize too well.
You nod once. Slow. Careful.
âOkay,â you whisper, your voice breaking right down the middle.
You turn away, grabbing your shoes, then his hoodie from the back of the chair. You pull it over your head, drowning in the fabric, sleeves swallowing your hands. It smells like him. Familiar. Comforting. Cruel.
You pause at the door, just for a second, like you are waiting for him to say something. Anything. Like you are giving him one last chance to stop you before you disappear.
Steve thinks about crossing the room. About pulling you back. About saying anything to undo what he has just done.
He does not move.
The door closes softly behind you.
The house feels hollow immediately.
The next morning, the quiet is wrong.
Steve stands in his kitchen with a piece of burnt toast in his hand and the radio murmuring low on the counter. Sunlight spills through the window at the wrong angle, too harsh, too bright. The air smells stale, like it has been holding its breath.
You usually sit on the counter while he eats, legs swinging, stealing bites off his plate. You usually leave your mug in the sink even when you swear you will wash it.
The counter is empty.
He tells himself you just need a day.
By the second day, the absence presses in on him, heavy and unrelenting.
Your toothbrush is still in his bathroom. Your shampoo still fogs the mirror after his shower. The hoodie you took is gone, and that absence hurts more than he expects.
He replays the fight while he drives. While he showers. While he lies awake staring at the ceiling fan.
You do not have to be so much.
Each time, the words rot a little more.
He thinks about the way you love. Openly. Without apology. He thinks about how brave it was for you to relearn that after someone taught you love was conditional.
And how easily he crushed it.
By the third day, you stop showing up entirely.
Not at Family Video. Not at the diner where you always wait for him after shifts. Not at the radio station, where you usually sit cross legged on the floor, flipping through magazines while Dustin rambles and Lucas debates song choices with Robin.
Max does not ask where you are, but she notices. Mike notices too. El asks once, quietly.
Steve has no answers.
Robin notices most of all.
She leans across the counter, squinting at the door for the sixth time that hour.
âOkay,â she says slowly. âWhere is she?â
Steve keeps his eyes on the tapes he is stacking. âSheâs busy.â
Robin hums. âThatâs funny. Because she has never been busy when youâre on shift. Ever.â
He shrugs, jaw tight. âMaybe she just wanted space.â
Robin watches him carefully now. He has been pacing between songs, snapping at callers, rubbing at his chest like something hurts there.
âShe didnât wave yesterday,â Robin says. âAnd she always waves.â
Steve swallows.
By the fourth day, the guilt becomes unbearable.
It settles in his chest, heavy and unmoving. He smells you everywhere. In his car. In his room. In the space beside him in bed that stays cold.
Robin corners him when he has worn a path into the floor.
âNo,â she says. âYou do not get to keep doing this. Spill.â
He breaks.
Tells her everything. The fight. The word he used. The way your body folded in on itself like it had done this before.
Robinâs face softens, then hardens.
âYou knew better,â she says quietly.
âI know,â Steve whispers. âI love that she needs me. I love being the place she comes to.â
âThen go prove it,â Robin snaps. âBecause right now she thinks she was wrong for trusting you.â
That does it.
Your room smells like clean laundry and salt.
You are curled on your bed, knees tucked tight to your chest, Steveâs hoodie wrapped around you like armor. Your arms are crossed over yourself, shoulders rounded, like you are trying to take up less space in the world.
The knock at your door is tentative.
You do not answer.
Another knock.
âY/n,â Steveâs voice says, quiet and wrecked. âPlease.â
You open the door slowly.
He stands there holding a small bouquet of your favorite flowers, the ones you once said reminded you of late summer evenings. His hair is messy. His eyes are red. His chest rises and falls unevenly.
The moment he sees you, something inside him caves in.
You look smaller. Tired. Wrapped in his hoodie, arms tight around yourself like you are afraid to reach out.
âOh,â he breathes. âHoney.â
You say nothing.
Steve steps closer, careful, giving you space even as the ache in his chest twists tighter. He sets the flowers down on your nightstand and places his hands over the fabric of his hoodieâs sleeves, hands lingering for a moment, brushing against your arms like heâs memorizing your shape. And he starts talking immediately, words spilling out like he is afraid silence will swallow him whole.
âIâm sorry,â he says. âI am so sorry. I was scared and overwhelmed and instead of being honest, I took it out on you. I said things I never should have said.â
You nod faintly, eyes fixed on the floor.
He crouches down slightly to your level, pressing his forehead to yours. âYou donât have to take up less space with me,â he whispers. âYou fit right here. Youâve always fit.â
Tears continue to slip freely down your cheeks as he speaks. You lean into him, forehead resting against his, and he wraps you up immediately, holding you like heâs been yearning for this moment since the last time you spokeâand in all honesty, he was. His chest presses against yours, heartbeat steady, grounding. His hands drift over your back, slow, soft, like heâs tracing the outline of every worry youâve ever carried and promising to hold them for you.
âI love how much you care,â he continues, voice breaking. âI love that you want to be close to me. I love that you choose me. And I hate that I made you feel like that was too much. Like you were too much. Youâre not, youâre everything to me.â
You hesitate before speaking, voice barely an octave above a whisper. âI didnât want to say the wrong thing.â
His heart breaks clean in two.
âYou cannot say the wrong thing to me,â he says softly. âNot like that. Not ever.â
He pulls his head back to see you better, his pleading gaze taking in your broken one. Reaching a gentle hand up, he brushes a strand of hair from your face. He presses a kiss to your temple, then the curve of your cheek. His lips linger, gentle and reverent. He sighs into you, a long, shaky exhale that carries every word he doesnât speak.
âI broke my promise,â he whispers. âI told you that you would never have to make yourself smaller with me. And I broke it. I am so sorry.â
Your tears are quiet and unstoppable as they continue to slip free.
You lean into him again, this time forehead pressing into his chest. His strong arms slip back around you, holding you like he has been starving for it.
âIâm here,â he murmurs into your hair. âI am not leaving. And I am sorry it took me this long to come say that.â
After the tears slow, he makes you tea, letting the steam curl around the room in lazy spirals, warm and gentle. He sets it carefully on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, giving you some space but still close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. You curl into his side, small and tentative, letting your head rest against his chest without a word, an arm holding you in close to him. Your own arms are folded around yourself, like you are afraid of asking for too much, but he doesnât comment on it. He just lets you be. He lets you exist exactly as you are, small and fragile and exhausted, and it is all he wants to hold.
You sip the tea quietly, the mug warm in your hands. The room smells like himâhis soap, a tinge of sweat, the faint tang of summer air clinging to himâand it is enough to anchor you back to this moment, back to safety, back to him.
When you finally lie down, he moves slowly, deliberately, as if he could break you with a single careless motion. He carefully slides under the blanket beside you and draws you close to him. Your knees brush then, and it feels impossibly intimate, ordinary and profound all at once. He adjusts his side to fit yours, letting your head rest on his shoulder while your arm drapes over his chest.
âIâm here, sweet girl,â he whispers, his voice low and steady, a tether to the present. âIâm not leaving. Not now. Not ever.â
You breathe him in, the scent of him comforting and familiar. Warm cotton, the safety of home. Slowly and carefully, the tension in your body begins to ease with every pressing moment.
Your hand finds his shirt, slow and afraid at first. He freezes for the barest moment, as if he is scared you will pull away, then softens, pressing a little closer and letting you fully anchor yourself to him. The motion is gentle but deliberate, full of unspoken apologies and the ache he has carried for days.
âYou can need me,â he murmurs, voice gentle, steady, and full of a promise heâs said out loud before the incident. Before he hurt you. âI want you to.â
Your eyes finally lift to meet his. In his brown irises, you see the weight of everything he feelsâthe guilt, the love, the desperate need to hold you close to himâand it makes your heart ache in equal measures.
âI missed you,â you whisper, still small and raw, like youâre scared to speak any louder. As if itâll break the fragile bubble surrounding the two of you.
âI missed you every second,â he replies, pressing one slow, chaste kiss to your forehead, then the curve of your temple, then the soft line of your cheek. With each one, his lips linger just enough to reassure you and to let you know he is entirely here.
You curl closer into him, letting the warmth of his body fill the spaces where fear and doubt had been festering for days. His arms wrap around you a little tighter but still careful, pressing you into him as if he can hold the ache in his chest at bay by holding you instead. He hums quietly against your hair, soft and low, and it is enough to make your eyelids heavy, to let you finally relax.
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucks it behind your ear, and then presses another tender kiss to the crown of your head. He whispers your name softly, just above the sound of your steady breathing. Each and every small gesture is full of the quiet, unshakable love that he feels for you, and didnât show you in the few days you spent apart.
The blanket is tucked snugly around you both. Your fingers thread through his, and he gives a single, grounding squeeze. He rocks you ever so slightly, a subtle motion meant to calm, meant to soothe, meant to show that here, in this moment, you are utterly safe.
âIâve got you,â he murmurs, his cheek resting lightly against the top of your head. âAll of you. Every part, baby. Iâve got you.â
You exhale slowly, letting your body melt into him. The weight of days, of tension, of fear, slips away, replaced by the simple certainty that he will not let you go again. And you finally fall asleep tucked against his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his body around you, and the softness of his touch lingering everywhere you can feel it.
Synopsis: the one thing Marine!Toji should never, ever do is treat you like you're one of his recruits. he'd drilled that into his head a long time ago. yet today, he snaps at you like an asshole, and he needs to reassure you there's not a single thing wrong with you
Warnings: angst, hurt with comfort, toji's got a potty mouth, allusions to ptsd and horrors of war, references to death and grieving, ends well and I know there'll be people saying, oh I wouldn't have forgiven him, and that's okay, this is for the people who do want to forgive, who want to be reassured, not proofread
Word Count: 2k
Being a Sergeant comes with a lot of responsibilities â overseeing drills, taking care of fuckass recruits who think theyâre hot shit till theyâve actually taken someoneâs sonâs life, putting his life on the line every time some suit makes the wrong decisions, and handing dog tags to parents, wives, children and acting like some other asshole won't be doing the same for him.Â
He barks orders, breaks up fights with his own fists, breaks down doors with his toughened body.Â
Marine!Toji's a fucking machine.Â
But he shouldnât be one around you.
And he knows that. Usually, when heâs at his witâs end and everythingâs rubbing him the wrong way, even the sound of your voice, he takes a deep breath and reminds himself heâs real fucking lucky to have a roof over his house, a gorgeous woman putting up with his shit, and food on the table.Â
Today, howeverâŠ
Today, heâs got an extra dose of idiot coursing through his blood.
Youâve been talking at him nonestop throughout the entire match; he canât keep up with the score and whoâs got the ball âcause you wonât stop fucking talking. Something about girlsâ day or your nails or some asshole at your workplace. All he wanted was to nurse a cold one, put his feet up, and talk shit about some seriously overpaid children masquerading as athletes. But he canât get that here, where it should have been guaranteed.Â
âToji,â you say, dragging the syllables out and he winces, âare you even paying attention to me?â
Marine!Toji grunts, taking a big gulp of his beer and rolling his shoulder back. Still irritated. Still tense. Still painfully aware that youâre poking his cheek.Â
Sighing, you pout. âI donât think you are.â
âI am,â he replies, pushing your finger away, which returns anyway.
âOkay, then what was I just talking about?â
He huffs. âThe barista got your order wrong.â
You groan, coming to a stand. Right. In. Front. Of. The. Fucking. TV.Â
Hands on your hips, you playfully scold him, not a clue in the world that heâs gripping the bottle especially hard right now and heâs fighting the urge to walk out of the house to drive to the nearest bar. âFushiguro, that was like seven topics ago! What the hell is your problem?â
A glare slides over to you and you blink at it, losing the small smile you had.Â
âWhatâs my problem?â he repeats, a scoff escaping his scarred lips. . âHow about the fact that you canât busy yourself with shit âround the house and you insist on being a massive pain in my ass? Your talkingâs grinding my gears right now. Get a grip, woman, and march yourself back out of my line of sight. Thatâs an order.â
Your face twists into a pained shadow immediately.Â
Marine!Toji stiffens.Â
âI didnât realise I was disturbing you,â you say, monotone but unable to hide the tremble in your voice. Youâre embarrassed, feeling thoroughly chastised like a child.Â
Cold water washes over him. He puts his beer down, grimacing. âNo, doll. Fuck, I didnât mean any of that.â
Itâs too late â youâre already doing as he asked. You disappear. The door to the bedroom shuts before he can even process what exactly he even said.Â
Marine!Toji doesnât even look up. The game keeps playing, bright and loud and meaningless. The crowd on the TV erupts. Someone scores. Commentators shout. The stadium roars like the world just shifted on its axis. The beer in his hand has gone warm. His jaw is still tight, but thereâs nothing left to be tight about.
The apartment is quiet now.
Way too fucking quiet.
No commentary from you about how ridiculous the uniforms look. No off-topic rambling about your coworker. No dramatic retelling of how the barista betrayed you. No soft humming when you scroll on your phone. Just the game.
He stares at the screen. He has no idea what the score is. He doesnât even care.Â
Because the silence feels all types of wrong. Like the silence before a bomb drops, with a low whistling signalling impending doom.Â
Marine!Toji drags a hand down his face. âFuck,â he mutters.
Slumping back in his chair, he stares up at the ceiling and wonders what the fuck is wrong with him.Â
The man can hardly believe the words came out of him â he told you to march yourself out of his line of sight. Like you were a recruit. Like you were something to command. His chest tightens in a way combat never manages to. He even said âthatâs an orderâ like the kind of asshole he promised heâd never be to his girl, to you.
Those words shouldnât have meant anything to you, and yet you took it on the chin better than most of the pricks he works with.Â
âGoddamn it.â
He stands abruptly, leaving behind a game he no longer gives a shit about.
The bedroom door is closed; he knew it would be. Would you even want to hear from him so soon? Do you want time and space? He could give that to you but it doesnât feel right.Â
Every atom in his body is telling him he needs to fix this, needs to sanitise and sew up the wound before it festers, gets infected, and itâs all too fucking late. So he hesitates outside the door for only a second before knocking. Once, twice. âDoll,â he says, voice already rougher than usual. âOpen up.â
No answer.
Marine!Toji exhales through his nose.
âPlease.â
Thereâs a shuffle inside. The door opens just enough for you to step out â not looking at him. Your eyes are a little red. Your arms are crossed like youâre holding yourself together.
âI donât want to fight,â you say, tired and already on the defensive. The sound of your voice strikes wrong, a flat note. âIâll keep it down.â
Itâs worse than yelling wouldâve been. Ineffectual fists raining hellfire on his chest would have been better than watching you fiddle with your sleeves, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Heâd taken punches to the gut that have hurt less.Â
âDonât,â he says immediately, hands twitching with the desire to hold you, to feel you, to keep you here. âDonât do that.â
You shrug, gaze fixed somewhere near his collarbone instead of his eyes. âNo, you were right. I talk too much. You wanted a chill afternoon and I only cared about myself. Iâm sorry.â
His stomach drops.
âDonât apologise,â he nearly snaps. Then he realises heâs doing a lot more ordering around. He sighs. âYouâve got nothing to apologise for; you didnât do anything wrong, alright?â
Unconvinced silence hangs. You donât move closer. You donât touch him. And that terrifies him more than anything.Â
âI shouldnât have said any of that shit,â he says, stepping forward carefully, as though approaching something frightful, something thatâll jolt and flee at any second. âI shouldnât have used that tone, shouldnât have spoken to you with no respect. I shouldnât have ordered you around like youâre one of my recruits. Youâre not a marine, not a soldier â youâre my girl, the greatest love Iâll ever have and stupid as I am, I know that much. I was way out of line. Iâm sorry, ma.â
You shake your head slightly, frowning, âItâs fineââ
âItâs not fine,â he insists, moving to cradle your cheek. You flinch but you donât pull away and that means the whole fucking world to him right now.Â
You finally look up at him then. Thereâs distance in those beautiful eyes. Hurt. A flicker of insecurity you try to hide but canât quite manage. And he thinks his knees might give out from under him.Â
âI really donât mean to beâŠannoying,â you admit quietly. âIâd never want to be the thing that makes your day worse. I just didnât realise you wanted me to be quiet. I should have known the time and place.â
âFuck that. Youâre the only thing that makes my days better,â he says, voice strained, trying to will his truth across, so youâll know heâd go to the front lines over and over again just to prove it.
Marine!Toji steps closer.Â
âIâm a dumb fucking bastard. I donât know how to relax. I donât know how to turn it off. I get home and Iâm still wound tight and instead of dealing with it, I snap at the one person who doesnât deserve it. Nothing about what happened is a reflection of you. Fuck, youâre perfect, doll. So goddamn perfect.â
When you start shaking your head to deny that, cheeks growing warmer under his calloused hands, he pecks your lips.Â
âI was bored without you, without your pretty voice,â he admits bitterly, thumb brushing your bottom lip. He pushes the both of you deeper inside the bedroom. âGame wasnât even good. And all I could think about was how quiet it got when you left, how I miss you holding my arm, giggling about how worked up I get over some stupid sport.â
Nodding a little, you confirm, âYou do get too worked up.â
Marine!Toji's lips quirk up at one corner. Unable to resist, he kisses you again. âI donât ever want you thinking youâre too much,â he says, voice breaking in a way it never does as he utters those words against your lips. âYouâre not a pain in my ass; youâre the best thing that ever happened to me. And if you leave because I canât control my temper, because I act like a child, thatâs on me and Iâll never forgive myself, but I wonât stop you. Iâll never hold you back.â
His forehead presses against yours gently.
âBut if youâre staying, if you want to give me another chance, then donât go all quiet on me. Donât pull away,â he whispers. âYell at me. Throw something at me. Hit me. Drag me by my ear. Anything. I can take it. I will take it. But donât pull away. I canâtââ He exhales sharply. âI canât lose you over my own stupidity. I canât lose you ever, not any part of you, not even for a minute. I just canât.â
The thoughtâŠ
The very thought tightens something inside him, makes it hard to breathe, hard to stand on his own. Itâs a thought he has all the time, worrying that youâll realise youâre too good for him and heâll have to grieve someone thatâs not dead in the suffocating darkness of the night, when heâs away for any length of time, when he canât check in âcause heâs held at gunpoint and youâre all he can think about.
âYou really donât think I talk too much?â you ask, peering up at him with big doe eyes that melts the tension in his shoulders.Â
Marine!Toji lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. âYou talk exactly the right amount, doll.â
He clutches you to him, face buried in the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, groaning at your scent. It smells like a good day, like no casualties, like home.Â
âI forgive you,â you murmur into his chest, arms holding him as tightly as he holds you. âJust donât say things like that again. It doesnât make me angry at you, it just makes me sad, and angry at myself.â
Pressing a kiss to the top of your head that lingers longer than usual, he vows, âI wonât. Iâll fuck up again in the future, we know it, but Iâd rather die than make you feel anything like you felt today.â
And thatâs good enough for you.Â
When he takes you both to the bed, just lying there, limbs intertwined, game forgotten and beer abandoned, you start rambling again â softly, about how dramatic he is and the hundreds of ways he can make it up to you â he doesnât interrupt once.
â your best friend shows up at your house after breaking your heart a little, only to fix it a lot. turns out the boy you thought you lost is actually the boy whoâs been in love with you this whole time.
𧹠5.6k â steve harrington x fem!hopper!reader, fluff, steve is the definition of pretty-boy delusion, reader cries once ( maybe twice ) but itâs character development, mutual pining so obvious, accidental heartbreak â immediate fix-it, best friends who refuse to use their brain cells, surprisingly competent romance, steve getting flustered like itâs his full-time job, angst like a lot, robin and dustin trying ( and failing ) to matchmake the two
author's note â okay so hi this is my first ever steve harrington fic and i swear i have not known peace since that man showed up on my screen. i love him so much itâs genuinely concerning. anyway hereâs me coping through writing because i physically cannot concentrate on anything else when he exists. my requests are open. enjoy <3
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gif by @emziess | divider by @/lavendergalactic
Your milkshake was melting. Youâd been staring at it for â God, you didnât even know how long. Long enough that the whipped cream had started to slide off like it, too, had given up on you. Not that you could blame it. It was hard to focus on anything when your brain insisted on looping the same thought over and over again: Steve Harrington smiled at you today. And okay, fine, he smiled at everyone, but this one felt different. Hopefully.
You leaned your cheek against your hand, curling into the booth. It was stupid, honestly, being this far gone over someone who didnât even know you were drowning. But every time he grinned at one of the kids, or spun the Scoops Ahoy hat around his finger, or said your name like it wasnât just a word but something he liked having in his mouth⊠yeah. You were sunk. Completely, irreparably, down-bad sunk. It was embarrassing, actually. Almost impressive how thoroughly your heart betrayed you whenever he was in a six-foot radius.
âHello? Earth to dingus number two?â
You jerked so hard your knee smacked the underside of the table. âMother of all holy! Robin! You donât do that to people!â
She was already grinning, already settling into the booth beside you with her chin propped on her palms, in the exact same pose youâd been in not ten seconds ago. Perfectly mocking you.
âOh my God,â you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. âI was thinking about him again, wasnât I?â
Robin leaned over, grabbed your milkshake, and took a obnoxiously loud sip through the straw. âI genuinely donât know why you donât just ask him out,â she said, licking whipped cream off her lip. âItâs not like he can do better than you. Actually, scientifically speaking? He cannot.â
You opened your mouth to argue but Robinâs eyebrows shot up. âSpeaking of the dingus,â she muttered, turning her head toward the counter.
You followed her gaze just in time to see Steve swinging his ice-cream scoop. A gaggle of ten-year-olds watched with awe as he attempted some kind of Scoops Ahoyâthemed trick.
He spun it once. Twice.
On the third swing, it slipped straight out of his hand and clattered across the floor. The kids burst into laughter. Steve just stood there, hands on his hips like that had been the plan all along.
Robin pointed with the straw still between her fingers. âReally? That guy? That guy is the one youâre down bad for?â
A soft, helpless smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. âYeah,â you breathed, chin dropping into your hand again. âIsnât he amazing?â
Robin jabbed you in the ribs with her elbow. âCâmon,â she said around another mouthful of your milkshake, âgo. Hit your chance before the universe smites you for being a coward.â
âYou really thinkâ?â
âYes,â she said, nodding so aggressively her hair bounced⊠though the effect was slightly ruined by how she was giving you a distracted thumbs-up while still sipping through the straw.
You pushed yourself out of the booth before your brain could stop you, smoothing your shirt. By the time you reached the counter, the ten-year-olds had dispersed, leaving Steve standing alone.
âCool trick,â you said, leaning an elbow on the counter because Robin always claimed it made you look âeffortless.â
Steve brightened immediately. âWould you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me?â he intoned in that ridiculous nautical voice.
You couldnât help but laugh, matching his grin. âDepends, sailor. What flavor do you recommend sailing on today?â
His eyes flicked to where Robin was sitting with your half-finished milkshake.
âUhâwhy donât you just⊠have that one again?â he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
You tried again, leaning in just a bit. âBut you havenât told me your favorite. Câmon, whatâs your go-to?â
âBut you didnât even finish that one,â he said, gesturing vaguely toward Robin with a soft frown. âYou should try it properly this time.â
God. He really didnât get it.
You watched his brows pinch in that soft, boyish confusionâlike he thought he was helping, like he genuinely believed heâd cracked the code of what you wanted. And maybe that was the worst part. That he cared enough to try but not enough to see.
Your smile faltered for half a second. âRight,â you said quietly. âYeah. Iâll⊠Iâll just have that again.â
âGreat!â Steve said, already turning to gather ingredients.
You turned your head just enough that Steve wouldnât notice, giving Robin the smallest shake. Robinâs face fell around the straw. She mouthed what happened?but you only shrugged, because how were you supposed to explain something that felt stupid and small and somehow enormous all at once?
Your eyes drifted back to Steve, watching the easy way he moved behind the counter, the way his stupid hat bobbed with every step. He looked so completely unbothered, so far from the storm brewing in your chest. And the thoughts started piling up like dominoes you couldnât stop tipping over.
Maybe he just didnât see you like that, maybe he never had. Maybe every smile youâd memorized and every laugh youâd tucked away like a pressed flower had been nothing more than⊠friendliness. Harmless, casual affection he gave to everyone. Maybe youâd taken crumbs and convinced yourself they were a meal.
You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on anything else, but your brain wouldnât shut up. It kept pulling threads until everything began to unravel.
Maybe he wasnât ready for someone new. Maybe his heart was still snagged on something old, someone familiar. You remembered the way his voice softened every time Nancyâs name slipped into conversatio. How he never talked about her, not really, but the silence said more than any words could.
Robin had sworn up and down heâd moved on, but maybe she only said that because she hated seeing you hurt. Because she was trying to protect you from the obvious truth.
Because why else would he look so confused by your flirting? Why else would he never meet you halfway?
Your fingers curled against the countertop. Suddenly the whole picture felt painfully, humiliatingly clear. Of course Steve didnât notice. Of course he didnât see you trying. Of course he wasnât picking up on hints, he wasnât looking for any.
He was still in love with Nancy.
Steve turned around with a blinding, boyish grin and set the milkshake on the counter
âHere you go!â he said, like he hadnât just unknowingly stepped on every fragile feeling youâd spent months trying to hide.
You forced your lips into something resembling a smile. The kind that didnât quite reach your eyes. âThanks, Steve.â
You carried it back to the booth, sliding into the seat across from Robin without a word. She sat up straighter, ready to ask a hundred questions, but you just nudged the milkshake toward her with two fingers.
âIâm⊠not in the mood anymore,â you muttered.
Robin stared at the glass, then at you, her expression softening as your gaze drifted somewhere far away. You tried to drown out your thoughts, tried not to replay every moment of confusion on his face, every hint heâd never picked up, every dream youâd apparently made up alone.
âHey, Steve!â
Nancy Wheelerâs voice cut through the air like a needle scraping off a record.
You closed your eyes for half a second, exhaling through your nose. Of course. Because the universe didnât just hate you, it wanted to make you suffer.
You looked over just in time to see Nancy walk up to the counter, and SteveâGod, Steveâlighting up in that easy, familiar way. Like slipping into a jacket that used to fit perfectly.
You watched them talk, your heart deflating in slow, measured beats. That was it then. The conclusion youâd spiraled into was right, he wasnât confused because he was oblivious. He was confused because he wasnât looking for anyone. Because heâd already loved someone with everything he had once, and even if he wasnât stuck in the past, he definitely wasnât stuck on you.
âRob?â you said softly, reaching for your purse.
She startled, glancing up. âWait, where are you going?â
You stood, forcing another weak little smile. âIâll⊠see you later, okay?â
You walked away, hearing Robin mutter Stupid dingus under her breath but you ignored it. Cause maybe this time, you were the stupid one.
You lay sprawled across your bed, the landline cord wrapped twice around your wrist because you kept fidgeting with it. Down the hall, your dad and El were in the middle of World War III over⊠cereal? curfew? Who knew. Their voices rose and fell like badly-tuned radio static behind Robinâs sighing in your ear.
âI donât know, Rob,â you said, rubbing your temple. âMaybe he just⊠hasnât moved on from Nancy yet. And even if he had, whatâs the guarantee heâd ever like me?â
Robin made a noise like sheâd just been stabbed. âOh my God, I canât do this. Iâm actually aging, I hope you know that. I have wrinkles now. Actual wrinkles.â
âAnd besides,â you continued, ignoring her dramatics, âI donât even think Iâm his type.â
Robin sucked in a breath so sharp you could practically picture her clutching her imaginary pearls. âNot hisânot his type? Are you kidding me? What type do you think he has? Do you think his type is ârandom girl who breaks his heart in a bathroomâ because that didnât exactly work out for him!â
âIâm being serious,â you argued softly, curling onto your side. âHe deserves someone⊠I donât know. Someone like Nancy. Someone who fits.â
âYou fit!â Robin practically shouted, then lowered her voice when she remembered your dad could be lurking. âYou fit so stupidly well it makes me want to scream. I promise you, heâughâhe likes you. Like, capital-L likes you.â
âThen why doesnât he act like it?â you shot back, voice small. âIf he really liked me, wouldnât he⊠I donât know⊠notice when Iâm flirting? Or maybe flirt back? Or at least look at me the way he looks atââ
âNancy?â Robin groaned. âOh my god. We are back to Nancy. Weâve made a full lap.â
You hugged your pillow tighter, eyes stinging. âHe still lights up around her, Rob. I saw it today. The way he smiled? It was so easy. Like they still just⊠clicked. And Iââ
âYou click with him too!â Robin argued. âBetter than Nancy ever did! He goes dumb and sparkly around you!â
Your laugh came out tired and hollow. âHe goes dumb around everyone. Thatâs Steveâs natural state.â
âThat is true,â Robin admitted. âBut heâs sparkly around you.â
âHow can you even say it so surely?â you whispered, a pathetic little laugh catching in your throat. âYou donât know what he feels.â
âYes I do!â Robin insisted, voice pitching high. âBecause he toââ
A door slammed somewhere in the house, loud enough to rattle your bedroom window. You winced, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.
Robinâs voice fuzzed on the other end, drowned out as Hopperâs booming bass echoed down the hall and El shouted back, something about âyou never listenâ.
You sighed, pressing your eyes shut. âRob,â you murmured, âIâll⊠talk to you later, okay?â
âNoâwait, donât youââ
But youâd already clicked the receiver back into its cradle.
Robin was already waiting for you the next morning at Scoops Ahoy, pacing behind the counter. You barely stepped through the door before she lunged at you, grabbing your shoulders like she was about to deliver life-changing news .
âOkay,â she whispered urgently, dragging you behind the counter so fast you nearly tripped over a mop bucket. âToday is the day. Today. Iâm doing this. Iâm setting you two up, and Iâm not letting you run away, and Iâm not letting him be an idiot, and if anyone tries to stop meâGod help them.â
You blinked at her, still emotionally hungover from everything youâd spiraled through last night. âRobin⊠what are you talking about?â
She held up a finger. âDonât. Donât even start.â
You opened your mouth and Robin slapped her hand over it. âShh. Do not ruin this for me. I am dying. A shell of a woman. But I will go out with dignity and possibly a concussion when I knock your two thick skulls together.â
Before you could respond, Steve emerged from the back room, hair perfect, swinging his keys around his finger like heâd never been the source of ninety percent of your emotional turmoil.
âHey!â he chirped brightly when he saw you. âYouâre early today.â
Robin lit up like a nervous bomb. She shoved you forward, âYeah, because we have something to ask you.â
âRobinââ you hissed, mortified.
But she marched on, committed to the bit. âSo! Dingus! She and I were thinking, you know, since youâre free tonightââ
âOh!â Steve cut in, his face lighting up even more, if that were possible. âRight. I actually meant to tell you guys. Iâm⊠uh⊠Iâm not free tonight.â
You froze.
âOh?â Robin said tightly, voice straining like a crack in glass. âWhy not?â
Steve leaned casually against the counter, cheeks slightly pink. âI have a date.â
Your heart stuttered. Like something inside you tried to stand up and then immediately sat back down.
âA⊠oh,â you said, throat suddenly too small. âA date?â
Robin went rigid beside you. You could practically hear her internal screaming.
âYeah!â Steve continued obliviously, grinning like he hadnât just punched a hole through your ribcage without noticing. âSheâs really cool. So I figured why not?â
Why not. Why not. The words echoed inside you, mocking, hollow, sharp around the edges.
Robin stared at him like she was seriously, genuinely contemplating committing a felony. âYou⊠have a date,â she repeated, as if her brain needed time to reboot.
Steve nodded enthusiastically. âYep! And actuallyââ He turned to you with that same bright, easy smile he always gave you, the one your heart stupidly stored like a treasure. âI was actually hoping you could help me get ready?â
The world tilted. Painfully.
âYou⊠want me toââ
âWell yeah!â he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. âYouâre good at that stuff. You always tell me when my hairâs doing that weird flippy thing, and you know what shirts make me look less like a suburban dad, so I figured you could help me pick something out?â
Robin made a sound beside you that could only be described as the noise someone makes when witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.
You swallowed, smiling even though it burned. âSure,â you said softly. âYeah. Of course.â
His grin widened. âYouâre the best.â
And with that, he went back to reorganizing cones like he hadnât just peeled another layer off your already bruised heart.
Robin pulled you aside the second his back was turned, gripping your shoulders.
âIâm going to die,â she whispered. âIâm actually going to die. I canât do this anymore. Iâm retiring from matchmaking. I refuse to witness this level of obliviousness for one more dayââ
You barely heard her. Because your brain was looping one thought, over and over, louder and heavier each time:
Of course he had a date. He wasn't in love with Nancy anymore. Of course he moved on. Just⊠not with you.
And you were going to help him get ready for her. You were going to stand in his room and pretend your heart wasnât folding itself into smaller and smaller shapes just to survive being near him.
Robin stared at you, eyes softening into heartbreak for you and secondhand exhaustion for herself. âPlease,â she murmured, âfor my sanity, tell me youâre not going to make this hurt worse.â
But you already knew you would. Because it was Steve.
And loving him hurt no matter what you did.
Steveâs room looked exactly like you would think a boy-in-denial-about-his-feelings room would look. He held up two shirtsâone blue, one a softer greenâand looked at you with that expression that always, always managed to knock the wind out of you.
âOkay, so⊠which one says âcool but not trying too hardâ?â he asked, brows raised, lips pursing.
You swallowed and pointed at the green one. It made his eyes brighter. Made him look unfairly good. Made your stomach twist into something sharp and stupid and agonizing.
He grinned, delighted, and tossed it onto the bed. âKnew youâd pick that one. You have good taste.â
âYeah,â you murmured, fingers curling in your palms, âsometimes.â
He didnât hear the wobble in your voice, of course he didnât. Steve could hear a twig snap in the woods from twenty feet away and mistake it for Nancy calling his name, but he couldnât hear you cracking right in front of him. He turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair, fussing with the collar, stepping back and forth like he was trying to solve himself.
And there you were behind him, reflected in the glass, sitting on the edge of his bed holding a pair of his sunglasses youâd been fidgeting with. You looked like someone pretending to be composed. Someone pretending they werenât guiding the boy they loved into someone elseâs arms.
You cleared your throat lightly. âSo⊠whatâs the plan? For the date.â
He nervously ran a hand through his hair. âDunno yet. I want it to be good, though. Like⊠memorable? Yâknow?â
Your heart turned over so painfully you had to look down at your hands. âWell,â you said, keeping your voice light and steady despite the ache climbing up your throat, âif it were me⊠Iâd want something easy. Something that doesnât feel like a performance.â
His eyes flicked up to the mirror, catching yours. He listened the way he always did. It almost made you dizzy.
âLike what?â he asked.
You shrugged, swallowing hard. âJust⊠I dunno. Something small. Ice cream, maybe. Or records. Or a late drive with the windows down. Stuff that feels like you⊠not something you read in a magazine last minute.â
He grinned again. âYeah. That sounds good. That sounds really good actually. Sheâd probably like that.â
She. Of course.
You nodded, trying not to let your smileâor your chestâcollapse. âYeah. Most girls would.â
He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the chain around his neck. He had no idea that you were cataloguing every piece of him, burning each detail into your memory like youâd need it later, like you were preparing for a life where you didnât get to see him like this anymore.
Your mind spiraled again, like it had been doing for days now. You thought about the way he would look at the girl when she would enter the room, how effortlessly they would talk. You thought about how easy it must be for someone like her to be loved. How simple it must be to be the girl Steve Harrington never had to question wanting.
You thought about yourself in comparison. Youâd always been the backup dancer in your own life, and standing here next to him, watching him dress for a date with a girl who wasnât you, made that sting with humiliating clarity.
He turned then and held out two jackets.
âOkay, soâhelp me out here. Denim or the bomber?â
You took a breath so deep it hurt your ribs. âBomber,â you whispered.
He laughed like youâd made his night.
âGod, what would I do without you?â he asked, slipping into the jacket with a grateful grin.
The question lodged itself in your throat. You knew the answer. Heâd live just fine. You were the one whoâd fold without him, not the other way around. But he looked at you with such fondness, such blinding affection, that you couldnât force the truth out. You could barely breathe around it.
You stood. Smoothed the hem of your shirt. Wiped away any stray emotion that mightâve clung to your face.
âWell,â you said softly, keeping your tone tight and controlled, âyou look great. Sheâs lucky.â
Steve blinked at you, something in his expression flickeringâconfusion? Or maybe that was just your wishful thinking trying to make itself useful. âThanks,â he said finally, nudging your shoulder with his. âSeriously. You always know how to make me feel⊠I dunno. Like Iâm doing something right.â
Your laugh came out thin and brittle. âI try.â
He grabbed his wallet, checked the time, and with a nervous energy youâd never seen him carry for anyone else, he made for the door. He didnât notice the way your hands shook. Didnât notice the way your breath stuttered. Didnât notice the way you stayed in his room long after heâd left, staring at the empty space heâd occupied like if you stared long enough, maybe youâd figure out how to unlove him.
But you couldnât.
Because you did. Too much.
You wiped at your cheek before the tear could fall, furious at it for slipping free. You refused to cry in Steve Harringtonâs room. You refused to cry in the room of someone who couldn't see you hurting. You refused to cry anywhere except the one place where you could fall apart without witnesses.
The walk home felt endless and directionless all at once. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you block after block while your brain played a highlight reel of every moment youâd ever mistaken for something more.
You hugged your arms around yourself, the cool evening air stinging your skin as if trying to keep you awake, keep you from spiraling any further. But your thoughts swarmed, relentless and hungry. You pictured him sitting across from some girl wearing the jacket you picked out, smelling like the cologne you told him suited him best, using the words and plans you knowingly crafted for someone who wasnât you.
By the time your house came into view, something tight and exhausted inside you snapped. You slipped your key into the lock and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind you as though gentleness could keep the heartbreak contained.
And then the tears came.
Hot, furious, humiliating tears spilling over faster than you could wipe them. You pressed your back to the door, slid down until you were sitting on the floor with your knees tucked up, and sobbed into your palms. You cried like youâd been holding it in for weeks. Maybe you had. Maybe loving someone who didnât even notice had been carving quiet, invisible cracks into you for so long that tonight was the first time you finally shattered.
You were gratefulâso stupidly, overwhelmingly gratefulâthat the house was empty. If your dad had been home, he wouldâve gone full protective-parent-mode, pacing the living room with a baseball bat, swearing vengeance on whoever broke you. If El had been home, sheâd have gone full telekinetic vendetta before you could even choke out a name.
But it was just you. Alone with your aching ribs and your blotchy face and the sound of your own heart cracking in your ears.
You scrubbed at your cheeks, trying to get the tears under controlâslow, shaky breaths, the kind that made your nose sting and your chest hiccup. You forced yourself back onto unsteady feet, ready to drag yourself upstairs and collapse face-first into a pillow.
And that was when you heard it.
A knock.
Your breath caught mid-inhale, your fingers freezing on their way to brush the last tear from your jaw. You stood there for a second, swaying where you stood, heart thumping unevenly as another knock followed.
You wiped your face with your sleeve, pushed your hair out of your eyes, and slowly turned toward the door, panic climbing your spine.
Your hand trembled on the doorknob as you cracked it open.
And then you froze.
Steve Harrington stood on your porch, shifting nervously from foot to foot, hair a little messed up from the wind, and in his handsâheld awkwardly, like he wasnât sure he had the right to hold themâwas a bouquet of your favorite flowers.
Your favorite. Down to the exact shades you always stopped to look at whenever you passed the florist downtown.
Your eyebrows pulled tight. Your breath hitched. âH-hey,â you managed, voice thin and scratchy from crying. âWhat are you⊠what are you doing here?â
Steve blinked, swallowed, then cleared his throat. âUh⊠hey. Um, is your dad home?â
You shook your head slowly, confusion knitting deeper into your face. âNo. He took El out to the carnival tonight.â
âOh.â Steve nodded. Then nodded again. Then nodded a third time like he didnât know what else to do with his body. âOkay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.â
You stared at him. He stared at you.
And then his eyes darted down to the flowers, and he jolted like heâd forgotten he was holding them.
âOh! Right! Sorry, these are, uh⊠here.â He thrust them at you with both hands, almost dropping them in the process.
You automatically took them, looking down at the petals, then back up at him, utterly lost. âSteve⊠what? Why? You donât have to give me flowers for helping you get ready. Seriously. You really donât.â Your voice cracked in the middle, but you pushed through it. âItâs⊠itâs what a friend would do.â
The word friend tasted like metal in your mouth. You felt it slice something inside you just saying it.
Steveâs face twisted into the most baffled expression youâd ever seen on a human being.
âUh, what?â
You hugged the bouquet closer to your chest, shrugging helplessly. âFriends help friends. You said you needed help, so I helped. And you donât owe me anything for that, okay? I donât need flowers, Steve.â
He blinked once. Then twice. Then his eyes narrowed, offended on a molecular level.
âAre you dumb?â
Your mouth fell open, outrage flaring hot. âExcuse me?!â
He winced immediately, raising both hands. âWaitânoâokay, that came out wrong. Really wrong. Horrifically wrong. Let me try again.â
You glared at him, still clutching the flowers like a shield, waiting.
âI meant,â he said, stumbling over his words, âare you⊠not smart? Like, in this one, extremely specific scenario? Because clearly something is not connecting here.â He gestured wildly between you and the flowers. âBecause Iâm not giving you these as, likeâ a thanks-for-the-fashion-tips thing. Or a hey-buddy-pal-champ thing. Or a cool-friends-being-cool-friends thing.â
You stared at him.
He stared back, exasperated, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like heâd just sprinted here.
You kept staring at him, brain buffering like a TV stuck between channels. Your fingers tightened around the stems of the flowers.
âOkay,â he said, dragging a hand down his face like he was seconds away from yanking his own hair out. âRight. Iâm just, Iâm gonna say it. Directly. Straight up.â
You nodded in the worldâs slowest, most confused motion.
âIâm taking you out on a date,â Steve said.
For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe. Your mouth opened a fraction, mind blank except for a single thought: He didnât say that. He did not say that. You hallucinated it. Youâre dehydrated from crying. Youâve finally snapped.
âI⊠you⊠Iâwhat?â you stammered, every neuron in your brain collapsing in on itself like a dying star.
Steve stared at you. You stared at him. His expression shifted from hopeful to confused to offended in under three seconds.
âI thought youâd get that,â he said helplessly, gesturing to the flowers like they were supposed to speak for him. âI mean, this is what people do, right? They show up at your house with flowers and ask you out and Dustin swore this would make sense!â
Your brain hiccupped. âIâm sorryâ Dustin? Dustin Henderson? You took date advice from a thirteen-year-old?!â
Steve flinched like youâd physically slapped him with the truth. âOkay, probably not my best decision,â he admitted, waving his hands defensively. âBut in my defense, he was very confident, and he used, like⊠charts! And color coding! And this whole thing about emotional wavelengths I didnât fully understand!â
âThatâs the worst decision ever,â you blurted out, too shocked to filter anything. âWho does that? Who goes to a middle-schooler for romantic guidance like heâs some kind of love guru?!â
âApparently me!â Steve nearly shouted, equally mortified. âCan we maybe not focus on how much of an idiot I am right now? Can we circle back to that later? Like way later? Preferably never?â
You just stared, stunned and speechless and unbelievably overwhelmed. The flowers felt heavier in your hands. The knot in your chest loosened just slightly, like it wasnât sure if it needed to hold on anymore.
Steve took a breath, steadier than before, and met your eyes with something soft and earnest that made your stomach flip.
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â he said quietly, âis that I like you. And Iâve liked you for a while. And I⊠I really want to take you out. Like⊠properly. Like a real date. With me. And you. And not Dustin.â
You made a strangled sound that mightâve been laughter. Or maybe a sob. Hard to tell.
Steve stepped closer, but slow, like he didnât want to spook you. âSo⊠would you mind, um⊠getting ready? Really quickly? So we can go? Before I completely lose my nerve and Dustin ends up writing a breakup flowchart for me on Monday?â
You stood there in stunned silence, heart thundering, tears drying unevenly on your cheeks, flowers clutched to your chest like a fragile truth youâd been waiting your whole life to hold.
And for the first time all night, you didnât feel like the universe was plotting against you.
It felt like it had just⊠finally let you catch up.
You didnât even realize you were moving until your head was nodding. A breathy, startled laugh escaped you. And then you were smiling, the first real one youâd managed all day, the kind that warmed your cheeks and loosened your shoulders.
Steve blinked at you, wide-eyed and nervous, as if he wasnât sure whether your reaction was good or bad. And before he could spiral into whatever anxious loop Dustin clearly trained him into, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
His breath hitched.
For half a second, he stood frozen. And then, with this tiny, disbelieving exhale, he melted. His hands found the small of your back pulling you in like heâd been waiting for permission. His chin nudged your shoulder; you felt the smile pressed against your neck. He smelled like the cologne you picked, and something distinctly, stupidly Steve.
You held him tighter, burying your face against his collarbone. The flowers were still clutched in one hand, crushed slightly between you, but you didnât care. For the first time that night, you didnât feel like you were pretending or trying or reaching for something unreachable. You felt⊠held. Wanted. Seen.
When you pulled back, your palms skimmed the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing barely-there along his jaw. His breath stuttered again, like youâd short-circuited whatever brain cells he had left. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your mouth.
You leaned in, barely a whisper of space between you, and murmured against his lips, âI like you too, Steve Harrington.â
He made a sound that punched straight through your ribs.
And then you kissed him.
Slow at first, because you were afraid if you pushed too fast youâd wake up in your room and realize this was all a grief-induced hallucination. His lips were warm, hesitant, a little clumsy, like he wasnât used to wanting something this much. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and something inside you sparked.
When you tilted your head and deepened it just slightly, Steve responded like heâd been waiting his entire life for that exact moment. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. His breathing went uneven. His lips moved with this stunned kind of reverence that made your legs feel like water.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, a hysterical thought flickered: Oh my god, heâs so hot. Which was insane because you already knew that, had known it for months, but apparently kissing him turned the volume up on that realization by about a thousand.
You pulled back just enough for your lips to brush his cheek, warm and flushed and stupidly soft, and pressed a quick kiss there. Steve made a noise that he immediately tried to swallow and failed miserably.
His face went pink. Actually pink. Steve Harrington looked completely undone and flustered and like his brain had officially left the building.
You smiled up at him, breathless and glowing in a way you could feel all the way in your fingertips. âIâll be right back,â you whispered, brushing your thumb once more along his jaw before stepping away.
He froze again, watching you like youâd just rewritten the laws of physics in front of him. âOâoh. Yeah. Cool. Cool. Iâll justâumâstand here. Not move. Or breathe. Or⊠whatever people do when theyâre not⊠doing anything.â
You bit back a laugh, gave him one last kiss to the cheek and slipped inside to get ready.
Behind, you heard him exhale shakily and mutter, âHenderson is never gonna let me live this down.â
âNeither is Robin.â You called back and he visibly groaned.
ê° summaryê± nineteen days in hell leaves marks no one else can see. when your husband satoru returns from the prison realm, he realizes your life was survival too. you survived his absence the only way you knew how. by loving him anyway.
ê° tags/warningsê± angst ê· fluff ê· very hurt/comfort ê· grief ê· isolation ê· emotional reunions ê· classmates to friends to lovers ê· canon adjacent ê· minor timeskip ê· reader is kinda a sorcerer (but not really) ê· she's also a sweetheart who stress bakes and we love her ê· hints of an eating disorder ê· explicit sexual content ê· mdni ê· smut ê· creampie ê· heavy breeding kink (like... a LOT) ê· belly bulging ê· masturbation ê· feral gojo ê· overstimulation ê· praise ê· happy ending!
ê° authors noteê± happy valentines day đ i hope ya'll enjoy this little love letter of a story for our pookie! this fic is a commission for my very best friend @strychnynegirl đ«¶đ» i love you sm sweetheart! (wc. 10.3k)
âYouâre too soft for this world. Too sweet.â
Sweet.
The word snapped sharply, just before the blow did. And with a harsh slap of your back against the training mat, you blinked up, breathless. Your core ached, and the ceiling beams swam in your blurred vision â just before your senseiâs shadow cut across it all.
âYou know what your problem is?â he deadpanned, clipped and cold, glaring down at you. âYou never follow through. You second-guess. You hesitate. You donât stand your ground, and you sure as hell donât hit like you mean it.â
Your mouth opened, desperate for something to say, to explain, or maybe to apologize again â but nothing came out. Because how were you supposed to say âI donât want to hurt herâ or âI donât want to fightâ without sounding stupid?
Sweet girls donât belong in combat. Sweet girls got chewed up and spat out.
âAgain,â he snapped.
And as you pressed your stinging palms to the mat and forced yourself upright, you caught them from the corner of your eye: your classmates. Poised in practiced stances, exchanging low murmurs and whispering smirks.
ââŠwhy is she even here?â
âSeriously. I thought this school had standards.â
âWow. Look at her. Canât even block a basic sweep.â
They giggled, and with a shuddering breath, you got to your feet, pretending not to hear it. Because thatâs what you always do. Pretending is a skill you learned early. Itâs quieter than crying, and less embarrassing than asking them to stop.
âYes, senseiâŠâ
From a young age, you had always known you werenât born for battle. That was never your story. Because you werenât the girl with fire in her veins, sharpening her teeth on spite or grinning through broken bones.
No â you were the girl who gave up the last plate of dinner. Even when your stomach ached. Even when youâd already skipped lunch and were pretty sure you might fucking pass out. But someone else needed it more, right?
And you were⊠fine.
Always fine.
Yeah. You were the girl who once found a bird in the yard â its wing bent backward, chest fluttering like paper. And you were desperate to save it. You tried. God, you tried. But⊠it died anyway. And you cried so hard that your mother scolded you like an insulant child.
âStop being a baby.â
âGet over it already. You need to toughen up.â
Youâd heard it all, for as long as you could remember. And still, you didnât understand why softness was something you were supposed to outgrow. They offered those words like wisdom, but⊠really? It felt more like they were trying to reshape you. Like they were tweaking the recipe of who you were into a flavor more palatable, for a story worth telling.
A strong woman. A capable woman.
But⊠what even is strength, anyway?
The thought swelled in your chest as you paced through the corridors of Jujutsu High, sniffling back tears from your latest sparing match, and praying no one saw you like this. Across the courtyard, a row of vending machines glowed in the cold dusk like a salvation.
You just needed something fizzy. Something cold. But as you stepped up to the vending machine, your breath caught in your throat as you patted your pockets, fingers fumbling for spare change whenâ
THUD!
âUghhhh. Yaga-senseiii,â a voice had whined somewhere beyond the grass. âIs it lunchtime yet?â
You flinched, blinking toward the sound â and when you peeked around the corner, sure enough, there he was. A boy. Sprawled dramatically across the lawn like a fallen soldier, limbs splayed as if flung from the heavens themselves. His sunglasses were pushed into snowy hair, with pale lashes fluttering in exaggerated agony.
âIâm dyyyying,â he moaned to the sky. âStarvation. Malnutrition. Premature and preventable death. Is this what it feels like to be forsaken by God?â
âSatoruâŠâ Yaga let out a long, suffering sigh. âLunch isnât for another two hours. Youâve barely finished half your drills andââ
âTwo HOURS?!â Satoru shrieked, flinging an arm over his face like a dying poet. âI canât train like thisâdo you want me to waste away?! My cursed energy has dietary requirements, Sensei!â He grumbled, huffing in dismay. âWow. This is it. This is the end for me, guys.â
Wait.
Satoru? As in⊠Satoru Gojo?!
Your breath hitched. Youâd heard his name whispered like a myth since you were old enough to sense cursed energy; a prodigy, a legend, the strongest sorcerer of his generation. And yet⊠he was currently holding his own funeral in the quad. Covered in dirt. Not even pretending to be dignified.
âHere he goes again,â Shoko snorted, already lying on her back in the grass, one leg propped over the other lazily. She sighed, amused. âI give him three minutes before he starts reciting his will to the clouds.â
âThree? Thatâs too generous,â Suguru smirked, leaning against the base of a tree, arms crossed. âNah⊠Iâd give him two.â
âPfft⊠I hear you!â Satoru glared, lifting his head just enough before letting it thunk back down with another theatrical groan. âFuckinâ rude. Iâm dying, and all you care about is betting on my demise.â
Yaga sighed, rubbing his temple. âSatoru, look. If I let you take a break now, everyoneâs gonna say Iâm playing favorites andââ
âBut senseiiii,â he pouted, one hand clutching his stomach. âI havenât eaten since breakfast. And yâknow my technique might be limitless but my metabolism sure as hell isnât.â
âChristâŠâ Yaga muttered, shaking his head, brushing his hand through his hair like he knows heâs going to regret this. âOkay, fine. Take a five-minute break. But thatâs it.â
âReally?!â Satoru gasped like heâd just been resurrected. âOh thank god, I was starting to see the light,â he chirped, springing upright and dusting himself off. âOi! Suguru, Shoko, you want anything from the vending machine?â he called, and when he was already halfway across the lawn, panic bloomed in your chest becauseâ
Oh no.
No no no.
He was headed right toward you. And he canât â canât see you like this. You tried to shove your coin in faster, fingers slipping against the metal, eyes still raw and damp. The machine clanked, with your drink tumbling into the tray just as he stepped beside you, already digging in his wallet. You reached for the bottle, fully intending to flee, butâ
âFigures,â he muttered, giving the machine a light kick. âSeriously? No chocolate. No melon bread, either.â He sighed, glancing over at you. âYou see this shit? Like⊠who the hell keeps buying all the good snacks? I meanââ
The moment his voice cut off, you didnât even have to look to know why. Because⊠yeah. Heâd seen you swiping at your eyes that moment, trying to hide the redness. And⊠damnit. How pathetic can you be?! Breaking down in front of the strongest?!
Donât do it. Donât acknowledge the pain.
Sniffling, you straightened your shoulders, clutching the can to your chest. Your lower lip wobbled, but you bit down hard, willing it still, pretending youâre fine. And gathering your resolve, your eyes flicked towards his whenâ
Oh.
A shaky breath pulled out of you, almost like relief, with your chest loosening instantly. Because⊠what a beautifully, vibrant, crystalline blue. And somehow⊠soft too? Like sunlight through stained glass. Eyes that looked like they could see straight through you, and hold you through it all.
âHey⊠um,â with furrowing brows, his voice gentled, head tilting in concern. âYou⊠good?â
Itâs such a simple question, really. But that acknowledgement? Itâs all it takes. Something in your chest gave way. âY-Yeah⊠um,â you choked, nodding as more tears spilled hot. You sniffled, trying to stop them. âI-Iâm⊠Iâm fine, really. Fine.â
Itâs the least convincing lie youâve ever told, but itâs the only thing you have left. Because pretending hurts less than admitting to yourself that this is all your life will ever be.
A prison.
And despite Satoru not buying it, still, he didnât push. Instead, he just rocked back on his heels with a quiet sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he was trying not to make things worse.
âUm⊠so like⊠Iâm gonna assume youâre havinâ a rough day?â he offered lightly, like he was tossing you a rope. âI mean⊠unless youâre crying over the empty strawberry mochi too. In which case, shit. I swear we might be soulmates.â
At that, a laugh slipped out â small, choked, but real. And his grin was crooked and triumphant, like that was exactly the sound heâd been hoping for. Like he was absurdly proud of himself for coaxing it out of you.
And god, his smile was boyishly perfect. It tugged at the corners of your own mouth, even when everything in your chest still felt unbearably messy and knotted and wrong.
ââŠno, thatâs not it,â you muttered, wiping your cheek with the edge of your sleeve. âItâs not the mochi. But⊠um,â you huffed a smile, glancing up. âI get it. I do. Because, like⊠strawberryâs definitely the best one.â
âOhmygod right!?â He gasped, beaming. His delightful smile grew. âFinally, someone with taste!â and with a sigh, he leaned back against the vending machine, tilting his head like a curious puppy. âSo⊠you love sweet things too?â
âMhm.â You nodded, sniffling.
The worst of the tears had passed. And with a quiet sigh, you leaned back against the vending machine beside him, mirroring his posture. âI⊠always have,â you murmured, a distant look softening your features. âI mean⊠man,â you huffed, smiling. âWhat I wouldnât give for a crepe right now.â
âOoooo, crepes,â he nodded solemnly. âYouâve got excellent taste.â
You both stood there, eyes ahead, the vending machine humming behind you. After a moment, he glanced over observantly, tilting his head with a curious grin.
âOkay, okayâbut like⊠thereâs this place in Shibuya that does crepes with caramelized strawberries. And⊠just imagine it,â he sighed dreamily. âBeautifully burnt sugar, custard, a little dusting of kinako on top? Itâs insane. You ever been?â
The brightness radiating off of him is endearing, making your lips tug up further.
ââŠNo,â you admit, looking out towards the garden. âBut⊠that sounds, nice.â
And it was hard not to picture it â that soft cream on your tongue, sugar sticking to your fingertips, laughter curling sweet in your chest. Itâs too easy to crave it, to remember what it used to taste like. What it felt like to not be afraid of wanting those things. Butâ
âA lady doesnât indulge.â
âNo man wants a girl who canât control herself.â
When your motherâs voice echoed in memory, a bitterness curled in your stomach. A reminder you canât escape from. And blinking slowly, you cleared your throat, pushing it away.
ââŠI just⊠um. I canât really eat that kind of stuff anymore⊠unfortunately.â
You shrugged it off like it was nothing, while Satoruâs expression hardened.
âUh⊠canât?â he pressed, raising a brow. And hesitating, your lips pressed together.
âY-YeahâŠâ you swallowed. âUm. Diet thing⊠yâknow,â you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground, fiddling with the hem of your uniform. âItâs strict clan rules. Gotta⊠keep up appearances, I guess.â
The vagueness in your words wasnât hard to miss. Satoru picked up on them, instantly. A brief silence settled between you, but you felt those sure, crystalline eyes, watching you. And for a moment? You wished you hadnât said anything at all.
He huffed, clicking his tongue. âMan⊠that sucks,â and shoving his hands into his pockets, he grumbled. âThatâs bullshit. Here I thought I had it rough.â
Glancing over, you could tell he was biting his tongue. And you worried that maybe⊠you said too much. Did you just admit to being⊠broken? But he didnât let you feel heavy with it.
He flopped against the vending machine like gravity owed him an apology.
âDamn. What the hell?â he let out a long, theatrical sigh. Sliding down to the ground with his legs splayed in front of him. âYouâre pretty incredible. I could never.â
Your heart raced while the cicadas thrummed in the trees. And you stared down at this boy â this ridiculous, blinding boy who somehow looked both divine and completely, utterly human.
His eyes softened with a sadness. âUm⊠by the way,â he murmured. âDid yâknow my cursed technique drains the hell outta me? Itâs⊠exhausting, actually.â
Holding your breath, you listened. It was like, the world tilted just a little to keep him in frame. Like he carved out a space in the universe where the two of you were allowed to just⊠exist.
âThereâs been a bounty on my head since before I could readâŠâ he mumbled. âSo, if someone ever tried to make me give up sugar?â he huffed, bitterly. âIâd be hallucinating crepes by lunchtime. Like⊠full delusion. Would probably try to lick the fuckinâ grass or somethinâ.â
Before you could stop it, youâre doubling over, giggling. Sliding down the vending machine, catching your breath. Because you hadnât felt this is so long. Warmth. Acceptance. And he made existing so⊠easy.
âOi! Little missy. Is my life a joke to you?!â he tried to pout, but that triumphant grin was winning from the sound of your laughter. And you huffed, shaking your head with a relieved sigh. âNo⊠sorry,â you sniffed, leaning your head back, allowing the gentle blue of his eyes to hold you steady.
It was the sweetest shade of blue youâve ever seen.
âBut⊠I gotta say,â he whispered. âTo not eat any sweetsâŠ? You must be really strong.â
You blinked, lips parting.
Strong?
You sure as hell didnât feel strong. You felt like a thread pulled too tight â like if someone tugged a little harder, youâd snap in two. But⊠god. The way he said it made something ache in your chest.
He was⊠sweet.
Hesitating, your fingers curled around the strap of your bag. There was a bento buried under your books. With cookies, still warm from when you packed them this morning. Not for you, obviously. You were never allowed to eat what you baked.
But⊠you baked anyway. You always did. Measuring peace in spoonfuls of sugar, finding warmth in the rise of dough. Even if all you ever did was give it away. Because sweetness was something to share⊠something youâd never get it return.
Your fingers twitched.
âŠshould you?
Screw it.
âUm⊠here,â you muttered, reaching into your bag and slowly pulling the bento free. âI-If you want something sweet⊠I-I baked these this morning andâŠâ
As you held them out, Satoru blinked, staring like you just handed him a marriage proposal.
âWait⊠seriously?!â he grinned, hands brushing yours, taking them. âDo you just⊠like. Carry cookies around your bag every day? Like some kind of secret snack sorceress?â
Your cheeks burned. âWhat? N-No⊠IâŠâ and the moment he was bringing it towards his lips, excitedly, a nervous flutter spread through your chest. Close to panic.
âI-I havenât tasted them though!â you added quickly as he took a bite. âSince I⊠yâknow. Canât eat them⊠um. So if theyâre awfulââ
He moaned. âHoly shit,â eyes widening with a mouthful, turning to you. âWait. You made these? And canât fucking eat them?! Um. Thatâs illegal. Youâre too powerful.â
Warmth spread through your chest, and giggling, you tried so hard â tried not to stare at the crumbs on his ridiculously soft lips; tried not to let your damn heart skip a beat the moment he deadpanned:
âHuh. Maybe we are soulmates,â with the corner of his mouth quirking up, flashing that dangerously white grin, while his pale lashes fluttered over an impossibly beautiful blue.
âI thinkâŠâ he teased. âYouâre gonna have to marry me one day, sweetheart.â
And marry Satoru Gojo, you did.
Because three months later, he still called you his sweetheart.
It started with cookies. Then cupcakes. Then fudge, and buttered sponge cakes in little paper wrappers. Every lunch break, like clockwork, heâd find you â sprawled beneath the camphor trees, arms tucked behind his head like a makeshift pillow, his white hair catching sunlight like it was spun from sugar.
âOi, snack sorceress,â heâd hum, already rifling through your bag like it belonged to him. âWhat dâyou have for me today, hm?â
At first, it was a joke.
Then? It became ritual.
You werenât sure when he started dragging you around campus like you were his favorite person â but it happened fast. A blur of hallway detours and courtyard interruptions, always grabbing your wrist, tugging you along with that ridiculous grin. And honestly? You werenât sure if he considered you a friend, or if you were just another satellite caught in the beauty of his orbit.
Because Satoru Gojo became your sun, and your moon. Your sky, and your stars. He was loud where you were quiet. Brilliant where you were cautious. Strong, where you were sweet. And he kept showing up. Pulling you into things. Making space. Seeing you.
âCâmon pretty girl,â heâd say, lacing his fingers through yours, dragging you out of your dorm. âNo staying cooped up alone all day. Thatâs how curses breed!â
And when people talked â because believe me, they did â about your clan, about how your cursed technique wasnât strong enough to warrant the family name, about how you were lucky to even be at Jujutsu HighâŠ
Heâd cut them off mid-sentence.
âIâm sorry? Fuckinâ say that again?â heâd murmur, six-eyes glimmering in threat, smile gone. âAnd slowly. Because I wanna make sure I heard you disrespect my girl correctly.â
His girl.
Heâd say it with such casual authority; like it was obvious, like it had always been true. But⊠he never touched you. Not like that, at least. And youâd pretend not to notice how your pulse would jump under his fingers.
It was a quiet dance of intimacy between you â one that never broke rhythm. Youâd bandage the cuts on his knuckles after every mission. Heâd let you fuss with his collar when it was crooked. And heâd drape himself over you like a lazy cat claiming its favorite spot.
It was a silent rule you both followed. A line you never crossed. Because the world was already asking too much of him, and the elders were always watching. You accepted that this was all it would ever⊠be. You were students. Sorcerers. Weapons-in-training. There was never room for a softness like that, in this world.
He neededâŠ
Strength. Right?
Not you.
And yet, things started to change when he missed lunch the week Suguru defected. You found him that day, on the roof â knees pulled to his chest; sunglasses forgotten beside him.
âOh⊠there you are,â you murmured, kneeling beside him with a small box in your hands. âWhy are you up here? I was worried when I couldnât find you?â
He didnât respond. And the sky above him was too blue that day. A cruel, endless kind of blue. Unlike his eyes, which were hollow. Distant. Quiet in a way that broke you.
ââŠSatoru?â you whispered. âI⊠made mochi?â You offered, voice unsure. âStrawberry. With⊠extra custard? Um. I mightâve overfilled them though andââ
Once the lid clicked open, he was reaching for it instantly. He took a bite without a word, and dropped his head onto your shoulder; like he was too tired to hold it up.
âItâs perfectâŠâ he mumbled around a bite, breath hitching. âThank you, sweetheart.â
When you felt the tremble in his body, you knew. That was the first day you saw Satoru Gojo cry. And you held him close, that day; brushing your fingers through his hair, like maybe it could lull the grief to sleep. Like maybe you could carry it for him.
Because you would, if you could.
And after that?
Well⊠he started showing up at your dorm after curfew. Heâd always teleport unannounced, with his hair damp from a shower, dressed cozy. You blinked at him, heart fluttering, still clutching your pillow.
âHeyâŠâ he mumbled that first night, kicking his foot at nothing. âUm. Iâm bored,â he stated, scratching the back of his neck, sheepishly. âAnd the dormâs just⊠quiet. Without Suguru. SoâŠâ
That was his first excuse.
Next, it was cupcakes â when he claimed to have a craving and tried to guilt you into baking. The night after that, he brought a deck of cards and insisted on teaching you how to cheat at poker. Then came movies. Snacks. Your favorite iced tea, chilled just right. A blanket already draped over his shoulder like he belonged there.
But he wouldnât sleep beside you. No. Heâd stay until your breathing slowed, and your body instinctively curled towards him. But by morning, he was gone. Until heâd return the next night like clockwork.
That line youâd never cross. But eventually⊠you both stopped pretending.
One night, you were curled up together beneath a heap of blankets, half-watching a movie youâd both already seen. He cradled you in his arms, with his chest rising against your side in slow, steady rhythms. The credits rolled, and as your eyes began to drift shut, that was his cue. ButâŠ
âI donât wanna go back,â he whispered in the quiet. Your lashes fluttered open, and turning, you brought your face to his. ââŠno?â you asked, and he swallowed, hesitating. âYeah⊠um. Itâs too quiet over there. And⊠everything echoes.â
The flickering light from the screen bathed him in soft blue shadows. And those beautiful eyes were⊠tired. But heâd managed to smile at you anyway. While you brushed your hand down his jaw, he leaned into you.
âThen⊠donât,â you whispered, eyes flicking to his lips. âYou can always stay here, Satoru. You know that⊠right?â
Brows furrowing, he nodded, searching your face for a moment, like he was searching for permission, maybe. Or courage. And the moment he leaned in, allowing your lips to finally fit together, it was like a thousand sleepless nights, a thousand unsaid wishes, poured between each trembling breath you took.
Clothes slipped off in quiet pieces. Like a secret shared in the dark.
And Satoru made love to you with slow, reverent hands â like every inch of your skin was something sacred he hadnât dared touch until now. Your legs wrapped around his waist while he pulled you into each thrust.
It was a night filled with panting breathes, hushed moans, soft nips against your skin as the bed creaked beneath every insistent, aching snap of his hips.
âI shouldâve done this sooner,â his breath hitched into a moan while his dick swelled, dragging through the slick clutch of your heat. âS-shitâŠâ his hips began to tremble, and his mouth fell open in awe, balls tightening, desperate to spill.
âFuckâbe mine,â he begged, voice unraveling. âPlease, baby⊠please, Iâmâgonnaââ
âMâyours,â you gasped.
And with a breathless groan, Satoruâs hand found yours, fingers lacing tight as he erupted deep, flooding you with his hot, pulsing release. His face buried into your neck while he jerked helplessly against your snug walls, spilling a thick, creamy warmth from his beautifully flushed tip, in eager bursts.
It left your thighs sticky, your chest heaving, and your heart, impossibly full.
That night, you didnât just fall asleep tangled in his arms. You made a vow. He was yours. And you were his.
Always.
He proposed not long after. Multiple times, actually â half-joking at first, murmured between kisses, in the quiet lull of mornings or when he was half-asleep and clinging to you like a vine.
âJust⊠marry me already,â heâd whisper into your hair. âLet me take care of you. Let me love you.â
And when he finally pulled out that platinum ring â with an infinity sign delicately carved across the band â you knew he was serious. Because his hands were trembling.
âPleaseâŠ?â he asked, voice barely a breath. He looked at you like you hung the damn sky. âIâll spoil you rotten,â he promised, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. âBuy you whatever you want. Keep you safe. Youâd never have to worry about anything again.â
But it came with a condition.
He wanted you out. No more being a sorcerer. No more trying to be something you were not. When you warned him about what people would say, he insistedâ
âLet them fucking try to stop me,â he scoffed, sharper now. âI donât give a shit. Let them fight. Let me fight. You stay home. You stay safe. I wanna come home to you, baby.â
And what Satoru says, goes. Because if the elders so much as breathed a word about him marrying you, about you, a nobody, becoming his housewife, heâd snap their spines in half and toss their relics in the ocean.
He loved you, so, so much. And you loved him.
ButâŠ
Love makes you believe in stupid things. Like the strongest man youâve ever known is somehow untouchable. Unstoppable.
Unbreakable.
âHey, Satoru. Long time no see.â
Itâs⊠funny. Youâd think eternity would feel bigger.
Thatâs the first thought Satoru has the moment his boots hit the ground â after whatever force dragged him through space drops him into what most would consider, hell.
The prison realm.
Thereâs no sky. No sun. Just a horizon with no depth, no curve â like someone flattened the world into static and drained it of color. Grey stretches in every direction. The kind of grey that seeps into your thoughts. The kind of grey that tastes like grief.
âAll the information provided by my six eyes is telling me youâre Suguru Geto. But both my heart and my soul know otherwise.â
Scoffing, Satoru kicks at the cracked femur of a skeleton with his boot. Theyâre clattering in disjointed piles. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. A reminder of the souls who didnât survive this prison. Because the only way out⊠is ending it yourself.
âCreepy little fuckersâŠâ he mutters, dropping onto a mound of skeletons like itâs a park bench. Bone shifts beneath him with a hollow rattle. âWhatever. Iâve had worse roommates.â
Itâs too flippant, too loud, too casual. Like if he keeps the joke going, the silence wonât swallow him whole.
But truthfully?
He knows. He let his guard down, became too soft. Too vulnerable. Because for one second? He believed he could afford to. But now, all the strongest man in the world can do is pace in circles⊠and pretend he doesnât feel the walls closing in.
Trapped in a box with no corners.
Waiting to break.
The prison realm reveals all.
Satoru Gojo learns it on the first day. Or⊠is it the first hour? Actually, maybe itâs already been a week. Hard to say, when a goddamn pocket dimension doesnât come with a clock; thereâs no sense of time.         He never gets hungry. Never gets⊠tired.
Well, at least not the tired you can sleep through. Because memories play like mirages, as if the realm plucked them straight from your bones, reaching into the marrow, trying to break you.
âSuguruâŠâ
He hears his own voice before he sees it. And when Satoruâs eyes flick up, there he is. Himself. A younger version, standing in a crowd of nobodies, desperate to reach his best friend.
âI thought we werenât allowed to kill unless there was a point to it?â
The skeletons seem to like this one, because it plays often. Itâs usually this memory â or the few, ugly ones from his childhood; shitty ones of his parentsâ hollow affection.
âThere is a point,â Suguru says eventually, backed turned to his younger self. âAnd a cause. A significance, even.â
Satoru sits amongst the skeletons, elbows resting on his knees. His six eyes are dimmed to something distant and hollow. Watching his own past like itâs a show he canât turn off. Like heâs been strapped into the front row of his worst failure.
âNo, thereâs not!â Younger Satoru snaps, hands flying outward; frustrated, desperate â clinging to something already dissolving between them. âThereâs no point in chipping away at something you canât possibly achieve!â
And this? This is where the memory always fractures. Because when Suguru turns, itâs never toward younger Satoru. Itâs toward him. Toward the version sitting in the bones.
âYouâre so⊠arrogant,â he scoffs, tilting his head with a wicked smile. âYou could do it yourself, Satoru. Couldnât you?â
Everything glitches like a dying bulb, with the courtyard tearing at the edges, while the sky bleeds grey again. The skeletons stir, chattering with taunting laughs, echoing in his mind.
âDo it.â
Satoru squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening like he can muscle through it. But the whispers come from everywhere.
âFailure.â
A skull rolls near his boot.
âItâs all your fault. Isnât it?â
Groaning, Satoruâs fingers rake through his hair while his foot taps against the bone-littered ground â restless, coiled, like he could rip this entire realm apart with brute fucking force, if only there were something solid to grab onto.
âYou shouldâve done better. But no. You werenât there for him.â
Something snaps. With a ragged, broken growl, Satoru hurls the skull across the wasteland, making it shatter into fragments of endless grey.
But⊠it doesnât help.
The sounds continue to echo, and nothing changes. The whispers donât stop, donât fade. And with a sharp exhale, Satoru collapses â curling forward into himself, burying his face in his hands.
At the sound of your voice, Satoruâs head snaps up so fast, it practically makes him dizzy. His lashes are still wet. His throat is still raw. And for one fragile second, he thought he imagined it.
âBaby?â he croaks, scrambling to his feet, bones clattering beneath him. âS-sweetheartâ?â
The wasteland flickers. And suddenlyâ
Warmth.
Sugar.
Light.
It hits him full throttle, while heâs stumbling into a kitchen that smells like butter and caramel and citrus zest â so achingly domestic it almost brings him to his knees. The counters are dusted in flour. The oven timer screams. And golden light pools across the focused lines of your back. Youâre wearing that flour-smudged apron you swore you hated but refused to give up.
âAngelâŠâ his voice breaks in relief, reaching for you. âItâs you. IâŠâ
âShit!â you hiss, turning. And when you walk straight through him like a ghost? Satoru stutters helplessly; spinning around while he watches another version of himself stand in the doorway, blinking at the warzone.
âWhoa,â Memory-Satoru deadpans, toeing the door shut with his boot. âUhh⊠why are there ten different desserts in this house right now?â
Cupcakes lined along the windowsill, a half-frosted cake sagging on a stand, a pie cooling crooked on the stovetop, and a tray of macarons stacked like ammunition.
A battlefield of sweets.
Yanking on an oven mitt, you drag the tray out.
âBecause. I didnât know what I was in the mood to panic about, so I just⊠chose all of them, andâoh, fuckââ you hiss, dropping the tray on the stove. It clatters; revealing a burnt batch of cookies.
âGreat. Fucking greatâŠâ you laugh, on the brink of losing it, tossing the mitt aside. âRuined. Just like my goddamn peace of mindâŠâ
As present Satoru stands amongst the midst of this memory, his eyes soften, blinking through the wetness, still clinging to his lashes.
What the hell?
You look so real.
The light on your cheekbone. The tension in your shoulders. He swears he can smell the vanilla on your skin.
Itâs not fair.
âYou knowâŠâ MemoryâSatoru says, carefully stepping around a bowl of frosting, grin crooked. âThereâs technically a limit to how many sweets one man can eat.â
You scoff, snatching the piping bag off the counter, squeezing frosting into uneven spirals as you grumble, annoyed. âOh. Okay⊠I thought your appetite was limitless.â
The words are tossed out like a joke, but Satoru can see the tension building beneath the tremble in your hands, can hear the tightness in your voice like youâre on the verge of breaking down andâ
Shit.
His heart drops. He knows this memory. It was the night he left; the night of Shibuya. Youâd read his mission report three times that afternoon. That damn condition in the veil stating to: Bring Satoru Gojo. You did what you always do when youâre stressed. Bake like your life depends on it.
He watches himself sigh, crossing the kitchen. âHey, heyâŠâ Memory-Satoru gentles your wrists, pushing them down with ease. âOi⊠Betty Crocker. Câmon now, whatâs this about?â
That softness in his voice, breaks you. And before you can stop it, the piping bag drops from your hands, as your body begins to tremble.
âI justââ your breath hitches, choking back a sob. âI-I⊠I dunno. I need something to do!â
The moment your quiet tears begin to fall, the urge to leap through this goddamn memory and hold you is unbearable. But Memory-Satoru beats him to it.
âNu-uh⊠none of that,â he pulls you in from the waist, nose brushing yours. âStop it. You hear me?â he whispers softly. âIâm coming back.â
Your glassy eyes look up at him. ââŠreally?â you whimper, and he scoffs. âDuh,â with those blue eyes rolling in playful affection. âYou know I got this. Iâll be back by dinner, sweetheart. Donât sweat it.â
A wet giggle pushes out of you, as you nod, still crying, but smiling.
âOkayâŠâ your hands grip his forearms, and you swallow. âPromise?â
âPromiseâŠâ the kitchen lights begin to flicker, and his voice warps when he says. âRemember, Iâll alwayyyssys come hommme to you, ba-baabyyyyâŠâ
As the counters begin to dissolve at the edges, âNoâwaitâ!â Satoru lunges for you ââplease!â
But itâs too late. Youâre already gone. And heâs left standing there, alone in a pile of bones, while the sweet echo of your voice rattles in his head. Along with that aching desperation in his chest; the need to see you again. To hold you again.
âYou abandoned her.â
He blinks, looking down at a skull that rolled to his boot. Attempting to taunt him. To break him again.
âYou let her down. Left her.â
But what the prison realm thought would break him, would actually recreate him. Because somewhere beyond this suffocating nowhere⊠youâre still waiting.
And Satoru Gojo doesnât make empty promises.
Thatâs how it began. Trapped in this prison, your softness became Satoru Gojoâs strength.
Whenever those incessant voices slithered in â whispering, needling, trying to drag his thoughts somewhere dark and festering â he would stop. Breathe. Remember one simple truth.
This was his mind.
Not theirs.
They could replay whatever horrors they wanted. Parade ghosts in front of him. Twist memories into weapons. But they couldnât make him stay there. They couldnât decide what he held onto. So? He chose to reach for you.
Not power. Not pride. Not pain.
But you.
âOooo! âtoru, âtoru!! Look at this!!â
You came skidding into the living room with your fuzzy socks, holding up your phone like youâd just uncovered a conspiracy. With a messy bun, wearing his hoodie. And you looked ridiculously beautiful. Ridiculously his.
âYouâre gonna love this,â you snorted, plopping down beside him with a grin. âNanami finally posted a photo with that bakery girl.â
âWait⊠the bakery girl?â Satoru blinked. âNo fuckinâ way. He swore they were just friends.â
âMhm. Friends donât look at each other like that,â you sing-songed, jabbing at the screen like the evidence was damning. âSee? I fucking told you he had a thing for her!!â
He laughed so hard that for a second, he forgot what it meant to feel hollow. And when the laugher faded? He reached for another thread.
âMmfâserioushly?â
Your mouth was full of toothpaste, wearing one of Satoruâs oversized shirts while he sat on the bathroom counter; shirtless, shameless, and already half-pouting.
âYeah, seriously. Gakuganji wants to schedule another emergency meeting. At fuckinâ six a.m. On a Sunday!â
You raised a brow as you kept brushing.
âI swear to godâŠâ Satoru threw his head back dramatically. âThat old fossil has a personal grudge against joy. Or sleep. Or maybe just me.â
âMmfâthaâsh shtupid,â you muttered, foamy and garbled. âYer not fuckinâ goinâ.â
He loved it.
You didnât have a mean bone in your body â but god, you were fierce when it came to him. Always on his side. Always ready to defend him like it was instinct. He clung to those memories like a lifeline now, tugging each one forward before the dark could steal it back.
âOh my god, âtoru,â youâd announced, halfway through unpacking groceries like it was a timed challenge. âYouâre never gonna believe what happened today.â
âOh?â he grinned. âDo tell, baby. Iâm all ears.â
He was stacking pantry goods with exaggerated care, and you paused at the fridge, smiling to yourself like it was a secret.
âUm⊠Megumi talked to me today,â you said, slipping the milk onto the shelf. âLikeânot just a grumble. An actual full sentence. A whole conversation.â
And when you leaned your hip against the fridge door, letting it shut with a gentle thump, he remembered how your voice softened, like a confession.
âDid yâknow⊠he said heâs scared the people he loves will disappear one day?â
It was a memory that ached, but in the best way. Because your strength was in how much you cared. How you saw through silence and soothed without trying. How you gently held Megumiâs fears â like they were precious, not problems to solve.
You were always really fuckinâ good with kids. And it wasnât long after that moment that he saw a shift. With a deeper kind of softness blooming behind your eyes, wistful and warm.
âSweetheart?â heâd asked, raising a brow. âWhatâs with that pout?â
You sat cross-legged on the couch, absently rubbing slow circles into your knee. Blinking up at him with faux innocence.
âHm? Oh, nothiiiing,â you sighed, way too dramatically. âI just⊠saw the cutest baby boy at the store today. With these chubby cheeks and the sweetest little laugh andââ
Ah.
There it was. Code for:
I want a baby. You fuckinâ idiot.
And god, Satoru wanted to give you exactly that.
All these memories. All these moments. Itâs hard not to imagine the filthy ones too.
ââToru,â you whined, eyes glossy. âPlease.â
You were bent over the couch, with your panties shoved to the side, your skirt flipped up as he clamped your hips, pummeling into you soaked little cunt roughly.
âSo fuckinâ tight,â he rasped, voice shredded, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His belt was hanging open, clanking as he molded his cock against your hot, wet walls. âTake it baby. Mnh⊠look at that, my pretty little cock drunk girl.â
He was huffing, smacking his hips in lustful need as he watched your ass clap back, while you squirmed and wiggled, clawing at the cushions. Each quivering whimper that spilled from your lips, made him pound harder.
Sometimes heâd do that. Sneak off between missions for a quickie. And fuck, what he wouldnât give to have that right now.
So, by day who-knows-what, Satoru decides: fuck it. Heâs gonna rub one out. If heâs stuck in a cube, he might as well get to cum. He lays back on his throne of bones like a king descending into madness, one hand behind his head, the other slipping under his pants.
When his cock springs free, he hisses â hips twitching as it slaps against his stomach, flushed and pulsing, already smeared with thick, gooey strings of pre. He grips the base with a groan, and those vibrant blue eyes flicker, half lidded, cycling through every filthy image he could remember; like flipping through your nudes is his own personal VR porn.
First, itâs you sprawled across his lap in the backseat of the car, with your legs shaking, panties hooked on one ankle as he rolls your tight juicy cunt on his dick; panting, groaning.
âThatâs it baby⊠be good fâme, hah, bounce on it,â he rubs down his flushed length, massaging his palm against the head, smearing his gooey pre everywhere. âFuck, just like that ââ
Then, itâs you with your mouth stretched wide, blinking with those beautiful glossy eyes, as you gag. Drool dribbles down your chin with filthy gurgles, and his ragged groans are shameless as his cock pummels the back of your throat.
âCâmonâŠâ he croons, fucking up into the slick of his fist as he watches. âJust â mmnh â just a little more⊠lemme see you â gimme that look â yeah, that one â fuck, angel Iâmââ
But the first time heâs ready to erupt, he realizes that the Prison Realm is a special kind of cruel.
Because the release never comes. He feels it, but itâs always teetering on the edge. No matter how long Satoru Gojo sits there, rubbing his dick raw, panting, groaning, hunched over in a fucking pocket dimension on a bed of bones, he stuck on the edge. Over and over. Like some cosmic joke that keeps repeating. He keeps trying butâŠ
Nothing.
The realm doesnât let him sleep. Doesnât let him starve. Doesnât let him die.
And apparently?
Doesnât let him cum.
By now, Satoruâs burned through every memory of you he has.
Every filthy detail youâve ever let him have â every quivering whimper, every slick glide of your cunt around his fingers, every sweeping circle of that cute little tongue. The first time you sucked him off in his office. That night you rode him while he filed his paperwork. The time he bent you over the sink after a mission, babbling through tears of pleasure as he pounded you.
Heâs rewound them all. Played them back. Replayed the replays. But still⊠nothing. No matter how achingly close he gets. So, heâs decided heâd try to release his frustration in⊠other ways?
Thatâs when he started working out. Not to grow stronger. Not for discipline. Not even to pass the time. But to hurt. To punish his shitty ass body for its refusal for release. For its denial. Because splitting his muscles open and rebuilding them through the pain, felt better than this gnawing ache that wonât fade.
He did push-ups until his arms shook. Sit-ups until he saw stars. Threw punches until his skin cracked and his breath rasped like heâs was trying to exorcise that filthy desperation from his lungs.
It didnât fucking work though. He still woke up, hard and aching, leaking over his waistband like a fucking teenager, with his hips grinding into the air like heâs chasing your phantom weight â like his cock remembers the rhythm even if his fist canât bring him over the edge.
Itâs maddening. But maybe⊠if he breaks his body enough. If he endures enough pain. Maybe he can break this curse.
Break free.
Or maybe â he thinks, as he shakes blood off his curled fist â maybe he just wants to break someone for putting him in here in the first place.
The day Satoru was released from the prison realm, was disorienting. He almost forgot what it felt like to be whole again. Because when Jacobâs Ladder cracked like God had finally blinked â in the first time since forever, Satoru Gojo breathed.
But honestly? The second he was confronted with his obligations for war, he didnât give a shit. Call him selfish, maybe. He knew he shouldâve cared about the state of the world that kept turning without him, or about the battle raging across the broken remains of his comradeâs devastation.
But you are his strength. And thatâs all he needs. All he wants.
What did he miss? Were you safe? Were you whole? Were you still waiting, alone in that house?
He postponed his confrontation with Sukuna and Kenjaku, because quite honestly, he didnât have the fucking patience. So, without another wasted moment, he folded the space around him and teleported directly home. And the moment his feet touched that familiar tile, his senses were flooded with a sweetness so thick, it was borderline suffocating.
A bomb made of confectionery detonated at ground fucking zero in your kitchen. Mixing bowls crusted with dried batter, cooling racks crowding the counters. Flour was dusted everywhere, like snowfall that had never been cleaned up.
His throat tightened as his six-eyes scanned the scene.
You must have been terrified. Burying yourself in all this sugar that you canât even fucking eat.
âBaby?â he called, voice rough, almost disbelieving. âWhere are you?â
When he was met with silence, he began moving through the hallway, slowly, like any sudden motion might shatter the fragile illusion that this was real. And the house felt painfully lived-in â with your favorite blanket draped over the couch, one of his hoodies thrown across a chair, a cup abandoned on the side table with a faint ring of dried tea at the bottom.
Proof that life had continued without him. Proof that he hadnât been there for any of it.
His chest ached with a strange, quiet grief, and as he entered the living room, his gaze snagged on your desk, on the calendar pinned above it. There was scribbled notes in your handwriting â reminders, grocery lists, circled dates, little hearts drawn in the margins. The date read:
November 19th.
Nineteen days.
Only nineteen days had passed?!
Inside the Prison Realm, it had felt like centuries. Like he had been buried alive beneath the weight of his own mind for an eternity that had no edges. But⊠how long did it feel for you?
His eyes lowered to the desk itself â to the open journal resting beside a pen that had rolled onto its side, as if youâd left in a hurry. Your handwriting spilled across the page in looping lines, smudged in places where the ink had blurred. And before hesitating, his trembling fingers turned the page. To read.
November 3rd
Satoru,
I donât know if this is stupid. Shoko said writing might help.
Whatever.
Youâre not dead.
I need to start there. Because everyone keeps fucking talking around it like youâre gone, like youâre something weâre supposed to mourn instead of⊠wait for. And it pisses me off. So, Iâm writing this like youâll read it someday. Because you will. You have to.
Um. Everything is chaotic without you around⊠people are acting like the world is on fire, and it kinda is. But I keep expecting you to walk through that door and say something stupid like⊠âWow. You guys made a mess while I was gone, huh?â
Anyways. Yuji is⊠worrying me. He keeps apologizing for things that arenât his fault. And truthfully, itâs made me want to scream. At everyone. At the elders. At the universe. But⊠you know Iâm not really good at that. I just⊠wish you were here. I donât know how to do this without you.
Please come home.
I love you.
xoxo
November 5th
Satoru,
I didnât write yesterday. I meant to. I just⊠didnât have anything useful to say. Because everything feels loud and empty at the same time. Home is too quiet without you. A wrong kind of quiet. LikeâŠ
Iâm holding my breath.
I mean, I thought I heard your footsteps in the hallway this morning. Stupid, right? You never walk quietly anyway, always stomping around like you own gravity. Or whatever.
Anyways. I tried to clean today. But⊠it feels weird moving your things. Your sunglasses are still on the counter. I donât want to move them for when you come back and look for them. Because youâre coming back. I know you are.
Um. Megumi pretended not to notice when I burned dinner. He ate it anyway. Yuji said it was âsmokyâ and gave me a thumbs-up like that was supposed to help. Theyâre sweet boys. And theyâre trying really hard. It makes me want to cry and hug them at the same time. But Iâm trying not to let people see that Iâm on the brink of a break down... especially with them. Iâm trying to be strong. Like you. And everyone keeps saying we just need to hold on. SoâŠ
Come home soon, okay?
I love you
xoxo
November 7th
Satoru,
I baked today.
Actually⊠I baked a lot. Like, an unreasonable amount. I ran out of counter space and had to start stacking things on the windowsill. They came out okay, I think. I wouldnât know. I didnât taste them.
But I left most of them on the counter for you. Hopefully theyâre not stale by the time you get home. I donât know how long cookies are supposed to last when nobody eats them. Youâre usually the one who prevents that problem.
Shoko says my stress baking is âa coping mechanism.â And that I need to eat more. I wanted to tell her to mind her fucking business. Not that Iâd ever actually say that butâŠ
Itâs just. Why do people keep acting like you might not come back? Nobody gives a shit. People talk about you like youâre already gone. Or worse⊠like you were something that got misplaced. A weapon someone dropped in the middle of a battlefield and canât retrieve.
They say things like âlosing Gojo was a huge strategic blowâ or âwe have to adapt without himâ or âwe canât rely on that power anymore.â
Like you were just⊠a tool that broke.
And it makes me so fucking angry!! I feel sick. Youâre not some fucking cursed object. Youâre not a goddamn contingency plan. Youâre not something they get to deploy and discard when itâs convenient.
Youâre Satoru.
My Satoru.
The idiot who leaves wet towels on the bed. The man who eats frosting straight out of the bowl like itâs a perfectly normal dinner. The one who complains about paperwork for forty minutes and then still does it perfectly (on almost no sleep, mind you).
God I miss you.
Please. Please come home.
xoxo
November 19th
Satoru,
I havenât written for a while. And itâs not because I donât have anything to say⊠itâs actually the opposite. Thereâs too much, and none of it feels like it fits inside words. It just sits in my chest like something heavy and wet that wonât dissolve. Iâm going to try to convey it now. Hopefully it makes sense.
My love.
You make everything⊠lighter.
Even when things are awful. Even when the world feels like itâs pressing down so fucking hard, that I can barely breathe. You just⊠exist. And suddenly breathing is easier. Suddenly, this shitty ass life feels easier.
And⊠Iâm realizing now how terrifying that is.
Because if you donât come back⊠I donât know how the fuck Iâm supposed to go back to a world where that kind of love doesnât exist anymore.
I worry about what youâre going through. I donât know if youâre scared or furious or bored or alone. And somehow the not knowing is worse than any specific nightmare I could imagine. You hate being bored more than you hate pain. Hell, you once said boredom was âpsychological warfare.â God. I hope you were exaggerating.
And great. Iâm fucking crying now. Which is extremely annoying, because I told myself I wasnât going to cry today.
Damnit Satoru. Damnit.
Youâve saved me in ways you donât even know. And I donât care if that sounds dramatic. I donât care if it sounds weak. Loving you is the easiest thing Iâve ever done. Missing you is the hardest.
But I donât care how long it takes. Iâll wait. Iâll wait until my hair goes gray. Iâll wait until everyone else tells me Iâm stupid for still believing youâre coming back.
So please. Please donât give up. Please come back to me.
Not because the world needs you.
But because I do.
Call me fucking selfish. I donât care. I am selfish when it comes to you. I want you here. I want my life back. And my life is you.
âŠ
Anyway, I should probably go to the grocery store before it gets dark. Iâm out of butter and flour and basically everything else because⊠surprise surprise, I keep baking like a lunatic. There was this recipe I found online yesterday that made me think of you. Something called Chocolate Lasagna? Honestly, reading it made my teeth hurt.
Youâd love it. Youâd probably eat half the batter before it made it into the oven.
I love you.
xoxo
âSatoruâŠ?â
Your voice echoes through the doorway just as Satoru finishes reading your last entry, and when he turns away, there you are. Framed in the kitchen light, eyes wide, grocery bags in hand.
Real.
His breath hitches. âHeyâŠâ he manages, and the blues in his eyes are glossy with tears.
The bags slip from your hands.
And then? You break.
An ugly sob tears out of you, entirely raw as you slam into him, arms wrapping around his neck with bone-deep desperation. He catches you instantly, hauling you up against him so fast your feet barely brush the ground, crushing you to his chest like he plans to never let gravity have you again.
âIâve got you,â he rasps, voice shaking. âIâve got you. Iâve got you.â And his lips are moving against your temple, your cheek, your hair â anywhere he can reach.
âYouâre real?â you gasp, fingers knotting his hair, making him groan. âYeah. Mâright here, baby.â
Before you can take in another breath, heâs crashing his lips against yours. Itâs messy, desperate. With fingers clutching you in a way that feels dizzying; clamping and pulling you in desperation while he molds his hands against your tits, your ass, your hips.
He makes a broken noise into your mouth. âOh fuckââ And with stumbling steps, your back hits the couch before you realize heâs moving, forcing you down into the cushions as he follows, still kissing you.
âI shouldââ he pants against your lips, trembling in restrained lust. âI should probablyââ he kisses you again, groaning. âMnh⊠thereâs so much I have to say,â he half-laughs, half-breaks, breath hot against your mouth. âButââ
You yelp as heâs frantically yanking your pants down your hips, along with your panties, before spreading your legs open on the couch.
âI really fucking need you right now.â
Pushing up on your elbows, your chest heaves, and for the first time since he shoved you down, you actually look at him. His build is⊠thicker. Has he been working out? And his fingers are dragging up and down your thighs reverently, in a shaky, absent motion, while heâs staring down at your cunt with heavy lidded eyes likes its fucking salvation.
ââŠyou do?â you whisper. And his eyes flick up. He nods, throat bobbing.
Who are you to deny your husband?
âOkayâŠâ you breathe. âIâm yours.â
âFuckâ yes. Okay.â
He fumbles with his pants, yanking them down, not bothering to fully undress as his cock slaps up, pulsating, flushed, oozing from the tip.
âSorry baby, butââ leaning over, he spits â a warm, wet line landing between your legs before he grips his cock, dragging through your folds with a strangled groan. ââdonât haveânghâtime to prep, or be gentle today.â
When he shoves it in with eager force, you gasp out a moan. Your cunt clamps tightly around his swollen girth, and his body folds forward, heaving. The sound that tears out of him is part relief, part strained.
âOh fuck yes,â he moans, pulling back only to pummel in again, prying your slick walls open, watching that tiny hole stretch so sweetly for him. âFucking missed this perfect little pussy.â
Youâre mewing as wet plaps begin to echo, the couch groaning beneath you. Each grind of his hips builds in urgency, while his hands firmly hold you steady at your hips. His breath fans your neck. Andâ
âMânotâffuck, not gonna lastâŠâ
You blink. âW-What?!â
Thatâs when you realize just how fucking desperate your husband was, while he growls, biting down on your neck so hard you moan while his dick erupts. He whimpers against your skin, dick jerking wildly, spurting a thick creamy release, dumping a load so massive, the creampie floods you with full force.
Your thighs are sticky, warm and wet. And in all your years of being with Satoru, youâve never, never seen him cum so fucking fast. Butâ
âFuck. Mâso backed up, thatâll probably get you pregnant,â he pants, shoving himself up only to grab your legs and fold you in half. âBut letâs be sure of it, hm?â
Itâs hard to register his words when heâs pinning you down, prodding your cum filled cunt in an animalistic movement, making the sticky seed bury deeper into your tiny hole, while you squirm beneath him helplessly.
âO-Oh myââ you cry, pussy fluttering as he drills you in loud, squelching motions, huffing and delirious with it. âS-Satoruââ you whimper, as he hovers over you, those thick forearms flexing, abs clenching. âAhnâ"
The blue in his eyes are wild, molten. He drops his forehead against yours, snowy hair falling into your gaze, warm breath fanning your lips as he snaps into you insistently.
âGonna give you a baby,â he whispers breathlessly between smacks. âThatâs what you wanted, yeah? So youâre gonna fuckinâ take it. Now be a good girl and cum on my cock, hm?â
He was insane. And take it, you did. His hand slides down to your puffy clit, rubbing quick little circles against the nub, making your back arch and hands scramble against his broad shoulders, nails digging into the skin, making him groan.
âOhmygod,â you breathe, âS-Satoru, yesâIâmââ
And the moment your eyes squeeze shut, with that sweet little cunt gripping him tight as you gush your creamy release all over his rigid dick, Satoruâs head throws back in a breathless moan, breaking into a laugh.
âThatâs my fuckinâ girl. Such a good girl,â he breathes, pounding you. He splays his hand on your tummy, palm flat as he continues to mix your cum together with his hips. His cock bumps it from underneath your skin, bulging your belly as it curves up.
âHaaaâhere it comes again babyââ he warns, voice straining, body stiffening as he rails you faster.
Itâs desperate. Each rough snap is met with his soft ahhs as he doubles down, his oversensitive cock expanding, twitching against your tight, hot walls until he moans. âFuckfuckfuck, cummingâ!"
And his balls tighten as the tip of his cock spills again, pulsing and spurting with each eager jerk, with hot gooey cum shooting inside your already overstuffed pussy. And your poor, overstimulated cunt canât take it. This wild desperation, this domination. While he uses you like the relief he needs, dumping load after load into your tiny little hole, flooding you with his seed.
You were definitely getting your baby.
Satoru fucked you for hours.
On the couch. The floor. Against the hallway wall where your back bumped picture frames crooked. Halfway to the bedroom before he lost patience and dragged you down again, like distance itself was unbearable.
You were bent over the table, with his balls slapping against the plush of your ass when he groaned. âHah⊠think Iâll give you more of my cum.â Whispering hotly in your ear. âGo on then. Say thank you, baby.â
He was fucking insane.
When his head dropped on your shoulder blades with you on your hands and knees, he broke into a breathless laugh, borderline manic. âGonna have you waddling around the house,â he drawled, gripping your stomach, holding you firmly, pistoning into you like a toy. âAll pretty and round⊠carrying my baby. Fuck.â
Youâve never seen him like that. Not to this extent, at least. And every time you thought he had finally burned himself out? Nope. He surged back with another wave of urgency. Rougher. Deeper. Like something inside him refused to settle.
âEveryoneâs gonna know youâre mine,â he growled, pushing your head into the pillow that was covered in your drool; bullying your cervix with more creamy ropes of cum. âHaaa⊠thasâ it. My perfect little housewife⊠takinâ her husbandâs cock so well.â
It was a hunger he couldnât satiate. Like he was clawing back into existence though your warmth alone. And maybe, in his mind, if he stoppedâeven for a second? He worried youâd vanish. The way everything else had, in that cube of hell.
BecauseâŠ
Beneath the bruising grip of his hands? Beneath all the breathless kisses, all the broken groans â there was something else. Something raw threaded through him, stripped down to the bone.
Fragile.
âGod I love you,â he gasped, mixing his cum is slow rolling thrusts. âFuck⊠I love you so much. IâŠâ and with a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezed shut, pained. âI c-canât lose you. Please donât go. Donât leave me. Donâtââ
There was a crack in his voice, while his fingers dug at your hips frantically like⊠he was afraid you might vanish. And it was acutely obvious to you that what this poor man needed, was relief. A relief so intense, it bordered on panic. The strongest man alive, reduced to something so incredibly human. So painfullyâŠ
Satoru.
His laughter had always been your sunlight. His strength, your shelter. But itâs your strength that brought him home.
You.
Soft where the world is cruel. Stubborn where it tries to grind you down. Foolish enough to keep loving him even when loving him means standing in the shadows of everything that wants to consume him.
Sweet, perfect you.
And despite it being a sweetness people mistake for fragility, itâs the one thing in this world Satoru would tear heaven and earth apart for, just to protect. The one thing he would crawl back from oblivion for, again and again, no matter the cost.
A sweetness baked into every corner of his life. Warm, and soft.
Worth the wait.
ê° authors noteê± @/strychnynegirl my love... i hope i was able to capture all the love you have for our pookie in this fic đ it makes me so sad to think about what was goin on in satoru's mind during the prison realm :') and with the new season out, his absence is heavily felt. thank you guys sm for reading. happy valentines day!
Took 400mg of Benadryl and smoked a joint and the only thing I hallucinated was my friendâs dog in multiple places at once like he was Naruto using Shadow Clone Jutsu
I identify as genderqueer and idk but I absolutely love when someone has one million things listed as their gender identity or relating to it. like yes I donât understand any of this. you go off you little inconceivable diva. I love you
(This genuinely isnât sarcasm at all it brings me so much joy)
